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𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬
⋆⭒˚.⋆ jj maybank
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐢 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲
⋆⭒˚.⋆ conrad fisher
𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬
⋆⭒˚.⋆ spencer reid
NASA
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★

JBB: An Artblog!
Xuebing Du
Sweet Seals For You, Always
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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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izzy's playlists!

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@qlossytbh
⋆˚࿔ masterlist 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
requests are open!!
𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬
⋆⭒˚.⋆ jj maybank
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐢 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲
⋆⭒˚.⋆ conrad fisher
𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬
⋆⭒˚.⋆ spencer reid
yeah hold me back
#boybandreid is something else
Clarice Lispector, from "Gertrudes asks for advice" in The Complete Stories
25.3K Prompts <3
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updated May 3 2026. I'm separating the dialogue prompts into their respective sections. Went through Anger & Angst Lists the last few days & separated them into smaller lists. Will be working on the horror/Apocalyptic list next!
PLEASE reblog if you use any of these/wanna share with your writer friends!!
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lowkey this eats im saving this forever and ever
uhhh @femboypatrickbateman @unicorndiehard @ayehnsfang idk yall were the first i could think of
⋆⭒˚.⋆ freezing point - spencer reid x bombshell!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 a freezing night at the bau— arms full, heels deadly, and no coat. when you’re one step from disaster, spencer appears with quiet help and unexpected warmth.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 fluff fluff and more fluff, so much lining it’s actually painful, they’re my two stupid idiots, lowkey flirting but they’ve grown so accustomed to the banter they think it’s friendly, reader is very prone to be cold
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 1.3k
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 i love writing them so much and i have so much content coming just you WAIT
𝐛𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
your arms were full—too full.
files pressed precariously against your chest like a teetering jenga tower, your work bag threatening to slide off your shoulder with every step, and your car keys biting into the corner of your mouth where you’d pinned them in a moment of pure desperation.
the ridiculous heels you’d chosen this morning (they made your legs look fantastic, somebody sue you) now wobbled treacherously against the frozen pavement, each click-clack a gamble with gravity.
you were starting to regret every decision you’d made since waking up.
you swore you could hear the universe laughing at you as the wind sliced straight through your paper-thin blouse and equally useless coat, cold biting at your skin like it had a personal vendetta.
you muttered something under your breath— half curse, half prayer— as a folder at the very top of the pile began to slip. your elbow hooked it back at the last second, though it sent the whole stack tilting dangerously to one side.
this was exactly how you were going to go out. buried under your own paperwork in the parking lot like some kind of cautionary tale.
you adjusted your grip, trying to stabilize the chaos, but your bag slid further down your arm in protest, the strap catching awkwardly at your elbow. the keys shifted dangerously between your teeth.
you were one misstep away from a full-blown implosion—
“need a third arm?”
your head snapped toward the sound a little too fast, and the movement nearly cost you another file. you made a small, frustrated noise around the keys in your mouth as you struggled to keep everything from collapsing.
spencer, leaning casually against the curb just outside the bau entrance like he had nowhere better to be.
his hands were tucked deep into the pockets of his coat, shoulders relaxed despite the cold, hair faintly haloed by the glow of the street lamps overhead.
his gaze flicked over you—taking in the heels, the files, the general state of disarray—with quiet, unmistakable amusement.
which, somehow, made things worse.
heat crept up your neck despite the freezing air, and you shifted your weight, trying to look at least somewhat in control of the situation.
“oh! spencer, hey.” you mumbled around the key, dropping them from your mouth onto the pile of files. “god, i probably look like a train wreck right now.”
“not a train wreck,” he said, matter-of-fact as ever, pushing off the curb to meet you. his eyes flicked over you again, quick, assessing. “but you’re definitely over the recommended carrying capacity—by at least forty-three percent, if we’re being precise.”
you let out a breathy laugh, shifting the files so they wouldn’t avalanche. “romantic of you, doctor. really. watching me in my damsel-in-distress era.”
you tipped your head, balancing the stack with your chin. “should i swoon now, or wait until i actually drop everything for dramatic effect?”
he didn’t rise to the dramatics but there was that small, almost reluctant pull at the corner of his mouth, the one that always felt like a win. “i thought you might need help,”
“well,” you sighed, deliberately overdoing it, “at least i’m not collapsing in vain. i’ve got a knight in fbi-issued armor. very on brand.”
spencer didn’t ask.
he just stepped in, closing the space between you and reaching forward, already taking half the files from your arms before you could properly object.
his hands were quick, careful—steadying the stack, catching the one folder that slipped free like he’d anticipated it.
“reid,” you started, a protest forming on instinct, half indignant and half grateful, as heat bloomed quietly in your chest at how efficiently he just swooped in.
“you were about three seconds away from scattering bureau property all over the parking lot,” he said, maddeningly reasonable. “this seemed more efficient.”
you huffed out a small laugh despite yourself, adjusting your grip on what was left. “efficient. right. god forbid we sacrifice efficiency for the sake of my dignity.”
he glanced at you, almost like he was considering that, then shook his head slightly. “your dignity was already compromised when you decided to carry all of this at once.”
you gasped, offended. “wow. unbelievable. i let you help me and this is how you repay me?”
“you didn’t let me,” he pointed out, calm as ever.
“…semantics.”
the two of you started toward your car, your heels clicking unevenly against the pavement as you tried to keep pace with him without looking like you were trying.
you arched a brow, glancing sideways at him. “so, are you always this heroic, or do i just bring it out of you?”
he looked back at you, expression unreadable in the dim light, but there was something there—something quieter.
“i think you just create more opportunities for it,” he said.
that made you laugh, warm and easy despite the cold biting at your skin. “so what you’re saying is i’m good for your self-esteem?”
he adjusted the folders slightly in his arms, like he needed something to do with his hands. “something like that.”
you laughed once again at his dry response, the sound puffing out into the cold night air, and unlocked the doors of your car.
spencer stepped ahead of you without thinking, pulling the backseat open so you could offload the remaining stack. you bent down to shove the files into the backseat, already feeling the tension in your arms start to release.
one heel caught on a crack in the pavement and you wobbled, grabbing instinctively for the door frame while muttering something about how kitten heels and bureau paperwork didn’t mix.
his gaze flicked downward, sweeping over your bare legs, the paper-thin stockings, the hem of your skirt and it lingered.
it wasn’t a hungry look— it was concerned, almost protective, and that somehow made it worse.
“aren’t you a bit uncomfortable?” he asked.
you stilled for half a second before looking back up at him, expression already shifting into something easy, something controlled.
“meaning?”
“it’s freezing out here,” he said gently, pointing out.
“is it?” you pursed your lips. “hadn’t even noticed”
“you’re shivering,” he said simply, and the concern in his voice was so quiet, so unadorned, that it slipped past your usual armor before you could stop it. you gave him your brightest grin, deflecting as always.
“maybe you’re just imagining it because you can’t handle how good i look. some people get overwhelmed by excellence, reid. it’s a common condition.”
“right, i’m definitely imagining the very obvious sound of your teeth almost chattering as a result of wearing a skirt in this weather—”
“this,” you declared dramatically, gesturing with your now-lighter arm, “is called suffering for fashion. it’s an art form, reid.”
“i chose these heels this morning because they make my legs look amazing,” you continued, with absolute conviction, “and i refuse to regret it, even if i lose, like, three toes to frostbite.””
he huffed out a quiet breath, glancing down at the ground like he was pretending not to react, but you caught it—the tiny pull at the corner of his mouth. “i’d prefer you not get hypothermia just to prove a point about leg aesthetics.”
when the corner of his mouth finally lifted, it wasn’t quite amusement. it was something softer, something that made your chest tighten in a way you refused to name.
you turned away quickly, tossing the last folder into the backseat with more force than necessary.
“don’t look at me like that,” you said over your shoulder, brushing your hands together like you hadn’t just felt that. “i’m perfectly coordinated and warm. born with antifreeze in my veins.”
“that’s the biggest lie i’ve ever heard,” he said, like it was a fact he’d already written down somewhere undeniable. “and you’re shivering,”
you closed the door and turned. you straightened, brushing your palms on your coat, lips parting like you had something clever ready. but the cold slipped in sharp and sudden, stealing the words from your lungs.
without giving you a chance to deflect, spencer unwound his scarf. he stepped forward, looping the soft wool around your neck with careful hands.
his fingers brushed your jawline as he adjusted it, and the two of you froze, suddenly far too close.
the breath you both let out mingled in a visible puff of white between you, fragile and intimate, like the universe had paused just to watch.
you tilted your chin up, eyes catching his. he blinked, startled like he’d just realized how close this had become.
“it matches your outfit,” he blurted, voice cracking just enough to snap the tension like glass.
you let out a soft huff, fingers coming up to tug at the scarf, grounding yourself in something tangible.
it smelled like him—clean soap, something faintly like old books, and something warmer underneath that made your stomach do something deeply inconvenient.
“oh, so you are moonlighting as my stylist now? should i start paying you in coffee or…?”
“coffee works,” he replied, tone so dry it cracked you up, “and i’d be a better one than morgan. at least i know wool is warmer than whatever synthetic nightmare he tries to pass off as fashion.”
“rude,” you said. “he’d be devastated.”
“he’ll recover,” spencer said, adjusting the strap of his bag like he needed something to do with his hands. “probably.”
you laughed again and he’d be lying if he said the sight of you wrapped up in his scarf hadn’t knocked something loose in his chest.
the scarf was warm from his body heat, and suddenly the wind didn’t feel quite so vicious. “thank you, reid. seriously. for the rescue, the extra arms, and the very fashionable scarf.”
“anytime.” he gave you that small, crooked smile that felt like it belonged to just this moment. “let me know when you’re home safe, okay?”
you hesitated for a second, then added softly, nodding. “only if you do the same.”
he smiled at that, something warm flickering behind it, and stepped back just enough to give you space.
you climbed into your car, the seat cold beneath you, the scarf still wrapped snug around your neck like something you weren’t ready to give back yet.
and for some stupid unexplainable reasom— you couldn’t stop smiling.
intimacy. familiarity, trust, love.
brushing fingers through hair, nails grazing scalp, the overlap of strands as they form a loose braid.
catching each other's eyes in a group, exchanging reassuring glances, smiles, looks.
knowing their preferences and favorites by heart, not needing to be reminded.
keeping track of important dates even when the other person isn't expecting them to remember.
easily finding comfort in the other's presence, letting out a sigh of relief, shoulders loosening, body draping freely across furniture.
inside jokes, teasing and playfulness, and knowing when to stop if the conversation grows more serious.
understanding their opinions, their views, them as a person, when no one else will.
leaning against them, viewing them as a symbol of rest, naturally feeling calmer around them.
wanting to share fun facts, small tidbits, parts of their day, random comments that they wouldn't mention otherwise.
embracing, holding hands, high fiving, linking pinkies, ruffling hair, flicking foreheads, nudging feet.
taking care of them when ill, sighing quietly yet doing the tedious work anyway, putting time and effort into everything they do for the other.
⋆⭒˚.⋆ signed in lipstick - spencer reid x bomshell!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 a dazzling new face struts into the BAU, mistaken for everything you aren't—until you shatters expectations, cracks patterns no one else can, and leave the team reeling in your wake-- specifically a fellow genuis.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 bombshell!reader here we COMEEEEE, spencer's a mess, social anxiety is afraid of reader (a first!), typical cm violence, morgan is lowkey a little sexist.. but its for the plot trust, just a lot of flirting from reader's side
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 3.3k
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 i have SO MANY ideas for these two. buckle up and enjoy the ride cus its gonna get GOOD
𝐛𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
the BAU bullpen hummed with its usual quiet chaos—phones ringing like distant chimes, coffee steaming in the corners, papers rustling like restless leaves. a silent tension roaming every corner quietly as the conference room buzzed with overlapping voices.
the bullpen wasn’t quiet often, but it was now.
everyone was following a routine– their routine. schedules carefully crafted into a safety net for many, and a distraction for others
the first thing they noticed was the sound — the click of heels across the polished floor, steady and unhurried, like a metronome demanding attention. then came the silhouette: sharp blazer nipped at the waist, skirt that barely toed the line of professional, lipgloss glowing like a warning sign.
you moved like the space was yours, like you’d been there a thousand times before, even though no one had ever seen your face.
you didn’t carry files. you carried some form of coffee in a dotted porcelain cup, of all things, lipgloss stamped bold on the rim. the kind of impractical luxury that screamed high-maintenance. you set your things on your assigned desk— definitely not unaware of the rest of the team's curious eyes.
“secretary?” morgan was the first one to break the silence of their gazes, smirk tugging at his mouth. he turned to emily “she’s gotta be new.”
