i understand wanting to use something to clean up your grammar and stuff but you should really look into how the use of AI ruins our planet and might make your writings miscredited. your ideas seem great but it’s honestly pretty disappointing to see someone with good ideas use ai for the writing, even if it is for stuff like grammar or and getting other ideas. writers block is hard but it definitely makes people want to read less of your stuff when your using ai, because it’s honestly pretty obvious it’s used when reading your work
To avoid further disappointment or discomfort, I’ve decided to stop posting my writing and return to keeping it private.
We are all carrying difficult things in our lives, and in my case, I am a divorced single mother navigating life after a very abusive relationship. Sometimes I simply need a small break and a creative outlet, and writing has always given me that. Using tools to help me organize ideas or improve grammar and structure made it easier for me to continue doing something I enjoy with the limited time and energy I have.
I still remember writing “imagines” and one shots in a school notebook when I was in middle school. I did not have anyone to share them with back then, so I wrote them only for myself. Starting this blog felt like a chance to finally share that part of me and perhaps give other people something they could enjoy too amidst all the chaos.
I never intended to mislead anyone or take anything away from other writers. However, something that I had meant to be comforting and enjoyable has now become another source of criticism, so I believe stepping back is the best decision for me.
Thank you to everyone who read, supported me, sent requests, or left kind messages. I truly appreciated sharing this little space with you. I suppose it is time for me to return to writing quietly for myself again.
Take care, everyone. Please remember to always lead with kindness. You never truly know what someone may be going through behind closed doors. Or at least trying to recover from.
Since I received both a genuine question about whether I use AI and a less constructive “ugh, stop using ai” comment in my ask box, I wanted to be transparent about my writing process: yes, I sometimes use AI as a tool.
Usually, it is to help me come up with ideas when my brain is refusing to cooperate or to clean up grammar, flow, and structure afterward. I do not just copy something and throw it onto Tumblr without reading or editing it. I revise, change things, and make sure the final piece sounds the way I want it to.
At the end of the day, I write for myself because it is something that I enjoy. I thought other people might enjoy reading it too, which is why I decided to use this Tumblr to share my writing in the first place.
It is completely okay if AI is not something you are comfortable with, and I understand if that means my writing is not for you. I am always open to genuine, respectful questions about my process, but rude anonymous messages are unnecessary.
That being said, I will continue writing and sharing my work the way I have been, using the tools that work best for me.
Title: The Plus-One
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader
Summary: You need a plus-one to an ex's wedding, and Spencer agrees to pretend to be your boyfriend. He becomes unexpectedly convincing.
You had asked Spencer to be your date to the wedding because he was the safest option. That was what you told yourself, anyway.
He was your best friend. He knew your family, understood that your mother would ask invasive questions within three minutes of meeting him, and had absolutely no interest in making your ex jealous.
At least, that was what you believed until he arrived at your apartment in a dark suit and looked you over so slowly that you forgot how to breathe.
“You look…” He cleared his throat. “Different.”
You glanced down at your dress. “Good different?”
“Yes. Very.” His ears had turned pink.
You smiled. “You clean up well too, Doctor Reid.”
“I wore this to court last month.”
“Please don’t ruin the fantasy.”
On the drive, you reviewed the plan. “We’ve been together for six months,” you said. “We met through work. You asked me out.”
“Why did I ask you out?”
“Because you’re secretly obsessed with me.”
He looked over from the passenger seat. “That seems believable.”
You almost missed the turn.
The wedding was held at a vineyard outside the city, all white roses, string lights, and relatives you had spent years avoiding.
Your mother spotted you before you made it past the entrance. “Oh, thank God,” she said, pulling you into a hug. “You brought someone.”
“Lovely to see you too.”
Her attention shifted to Spencer. You expected him to offer an awkward wave. Instead, he stepped forward, smiled, and said, “Mrs. Y/L/N. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Your mother melted instantly.
Traitor.
By cocktail hour, Spencer had charmed your aunt with facts about the history of wedding rings, helped your cousin’s daughter find a missing earring, and somehow convinced your father that profiling was not the same thing as mind reading.
He also kept touching you. A hand at your back as he guided you through a crowd. His fingers brushing yours whenever someone looked too interested. His thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles beneath the table.
Every touch was part of the act. You had to remind yourself of that often.
“You’re very good at this,” you whispered when he leaned closer during dinner.
“At weddings?”
“At pretending.”
His hand stilled over yours. “Right,” he said. “Pretending.”
Before you could ask what was wrong, a familiar voice interrupted.
“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”
You looked up. Your ex stood beside the table with his new wife’s cousin—or maybe sister; you had stopped paying attention after the engagement announcement—hanging from his arm.
“This is Spencer,” you said.
Spencer stood and offered his hand. “Her boyfriend.” There was something unexpectedly firm in his voice.
Your ex shook his hand. “How long?”
“Six months,” Spencer replied.
“Serious, then?”
Spencer glanced down at you. His expression softened so completely that your chest tightened. “I’m hoping so.”
Your ex laughed as though it were a joke. Spencer didn't.
A slow song began before the conversation could become more uncomfortable, and your ex excused himself.
You exhaled. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“That.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You looked at him like you were calculating how difficult it would be to hide a body in the vineyard.”
“There are too many witnesses.”
You laughed.
Spencer held out his hand. “Dance with me.”
“You hate dancing.”
“I dislike dancing when Morgan is involved.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
“He insists on spinning people.”
You placed your hand in his and Spencer led you onto the dance floor. His palm settled at your waist, careful at first, then more certain when you moved closer.
“You really don’t have to sell it this hard,” you murmured.
“I know.”
The words hit differently this time. You looked up. String lights reflected in his eyes. Around you, couples turned slowly beneath the music, but Spencer seemed completely still.
“Then why are you?”
His grip tightened slightly. “Because your ex made you feel like you were difficult to love.”
Your throat closed.
“You told me that once,” he continued. “You were tired and angry, and you probably don’t remember. But I do.”
“Of course you do.”
“I’ve spent three years listening to you talk about dates that went badly and people who didn’t understand you.”
“Spencer—”
“And every time, I thought…” He looked away. “I thought I would understand.”
The music continued around you. You forgot the wedding. The guests. The entire reason you had brought him.
“You said this was believable because you’re secretly obsessed with me.”
His mouth twitched. “I may have been speaking more literally than you realized.”
Your heart began beating painfully hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to risk losing you.”
“So you agreed to pretend to be my boyfriend instead?”
“In hindsight, it wasn’t a particularly sustainable strategy.”
You laughed, but it came out shaky.
Spencer searched your face. “If you don’t feel the same, we can finish the evening and never discuss this again.”
“That sounds terrible.”
His expression fell.
“No, I mean pretending none of this happened.” You moved your hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck. “That sounds terrible.”
Hope appeared slowly. "So... you feel the same?”
“I asked you to a wedding where my entire family would see us together.”
“You said I was the safest option.”
“I lied.”
Spencer smiled. It was small and startled and so sweet that you kissed him before you could reconsider. He froze for half a second, but then his hand slid more securely around your waist, and he kissed you back with none of the hesitation you had expected.
A cheer rose from somewhere near the bar.
You pulled away and scanned where you heard the cheer from. Your eyes landed on your mother who was still clapping. Your father lifted his glass. And your ex had disappeared.
Spencer looked horrified. “They were watching.”
“They’ve been watching us all night.”
“I thought your mother was speaking to the bride.”
“She can multitask.”
He glanced toward your family again. “Should we stop?”
You smiled and pulled him closer. “No. We already kissed once, we might as well give them something worth talking about.”
Spencer laughed against your mouth before melting into your mouth again.
Later, on the drive home, his hand rested over yours between the seats
“So,” you said, “how long have we been together now?”
Hey! I just read your entire page and love every single one of them!! If its ok can i request something where aaron and reader used to date, and reader's dream was to preform on broadway but she never did until they broke up. And aaron (and maybe the rest of the group?) goes to see a show without knowing that reader is preforming
Oho ho! I have been excited about this one, dear anon. I love me some Hotch too. Hope you enjoy <3
==================================================
Title: Curtain Call
Word count: 851
The BAU had not planned to spend the night in New York. Their case ended before five, but a storm grounded the jet until morning. Garcia refused to waste an unexpected Friday night in Manhattan and found discounted Broadway tickets three blocks from their hotel.
Aaron objected, yet no one listened. That was how he ended up seated between Rossi and JJ while Morgan complained about the legroom.
Aaron never opened his Playbill. If he had, he would have seen your name. Instead, the curtain rose, the stage filled with light, and you walked into the center of it.
Aaron went still. The last time he had seen you, you were standing in his kitchen with a suitcase by the door. Now you were singing beneath a spotlight.
JJ noticed his face. “Hotch?”
“We used to date,” he said quietly.
Rossi looked from him to you. “You neglected to mention she was on Broadway.”
“She wasn’t.” Not then.
When you were together, Broadway existed in audition notices tucked into drawers and sheet music scattered across Aaron’s table. You taught voice lessons, performed in small local productions, and kept saying you would audition seriously when life became less complicated.
Then a touring production offered you a callback. You had shown Aaron the email, hopeful and terrified. He responded with facts: The tour lasted ten months. The pay was uncertain. You would be away from Jack. From him.
So you declined it. And three months later you left anyway.
“I needed you to tell me you believed I could do it,” you had said.
“I did.”
“You made it sound impossible.”
Two weeks after the breakup, you moved to New York and Aaron had not seen you since.
The applause pulled him back into the theater. You stepped forward for the final bow, breathless and smiling. Your eyes swept over the audience and stopped on his row.
Your smile faltered. Then the curtain fell.
“You have to talk to her,” Garcia said.
“She may not want to see me.”
Rossi stood. “Only one way to find out.”
Twenty minutes later, Aaron waited outside the stage door while the team pretended not to watch.
You emerged in jeans and a long coat, signing programs for the small crowd. Then you saw him. “Aaron.”
He had imagined this moment often enough to prepare speeches. All he managed was, “You were extraordinary.”
A faint smile touched your mouth. “You always hated superlatives.”
“Only inaccurate ones.”
You glanced toward the team. Garcia waved with a bouquet.
“You didn’t know I was in the show.”
“No. Our flight was delayed.”
“So this was an accident.”
“Yes.”
The softness left your face.
Aaron stepped closer. “Seeing you wasn’t.”
You looked at him.
“If I had known, I would have come.”
“You didn’t want me to do this before.”
“That wasn’t true.”
“It felt true.”
Aaron did not defend himself. “When you showed me the callback, I treated your dream like a problem to solve,” he said. “I listed every reason it could fail because I was afraid you would go.”
“You could have asked me to stay.”
“I was afraid you would.”
Your brow furrowed.
“If you stayed for me, I thought you would resent me. I decided what was best for you without asking.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I was wrong.”
Your eyes shone. “I turned it down because I thought staying meant we were building a life together. Then you kept leaving for cases, and I realized only one of us was allowed to have a calling that disrupted everything.”
