✧ ghost ✧

supposedly a "writer"

[the-past-is-for-ghosts]

──── ❝I WAS ENCHANTED TO MEET YOU❞

☁︎ ───bienvenue, mes chers · · · ✦

✧ · · · i'm ghost! ✧ · · · just writing under the stars ✎

☁︎ ──────────── · · · · ✦

✧ · · · currently writing for:

The Naturals

Criminal Minds

The Grishaverse

Pride and Prejudice

˚ ∞ ₊ ⋆ masterlist ⋆ ₊ ∞ ˚

☁︎ ──────────── · · · · ✦

──── ❝MEET ME IN THE AFTERGLOW❞

[the-past-is-for-ghosts]

Aquamarine, Moonlit Swimming Pool (spencer reid x reader)

1st part ; previous part ; masterlist

summary: [p3 of Slut! series, but can be read alone] At a dinner party at Rossi's place, you find yourself taking up Spencer's offer from the jet. Through the evening, you realize that, maybe the BAU is going to be different, after all?

wc: 5.3k (holy yapper)

warnings: mentions of rumors, accusations of 'sleeping together' [past]

SPENCER REID IS NOT QUITE SURE why you’re actually here.

Ok, technically, he does know ‘why’, but the fact that you're actually at Rossi's casual house party still surprises him. While everyone’s laughing and sitting in the living room, indulging in Rossi’s snacks, he sits there trying to figure it out, turning the situation around in his mind. In all your months in the BAU, he’s never seen you go out with the team outside of work; never at the clubs or the girls’ hangouts. Even with him, other than weekday mornings in the cafe near the office and the accidental meeting in the bookstore months ago, he’s never been with you outside of the office.

Spencer’s eyes catch on you, staring as you laugh at Morgan’s joke, giving him some kind of teasing response that elicits a giggle out of Emily.

Despite the “no profiling each other” rule, Spencer finds himself contemplating your behavior over the months. Your stiffness in the beginning, the refusal to speak about anything unprofessional. The way your whole body tensed when Morgan called you “pretty girl” for the first time, and how you’d gone quiet after that. Derek never called you that again, and Spencer recalls the quiet discussion that occurred that evening after you left the office, the way Garcia, Prentiss, Morgan, and JJ wondered why you seemed so freaked out by Morgan’s joke. Spencer remembers how Hotch had quieted everyone with a solemn glare, firmly insisting that everyone behaved professionally with you until you demonstrated any preference otherwise. Derek made sure all his jokes around you never crossed any professional boundaries, and everyone let you sit quietly in your solitude on plane rides back.

But after you’d participated in Poker on one of the flights back, Spencer noticed that you’d begun to relax around the team. After you’d bumped into him at the Sunrise Boulevard bookstore, you’d started smiling a little more, and—maybe he was letting his hopes cloud his judgment a bit, but he really was sure about it—you’d begun to open up around Spencer. From that day, he noticed how you shared more jokes with the team, shared stories of your time at the NYPD, and genuinely listened to his ramblings on whatever random subject caught his mind.

Most notably, he realized the depth of your comfort around the BAU a few cases ago, after the flight back home. You’d fallen asleep on his shoulder accidentally, and Spencer still recalls the way your eyebrows relaxed and your lips loosened out of their normal pursed expression. The warmth of your shoulder flooded into him through the layers of clothing between you. He feels his fingers flex against the couch’s armrest at the memory. During your nap that night, it seemed you’d finally lowered the guard you always had up.

From that day, something major had shifted. You’d actually given Morgan back his mock-flirting, and when he called you 'pretty girl' you didn’t freeze like the first time; you’d smiled and joked about how “unoriginal” it was to have you nicknamed 'pretty girl' after Spencer was reserved as 'pretty boy'. It was almost as though you’d realized something… maybe overcoming some social fear? Or maybe—

Someone nudges his shoulder, pulling him out of his profiling spiral. Shame burns his cheeks as he realizes how rude it is to try to profile you like that.

“Jeez, man,” Morgan grins down at where Spencer’s folded against the armrest of the couch, “when a guy likes a girl, they usually go talk to her instead of staring at her.”

An indignant scoff escapes his throat as Spencer finally drags his gaze away from where you’re seated next to Emily, and towards Derek. “I was not staring—”

“Sure you weren’t,” Morgan leans against him, grinning. “Just had your eyes glued to her head, huh?”

Spencer pointedly avoids responding to that, making a quick getaway as he claims a sudden need for water, practically leaping past Morgan to the kitchen. He ignores the laughter that follows him.

A few moments pass as he rifles through Rossi’s kitchen cabinets, careful not to take any of his specific wine glasses (last time he’d grabbed a champagne flute for water, Rossi had gone on such a tangent—one that rivaled Spencer’s rambles—that the entire team memorized specific alcoholic glasses then onwards).

“Hey, could you pass a glass?”

Spencer startles as you appear behind him. “Oh, yeah, of course.”

He passes a glass over to you, and the two of you drink in silence. For a second, he admires your profile while you stare at your empty glass. You’re lost in your thoughts, swirling the remaining water around in your cup.

"I'm surprised you made it," Spencer says. The minute the words leave his lips, he knows it's a stupid question; he just wanted to talk to you about something, anything. Clearly he isn't hiding it well based on his supposed ‘staring’, but lately, he's enjoyed being around you a little too much. And yet, he still can’t get the right words out.

But you don't take any offense, shrugging as you reply. "Yeah, pretty obvious that I avoided going out, huh?

“I mean, you’ve cancelled 84.7% of the plans that the girls invite you to with some variation of ‘feeling fatigued’ and the other 15.3%—” abruptly cutting off, he frowns. Is it rude to agree with you about this?

You just laugh. “By this point I need to stop being surprised that you’ve kept track.” For a second, you pause, teeth gnawing at your bottom lip as you consider your next words. “I just… do you remember the plane ride?”

“I have an eidetic memory,” Teasing you with a smug smile, he adds, “better question is, which ride do you want me to remember?”

“The one where I kinda had a nightmare and you asked me about it?”

His smile fades away. The way your eyebrows scrunched in pain mid-nap, lips pulled together and trembling; he remembers. “Yeah, and I said that you don’t have to tell me if you’re not comfortable yet.”

You nod, and your teeth sink further into your bottom lip as you gather the words.

Oh, god. Spencer instinctively places his hand against your shoulder, anxiety gnawing at his throat. He’s really hoping you didn’t feel pressured by his words, he just wanted you to know that the offer was there, whether you take it or not. The words rush out of him, fumbling and jumbled together, “You know it’s still true, right? You don’t—if you don’t want to, you don’t need to talk about it.”

“I know,” the words slip through immediately, and you stare at him earnestly as though you’re trying to communicate something to him through facial expression alone. “But, you said the offer was open and I—I want to tell you. I don’t want you to think I avoid you all because I don’t like you guys.”

“You don’t have to worry about that at all!” Spencer exclaims before the words have barely passed your lips.

You raise an eyebrow, and though he sees a little gratitude from the uptick of your lips, there’s mostly disbelief. “I…” you sigh, and Spencer can see the gears shifting as your mind chooses the right words, watching your fingers wring themselves. “In my previous job, there were, well, a lot of rumors. About me.”

Oh. Of the many things Spencer Reid experienced in high school, rumors were certainly upre. He knows what you’re saying—understands the hurt that comes with hearing the people you thought you knew believe horrible things about you—yet, doesn’t quite know how to voice it. Instead, he just nods, his fingers drifting closer to hers on the counter.

“And when I got promoted, the rumors kind of,” you gesture vaguely in front of yourself, “spiraled. It was the classic ‘oh you must’ve slept with the boss to get promoted’, you know? Some of the guys I worked with, they acted like the rumors gave them some kind of liberty to be jackasses.”

Spencer glances at you, and there’s an uncomfortable tightness pulling at his chest as he understands what you’re saying. His fingers are gripping the countertop so hard his nails hurt. It’s disgusting that cops could behave like that. “Nearly 44% of women experience harassment in workplaces,” he says, hoping you don’t feel isolated in your experience (though as an FBI agent he’s sure you know the prevalence of it).

You sigh, tossing him a slight smile. “I know it’s nothing to be ashamed of. And, I know that the BAU isn’t like them, but I…”

Oh god. He feels horrible; no wonder you seemed so stricken when Morgan called you pretty girl. Even though Derek hadn’t said it in an untoward manner at all, it makes sense why your mind had immediately taken it so badly. Burnt once, and anyone would be likely to avoid fire again, no matter how different the situation may be. Spencer nods earnestly, trying to empathize with what you’re saying. “Human psychology tends to create associations between stimuli and experiences. It’s easy to say that we rationally know things aren’t connected, but our brain forges these connections subconsciously.”

You raise an eyebrow, shoulder nudging his gently. Teasingly, you reply, “You do realize I’ve studied that, too, right?”

Whoops. His cheeks warm at the thought that he was “mansplaining” (a term Penelope taught him, recently); he rephrases with what he means to say, “I mean, the team would understand if you chose to tell them. Avoiding them after what happened, it’s a natural human response.”

He glances over at you, trying to gauge your response. You just nod, eyes glued to the ground as you internalize his words. Knowing this now, he understands your behavior over the months. He wants to say something, anything, to show you that he understands, that he doesn’t think you have anything to feel guilty about at all regarding your coldness to the team, but the only thing running through his mind are statistics upon statistics, texts from various psychological textbooks he’s read over the years. Yes, you’d understand his intent if he’d quote something from his studies, but he wants to give you comfort the way he’s seen JJ or Emily or even Morgan give to others; through actual qualitative words rather than empirical evidence.

“Kids,” Rossi peeks his head into the kitchen, sarcastic drawl heavy as his eyes flit between Spencer and you. Spencer notes the almost imperceptible tug at Rossi’s lips. “Dinner’s ready. You two can have your private conversations afterward.”

You and Spencer immediately start sputtering indignantly, words fumbling as you both deny any ‘private’ conversations, while Rossi just shrugs.

“Ah-tat-tat! We don’t care, the adults are hungry so dinner is all we care about.”

As the two of you walk in, Spencer’s gaze catches yours. You burst into giggles, your fist gently hitting his shoulder as you both head to dinner.

During dinner, once you’ve gotten your first taste of Rossi’s authentic Italian, you’re effusive in your praise, promising Rossi that you’ll do all the physical work on cases for him as long as he makes lunch for you in return. The conversation drifts from there, the whole team alternating between teasing and laughing.

Spencer can’t help but catch your eye as Morgan makes some joke about you and Spencer’s ‘puppy-like relationship’, but your face, pink from embarrassment, he assumes, is angled down at your food. There's a twinge in his heart as he recalls what you said about the rumors of your previous job, and Spencer immediately decides to divert the conversation by bringing up statistics about inter-colleague fraternization, and how many companies tend to restrict those relationships, including most divisions of the FBI (though that last part feels like someone’s placed a weight on his chest).

For once, the BAU is free to enjoy their Friday evening drinking and laughing without getting any work-related phone calls about serial killers. Penelope’s created some terrifying concoction from a scandalous mix of drinks from Rossi's wine cellar and had gotten Emily, Morgan, and JJ ridiculously drunk. Spencer can’t quite tell if it’s the effect of the alcohol or just Morgan being Morgan, that enables him to challenge JJ and Emily to a new Just Dance song that Spencer has never heard of. While Emily tries to convince you to join, you immediately refuse, using Spencer as your defense.

"Woah, I am not dancing," you exclaim, both palms up. "Besides, I've gotta give Spence some non-dancer company, don't I?"

Spencer feels something twist pleasantly in his stomach. You've only called him 'Spence' once before, right after you woke up from that nightmare on the jet. Usually it's 'Reid' or just 'Spencer', but something about the casual way you call him leaves his stomach flipping. It's only when you and Emily turn towards him, and he realizes that Emily is about to ask him to dance, that Spencer blurts out, "Nearly 8,000 dance-related injuries happen every year in the US. I think we're better off not dancing."

Emily smiles at the two of you, then shrugs and walks towards Morgan and the others, tossing Spencer a wink over her shoulder. There's some subtext there; he's sure of it. But what it could be is honestly lost on him.

So he sits with you on the couch, listening to you continue to explain to him why the Eleventh Doctor is the one to have captured your heart most out of all the Doctor Whos. He can't help as his eyes capture the little details of your face. The way your smile quirks up, one side higher than the other, and the animated gestures as you vehemently defend the 11th Doctor have his heart skipping a beat. Ok, he's 94.8% certain he's not actually having heart palpitations or any kind of arrhythmia, but it sure feels like his heart's acting irregularly every time you smile right at him.

And now you're tilting your head at him, eyebrows raised in concern as you nudge his shoulder expectantly.

"Spence?"

Oh. Shit, what did you say? He mentally rewinds the conversation, and after a second of you staring at him with increasing concern, finally realizes what your question was. "Oh, yeah, yeah." Yikes. You look more confused after his sudden response.

"Did you even hear what I said?"

He frowns, pulling his best mock-offense look he can in an attempt to make it look like he’s been paying proper attention to what you’ve been saying instead of just, well, you. “Of course. You said ‘Rossi’s garden looks insanely pretty; do you think he romanced his ex-wives by showing off his mansion and backyard?’”

Your eyes narrow suspiciously, but there's a tilt in your lips. Spencer finds himself mirroring your smile without thought.

Once you realize he's not going to admit he wasn't paying attention, you huff, but there's a lilt of laughter to it.

The silence that falls upon you both is peaceful. Spencer watches Morgan crash into Penelope, while JJ and Emily shriek in laughter. The elder men are sitting in the kitchen, watching the chaos with muted smiles, murmuring to one another. Spencer follows your eyes drift to the garden outside, to the flowers clustering around the pavement that encircles Rossi's pool.

"Do you want to walk around the garden?"

You visibly light up, back straightening and smile widening. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

The two of you leave your drunken friends to their dancing (though, at this point it looks more like a brawl from the way everyone keeps crashing into each other) while carefully treading over Morgan’s discarded jacket and Penelope’s forgotten scarf.

At this time in the evening, the night air is crisp and cool, gently nipping at Spencer’s skin. Twinkling gently, the stars above form beautiful constellations. He can already spot a few; Cassiopeia, Draco, and, if he’s not mistaken, Hercules as well. He glances over at where you’re crouched against the flower bed. Your eyes trace over the bright hues of flowers, fingers reaching out to tilt a bluebell closer to your view.

With the way you’re squatted near the flowers, your pink skirt pools around your ankles, fluttering prettily in the night breeze. Spencer’s eyes track the hair drifting around your face.

You look beautiful.

His mouth suddenly feels dry. Of all the things he should be thinking, he knows this is the last. But when you turn to him, bright eyed as you gesture to the flowers, his thoughts—for once—go silent.

“Aren’t these gorgeous?” You turn back to the snapdragon and peonies, examining them curiously.

“Yeah.” His eyes haven’t moved from your figure, and even as he responds, his voice sounds a few octaves higher than normal. Sounds foreign, as though he’s not in control of his body. Swallowing thickly, he tries to gain control over himself. He’s tipsy. The wine he had has slowed his prefrontal cortex, which is why his thoughts are running wild. Even as he tells himself that, it feels like a desperate plea rather than the truth behind his thoughts.