“obviously she's new,” emily shot him a look but didn’t fully disagree. “if she’s a secretary, she’s the most overdressed one I’ve ever seen.”
jj hid a laugh behind her coffee.
spencer didn’t say anything when you walked in. or after morgan’s teasing and the rest of the team's teasing. he just.. watched. quietly, observingly– one could maybe even think he was judging although truthfully, he wasn't.
at first, he easily assumed you were another visitor — a new admin, maybe, or someone lost on their way to the conference rooms. but your heels were too sharp, your lipgloss too prominent, your confidence too deliberate. you didn’t move the way most new transfers did.
therefore, the possibility of you being a new secretary was high. secretaries– especially in the bau– loved to shine through polish and wax. they performed with looks, seeking reactions just like the ones you were obtaining now.
and the way you set your cup down like it was a claim, not an afterthought was a little jarring but maybe you thought you needed the confidence for the first day.
he found himself watching longer than he meant to.
“what are we–” garcia’s bubbly voice died almost immediately. “holy smokes– who is this stunning specimen of a human being walking through our door like they just stepped out of a magazine cover?”
“new secretary,” jj mumbled.
spencer spoke for the first time since you appeared. his voice felt foreign. “she’s very... put-together.”
“and that, my darling genius, is a crime all on its own, how is anyone supposed to be that flawless and still act like they’re not aware of it?” garcia whispered to spencer eyes twinkling
and put-together wasn't half of it. there wasn't a single hair out of place, your clothes looked almost painted on– not a single wrinkle in sight, your makeup was soft. you looked clean and polished, prim and proper.
you wore grey dress pants that draped elegantly over black kitten heels, paired with a black silk shirt that caught the light with every subtle movement. your hair, shiny and curled to perfection, was held half up, half down, framing your sharp, sculpted features like a painting.
your cheeks were flushed with a soft pink, your lips glossy, lashes fluttering in a compelling way that seemed dangerous.
there wasn't a single thing about you that didn't seem ethereal.
morgan was already half out of his chair by the time you placed your cross bag on one of the empty desks in the bullpen, easy grin in place, hands tucked into his pockets like he owned the room.
“you look a little lost,” he said smoothly, lowering his voice as if he was doing you a favor. “need me to show you to HR? or your desk?”
you turned and the team watched the interaction from the sidelines. your face was blank while you blinked at him. for a beat, you felt genuinely confused— as if you couldn’t quite process what he’d just asked or if he was even speaking to you in the first place. a nervous yet silky laugh bubbled out.
“my desk?” you echoed, tilting your head.
“yeah,” morgan said, grinning wider. “new secretary, right? i can help you find your spot. this place is a maze.”
secretary.
he thought you were a secretary.
a breathy laugh left your lips as your gaze fell to the floor. you could feel something bubbling under your ribs, warm and wicked, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep anything from spilling out.
“oh..!” you said finally, scoffing humorously. “right! my spot. how thoughtful.”
morgan nodded, all charm. just like most people– far too familiar for someone like yourself. “hey, no problem. we all had a first day once.”
you merely hummed, watching his stance with a sharp eye. “well it’s much appreciated,”
just as he opened his mouth to speak, you were already turning your back.
“i hope to run into you more often,” you turned your attention to the case files, leaving him blinking — half-amused, half-unsure.
morgan strolled back over to the others with that signature grin — the one that said he’d just done something worth bragging about. he dropped into his chair, stretched out, and shot emily a look.
“see? still got it. helped the new secretary find her bearings.”
jj raised an eyebrow over her coffee cup. “secretary?”
“mm-hm,” morgan confirmed, leaning back like he deserved a medal. “first day’s rough. place is a maze. lucky for her, i’ve got a good sense of direction.”
emily’s lips twitched. “and ego.”
spencer glanced up from the file he’d been pretending to read, brow furrowed. “so she’s the new secretary?”
he was asking as if the question would give him more to work with.
morgan shrugged. “pretty thing in heels with the coffee cup? yeah. secretary.”
Jj shook her head behind her mug, and emily outright laughed. spencer didn’t say anything else, but his gaze narrowed just slightly, gaze flicking toward where you stood at the table, rummaging through your bag.
“trust me,” morgan said, clearly pleased with himself.
—
“we’ve got four victims so far,” hotch said, tapping a tablet with precise patience. “no clear connection between them—professionally or socially. that’s why we’re here.”
“except the notes,” jj interjected, her voice cutting through the murmur. “each one has that number sequence… whatever it means.”
morgan leaned back in his chair, folding his broad arms over his chest. “reid? he’s usually the guy who spots the crazy patterns no one else sees.”
spencer opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, hotch stood at the head of the table, hands folded, gaze scanning the room like a hawk.
“this case is unlike the typical profiles we see,” he said, calm but firm. “the victims appear unconnected. at first glance, there’s no discernible pattern. but the notes left at each scene contain number sequences and symbols that suggest a deliberate psychological signature.”
he paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “we’ve reviewed the timelines, the evidence, even preliminary behavioral patterns, but standard methods aren’t giving us a clear picture. this is a criminal who’s intelligent, methodical, and likely testing us. we need a fresh perspective.”
morgan was the first to speak. “so… an outside consultant?”
“yes,” hotch said, eyes steady. “someone who can decode the patterns in ways we haven’t considered yet. we called in an expert in behavioral neuroscience, forensic psychology.”
looks were shared amongst the table. “she’s got experience interpreting complex psychological signatures. she’s someone with a proven record in cases like this. her name is dr—”
the door opened, rather abruptly, slicing through the hum of the room like a spark through a shadowed hall. a pair of heels clicked against the floor, soft but deliberate and all too familiar, echoing like a heartbeat in the sudden silence. all eyes turned.
you stepped in.
“sorry i’m late,” you said, voice smooth as silk but carrying the weight of authority, forcing the room to still itself. “i had to check a few preliminary patterns before showing up–”
“besides, this place is a maze,” your eyes cut briefly towards derek. “wouldn’t want to waste anyone’s time”
everyone blinked. mainly because two seconds ago they were categorizing you as the new secretary and now they’re finding out just how off their assumptions were.
that you were in fact the type whose mind could navigate the labyrinthine depths of a criminal’s psyche. and offer assistance to them.
derek looked mostly speechless, and entirely embarrassed.
you looked around the table, catching the puzzled gazes with a tilt of your head. “do i have lipstick on my teeth or something..?”
bold, upfront, unafraid. the audacity irritated him, like a sudden note in a symphony that doesn’t quite belong. and yet, the irritation had a pull, a gravity that made him unable to look away.
spencer tried to focus on the case and less on your grand entrance. tried to ignore the way the faint scent of vanilla infected the room like a ghost, wrapping around him, making his thoughts tangle. he tried to ignore the way his eyes had tried not to trace the curve of your jaw, the arch of your brow, the subtle strength in your posture—and failed spectacularly.
hotch cleared his throat, undeterred by your teasing. “she has a PhD in forensic psychology and experience in behavioral neuroscience. she’s consulted on cases that involve complex psychological patterns and cryptic behavioral signatures—cases similar to this one.”
his chest tightened slightly. a storm cloaked in silk and precision, a mind sharp enough to cut glass, it seemed.
the faint, almost imperceptible looks shared around the room were familiar. a room of stunned profilers was far more stimulating than one of silence and empty assumptions. let them see the firecracker version of you— it’s easier that way, safer. better to serve them the image you choose than allow them to fill the gaps themselves.
turning back to the board, you continued, voice measured but keen. “these sequences escalate in complexity. whoever devised them isn’t merely committing crimes; they’re testing us. every step we take is anticipated. every inference we make is observed. it’s a psychological signature in its own right.”
spencer listened, mind scribbling down frantically and racing through probabilities and patterns. “testing us… deliberately leaving patterns for investigators?”
“yes,” you said, flipping through a file with a practiced grace. “and the more predictable you are, the easier it becomes for him to manipulate outcomes. a criminal of this caliber thrives on logic exploited without foresight. that’s why i think we must anticipate, think two steps ahead, and never let ourselves be cornered.”
“huh,” morgan muttered. your gaze landed on him, and you cocked your head to the side.
“you look a little lost,” you said, quoting him for the second time since you walked in. “do you need me to rephrase anything?”
secretary. of all things.
derek opened his mouth to speak, before deciding that it would be best not to respond. guilt clawed at his insides. when he shook his head you smiled sweetly, the kind that promised both competence and intrigue. you turned to hotch, who could already tell just how insane you were going to drive him.
“shall we see where this trail leads?”
you turned fully to the team, confidence threading through every movement. hotch nodded, clearly not surprised in the slightest as to why you were recommended to him. “let’s get to work, then.”
and with that, the room shifted into motion, the hum of anticipation replacing discussion—the investigation was about to begin.
—
After hours and hours of visiting crime scenes and looking through evidence– you found yourself perched on a small stool beside the interrogation room at the local sheriff’s office, legs crossed comfortably over one another. you had your small pocket-sized mirror on you and were reapplying your lip gloss with grace and fluidity.
you felt a pair of curious eyes glued to the side of your face from across the already limited room. without directing your own gaze toward him, you closed the mirror and smiled.
“careful, doctor, i might start thinking you’re staring at me for reasons that aren’t intellectual.”
you watched him fumble and freeze at your comment. “i-i wasn’t—”
when you looked back at him, you were smiling. you caught the pink tint on his cheeks and, for the first time since you arrived, you allowed yourself to actually indulge in the fellow so-proclaimed genius.
lanky frame, hair a little too messy for someone who seemed so precise, eyes that darted as though forever chasing thoughts faster than words could catch. he didn’t look like the kind of man who filled a room—he looked boyish.
you noticed the intelligence instantly; it clung to him like static, sharp and unrelenting. but there was something softer too, something almost fragile in the way he held himself, like he was both entirely certain and utterly uncertain all at once.
intriguing to say the least.
“for a genius, you’re awfully easy to fluster.” a pedicured hand raked through your hair as you stashed away your small mirror and lip gloss.
“i’m not flustered, i just—” his words ran thin, and you tilted your head toward him, batting your eyelashes almost methodically. “do you talk like that to everyone?”
“you mean do i flirt with everyone?”
spencer was taken completely off balance by your boldness and for some reason he found his brain turning into mush. there was no way of comprehending how his brain just scrambled the second you spoke. he had the theory it's because he never worked well around– statistically and objectively speaking– beautiful women.
when he gave no answer, you raised a teasing yet questioning brow.
“would you want the answer to be no?”
“what?! i didn’t say that! i—” spencer found himself growing frustratingly anxious. he clamped his mouth shut and didn’t answer, sucking in a deep breath through his nose, looking as if he were praying to some god to put him out of his misery. he only grew pinker, if even possible.
“don’t tell me you blush this easily.” poor guy couldn’t catch a break. you were almost starting to feel bad.
almost.
you looked him over once more. he didn’t occupy the space most men did. or at least the one most men tried to. those who attempted to keep up with you and tried to win you over by boasting, acting larger-than-life, and playing saviors to all your problems.
spencer didn’t really seem like that type of person.
he just stood there, and sure he looked like he was about to have a heart attack, but he allowed not only himself but you to exist within that reality of his.
and then you started to feel bad. so you huffed a laugh and jutted your chin toward him.
“i was told you’ve been obsessing over the numbers.”
“i… i try to analyze timelines and behavioral patterns—not obsessively.” he clarified, caught off guard by his shaky voice and hands.
he was fidgeting with his fingers. why was he fidgeting?
you pursed your lips. “hmm… interesting. four victims, unrelated professionally, yet each note carries a numeric code. most would dismiss it as random, or perhaps the signature of a sadistic mind.”
you tapped your arm, referring to the sequence. “but the numbers correspond to psychological triggers—specific fears, stress responses, deeply ingrained vulnerabilities. whoever orchestrated this knows human behavior intimately.”
spencer’s eyebrows shot up. “wait—so you’re saying the sequence itself—it’s a behavioral profile? embedded within the numbers?”
you straightened, nodding in his direction. “exactly. most agents focus solely on physical evidence or timelines. but a criminal this meticulous? he’s leaving breadcrumbs of his own psychology, a trail of thought for anyone perceptive enough to follow.”
he nodded to himself, mumbling a small huh in its way.