Aaron swallowed. “I never believed yours mattered less.”
“You never said that.”
“No.”
The silence hurt because it was deserved.
Then Aaron looked back at the theater. “You made it.”
“I’m the understudy. The lead is sick.”
“You still walked onto that stage and made an entire theater believe it belonged to you.”
Your expression cracked. “I wanted you to be proud of me.”
“I am.” His voice softened. “I was then too. I just loved you badly.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. “I’m happy here,” you said.
“I can see that.”
“I’m not moving back to Virginia.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“My life can’t revolve around your cases again."
“It shouldn’t.”
You studied him. “Then what are you asking?”
“Dinner.”
You blinked.
“Tonight. And another the next time I’m in New York, if you want one.”
“That is not much of a plan.”
“I’m trying not to plan your life for you.”
A small laugh escaped you. “That's new. There’s a diner around the corner,” you said. “I still get pancakes after performances.”
“You always spilled syrup in my car.”
“Twice.”
“Three times.”
You held out your hand and Aaron took hold of it. “This isn’t forgiveness,” you warned.
“I know.”
“It isn’t us getting back together.”
“I know.”
“It’s pancakes.”
“I can start with pancakes.”
You pulled him closer and kissed him. It was soft, brief, and uncertain. When you drew back, his hand was still wrapped around yours. “That wasn’t forgiveness either,” you murmured.
“What was it?”
You smiled for the first time that night. “An encore.”
hey! i don't know if writing here is ok, but im the anon that requested the hotch x reader in broadway... just wanted to let you know it was everything i hoped for and more! also, you come up with stories sooo fast its amazing 💌
Hi anon! I'm glad <33 I'm able to dedicate my time to writing these next few weeks since I'm on vacation at the moment with literally nothing else to do lol. If you have any other requests, don't be shy to send them! Thank you for requesting in the first place! <3
hiii loved all the stories so much! can i request something in which spencer and reader are dating, and spencer just got a new phd, but doesnt tell anyone about the ceremony because he doesnt think its important. But the reader finds out and goes to see him, cheering and giving him flowers. And maybe, the rest of the BAU find out as well, and the see reader being so loud and realise that spencer has a girlfriend
This one's got some fluffy bits that had me biting my knuckles. anyways, here you go, lovely anon <3
==================================================
Title: Worth Celebrating
Spencer had not meant to hide the graduation. In his defense, he had not considered it important enough to mention. It was only another doctorate. There would be a ceremony, several speeches, uncomfortable robes, and nearly three hours of waiting for his name to be called. He already had three degrees framed in a closet because he disliked displaying them.
So when Emily approved his request for Friday morning off, he simply wrote academic obligation on the form. No one asked.
You found out because Georgetown called your apartment. The registrar left a message asking Dr. Spencer Reid to confirm whether he would be attending the commencement ceremony for his newest PhD. You listened to it twice. Then you called him.
“What are you doing Friday?”
There was a pause. “Working.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“At Georgetown?”
Another pause. Spencer was a terrible liar when he knew you already had the answer. “It isn’t a significant event,” he said.
“You’re graduating.”
“Technically.”
“With another PhD.”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t going to tell me?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to sit through the ceremony.”
You stared at the phone. “Spencer, I once listened to you explain the history of paper clips for forty minutes.”
“That was relevant to the development of modern office systems.”
“I’m coming.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
That should have warned him.
On Friday morning, Spencer sat among several hundred graduates, wearing a black robe and the expression of a man attempting to become part of the upholstery.
He had nearly succeeded.
Then he heard you. “THAT’S MY BOYFRIEND!”
Every head in the auditorium turned. Spencer closed his eyes. You stood near the back row holding an enormous bouquet of sunflowers and waving both arms above your head. The woman beside you laughed. A man in front of you started clapping. Spencer’s face burned.
The professor next to him leaned over. “Supportive.”
“Very.”
When his name was called, you cheered loudly enough to echo. “Doctor Spencer Reid!”
He glanced toward you while crossing the stage. You blew him a kiss. He nearly missed the dean’s hand.
Afterward, he found you waiting outside beneath a tree, still holding the flowers.
“You shouted.”
“You graduated.”
“Everyone looked at me.”
“That was the point.”
“You called me your boyfriend.”
“You are my boyfriend.”
“In front of approximately nine hundred people.”
“You counted?”
“Eight hundred and seventy-three.”
You smiled and pushed the bouquet into his arms.
He looked down at the sunflowers. “They’re too large.”
“You have four PhDs. You needed dramatic flowers.”
“I don’t think flower size is traditionally proportional to academic achievement.”
“It is now.” His mouth twitched.
You reached up and straightened the velvet hood around his shoulders. “I’m proud of you.”
The teasing faded from his face. “It wasn’t necessary.”
“Maybe not to you.”
You touched his cheek. “But I wanted to be here.”
Spencer looked at you for a long moment. Then he leaned down and kissed you rather deeply, flowers crushed awkwardly between your bodies.
A familiar voice sounded behind him. “Well, well.”
Spencer pulled back. Morgan stood several feet away with JJ, Emily, Rossi, and Garcia. Apparently, Garcia had become suspicious of the phrase academic obligation, found Spencer’s name in Georgetown’s commencement program, and organized what she called an emergency team outing.
Garcia held a smaller bouquet and looked personally betrayed. “You have a girlfriend?”
Spencer glanced at you.
You glanced at him. “You didn’t tell them?” you asked.
Spencer looked at the team gathering around you. “I was trying to postpone exactly this reaction.”
Morgan scoffed. “You requested time off for an ‘academic obligation.’”
“It was accurate.”
“You got another PhD,” JJ said.
“Yes.”
“And you have a girlfriend,” Emily added.
“Yes.”
Garcia pointed at you. “A girlfriend who screams in auditoriums and buys appropriately theatrical flowers.”
“I like her,” Rossi said.
“You don’t even know me,” you replied.
“I know you embarrassed Reid in public. That’s enough.”
Spencer sighed.
Garcia hurried forward and hugged you before turning on him. “How long?”
“Six months.”
“Six months?” Morgan repeated. “You hid a woman for six months?”
“I wasn’t hiding her. I was protecting her from this.” He gestured toward Garcia, who still had one arm wrapped around your shoulders.
She gasped. “This is affection.”
“This is an ambush.”
“You also didn’t tell us you were graduating,” JJ reminded him.
Spencer adjusted the flowers in his arms. “Neither event required operational disclosure.”
You leaned toward JJ. “Does he always talk like this when he knows he’s wrong?”
“Yes,” she answered immediately.
“I am not wrong.”
“Four PhDs,” Morgan said. “Still can’t tell when he’s losing an argument.”
Garcia hooked her arm through yours. “You and I are getting coffee. I need the entire relationship timeline.”
Spencer caught your hand before she could pull you away. “No.”
Garcia gasped again.
“I brought her,” Spencer said.
“You did not,” Emily replied. “She found you.”
“That’s worse,” Morgan added.
You squeezed Spencer’s fingers. “Relax. I’m not going anywhere.”
His expression softened.
Garcia noticed. "Oh, he’s in love.”
Spencer’s face turned red.
Morgan grinned. “Now this was worth attending.”
You looked up at Spencer. “Are you going to deny it?”
He glanced at the team, the flowers, and the robe you had already taken three pictures of him wearing.
Then he looked back at you. “No.”
Your smile widened.
Spencer leaned down and kissed your forehead while Garcia made a sound somewhere between a sob and a squeal.
“Fine,” he murmured. “Maybe the ceremony was slightly important.”
You slipped your arm around his waist. “Happy graduation, Doctor Reid.”
Spencer looked down at the sunflowers, then at you. “I think I like this doctorate best.”
Hey! I just read your entire page and love every single one of them!! If its ok can i request something where aaron and reader used to date, and reader's dream was to preform on broadway but she never did until they broke up. And aaron (and maybe the rest of the group?) goes to see a show without knowing that reader is preforming
Oho ho! I have been excited about this one, dear anon. I love me some Hotch too. Hope you enjoy <3
==================================================
Title: Curtain Call
Word count: 851
The BAU had not planned to spend the night in New York. Their case ended before five, but a storm grounded the jet until morning. Garcia refused to waste an unexpected Friday night in Manhattan and found discounted Broadway tickets three blocks from their hotel.
Aaron objected, yet no one listened. That was how he ended up seated between Rossi and JJ while Morgan complained about the legroom.
Aaron never opened his Playbill. If he had, he would have seen your name. Instead, the curtain rose, the stage filled with light, and you walked into the center of it.
Aaron went still. The last time he had seen you, you were standing in his kitchen with a suitcase by the door. Now you were singing beneath a spotlight.
JJ noticed his face. “Hotch?”
“We used to date,” he said quietly.
Rossi looked from him to you. “You neglected to mention she was on Broadway.”
“She wasn’t.” Not then.
When you were together, Broadway existed in audition notices tucked into drawers and sheet music scattered across Aaron’s table. You taught voice lessons, performed in small local productions, and kept saying you would audition seriously when life became less complicated.
Then a touring production offered you a callback. You had shown Aaron the email, hopeful and terrified. He responded with facts: The tour lasted ten months. The pay was uncertain. You would be away from Jack. From him.
So you declined it. And three months later you left anyway.
“I needed you to tell me you believed I could do it,” you had said.
“I did.”
“You made it sound impossible.”
Two weeks after the breakup, you moved to New York and Aaron had not seen you since.
The applause pulled him back into the theater. You stepped forward for the final bow, breathless and smiling. Your eyes swept over the audience and stopped on his row.
Your smile faltered. Then the curtain fell.
“You have to talk to her,” Garcia said.
“She may not want to see me.”
Rossi stood. “Only one way to find out.”
Twenty minutes later, Aaron waited outside the stage door while the team pretended not to watch.
You emerged in jeans and a long coat, signing programs for the small crowd. Then you saw him. “Aaron.”
He had imagined this moment often enough to prepare speeches. All he managed was, “You were extraordinary.”
A faint smile touched your mouth. “You always hated superlatives.”
“Only inaccurate ones.”
You glanced toward the team. Garcia waved with a bouquet.
“You didn’t know I was in the show.”
“No. Our flight was delayed.”
“So this was an accident.”
“Yes.”
The softness left your face.
Aaron stepped closer. “Seeing you wasn’t.”
You looked at him.
“If I had known, I would have come.”
“You didn’t want me to do this before.”
“That wasn’t true.”
“It felt true.”
Aaron did not defend himself. “When you showed me the callback, I treated your dream like a problem to solve,” he said. “I listed every reason it could fail because I was afraid you would go.”
“You could have asked me to stay.”
“I was afraid you would.”
Your brow furrowed.
“If you stayed for me, I thought you would resent me. I decided what was best for you without asking.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I was wrong.”
Your eyes shone. “I turned it down because I thought staying meant we were building a life together. Then you kept leaving for cases, and I realized only one of us was allowed to have a calling that disrupted everything.”