“Hey,” you crane your neck towards him, smile calling the edges of your eyes, “do you know what flowers these are?”

Spender immediately crouches next to you, knees bumping against the little grate surrounding the flowers before pointing at the snapdragon. “This one’s called Antirrhinum, though they’re commonly known as dragon flowers or snapdragons.” You turn to him, humming curiously as you listen, and Spencer’s heart feels like it’s somehow slowing down and speeding up all at once because of how carefully you watch him. He clears his throat as he adds, “the Victorians actually believed that, because of the flower’s resemblance to ‘snapping jaws’, it was a symbol of deception and secretiveness.”

“Huh.” You nod slowly, silent for a moment as though you’re categorizing the information in your mental shelves. “And these?” You gesture towards the white peonies. “What do they symbolize?”

For a moment, Spencer pauses as his mind shuffles through information, before finalizing on a story his mom once told him. “Well, usually they symbolize shyness, but white ones also symbolize rebirth.”

“Rebirth, huh?” There’s an odd note to your voice. Spencer watches the way your fingers ghost the petals, tracing the shape of the flower. He wants to ask what’s on your mind. After the way you opened up today he has a feeling it has something to do with that.

“Mhmm. You know, there’s actually a nice story about it, There’s a story that during a heavy winter snowfall, Empress Wu Zetian, who was thought to be particularly cruel, commanded that all the flowers had to bloom in the winter. The flower fairies freaked out because it was out of the natural order, but due to her reputation, they complied; the only one who didn’t was the peony, who followed nature’s rules. The empress was furious and moved it to another city, Luoyang, and when the peonies bloomed there, she burned the flowers. But,” he grins, jazz-hands emphasizing his words, “peonies bloomed again next year!”

You giggle, poking his arm. “I didn’t realize you got dorkier when you’re tipsy.”

“Hey!” But he’s laughing, aiming at your arm, but you dodge, leaping on onto your feet to avoid him, leaving his momentum no where to go except back at him—thump! Spencer Reid falls straight on his ass.

His 187 IQ dropped to nothing when it came to his motor skills.

And maybe he really is tipsy from his half-glass of wine, because the minute you burst into laughter, completely folding in half with your hands pressed against your knees, he joins in, his drunken mind completely ignoring the billions of microbes on the grass.

When your laughter finally cools, you stretch your hand out. He takes your hand, pulls himself up, and just. Smiles. Takes it in: the crinkle of your eyes and nose as you smile, the hazy sheen of your lips from some lip gloss, the way the wind seems to be specifically designed by Zephyrus for the sole purpose of drawing attention to your hair, flowing in the breeze, gorgeously.

Gorgeous is exactly what you are.

After a while, you two drift from the garden to the edge of the pool, careful to sit on the dry areas. You hike your skirt up enough to let your feet ghost the edge of the water, occasionally allowing it to dip beneath its moonlit surface. Spencer feels like he’s using double his normal will power to prevent himself from saying something stupid about his feelings; after your admission tonight of what you’d gone through, even hinting so much as how his heart beats a little faster every time you’re around, feels like a major taboo. How uncomfortable would you feel, hearing another coworker make romantic insinuations about you?

Instead, he treasures each moment of sitting by you, pointing out every constellation he sees and the myths behind them. It’s a pleasant night, he thinks to himself; what with the aquamarine water gently lapping against your legs, the sound grounding Spencer’s words to a lulling tempo. The way the moonlight shines against the planes of your face as you listen, enraptured. You share your own stories from childhood, mentioning the time you’d dressed up as Elizabeth Bennet in regency style clothing with your best friend as Jane.

When the two of you finally go in after hearing a heavy thump, Spencer feels a touch sad to leave the peace of moment. The garden and moonlight had almost felt like a bubble, where the two of you could talk without judgement; a moment where he could indulge in his feelings a little longer, before he knew he’d have to squash them tomorrow morning. Knowing what happened, he can scarcely imagine how upset you’d feel if you found out that a coworker you’d trusted as a friend turned out to be harboring feelings. (Would he remind you of your previous colleagues? That thought frightens him the most.)

Turns out the ‘thump’ was one Penelope Garcia slamming into the couch, far too drunk to function, and napping with her head lolled against the back of the sofa. JJ had to leave early, something about Henry needing her home. Morgan volunteers to drop Garcia home, but, considering the state of Morgan, Hotch begrudgingly takes responsibility for dropping them both home. Rossi refuses to drop anyone home, saying something along the lines of “old age” and "early sleep".

Huffing as the realization sets in, you, As the only other person to not have even a sip of alcohol, have the glorious task of dropping a drunken Emily—half asleep against Garcia as she scrolls through something on her phone—home.

“Pretty boy,” Morgan calls out as he and Hotch half-guide, half-drag Penelope into Hotch’s car, “how’re you getting home?”

Once you’ve securely settled Emily into the backseat of your car, you turn to look at Reid.

He frowns at Morgan from the bottom of Rossi’s entrance steps. “The same way I always do? Metro.”

Hotch, already in the driver’s seat of his car, pokes his head out. “Nearest metro’s quite far from here, Reid.” After a beat, he calls your name. “Do you think you’ll be able to drop Reid off?”

Spencer misses the way Morgan grins, more focused on your response.

For a moment, you freeze, hand stuck on the half-closed car door in front of Emily. Minutely, so small he might’ve missed it if his eyes hadn’t already been trained on you, you shake your head as though throwing a thought out of your mind, quickly saying, “Don’t mind at all. Come on, Spence.”

And so, Spencer finds himself in the shotgun of your car, listening to the low hum of your radio, punctuated by Emily’s snores. He doesn’t say a word the whole time, mind stuck on your reaction when Hotch asked you to drop him off.

When you arrive at Emily’s apartment, you gently rouse her and wait until she’s safe inside before starting the ride to his place. At first, the two of you stay silent, neither willing to break the comforting silence that has fallen upon you. The soft notes from the radio soothe Spencer's mind, and for once, he finds that his head isn't full of racing thoughts. It's also certainly the effect of the wine he drank earlier, but his thoughts are sluggish as he watches you drive. You're a cautious driver, he notes, pausing before every stop sign even when the roads are empty. He realizes how taut your muscles are, the whitening knuckles from your tight grip on the wheel. Is that why you hesitated to drop him off?

"Do you not like driving?" Spencer asks suddenly, turning towards you. He wants—needs— to know that he's not the reason you're uncomfortable right now.

You smile lopsidedly, and as you take the right, he's sure you're not even conscious of how you've leaned forward, almost uncomfortably compressing yourself against the wheel. "I'm not the biggest fan of it. I barely manage to drop myself to work in one piece." You turn, raising an eyebrow. "Is this your way of critiquing my driving skills?"

"No!" Spencer exclaims. "In the US, women are typically involved in only 28% to 30% of accidents. Men are usually more aggressive and impulsive than female drivers."

"Huh. Pretty unfair for the stereotype to be that women are bad drivers, then."

He nods. After a beat, he asks quietly, "Did you enjoy?"

You don't need him to elaborate. A moment passes as you consider his question before you nod. Adding, "It was pretty chill. It reminded me a lot of some birthday parties from middle school."

That takes him by surprise. As someone with no social life in childhood (not that he has much of a social life now, either), he's not quite sure what to make of that. "Is that a good thing?"

You laugh. "Yeah. Whenever my friends had a birthday, we'd go over to their house and just kind of relax, I guess? Like, we'd swim or just watch a movie. Sometimes we'd each be doing our own thing, but it was still enjoyable because we were all together, you know?"

Yeah, he gets that. He's not sure if he should broach the topic, but maybe the half-glass of wine has somehow managed to eliminate any inhibitions in his prefrontal cortex, because he just asks (rather bluntly, if he admits it), "Do you feel comfortable around m-us? Like, the BAU?"

At that, you pause. You stall, making a show of looking at the street signs that hardly have much to read. After a second, you sigh. "Yeah." Your voice is so low that he struggles to hear it, even over the low tunes on the radio.

Seeing the way Spencer's leaning towards you, you clear your throat, stabilizing your voice. "When Morgan suggested dropping you off, I, I guess I couldn't help but wonder if they were being mean, you know? This would be the kind of thing they used to do; if I ever even spoke to a guy, they'd make some casual joke, but then the whole time it'd be a bunch of crude taunts, really. But then I saw how Morgan was talking to Hotch as they drove off, and they seemed so... different. They were talking about something else, and they didn't say anything weird. Dropping you and Emily off, too," you add, voice quieting again, "it was just like dropping some friends off. There's no weird undercurrent of some secret, malicious thing that everyone thinks about me, like I used to feel back there."

He nods, and a beat of silence passes. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"No, I'm just, I guess, unnecessarily hung up on it." You shrug, suddenly feeling stupid for lamenting so much. "Just part of that 40% of women who've experienced the same thing, right?"

Spencer frowns, staring at you incredulously. "You're not unnecessarily hung up. It shouldn't have happened at all. It probably feels worse, considering you said you thought they were your friends. It's nothing to dismiss."

You look at him, really look at him for a second. It's clear that something's drifting through your mind, but you just nod, refusing to add any more. The rest of the ride passes silently, your brain whirring with thoughts you don't share.

He wonders whether he's made it worse by bringing up a subject he had no right to, if he's crossed some invisible social boundary that he's always been bad at reading. But hearing you diminish what happened, he'd have felt worse if you had continued to downplay what you'd gone through. Eventually, you slow to a stop in front of his apartment, but neither of you makes any move to get out of the car.

"Thanks, Spencer." The way you're smiling isn't your usual one, lips lopsided cheekily and eyes crinkled with amusement. No, this one's softer, lips just barely pulled up. There's a different glint in your eyes; not humorous, but something gentler.

"For what?" He unbuckles his seatbelt, eyes on you as his hands gently guide the buckle to prevent any harsh recoil.

You shrug, mouth opening but no words coming out. Rolling your eyes, you grin now, humor returning to your features. "Don't make me say it."

"I'm serious!" He's laughing too, but it's more out of confusion. "What am I supposed to accept your thanks for?"

"Hmph." You stare at the wheel, suddenly enraptured by an invisible speck of dust. "I... appreciate what you said."

Oh. He smiles back, suddenly feeling embarrassed. He hadn't said it to get a thank-you. Scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, all he can think to say is, "It's just the truth."

There's nothing you need to say, as you nod. You avoid his gaze, smiling at his forehead as you murmur, "Good night."

He whispers it back as he pushes the door open, finally forcing himself to walk into his apartment building. Though he won't admit it tomorrow morning, he'll probably spend the rest of the night tossing and turning, thinking about every detail of tonight. About your millions of microexpressions; the way your perfume, a lovely lavender scent, wrapped around his head the entire car ride home; and the scene of you, shoes neatly placed a few feet from you and ankles in the pool, leaning back with the moon illuminating your hair, turning you into an angel of the night.

“Spencer!”

He’s hardly walked 5 feet from your car when he pauses, turning around to see why you’re calling him.

You’re walking around the car, moving towards him, something dangling in your hand. You wave your arm up, showing him—

His phone!

He jogs towards you, meeting you midway, profusely apologizing the whole time. (Secretly, he’s glad to have an excuse to steal a few extra moments with you.)

“It’s ok, Spence, even geniuses forget things sometimes,” You grin and Spencer rolls his eyes, smile tugging at his lips.

“Thank you,” he says as you pass his phone.

Your fingers brush his, warm and soft against his. He feels a stray scar against his finger, small enough to be a paper cut.

While you pull your hand away once he takes his phone, Spencer finds himself standing there, heart racing and fingertips tingling.

“Good night, Spence.” You smile once, and he’s sure his eyes deceive him as your gaze drags over him one last time before you walk back to your car.

It’s only when he sees you sit, readjusting the seat and look back at him does he realize he never said good night back. You tilt your head, hand up as you wave at him, and drive off as he waves back dumbly. It’s like he’s lost the ability to think!

Once your car disappears from view, he walks into his building, mind barely aware of his surroundings as he waits for the elevator. Fingers still feeling electrocuted, he flexes them, missing the soft touch of your hand.

He really needs to get a grip on himself.

a/n: sorry this took me so long 😭 writers block hit me bad. also i have no clue if Rossi's house even canonically has a garden or pool? let's all pretend he does 😭😭 if you enjoyed this, comment, like, and reblog ❤️

[hollcwboy]

l&c (2023) bts | in-universe sets and set dressing

[the-past-is-for-ghosts]

Oh my god, this 3rd part of Slut! is giving me SO much trouble in writing 😭😭😭 writer’s block is KILLING me while I figure out what to write and how to write it 😭🙏 sorry it’s taking so long, life’s been busy and my brain’s refusing to write well 🫩🫩

Hopefullyyyy it’ll be done and posted soon ❤️❤️

[maliciouslittlewhiteboy]

hey no you don’t understand how my head is full of poison and my heart is full of doubt and how i have toxins in my blood stream and actually there just isn’t a cure

[the-past-is-for-ghosts]

missing you comes in waves (tonight I’m drowning) - the naturals

summary: even though a whole year has passed since the divorce, veronica sterling still misses her (ex-)husband. a little message from him fractures her heart. god, she just misses him. [set before The Naturals]

wc: 1.5k

warnings: divorce mentioned

a/n: ahhh idk how to feel about my writing here 😳😳 this was genuinely sooo self-indulging. This piece is mainly veronica's pov a few years after the divorce because i love writing about her. anddd also because it's easier to write something rather than thinking too much about missing someone :P

masterlist <3

SURE, VERONICA STERLING HAD ASKED for the divorce.

She had been the one to look Tanner in the eye and say the words out loud. She still recalls the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as her words finally registered. Can remember the night he argued about how they could “fix this” (‘this’ being their marriage, bitter and shriveled and torn to pieces after all their fights about Scarlet and Dean). Can remember her eventual relief when he’d stopped arguing. Worst of all, she still remembers the dejected droop of his brows, the resigned purse of his lips, and the defeated, hollow look in his eyes as he picked up the pen and signed the divorce documents.

And yet, as she sits with her friends from Homeland Security, huddled together in a bar, all she can think about is her husband. She shakes her head as though it’ll fix her neural pathways. Ex-husband. Clearly the glass of beer she’d been sipping throughout the evening has already gone straight to her head.

Beside her, Janice and Bhuvi are giggling away, scheming about how Veronica now has the opportunity to use her promotion to get back at some of their misogynistic colleagues. Before the divorce, she’d probably have giggled with them, scheming and downing a few more shots. But now, she's divorced. She’s changed. So instead, she smiles at the girls when appropriate, humming and “uh-huh”-ing at all the right moments.

The irrational part of her feels irritated; despite a year together, couldn’t they realize she wasn’t quite present tonight? Shouldn’t they ask her what’s wrong? With a sigh, she reminds herself that neither Janice nor Bhuvi are profilers, and, as her eyes pass over the empty glasses crowding their side of the table, she certainly can’t hold her friends to such high expectations right now.