“you don’t agree?” your voice was light, though there was a sharpened edge beneath it, an invitation for him to step into the ring.
spencer shifted, eyes darting to the floor before returning to yours. “i just think—” he hesitated, fingers twitching again, “it’s unusual for someone outside the bureau to catch that. most people… they don’t see patterns the way we do.”
you tilted your head, smile curving just enough to unsettle him. “good thing I'm not like most people.”
his lips parted like he wanted to respond, but no words came. instead, he blinked at you, as though you were another puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve too quickly.
you’re name was called by hotch, pulling you out of the little bubble you created. something uncomfortable clawed at you. you cleared your throat, looking up at him. “we need your assistance,”
you turned back to Spencer, masking whatever disappointment or discomfort with a smile that could kill many. “see you later doctor,”
—
the case had been solved, thanks to your help. papers were filed, evidence bagged, and the echo of late-night exhaustion lingered in every corner of the baus office. agents packed up with the mechanical efficiency of people too used to closing horrors neatly into folders.
you slipped your phone back into your bag, the last trace of yourself gathered before you left.
the job that brought you here was finished; technically, so was your place in it.
a large part of you was pleased. you didn’t like spending more time than necessary in one place, leaves too much space for people to actually see you. so leaving was probably for the best, although emily and rossi are great at holding conversations.
“hey—“ you didn’t make it three steps down the hall before morgan intercepted you. his grin was sheepish, his tone softer than you’d heard it. “look— i owe you an apology.”
your brows arched, amused. “for what exactly? assuming i was here to file paperwork and fetch coffee?”
“yeah,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with uncharacteristic awkwardness. “i misjudged– you proved me wrong. hell, you helped close this thing faster than we could’ve without you. i should’ve given you that credit from the start.”
you let the silence hang for a beat, watching him squirm, before offering a small smile. “apology accepted, agent morgan. just don’t make it a habit.”
you felt a certain fondness towards morgan. he looked like he hid a lot inside beneath all the charm and flirtatious attempts.
a part of you understood all too well.
he chuckled, relief flickering across his face, and tipped his chin in a gesture that almost looked like respect. “fair enough.” with that, he left you to the hallway.
spencer was there when you turned, lingering in the glow of the fluorescent lights. he looked tired, shadows carved under his eyes, but still sharp in that restless way of his—like his mind refused to settle, even when the work was done.
“so,” he said lightly, almost too lightly, “i suppose this is goodbye…?”
you tilted your head, a teasing smile ghosting at the corner of your mouth. “try not to miss me too much.”
the flush hit his cheeks faster than you expected, and you nearly laughed at how easy it was. but instead, you let the silence breathe, softer this time, not so sharp-edged as it had been before.
“you were… helpful,” he finally managed, and for all his brilliance, it sounded like he’d stitched the words together clumsily, afraid of what they implied.
“careful, doctor,” you murmured, stepping past him with a brush of your shoulder. “keep giving me compliments and i might start thinking you want me around.”
he went still, completely undone by the suggestion. you didn’t look back—though you didn’t need to. you could feel his stare trailing after you, the weight of it lingering like static long after you pushed the door open and stepped into the night.
and though the case was closed, though you’d technically said goodbye, something in your chest told you it wasn’t the last. you knew, as surely as you knew your own reflection, that you’d see him again.
⋆⭒˚.⋆ needle and thread - spencer reid x bombshell!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 after a near-fatal encounter on the field, you wake to find spencer at your bedside— shaken, unguarded, and revealing a side of himself you never expected. between confessions, defenses, and a nickname spoken too softly, the line between armor and intimacy begins to blur.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 cm typical violence, reader is attacked/drugged on the field, angsty stuff, spencer freaks out subtly, hospitals, very brief mentions of spencer past addiction, mutual pining, nicknames,
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 3.4k
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 i felt that reader having this encounter worked really well with spencers past and it was a great opportunity to like lower both their defenses yay
𝐛𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
the case had felt wrong from the start. the kind of wrong that crawled under your skin, quiet and patient, waiting.
three overdoses in as many weeks, all staged to look like accidents— pills scattered across bathroom floors, needles abandoned in living rooms— but the toxicology never matched.
the case had taken you here, to a rotting warehouse on the river’s edge. and now, boxed in by a profile and the fbi, he had nowhere left to run.
the squad split at the entrance, their voices low but sharp in your earpiece.
“east wing’s clear,” emily murmured.
“second floor stairwell clear,” jj added.
“he’s cornered,” hotch’s voice cut through, calm and certain. “stay sharp. he’s escalating.”
you moved in deeper, feet crunching against loose gravel and broken glass. the air reeked of mildew and something wildly unpleasant.
metal beams groaned under the weight of the building, every creak echoing too loud in the dark. your weapon was steady in your hands, but your chest thrummed with adrenaline.
“he’s here,” spencer’s voice crackled softly in your ear. you pictured him in another hallway, long fingers wrapped tight around his gun, mind cataloguing every sound—
not the time.
then morgan: “copy. keep your heads up. guy’s desperate.”
you swallowed against the dryness in your throat. desperate was the worst kind of cornered.
desperate men didn’t negotiate; they lunged.
you cut down one of the side aisles, rows of rusted machinery looming and the chatter in your earpiece dimmed as distance grew, until it was just your breath and the faint drip of water in the rafters.
your instincts screamed at the silence.
things were too still. too staged.
you swept your flashlight across the floor— discarded tools, then a scuff mark, fresh. a boot print dragging.
“west corner,” you whispered into your mic. “i’ve got sign.”
no answer. just static.
something wasn’t right.
the air seemed to thicken, pressing in on your lungs. your fingers tightened around the grip of your gun, pulse tripping fast. you rolled your shoulders once, grounding yourself, then edged forward, each step a warning drumbeat in your head.
“come on,” you muttered under your breath, a prayer and a dare all at once. “just step out.”
your eyes caught a flicker of movement to the right, a blur in the shadows.
what the—?
the unsub lunged before you could reset your stance, a blur of fury and raw strength. the impact knocked the gun clean out of your hand, clattering uselessly across the dock.
instinct roared louder than fear— you braced, meeting his momentum head-on, both hands locking around his wrists as he shoved against you. his strength dwarfed yours, the kind of brute force that made your muscles scream with effort.
a guttural sound tore from your throat as you fought to hold him back. his face was twisted, wild, and you knew deep in your gut, just by the look on his face— he wasn’t just trying to escape, he wanted to hurt you.
adrenaline surged hot through your chest. you drove a knee upward, hard, just enough to stagger him back. you spun, angling for distance— just long enough to regroup—
—but he was faster. you barely registered the movement before the syringe was in his hand, the glint of it enough to make your body fold in on itself. fear hit sharp and sudden, stealing the air from your lungs.
you had to get away.
distance. distance. distance.
his grip closed around the back of your neck, firm, unyielding. a quick flick of his wrist, a flash of metal and before you could even register, the sting, sudden and precise, driving into your arm before you could pull away.
you hissed on instinct. the pain hit first, sharp, white-hot and then the realization as you glanced down catching a glimpse of the syringe sticking out your arm.
the world tilted.
liquid fire spread under your skin, radiating outward in pulses that felt wrong.
his grip clamped down like iron, but instinct cut through the haze. you twisted hard, slammed your elbow into his ribs with everything you had left, just enough to loosen his grip and break free.
the needle still jutted from your arm. your hand hovered, trembling, before you yanked it out in one shaky motion. your vision blurred for half a second, your heart pounding too fast and uneven.
“fuck—“ you muttered to no one but yourself, looking at the small indent in your arm.
where the hell is everyone?
and then— boots thundered behind you, heavy, certain. morgan’s tackle sent the unsub crashing to the ground, concrete scraping, cuffs snapping shut in an echo that should have been final.
but your body wasn’t following the script.
your arm ached, the burn spreading wider, hotter, like the drug was rushing to stake its claim over your bloodstream.
your breath came too fast, chest rising unevenly.
keep it together. steady your breathing. don’t give them a reason to panic.
but the thought kept repeating, louder each time— you knew that if you had to remind yourself not to fall apart, it was because you already were.
morgan held the unsub down against the floor, cuffs shuffling with satisfying clicks before he turned, eyes scanning you.
“you good?”
your hand pressed hard over the puncture, like pressure alone could erase what just happened. you forced your voice even, swallowing past the thick, metallic taste in your mouth.
“i’m fine.”
too quick. too clipped.
and then spencer was there, suddenly filling your periphery. he was already assessing, already unraveling you with his eyes.
“what happened?”
“nothing, i—“ you cleared your throat, suddenly feeling as if you were swallowing rocks.
spencer’s eyes narrowed.
the stutter of your breath, the tremor in your fingers, the way your pupils seemed too slow to adjust under the warehouse lights. he recognized it all too well
“what was it?” his voice came low, urgent. “what did he inject you with? did you see the vial—?”
your body jolted at the sound, at the closeness. you flinched when his hand brushed your arm, though you weren’t sure if the shiver racing down your spine was the drug or the way spencer touched you like glass.
why was he looking at you like that?
“i don’t know. didn’t exactly ask him for the label.” your laugh came laced with familiar sarcasm. still, you fished the vial out of your pocket, extending it with a hand that betrayed you— shaking too violently.
“hey…” his brow creased deeper, gaze flicking from the vial to your hand. “you’re shaking—”
you shook your head, covering it with a small huff of a smile.
and suddenly the last thing he cared about was the vile.
the buzz in your head made you extend your free hand, keeping him back by a weak hand on his chest as you’re gaze fell to the ground “i’m okay.”
but okay was a lie. the ground tipped and swayed beneath you, gravity not where you left it. you breathed in and out heavily.
and he saw it— of course he did.
his stare pressed in, sharp and unyielding, and something in your chest caved under the weight of it.
you tried to twist your lips upward, make it look lighter than it felt. “i’ve got this.”
you wanted to believe it. you wanted him to believe it.
you felt his hand wrap around your wrist, gentle and cautious, but the edges of the world were already softening, bleeding together like water over ink. your legs turned to water, every step threatened to fold you in half.
just stand. just breathe.
breathe. breathe. breathe.
you blinked hard, trying to fix your vision on anything solid, and in a mild panic, you gaze landed on his face.
his eyes wide, pupils blown, terror written in every line.
too close.
his other hand hovered midair, trembling like he was fighting himself— like some muscle memory told him to grab you, hold you, keep you steady, but fear kept him frozen.
why does he look like that?
“i can’t—” the words stuck thick on your tongue, each syllable too heavy to drag out. the vial fell from your hand and your knees gave first, buckling beneath you, body folding sideways like the strings holding you up had been cut.
suddenly gravity was different—everything in you felt weighted, your arms, your chest, even your eyelids.
“damn it!—” spencer’s voice cracked, hands already there, catching you before the concrete could. his arms wrapped around you, one hand bracing your shoulder as he lowered you against him. “morgan! she’s going down!”
morgan’s answer thundered from somewhere far away, muffled under the roar in your ears. your pulse slammed in ragged bursts, then slowed, dragged, like your body couldn’t decide whether to fight or surrender.
spencer’s voice tore through the haze, a lifeline pulling at the edges of your slipping awareness. “emily, narcan, now! her pulse is— damn it— it’s crashing!”
your head lolled into the crook of his shoulder. your body refused to listen, limp and heavy, too tired to even flinch.
the light overhead stabbed into your eyes, so you turned instinctively, tucking into the shadow of his neck, hiding from the glare without meaning to.
the dark pressed in, soft but sudden, like drowning under a velvet tide. just a nap, your mind whispered, weak, but the thought shattered as voices crashed around you.
everything was too much.
“she’s going out!” jj’s shout cracked sharp as a gunshot, crouching down beside spencer, her hand hovering helplessly near yours.
spencer’s palm pressed hard against your throat, searching, desperate. “her heart rate’s plummeting—we need reversal, now!” the last word broke off raw, almost a plea.
your chest stuttered, the rise and fall shallow, fragile. each breath dragged like glass.
“narcan’s coming!” emily’s voice rang out, fierce and fast, her boots hammering back from the SUV.
“keep her airway clear,” hotch snapped, clipped and steady in the way only he could be— an anchor against the panic seizing everyone else.
but spencer— spencer wasn’t steady.
his hands shook where they held you, his breath stuttered as he placed his plam against your head, holding you to him and watching every flicker of your chest, every twitch of your lips.
he wasn’t calm and he definitely wasn’t collected. not when it was you. not when he could feel the life bleeding slow and fragile against his fingertips.
you weren’t just another victim, not just another case file.
you were important in ways he couldn’t say out loud because he couldn’t even understand it. important in ways that broke him open now as you slipped further from him with every second.
“damn it, stay with me,” he muttered, half-command, half-prayer. his grip on your hand was white-knuckled, like he could force your pulse back just by holding on tighter.
his hands never left you— steady even when he wasn’t.