Aaron swallowed. “I never believed yours mattered less.”
“You never said that.”
“No.”
The silence hurt because it was deserved.
Then Aaron looked back at the theater. “You made it.”
“I’m the understudy. The lead is sick.”
“You still walked onto that stage and made an entire theater believe it belonged to you.”
Your expression cracked. “I wanted you to be proud of me.”
“I am.” His voice softened. “I was then too. I just loved you badly.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. “I’m happy here,” you said.
“I can see that.”
“I’m not moving back to Virginia.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“My life can’t revolve around your cases again."
“It shouldn’t.”
You studied him. “Then what are you asking?”
“Dinner.”
You blinked.
“Tonight. And another the next time I’m in New York, if you want one.”
“That is not much of a plan.”
“I’m trying not to plan your life for you.”
A small laugh escaped you. “That's new. There’s a diner around the corner,” you said. “I still get pancakes after performances.”
“You always spilled syrup in my car.”
“Twice.”
“Three times.”
You held out your hand and Aaron took hold of it. “This isn’t forgiveness,” you warned.
“I know.”
“It isn’t us getting back together.”
“I know.”
“It’s pancakes.”
“I can start with pancakes.”
You pulled him closer and kissed him. It was soft, brief, and uncertain. When you drew back, his hand was still wrapped around yours. “That wasn’t forgiveness either,” you murmured.
“What was it?”
You smiled for the first time that night. “An encore.”
Title: Four of a Kind
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader
Summary: The BAU discovers you’ve been quietly hiding four PhDs and immediately decide that makes you the perfect match for Spencer. The only problem? He liked you long before he knew about any of them.
Word count: ~1,121
==================================================
You had worked at the BAU for eight months before anyone discovered you had four PhDs. It happened because a professor at Georgetown ruined everything.
The team had been invited to consult on a series of threatening letters sent to faculty members. You were standing beside Spencer in the university library when an older man spotted you across the room.
“Dr. Y/L/N?”
You froze. Spencer looked at you.
The professor hurried closer and shook your hand. “I haven’t seen you since the behavioral sciences symposium. Are you still publishing in forensic linguistics, or are you focusing on neuropsychology now?”
Behind you, Morgan stopped walking.
The professor continued before you could answer. “I heard you finished the criminology doctorate. That makes four, doesn’t it?”
Silence filled the library.
You smiled weakly. “Yes.”
“Four?” JJ repeated.
The professor glanced at the team. “She never mentioned them?”
“No,” Emily said. “She did not.”
Spencer was staring at you as though you had grown another head. The professor excused himself, leaving you alone with six profilers who suddenly looked deeply betrayed.
Garcia’s voice came through the phone in Morgan’s hand. “Did that distinguished academic gentleman say four PhDs?”
“You’re on speaker?” you asked.
“I am now.”
Morgan folded his arms. “You’ve been here eight months.”
“It never came up.”
Spencer blinked. “You have doctorates in behavioral science, forensic linguistics, neuropsychology and criminology?”
You glanced at him. “Yes.”
“You let everyone call me the resident genius.”
“You are the resident genius.”
“What are you?”
“Tired, mostly.”
Emily covered a laugh.
Garcia gasped through the phone. “She has more PhDs than Reid.”
“This isn’t a competition,” Spencer said quickly.
“Not anymore,” Morgan replied. “She won.”
“I didn’t win anything.”
JJ looked between you and Spencer. Then she smiled. You knew that smile.
“No,” you said immediately.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
Morgan’s grin widened. “Four PhDs. Three PhDs. That’s seven PhDs in one extremely awkward relationship.”
“There is no relationship,” Spencer said. Far too quickly.
You looked away before anyone could see the small sting the words caused. You had liked Spencer almost from the beginning. Not because he was brilliant, though he was. You liked the way he brought you coffee when he noticed you working through lunch. The way he leaned closer when you spoke, as though nothing you said was ever unimportant.
You had never told him about your degrees because people tended to treat you differently afterward. Apparently, he would too.
For the rest of the case, the team became unbearable. Morgan volunteered you and Spencer to review the letters together. JJ arranged for the two of you to interview the same professor. Emily somehow made certain the only empty seats at lunch were beside each other. Garcia began referring to you as “Doctor Reid’s intellectual equal and future tax-dependent.”
“You know married people don’t automatically become tax dependents,” Spencer told her.
“You didn’t deny the married part,” Garcia sang.
Spencer hung up. You tried to laugh with everyone else, but the constant comparisons were beginning to wear on you.
By the time the case ended, you had heard the phrase perfect match fourteen times. On the jet home, Morgan moved his bag from the empty seat beside Spencer.
You picked it up and placed it back. “I’m sitting over there.”
Morgan frowned. “But Reid—”
“Can survive a two-hour flight without discussing dissertations.”
You took a seat beside Emily and opened your book. Spencer watched you from across the aisle. You did not look up.
After landing, you stayed behind to finish paperwork. The bullpen slowly emptied until only you and Spencer remained.
He approached your desk holding two cups of coffee. “I didn’t know if you still wanted one.”
You accepted it despite yourself. “Thank you.”
He lingered.
You continued typing.
“Are you upset with me?”
“No.”
“You haven’t spoken to me voluntarily in six hours.”
“You’ve been counting?”
“Yes.”
You sighed and closed the file. “I’m tired of everyone acting like we should date because I collected one more degree than you.”
Spencer frowned. “I don’t think we should date because of your degrees.”
“I know. You made it very clear there’s no relationship.”
His eyes widened. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“You sounded pretty certain.”
“I was surprised.”
“So was everyone else.”
“No.” He placed his coffee on your desk. “I was surprised because I’ve been trying to prevent them from noticing that I already like you.”
You stared at him.
Spencer’s cheeks turned pink, but he continued. “If they believed the degrees were the reason, they would turn it into a joke. And I didn’t want you to think that I only became interested after discovering them.”
“You were interested before?”
“Yes.”
“How long before?”
He looked down. “Approximately seven months.”
“You’ve known me for eight.”
“I needed time to account for other explanations.”
A smile tugged at your mouth. “Of course you did.”
“I like that you correct my chess strategy even though you lose every game.”
“I let you win.”
“That’s statistically unlikely.”
“I’m being vulnerable, Spencer.”
“Sorry.”
You laughed softly.
He relaxed. “I like that you bring your own tea bags because you think the office ones taste like wet paper,” he continued. “And that you pretend not to enjoy Morgan’s jokes even when you’re trying not to laugh.”
Your expression softened. “You noticed all that?”
“I notice you.” The simple words landed harder than any grand declaration could have.
Spencer shifted nervously. “I understand if the team’s behavior has made the idea uncomfortable.”
“It hasn’t.”
“It hasn’t?”
“No. You’re doing that thing where you explain yourself out of asking the actual question.”
He swallowed. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”
You pretended to consider it.
Spencer’s fingers tightened around his cup.
“Yes.”
His entire face brightened.
“But,” you added, “we’re not discussing work, dissertations or how many degrees either of us has.”
“That eliminates several conversational categories.”
“You’ll manage.”
He smiled. “I think I can.”
The elevator doors opened behind him.
Morgan stepped out, saw the two of you standing together and stopped. “Did I interrupt something?”
“Yes,” you and Spencer said at the same time.
Morgan grinned.
Spencer reached for your hand before the teasing could begin. “Come on.” You let him lead you toward the elevator.
Morgan watched your joined hands. “So the matchmaking worked.”
Spencer pressed the button. “No,” he said as the doors opened. “You delayed it by at least three weeks.”
The doors closed on Morgan’s offended expression.
You looked at Spencer. “Three weeks?”
“Possibly four.”
You leaned over and kissed his cheek.
His hand tightened around yours.
“Maybe your calculations were wrong, Doctor Reid.”
early seasons spencer with uni reader and she fails a test that she has to retake a couple of weeks later. but like when she finds out she failed it shes devastated ans he comforts her
Here you go <3
Title: Not the End
Word count: ~1100 more or less
You found out you had failed while sitting on the floor of Spencer’s apartment. Your laptop was balanced on the coffee table, surrounded by open textbooks, half-finished notes, and the cup of tea Spencer had made before leaving for work that morning.
You refreshed the university portal one final time.
Exam One: 58%
For several seconds, you only stared. You even re-checked the course syllabus, even though you already knew what it said. Anything below sixty-five was a failing grade. You would have to retake the exam in two weeks, and if you failed again, you could not continue in the course.
Your throat tightened.
You had studied. Not casually. Not the night before. You had spent hours making flashcards, reviewing lectures, and skipping dinners because you felt guilty whenever you stopped.
You had still failed.
By the time Spencer came home, the tea was cold and you had moved from the floor to the couch.
He noticed something was wrong before he had removed his coat.“What happened?”
You immediately closed the laptop. “Nothing.”
Spencer paused with one arm still inside his coat sleeve. “You’ve been crying.”
Of course he noticed. “I’m fine.”
“Your eyes are red, there are tissues on the floor, and you’re sitting in the dark.”
You looked toward the window. The sun had gone down without you noticing.
Spencer crossed the room and sat beside you. He did not touch you immediately. Early in your relationship, he had admitted that he was never sure when people wanted physical comfort and when they only tolerated it. Now he waited for you to lean toward him first.
“I failed my exam,” you whispered.
His expression softened.
“I got a fifty-eight.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I studied for weeks.”
“I know.”
“I knew the material.”
“I know.”
“But apparently, I didn’t, because I failed.”
Your voice broke on the final word.
Spencer reached for your hand. “One exam isn’t an accurate measurement of everything you know.”
“It’s an accurate measurement of whether I passed.”
“You can retake it.”
“In two weeks.”
“Then you have two weeks.”
You pulled your hand away. “I don’t need you to make a study schedule, Spencer.”
He went quiet.
Guilt followed your frustration almost immediately. “That came out wrong.”
“No, it didn’t.” He looked down at his hands. “I was trying to fix it.”
“I know.”
“I do that.”
“I know.”
Spencer glanced at you. “What do you need?”
The question made fresh tears fill your eyes. “I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.”
“What if I’m just not smart enough for this?”
His brow furrowed as though you had said something completely illogical. “You are.”
“You have to say that. You’re my boyfriend.”
“I don’t have to say things that aren’t true. Plus I hate lies, you know that.”
“You once told me my banana bread was good.”
“It was edible.”
Despite yourself, a laugh escaped you.
Spencer shifted closer. “You’re comparing yourself to the result of one exam taken under a specific set of conditions,” he said. “That isn’t fair.”
“I missed passing by seven points.”
“Which means you don’t need to relearn the entire course. You need seven points.”
“That sounds suspiciously optimistic coming from you.”
“I’ve been told I’m growing as a person.”
You wiped beneath your eyes.
Spencer opened his arms awkwardly with a soft smile. “Would this help?”
You leaned into him before he could reconsider. His arms closed around you, one hand resting carefully against the back of your head. For a while, he said nothing. He let you cry into his shirt without telling you that everything happened for a reason or that other students had probably failed too. He did not remind you how many exams he had passed in his life. He only held you.