She’s not quite sure why she misses Tanner so much right now. It’s been a whole year since the divorce; she’s managed to avoid thinking too much about him for this long, so why has he captured her mind right now, on a random Friday night?

It’s the beer. She tells herself. Alcohol makes people think stupid things.

But after a while, her friends’ giggling and alcohol-driven risky texts are beginning to grate on her nerves (though Veronica knows it’s no fault of theirs), and she quickly gets up, making some hasty excuse about not wanting to wake up too hungover tomorrow morning as she pays for her drink and leaves.

The cab ride home passes in bits and pieces. She’s clearly tipsy already from her single glass of beer, and time flows like thick molasses in this state. All she can fantasize about during the ride back home is her cosy room and her cold pillow and her lonely little bed.

As she stalks into her apartment, she sees flashes of the past throughout her home. A memory of her and Tanner dancing in the kitchen, late at night after returning home from a long case, both glad that they were safe and together. The echo of her laughing as he messed up the steps, nearly stepping on her toes more than once.

As she passes by her living room, her mind conjures the image of Tanner resting against the couch. He’d gotten shot during a case, and after a while at the hospital, he had finally been released. She remembered berating him for his recklessness while he simply laced his fingers with hers as he tried not to fall asleep, his hair fanning against the armrest. She'd huffed in faux-annoyance, but leaned down to kiss him anyway. God, she remembers the way his lips felt against hers—

She washes her makeup off in the bathroom, harshly rubbing the blush off her cheeks. Instead of spending a Friday night celebrating her promotion at Homeland Security, here she was, manic as she washed and stripped out of her work clothes, desperately trying to forget any nagging memories of her husband. Sometimes, her emotions felt as chaotic as the seas of Poseidon. Tonight, missing her husband crashed against her like violent waves, and there was nothing she could do but drown.

So, she scowls at the shower, gratefully letting the cold water run down her as she tries to scrub all the memories off her. Putting on her comfiest pajamas, she decides to do nothing stupid, definitely does not debate whether she should call him, just to hear his voice, and goes to sleep.

...except, as she tosses and turns against the bed, she can picture him next to her, a light grin dancing on his lips as he watches her wrestle her blankets. If this was a time when they were married, he would probably say something awfully cheesy and suggest some silly rom-com, and the night would end with no one paying attention to whatever movie they'd put on.

"God, Veronica! Get a grip!" She shakes her head so violently she can hear something echoing in her ears, but sleep is certainly not coming to her anytime soon, considering the pesky direction her brain is moving in. Hand reaching toward her bedside table, she grabs her phone, determined to dopamine-dump her brain into forgetting about Tanner. She jabs in her password with shaking fingers (stupid alcohol), and watches as her phone slowly flickers to her home screen, displaying all her notifications—

Tanner Briggs.

His name shines at the top of her notifications list. She blinks, rubs her eyes in disbelief, and stares at his name. It doesn't change.

Sure enough, Tanner Briggs has officially sunk his teeth into what was supposed to be Veronica's celebratory evening. So much for forgetting about him tonight.

She clicks at the notification, widening the textbox to read what he sent, fingers careful not to accidentally open the message on the app.

Tanner Briggs, 8:39 p.m. Hey Ronnie, hope you're well. Heard about your promotion, and just wanted to say congratulations. You deserve it. Tanner Briggs, 8:41 p.m. So proud of you.

Her mouth goes dry. For a moment, she thinks she's genuinely gone into some kind of shock. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and she forces herself to swallow, to clear her mind if nothing else. How did he know?

Her father, she's sure. As the director of the FBI, he certainly has the resources to keep track of his daughter. Whoever his connections at Homeland Security are would have told him, and he, of course, would've told Tanner, his treasured son-in-law. Never mind the fact that his daughter divorced him a year ago, but Director Sterling still loved Tanner like his own. Traitor.

What should she say? "Heyyy ex-hubby, impeccable timing to text me while im obsessing over you!"

She cringes at the very thought. Ok, obviously not.

Her eyes trace over his words, focusing on the second part. So proud of you. He sent it separately, like he had considered whether or not to send it. The words repeat in her mind, stuck in a loop, her finger pressed against the notification box.

And... The box flickers, and she's opened WhatsApp. As the blue tick marks against his message illuminate, Veronica grimaces. Great.

Should she just leave him on read?

Her mind flickers through memories of him. The way she'd collapsed against him after escaping the Reddings' house, her fingers digging into him, and how he'd held her tightly against him like a promise. The time he'd learnt to make her favorite meals because she'd been tired of the take-out they'd been ordering for over a week, presenting fried rice and Thai green curry for Valentine's Day. The way he consoled her as she sobbed into his shoulder after Scarlet's funeral, snot and tears mixing against his shirt.

With a sigh, she already knows she won't. Yes, she'd rather avoid him for the rest of her life, ready to avoid all the weight that had led to the collapse of their marriage. But he had taken the time to acknowledge her achievement even though she'd spent the year acting like he didn't exist. Even after the divorce, he didn't treat her like their time together was a mistake, didn't suddenly behave like he hated her. She knows that he still loves her. Tanner's always been a bit stubborn like that. He could divorce her, but he couldn't stop loving her. The least she could do was return his kindness with some maturity.

Veronica Sterling, 11:43 p.m. Thank you. Veronica Sterling, 11:46 p.m. Good night.

Tomorrow morning, when she woke up, she would be far more disciplined about this. She'd avoid thinking too much about failed marriages and ex-husbands, and would honor the promise she made to herself about acting like Tanner never existed. She would focus on working, working, working away and being a better version of herself. Maybe she'd finally learn how to cook a proper meal for herself.

But for tonight, as she put the phone away on her nightstand, she allowed herself to indulge in her memories. Tomorrow morning, she'd blame it on the alcohol.

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masterlist

[the-past-is-for-ghosts]

missing you comes in waves (tonight I’m drowning) - the naturals

summary: even though a whole year has passed since the divorce, veronica sterling still misses her (ex-)husband. a little message from him fractures her heart. god, she just misses him. [set before The Naturals]

wc: 1.5k

warnings: divorce mentioned

a/n: ahhh idk how to feel about my writing here 😳😳 this was genuinely sooo self-indulging. This piece is mainly veronica's pov a few years after the divorce because i love writing about her. anddd also because it's easier to write something rather than thinking too much about missing someone :P

masterlist <3

SURE, VERONICA STERLING HAD ASKED for the divorce.

She had been the one to look Tanner in the eye and say the words out loud. She still recalls the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as her words finally registered. Can remember the night he argued about how they could “fix this” (‘this’ being their marriage, bitter and shriveled and torn to pieces after all their fights about Scarlet and Dean). Can remember her eventual relief when he’d stopped arguing. Worst of all, she still remembers the dejected droop of his brows, the resigned purse of his lips, and the defeated, hollow look in his eyes as he picked up the pen and signed the divorce documents.

And yet, as she sits with her friends from Homeland Security, huddled together in a bar, all she can think about is her husband. She shakes her head as though it’ll fix her neural pathways. Ex-husband. Clearly the glass of beer she’d been sipping throughout the evening has already gone straight to her head.

Beside her, Janice and Bhuvi are giggling away, scheming about how Veronica now has the opportunity to use her promotion to get back at some of their misogynistic colleagues. Before the divorce, she’d probably have giggled with them, scheming and downing a few more shots. But now, she's divorced. She’s changed. So instead, she smiles at the girls when appropriate, humming and “uh-huh”-ing at all the right moments.

The irrational part of her feels irritated; despite a year together, couldn’t they realize she wasn’t quite present tonight? Shouldn’t they ask her what’s wrong? With a sigh, she reminds herself that neither Janice nor Bhuvi are profilers, and, as her eyes pass over the empty glasses crowding their side of the table, she certainly can’t hold her friends to such high expectations right now.

She’s not quite sure why she misses Tanner so much right now. It’s been a whole year since the divorce; she’s managed to avoid thinking too much about him for this long, so why has he captured her mind right now, on a random Friday night?

It’s the beer. She tells herself. Alcohol makes people think stupid things.

But after a while, her friends’ giggling and alcohol-driven risky texts are beginning to grate on her nerves (though Veronica knows it’s no fault of theirs), and she quickly gets up, making some hasty excuse about not wanting to wake up too hungover tomorrow morning as she pays for her drink and leaves.

The cab ride home passes in bits and pieces. She’s clearly tipsy already from her single glass of beer, and time flows like thick molasses in this state. All she can fantasize about during the ride back home is her cosy room and her cold pillow and her lonely little bed.

As she stalks into her apartment, she sees flashes of the past throughout her home. A memory of her and Tanner dancing in the kitchen, late at night after returning home from a long case, both glad that they were safe and together. The echo of her laughing as he messed up the steps, nearly stepping on her toes more than once.

As she passes by her living room, her mind conjures the image of Tanner resting against the couch. He’d gotten shot during a case, and after a while at the hospital, he had finally been released. She remembered berating him for his recklessness while he simply laced his fingers with hers as he tried not to fall asleep, his hair fanning against the armrest. She'd huffed in faux-annoyance, but leaned down to kiss him anyway. God, she remembers the way his lips felt against hers—

She washes her makeup off in the bathroom, harshly rubbing the blush off her cheeks. Instead of spending a Friday night celebrating her promotion at Homeland Security, here she was, manic as she washed and stripped out of her work clothes, desperately trying to forget any nagging memories of her husband. Sometimes, her emotions felt as chaotic as the seas of Poseidon. Tonight, missing her husband crashed against her like violent waves, and there was nothing she could do but drown.

So, she scowls at the shower, gratefully letting the cold water run down her as she tries to scrub all the memories off her. Putting on her comfiest pajamas, she decides to do nothing stupid, definitely does not debate whether she should call him, just to hear his voice, and goes to sleep.

...except, as she tosses and turns against the bed, she can picture him next to her, a light grin dancing on his lips as he watches her wrestle her blankets. If this was a time when they were married, he would probably say something awfully cheesy and suggest some silly rom-com, and the night would end with no one paying attention to whatever movie they'd put on.

"God, Veronica! Get a grip!" She shakes her head so violently she can hear something echoing in her ears, but sleep is certainly not coming to her anytime soon, considering the pesky direction her brain is moving in. Hand reaching toward her bedside table, she grabs her phone, determined to dopamine-dump her brain into forgetting about Tanner. She jabs in her password with shaking fingers (stupid alcohol), and watches as her phone slowly flickers to her home screen, displaying all her notifications—

Tanner Briggs.

His name shines at the top of her notifications list. She blinks, rubs her eyes in disbelief, and stares at his name. It doesn't change.

Sure enough, Tanner Briggs has officially sunk his teeth into what was supposed to be Veronica's celebratory evening. So much for forgetting about him tonight.

She clicks at the notification, widening the textbox to read what he sent, fingers careful not to accidentally open the message on the app.

Tanner Briggs, 8:39 p.m. Hey Ronnie, hope you're well. Heard about your promotion, and just wanted to say congratulations. You deserve it. Tanner Briggs, 8:41 p.m. So proud of you.

Her mouth goes dry. For a moment, she thinks she's genuinely gone into some kind of shock. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and she forces herself to swallow, to clear her mind if nothing else. How did he know?

Her father, she's sure. As the director of the FBI, he certainly has the resources to keep track of his daughter. Whoever his connections at Homeland Security are would have told him, and he, of course, would've told Tanner, his treasured son-in-law. Never mind the fact that his daughter divorced him a year ago, but Director Sterling still loved Tanner like his own. Traitor.

What should she say? "Heyyy ex-hubby, impeccable timing to text me while im obsessing over you!"

She cringes at the very thought. Ok, obviously not.

Her eyes trace over his words, focusing on the second part. So proud of you. He sent it separately, like he had considered whether or not to send it. The words repeat in her mind, stuck in a loop, her finger pressed against the notification box.

And... The box flickers, and she's opened WhatsApp. As the blue tick marks against his message illuminate, Veronica grimaces. Great.

Should she just leave him on read?

Her mind flickers through memories of him. The way she'd collapsed against him after escaping the Reddings' house, her fingers digging into him, and how he'd held her tightly against him like a promise. The time he'd learnt to make her favorite meals because she'd been tired of the take-out they'd been ordering for over a week, presenting fried rice and Thai green curry for Valentine's Day. The way he consoled her as she sobbed into his shoulder after Scarlet's funeral, snot and tears mixing against his shirt.

With a sigh, she already knows she won't. Yes, she'd rather avoid him for the rest of her life, ready to avoid all the weight that had led to the collapse of their marriage. But he had taken the time to acknowledge her achievement even though she'd spent the year acting like he didn't exist. Even after the divorce, he didn't treat her like their time together was a mistake, didn't suddenly behave like he hated her. She knows that he still loves her. Tanner's always been a bit stubborn like that. He could divorce her, but he couldn't stop loving her. The least she could do was return his kindness with some maturity.

Veronica Sterling, 11:43 p.m. Thank you. Veronica Sterling, 11:46 p.m. Good night.

Tomorrow morning, when she woke up, she would be far more disciplined about this. She'd avoid thinking too much about failed marriages and ex-husbands, and would honor the promise she made to herself about acting like Tanner never existed. She would focus on working, working, working away and being a better version of herself. Maybe she'd finally learn how to cook a proper meal for herself.

But for tonight, as she put the phone away on her nightstand, she allowed herself to indulge in her memories. Tomorrow morning, she'd blame it on the alcohol.

if you like what you read, leave a comment and reblog <3 it's the best way to show writers your love ❤️❤️❤️

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[asalmiel]

Ok so do you guys think Briggs and Locke slept together?

And if so, did anyone ever check up on Briggs after book one or.....

Imagine six weeks after the woman you might or might not have had a situationship with turns out to be a serial killer your ex wife shows up lmao🌚 Briggs was going through it.

[certaimromance]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Your Smile, My Ghost ─ Spencer Reid.

When you get a call in the middle of the night, the last thing you expect is for it to be the hospital informing you that your ex-husband is hurt and needs you.

୨ৎ ──── second chance romance. 4,8k. ex wife & prosecutor!reader. yearning. english isn't my first language. next chapter. series mastelist. main masterlist

The call comes exactly at 2:25 a.m.

You almost don’t answer it.

Sleep has only just begun to take hold of you, thin and fragile, the way it does after a day that stretched far past the limits of your patience and your eyesight. Your body feels carved from exhaustion, the dense kind that settles behind your eyes and hums quietly in your bones after twelve straight hours beneath the unforgiving fluorescence of the courthouse. You had spent the entire afternoon arguing motions in a room that smelled faintly of stale coffee and overworked air-conditioning, your voice steady even as your temples throbbed with the dull pressure of a forming headache.

The rest of the evening had dissolved into paperwork.

Discovery files stacked in uneven towers across your dining table. Legal pads filled with neat columns of notes. Highlighters scattered like little plastic casualties across the wood grain. You’d signed your name so many times that by the end of the night your signature had begun to look suspicious even to you. Loops too tight, letters collapsing into one another as if your own handwriting were losing faith in itself. Neon sticky notes bloomed from the edges of case files like warning flags, marking contradictions in testimony, timelines that refused to line up, small details that might become everything once you stood in front of a jury.