“i’ve got it!” emily’s voice cut sharp through the blur, the sound of plastic tearing and metal clattering against concrete.
spencer didn’t hesitate— his hands were already on you, steadying your jaw, tilting your head back just enough. “hold her still.”
emily was already moving, already jamming the injector into the side of your thigh.
a hiss. a burn. a split second of silence.
then your body jerked.
air tore back into your lungs all at once— your chest heaving like you’d been underwater for minutes. you coughed violently, a wet, tearing sound, body bowing against spencer’s hold.
“that’s it—come on, come on—” his voice was frantic, almost breaking, one hand cupping the back of your head to keep you upright as the other pressed flat against your sternum, feeling the stutter of your heart.
the world came back wrong. the warehouse lights stabbed into your skull, every sound echoing inside your head. your stomach lurched, bile sour at the back of your throat.
you choked on a gasp, hands clawing weakly at the air until spencer caught them, folding your trembling fingers into his. “it’s okay, i’ve got you—just breathe with me—”
your chest rattled, shudders tearing through you, as if your body couldn’t decide between fighting or collapsing again. the taste of metal coated your tongue, every nerve screaming awake too fast.
“easy, that’s it. you’re here. you’re safe.” spencer’s words were low, urgent, whispered against your hair like a mantra for himself as much as for you.
“pulse is climbing,” emily called, crouched low beside you both, relief tempered by the tension in her jaw. “narcan’s working.”
but spencer couldn’t look away from you—couldn’t stop holding on, couldn’t stop counting each ragged breath that clawed out of your chest. your face was pale, lips tinted with blue.
but you were here. you were alive
“i feel like shit,” you groaned, grimacing with every movement your body could make. spencer let out a wet chuckle.
“don’t do that again.”
and though your throat burned, though your voice was shredded, though you wanted to tease him, saying you had no choice in the matter, all you managed was a whisper, hoarse but steady enough to make his eyes snap back to yours.
“wasn’t planning on it doc,”
—
the world came back in fragments— first sound, then light, then the weight of your own body.
voices filtered through, muffled, indistinct, like they were on the other side of water. the sharp sting of antiseptic clung to the air, burning the back of your throat. you swallowed, but your mouth was desert-dry.
you tried shifting, though every muscle felt weighted, like gravity had doubled just for you. your eyelids dragged open halfway, thick and reluctant.
“hey.” a voice cut through— low, fragile, and closer than all the rest. “don’t move too fast.”
spencer.
you blinked hard, forcing your eyes to focus. the curtain blurred into sterile white and then, finally, his face came into view.
he sat at your bedside, his knees angled awkwardly under the chair. his hands were knotted in his lap, gripping each other tight like if he loosened them, everything would fall apart.
“look at you,” you rasped, voice ragged and foreign in your throat. a crooked smirk tugged at your lips despite the ache in your chest. “still here. i'm starting to think you’re obsessed.”
normally, that line would’ve earned at least a twitch of amusement— some hint of that reluctant, awkward smile he always tried to hide when you teased him.
but this time?
nothing. not even close.
his expression didn’t shift; his eyes just stayed on you, sharp and restless, scanning your features like he was running diagnostics, like every flutter of your lashes or stumble in your breath was data he couldn’t afford to miss.
and it unnerved you more than the needle had.
because spencer reid wasn’t just watching. he was unraveling.
and you, broken voice and unsteady pulse, weren’t sure what scared you more: that you’d been taken down by a syringe in the dark or that you mattered enough to put that look in his eyes.
“how are you feeling?”
“like i got hit by a truck,”
he huffed a sudden laugh and although weak and nearly existent, you took it as a win. you smiled mumbling softly, “there you are,”
a silence stretched between the two of you, showing spencer struggle to find words or anything to ease your growing panic.
“you lost consciousness,” he said flatly, like stating it out loud would keep the memory anchored. “your pulse dropped. you stopped responding. do you—”
he cut himself off, jaw locking, throat working.
you blinked at him, the weight of his panic pressing heavier than any drug still dragging your body had.
“reid,” you whispered, softer now. “it was just a harmless nap.”
“don’t joke about that.” his voice snapped sharp before breaking low again. “don’t.”
for once, you didn’t have a quip ready. your smile fell as quick as it had appeared. you swallowed, gaze slipping to the ceiling.
“fine,” you murmured. “no jokes"
more silence.
you swore to god if you had to sit through another second of silence you were going to start wishing that syringe killed you off.
“how long have you been here?” you asked, because said silence pressed too heavy on your chest.
it wasn’t curiosity so much as desperation— you needed noise, needed anything to fill the stillness between you.
“i—” he started, then stopped. his eyes didn’t lift to yours; they tracked the folds of the hospital blanket instead. “since you were out. three hours. maybe more..? i dont know— i lost track.”
you nodded slowly, your fingers working at the skin along your knuckles, little cracks that had started to sting. it gave you something to do, something to keep your hands from trembling.
spencer shifted, leaning forward, his palm pressed against his mouth as if holding himself together physically.
the silence stretched once again, taut as wire.
and then, almost too softly, he broke it. “i brought your makeup bag.”
your eyes flicked to him, startled enough that for a second you wondered if you’d misheard. “…what?”
“your makeup bag,” he repeated, a little clearer this time. “you usually keep it in your work purse. i thought you’d want it here— so when you woke up, you could…”
he trailed off, fumbling at the edges of his words like he was embarrassed to have said them out loud.
your heart gave a strange little lurch, something sharp and disobedient, as if your body understood more than your mind was willing to admit.
“way to charm a girl, reid.” you managed a smirk, your voice curling into its usual armor. “is this your way of saying that i look like crap?”
his eyes flickered, just for a second, down your face—your smudged mascara, the dark tint of your lips that was due more to the cold and remaining lipstick than anything else, the way your hair clung stubbornly at odd angles.
you braced for the usual stammer, for him to retreat. but instead, he shook his head, quiet but steady.
“no. i brought it because i know it makes you feel more like yourself,” he said, his words careful, deliberate.
then, after a beat that stretched too long to be casual “though, for the record you don’t need it.”
the sentence landed like a drop of ink in water, spreading slow and impossible to ignore. “there should also be some makeup wipes there too.”
you just stared at him.
there it was again— that raw, startling side of him you weren’t prepared for. the side that remembered, noticed, cared in ways you couldn’t dismiss with a joke.
the side that slipped past all your defenses before you even realized the gates were open.
and damn him for meaning it.
you leaned back against the pillows, letting the sterile sheets cradle you, but your gaze never left him. your lips curved, softer this time, no armor in sight. just a smile that felt almost shy.
“thank you, spence.”
he wasn’t sure if you were thanking him for the bag, for the words, or for simply sitting there like a guard at your bedside.
maybe it was all of it at once. maybe it didn’t matter.
the nickname, though— spence.
it slipped from your mouth so naturally, so unguarded, that it sent a current down his spine.
it wasn’t clinical, wasn’t the careful “reid” or “doc” he was used to from you, the name you wielded like a tease.
he nodded faintly, trying to keep his expression neutral, but inside his head was spinning and reeling in ways that couldn’t possibly be healthy.
“it’s, uhm—” spencer’s voice caught, quieter than the beeping down the hall. he adjusted his grip on his knee, fingers flexing restlessly. “i know it’s what i would’ve wanted when..”
you remained quiet. “when i realized that he had stuck the needle in you, it—” he stopped, jaw tightening, eyes flicking anywhere but you.
“it brought back… things. times when—” another cut-off, sharper this time, like the word itself burned.
he shifted, exhaling through his nose, trying again.
“there was a case. years ago. i know what it feels like when… when you don’t have control of what’s inside your own body.” his voice dipped lower, rawer. “i couldn’t stand someone else endure what i—“
he stopped himself, visibly locking the words behind his teeth.
something inside you twisted.
this was spencer—careful, awkward, brilliant spencer—sitting here confessing something jagged and heavy and completely unknown to you, showing you a corner of himself no one ever really showed.
you should have been terrified. not of him—never him—but of what it meant.
attachment meant danger. vulnerability meant loss.
yet, somehow, you didn’t want to run. you wanted to reach across that tiny, sterile space and peel back the rest of his words, see all the shadows he was hiding. you wanted to know.
that terrified you more than anything.
because you weren’t built for this. not the way he was. not with his wide-open honesty bleeding through the cracks, his devotion stitched into every syllable. you didn’t know how to hold something so real without fumbling it, breaking it.
this was getting out of hand.
you did what you always did.
“you don’t exactly make it easy to keep my edge, you know that?” you said, soft but tilted into teasing, your lips curling faintly.
“maybe that’s the point,” he smiled, this time truthfully.
“good luck with that,” you pursed your lips. “it’s gonna take more than some morphine and heartfelt talks to make me break.”
and though you hated yourself for it, you watched the heavy fog in his eyes lift just a fraction, retreating behind something safer. something lighter. something you knew how to deal with.
your chest throbbed, both with relief and regret.
“reid..?”
“yeah?” you sank deeper into the pillows.
“thank you for telling me,”
⋆⭒˚.⋆ with sugar and black coffee - spencer reid x bombshell!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 on a brutal day of overstimulation and frayed nerves at, a sharp snap at spencer leaves you drowning in immediate regret.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 hurt+comfort, reader acts like a bitch but hey she feels bad about it immediately after, spencer’s a sweetheart (like way too good), two idiots who like eachother a lot more than they’re letting on, lots of denial, spencer is lowkey down bad, love language through food and coffee, mostly fluff
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 1.9k
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 WE ARE BACK with bombshell reader i missed her dearly
𝐛𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
you’d been staring at the screen so long the words blurred together. the hum of the bullpen, the steady clack of keys and occasional phone ringing, pressed at the edges of your headache until it felt like a drumbeat in your skull.
it was a calm day at work— thank god.
but your stomach cramped, your body felt heavy, and all you wanted was for the world to leave you alone for just one damn day.
but the humming started to get a little obnoxious. the clicking and clacking of keys, the phone ringing, the feeling like you weren’t really in your body suddenly became too much at once and you found yourself growing increasingly overstimulated.
“hey,” spencer’s voice cut in gently, his shadow spilling across your desk. “i was going through the files from last night and—”
“not now, reid,” you snapped, sharper than you’d intended. sharper than he’s ever heard your voice in fact. it cracked like a whip across the space between you.
you didn’t even look up, fingers clenched tight around your mouse as though the screen required your full devotion. as though maybe the harder you stared, the less queasy you’d feel.
there was a beat of silence. not offended silence, not judgmental— just him processing.
and then you took a breather and realized how you had actually spoken to him, and guilt started pinching slightly at your chest with no heads up.
when you finally glanced up, his expression wasn’t hurt. his brows were slightly lifted, lips parted like he’d been about to say something else but thought better of it.
well weren’t you just the best.
you hadn’t meant to say anything or be so snappy. you just needed the world to shut up and suddenly someone was speaking to you fast and calculated and—
you wouldn’t have spoken that way if you knew who it was you were speaking to.
there was no accusation in his face, just a kind of quiet observation, like he was mentally rearranging.
“okay,” he said finally, soft and steady. he set the file he’d been holding down at the edge of your desk and stepped back. “i’ll leave it here. you can look whenever you feel like it— just let me know.”
you hummed in response— dismissive and pretending to be uninterested. your tone made it sound like you hadn’t even heard him, like he’d already slipped from your radar.
but your stomach turned the second he walked away, long strides folding him back into the flow of the bullpen. you hated the sound of your voice in your head, replaying the edge of it.
however, you didn’t have the energy to beat yourself up for it, not today.
your body ached, your eyelids dragged heavy, and the cramps kept pulling your focus back inward. your whole body buzzed and not in a good way.
so you stayed hunched over your screen, jaw tight while pretending it didn’t matter, pretending you hadn’t just bitten at the one person who probably would’ve understood.
damn it.
and reid— well, he didn’t come back right away. which if you were honest, you didn’t blame him. a ugly twisted feeling settled in the bottom of your gut and the guilt was starting to scream louder in your head as minutes turned into hours.
but knowing spencer— and this was the knowledge that made the guilt so much worse— he was probably giving you the space you’d asked for without necessarily asking, waiting until you could meet him halfway again.
because of course he would.
later on in the day you took a long needed break in the bathroom. the fluorescent lights in the bathroom were merciless, reflecting every shadow under your eyes, every crease of exhaustion etched into your skin.
you tried your best with makeup this morning. you still looked decent, although you’ve seen better days for yourself.
you pressed your palms to the sink, inhaled slow, and tried to breathe the tension out of your shoulders.
it didn’t work. clearly.
you started getting that overwhelming feeling of needing to cry. over your dead body would you go there.
a while later— when you finally trudged back to your desk, there it was.
a porcelain mug— not one of the office styrofoam cups, not even from the café down the block.
your mug.
the one with the little blue speckles in the cannot of the breaker room. it was beaded with condensation, ice cubes chiming faintly when you set it closer
inside, perfectly pale iced coffee. exactly the way you liked it.
tucked beneath the handle was a folded scrap of paper, spencer’s cramped handwriting scrawled across it.