When your breathing finally steadied, he pressed his cheek against your hair. “You’re allowed to be upset,” he murmured. “But you’re not allowed to decide this is the end while you’re upset.”
“You can’t make rules like that.”
“I just did.”
“You’re very controlling.”
“I’ll add it to my list of flaws.”
You pulled back enough to look at him. “You have a list?”
“Yes.”
“How long is it?”
“I don’t think this is the appropriate time.” That earned another small laugh.
Spencer smiled and brushed his thumb beneath your eye. “Tonight, you don’t study.”
“I should.”
“You’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes.”
“How do you know?”
“The crease in the book’s spine hasn’t shifted since I came in.”
You looked at the abandoned textbook. “Creepy.”
“Observant.”
“What do I do instead?”
“We order dinner. You choose a movie, and I promise not to explain its scientific inaccuracies.”
“You always promise that.”
“I’ll try harder.”
Over the next two weeks, Spencer helped when you asked. He quizzed you during breakfast, turned difficult concepts into ridiculous stories you could remember, and stopped you whenever your study sessions stretched past midnight.
But he never took over. Whenever you got an answer wrong, he did not correct you immediately. He asked how you had reached it and helped you find where your reasoning had changed direction.
The morning of the retake, he walked you to campus.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” you said outside the building.
“That could indicate anxiety, low blood sugar, or—”
“Spencer.”
“Anxiety,” he decided against pushing that thought into your mind right now.
You tightened your grip on his hand. “What if I fail again?”
“Then I’ll still be here when you come out.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“I know.”
He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. “You know more than you did two weeks ago. That’s all you can take into the room with you.”
You stared at the doors.
“Seven points,” Spencer reminded you.
“Seven points.” You repeated.
He released your hand reluctantly.
Ninety minutes later, you found him in the same place, sitting on a bench with a book open on his lap.
He stood as soon as he saw you. “Well?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“How do you feel?”
You considered it. “Better.”
“That’s promising.”
Three days later, you checked the portal with Spencer sitting beside you:
Exam Retake: 84%
You gasped. Spencer barely had time to move the laptop before you threw your arms around him.
“I passed.”
“I knew you would.”
“You did not.”
“Statistically—”
“You were terrified.”
“I was cautiously concerned.”
You cut him off with a kiss. Spencer’s surprise lasted only a second before his lips curved beneath yours. When you pulled back, his eyes flicked from your face to the score still glowing on the screen.
“Twenty-six points.”
“I only needed seven.”
“You earned the rest anyway.”
You stared at him. Then you kissed him again, because somehow that was exactly what you had needed to hear.
Could you PLEASE do spencer where he completely blows off reader during a case for a theory (bc he’s mad she’s right and he didn’t think of it first and obvi he’s in love with her and suppressing it) in front of everyone and basically humiliates her. And then reader leaves the precinct where they were and the unsub grabs her bc it was her he wanted all along. And when they finally get to her reader has been like manipulated by the unsub so she has an aversion to spencer but obvi they kiss and make up. Just like lots of build up and angst pleaseeeee
The amount of fun I had with this one isn't normal. I'm getting to like writing more as if it were a mini-episode of the show and I loveee it. Plus I learned how to indent text on here and *I take a breath* notes, texts, etc will look so much better now.
Anyways, here you go <3
==================================================
Title: The Theory of You
You knew Spencer disagreed with you before he opened his mouth. His shoulders had gone stiff beside the evidence board, and he was staring at the crime-scene photographs as though concentration alone could rearrange them into something that proved you wrong.
“The quotations aren’t random,” you said, placing the printed pages beside the victims’ photographs. “They all come from the same paper.”
Detective Harris frowned. “What paper?”
You hesitated. “Mine.”
The precinct quieted at that.
You had written it during graduate school. It was an academic analysis of offenders who constructed elaborate fantasies around intellectual rejection. It had been published in a small criminology journal, cited fewer than thirty times, and mostly forgotten, or obscure as some would call it.
Except someone had underlined sentences from it before leaving them beside three murdered women.
Emily stepped closer. “You’re sure?”
“I checked every passage. The wording is exact.”
Morgan studied the photographs. “So the unsub knows your work.”
“More than that.” You pointed to the first victim. “She was found two blocks from the university where I presented the paper.”
Your finger moved to the second. “She worked in the building where I completed my first internship.”
Then the third. “She was abducted from the café where I used to study.”
The connections had been bothering you for hours. Once you saw them together, they became impossible to dismiss. “This case isn’t about the victims,” you said. “They’re stand-ins.”
“For you,” JJ finished.
The words settled heavily over the room.
Spencer finally turned from the board. “That’s a considerable leap.”
You looked at him. “It’s a pattern.”
“It’s three locations within the same metropolitan area where you lived for several years.”
“And direct quotations from my paper.”
“Which is publicly available.”
His tone was wrong. It wasn't analytical or cautious. It was sharp.
You folded your arms. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you’re allowing personal proximity to influence your interpretation of the evidence.”
Heat rose beneath your collar. “I’m not.”
“You recognized the quotations and started searching for ways to place yourself at the center of the case.”
Morgan glanced between you. “Reid.”
Spencer continued as though he had not heard him. “The unsub is displaying grandiosity and resentment toward educated women. Your theory assumes he constructed an entire series of murders around one obscure academic article when it’s more likely he selected language that reinforced his existing delusions.”
“Then how do you explain the locations?”
“Coincidence.”
“All three?”
“Confirmation bias causes people to assign significance to information supporting a preexisting belief while dismissing contradictory evidence.”
You just stared at him.
He had disagreed with you before. You had spent hours arguing over profiles, timelines, and statistics.
He had never spoken to you like this. Not in front of local officers and certainly not with everyone watching.
“You think this is about my ego,” you said.
“I think you want it to be personal because that makes the pattern feel complete.”
The silence afterward was brutal. Detective Harris looked down at the table. JJ’s face tightened. Emily said your name quietly, but you barely heard her. Spencer returned his attention to the board as though he had not just taken your theory, your work, and your professional judgment apart in front of an entire precinct.
Your throat burned. “Fine.”
You gathered the copies of your paper.
Morgan stepped toward you. “Hey—”
“I need air.”
“We’re in the middle of a briefing,” Spencer said.
You stopped at the doorway.
It should not have surprised you. Some part of you had always known that Spencer’s respect mattered too much. Every time he asked for your opinion, every time his eyes found you after solving something difficult, you had collected the moments like proof of something neither of you had ever said aloud.
You looked back at him. “I think you’ve made it clear how valuable my contribution is.”
Then you left.
The night air struck your face hard enough to make your eyes water. You told yourself it was the cold. The precinct parking lot was crowded with patrol cars and television vans. You walked past them, needing only five minutes where no one could see how thoroughly Spencer had humiliated you.
Your phone buzzed. It was JJ.
JJ: Where are you?
You shoved it into your pocket without answering.
Then the sound of a vehicle door being opened reached behind you reached your ears.
You barely had time to turn. A cloth pressed over your mouth. An arm locked around your waist. The last thing you saw before darkness swallowed you was the precinct entrance, less than fifty yards away.
—
Spencer realized you had been gone too long after seven minutes.
At ten, he checked the hallway.
At twelve, JJ tried your phone.
At fourteen, Morgan returned from the parking lot holding your broken badge clip.
Spencer stared at it in his palm. The metal was bent. Blood marked one edge. His mind suddenly emptied. Then everything rushed back at once. The quotations. The locations. Your paper. Your theory. You had been right. The unsub had wanted you. And Spencer had sent you outside alone.
“We need the security footage,” Emily ordered.
The room erupted into motion, but Spencer did not move.
Morgan gripped his shoulder. “Reid.”
“I told her she was making it about herself.”
“This is not the time.”
“I humiliated her.”
“And we’re going to get her back.”
Spencer looked toward the door you had walked through. “What if he heard me?”
Morgan’s expression changed. The precinct had been full of people. Officers. Reporters. Families. Witnesses. Anyone could have listened.
“He did,” Spencer whispered. “That’s why he took her now.”
—
You woke tied to a chair.
A speaker sat on the table in front of you.
The room smelled like dust, damp concrete, and something metallic.
And a man moved in the shadows.
“You were right,” he said.
You felt your head throbbing. You pulled against the restraints.
Then the man smiled. “You saw me before he did.”
“Who are you?”
“You wrote that men like me create rituals because we cannot tolerate being insignificant.”
He stepped into the light. You recognized him slowly.
Professor Adrian Wilcox.
He had attended your graduate presentation years ago. He had challenged every conclusion you made, then waited afterward to tell you that intelligence without humility was merely arrogance.
You had forgotten him, but he had not forgotten you.
“You built the murders around my paper.”
“I improved it.”
“You killed three women.”
“I gave your theory evidence.”
He pressed a button on the speaker and Spencer’s voice filled the room.
You’re allowing personal proximity to influence your interpretation of the evidence.
Your stomach turned as Wilcox watched your face. “He was angry.”
You said nothing.
“He could not tolerate that you saw the answer first.”
The recording continued.
You want it to be personal because that makes the pattern feel complete.
Wilcox crouched in front of you. “The genius does not like being surpassed.”
“You don’t know him.” You retorted.
“I know men like him.”
“No. You know yourself.”
His expression tightened. The recording stopped. For several seconds, only your breathing filled the room.
Then Wilcox smiled. “We’ll see.”
He played it again. And again. Every time you refused to answer a question, Spencer’s voice returned. Every time you closed your eyes, Wilcox leaned close and reminded you that the team had watched Spencer dismantle you without intervening.
That you had walked out and no one followed. That Spencer had cared more about being right than keeping you safe. By the time the lights went out, Spencer’s voice no longer sounded like Spencer. It sounded like the room. Like the ropes cutting into your wrists. Like Wilcox's hand beneath your jaw, forcing your face toward the speaker.
—
The team found you eighteen hours later.
Spencer was one of the firsts to get to the basement.
Wilcox was on the floor, Morgan’s knee pressed between his shoulders. Emily was calling for medics.
You were curled against the far wall, shaking.
Spencer crossed the room.
Your head lifted. The moment you saw him, terror flashed across your face. “No.”
He stopped.
You pressed yourself farther into the corner. “No, don’t—don’t let him talk."
Spencer’s breath caught. “It’s me.”
You covered your ears. “Make him stop.”
Morgan looked at the speaker. Then at Spencer. Understanding settled over everyone at once.
Spencer stepped backward. JJ approached you instead. You let her.
That hurt worse than anything Wilcox could have done to him.
—
You did not remember much of the rescue. You remembered JJ’s coat around your shoulders. Emily holding your hand in the ambulance. Morgan standing outside the hospital room like a guard.
You remembered Spencer only in fragments. His face at the basement door. The sound of his voice. The panic that swallowed you before you could stop it.
For two days, he did not enter your room. You knew he was outside. The nurses did not tell you. They didn't have to.