Even now, downstairs, three active case files remain open exactly where you left them.

You remember the moment you finally abandoned them. The way the clock on your stove read 1:14 a.m. The way your eyes had burned when you rubbed them, smearing the faint indentation your glasses had carved into the bridge of your nose after hours of wear. You had peeled them off and set them on the table beside a cold mug of coffee, blinking hard against the ghost of printed text that seemed to float stubbornly across your vision long after you’d stopped reading.

Chain of custody.

A witness whose timeline shifted every time she opened her mouth.

A motion that had to be filed by morning.

You had climbed the stairs feeling hollowed out, your body moving through familiar motions with the numb efficiency of someone who has done this too many nights in a row. Pajamas. Teeth brushed half-asleep. The quiet click of the bedside lamp. The heavy surrender of your body into cool sheets.

You were ready to sleep. Desperate for it.

But then your phone vibrates against your nightstand.

The sound is small but violent, a mechanical buzz that rattles faintly against the wood. For a moment it weaves itself into your dreams, some distant echo of courthouse intercoms and elevator chimes, until the vibration comes again, insistent enough to drag you up from the shallow edge of sleep.

Your eyes open slowly.

The room is dark except for the thin gray strip of streetlight slipping through the gap in your curtains. It cuts across the ceiling in a pale blade of light, illuminating the faint dust drifting through the air and the quiet shape of your bedroom furniture.

The phone buzzes again.

You groan softly, one arm sliding out from beneath the blankets, fingers fumbling across the nightstand until they find the cold glass of the screen. The brightness stings your eyes when you lift it, forcing you to squint.

Unknown number. Virginia area code.

For a long second, you simply stare at it.

Your brain is still sluggish with sleep, moving through the possibilities slowly. You know people in Virginia. Federal prosecutors. Assistant U.S. attorneys. People you’ve collaborated with on jurisdictional nightmares when state lines blur and federal charges start to loom over cases that began somewhere much smaller. They email you often enough, late nights, early mornings, frantic threads filled with legal citations and irritated footnotes.

But they don’t call at 2:25 a.m...not unless something is on fire.

The phone buzzes again, vibrating faintly against your palm.

And something in your chest tightens.

It’s subtle at first. A smal pull somewhere beneath your ribs, like a muscle remembering how to move after years of disuse. An old reflex you thought you had carefully dismantled piece by piece, filed away neatly alongside the divorce papers that still sit in the bottom drawer of your office desk.

You keep them there on purpose.

Paperwork that final deserves to remain accessible. That’s what you told yourself the first time you slid the folder into the drawer. Every so often, when you reach for another file, you glimpse the corner of it sitting there beneath motions and affidavits.

A quiet reminder.

Because you used to answer calls like this all the time.

Your heart begins to beat a little faster now, even though you’re not entirely sure why. Your thumb hovers over the glowing green icon while memories you thought had long since dulled begin to stir at the edges of your mind.

Late-night calls.

Your stomach dropping before you even heard the voice on the other end.

Bracing for the words there’s been an incident.

Hospitals. Gunshots. Emergency rooms that smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. The sterile brightness of waiting areas where time stretched into something unbearable. The quiet, creeping understanding that brilliance and recklessness often walk hand in hand, and that loving someone who lives inside that truth means learning how to survive the waiting. For loss.

Your thumb moves before you fully realize you’ve decided.

You swipe to answer.

“Hello?” Your voice comes out rough with sleep, quieter than you expect in the stillness of the room.

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line. A faint rustling sound, like papers being shifted or a file being opened. Somewhere in the background you hear the distant murmur of voices and the dull mechanical beep of hospital equipment.

Then a voice speaks.

“Is this Mrs. Reid?”

The title lands like a gavel.

You haven’t been Mrs. Reid in two years, four months, and seventeen days.

The divorce decree had been signed, notarized, and sealed with clinical efficiency. A clean legal severance between two people who had once known each other so intimately it felt almost absurd that the entire end of it could fit into a thin stack of paperwork. Assets divided with meticulous fairness. No children to complicate things. No alimony. No lingering financial ties.

Just silence.

Still, when you speak, your voice betrays you.

“Yes.”

There’s another faint shuffle of papers, the steady cadence of someone trained to deliver information with calm detachment. A hospital professional, someone accustomed to midnight calls and the careful balance between honesty and reassurance.

“Spencer Reid was injured in the field. You’re listed as his emergency contact.”

Your mind, trained by years of legal practice to dissect language and hunt for the smallest inconsistencies, immediately begins to latch onto every word.

Injured.

Not killed. Not deceased. Not critical.

Injured in the field.

Which means it wasn’t random. Not a car accident, a fall down the stairs or some mundane disaster that happens to ordinary people living ordinary lives.

It means a case.

Your brain begins to build possibilities before you can stop it, assembling fragments of scenarios the way it always does when a story is incomplete.

But your attention catches on something else.

Emergency contact.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the phone.

You had signed the divorce papers. You had walked away from the house you once shared. You had separated your lives with the kind of precision that only lawyers and profilers seem capable of achieving when something breaks between them.

But that was two years ago...more than enough time to update a form. More than enough time to erase a name.

And yet, he never changed it.

The realization settles slowly into the quiet room, complicated and impossible to ignore. Because that isn’t something you can dissolve with paperwork. Not something you can notarize away. Not something you can explain, not easily, not in any way that makes sense for two people who are supposed to be finished with each other.

You don’t remember ending the call.

You don’t remember how long the phone stayed pressed to your ear after the line went dead, the faint electronic silence stretching into something hollow and unreal. You don’t remember setting it down, or when exactly your body shifted from lying still in bed to moving with the kind of mechanical urgency that bypasses thought entirely.

Later, if you try to reconstruct the sequence, there are only fragments, disconnected flashes of motion that feel more like instinct than decision.

The closet door sliding open with a soft wooden scrape. Your fingers pulling yesterday’s blouse from the back of a chair where you’d dropped it without ceremony. The fabric still carries the faint smell of courthouse air, stale coffee and paper dust. You tug it over your head without bothering to smooth the wrinkles, the buttons misaligned for a moment before you fix them with impatient hands. Then your feet shove themselves into heels that wait by the door like silent witnesses to every long workday you drag home. You don’t bother with stockings. You don’t bother with makeup. You don’t even remember grabbing your purse.

The next clear memory is the car.

The low rumble of the engine turning over. The headlights cutting through empty streets still soaked in the deep blue quiet of early morning. Streetlights sliding across the windshield one by one, each casting brief stripes of gold across the dashboard. You don’t remember the route. You only remember your hands. The steering wheel feels slick beneath your palms because they’re sweating, fingers tightening and loosening in restless intervals as the car moves almost on its own through familiar roads.

Damn, you had promised yourself you wouldn’t do this again.

That promise had been one of the few clean lines you drew when the rest of your life blurred together during the divorce.

You wouldn’t rush to hospitals anymore. You wouldn’t drop everything at the sound of his name spoken with that careful tone people use when delivering bad news. You wouldn’t sit in another sterile waiting room under buzzing fluorescent lights while agents in dark suits moved past you with polite nods and guarded expressions, avoiding your eyes because they didn’t quite know what you were to him anymore. You wouldn’t pretend you were okay with the distance.

Oh, you wouldn’t pretend you understood the way he would sit across from you at the kitchen table after a case, hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long gone cold, and say quietly, “I can’t tell you about it.”

As if the truth itself was something fragile. As if you were.

That had always been the fracture line between you.

You never needed protection, what you needed was partnership. For God sake, you were a prosecutor. Your entire career is built on staring directly at the worst parts of humanity and refusing to blink first. You have stood in courtrooms holding photographs blown up to poster size—autopsy reports, crime scenes frozen in brutal detail—while twelve jurors looked to you for clarity. You have dismantled alibis piece by careful piece until grown men with carefully constructed lies crumbled under the weight of their own contradictions. You have locked eyes with people who have done unspeakable things and you made them look away first. You were never someone who needed to be shielded from the truth.

And yet, at home, Spencer would soften his words. Always edit his stories and pause mid-sentence, recalculating what to say and what to leave out, like a man carefully redacting a classified document before sliding it across the table. The worst parts, the violence, the cruelty, the moments that lingered in his mind long after the case ended, those pieces always disappeared somewhere between his thoughts and his mouth.

You knew why he did it, maybe because he loved you.

He wanted to protect the quiet life you had built together from the darkness he carried home from work. He wanted your kitchen to remain a place of warm light and soft music instead of crime scene details and psychological profiles. And you understood the intention...but inside, you hated him for it anyway, especially now.

The FBI seal etched into the glass catches the overhead lights as the doors slide closed behind you. It feels colder than you remember.

Hospitals always smell the same: sterile antiseptic layered over something faintly metallic and distant. The fluorescent lighting hums softly overhead, turning the hallway into a tunnel of pale brightness that feels far too sharp for the hour. You walk toward the front desk with the steady, measured stride you use in courtrooms. So professional and controlled. You even give his name with quiet authority, like you weren't dying inside.

The nurse types quickly, her eyes flicking between the screen and you. Then she asks the question.

“Relationship?”

The word hangs in the air for a moment.

Your throat tightens before you can stop it.

“…Ex-wife.”

It sounds strange spoken aloud, so clinical.

The nurse studies you for a brief second longer, something unreadable flickering across her expression, before nodding and gesturing down the hallway.

They let you through anyway.

The ICU corridor is quieter, the steady rhythm of machines replacing the distant murmur of the waiting room. Your heels click softly against the polished floor, each step echoing just a little too loudly in the near silence.

You see him before you’re ready to.

Through the narrow rectangular window set into the ICU door.

Your breath catches.

Spencer lies against stark white sheets that make his skin look even paler than usual. An IV line disappears beneath the thin hospital blanket, taped carefully to the back of his hand. A thick bandage wraps around his upper arm, stark against the blue fabric of the hospital gown.

There’s a small cut at his hairline.

Not large, but enough that a faint line of dried blood disappears into the dark strands of his hair.

His lips are slightly parted, as if he’s about to say something precise, thoughtful and slightly pedantic the way he always does when he’s working through a thought out loud.

But his eyes are closed.

The steady beep…beep…beep of the monitor fills the room with mechanical calm.

And suddenly the memories come rushing back all at once.

The way that same mouth used to press into the curve of your shoulder when he finally came home after a long case, exhausted and half-asleep before he even made it to the bed. The way he would mumble fragments of analysis into your skin, half-formed theories about unsub behavior and geographic patterns, before his thoughts dissolved into sleep mid-sentence. The way his hand would reach for you even after he’d drifted off, fingers curling loosely into the fabric of your shirt like he was anchoring himself to something solid.

You remember the way he memorized your coffee order after hearing it once when you two were younger.

And still asked every morning anyway, just to hear you say it.

You remember the day you won your first major case after you got married, the way he had looked at you across the crowded courthouse hallway, pride so fierce and unfiltered that it made your chest ache just to see it.

Your throat tightens painfully.

He looks smaller like this. Not the brilliant mind capable of calculating bullet trajectory angles in seconds. Not the profiler who walks into rooms and reads human behavior like an open book.

Just Spencer.

Just the man who once stayed up all night with you at the kitchen table, quizzing you on obscure legal precedents because you had a massive argument scheduled the next morning and he refused to let you walk into court unprepared.

And for the first time since the phone rang, the full weight of the moment settles into your chest.

He’s here. Alive.

Your gaze shifts again, instinctively scanning the room the way you would a crime scene, so slow, taking inventory of everything that doesn’t belong, and everything that does. The muted hospital lighting casts long shadows along the walls. Machines blink in quiet rhythms. The faint antiseptic smell clings to the air, the kind that sinks into the back of your throat.

You notice the plastic cup on the tray table, half full of water no one has touched. A crumpled pair of latex gloves in the trash bin. The hospital bracelet around his wrist, the thin plastic tag digging into skin that looks too pale beneath the fluorescent lights. The steady rise and fall of his chest under the thin blanket.

And then you see it.

A thick manila folder resting on the chair beside his bed.

It doesn’t belong in a hospital room. Everything else here is standardized, impersonal, designed for efficiency. But the folder looks used. Worn at the edges. Softened by time and handling. The corners are bent, the color faded slightly from that dull bureaucratic yellow to something closer to parchment.

Your eyes narrow slightly.

There is handwriting across the front. Not typed. Not labeled with a hospital sticker. Actually handwritten.

Your name.

You recognize the script immediately, even from across the room. Precise. Neat to the point of obsession. Each letter measured, the spacing exact, like the writer had once practiced penmanship the way other people practiced scales on a piano.

The same handwriting that used to appear in the margins of books he lent you. The same handwriting that filled the letters he left on your pillow when he had early flights with the team. The same handwriting that once wrote I love you so many times it felt less like a sentence and more like a fact of gravity.

You move closer without really deciding to. Your shoes barely make a sound against the polished floor. The chair creaks faintly as you lean over it, the folder sitting there like it has been waiting for you.

Your fingers finally graze the edge of the folder, barely brushing the worn cardboard.

The door behind you opens softly.

“Okay. So. I’m not crying. I’m absolutely not crying.”

The voice is familiar even before you turn, so bright in tone but thick underneath, like someone trying very hard to keep their composure from cracking straight down the middle.

You turn slowly.

Penelope Garcia stands in the doorway.

She’s clutching her bag to her chest with both arms like it’s some kind of emotional shield. Normally, her presence fills a room before she even speaks, with her bright colors, loud heels, and the unmistakable energy of someone who refuses to be ignored by the universe.

Today, she also looks…smaller.

Her heels are quieter than usual, the sharp click softened by the careful way she walks. Her dress isn’t the technicolor explosion she normally wears like armor against the world. Now it’s pastel, muted, soft in a way that feels almost fragile on her. Her cardigan hangs loosely off one shoulder, like she pulled it on without thinking. And her eyes are rimmed red, the mascara that usually frames them perfectly has smudged slightly beneath her lower lashes, a thin shadow betraying tears she clearly tried to wipe away before coming inside.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

It’s strange, standing in the same room again.

You haven’t seen her since a few weeks before the divorce. Since that afternoon outside the courthouse when the sky had been gray and the pavement still damp from rain. She had appeared almost out of nowhere, heels clacking across the steps as if she had just happened to be nearby. But you both knew that wasn’t true and she just hugged you before you even had the chance to say hello.

The kind of hug that feels less like comfort and more like someone trying to physically hold the pieces of you together.

“He’s an idiot sometimes,” she whispered into your hair then, her voice soft. “But he’s your idiot.”

You remember the way she squeezed your hands before letting you go.

Now she stands a few feet away, watching you carefully.

“Hi,” she says gently.

“Hi, Penelope.”

Her gaze shifts immediately past you.

To the bed. To him.

And you watch her composure crack in real time.

Her inhale is sharp, like the air caught somewhere halfway down her lungs. For a moment, the bright Garcia disappears, replaced by someone who looks deeply afraid.