‘hope you feel better :)’
your throat closed.
fuck.
you stared at the words until they blurred. the message was so spencer it nearly pained you. he hadn’t said anything when he left, hadn’t demanded an apology or even given you the space to stew in guilt.
he just noticed. and then he did this.
you were going to kill him.
the irony was unbearable— you’d snapped at him, tossed your sharp edges straight at the one person who didn’t deserve them, and he still came back with kindness.
who does that?
who absorbs the sting and answers with gentleness?
you blinked hard, the sting in your eyes threatening to spill over. your hands trembled as you wrapped them around the mug, grounding yourself in the cold, in the sweetness, in the fact that even after you’d treated him like shit, he still thought you were worth this small, deliberate care.
and that was both a feeling you enjoyed as much as you feared it.
you weren’t the type to cry at work. you weren’t the type to cry, period— much less in public
but for a second you wanted to bury your face in your hands and let it all out— the ache, the tiredness, the guilt, the quiet gratitude that made your chest burn.
instead, you sat there, staring down at his note, clutching your coffee like it was a lifeline, wondering how the hell he could be so good to you when you’d done nothing to deserve it.
and more importantly— why?
—
a chocolate-sprinkled donut landed with a soft thud on top of spencer’s open file, followed immediately by a steaming cup of plain black coffee. the sprinkles scattered like tiny confetti across the crime-scene photos.
he blinked down at them, then up at you, brow furrowed like someone had just handed him an equation missing half the variables.
“what’s… this?” he asked slowly, as if the pastry might detonate if he touched it.
“a peace offering,” you muttered, sliding into the chair beside him before second-guessing could stop you.
the words came out rushed, clipped, like ripping off a bandage. you folded your hands in your lap and forced yourself to meet his eyes.
tired and guilty and exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. “i’m sorry.”
his gaze narrowed slightly, flicking between you and the food. “you’re sorry… with pastries?”
“don’t act so surprised,” you shot back, though the usual bite was missing. you rubbed the back of your neck, avoiding his scrutiny.
“you didn’t have to get me coffee earlier. and you definitely didn’t have to be nice after i—” you gestured vaguely toward the bullpen, toward the memory of your earlier snap. “—snapped at you like that. you shouldn’t have to deal with the fallout of my shitty mood.”
he tilted his head, studying you with that unnervingly calm intensity that always made you feel seen in ways you weren’t ready for. “so your solution is… caffeinated penance?”
you groaned, dropping your forehead onto the edge of the desk for half a second before sitting up again. “just drink the damn coffee, reid.”
his lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile he was clearly trying to suppress. “you know, you never actually asked if i even like chocolate-sprinkled donuts.”
“please.” you leaned an elbow on the desk, finally daring to glance sideways at him. “you reach for them every single time garcia brings a box in. you do the little happy eyebrow thing you do. i pay attention.”
the admission landed heavier than you meant it to. his brows lifted, genuinely startled that you’d cataloged something so small. his fingers hovered at the edge of the pastry box like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to claim it.
“what?” you asked, defensive, voice edging toward moody again.
“nothing,” he said softly. but the smile betrayed him—the kind that made your stomach flip in a way you immediately resented. “i just… didn’t realize you noticed.”
you rolled your eyes, but the motion lacked heat. “don’t make it weird.”
he opened the box anyway. the faint sugary scent bloomed between you, sweet and ridiculous in the middle of case files and fluorescent lighting.
“i just figured you weren’t having a great day,” he said finally, voice matter-of-fact.
somehow those words landed harder than any lecture or scolding ever could.
before spencer, you’d built an entire life on survival. walls and personas and armor so seamless most people never noticed it was there. it protected you from everything— other people, empty promises, pain, and especially form yourself.
sometimes, when your mind was too tired to hold the line, you let yourself imagine what it might feel like to let go with him.
to drop the act and still find a steady hand waiting— no conditions, no score-keeping, no inevitable withdrawal.
the fantasy never lasted long. but it kept showing up.
“still,” you said, forcing levity back into your voice before the quiet could swallow you whole. “doesn’t mean you should enable me when i’m being a nightmare.”
“well,” he said, tearing the donut neatly in half with surprising precision and sliding the bigger piece toward you, “consider it mutual enabling.”
your lips curved despite yourself. “truce?”
“truce.” he took a bite of his half, chewing with an almost comical amount of satisfaction, like the sugar was personally vindicating him.
you pretended not to notice the fact that every small, stupid exchange like this was pulling you deeper into something you weren’t sure you could climb back out of.
for a few stolen minutes you sat there together, laughing between bites of donut like the earlier tension had never existed.
the knot that had been strangling your chest all morning loosened, replaced by the absurd comfort of sharing sugar with spencer reid at a cluttered fbi desk.
eventually you pushed your chair back, brushing crumbs off your lap with exaggerated care. “alright, i’ve got stuff to do. don’t get too sappy without me.”
he tilted his head, genuinely confused. “what—?”
you only grinned, refusing to clarify as you walked off before he could dissect it.
left alone, spencer frowned down at his coffee cup. his eyes snagged on the cardboard sleeve. his breath caught.
there it was— clear as day. a faint imprint of your lipstick pressed deliberately at the side, unmistakably intentional. underneath, in your neat, looping scrawl:
‘i’m sorry!!!!!!!!!!!!!♡’
he stared at it for a long moment, thumb brushing the edge of the sleeve like he could feel the shape of your mouth through the paper.
he stared at it like it had just rewritten the laws of physics. the corners of his mouth tugged upward, soft and helpless.
something stupid, something small, but it was yours.
and when he caught himself smiling at it for the third time, he realized— he didn’t care how ridiculous it was.
god help him.
(he was so keeping that sleeve)
THIS ERA WAS INSAAAAAAAANEEEEEEEE
like you realize how much his character has grown and matured 😭😭
⋆⭒˚.⋆ front and center - spencer reid x fem!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 on a slow december morning, decorating the tree turns into a reflection on years of shared history, quiet devotion, and the kind of love that grows in small moments—coffee forgotten, hands brushing, and a home finally built together.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 established relationship, a disgustingly sweet ammount of physical contact and love, brief mention of spencer’s traumatic childhood, spencer doesn’t necessarily like christmas, reader does, a few suggestive comments from spencer, other than that it’s all just so much FLUFF
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 2.9k
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 okay so im already a day late but its fine, we’re still rolling with this!
𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
the living room is still dim, morning light pale and soft through the windows, a few scattered boxes stacked half-open like evidence of a life mid-unpacking.
your eyes are still heavy, enough so that you find yourself rubbing at your face, attempting to pry the grogginess out of them.
you’re cross-legged on the floor in one of spencer’s old FBI T-shirts and shorts that barely count as such, hair a disaster you haven’t bothered fixing because—why would you? it’s your house.
yours and spencer’s house.
it’s a sunday, the kind that moves slowly and smells like coffee, with one very clear mission: get the tree up and make the place feel alive before christmas eve.
hosting felt like the obvious choice—less an idea and more a quiet declaration. a way to celebrate the fact that you’d just moved in together, that this space was finally yours. you wanted it filled with warmth, people, and proof that something good had taken root here.
your infamous christmas box sits in front of you, lid tipped back, tissue paper spilling out in reds and greens and silvers. you lift an ornament you’d almost forgotten about, turning it between your fingers. a tiny glass star, chipped at one point. you smile without meaning to.
“hey,” spencer’s voice says softly behind you.
he steps into your peripheral vision and you catch the sight of him before he reaches you—barefoot, curls going in eight different directions, sleep still clinging to him in the way his shoulders are a little slouched.
it’s one of your many favorite images of him.
you turn to face him and he’s holding two mugs when he crouches, offering one to you like it’s something sacred. your heart pulls a little at the look he’s giving you.
“morning coffee,” he says. “i put in the vanilla syrup you got yesterday,”
you take it with both hands, warming your fingers. “i love you,” you say automatically, leaning in to kiss him. it’s soft, lazy, and still morning but when he hums against your mouth like he approves of the timing your chest warms anyways.
he sets his coffee on the small table and settles behind you on the floor, shoulder pressed to his chest. he supports his weight on his wrist and cages you against him comfortably. the contact is easy and constant, just like it has been for the past 3 weeks together. you rest your head against him for a second, just because you can.
“so,” he says, peering into the box. “is that the entire inventory?”
“no,” you say. “that’s the sentimental inventory.”
“of course,” he replies, solemn. “i was worried.”
“these go around the bookshelf and some are for the tree.” you pull out a string of slightly tangled fairy lights. “they’re a little— knotted..”
he tilts his head, looking over at all the small snow globes perched perfectly near all the different books his bookshelf contained. he turns back to you. “the bookshelf is already… very full.”
“they make it cozier.”
he smiles despite himself, slow and fond, like he likes that answer far more than he’s letting on. his hand slips around you and rests on your thigh, absentminded, thumb brushing small circles there while he thinks.
“i’m not opposed to cozy,” he says carefully. “i just think there should be… zones.”
“zones.” you look at him with a smile, raising your brow questionably.
“yes. for example—” he gestures vaguely “—the tree.”
you perk up. “what about the tree?”
“i think,” he says, choosing his words, “that ornaments should be arranged with some degree of color coordination—"
you snort. “you’re not giving my childhood structural logic.”
“i didn’t say structural logic,” he protests. “i said—”
you lean into him, tossing your head back against his shoulder to look at him. “you’re absolutely saying structural logic.”
without him even noticing, his hand slips up to your waist, sneaking beneath your shirt like it’s always lived there. “okay, maybe i did.”
his hand is cold against the warmth of your skin. a small sound leaves your throat before you’re squirming through a shiver. “you’re cold,”
“m’sorry,” he kisses the side of your neck.
spencer’s childhood never had any stockings hung by the fireplace for him. there were no long tables crowded with plates and laughter, no christmas mornings with a tree buried behind presents.
most years, his mom wasn’t even well enough for the holiday to exist at all.
but you had had those things. you had a box filled with memories—ornaments wrapped in tissue paper, traditions that survived year after year, proof that warmth could be built and kept.
and sitting behind you, watching you pull pieces of yourself out one by one, made him want to give the holidays a new meaning. to stop dreading what they had always represented and start believing in what they could be now—because this time, he had everything he hadn’t before.
he had you.
the thought alone is enough to make him shift closer and rest his chin on your shoulder.
you pull another ornament free—handmade, lopsided, clearly ancient. “this one goes front and center.”
he squints. “that… doesn’t match anything.”
“it matches me.”
he turns to look at you then, really look at you—messy hair, bare legs, coffee mug cradled to your chest, surrounded by boxes and pieces of a life you’re building together—and something soft settles in his expression.
“okay,” he says. “front and center,”
you grin, victorious, and kiss his cheek. his fingers trace along your side, grounding and familiar. he smiles, curls falling into his eyes, and reaches for the box with his free hand. “okay. what’s next?”
“lights!” you pat his thigh, signaling him to get up. he does after squeezing your waist once and kissing the side of your neck— because he can, time after time.
your up and soon reaching for two nests of green wires, tangled like a problem neither of you asked for. you hand one to spencer and keep one yourself. you lift the strand of lights and immediately frown. “okay so, be honest.”
spencer squints at it, tilting his head. “they’re… mostly untangled.”
“i said be honest.”
“they’re only knotted in three places,” he counters. “that’s very manageable.”
you laugh, already flicking one of the loops with your finger. “you say that like the knots won't multiply if we touch them.”
“that’s actually not how knots work,” he says, already beginning to untangle them himself.
his fingers begin working at the cables in silent calculation— whereas you just pull and see what will come loose. your hair falls in your eyes and your tongue sticks out in concentration.
“for the record,” he starts, glancing at you. “holiday lights account for a surprising number of household injuries every year.”
your shoulder slump and you deadpan at him. “spencer.”
“yes?”
“please don’t ruin christmas with a mortality rate.”
“i’m not ruining it,” he insists. “i’m contextualizing it.”
you roll your eyes but smile to yourself, continuing at your task of untangling christmas lights.