JJ brought you coffee from the machine downstairs and glanced toward the hallway whenever footsteps passed.
“He’s there, isn’t he?” you asked.
She didn't lie. “Yes.”
You looked down at the plastic lid. “I can’t hear him.”
“He knows.”
The shame was almost unbearable. “I know it wasn’t him.”
JJ sat beside you. “Your body doesn’t yet.”
You swallowed. “Is he angry?”
“No.”
“Does he think I blame him?”
“He blames himself enough for both of you.”
You closed your eyes.
That night, JJ placed a folded sheet of paper on your bedside table. “He asked me to give you this. You don’t have to read it.”
Spencer’s handwriting was instantly recognizable. You waited until you were alone.
I was cruel to you because you were right.
The honesty made your chest tighten.
I wish I could say I was only concerned that the case had become personal, but that would be another attempt to make my behavior sound more reasonable than it was.
You saw the pattern before I did. I felt embarrassed, and instead of admitting it, I tried to make you doubt yourself.
I used facts and terminology to disguise jealousy as objectivity.
Your eyes blurred.
I have loved you for a long time. That is not an excuse. It only makes what I did worse because I knew exactly which part of you I was hurting.
You covered your mouth.
I will not ask you to forgive me. I will not enter your room unless you invite me. If hearing my voice causes you pain, I will remain silent for as long as you need.
The final line was smaller.
You were right. I should have listened.
—
You went home a week later. Spencer wasn't there. The team rotated through your apartment instead. Garcia filled your freezer with food you would never finish. Morgan checked every lock twice. Emily slept on your couch the first night without asking.
Spencer communicated through notes. Not many. Never enough to feel like pressure. A book appeared outside your door with a page marked because he thought the passage might make you laugh. A paper bag arrived with your usual coffee order and a note that only said, No response necessary.
Two weeks passed before you asked JJ to bring him.
He stood inside your doorway with his hands visible and his mouth closed. The silence between you felt fragile.
“You can talk,” you said.
Spencer inhaled carefully. “Are you sure?”
Your body reacted before your mind could. Your shoulders tightened. Your pulse jumped. Your breath halted.
Spencer stopped immediately. “I can leave.”
“No.”
He waited.
You forced your hands to unclench. “Say something else.”
His eyes filled with pain. “The average person’s voice is as unique as a fingerprint,” he said softly. “It’s influenced by the shape of the vocal tract, the tension of the vocal folds, and learned speech patterns.”
You almost laughed. Of course that was what he chose. “Something else.”
“Octopuses have three hearts.”
“I already knew that.”
Spencer hesitated. “Male penguins propose to their mates with pebbles.”
“That isn’t entirely accurate.”
“I know.”
You frowned at him. “Then why did you say it?”
“I thought correcting me might help.”
A startled laugh slipped out of you. Spencer’s expression softened, though he remained near the door. The sound of his voice still made something tighten inside your chest, but this time it was followed by something else. Recognition. Not the recording. Not the basement. Just Spencer, deliberately getting a fact wrong because he knew you would not be able to resist correcting him.
You sat on the couch. He remained where he was.
“I believed him,” you whispered.
Spencer’s face crumpled.
“Not everything. But enough.”
“He used the truth.”
You looked up. “What?”
“I was jealous. I did resent that you found the connection first. He only had to repeat what I had already shown you.”
“You didn’t want me taken.”
“No.”
“I know.”
He swallowed. “I should have followed you.”
“You should have respected me before I left.”
“Yes.”
No defense. No explanation. Just yes.
You looked at the space beside you. “Sit down.”
Spencer moved slowly, leaving half the couch between you. For several minutes, neither of you spoke.
Then you asked, “How long?”
He knew what you meant. “Three years, four months, and twelve days.”
You stared at him. “That specific?”
“I realized it when you fell asleep on the jet and drooled on my shoulder.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“And that inspired love?”
“It made me feel trusted.”
A laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Spencer smiled, but it vanished quickly. “I am so sorry.”
You looked down at your hands. “I’m still angry.”
“You should be.”
“I might be angry for a while.”
“I understand.”
“And I don’t know when hearing your voice will stop making me think of that room.”
“I’ll wait.”
“You can’t fix this by waiting quietly forever.”
His brow furrowed. “What do you need?”
The question was so simple. So different from the way he had spoken over you at the precinct. “I need you to listen even when I’m right and you hate it.”
“I will.”
“I need you not to turn your intelligence into a weapon when you’re hurt.”
His eyes dropped. “I will never do that to you again.”
“You can’t promise never.”
“Then I promise that if I fail, I’ll recognize it before you have to bleed to prove it.”
Your throat tightened. You moved your hand onto the cushion between you. Spencer stared at it. Then, very carefully, he placed his hand beside yours. Not touching. Waiting. You closed the final inch. His fingers trembled beneath yours.
“I missed you,” you whispered.
Spencer’s eyes closed. “I missed you too.”
You leaned toward him and he opened his eyes, startled.
“Can I kiss you?” you asked.
His breath caught. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
He searched your face. “Yes.”
The kiss was gentle. Simple. It was only Spencer’s mouth against yours, warm and careful, while his hand remained loose in yours in case you needed to pull away.
You didn't.
When you finally separated, his forehead rested against yours.
“I was right,” you murmured.
A shaky laugh left him. “Yes.”
“And you were jealous.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re in love with me.”
His thumb brushed your knuckles. “Painfully.”
You smiled for the first time in weeks. “Good.”
Spencer’s eyebrows lifted. “Good?”
“You’re going to need something to occupy you while I make you earn complete forgiveness.”
His laugh was soft, surprised, and achingly familiar. You kissed him again before the sound could become anything else.
Thank you so much for all the love towards the one shots I’ve published so far! I have a handful of requests queued up to write. It’ll take some time, but I’ll make sure to write each and every single one. That’s a promise.
Also, if anyone is interested in me adding them to a tag list, make sure to let me know in the comments and I’ll add you. 🏷️
Title: The Plus-One
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader
Summary: You need a plus-one to an ex's wedding, and Spencer agrees to pretend to be your boyfriend. He becomes unexpectedly convincing.
You had asked Spencer to be your date to the wedding because he was the safest option. That was what you told yourself, anyway.
He was your best friend. He knew your family, understood that your mother would ask invasive questions within three minutes of meeting him, and had absolutely no interest in making your ex jealous.
At least, that was what you believed until he arrived at your apartment in a dark suit and looked you over so slowly that you forgot how to breathe.
“You look…” He cleared his throat. “Different.”
You glanced down at your dress. “Good different?”
“Yes. Very.” His ears had turned pink.
You smiled. “You clean up well too, Doctor Reid.”
“I wore this to court last month.”
“Please don’t ruin the fantasy.”
On the drive, you reviewed the plan. “We’ve been together for six months,” you said. “We met through work. You asked me out.”
“Why did I ask you out?”
“Because you’re secretly obsessed with me.”
He looked over from the passenger seat. “That seems believable.”
You almost missed the turn.
The wedding was held at a vineyard outside the city, all white roses, string lights, and relatives you had spent years avoiding.
Your mother spotted you before you made it past the entrance. “Oh, thank God,” she said, pulling you into a hug. “You brought someone.”
“Lovely to see you too.”
Her attention shifted to Spencer. You expected him to offer an awkward wave. Instead, he stepped forward, smiled, and said, “Mrs. Y/L/N. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Your mother melted instantly.
Traitor.
By cocktail hour, Spencer had charmed your aunt with facts about the history of wedding rings, helped your cousin’s daughter find a missing earring, and somehow convinced your father that profiling was not the same thing as mind reading.
He also kept touching you. A hand at your back as he guided you through a crowd. His fingers brushing yours whenever someone looked too interested. His thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles beneath the table.
Every touch was part of the act. You had to remind yourself of that often.
“You’re very good at this,” you whispered when he leaned closer during dinner.
“At weddings?”
“At pretending.”
His hand stilled over yours. “Right,” he said. “Pretending.”
Before you could ask what was wrong, a familiar voice interrupted.
“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”
You looked up. Your ex stood beside the table with his new wife’s cousin—or maybe sister; you had stopped paying attention after the engagement announcement—hanging from his arm.
“This is Spencer,” you said.
Spencer stood and offered his hand. “Her boyfriend.” There was something unexpectedly firm in his voice.
Your ex shook his hand. “How long?”
“Six months,” Spencer replied.
“Serious, then?”
Spencer glanced down at you. His expression softened so completely that your chest tightened. “I’m hoping so.”
Your ex laughed as though it were a joke. Spencer didn't.
A slow song began before the conversation could become more uncomfortable, and your ex excused himself.
You exhaled. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“That.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You looked at him like you were calculating how difficult it would be to hide a body in the vineyard.”
“There are too many witnesses.”
You laughed.
Spencer held out his hand. “Dance with me.”
“You hate dancing.”
“I dislike dancing when Morgan is involved.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
“He insists on spinning people.”
You placed your hand in his and Spencer led you onto the dance floor. His palm settled at your waist, careful at first, then more certain when you moved closer.
“You really don’t have to sell it this hard,” you murmured.
“I know.”
The words hit differently this time. You looked up. String lights reflected in his eyes. Around you, couples turned slowly beneath the music, but Spencer seemed completely still.
“Then why are you?”
His grip tightened slightly. “Because your ex made you feel like you were difficult to love.”
Your throat closed.
“You told me that once,” he continued. “You were tired and angry, and you probably don’t remember. But I do.”
“Of course you do.”
“I’ve spent three years listening to you talk about dates that went badly and people who didn’t understand you.”
“Spencer—”
“And every time, I thought…” He looked away. “I thought I would understand.”
The music continued around you. You forgot the wedding. The guests. The entire reason you had brought him.
“You said this was believable because you’re secretly obsessed with me.”
His mouth twitched. “I may have been speaking more literally than you realized.”
Your heart began beating painfully hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to risk losing you.”
“So you agreed to pretend to be my boyfriend instead?”
“In hindsight, it wasn’t a particularly sustainable strategy.”
You laughed, but it came out shaky.
Spencer searched your face. “If you don’t feel the same, we can finish the evening and never discuss this again.”
“That sounds terrible.”
His expression fell.
“No, I mean pretending none of this happened.” You moved your hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck. “That sounds terrible.”
Hope appeared slowly. "So... you feel the same?”
“I asked you to a wedding where my entire family would see us together.”
“You said I was the safest option.”
“I lied.”
Spencer smiled. It was small and startled and so sweet that you kissed him before you could reconsider. He froze for half a second, but then his hand slid more securely around your waist, and he kissed you back with none of the hesitation you had expected.
A cheer rose from somewhere near the bar.
You pulled away and scanned where you heard the cheer from. Your eyes landed on your mother who was still clapping. Your father lifted his glass. And your ex had disappeared.
Spencer looked horrified. “They were watching.”
“They’ve been watching us all night.”
“I thought your mother was speaking to the bride.”
“She can multitask.”
He glanced toward your family again. “Should we stop?”