“He’s stable,” she says quickly, like she’s repeating information she forced herself to memorize. “They say he’ll wake up soon. Concussion. The bullet grazed his arm but he lost too much blood at the scene and they had to—”

She stops herself mid-sentence, pressing her lips together like she’s afraid if she keeps talking she might actually start crying.

“He’s going to be okay,” she finishes more quietly.

You nod once.

It’s the same controlled movement you’ve perfected in courtrooms. The kind you give juries when they deliver a verdict you already expected.

Acknowledgment without reaction.

Acceptance without visible emotion.

“He asked for you,” she adds.

Your head lifts slightly.

“In the ambulance,” Penelope continues, her voice softer now. “He wasn’t fully conscious. He kept drifting in and out. But every time he came back around he said your name.”

She pauses, looking at you carefully.

“Over and over,” she murmurs. “Like it was the only thing he was sure of.”

Your gaze drifts back to Spencer.

“Why am I still his emergency contact?” you ask after a moment.

She shifts her weight slightly, the strap of her bag creaking faintly in her grip.

“He refused to change it,” she admits finally. “HR tried. Twice, actually.”

You glance at her.

“He said—” she lets out a small breath “—statistically speaking, you were still the person most likely to make rational decisions under pressure.”

A hollow laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.

“That’s not why.”

Penelope gives a small, sad smile.

“No,” she says softly.

“It’s not.”

Silence settles heavy between you.

You glance back at the folder with your name on it.

“Penelope,” you say carefully, turning toward her fully now. “Has this happened before?”

She blinks, caught slightly off guard by the directness of the question.

“Injuries?”

“Hospitalizations,” you clarify quietly. “ER visits. Concussions. Anything.” Your jaw tightens, the muscle flexing just slightly beneath the surface. “Since the divorce. I need to know if this is the first time he’s been lying in a hospital bed and I just…didn’t know.”

The words settle heavily in the air between you.

Penelope’s expression shifts, something conflicted and uncertain flickering behind the soft brightness she usually carries so easily. She looks toward Spencer for a moment, as if the sight of him might somehow answer the question for her.

“I’m not asking as his ex-wife,” you continue, voice lower now but steady. “I’m asking as someone who spent years building a life with him. If he’s been getting hurt and not telling anyone—”

“He tells us,” she says quickly.

The response comes too fast. Too automatic.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Penelope goes very still.

Of course she knows what you meant.

You aren’t asking whether the team knows when Spencer gets hurt.

You’re asking whether you should have known.

Whether the man who used to come home at two in the morning smelling like cheap motel soap and gunpowder had been quietly breaking himself apart without you even realizing it.

The silence that follows is delicate and uncomfortable, stretching thin between the quiet beeping of the monitor and the soft mechanical hiss of the IV pump. Somewhere down the hallway a cart rattles faintly over tile, followed by the distant murmur of nurses exchanging shift notes.

Inside the room, the world feels strangely suspended.

Penelope shifts her weight from one foot to the other, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag the way she always does when she’s trying to choose her words carefully.

“He tells us,” she repeats, but this time the words are softer. Less defensive. “The team knows when he gets hurt.”

You hold her gaze.

That isn’t the same thing.

You both know it.

Penelope exhales slowly, her shoulders lowering a fraction as if some invisible tension has finally slipped loose.

“This is the first hospital stay since the divorce,” she admits after a moment.

The words are quiet, but they still land with weight.

“He’s had…minor injuries. Bruises. A sprained wrist once after a suspect resisted arrest.” She shrugs faintly. “Nothing unusual for field work.”

Her voice drops slightly.

“Nothing like this.”

Nothing like this.

Your eyes drift back to Spencer.

The bandage wrapped around his upper arm suddenly looks thicker than it did a moment ago. The white gauze is already beginning to stain faintly beneath the edges, pale pink seeping slowly through where the bullet grazed him.

The IV line taped to the back of his hand feels more intrusive now, the clear tubing snaking up toward the hanging bag of fluids.

“Penelope,” you say after a moment, turning toward her again. “Why did they call me?”

She blinks at the question.

“Well…you’re still listed as his emergency contact.”

“That explains the phone call,” you reply evenly. “It doesn’t explain why they expect me to be here.”

Penelope’s gaze flickers toward the hallway outside the room before returning to you. Something uncertain crosses her face, like she’s trying to decide how much to say and how quickly to say it.

“The doctor spoke to us a few minutes ago,” she says slowly. “About discharge.”

You frown slightly. “Discharge? He’s unconscious.”

“He’s stable,” she says quickly, lifting a hand in a small reassuring gesture. “The concussion is mild. They kept him overnight for observation because of the blood loss, but assuming he wakes up without neurological symptoms, they’ll release him later today.”

That should be reassuring.

Instead, a small knot of tension forms in your chest.

“And?”

Penelope shifts again, clearly stalling now.

“And…” She glances once more toward the hallway, lowering her voice slightly even though there’s no one close enough to overhear. “They won’t release him unless someone takes responsibility for him.”

Your brow furrows.

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” Penelope says gently, “someone has to sign the discharge forms and agree to stay with him for the next weeks.”

Her fingers tap nervously against the strap of her bag.

“Concussion protocol. Monitoring for symptoms. Making sure he doesn’t pass out again or start showing signs of internal bleeding.”

Your brain processes that automatically.

Of course they would require supervision.

Of course they wouldn’t send a federal agent who just lost a dangerous amount of blood home alone.

“So the team can take turns,” you say, already thinking through the logistics. “He has coworkers. Supervisors. Friends…maybe even someone else, maybe a girlfriend.”

Penelope’s mouth opens.

Her eyes widen in immediate horror.

“God, no!”

The reaction is so sharp it almost startles you.

“There’s no other girls,” she rushes to clarify, shaking her head quickly. “Not even a date. Not since you.”

Your stomach sinks a little despite yourself.

You clear your throat softly.

“Penelope…” you say slowly. “What I mean is that there should be someone.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why?”

She sighs quietly, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

“Because the hospital requires someone who can legally assume responsibility for him outside of work,” she explains. “Someone who can sign the liability paperwork and who isn’t technically his supervisor or subordinate.”

You stare at her.

“The Bureau has rules about that sort of thing,” she adds apologetically. “Conflict of interest. Liability. It becomes a whole HR nightmare.”

“So one of his friends—”

“He doesn’t have many of those outside the team,” she interrupts softly.

The truth of that lands heavily.

Spencer’s life has always been painfully small when it comes to personal circles. Work. His mother. The team.

You.

Or at least…you used to be.

“What about Diana?” you ask after a moment.

Penelope’s expression immediately softens with sympathy.

“Sweetie…” she says gently.

Of course.

Spencer’s mother.

The brilliant woman whose mind drifts in and out of clarity like the tide, receding and returning without warning. Even on her best days she needs someone to remind her where she left her glasses or what year it is. But on her worst days she forgets her own son’s face.

“She can’t take responsibility for him,” Penelope says quietly. “The hospital won’t allow it. You know it.”

Your eyes flick back toward the bed.

Toward Spencer.

“And the team?” you ask again, though your voice is quieter now. “You?”

Penelope hesitates.

“We're trying,” she says carefully. “But technically none of us qualify. The doctor was very firm about that.”

You swallow.

The implications settle slowly into place, one piece at a time, like a puzzle you didn’t realize you were solving.

“And that leaves…?”

Penelope doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, her gaze drifts to the chair beside the bed.

To the manila folder with your name written across the front. Then back to you.

“That leaves the person he never removed from his emergency contact forms,” she says softly.

The room suddenly feels smaller.

“Seriously,” Penelope continues gently, “the doctor said he can’t leave unless someone signs for him.”

Her eyes search your face now, careful but so hopeful.

“And apparently,” she adds after a moment, voice barely above a whisper, “you’re still the only person Spencer ever trusted to do that.”

God.

Tag list ❤︎: Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

[the-past-is-for-ghosts]

Screaming crying throwing up because what the hell 😭😭😭 second chance romances my beloved 😍 @certaimromance does it again

[xxepherr]

Omggg I lovee ur mentalist!reader x Hotch ficsss 🩷🩷 what about something where mentalist!reader pisses a criminal off related to her con artist past, and gets abducted and nearly tortured/injured (like season 3, ep 8 of the mentalist) until Hotch and the BAU team come to the rescue?

Anyways love love love your work 🩷🩷

.ೃ࿐ PAST LIFE

summary — when your past catches up to you, it's good to know that the rest of the team has your back. even if that includes rescuing you from a kidnapping situation because you pissed off someone from your past life.

pairings — aaron hotchner x mentalist!reader

pronouns — she/her

word count — 3.4k

note — yesss i was so excited when i saw i got a req for mentalist!reader i love her to death :) but yes yes yes i absolutely love this and im super glad you're enjoying <333

"WHERE ARE YOU?"

"OH, relax, hotch. i'm on my way back."

it was a rather warm day. sleeves of your blouse rolled up to your elbows, you leant down to sniff the bouquet of tulips sitting delicately in a pot among with other colour tulip variations. they had all opened up in the warm sun beaming down on them, and thus you were caught stuck between choosing the tulips or the assorted daisies.

"you were supposed to be here an hour ago," hotch did not sound pleased, but he also didn't sound necessarily upset about her not being at work.

"yeah, yeah," you hummed absently. "i promised garcia that i'd pick up some flowers for her office. do you want some too? you kinda seem like a tulip guy."

"no, i don't want flowers," you could practically feel hotch roll his eyes.

you shrugged, reaching for the bouquet. the roadside flower popup seemed to be getting busier — a car pulled up not too far behind where you were standing. "i'll get you some anyway."

hotch's sigh was rather deep. you swore he only really ever sighed that deep around you. it was quite the accomplishment.

sharp piercing sounds echoed through your ears like a rattle of death. gunfire rippled, sinking into random targets in front of you quick enough to be a semi-automatic. ducking, you hid behind a flower stand, keeping your head low while trying to catch a glimpse at what exactly was going on.

despite all your time with the FBI, you were not cut out for this sort of field work.

hotch said your name, your first name, with enough urgency that your breath caught in your throat. he repeated it when you didn't respond. "can you hear me? ca—"

"the florist is dead," you managed to get out, trying to crawl out of the line of sight. "send— send whoever you can . . ."

the man waving the gun around was large. he looked like some sort of trigger-happy gun-for-hire with enough muscle to be a professional heavy-weight wrestler. he was walking towards you, his steps hard against the floor and the gun aimed in your direction. one twitch and you'd be riddled with more bullets than you can count.

"trace my location," you said definitely, your voice picking up speed with an urgency you rarely ever displayed. "i think this guy's after me."

hotch said your name a myriad of times, more than you had ever heard from him before, but you hung up the call without speaking again once the man was dangerously close.

"get up," the man growled out like some sort of animal. "you're comin' with me."

you squinted up at him. "i'm just a bystander," you tried to reason, scooting back from him. "i—"

"get up."

you did so that time, unsteady on your feet as his arm reached out to grab yours. his grip was iron. he dragged you unceremoniously through the bullet-ridden flower pop-up until he made it back to his navy blue hatchback. he opened the boot and stared at you like a silent invitation.

with your lips pulled into a tight-line, you glanced between the burly man and the open boot. "fantastic," you mumbled, awkwardly climbing inside. it wasn't awkward because it was small — you fit just fine — but it was awkward because this was the first time you had ever been in the back of the car. that was for groceries, and you were fairly certain you weren't your weekly shopping.

the man didn't say anything more. he grumbled something and slammed the boot shut, locking you in darkness. the car started up, the engine spluttering a little, and all you could do was keep your eyes shut as the car began to move.

"DROP WHAT YOU'RE DOING, i need all hands on deck."

hotch's voice carried enough finality to have morgan's back straightening immediately, his teasing smile at garcia morphing into a thin line.

"was there an update in the case?" reid bundled all his manila folders into his leather briefcase. they were due to leave in just under an hour — hence why hotch was incredibly annoyed that you were late — and it wasn't like their current case was in a fragile enough state that they needed to leave as soon as possible. the unsub hadn't hit the stage where they were devolving just yet; reid was under the assumption that there was even a chance that it wouldn't come to that at all.

"we're not going to arizona," hotch moved through the bullpen, and his stride was enough to tell everyone that it was imperitive they follow. rossi was the first one to follow, then the rest all shared jumbled looks before doing the same.

hotch didn't speak until everyone was situated at the round table. The arizona case's notes were still written on the whiteboard — hotch was quick to erase it so that no one could focus on it. he uttered your last name in a way that had everyone's spine straightening. "local cops are on the scene just out of town for a homicide. she was there when the unsub opened fire . . . i think this may be a potential kidnapping."

"wait," morgan said, holding up his hand. "you're saying that someone was after her?"

"it's a possibility."

"i hate to say it, guys," emily jumped in, "but we are talking about her. she's probably made more enemies than i've got cutlery."

garcia nodded. "i'll make a list of all the people that have written in complaints about her." she then paused. "and i'll extend my list into her life before the FBI."

"thanks, garcia," hotch nodded once, and then she left to her office.

rossi huffed, "between everyone's she's pissed off both here and as a con-artist . . . may as well get comfy." he leaned back in his chair, staring straight through hotch. hotch wasn't giving much away on his face, but rossi had always been able to read him in a way that not many others could.

you could read him, though. and he knew that if you were sitting at this table, you would be making fun of how stupidly easy this probably was to solve by now.

"feels kinda wrong to be looking into her personal life," reid mumbled, his lips pulling into a slight frown. after a rocky start, he'd gotten around to liking you eventually. the two of you had a lot in common, and it had gotten easier to work with that in more recent times.

"yeah," jj agreed, standing up with. a sigh. "i'll go check her desk."

"good," hotch nodded. his eyes turned on reid and morgan. "morgan, take prentiss to the crime scene with you." the two nodded and left. "reid, i want you to start reading through the complaints the second garcia hands them to you."

reid nodded. he figured he wouldn't be out in the field at least until most of the complaints had been read through. he read the quickest, and that meant that he could start stitching together potential people a lot more efficiently than someone else being handed this task. every second counted — and now that emily and morgan were being sent out to confirm it was a kidnapping, time was of the essence.

once everyone much had their respective tasks, rossi stood up from his chair and walked over to where hotch was staring at the blank whiteboard. "what're you gonna do, aaron?"

hotch didn't bat an eye. "whatever i can," he mumbled.

THE BASEMENT WAS COLD. and it had absolutely nothing to do with the dead body laying on the ground within inches of where you were standing. wrists zip-tied to metal pole holding up the supports of the floor above you tried to keep your eyes off the large dead man that had abducted you in the first place.

it had happened so fast — one minute he had been binding your wrists, and the next he was flopping to your feet with a bullet piercing through his thick head. the blood splattered across your face. trying to wipe it off on your shoulder had proven to be futile.

heavy footsteps echoed down the stairs. chunky black heels appeared first, and then a woman with frizzy black curls and smudged makeup appeared. she had a sneer on her face, and you hazily remembered that same sneer from when she pulled the trigger on the large man maybe thirty minutes ago.

you were currently trying to ignore the fact that that same gun was now pointed in your direction. you were the furthest thing from any sort of weapon, you liked words and body language instead of bullets and gunpowder. the second amendment was not something you held dear unlike your colleagues, and so currently staring down the silver barrel of one was less than ideal.