“i’m cautious of exposed wiring,” he corrects. “there’s a pretty big chance of electrocution if these are damaged.”
you hum beneath your breath. “now that i think about it, i did get electrocuted by christmas lights when i was younger,”
spencer gives you a look. “what? the dangers of electricity weren’t at the forefront of my mind at 15,”
“were you at least wearing rubber shoes?”
you smile and shrug. “no,”
now he’s rolling his own eyes. you smile to yourself and continue. this time, he watches your hands work, fingers deft and patient, and for a second he forgets what he was saying. the lights loosen gradually, giving way under your combined effort until—finally—they’re long and mostly cooperative.
“victory,” you announce.
“temporarily,” he says. “we haven’t tested them yet.”
he reaches for the plug before you can stop him.
“careful, if you die right now, i’m not explaining this to garcia,”
he pauses, looking up at you. “if i die, please tell her it was festive.”
you roll your eyes. “plug them in, drama king.”
he does and the room dims slightly as the lights come alive—soft golds and whites spilling across the living room, reflected in the windows, catching on the ornaments you’ve already hung. the glow hits your face first.
spencer looks up—and stops breathing for half a second.
your features soften in the light, eyes bright, skin warm and luminous, your mouth curved into a small, satisfied smile like you’ve just made something beautiful and know it. the lights halo you, framing your face in something gentle and unreal.
you turn to him. “okay, so that was worth it.”
he swallows.
“you—” he stops, searching. for something. anything to describe what’s going around his head.
he’s been having a hard time at searching lately.
seeing you so undone in every aspect since you’ve moved in together hits in a way he’s not sure he can put into words. spencer’s known you for many years, but when you started dating it was like he was meeting a whole new version of you.
a version of you that kept staying put and steady at his side just like you would as his best friends— while simultaneously getting to be loved by one of the most gentlest and caring hearts he had grown to know.
it was quite devastating.
and now living with you is like unlocking an elevated version of all the other ones he’s got to love. living with you is spending time with his best friend, his partner and now his companion in every little thing— the good and the bad.
“what?” you asked, raising a brow at him.
“you look pretty.”
you scoff lightly. “it’s the lights.”
“it’s you,” he says, immediately, like there was never another option.
something flickers across your face—shy, pleased, a little caught. “spencer.”
“i mean it,” he adds, softer now, stepping forward to you. “every time i think i’ve catalogued all the reasons you’re… you, you do something like this.”
“untangle lights?”
“exist in warm lighting,” he says.
you laugh, shaking your head. “you’re getting distracted.”
he shakes his head, reaching for your waist and pulling you a little closer. he cages your face in his palms and leans in.
his kiss is unplanned and unhurried, hands finding your waist like muscle memory, yours curling into his shirt. it’s soft at first—familiar and domestic—but then he lingers, presses just a little closer, forgets entirely about the tree.
you pull back, breathless. “sir, we have a schedule.”
he blinks, smiling, eyes hooded as his thumb caresses the apple of your cheek. “we do?”
“yes. and if you keep kissing me like that, nothing is getting decorated.”
he sighs dramatically but smiles. “i mean we technically already decorated most of the room—“
“down,” you say, pushing him back. “grab the garland.”
he obeys, but not before pulling you in by the small of your back and stealing one more quick kiss, murmuring against your lips. “for morale.”
you shake your head, laughing and moving towards the tree, lights in hand, glowing around you.
spencer watches you move around the tree, chest warm, heart full, thinking—if this is what untangling lights feels like, he’ll do it time and time again.
probably close to half an hour late, the tree is covered in ornaments spread out like offerings, tissue paper piling up at your side. you’ve taken full creative control now—spencer learned quickly that the only rule he’s allowed to enforce is color coordination. red, silver, black, green. everything else is, as you put it, “aesthetic instinct,” which he does not fully understand but respects deeply.
spencer sits on the arms rest of the couch, sleeves pushed up, watching you with that quiet, attentive focus he gets when you’re explaining something you care about. he smiles at the way you talk with your hands, at how your voice lifts when you’re happy, at how easily this space already feels like yours.
you pull things from the box one by one, and every time you do, there’s a story.
“this one’s from my first apartment,” you say, holding up a matte black bauble with a faint crack along the side. “i dropped it while crying over a bad date. it survived. i kept it out of spite.”
he smiles, soft and fond. “that feels… on brand.”
“this one,” you continue, already digging again, “was a gift from a coworker who hated me but pretended not to. so it goes in the back.”
he laughs out and you’re smiling to yourself when your fingers shoot back into the box to see what else you can dig up.
your hand brushes something solid and flat, not round like the others. you pull it free slowly, the tissue crinkling softly in the quiet living room.
you still.
you lift it out with care, like it might break if you move too fast. it’s an ornament spencer gifted you six years ago, tucked between a plastic snowflake and something aggressively glittery. clear glass and a little scratched with age. inside it, a photo.
both of you during your first year at the bau.
spencer looks impossibly young. softer around the edges. too-big suit, hair flat against his head, eyes wide like the world hadn’t hardened him yet.
that innocence was clearly stripped away from him— just like it had been from you. he’d grown into his suits, his curls were now set free and his eyes held a stable ground. they were solid and colder but never to the point where it’s hostile.
the one in the picture is very different from the spencer you knew today, but just as loved and cared for.
then there’s you—chaotic even then—pressed into his side, cheek smashed against his, grinning at the camera like you’d just said something outrageous and were waiting for him to catch up. your arm is hooked around his neck, possessive without knowing why.
it had been his favorite picture, even four years after it was taken. he gave it to you, awkward and earnest, like admitting it mattered too much might scare it away.
six years since the gift. four years of dating. and now—this.
spencer sees your shoulder slump and your face knitted in deep thought. he pushed himself off the couch. “you okay?”
“oh,” you breathe, barely audible.
“hey,” spencer hes pushing towards you now, listening to the the sound in your voice. he’s beside you in a second, crouching down and placing his hand on your shoulder while trying to decipher your sudden silence. “what’s wrong?”
you don’t answer right away. you just hold it up between your fingers, turning it so the light catches it just right. he squints and goes very still once he realizes what your holding.
“that’s—” he says, then stops. his mouth curves and he huffs a weak laugh. “i didn’t know you still had that.”
“of course i do,” you say, softer than you mean to. “you gave it to me.”
“i know, i just—” he steps closer, peering at it. “that was six years ago.”
“yeah,” you murmur. “look at us, all underdeveloped.”
he smiles, small and crooked. “looks like you were crushing my face pretty good.”
“you loved it.”
“terrified,” he corrects. then adds, “and yes— i did.”
“i looked—” you couldn’t quite name it.
“you looked like you were having fun.”
“i mean i was,” your thumb grazes the glass, skimming over both your faces. you glanced at him then, something warm and unguarded flickering across your face. “you were my favorite part of that year.”
that makes him pause.
he looks at you the way he does when something lands exactly where it’s meant to. he pinches the small bow on one of the corners of the ornament.
“i remember the day i gave you that,” he says. “you’d only mentioned liking ornaments once, i was worried it was too much,”
you snort. “once is enough information for you.”
“true,” he admits.
you laugh under your breath, then fall quiet again. seeing it now—seeing you then—feels surreal. all that time.
it’s crazy to think in a decade of knowing spencer there been so much of everything. so much growing. and now here you are, standing in a house you share, decorating a tree that belongs to both of you, with proof that this wasn’t sudden or accidental.
it was built. with care and persistence and lots of laughter and miscommunications. slowly, carefully.
together.
“can you put it somewhere obvious?” you ask. “it deserves a good spot.”
“front and center?” he asks.
“front and center.”
he takes it from you like it’s fragile and sacred in his hands. he hangs it near the center of the tree, right at eye level where anyone can see it if they looked.
when he steps back, his arm slides around your waist without thinking. yours fits around his back just as naturally. your head rests against his shoulder
living with spencer—with your best friend—feels just like this does.
falling asleep next to him, waking up by his side. making coffee together and decorating trees while simultaneously finding pieces of your past folded neatly in a old beat up box.
it feels like joy and familiar laughter. it’s full of so many things that make your chest swell and begin to push at your heart, threatening to pop it from its pressure. it feels like the kind of happiness that doesn’t demand attention, the one that just settles in and stays.
perfect, in the way only real things are.
(why couldn't i say it?)
in which you and spencer reid are in love with each other, but neither of you want to be the first one to say it.
word count: 2850 warnings & tags & stuff: friends to lovers, drunk!reader, fem!reader, corny and cringy as fuck, mentions of vaccines, reader is highkey terrified of emotional vulnerability, spencer is highkey terrified of rejection, a sprained ankle, immanuel kant mention (ugh), yearning authors note: hi guys!!! hope u like this one! i've been working hard on it for a very long time. i have no idea how to feel and i did not proofread it because i know i'll hate it but its okay. ive also never been so scared to post a fic which is saying something. but i would like to get back into the posting habit after.... six... months #whoops! anyway i love you so so much! please let me know your thoughts if you have any and i hope you have a fabulous day!
“Be completely and utterly and unreservedly honest with me. Is the glitter too much?”
You tilt your head toward Spencer, giving him a clear view of your eyes which are carefully decorated in a swipe of silver still clinging against your skin in the hot, post-function, nighttime air. “I mean, I like it. But now I’m nervous about how it looked in the pictures and everything.”
A mid-party phone call from your landlord about a gas leak pipe situation (your words, not his) had you asking to take refuge at Spencer’s place for the night, and he, your ever so generous friend, (Best friend? Best friend.) had accepted, only concern being if you were composed enough to walk the mile back.
You were never one to back down from a good challenge.
⋆⭒˚.⋆ catalogued - spencer reid x bombshell!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 over drinks with the team, you stumble into unexpected territory when you realize spencer remembered a subtle detail about you—and, with one nervous smile, he leaves you wondering if he actually just flirted with you.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 lowkey kinda angsty oops, team activities!!, finally were getting some actual tension heheheheh, mutual pining, flirting, drinking, slow burn
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 1.6k
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 okay soooooo, finally its starting to get a little juicy in here.
𝐛𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
how on earth you found yourself in this predicament was beyond you.
you nudged at garcia, throwing her a small murmur before laughing at morgan's ongoing struggle to keep up with the two of you
it had been a few months (you lost count if you were being honest) since you had joined the team. and with that came so much that you didn’t know you needed.
and by that you meant the long hours and the adrenaline and the danger.
definitely not the chatter with the rest of the team before debrief, or the debates with garcia about what shade of blush was your favorite, or laughing with morgan about whatever ridiculous story he was telling, or the banter with spencer that always seemed to linger a little longer than it should.
it was a nice bonus though
almost too nice, if you were honest. you hadn’t planned on staying long— this was supposed to be temporary, a trial of sorts, a way to prove yourself.
yet somewhere between the jet rides and the late-night takeout and the warmth of their laughter, and a very given-by-fate issue of an agent's maternal leave— somewhere between those lines, temporary became indefinite.
at least for now.
“can we just take a second and actually praise the gods up above that you’ve actually tagged along with us tonight?” morgan asked, looking up towards the ceiling as though he couldn't quite believe it.
“ha ha” you said tossing your napkin at him.
“we were beggining to think you had some sort of social issue—“
“trust me,” you raised your glass to your cherry painted lips. “i can be very social when i want to.”
“keyword being when u want to,” garcia muttered dramatically, leaning across the table like she was about to make a grand reveal. “this is a big deal. i feel like we should commemorate it. cake? balloons? matching tattoos?”
“i’m a very important and solicited woman,” you repeated, chin lifting as though you were delivering a line on stage.
“a very important and solicited woman,” emily didn’t even blink. “by solicited she means binge-watching documentaries alone in her apartment while she wears a face mask,”
“and that is a completely valid solicitation,” you shrugged.
the table burst into laughter, warmth settling low in your chest. it surprised you— how easy it felt.
you had always thought of things like this as obligations, something to politely decline, but here… it didn’t feel like work. it felt like something else.
across from you, spencer hadn’t said much, but you could feel his eyes on you in flashes— quick, hesitant, almost like he was cataloguing the way your glass hovered just below your lips.
when you met his gaze, he ducked his head back to the safety of his drink, a faint pink brushing his cheeks. you laughed to yourself, smirking into your glass.
spencer had been the hardest to crack— which honestly had surprised you.
you’d expected a certain kinship with him, a mirroring almost. you weren’t all that different: both cerebral, both prone to overthinking, both prone to slipping into analysis rather than conversation.
yet, for some reason, the words stuck and the silences stretched. it wasn’t that he was unkind— if anything, he was unfailingly gentle— but the rhythm with spencer was noticeably slower than the one you’d found with the others.
“okay, enough chatter,” morgan announced, pushing his chair back with a grin. “time to put my legendary aim to the test.”