You smiled and pulled him closer. “No. We already kissed once, we might as well give them something worth talking about.”
Spencer laughed against your mouth before melting into your mouth again.
Later, on the drive home, his hand rested over yours between the seats
“So,” you said, “how long have we been together now?”
spencer reid x childhood best friend who hes secretly in love with and one day they share a piece of gum like maybe he thinks his breath stinks and he asks reader for gum but all she has is the one in her mouth and he js opens his mouth for it and she leans over him and lets the gum drop from her mouth to his, the team is SHOCKED bc spencer doesnt even shake hands but both him and reader are super casual abt ut bc they do it all the time
Here you go <3 tried to make it cuter rather than the ick I felt at the sharing gum thing lol Hope you enjoy and that I did it justice! Thanks for requesting, please continue to do so <3
Title: Familiar
Word count: ~830
The first time the team saw you kiss Spencer, neither of you considered it a kiss. That was the problem. You had stopped by the BAU with lunch after he sent you a message claiming he had eaten, followed by a picture of an empty coffee cup and two packets of crackers.
You had known Spencer since you were seven. He had corrected your pronunciation of pterodactyl and cried after you told him no one liked a know-it-all. You apologized by giving him half your sandwich.
Twenty-four years later, you were still feeding him. “Tell me that isn’t his lunch,” you said, placing a paper bag on his desk.
Morgan held up an empty wrapper. “I tried.”
“You ate one.”
“I was proving they weren’t enough.”
Spencer opened the bag. “You brought soup.”
“And a sandwich.”
“I told you I ate.”
“You sent evidence that you didn’t.”
JJ smiled. “I like her.”
“You say that every time,” Spencer said.
“Because every time she comes in, you get fed.”
You tapped your cheek. “Where's my thanks?”
Spencer sighed theatrically before pressing a quick kiss to it.
Morgan’s eyebrows rose. That should have warned him. Instead, he asked how long you had known each other, and you told the team about Spencer organizing your eighth birthday presents by educational value.
“They were mostly toys,” Spencer said.
“That was why your system failed.”
“You refused to cooperate.”
“I was eight.”
“You were stubborn.”
“I’m still stubborn.”
“I’m aware.” He said it with a softness and smile you didn't notice. Everyone else did.
By the time he finished half the sandwich, Emily had joined the conversation, and Garcia had appeared with no reason for being there beyond sensing gossip.
You were telling them how Spencer once walked three miles in the rain because you called after a terrible date when he covered his mouth abruptly.
“What?” you asked.
“Does my breath smell?”
Morgan snorted. “Smooth.”
Spencer ignored him and leaned closer with his mouth slightly ajar to you.
You considered the silent request seriously and sniffed his face hole. “Like coffee.”
“That isn’t helpful.”
“You drink six cups a day. It would be strange if it smelled like mint.”
“Do you have gum?”
You patted and checked your pockets. “No. Wait!” You remembered, then took the gum from your mouth and leaned over Spencer’s chair.
He opened his mouth without hesitation. You let the piece drop onto his tongue. Then you straightened. The bullpen went silent.
Spencer chewed once. “What?”
Morgan stared at him. “What do you mean, what?”
Emily recovered first. “Did she just give you gum from her mouth?”
“Yes,” Spencer said.
You frowned. “He asked for gum.”
“That was already in your mouth,” Morgan replied.
“I know where it was.”
“We’ve shared gum before,” Spencer explained.
Garcia gripped the nearest desk. “Before?”
“Since high school,” you said. “Sometimes I get tired of the flavor.”
“And you just take it?” JJ asked him.
“He doesn’t like wasting things,” you answered.
Morgan pointed at Spencer. “You won’t shake hands.”
“Hands frequently touch contaminated surfaces.”
Emily blinked. “And mouths don’t?”
“Not hers.”
The answer came too quickly and Spencer froze.
You smiled. “That’s sweet.”
Garcia whispered, “Oh, he is gone.”
“This is being interpreted incorrectly,” Spencer said, turning pink.
“Is it?” Emily asked.
You stole the remaining half of his sandwich. He let you and that disturbed them almost as much.
Hotch stepped out of his office. “Is there a reason no one is working?”
Morgan pointed at you both. “They shared gum.”
Hotch looked at Spencer, who was still chewing. “I’m not asking.” He returned to his office.
You checked the time and grabbed your bag. “I have to go.”
Spencer stood. “I’ll walk you out.”
“You’re working.”
“I can spare two minutes.”
Morgan muttered, “Of course you can.”
At the elevator, you adjusted Spencer’s tie as you had since he first began wearing them. “Your friends are weird.”
“They think we’re weird.”
“We are weird.”
“Yes, but not for that reason.”
At the elevator, you adjusted Spencer’s tie as you had since he first began wearing them. “Your friends are weird.”
“They think we’re weird.”
“We are weird.”
“Yes, but not for that reason.”
The elevator arrived, and you stepped inside. “You owe me gum now,” you said.
Spencer frowned. “That piece was already yours.”
“Exactly. You still haven’t given me anything.”
“That isn’t how exchanging goods works.”
“It is between best friends.”
Before the doors closed, you leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "Dinner tonight, yes?"
"Sure." Spencer’s hand rose automatically to the place your lips had touched. The doors closed between you.
When Spencer returned to the bullpen, the team was waiting.
Morgan folded his arms. “Tell her.”
“Tell her what?”
“That you’ve been in love with her since puberty.”
Spencer stopped.
Garcia’s expression softened. “Oh, honey.”
“I have not.”
“You let her take food from your plate,” Emily said.
“You walk her to the elevator every time,” JJ added.
“You've shared gum only God knows how many times,” Morgan finished.
“She’s my best friend.”
No one argued.
His phone buzzed.
You: Dinner's at 7. And bring gum.
Spencer smiled before he could stop himself.
Morgan leaned over his shoulder, read the message, and scoffed. “Best friend.”
Spencer covered the screen with his hand. But he was still smiling.
Description: Spencer agrees to fake being your boyfriend for one wedding. Neither of you expects to be quite so convincing.
___________________________________
Title: A Convincing Argument
Spencer noticed the envelope before you said anything.
It had been sitting beside your keyboard all morning, cream-colored and thick, your name written across the front in looping gold ink. Every few minutes, you glanced at it and then returned to your report with renewed determination, as though ignoring it might make it disappear.
By lunch, the envelope was still unopened.
Spencer lowered the book he had been reading. “Is there a reason you’ve been avoiding that?”
You followed his gaze. “It’s a wedding invitation.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re avoiding it.”
“My cousin is getting married next Saturday.”
“That’s relatively short notice.”
“The invitation isn’t new. I’ve known for months.”
Spencer waited. He had learned that if he remained quiet long enough, you usually filled the silence yourself.
You sighed and reached for the envelope. “My family has a seating plan.”
“Most weddings do.”
“They’ve placed me beside my ex-boyfriend.”
His expression changed immediately. “Why?”
“Because my grandmother thinks we made a mistake.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
The answer came fast enough that he seemed satisfied by it.
You opened the envelope and pulled out the folded card inside. A small note had been tucked beneath it in your mother’s handwriting.
Daniel is looking forward to seeing you. Please keep an open mind.
Spencer read it upside down. “That seems inappropriate.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you told them you don’t want to sit with him?”
“Three times. My mother says changing the tables now would be complicated, and my grandmother says adults should be able to have one civilized dinner.”
“Couldn’t you bring someone else?”
You looked at him.
Spencer’s eyes narrowed slightly.
You continued looking at him.
“No,” he said.
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“You’re going to.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You stopped blinking.”
You frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You do that when you’re deciding how to phrase something you think I won’t like.”
The fact that he knew that about you made your next question considerably harder to ask.
You folded the note and placed it on the desk. “Would you come with me?”
Spencer stared at you.
“As my guest,” you added.
“You mean as your boyfriend.”
“Only for the wedding.”
“That isn’t better.”
“I know.”
He set his book aside. “You want me to lie to your entire family.”
“I want you to sit beside me during dinner so no one can put Daniel there.”
“You could ask Morgan.”
“Morgan would enjoy this too much.”
“That’s true.”
“And my grandmother has met him. She’d know.”
“What about Luke?”
“He has plans.”
Spencer studied your face. “Was I your third choice?”
“You were my first choice.” The answer slipped out before you could soften it.
His posture changed, though only slightly.
You looked down at the invitation. “I asked Luke whether he was free because I thought asking you would make things strange.”
“Why would it?”
“Because you’re you.”
“That doesn’t clarify anything.”
“You don’t like crowds. You don’t like lying. You’ve never met most of my family, and weddings involve prolonged social interaction with strangers.”
“All accurate.”
“And if I brought you, they would believe me.”
“Why?”
You gave him a tired smile. “Because I talk about you.”
For once, Dr. Spencer Reid had no immediate response.
You rushed to continue. “I mention everyone from work. You simply come up more often because we spend a lot of time together.”
“How often?”
“I don’t keep statistics on my own conversations.”
“I could estimate—”
“Please don’t.”
He glanced at the note again. “What would I have to do?”
“Eat dinner. Make polite conversation. Maybe dance once if my grandmother is watching.”
“I don’t dance.”
“I know.”
“I could injure you.”
“You stepped on my foot during JJ’s wedding and I recovered.”
“That was different. I wasn’t pretending to be in love with you.”
Your breath caught at the wording. Spencer seemed to realize what he had said a second too late. His ears turned pink.
“Interested,” he corrected. “Romantically interested.”
“Right.”
He picked up his book but didn’t open it. “I’ll think about it.”
You nodded, trying not to let your disappointment show. “Of course.”
He gave you his answer twenty minutes later.
“I’ll go.”
You turned in your chair. “What changed your mind?”
“I reviewed the available information.”
“You reviewed it.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Your family is disregarding a clearly stated boundary because they believe their preferred outcome is more important than your discomfort.”
His voice was calm, but there was a trace of irritation beneath it.
“I don’t think you should have to manage that alone.”
Something warm settled behind your ribs.
“Thank you, Spencer.”
He nodded, then pointed at the invitation. “We need rules.”
“Rules?”
“And a consistent explanation of our relationship. Your family may ask questions.”
“You sound alarmingly prepared for this.”
“I’m preparing now.”
You smiled. “Fine. We’ll have dinner tomorrow and work everything out.”
“Dinner?”
“We need a believable first date.”
He considered that. “Then dinner seems methodologically appropriate.”
You laughed. “It isn’t a real date.”
“I know.”
The words sounded less certain than they should have.
•••••••••••••••••••••••
The following evening, Spencer arrived at your apartment with a legal pad.
You opened the door and stared at it . “You made notes?”
“I made categories.”
“Of course you did.”
He followed you inside and placed the pad on your kitchen table. The first page contained three headings: established facts, plausible additions, and prohibited topics.
You pointed to the last one. “What qualifies as a prohibited topic?”
“Anything involving physical intimacy.”
You looked up.
Spencer cleared his throat. “Your relatives don’t need details.”