"do you remember me?"

she did look awfully familiar. something about her eyes and her nose mixed with the exact curl pattern i her hair sat so obviously on the tip of your tongue but you just couldn't figure out who.

"i don't know," you said slowly, trying to shield yourself from the gun by scooting back a little more. your wrists screeched, the zip-ties tearing into your skin from the added pressure. "i'd see you better if you moved the gun away—"

bang.

you gasped, ducking your head lower and brandishing your hands as best you could to surrender. the bullet buried itself in the wall a few inches to the right of where you were crouched. "noted," you coughed, trying to keep your face shielded.

"you haven't changed," the woman sneered, waving the gun around in your direction, her trigger-happy finger taunting. "still the same—"

"you're mary," you peered up at her in a way that made yourself look small. you couldn't assert power in this situation, but you also couldn't be too calm. mary thinking that she was all high-and-mighty here would stop any devolving from occurring. "mary whittler."

the gun wavered, so you continued. "your mother was my client . . . i'm sorry for your loss." you ducked your head. the metal of the gun pressed against your skull.

"you're not sorry!" she sneered. "you fucking killed her! killed her!"

you had not murdered mary's mother, but the angry letters you had received from mary for years said otherwise. selene whittler was a woman who had been severely unwell mentally after her husband passed. she spiralled and booked hundreds of appointments with you, so much so that you didn't have the heart to charge her for all of them. all she wanted was to be able to connect with her husband again, and when you eventually couldn't keep telling her you could contact him any longer, she committed suicide. mary had blamed you ever since.

she probably wasn't wrong to blame you. you were the con-artist that had tricked her mother for so long, and then suddenly her mother was gone. you knew that selene would've been dead long before talking to you had she not found you when she did: you had given her hope for just that little bit longer, even if mary couldn't see that.

"okay," was all you said, "and i'm sorry about that . . . but i don't know what you want from me."

mary laughed, pulling her gun away from your head. there was a slight jingle as she waved it, the metal clattering against the metal against her bracelets. "just you wait," she squinted at you with a nod as if telepathically sharing a secret you couldn't hear.

"I'VE GOT SOMETHING," REID leaned across the circle table to pass the letter he found to hotch. the older man grabbed it without a second thought.

hotch read the letter as quick as he could. "wait, i've seen this name somewhere . . ." holding the letter reid found in one hand, hotch sifted through the piles of letters on the table.

there were hundreds. between complaints made against you from victims' families and other police units to letters garcia had tracked down from your previous life, it seemed no one was ever happy with anything you ever did. hotch would be lying if he said he wasn't mildly amused by it all.

once he found it, he picked it up and scanned it over once again. "same name: mary whittler."

reid shot up. "mary whittler wrote death threats," he reached across the table to the death threat pile. there were so many that they couldn't take them super seriously unless they had reasonable belief that they were actually enactable. "sometimes she didn't leave her name, sometimes she just wrote 'mary' at the top . . . but this is the same pattern of her writing. see," he pointed to specific ways she would start and end the letters, and that was more than enough for hotch to quickly dial garcia.

garcia, who was in her office, picked up immediately. "penelope garcia's office of supreme genius."

"i need an address on a mary whittler," hotch was already moving, picking up his car keys and signalling through the glass for emily to follow him. she was up and grabbing her blazer in seconds. "mother's name was selene whittler."

"one moment . . ." garcia trailed off, the sound of tapping keys echoing in hotch's right ear. "got it. i've sent it to you all."

"thanks," hotch said, barely getting the word out before hanging up. "reid, grab morgan and rossi, and alert the local PD."

reid nodded wordlessly, scrambling out of the room to do as he was asked, his phone to his ear calling the police department from the location that garcia sent him. hotch was out of the building as quickly as he could be, emily close behind.

THE DEAD MAN WAS in direct sunlight. the sun passing through the only window in the basement was the root cause of your current issue — he was starting to smell. the basement was so hot with so little ventilation that all your knowledge on dead people taking a few days to properly decompose went out the window. this was so much different than all the dead bodies you had encountered out in the field . . . this man's blood was splattered across your face and your hands and you had watched as it happened. sure, he had killed in front of you and had kidnapped you shortly afterwards, but you didn't want to see him dead. and you certainly did not want to be covered in it.

mary's heels clomped down the stairs once again. this time, she had a slightly less crazed look in her eyes. her gun was tucked in the waistband of her jeans; your shoulders lost a bit of their tension. "i think we got off on the wrong foot," she descended the stairs until she was only a few metres from where you were sat on the floor. wrists aching, you moved them up the pole so that you could stand at her eye-level.

"did we?" it took you a second to get the words out, your throat dry from all the hours without water.

"i just want the truth," she stood too far away from you, still wary, but her head seemed clearer than it had been earlier. whatever meds she had downed in however long it had been since she last came down seemed to be working at least somewhat. "i knew you were a fucking fraud from the beginning."

"all i did was tell your mother what she wanted to hear," you reasoned, not really trying to change her mind on anything, but to prolong a bullet lodging itself in your brain. "she missed your father, mary . . . i'm sorry, but you would've grown up without a mother if i hadn't . . . y'know. i'm not saying what i did was right, but i couldn't get your mother the help she needed. she refused to go see her psychiatrist."

you couldn't tell her that her mother was a ticking timebomb ready to detonate the second she knew her husband was truly gone. you had met mary once a very long time ago, and it wasn't fair that she would have to grow up without a mother. you had even charged selene less per session because you'd felt horrible.

none of that was worth telling mary. it wouldn't change the fact that her mother was still gone.

sometimes things were better left unsaid.

"i don't believe you," mary sighed, her hand inching closer to her gun. you grimaced when you realised that that was where her hand was absentmindedly going. "you could've done better, you should've—"

"mary whittler? FBI!" hotch's voice was loud as the basement door flung open. cautious footsteps moved down the stairs; you saw hotch's gun before you saw his face.

within seconds, mary was hiding behind you, her gun pressed snugly into your neck like a threat. hotch's face was stern when you finally saw him, but there was something in his expression that you couldn't read. emily was by his side to cover.

"not another step," mary flexed her finger on the trigger, the gentle clicking taunting your ears.

"okay, okay, easy," emily called out, slowly holstering her gun. hotch's stance didn't waver, and neither did his own weapon. not even when emily stepped down a step lower than the one he was on. "we're not here to hurt you."

"you should leave," mary said. unknown to her, you were trying to get emily's attention through facial expressions. widening your eyes, you subtly tried to tell her that you had a plan. it took a few moments, but eventually emily gave you a slight nod to signal that she understood.

"i'm afraid we can't, mary," emily kept answering as if hotch wasn't there. it was certainly for the best — hotch could feel that his heartrate had elevated just from the glimpse he'd gotten of you covered in blood with a dead body by your feet. he wasn't level enough to speak free from anger. your hair was a mess and you had bruises and cuts on your left cheek. he couldn't help but feel obliterated by the sight of your eyes, the hollowness drowning in tiredness and horror. you kept it masked so well that it was almost scary how easily it was.

there were times you kept it together so well that he forgot what your life was like before you came to the FBI. he forgot about all the bloodshed and the nightmares of mangled corpses and twisted riddles. it came back to him now that he was staring into those same eyes that greeted him when you had first stumbled into his life all that time ago.

emily went to speak again. mary sat her finger tighter on the trigger.

you sucked in a deep breath, winked at emily, and then slammed your head backwards as hard as you could into mary's face.

a gunshot rang out as mary stumbled backwards, your own body falling forwards from the sharp pain at the back of your skull. your right ear was ringing, and somehow you tumbled straight into hotch's arms.

glancing up through blurred vision, you could see his lips moving but couldn't hear any of the words coming out. his eyes kept drifting from you to emily, who made quick work of restraining mary and wrestling her into a pair of handcuffs while she was stunned. blood dripped down her nose as emily tugged her towards the basement door, half-dragging her up the stairs in the process.

hotch's large hands were warm as he held you by the shoulders, gently lowering you to the ground away from the dead man so that you could catch your breath. you vaguely saw him mouth ambulance and so you assumed you'd be looked over for any sort of injury before heading back to quantico.

"i . . ." you trailed off, unsure if you were even speaking loud enough over the ringing. hotch didn't mind that you were borderline shouting in his ear. "i didn't get your tulips . . ."

maybe you imagined the smile that rose to his lips. "of course that's what you're worried about," he didn't bother to mumble it considering you couldn't currently hear him. "fuck, you had me worried."

it was the lowest voice he could muster, and he certainly said it too fast for you to be able to read his lips. all you did was stare up at him with wide eyes. "can you get me some tea? my throat's super sore."

hotch snorted out an almost silent chuckle. his chest felt lighter. "the second you get checked over by a doctor," he said, and when he could tell you still couldn't hear him, he just nodded and watched a smile raise to your chapped lips.

[the-past-is-for-ghosts]

Ahhhh omggg I sent this ask in a while ago!! ty for writing the most AMAZING fic ❤️❤️ lit giggling while reading this 🥺🥺

[reidfullyyours]

[reidfullyyours]

[unsubs-anonymous]

Spencer Reid hand gestures Pt. 3

[certaimromance]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ A Vision Trick ─ Peter Parker.

Breakups suck, and Peter Parker knows it better than anyone. So he throws himself into being Spider-Man, hoping the mask will help him forget. It almost works…until every girl he rescues starts looking exactly like the one he’s trying to get over.

୨ৎ ──── yearning. 3k. ex gf!reader. imagine whatever peter you want, but ned shows up for the sake of the plot. haunting the narrative. english isn't my first language. main masterlist.

Peter Parker had been dumped exactly nineteen days, six hours, and, if the blinking green numbers on the microwave could be trusted, thirteen minutes ago.

He knew this because he had always been the kind of person who counted things he couldn’t fix. Minutes. Seconds. Heartbeats. The number of times he’d reached for his phone only to remember there wouldn’t be a new message waiting for him. The number of mornings he’d opened his eyes and, for one blissful second, forgotten that everything had changed. The number of times he’d walked past your favorite coffee shop on purpose, pretending he wasn’t secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of you through the window. The number of nights he’d replayed the breakup in his head, wondering if there had been a sentence he should’ve said differently, a joke he shouldn’t have made, a sign he’d somehow missed.

Nineteen days wasn’t long enough to stop loving someone. It was just long enough for the silence they left behind to become unbearable.

It was torture.

The apartment now was quiet in the familiar way it always was on weekday mornings. Peter sat slouched at the kitchen table in an old sweatshirt and plaid pajama pants, absently pushing a spoon through a bowl of cereal that had long since lost every bit of crunch it once had. The milk had turned lukewarm, the cereal floating in swollen little pieces he barely noticed as he shoveled another spoonful into his mouth without tasting it. His eyes stayed fixed on the cracked kitchen wall across from him, as though if he stared hard enough he could somehow disappear into it. Sleep still clung to him despite having been awake for over an hour.

“…Peter?” May’s voice reached him softly, careful enough not to startle him.

He blinked several times before slowly turning his head, as though surfacing from underwater. Aunt May stood beside the counter with both hands wrapped around a chipped coffee mug. She watched him with quiet concern etched into every line of her face, the kind only someone who had raised him could wear. She didn’t need spider-sense to know when something was wrong.

“Hm?” he mumbled, the sound barely louder than the clink of his spoon against the bowl.

“I asked if you could stop by the store after class. We’re almost out of bread.”

“Oh.” His eyes drifted back to the cereal, studying it with exaggerated concentration. “Yeah. Sure.”

She didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she took another slow sip of coffee, continuing to watch him over the rim of her mug.

“You know,” she said after a moment, “it’s okay to be sad after a breakup.”

Peter’s response came almost too quickly.

“I’m not sad.”

May’s gaze shifted toward the bowl in front of him.

“You’ve eaten cereal for dinner four nights this week.”

Peter looked down defensively.

“Cereal is…” He shrugged one shoulder. “…versatile.”

“You’ve barely left your room except for class.”

“I’ve been studying.”

May sighed, it was the kind of sigh that came from years of loving that boy through every impossible situation he managed to stumble into. It was the sigh of someone who had watched him glue his fingers together trying to repair an old radio, come home bruised with increasingly creative excuses, spend entire weekends taking apart broken appliances just to see if he could put them back together, and smile through pain because he never wanted anyone else to carry it with him. Peter had always believed he could fix everything if he just tried hard enough.

Unfortunately, broken hearts didn’t come with instruction manuals.

“You’re heartbroken,” she said gently.

Peter opened his mouth to argue out of habit, but nothing came.

The silence answered for him.

“I’m fine,” he said anyway, though this time the words lacked every ounce of conviction they’d had before.

“Mm-hmm.”

“I’m serious.”

She set her coffee on the counter before walking over, pulling out the chair beside him instead of standing across the room. Without saying another word, she reached over and rested her hand over his. Peter stared at their hands for a long moment, feeling the lump rise in his throat before he quickly looked away toward the window.

“I know you’re trying very hard to convince yourself you’re okay again,” she said quietly. “And maybe one day you will be.”

Peter swallowed hard.

“But you don’t have to rush it. You don’t have to pretend for my sake. You’re allowed to miss someone and cry because they left.” Her thumb rubbed gently across the back of his hand. “None of that makes you weak, Peter. It just means you loved someone.”

The words settled heavily between them.

For once, Peter Parker couldn’t think of anything clever to say. No self-deprecating joke to dissolve the tension. No awkward laugh to disguise the ache pressing painfully against his ribs. He simply lowered his head, blinking a little harder than necessary as he stared into the bowl of soggy cereal in front of him, the spoon resting motionless in the milk. He couldn’t even remember the last bite he’d actually tasted. Somewhere between the breakup and now, eating had become something his body did automatically while his mind wandered somewhere it had no business returning to. Every silence eventually found its way back to you.

In that moment, he wished he had the mask on.

Because being the hero was easy.

Spider-Man never had the luxury of overthinking. He just reacted. He leaped before fear had the chance to settle in, caught people before they hit the pavement, stopped speeding cars, pulled strangers from burning buildings, and threw himself into danger without stopping to wonder whether he was enough. People looked up when Spider-Man arrived. They smiled, cheered, thanked him, and took blurry pictures of him swinging across the skyline. Under the mask, there were no awkward pauses, no heartbreaks waiting in the quiet moments, no empty side of the bed in his thoughts. There was only the next emergency, the next person to save, and the next problem that needed solving.

Sadly, in that kitchen, he wasn’t Spider-Man.

He was just Peter Parker, a twenty-year-old college student sitting in wrinkled pajamas with a bowl of ruined cereal growing warm in front of him, wondering how saving an entire city somehow felt infinitely easier than surviving nineteen days without the girl he still loved.

So he made a decision.