“legendary?” emily snorted. “i’ve seen you miss a trash can toss from three feet away.”
garcia immediately stood to defend him, already looping her arm through his. “don’t listen to her, chocolate thunder, i believe in you.”
jj shook her head, sliding out of the booth. “this is going to end in someone with a dart in their hand, i can feel it.”
the group migrated toward the dartboards, voices rising with playful bickering. you lingered for a second, letting the noise pull away from you like a tide.
when you finally looked up, you noticed spencer still at the table, watching the others drift off with that faint, distracted smile of his.
he hadn’t moved, and for a reason you didnt bother naming, neither did you.
“you’re not going?” you asked lightly, tilting your head toward the commotion.
his eyes flicked to yours, thoughtful, almost caught. “i will. in a minute.”
the noise at the dartboards rose— cheers, groans, emily’s dramatic heckling. here at the table however, it felt quieter. just the two of you, caught in the shadow of the bar’s dim light, the air stretched with something.
you leaned back in your seat, glass still in hand, and realized it was the first time all night the others hadn’t been there to fill the gaps.
you liked noise— you grew up in it. not a day went by where silence stretched on more than it should’ve but this particular kind of noise made your skin prickle.
finally, you pushed your glass forward, ready to excuse yourself, when spencer spoke up.
“you didn’t finish it,” spencer said, nodding at your drink.
you took a second to register what exactly he was talking about. you looked back at your glass and noticed you had in fact left a little less than half of the glass untouched .
you blinked at him, smiling suspiciously. “and you keep track of my beverage intake because…?”
it seems like a smile was all it took to fluster spencer reid because his eyes quickly darted down, then back up “I didn’t— i just noticed,”
that alone made you smile. “sure. the human supercomputer notices that i left half a gin and tonic on the table.”
“it wasn’t— gin.”
you looked at him, narrowing your eyes just barely. “sorry?”
“vodka soda,” he corrected, quietly but certain. then, after a beat that hung too long, he added nervously, “with lime. you said once gin makes you, uhm, sharp.”
you tilted your head, lips parting slightly as you processed his words.
vodka soda. with lime.
the pause lingered, just a little heavier than it should have, and you found yourself staring at him, searching for some kind of tell.
it wasn’t just that he was right— it was the precision of it. anyone could’ve noticed the fact that you had ordered a vodka soda, but he had been listening your comment about the effects gin had on you.
you didn’t think anyone was paying attention. you didn’t realize spencer was paying attention.
the thought made you itchy.
you hadn’t exactly known spencer long, not long enough for this kind of detail to be catalogued. a few months or so in cases, a handful of jet rides, half a dozen conversations that slipped somewhere between light banter and awkward silences.
it unsettled you. not in a bad way, just unexpected. you prided yourself on being the observant one, the one who kept track of the world so no one could catch you off guard.
this was a reminder that he was watching too.
you covered it with a laugh. “god, you catalog everything, don’t you?”
color climbed into his cheeks, but instead of retreating, he surprised you. he fiddled with his hands nervously, voice low enough to be nearly lost under the bar’s music.
“only the things worth remembering.”
the words weren’t smooth (he stumbled slightly on worth) but the intent was there, clear and startling. for a second, you stumbled on your breath.
was that—?
you masked it fast, letting your lips curl into a smirk, pretending it hadn’t caught you so off guard. “careful, doctor. that sounded an awful lot like flirting.”
he shifted, all awkward and very spencer-like, a touch of panic flashing through him. he chuckled nervously and then— god, then— his mouth twitched in a half-smile, his eyes flicking to yours with a glimmer of something.
“maybe it was.”
oh
you didn’t laugh this time. you couldn’t. your pulse thudded loud in your ears, ricocheting around until it lodged somewhere in your chest, stuck and heavy.
you blinked, slow, trying to reset yourself, but nothing about this felt like it belonged in the neat little boxes you’d made for him.
spencer reid didn’t flirt. not with you, not with anyone— at least not in the way you knew it. the man was supposed to blush and stammer and hide behind statistics when the air between you got charged. he wasn’t supposed to meet you there.
and yet, here he was.
maybe, you thought as your mind scrambled for logic, it was just mimicry. maybe he thought this was the way to speak your language, since you were always teasing, always toeing the line between playful and something else. maybe he was trying it on, testing how far your default mode could stretch.
if spencer reid had just casually, nervously, actually flirted with you, then the ground under your feet wasn’t as solid as you thought.
and if you were this rattled, this undone over a half-smile and a ‘maybe it was…’ what would happen if he ever decided to really mean it?
just as the silence between you was about to tip into something too obvious, garcia’s voice rang from the table: “reid! you’re up for darts!”
he jolted, breaking the moment, and you finally found you voice. “saved by the bell,” you teased, though your throat was alarmingly dry.
as he moved toward the dartboard, you kept your smile in place, even as your insides twisted. for the first time since joining this team, you weren’t sure you were the one holding the upper hand.
your smile dropped once he was out of sight.
fuck.
you tilted your head back, downing the rest of the remaining vodka soda into your system, hoping to scratch off the new image of spencer reid you liked seeing all too much.
love as recognition
anna gavalda / friedrich nietzsche / clarice lispector / jandy nelson / rebecca perry / mhairi mcfarlane
⋆⭒˚.⋆ the sweetest victory - spencer reid x bombshell!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 in the quiet bullpen, a debate over something as small as coffee turns into playful sparring between you and spencer with stolen glances, pink ears, and a victory that tastes sweeter than caffeine.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 LOTSSSSS of teasing/flirting/banter (mostly from reader whoops) (i promise it’ll change eventually) flustered spencer, a bit of suggestive content (you have to SQUINT really hard), reader wears a skirt muahahahahaha, debating over coffee?, reader is evil
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 0.8k
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 I LOVED WRITING THISSSSSS, as a fellow iced coffee no matter the weather enthusiast i felt seen
𝐛𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
the bullpen had mostly emptied, quiet settling like dust. you lingered at your desk, well— on top of your desk, legs dangling from the edge. you had a few files in your lap, engaging in conversation with a passing employee, smile easy on your face and dotted porcelain mug in hand.
spencer was gathering a stack of files to drop off in one of the admin offices when your laughter stopped him mid-stride.
it wasn’t the kind of laugh he usually heard from you. no— this one was unguarded, full enough that your head tipped back, hair sliding like silk over your shoulder, throat bared in a way that felt almost too intimate for the fluorescent-lit bullpen. your smile curved easy, genuine, untouched by the armor you usually carried around.
he froze, caught off guard by the sight.
by the time his coworker drifted away, he realized he’d been watching too long. his gaze lingered still, just long enough to catch the faint clink of ice in your mug as you tipped it back.
porcelain, sweating condensation onto the edges of your open files. iced coffee, in the middle of autum…?
he shouldn’t have noticed. shouldn’t have catalogued the detail the way he did, filing it away like it might matter someday. but he did.
spencer slowed when he passed, eyes narrowing at the sight. “is that… iced coffee?”
you looked up at him over the rim of your mug, a slow smile tugging. “guilty,”
“but it’s—” he glanced at the window, at the sheets of sleet tapping against the glass. his brow furrowed deeper as if the logic itself offended him. “it’s twenty-nine degrees outside and you’re drinking iced coffee. out of a porcelain mug.”
you listened, amused, letting his disbelief unravel over something as simple as your coffee habits. it was ridiculous, really, how much he cared, and yet it made you want to keep him going just to see how far he’d spiral.
without breaking the rhythm, you slid your files to the side and crossed one leg over the other, the movement casual— except it wasn’t. nothing ever was with you at this point.
the hem of your skirt shifted higher, a deliberate little invitation dressed as carelessness.
his eyes betrayed him.
just for a flicker, a heartbeat, they dipped, down, then back up, so quick anyone else might’ve missed it. but you didn’t. you never missed.
when he met your gaze again, your lips were already curved in a knowing smile, all patience and quiet triumph, waiting for him to keep talking like nothing had happened.
gotcha.
he blushed profusely. cute.
“you realize porcelain doesn’t hold temperature, right? the ice should already be—” he squinted into your mug “—completely gone.”
“ah,” you lifted a finger like you were delivering a masterclass, “that’s where you’re wrong, doctor. i let the coffee cool down first before adding ice. that way it doesn’t shock the cubes into melting. less dilution. more flavor.” you swirled it smugly, cubes clicking against ceramic. “strategic beverage planning.”
he blinked, recalibrating. “you… strategize your coffee?”
“everyone needs a system,” you said, grinning.
his mouth twitched, caught between horror and reluctant admiration. “i think you might be the only person i’ve ever met who applies thermodynamics to their caffeine habits.”
you raised your mug in mock salute. “guess i’m one of a kind,”
spencer’s lips twitched like he wanted to argue but also couldn’t. “you realize coffee, by definition, is meant to be consumed hot. otherwise it’s—”
“delicious?” you cut in.
“—wrong,” he finished flatly, deadpan.
you gasped in mock offense, leaning toward him. “wrong? says the man who drinks his coffee black, like he’s punishing himself.”
“black coffee is efficient,” he countered, tone bristling with academic righteousness. “no sugar crash. no excess calories. pure caffeine delivery."
“mm, yeah, super sexy,” you teased, twirling your finger around the handle. “nothing says irresistible like ‘pure caffeine delivery.’ and i’ve seen you making your coffee in the break room, nothing about it screams ‘no sugar crash’”
clearly you were talking about the monstrous amounts of sugar he put in his coffee.
his ears went pink, but his gaze stayed steady. “and yours is what—coffee-flavored milkshake?”
“exactly,” you shot back without missing a beat.
“sweet, indulgent, aesthetically pleasing. basically me in a mug.” you smiled into your drink.
spencer tried to turn away, to retreat into the safer territory of the files in his hands, but his eyes betrayed him before his body could follow.
they lingered on the curve of your grin, the ease with which you wielded it like a weapon. your confidence was disarming, magnetic, and it unsettled him more than any statistical anomaly could.
“unbelievable,” he repeated under his breath, softer this time.
you tilted your head, savoring the faint pink still dusting his ears. “admit it, reid— you’re impressed.”
he blinked, recalibrating again, the way he always did when you pushed him off balance. “impressed isn’t the word i’d use.”
“enchanted?” you offered sweetly.
he shook his head, muttering something about “thermodynamic inefficiency” as though the words could shield him from you. but when he finally stepped away, the ghost of his smile betrayed him.
and you watched him go, sipping smugly at your porcelain mug, the ice still clicking soft against ceramic.
victory never tasted so sweet.
⋆⭒˚.⋆ where the seams give way - spencer reid x bombshell!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 called back to the BAU for a case in miami, you slip past assumptions and into the team’s circle—your sharp edges giving way to a surprising softness that even spencer reid can’t ignore.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 typical cm violence, lots of cursing (its an argentine habit), readers just a wee bit scared, tension?, flirting (readers behalf obv), illusion to a past of amily/childhood trauma, vulnerability followed by avoidance
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 3.0k
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 so i felt that making reader have a latino background was fitting and i never see ANY argentine representation so were adding that little spice
𝐛𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
you were already dressed for the day, getting ready for a few consults that were sure to plummet your spirits as the hours in front of your computer bled into the afternoon— and soon after that into the nighttime.
that’s all your days revolve around. staying indoors and working with clients, doing consults, smiling at your computer screen for hours on end.
unfortunately, you mentally prepared yourself to do just that for the foreseeable future— it was your current job after all.
the upper part of your body was clad in a light blue dress shirt, hair perfectly swept up into a ponytail and makeup painted on nicely.
your bottom however was covered in some old sweatpants and bare feet— perks of having a remote job.
your phone buzzed later than it should have. you almost ignored it—
but the contact on your phone read; ‘agent hotchner’ and it was enough to send a bolt of exhilaration through you.
what in the world?
“hotchner?” your tone was equal parts surprise and suspicion.
“we need you.” straight to the point, no room for misinterpretation.
you blinked.
you’d be lying if a part of you wasn’t excited about going back to the bau after your last case. no matter how you tried to tuck it behind nonchalance, the anticipation curled quietly at the edges of your chest.
as much as you’d ever refrain from admitting it, you missed the days where you worked on the field. those endless nights and long hours, human contact and stimulating observation.
you had also been quite fond of the team the first time around, as much as it pained you to admit.
they carried themselves with a kind of unvarnished sincerity that you found both foreign and magnetic. they laughed together, trusted each other, disagreed openly, and still walked away knowing the ground beneath them was steady.
it wasn’t perfect, but it was real. and that realness was a language you’d never let yourself get fluent in.
you’d never give them enough access to learn the fault lines beneath your polish. the insecurities tucked under wit, the vulnerability.
but you were sharp enough, self-aware enough, to admire it in them— their transparency, the ease with which they seemed to exist without apology.
and if you lingered too long on that thought, it almost made you ache.
hotch explained the case to you.