“I agree.”
“Also, no elaborate proposal stories, medical emergencies, or claims that either of us has met the other’s parents.”
“Were you expecting me to invent a medical emergency?”
“Garcia suggested one.”
“You discussed this with Garcia?”
“She noticed me researching wedding etiquette.”
You covered your face. “Does everyone know?”
“Probably.”
“Wonderful.”
Spencer took the chair across from you. “We should stay close to the truth. We met at work. We’ve known each other for four years. We started spending more time together after the Richmond case.”
You lowered your hands. “Why that case?”
“You drove me home because I had a migraine.”
“I remember.”
“You stayed until the medication started working.”
“You were barely able to stand.”
“Most people would have left once I was inside.”
The room grew quiet.
You reached for the legal pad. “So that’s when you supposedly started liking me?”
Spencer looked at you for a moment longer than necessary. “It’s plausible.”
You wrote it down.
The rest of the story came together without much effort. You had started dating four months earlier. Your first official date had been at a used bookstore, followed by coffee when neither of you wanted to go home yet. Spencer had been the one to ask.
“Would you have?” you asked.
He glanced up from the list.
“Asked me?”
“In this hypothetical situation.” He adjusted his cuff. “The probability of rejection would have made me hesitant.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No,” he admitted. “It isn’t.”
You waited, but he returned to the legal pad.
••••••••••••••••••••
By the time Saturday arrived, you had repeated the story enough times that it had begun to feel like a memory.
Spencer picked you up at four. You opened the door and briefly forgot how to speak. His suit was dark navy rather than black, fitted closely enough to make you wonder why he wore oversized cardigans so often. His hair was neatly combed, although one piece had already fallen across his forehead.
He looked just as startled when he saw you.
“You look—” He stopped.
You smiled. “I look what?”
He glanced down at the flowers in his hand, as though they might contain an appropriate adjective. “Beautiful.”
The simple sincerity of it left you warmer than any rehearsed compliment could have. “Thank you.”
He offered you the bouquet. Small white flowers surrounded a cluster of pale pink roses.
“You brought flowers?”
“I read that arriving without them could appear inattentive.”
“You’re supposed to give flowers to the host.”
“I bought those too.”
You laughed and took the bouquet from him. “These are for me?”
“Yes.”
“They’re lovely.”
His shoulders relaxed.
The drive took just under an hour. Spencer talked for most of it, moving from the historical origins of wedding rings to the reason some cultures considered Saturday an unlucky day to marry. He only rambled when he was comfortable or anxious. You weren’t sure which applied.
Ten minutes before you arrived, he grew quiet.
“You can still change your mind,” you said.
“I said I would come.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re trapped.”
“I don’t feel trapped.”
His hand rested between you on the center console. After a moment, he turned it palm up.
“We should probably practice.”
You stared at his hand.
“For appearances,” he added.
“Right.”
You placed your hand in his.
Spencer’s fingers closed around yours carefully. His thumb moved once across your knuckles, then stilled.
Neither of you let go when he turned into the venue.
Your mother spotted you before you had crossed the lawn.
Her expression moved quickly from surprise to recognition.
“Spencer.”
He released your hand only long enough to shake hers. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Finally?”
Your mother looked at you.
Spencer appeared confused. “She talks about you frequently.”
You had the uncomfortable sense that he was enjoying himself.
Your grandmother was less restrained. She hugged Spencer immediately, held him at arm’s length, and inspected him as though checking for defects.
“You’re very thin.”
“Grandma.”
“What? He is.”
Spencer looked down at himself. “My body mass index is within the recommended range.”
She stared at him for two seconds before breaking into a grin.
“Oh, I like this one.”
Daniel arrived during cocktail hour.
You noticed him across the room, but Spencer noticed you noticing him. His hand settled lightly at the small of your back.
The gesture had been discussed. You had agreed it would look natural.
It did look natural.
That was the problem.
Daniel approached with the same easy confidence you remembered, kissed your cheek, and greeted Spencer with an outstretched hand.
“So you’re the famous coworker.”
“Boyfriend,” your grandmother corrected from nearby.
Daniel smiled. “Of course.”
Spencer shook his hand. “And you’re Daniel.”
“I’m surprised she mentioned me.”
“She didn’t.”
The silence that followed was brief but satisfying.
Daniel laughed. “You’re going to fit in well.”
He wandered away toward the bar.
You turned to Spencer. “Was that necessary?”
“No.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Dinner passed more easily than you expected. Spencer answered your uncle’s questions about the FBI, listened patiently while your aunt described every crime documentary she had ever watched, and helped your youngest cousin calculate how many pieces of cake he could take without being noticed.
When the music started, your grandmother appeared beside your chair.
“Dance.”
Spencer looked alarmed.
You stood before he could object. “One song.”
“I remember what happened at JJ’s wedding.”
“So do I. My shoes and feet survived.”
He followed you onto the dance floor with the solemn expression of a man approaching an active crime scene.
You placed one hand on his shoulder. He rested his hand at your waist.
“Stop looking at everyone else,” you said.
“I’m analyzing their footwork.”
“You’re dancing with me.”
His eyes returned to yours. “Right.”
For the first minute, he counted beneath his breath. Then his steps began to match yours, hesitant but steady.
“This is going better than expected,” he said.
“You have a gifted teacher.”
“That’s a biased assessment.”
“Probably.”
He smiled.
The room seemed softer beneath the hanging lights, the music low enough that you could hear him breathe. His hand shifted at your waist, drawing you a fraction closer as another couple passed.
You forgot about Daniel. You forgot about your grandmother watching from her table. You even forgot that this was supposed to be an act.
Spencer’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. Then the song ended. Applause rose around the room as the band announced the bride and groom’s departure.
Spencer stepped back, though his hand stayed around yours.
You found Daniel near the exit while everyone gathered for the send-off. He glanced at your joined hands.
“So this is real?”
The question was directed at you, but Spencer answered. “Yes.” There was no hesitation.
Daniel nodded and moved away before you could speak.
Spencer remained beside you, looking straight ahead.
“Was that part of the plan?” you asked quietly.
“No.”
Your pulse quickened.
Outside, guests lined the stone path with sparklers. You waited until the newlyweds had run through the crowd before leading Spencer away from the noise, around the side of the building where the music faded into a distant hum.
He released your hand. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I shouldn’t have answered for you.”
“You said yes.”
“I know.”
“You also said it wasn’t part of the plan.”
His gaze lowered to the pavement. “It wasn’t.”
“Then why did you say it?”
Spencer went still. For several seconds, you heard only the faint crackle of sparklers from the front lawn.
“When you asked me to come,” he said at last, “I thought the difficult part would be convincing everyone else.”
You waited.
“It wasn’t.”
He looked at you then, open and uncertain in a way you rarely saw.
“Pretending you were my girlfriend was easy. Remembering that you weren’t became increasingly difficult.”
A smile tugged at your mouth. “That sounds like a problem.”
“It could be.”
“Or we could fix it.”
His expression shifted, hope appearing so cautiously that it made your chest ache. “How?”
You stepped closer.
“Ask me the question you avoided answering at dinner.”
Spencer inhaled slowly. “Would you go out with me?”
“A real date?”
“Yes.”
“No legal pads?”
“I can’t promise that.”
You laughed. “Then yes.”
Relief softened his entire face. He lifted one hand to your cheek, giving you enough time to move away. You didn’t. His kiss was gentle and brief, more question than declaration. When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.
“Was that convincing?” he murmured.
“You may need more practice.”
“I had a feeling you might say that.”
The second kiss lasted longer. By the time you returned to the reception, your grandmother was standing near the door with her arms folded.
She looked at your joined hands, then at your face.
“Well?”
You leaned against Spencer’s shoulder “He asked me out.”
Your grandmother nodded as though this had been the expected outcome all along.
“Good. Now I can stop inviting Daniel to things.”
“You could have stopped months ago.”
“I needed motivation.”
Spencer looked between the two of you. “Was this entire evening a manipulation tactic?”
Your grandmother smiled sweetly. “Welcome to the family, Spencer.”
He turned to you, visibly uncertain whether she was joking.
You squeezed his hand.
“For the record, I had nothing to do with that.”
“I believe you.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
You laughed and pulled him back toward the dance floor.
This time, when his hand settled at your waist, there was no audience to convince and no story left to remember.
There was only Spencer smiling down at you as the music began again, and the quiet knowledge that the most believable part of the evening had been the only thing neither of you had planned.
early seasons spencer with uni reader and she fails a test that she has to retake a couple of weeks later. but like when she finds out she failed it shes devastated ans he comforts her
Here you go <3
Title: Not the End
Word count: ~1100 more or less
You found out you had failed while sitting on the floor of Spencer’s apartment. Your laptop was balanced on the coffee table, surrounded by open textbooks, half-finished notes, and the cup of tea Spencer had made before leaving for work that morning.
You refreshed the university portal one final time.
Exam One: 58%
For several seconds, you only stared. You even re-checked the course syllabus, even though you already knew what it said. Anything below sixty-five was a failing grade. You would have to retake the exam in two weeks, and if you failed again, you could not continue in the course.
Your throat tightened.
You had studied. Not casually. Not the night before. You had spent hours making flashcards, reviewing lectures, and skipping dinners because you felt guilty whenever you stopped.
You had still failed.
By the time Spencer came home, the tea was cold and you had moved from the floor to the couch.
He noticed something was wrong before he had removed his coat.“What happened?”
You immediately closed the laptop. “Nothing.”
Spencer paused with one arm still inside his coat sleeve. “You’ve been crying.”
Of course he noticed. “I’m fine.”
“Your eyes are red, there are tissues on the floor, and you’re sitting in the dark.”
You looked toward the window. The sun had gone down without you noticing.
Spencer crossed the room and sat beside you. He did not touch you immediately. Early in your relationship, he had admitted that he was never sure when people wanted physical comfort and when they only tolerated it. Now he waited for you to lean toward him first.
“I failed my exam,” you whispered.
His expression softened.
“I got a fifty-eight.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I studied for weeks.”
“I know.”
“I knew the material.”
“I know.”
“But apparently, I didn’t, because I failed.”
Your voice broke on the final word.
Spencer reached for your hand. “One exam isn’t an accurate measurement of everything you know.”
“It’s an accurate measurement of whether I passed.”
“You can retake it.”
“In two weeks.”
“Then you have two weeks.”
You pulled your hand away. “I don’t need you to make a study schedule, Spencer.”
He went quiet.
Guilt followed your frustration almost immediately. “That came out wrong.”
“No, it didn’t.” He looked down at his hands. “I was trying to fix it.”
“I know.”
“I do that.”
“I know.”
Spencer glanced at you. “What do you need?”
The question made fresh tears fill your eyes. “I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.”
“What if I’m just not smart enough for this?”
His brow furrowed as though you had said something completely illogical. “You are.”
“You have to say that. You’re my boyfriend.”
“I don’t have to say things that aren’t true. Plus I hate lies, you know that.”