If being Peter Parker hurt this much…then he’d simply be Peter Parker as little as possible.

Fortunately, New York rarely allowed Spider-Man a night off. The city was demanding, as though it had collectively agreed to keep him busy enough that he wouldn’t have time to think. He started putting the suit on earlier and taking it off later. Patrols before class became routine and patrols after class stretched long past midnight. Sometimes he didn’t climb back through his bedroom window until two in the morning, only to catch three hours of sleep before doing it all over again. His laundry basket slowly filled with sweat-soaked hoodies tossed carelessly onto the floor while the Spider-Man suit hung drying by the window, almost becoming more familiar than his own clothes. Every bruise, every pulled muscle, every rooftop crossed at full speed felt preferable to sitting alone with his thoughts. Because as long as he was swinging between skyscrapers with the wind roaring in his ears, there wasn’t much room left in his head for memories of your laugh, your perfume lingering on borrowed sweaters, or the way your fingers used to absentmindedly reach for his hand.

It was a perfect system.

Or at least, it was.

Until Tuesday.

The scream sliced through the evening air so suddenly that Peter changed direction before he’d consciously registered it. His web released instinctively, sending him arcing over the rooftops toward the narrow alley below. Neon signs painted streaks of blue and pink across the damp pavement while overflowing dumpsters cast long shadows against the brick walls.

“Please!”

Spider-Man looked down.

A young woman stood backed into a dead end, one hand clutching her purse tightly against her chest while two men slowly closed the distance between them. Her breathing came in short gasps while her shoulders trembling as she searched desperately for somewhere to run.

“Oh, come on,” Spider-Man sighed beneath the mask, already letting himself fall from the rooftop. “Can’t you guys commit crimes during business hours?”

He landed neatly between them, knees bending to absorb the impact before straightening with practiced ease. The sudden arrival sent a puff of dust skittering across the pavement, and both muggers stumbled back a step.

“Hi!” he greeted brightly, lifting one hand in an unnecessarily cheerful wave.

The men stared.

“You know,” he continued conversationally, pointing accusingly between them, “I was actually on my way home. I had leftover pizza waiting for me. We had plans.”

One of the men lunged first.

Peter sidestepped without effort.

The second swung.

A web shot from Peter’s wrist with a familiar thwip, gluing his hands together before another strand wrapped around his ankles. The first mugger barely managed another punch before Spider-Man ducked beneath it, swept his legs out from under him, and pinned him against the brick wall with three quick webs.

Thirty-seven seconds, that was all it took.

Both men hung cocooned against the alley wall, grumbling muffled complaints through layers of webbing.

“There we go,” Spider-Man said, dusting imaginary dirt from his gloves with exaggerated satisfaction. “Everybody wins. Well…statistically speaking, not everybody.”

He turned toward the young woman, his usual easy smile hidden beneath the mask.

“You okay?”

She slowly looked up at him and Peter’s breath caught.

Oh.

It wasn’t you. Not even close.

Her hair was different. Shorter. Her nose curved differently, her face was rounder, and she was several inches shorter than you had ever been. Objectively, she looked nothing like you.

And yet, there was something in the way she smiled through the adrenaline. Something about the softness in her eyes as relief replaced fear. The tiny wrinkle beside her mouth when she whispered thank you.

It hit him so suddenly his stomach dropped.

For one impossible heartbeat, she looked exactly like you.

“…Spider-Man?”

Peter blinked hard behind the mask.

“Sorry.”

She tilted her head, confusion replacing the fear.

“You kind of froze.”

“Nope,” he answered much too quickly. “Didn’t freeze.”

She waited.

“I’m actually…very anti-freeze.”

Silence.

“…What?”

“What?” Peter echoed automatically before mentally groaning. Smooth, Parker.

The woman gave him a bewildered little smile.

“Thank you.”

He forced himself to nod.

“You’re welcome.”

Before she could say anything else, Peter fired a web toward the nearest rooftop. The line caught with a familiar snap, and he launched himself into the night much faster than he usually would have, disappearing above the skyline before she could even finish watching him leave.

The wind rushed past his face as Manhattan blurred beneath him, but it wasn’t enough.

Because for the first time since putting on the mask, he realized something that made his chest feel impossibly heavy.

***

It happened again two days later.

Then again the following week.

First it was a college student stranded on the rooftop of a parking garage after the access door jammed shut. She laughed nervously the second Spider-Man pulled her back over the ledge, brushing windblown strands of hair behind her ear with trembling fingers. For one impossible heartbeat, the sound landed somewhere deep in Peter’s chest. Then there was a tourist in Times Square who twisted her ankle trying to dodge a speeding cyclist. She thanked him with a shy smile that lingered just a little too long, and suddenly he was remembering how you used to smile at him whenever he rambled about quantum physics. A few days later, a woman had her purse snatched outside a subway station. Peter caught the thief within seconds, swinging back down with the bag tucked beneath one arm. She reached for it, relief washing over her features, and for the briefest moment the afternoon sun caught her hair just right.

His heart stopped.

Every single time, for one impossible second, they looked exactly like you.

Not literally. They never had the same face, the same voice, or the same eyes. One was taller, another had freckles, another wore glasses, another spoke with an accent you’d never had. If Peter had been forced to compare them side by side, he would’ve admitted they shared almost nothing in common.

But somehow, his mind kept stitching together tiny pieces that weren’t there.

The curve of a smile.

The warmth behind someone’s eyes.

A laugh carried by the wind.

The absentminded way someone tucked loose hair behind an ear.

His brain filled in every blank until, for one cruel, fleeting heartbeat, he believed it was you standing in front of him.

It was becoming ridiculous.

“So.”

Ned didn’t look up immediately. He was sitting cross-legged on Peter’s bedroom floor, carefully attaching the final pieces to an enormous LEGO Death Star that had occupied nearly every available surface for the past three weeks. Tiny gray bricks surrounded him in organized little piles while the instruction booklet rested open across his knees.

“So?” he answered absentmindedly.

Peter sat at his desk, spinning slowly in his chair.

“Do you think…” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck before finally forcing the words out. “…my brain’s broken?”

That got Ned’s attention.

He lowered the instruction booklet just enough to peer over the top of it.

“That’s a loaded question.”

Peter sighed.

“I keep seeing her.”

Ned’s face immediately softened.

“Peter—”

“No, not actually seeing her.”

“Oh.”

“I mean…” Peter stood up and began pacing the room, running both hands through his already messy curls. “Every girl I rescue kind of…” He stopped beside his desk, opening his wallet almost unconsciously. Tucked behind his student ID was a slightly worn photograph of you, smiling at the camera with your head tilted toward him just outside Midtown. He stared at it for a second before gesturing helplessly with the wallet. “…becomes her.”

Ned frowned.

“Like hallucinations?”

“No.”

“Face blindness?”

“No.”

“Ghost?”

Peter looked at him in complete disbelief.

“What? It was worth asking.”

“No, Ned,” Peter groaned, letting himself fall backward onto the bed with enough force to make the mattress squeak. He threw an arm dramatically over his eyes. “She’s not haunting Manhattan.”

“So…what’s happening?”

Peter let out a long, frustrated sigh.

“I don’t know.” His voice came out quieter this time. “I’ll rescue someone, and for one second…” He searched for words that made sense. “It’s like my brain decides it’s her. Then I blink, and it isn’t. But for that one second…” He swallowed. “…I actually believe it.”

The room fell quiet.

The only sound was the soft click of LEGO pieces snapping together as Ned stared thoughtfully at the half-finished Death Star.

Finally, he spoke. “I don’t think you’re seeing her.”

Peter moved his arm just enough to look over at him.

“I think…” Ned set another brick into place before meeting Peter’s eyes. “…you’re looking for her in everyone you save.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Ned gave him an apologetic smile.

“That’s rough, buddy.”

Without even sitting up, Peter grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it across the room.

After that conversation, he convinced himself it would stop.

Eventually.

Because that was what everyone said happened after heartbreak, wasn’t it? Feelings faded. People moved on. Memories became less sharp until they stopped hurting every time they surfaced. One day he’d wake up and realize he hadn’t thought about you at all. He’d laugh about how dramatic he’d been, thank the universe for getting him through it, and finally let himself fall in love with someone else...right?

Three weeks later, Spider-Man landed silently on the narrow fire escape outside a third-floor apartment after the unmistakable sound of someone screaming cut through the evening air. Rain from earlier still clung to the rusted metal beneath his boots, making it creak softly under his weight as he crouched beside the open window. Inside, the apartment was dimly lit, illuminated only by the yellow glow of an old kitchen light. A man’s voice echoed through the small space, loud enough to rattle the picture frames hanging crookedly on the walls. Something shattered followed by another frightened cry that made Peter move before he’d consciously decided to.

One quick step.

A web anchored to the ceiling.

Then he was already inside.

“Okay!”

The room froze.

The man standing in the middle of the living room turned so abruptly that his raised fist dropped to his side. Broken glass glittered across the hardwood floor, and an overturned chair lay near the kitchen table. Spider-Man straightened with both hands raised in mock surrender, looking between everyone in the room.

“Yep. Knew that was coming.”

The fight lasted less than half a minute.

One punch, a dodge, and a web wrapped neatly around the man’s wrists before another pinned his ankles together, sending him stumbling face-first onto the carpet with a string of colorful complaints muffled against the floor. Outside, police sirens grew louder with every passing second, bouncing off the surrounding buildings as flashing blue and red lights reflected faintly through the apartment windows. Someone in the building had already called them.

Peter dusted his hands together.

“There we g—”

“…Peter?”

Everything inside him stopped, his heartbeat, breathing and even the familiar stream of sarcastic remarks that usually arrived before he had the chance to think.

No. No. Not again.

Slowly, almost afraid of what he’d find, he turned toward the kitchen doorway.

A young woman stood there, frozen in place. She wore an oversized cream-colored sweater with streaks of dried paint scattered across one sleeve and faint smudges of blue and ochre dusting her fingertips, as though she’d been interrupted halfway through a canvas. Loose strands of hair had escaped whatever hurried bun she’d attempted that morning, framing a face Peter had spent weeks trying to forget.

Those eyes.

For one desperate, exhausted heartbeat, Peter almost convinced himself this was another cruel trick his heartbreak had invented.

Another stranger. Another coincidence. Another ghost wearing your smile.

Then you tilted your head ever so slightly, studying him with the same curious expression you’d worn every time you caught him overthinking.

“You know my name.”

Spider-Man forgot how to breathe.

Because this time, you weren’t another girl who happened to remind him of the one he couldn’t forget.

You were her.

[the-past-is-for-ghosts]

awww this was amazingggg! seeing a @certaimromance post is a guaranteed sign of giggling thru the cutest fic later 🥺❤️❤️

[catssluvr]

glasses, aaron hotchner

aaron hotchner x fem!reader (1k words)

in which aaron sees you with glasses for the first time and his brain can't handle it.

warnings: kissing, hotch is head over heels!

✦ ˑ ִֶ⊹

It's not that your day starts off necessarily bad, because the extra minute in bed comes nicely to you. What isn't as great is having to rush around your apartment to make it to work in time, huffing as you button up your shirt before clumsily throwing a sweater over it.

The only thing reassuring you that you didn't put it on backwards is the scratch of the annoying tag against the back of your neck — you'll have to remember to rip it off later.

You only realize you forgot your contacts when the letters of the ads on the subway blur, relieved when you find the glasses you always keep with yourself just in case inside your bag.

Not much thought comes into it, not used to wearing them if not in the comfort of your home late at night but simply a necessity now. You don't not use them for thinking that they look bad, but because they used to bother you more than help you and now you've simply gotten used to the contacts.

Once you arrive at the bullpen, you're only five minutes late and don't seem to be the last one arriving. You let that be a victory.

With your morning drink close by, you finally start working on the mountain of files pilling up at your desk.

"Good morning." You're only half an hour in when the familiar voice sounds behind you, steps sounding closer as Aaron comes to stand beside your chair.

"Hey." You greet back, leaning your head to look up at him.

"I don't mean to put even more in your plate but i really need you to fill these out." It's only now that he looks away from the papers and at you, eyes widening for one second in surprise.

You try to ignore it, though it settles something in you. It's a strict rule that have to act professional around each other at work — all an atempt to not have Strauss ripping your heads off.

"No problem." You take the files from his hands with a polite smile, setting them in front of you to start working on them.

Aaron lingers on his spot, clearing his throat. "You're wearing glasses."

“I am.” You state carefully, not sure where he’s getting at. Though you find yourself shifting on your seat a little subconsciously.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so dumbfounded.

“Since when?” His eyebrows are furrowed as if wondering if he’s missed this trait, sweet Aaron.

“Always?” You say with confusion, “I just usually wear contacts. Was a bit late today and forgot them.”

Your boyfriend nods at your explanation, eyes still fixated on you with concentration as you feel your skin grow hot under his gaze.

“You look good.” His words are gentle as he speaks after a moment.

His hand comes to tug a little on his tie — something you’ve noticed he does when nervous. It’s hard to believe you’d be the one to make him nervous.

“Thank you.” You answer just as soft, a little like a question.

It didn’t cross your mind that he’d never seen you with your glasses when you put them on earlier. But you suppose his reaction makes up for it.

Aaron’s lips pull into a small, “Anytime, honey.” Even lower than before. And then he’s walking back into his office like he didn’t leave you melting.

You almost forget about it as you distract yourself with work, getting up from your chair once you’re done and knocking on the door to Hotch’s office.

Once you’re given the green light to come in, you slip inside and close the door behind you before heading to his desk.

“Here you go.” You leave the files on it, moving to get back outside.

But before you can reach the door, you feel his hand catch your wrist. A gasp leaves your lips as he turns you around and presses his own to them in a hard kiss.

Aaron’s hand are on your face as he kisses you, a sight escaping his nose as he gets the first taste of you in the day. Instinctively your hands come to rest on his arm, fingers slightly gripping his button up.

He tastes of coffee with a mix of the mints he always has while working. The bump of his nose against the rim of your glasses has him pulling you closer, one hand moving to your waist to help with doing so.

You let your own hand wonder to his shoulder, feeling the muscles relax under your fingers as you softly massage them.

“You’re driving me crazy, sweet girl.” He mumbles after pulling way, lips still dangerously close to yours.

“What?” You giggle with curiosity.

To prove his point, you feel his fingers tap the rim of your glasses with care. “These are the reason.”

Your heart thumps furiously, shy grin on your lips as you keep him close. “You like them?”

“Love them.” Aaron corrects with an arm tightening around your waist, eyes set on every detail of your face.

“Not too nerdy?” You muse, mostly teasing compliments out of him.

“Just enough.” He reassures nevertheless, lips to your cheek for a sweet peck. “So pretty.”

You squeeze his elbow in return, not surprised when his lips chase you for another kiss. Not that you can complain, relished by the attention.

This one is softer, as if he knows you should get back soon and not wanting to get himself worked up.

“Wear them to our date tonight.” He practically begs, lips shiny from you.

“Pervert.” Your joke earns a grin from him.