“we’ve been called to miami. three abductions in the last six weeks, all within the same argentine immigrant community. two women, one teenage boy. the bodies were recovered within twenty-four hours of each disappearance— each left with a handwritten message in spanish.”
you breathed out of your nose, panick barely rippling through your bloodstream. but you quickly adjusted your position, and shook it away.
“local police are out of their depth. we’ve been asked to consult, and we’ll need specialized linguistic analysis to break through both the notes and the community barrier. that’s why i’ve asked for additional support.”
“i thought you had a linguistics arsenal already. doesn’t prentiss speak fluent spanish?”
“she does,” he said evenly, “but this isn’t just spanish. the family we’re working with speaks lunfardo—regional slang, idioms. they won’t open up. we need cultural trust, not just translation.”
growing up the way you had gave you a lot of free time for studying and thinking— languages had always come easier for you.
six fluencies, a handful of dialects so obscure most people didnt even realize they were useful until they actually were.
you considered it a quiet superpower. no one was going to think that the pretty face in heels could speak more than a laughable excuse of english, but hey— growing up bicultural gives you a certain ability
how hotch had gained the information of you being from argentina, you weren’t entirely sure.
it freaked you out if you were being honest.
you smirked faintly, leaning back against your desk chair. “so you’re saying you need me to sweet-talk an argentine family into trusting the feds.”
there was the smallest pause on the other end. “that’s one way of putting it.”
“and the other way?” you pushed, enjoying how much rope he gave you.
“the other way is that you’ve already proven yourself useful. don’t make me repeat it.” his voice was clipped, but the fact that he said it at all had you biting back a laugh.
“fine,” you relented. “send me the details. but only because you asked so nicely.”
you could almost hear him pinch the bridge of his nose before the line went dead.
your smile momentarily faltered as you stared at your phone.
you didn’t dread going back— at least, not in the obvious way. it wasn’t the casework, the long hours, or even the danger. that part actually excited you.
it was the people. the small looks, the questions, the familiarity that grew too easily once you let anyone orbit too close.
you’d built a life on control, on keeping things aligned just so. but habits had a way of tugging at the seams. and once something became routine, once people started to expect you there, it was harder to keep the real mess tucked away.
still, you told yourself it wasn’t serious. not dread. not fear, just caution.
you’d worked too hard to make perfection look effortless, and part of you wasn’t sure if you could stand the disappointment on their faces if they saw how much of it was a mask.
and yet, even with that familiar tightness pressing at your ribs, you were already opening your calendar, already considering which route to take. because the truth was simple: no matter how carefully you tried to keep the distance, you wanted to go back.
why was a question you truly couldn’t answer yet.
maybe for the work. maybe for the team. maybe even for yourself.
—
the glass doors shut behind you with a muted click, and immediately you felt eyes turn, curiosity pricking through the bullpen.
great.
you weren’t unfamiliar here, not anymore at least, but you weren’t one of them either. and being back and trying to be as smooth as you were first time around wasn’t as easy when you had to keep putting up the same front.
you were overthinking.
all you had to do was show up, get the work done and leave. jj greeted you first, with a smile that was polite but genuine. “it’s good to see you again.”
“you too,” you returned smoothly, adjusting the strap of your bag as though it mattered.
“guess hotch decided we needed an upgrade.” you turned on your heel, face settling into a smile with the roll of your eyes. morgan’s grin was easy, but you caught the way it faltered into something more respectful than before.
“guess i’ve lost the privilege to be categorized as a secretary this time around,” you replied, voice light. you shrugged your shoulder. “sounds like an upgrade to me.”
he chuckled, though internally he was cringing. badly.
you flipped your hair over your shoulder and set your files on the same empty desk, setting down the same porcelain cup you drank the same coffee out of the first time around.
though this time you wore a light blue dress shirt with black dress pants, and you were a hell lot more conscious of the space that surrounded you.
you caught spencer watching from his desk, half-hidden by files. he didn’t speak right away, and neither did you. instead, his gaze lingered— curious, cautious, like he was trying to place where exactly you fit..
you raised your chin, letting your lips tilt into a controlled smile. “so, where do you want me?”
for a moment, no one answered, the question hanging heavier than you intended. it was hotch who finally stepped out of his office, his presence grounding the silence. “conference room. you’ll be briefed with the rest of us.”
you nodded, moving past the stares, and trying to make the room feel just a bit bigger.
—
the family was huddled together in the dim kitchen, wide-eyed and unwilling. emily had tried, calm and steady, her spanish clean and deliberate. but every word she offered seemed to make them fold tighter into themselves.
“yankees de mierda se creen tan autoritarios sobre todos,” the mother mumbled in frustration. you looked at morgan and cringed, clearly shooting across a message that said ‘she is not happy with us’
but you recognized this fury. it was sharp and unrelenting and rooted by uncontrollable emotions. her anger wasn't meaningless, it was one that came from the frustration of not being heard.
reminded you a lot of your mothers.
“hola,” you switched in, your tone softer, your rhythm slipping into home-soaked cadences. morgan and emily offered backup and although they didn't clarify it, you knew they were on alert.
the mothers head snapped towards you, eyeing you down with a venom that could scare most off. “me llegas a decir la misma mierda que me estan diciendo todos de quedarme tranquila cuando–”
“tranquila, estoy acá para ayudar. sé lo difícil que es confiar en gente que no conocen, pero no estoy acá para lastimarlos. quiero ayudar.”
the mother’s face shifted, relief flickering through her suspicion. her reply tumbled quick, colloquial, thick with slang.
prentiss frowned slightly, catching the gist but not the detail. as the mother kept on with her rant, you nodded, listening to every word.
“entiendo, creen que es posible darme un poco más de información sobre lo que pasó? así puedo entender todo un poco mejor.”
spencer found himself watching from the sidelines, curiosity tugging at him with every passing moment.
the version of you he’d seen so far had been all sharp edges and playful provocation— quips, and a kind of untouchable confidence that made it hard to imagine you rattled by anything.
and now you were— well, different.
your voice was softer, steadier, carrying warmth instead of challenge. you leaned in, listening as though every word mattered, your expression open, your presence patient.
compassion radiated from you in a way that seemed almost disarming, like you could hold someone else’s pain without letting it break you.
and for all his profiling instincts, realized he hadn’t accounted for this part of you at all.
it was a devastating contrast.
after a rather long conversation with the mother, you turned to the team, voice low: “she’s not just afraid. she says the unsub calls himself ‘el vivo’.”
“the alive..?” morgan repeated, brows pinching.
you bit your lip, stifling a laugh. “not quite. in lunfardo, el vivo is… well, basically the guy who thinks he’s the cleverest in the room. slick, smug, thrives on tricking people.”
you tilted your chin. “he’s not just mocking them— he’s forcing them to play along, proving he’s always one move ahead.”
“so, a wise guy,” morgan said, shaking his head.
“more like a wannabe philosopher in a leather jacket,” you muttered.
spencer’s eyes lit, and when he finally spoke, it was with that same precise curiosity as before. “so the name isn’t just ego—it’s performance. an archetype. he’s stepping into a role he thinks is bigger than himself.”
you blinked, impressed despite yourself. “exactly. and if he’s playing a part, it’ll seep into everything he does—symbols, choices, even the way he communicates. archetypes aren’t subtle.”
“great,” prentiss murmured, dry. “so we’re profiling a theater kid with a god complex.”
morgan snorted. “aren’t they all?”
you couldn’t help it—you grinned, wide enough that you had to duck your head a little. “hey, don’t knock the drama kids.”
“sounds personal,” jj teased gently.
“maybe,” you said, evasive but playful.
hotch cleared his throat, and everyone sobered a little. it was enough to knock you out of the little bubble you had let yourself drift into. you tucked your hair behind both of your ears, clearing your throat.
but the rhythm had shifted now. when you spoke, they listened— not like you were an outsider translating, but like you were already inside the circle, sparring with them, weaving your words into theirs.
and that was the moment you realized: without trying, you’d stopped trying to be just a guest. your voice was slipping into the current, your cadence tucked neatly into theirs.
foot in the door.
—
the case was closed, once again. it hadn't been one of the harder cases— at least not in the way that mattered.
the jet was quieter than usual. a few agents had drifted into light sleep, files stacked loosely on their laps. you sat across from spencer, the table between you lined with said case files and half-empty plastic coffee cups.
he glanced up from his notes, his curiosity impossible to mask. “can i ask you something?”
you looked up from your laptop, lip pursed and eyes slightly tired from the screen. you closed the computer and leaned to him, something spencer noticed almost immediately.
as a profiler you learn to tune in on those things.
you arched a brow, amused. “depends. how dangerous is the question?”
“not dangerous,” he said quickly, almost too quickly. “i was just wondering… your accent when you spoke with the family earlier. it wasn’t just fluent— it was… natural. where did you learn argentine spanish?”
an involuntary smile dressed your lips. it was soft— maybe even a little weak, but there.
you toyed with the edge of your shirt, keeping your expression light. “grew up with it. my mom insisted we all speak at home like we never left. kept me sharp.”
spencer’s head tilted, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “so you grew up in argentina?”
“only for a small part of my life.” you gave a small shrug, as if it were nothing. “long enough to make it stick, i guess.”
he nodded, thoughtful again. “that explains why you caught the lunfardo so quickly. most bilingual speakers wouldn’t have recognized it so easily— it’s not taught formally.”
you smirked faintly. “guess i’m not most bilingual speakers.”
his lips curved into something that almost resembled a smile, the air turning into something light and fuzzy.
“no, you’re not.” he hesitated, then added, “what was it like? growing up there, i mean.”
the question was simple, casual. but you felt the weight of it anyway.
for a second, you answered before you realized you were even doing so. “loud. crowded. everyone knew everyone. at least in social setting it felt that way.”
“what about your home?”
you blinked. “home?”
“yeah—“ he cleared his throat, fearing he had stumbled upon uncharted waters. “what was your family like growing up?”
spencer knew the chances of catching you off guard were slim. he’d already caught pieces of some of your facade. he didn’t truly believe you were as shallow and self absorbed as most people painted you out to be.
and yes, sue him. there was a part of him that wanted to know more.
just like any curious person would.
“my family was—” you huffed a laugh, casual on the surface, though it didn’t quite ring true. “busy. always people around, always something happening. that's how argentines are. you’d think with a house that loud it’d feel… different.”
spencer’s gaze flicked up, sharp in its stillness. “different how?”
you blinked once, covering the pause with a faint shrug. “quiet in the ways that mattered, i guess.”
spencer looked at you for a beat and saw something before it drained away quicker than it had appeared. you inhaled deeply and chuckled.
“but that’s just me being dramatic.” you waved a hand lightly, tucking your hair behind both of your ears as though brushing away your own words.
he didn’t say anything, didn’t press.
the conversation caused a sour taste to spread across your mouth.
most people had a steady definition of home. a place where you’d run to when things got complex. where one would run when life got complicated and tough— the place one would go to feel better about themselves. a sanctuary if you will.
you—
you never had that.
at least not in the sense that mattered.
you tapped your nail against your laptop, redirecting. “point is, it kept me on my toes. if i wanted something, i worked for it. i liked being the best. still do.”
the last part landed with practiced ease, a smooth pivot. but spencer’s eyes lingered, catching the weight tucked inside your deflection.
“sounds like a lot,” he said softly. you looked up briefly. the look was all you needed to feel panic trickling up your spine. the soft glint of concern in his eye seemed way too offputting and you wanted nothing to do with it.
you did what you know best and quickly deflected, jutting your chin at him. “and you, doctor? what was your house like growing up—walls lined with encyclopedias?”
spencer blinked at the redirect, caught between answering and letting you off the hook. finally, he gave the faintest smile. “something like that.”
after a second you spoke up. “you’ll ruin the fun if you start profiling me doctor,”
he stared at you without answering, almost looking like he was still pondering with your previous statement,
you tilted your head, lips curling into a half-smile. “you always been this curious about everyone else’s lives?”
“occupational hazard,” he admitted softly. “but it’s also… just me.”
you huffed a breathy laugh through your nose, looking down at your lap. “yeah,” you murmured.
the silence stretched, softened by the steady hum of the jet. spencer didn’t press any more after that, he just sat there watching with that quiet patience of his. and maybe that was what unsettled you most.
he made it too easy.
too easy to let words slip, too easy to almost forget how carefully you curated what people got to see.
you straightened in your seat, letting your gaze fall back to your computer screen once you opened it.
because if there was one thing you knew, it was this: letting someone listen was always the first step to letting them in.
and you weren’t sure you could afford that.
not yet. not ever