“You once told me my banana bread was good.”
“It was edible.”
Despite yourself, a laugh escaped you.
Spencer shifted closer. “You’re comparing yourself to the result of one exam taken under a specific set of conditions,” he said. “That isn’t fair.”
“I missed passing by seven points.”
“Which means you don’t need to relearn the entire course. You need seven points.”
“That sounds suspiciously optimistic coming from you.”
“I’ve been told I’m growing as a person.”
You wiped beneath your eyes.
Spencer opened his arms awkwardly with a soft smile. “Would this help?”
You leaned into him before he could reconsider. His arms closed around you, one hand resting carefully against the back of your head. For a while, he said nothing. He let you cry into his shirt without telling you that everything happened for a reason or that other students had probably failed too. He did not remind you how many exams he had passed in his life. He only held you.
When your breathing finally steadied, he pressed his cheek against your hair. “You’re allowed to be upset,” he murmured. “But you’re not allowed to decide this is the end while you’re upset.”
“You can’t make rules like that.”
“I just did.”
“You’re very controlling.”
“I’ll add it to my list of flaws.”
You pulled back enough to look at him. “You have a list?”
“Yes.”
“How long is it?”
“I don’t think this is the appropriate time.” That earned another small laugh.
Spencer smiled and brushed his thumb beneath your eye. “Tonight, you don’t study.”
“I should.”
“You’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes.”
“How do you know?”
“The crease in the book’s spine hasn’t shifted since I came in.”
You looked at the abandoned textbook. “Creepy.”
“Observant.”
“What do I do instead?”
“We order dinner. You choose a movie, and I promise not to explain its scientific inaccuracies.”
“You always promise that.”
“I’ll try harder.”
Over the next two weeks, Spencer helped when you asked. He quizzed you during breakfast, turned difficult concepts into ridiculous stories you could remember, and stopped you whenever your study sessions stretched past midnight.
But he never took over. Whenever you got an answer wrong, he did not correct you immediately. He asked how you had reached it and helped you find where your reasoning had changed direction.
The morning of the retake, he walked you to campus.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” you said outside the building.
“That could indicate anxiety, low blood sugar, or—”
“Spencer.”
“Anxiety,” he decided against pushing that thought into your mind right now.
You tightened your grip on his hand. “What if I fail again?”
“Then I’ll still be here when you come out.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“I know.”
He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. “You know more than you did two weeks ago. That’s all you can take into the room with you.”
You stared at the doors.
“Seven points,” Spencer reminded you.
“Seven points.” You repeated.
He released your hand reluctantly.
Ninety minutes later, you found him in the same place, sitting on a bench with a book open on his lap.
He stood as soon as he saw you. “Well?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“How do you feel?”
You considered it. “Better.”
“That’s promising.”
Three days later, you checked the portal with Spencer sitting beside you:
Exam Retake: 84%
You gasped. Spencer barely had time to move the laptop before you threw your arms around him.
“I passed.”
“I knew you would.”
“You did not.”
“Statistically—”
“You were terrified.”
“I was cautiously concerned.”
You cut him off with a kiss. Spencer’s surprise lasted only a second before his lips curved beneath yours. When you pulled back, his eyes flicked from your face to the score still glowing on the screen.
“Twenty-six points.”
“I only needed seven.”
“You earned the rest anyway.”
You stared at him. Then you kissed him again, because somehow that was exactly what you had needed to hear.
Summary: spencer gets injured on a case, accidentally reveals he has a wife, and leaves the entire bau wondering how he managed to hide a marriage for eleven months.
Word count: ~1,080
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The first thing Spencer said when he woke up was your name.
JJ leaned closer to the hospital bed. “What?”
“My wife.” His eyes were still closed. “Call my wife.”
Morgan looked at Emily.
Emily looked at JJ.
JJ looked back at Spencer. “Your what?”
His eyes opened slowly. There was a bandage near his hairline and a deeply offended crease between his eyebrows.
“My wife,” he repeated. “The woman I’m married to.”
“We understand the definition,” Morgan said. “We’re struggling with the application.”
Spencer tried to sit up.
JJ pressed a hand to his shoulder. “Don’t. The doctor said you have a concussion.”
“I need my phone.”
“It broke when you fell.”
He stared at her. Then his gaze moved around the room, landing on each member of the team. “Why hasn’t anyone called her?”
“Because,” Emily said carefully, “until thirty seconds ago, none of us knew she existed.”
Spencer blinked. “Oh.”
Morgan folded his arms. “Oh?”
“I may not have mentioned it.”
“You may not have mentioned a wife?”
“It never came up.”
“You’ve been married long enough to have an emergency contact,” JJ said. “How long is that?”
Spencer looked toward the door.
“Eleven months.”
Morgan turned away and paced once across the room.
“Eleven months,” he repeated. “This man has been married for almost a year, and we found out because he got hit with a pipe.”
“It was a wooden beam.”
“That’s your correction?”
The door opened before Spencer could answer.
You hurried inside, still wearing the clothes you had worn to work. Your hair was slightly disheveled, and your handbag hung open from your shoulder as though you had searched through it while running.
Spencer’s face softened immediately. “Hi.”
You stopped beside the bed. For one second, you simply stared at him. Then you hit his arm.
“Ow.”
“You have a concussion?”
“It’s mild.”
“You were unconscious.”
“Briefly.”
“You were taken to the hospital in an ambulance.”
“That was mostly precautionary.”
You hit his arm again.
“Stop doing that,” he complained.
“Stop getting injured.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
Your eyes filled with tears before you could stop them.
Spencer reached for your hand. “I’m okay.”
“You weren’t answering your phone.” You said through a choked sob.
“It broke.”
“I know. A woman named Jennifer called me from yours.”
JJ raised her hand slightly. “That was me.”
You turned and seemed to notice the room full of people for the first time. “Oh.”
“Hello,” Emily said.
Morgan stared at Spencer. “You married someone who says ‘oh’ exactly like you.”
You looked back at Spencer. “They didn’t know?”
His fingers tightened around yours.
“I was going to tell them.”
“When?”
“Eventually.”
“Before or after our silver anniversary?”
Garcia burst into the room carrying a bouquet of balloons, two gift bags and what appeared to be a stuffed octopus. “I came as quickly as—”
She saw you holding Spencer’s hand. She stopped. Her eyes dropped to your wedding ring. Then to Spencer’s. Then back to your face. “No.”
Spencer sighed. “Garcia—”
“No.” She pointed at him. “You do not get to ‘Garcia’ me after hiding a wife.”
“I didn’t hide her.”
“You concealed her existence.”
“That’s the same thing,” Morgan said.
You leaned toward Spencer. “I told you they’d react like this.”
“You said Garcia would cry.”
“I’m working up to it,” Garcia warned.
JJ offered you the chair beside the bed. “How did you two even meet?”
“At a library fundraiser,” you said.
Spencer frowned. “Technically, we met outside the fundraiser.”
“You corrected my parking.”
“You were covering two spaces.”
“The lines were faded.”
“They were still visible.”
Morgan nodded. “That sounds right.”
You sat and brushed a piece of hair away from Spencer’s forehead, careful of the bandage.
“He followed me inside to explain municipal parking regulations.”
“I was clarifying.”
“He talked for eleven minutes.”
“Twelve.”
“And somehow you married him,” Emily said.
You smiled. “He bought me coffee to apologize.”
“It wasn’t an apology. You had missed the refreshment service because of our discussion.”
“You wrote your number on the cup.”
Spencer’s cheeks turned pink.
Garcia made a strangled sound. “Why was I denied this story for eleven months?”
“We had a small courthouse wedding,” you explained. “We kept meaning to have everyone over afterward, but there was always another case.”
Spencer looked guilty.
You touched his cheek. “That wasn’t a complaint.”
“I know.”
“You’re making the face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you decide something is your fault and start mentally writing an apology essay.”
Morgan looked impressed. “You can identify the face?”
“I’m his wife.”
Spencer smiled at that.
The room softened around the word. His wife. Not a secret. Not anymore.
Garcia sniffed loudly.
“There it is,” you said.
“I’m furious,” she said, wiping beneath one eye. “But love is beautiful.”
She placed the stuffed octopus beside Spencer.
“What is that?” he asked.
“A recovery companion.”
“It has a bridal veil.”
“I made an adjustment in the elevator.”
Spencer looked at you.
You picked up the octopus. “I think she’s lovely.”
“You would.”
The doctor entered a few minutes later and confirmed that Spencer could go home as long as someone monitored him overnight.
“I’ll do it,” you said.
Morgan grinned. “Good thing he has a wife.”
Spencer groaned.
The teasing continued through the discharge paperwork, the elevator and the hospital lobby.
By the time you reached the car, Spencer looked exhausted.
You opened the passenger door for him.
“I can open a door.”
“You were injured.”
“I have a concussion, not a broken hand.”
“Get in the car, Doctor Reid.”
He obeyed.
Once you were behind the wheel, he reached across the console and took your hand.
“I’m sorry you had to find out from the hospital.”
“I’m sorry I almost had a heart attack in the middle of a staff meeting.”
“I’m also sorry I didn’t tell the team.”
You glanced at him. “Are you?”
“No.”
You laughed.
Spencer lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles.
“They’re going to be unbearable now.”
“They already were.”
“Garcia will plan us a second wedding.”
“She mentioned a vow renewal before we left the room.”
“We’ve been married eleven months.”
“I don’t think that will stop her.”
He rested his head against the seat.
You squeezed his hand. “Stay awake.”
“I’m awake.”
“Tell me something.”
“I love you.”
“That was suspiciously easy.”
“I’ve had nearly a year of practice.”
You smiled despite the lingering fear in your chest. “Tell me something else.”
Spencer opened his eyes and looked at you. “I’m glad they know.”
“Why?”
“Because now everyone knows you’re my wife.”
The pride in his voice made your heart ache.
You brought his hand to your lips. “Everyone knows you’re my husband too.”
He smiled. Then his eyes drifted closed again.
“Spencer.”
“I’m awake.”
“You’re snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“You absolutely do.”
“That’s statistically unlikely.”
You drove home with his hand still wrapped around yours, already composing the message you would send Garcia before she ordered a wedding cake.
Hello author-san, I just wanna say I loved what you did with my request for Spencer and suspect reader!! I felt kinda embarrassed submitting it bc I wasn't sure it was very coherent but you did such an incredible job and i think it had the perfect plot for what I was thinking but truly 1000/10 🥹 TYSM 🙇♀️
- 🌞 anon
Ahhh, thank you so much!! 🥹 Please don’t ever feel embarrassed about sending me a request—I understood exactly what you were going for, and I had such an amazing, though admittedly rather angsty, time writing it! I’m genuinely so happy the plot felt right and that you enjoyed how it turned out. I really hope you continue sending requests because I would absolutely love to write more of your ideas. Your message seriously made my day. Thank you for trusting me with this one!! 🫶💗
A La Carte 🍴 @spenceralacarte - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