“Can’t help it when it comes to you.” Aaron says with honesty. His grip loosens, mouth pressed to your temple.

“Pervert and corny. Wow, Hotchner.” You snort, hitting his chest with your pointer finger.

He catches it with ease, bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss there before reaching to adjust your slightly crooked glasses. “There.”

You hum in thanks, fixing his rumbled button up in return before leaving his office with a giddy feeling on your stomach.

[the-past-is-for-ghosts]

Amazing fantastic cute adorable cute brilliant cuteeee 😭😭😭

Did I mention this was cute?

[esote-rika]

KISS ME AND I MIGHT DROP DEAD

summary: Maybe practicing to kiss your fake boyfriend on your bed isn't the best idea, because now the image of him sprawled atop your sheets is burned in your mind and your lips ache to memorize the shape of his. contents: 2k words, FLUFF and a lil angst, prof!reader with glasses, no use of y/n, first kiss as a fake couple!!! first accidental make out too lol, Spencer Reid gets hard bc he wants you so bad, prof!reader finally recognizes her Desires™. a/n: to ppl who asked for their glasses to clink, next time i promiseeee. had to get this out of my system, hope you enjoy!!!

"This isn't stupid, right?"

"Is it conceited to say that the chances of two highly educated college professors doing something stupid are statistically quite low?"

You roll your eyes. Spencer can be so… Spencer-like, even in mortifying times such as this.

"That's a whole high intellect, low wisdom conversation waiting to happen that I refuse to entertain."

He grins, unrepentant. "It's not stupid."

"Like, it makes sense to get it out of the way, you know."

"Yes. Figure out what works for us, note it down so we'll remember." he replies, nodding along.

"Right. Establish boundaries. Well, make adjustments to the current ones and stuff." you glance down at the journal lying innocently beside you, opened to a new page with the word "Addendum re: Kissing" written on top.

Spencer's sat facing you, cross-legged and casual like this is no big deal, him on your bed. And maybe it's not. This isn't the first time he's sat across you after all, a spill of spindly limbs and shining amber eyes. Some traitorous part of you thinks, hopes, it won't be the last.

That might be acceptable, but the context is new.

"Okay, so how do we… you know," your hands flail uselessly.

"Kiss?" Spencer says. He tilts his head with a small, teasing smile, bares the line of his jaw and neck and oh maybe you shouldn't have suggested this in the first place. Maybe you should relocate somewhere less… personal. "Two people normally just get close enough to press their lips together."

"Don't make fun of me." You grumble.

"Sorry." He doesn't sound it. You watch him scoot closer, his knee touching your thigh. "You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"Because you can, you know, back out." he gets serious quickly. His fidgeting stops and he rests a warm hand over your knee, "We don't actually have to do this, if you're not comfortable."

"I am!" you squeak, flushing at the pathetic sound. "I-I mean, I'm comfortable and I want to get it over with." you wince at how crass you make it sound, and curse the version of yourself from yesterday who came up with this idea. The one that panicked over an offhand comment from your best friend after you told her that yes I will be bringing a plus one, I'm actually dating someone right now.

Melissa had gushed on and on about how hot and steamy the honeymoon phase of a new relationship is.

You wouldn't know. This whole thing with Spencer is a farce, there's no phases to speak of. Just friendship—and lightly begrudging, on your part.

But of course, your brain had latched on to the words, spiraled at the idea that people expect a newly dating couple to act a certain way. And not that you want to bend to these arbitrary norms, but still. You don't want to be caught off guard.

So you'd suggested this. Practice, a trial, preparation.

On kissing.

And where else would be the most logical spot to practice than in your apartment? At the time, it seemed like a good idea. It's close, he's been here before, and it's private.

Now, you're starting to lose your nerve.

Spencer is still, like he's waiting for you to make the first move.

"You don't think I'm just trying to make out with you for the hell of it, do you?" you ask Spencer, teeth worrying your lower lip.

He laughs, soft and painfully endeared. "No. Although, I wouldn't be mad about that either."

You smack his hand off your knee. "Shut up."

"Okay." he's grinning. Hasn't stopped since you've started this conversation, actually. You're here, feeling raw and tender like skin on the verge of breaking, barely able to breathe, and he's grinning. Has the gall to tease you. "I get it though. It's less of a practice and more… doing it on our own terms. In a controlled environment."

You nod, deflating with relief. "Yes. And no one to witness us flounder around awkwardly."

"You really think I'm that bad at kissing?"

"I didn't say that!" You huff, then add, "Should I take my glasses off?"

"Are you planning to wear contacts to the wedding?"

"No."

"Then keep them on. You know, for realism."

You can't stop the soft giggle from escaping. "Right, yeah. Realism."

"Are you done stalling?" Spencer asks.

"I'm not stalling!" To prove your point, you shuffle even closer, the bed dipping beneath your combined weight. Immediately, it's dizzying. His scent is even more potent up close. Nutmeg and cedar and who knows what else, all you know is it's borderline intoxicating. Spencer's eyes are fixed upon you. On your lips, the pen in his hand carelessly tossed aside.

Your eyes follow the pen as it drops to the bed, but his hand curls warm and firm over your cheek and tilts your head up. He's much closer now, lashes shading his pretty brown eyes. Pupils blown wide as he holds you there and lets the moment linger.

Your nerves feel serrated, the brief spark of courage stretched torturously thin. You take the plunge before it snaps, close your eyes and bridge the gap.

It's awkward. Skin smushed against skin, clumsy and juvenile.

His lips are chapped. Even with your stiff, tight lipped peck, you can feel that, small bits of skin that tug and shift as he moves and kisses you back. Nothing more than a brush at first, a slow, warm thing that you can't help but melt into. Can't help but return, just as tender, your lips finally moving like shaping out a question. Testing waters and boundaries.

It's been years, embarrassingly, since you've kissed anyone, but muscle memory kicks in like a dying ember catching kindling. Your mouth parts and welcomes his tongue. Deepens it. Pushes into him where he's treading lightly.

A faint taste of mint clings to his lips, cool unbidden sharpness.

You hear him groan, feel slim fingers tangling into your hair as he matches your passion, and he's kissing you now, properly, deeply, the type of toe curling, movie-esque kiss you'd convinced yourself you don't want, don't need.

All those years of repressed emotions claws back to the surface, curling hot and raw low in your belly and between your legs. Some deep instinctual part of you knows he's done irreparable damage, cracked open something you thought you had ensconced under layers of ambition and self preservation.

Each slide of his lips weakens whatever fortress you'd previously thought impenetrable.

He kisses you again, and again, and again.

It's slow. Careful, like he's mapping your mouth, testing out the perfect angle of his palm to cradle the curve of your jaw. Different from any kiss you've had before. Deeper, more sure, despite the strange ambiguity of this relationship.

Faint sounds form and ascend from the back of your throat, sounds that he swallows before they take shape beyond your lips. Your own hands reach up, clutch a handful of his sweater. Beneath fabric and skin and bone, his heart pulses like it's determined to rupture straight out his ribs.

You find yourself wanting to feel more of that. Chest to chest, just to figure out if your hearts are as in sync as your mouths are.

You've moved without realizing. Closer, and closer still, until he's toppling back from your insistence, the physical weight of you burdened tenfold by the frightening gravity of your desire.

His hands leave your face in favor of steadying your hips. Fingers dig in, clinging too tight, too honest, not enough.

You feel teeth catch on your bottom lip, and you're not sure if it's a mistake or something deliberate, something heavy with meaning. You wonder if he means to repeat it.

It isn't meant to get this far.

The break is abrupt, strident, punctuated with a heady, wet sound, and the bitter disappointment of things parting too soon. Spencer's fully supine, blinking up at you on top of him.

You're nestled snug between his legs, staring down at the blurred edges of him. Your glasses have fogged, and yet there's so much of him everywhere. Lips saturated with each other, the firm, unmistakable press of his arousal against your stomach.

Fuck.

Neither of you speak. The silence curdles into something heavy and uncomfortable.

"Sorry," you blurt out, scrambling back for space, desperate to replace the silence with anything. "Sorry, that—um, sorry."

His hands fall from your body. Prop him back up to sitting, slow and methodological. He clears his throat. You notice, for the first time, how pink he's gotten.

He shifts his hips. Adjusts his pants. You keep your gaze on the now crumpled page of your journal, and pretend not to see.

Addendum re: Kissing.

What the actual fuck are you even supposed to write there now?

"So, that probably wouldn't be appropriate to do in public." Spencer says.

Your laugh comes out shrill. When you glance at him, he's smiling back, bashful, a little tense. But smiling.

"Absolutely not," you take your glasses off, wipe the foggy residue away and welcome a sharper world, "I'm sorry, seriously. I feel like I attacked you."

"I've been attacked many times, but attack by kiss is very new to me, so thank you."

"Spencer."

The pink creeps up his ears, down his neck.He clears his throat again. "It's all right. I'm sorry too, for, you know… enjoying it too much."

"It's fine, at least I know I haven't gotten bad at it," you say, reaching for the pen which had miraculously survived the impromptu make out session and hadn't rolled off the bed, but find that you're still blanking on what to write. You look at him again, "I'm very much out of practice."

"I couldn't tell," he pats a hand over his sweater, smoothing down where you've clung as if that would somehow erase the fact that you had just been on top of him, tongue deep in his mouth. But he tries to redirect focus, perhaps for your sake, by taking the journal. "So what have we learned?"

"That we're really good at it?" That you want to do it again. That you've missed it. That your body isn't as immune to this as you had thought.

You expect a laugh, but Spencer gives you a look that suggests perhaps his thoughts aren't so far from your own.

You squirm, burning under his gaze. You roll the pen over to him, willing your heart to stop racing and your lips to stop tingling. You want to crawl under the covers and hide. You want to lean over and kiss him again.

He scribbles something on the page, and it takes you a moment to decipher as it's upside down from your perspective.

No making out in public or private.

"We already had that in the original." You point out.

"And then promptly broke it." He underlines the sentence twice. Under it, he adds, No kissing with tongue, and your gut twists sharply in disappointment. You want to throw up.

Lastly, he writes keep kisses brief.

"There," he turns the journal, "I don't think there's anything else, but tell me if you have any suggestions."

You pore over it like you haven't already decided the entire page is an insult. Your glasses slip down your nose and Spencer pushes it up like it's reflex, and it's all very distressing. The kiss, this strange robotic focus you've both decided to hide behind, and now these rules.

You shrug. "Um, maybe we should make it… nice? Enjoyable? There's no reason we should be like, weird and stiff about it."

Spencer nods and add that. His voice is low, hoarse when he says, "But not too enjoyable. Wouldn't want a repeat of earlier."

"Exactly. Of course not." You lie.

Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed! next part More prof!Spencer x prof!reader fics here.

[the-past-is-for-ghosts]

ughhhh sooo good 🥺🥺

[the-past-is-for-ghosts]

Handprints in Wet Cement (spencer reid x reader)

previous part ; next part

summary: [p2 of the Slut! series.] After a nightmare on the jet, all your memories from the NYPD come rushing back. Whether you like it or not, your experience is ingrained in your mind. Spencer reminds you that you're not alone.

wc: 1,194

warning: descriptions of perverted colleagues (past experiences, though), hurt/comfort

a/n: ohhh i dunno if I wrote this well enough but I'm posting it anywayy (we're pushing thru our perfectionist self-critique 💪). This is for the girlies going thru stuff wishing they had someone to talk to <3 always know ur never alone

LICKING THEIR LIPS, LEERING EYES FOLLOWING YOU, they size you up like you were a meal instead of a girl. Heart pounding in your throat, you pull the shawl around your shoulders while dashing in the opposite direction to get away from their disgusting stare. You knew what thoughts they were having, and you had no interest in fueling their mistaken beliefs about you.

“Come on, sweetheart, don’t be like that!”

You stop in your tracks, scowling at the man in front of you. Taking note of the man’s NYPD badge, a scowl splits your face. How could the team you’d been part of for years treat you like this?

All of a sudden, you’re back in your old job, your old desk, in the NYPD. Your partner turns to you, his eyes bright with something you wish you could ignore.

“Stop looking at me like that!”

A cruel laugh echoes in your ears, before a sing-song voice murmurs, "Don't tell me you're reserved for the Captain! What if I say I'll promote you too..."

His hand brushes against your leg, once, twice—

Your eyes snap open. Throat constricting, your breath comes out in a slow, long shudder as you slowly register your surroundings, the mental fog dissipating. There's warmth under your head. You can see the rest of the BAU sprawled on various seats in the jet, all fast asleep, as the stars twinkle from the window.

"Are you ok?" Spencer glances down at you, where you'd fallen asleep—

Shit! How could you have fallen asleep on his shoulder?

Your eyes meet his, and shame burns your cheeks. What a way to kickstart the office rumors. Immediately pushing yourself off him, hands smoothing your hair down, you turn towards Spencer, apologies profusely slipping through your lips. "I'm so sorry, Reid—"

He waves your apologies off, moonlight catching on his watch. Beneath the long curves of his lashes, you can see the concern pooling in his eyes. There's no judgement, no sense of disgust that you might've expected from a notorious germaphobe like him. You note the way his adam's apple bobs before he repeats, "Are you ok?"

You swallow thickly, trying to ignore the stupid memory of your stupid nightmare as your arms wind around your own body. "Jus' a nightmare," but your voice sounds hoarse as it pushes through the tears caught in your throat.

Nodding slowly, as though he's trying his best not to scare you off, he stays silent for a second. His teeth sink into his bottom lip, clearly suppressing a thought. He remains silent, though, and you turn towards the window instead, wrapping your night-flight-shawl tighter around you. The twinkling stars provide a much nicer subject to focus on compared to the memories floating in your head. Usually, you're able to force them down, but the nightmare seems to have unlodged them, allowing the memory of those stupid taunts to drown your thoughts. You hate the way those thoughts still hurt you; the stupid comments from your previous cop friends hurt you. Though, with the way they treated you after your promotion at the NYPD, you can't still be stuck calling them 'friends', can you?

Beside you, Spencer whispers your name, gently nudging his shoulder against yours. “Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really." You keep your eyes glued to the window, tightening the hug you're giving yourself. While it was silly to feel ashamed about the comments of men from the NYPD made out of jealousy, it feels like there are tissues stuffed down your throat, preventing you from saying the truth to Reid. It’s not like any of those men actually managed to touch you; it’s the fear of ‘what if’ that haunted you more. Rationally, you know what you’ve gone through isn’t a big deal, especially in comparison to what the BAU has weathered over the years. Besides, from the stories you’ve heard, they’ve endured far worse than petty rumors; from being kidnapped to getting shot, the BAU had undergone literal torture. They’d find your little tale about the NYPD a pathetic attempt at a sob story, you’re sure.

But, more than that, you don't want him to know about this, you realize. Don't want him to know how you'd become ostracized at your old workplace. Don’t want him to think less of you. Between morning coffees, talking about the books you both read during flights, and texting him nearly every weekend, he’s weaseled his way into your life. Somewhere along the line, you care (a little too much to be considered professional) about him.

You can’t stand the idea of him thinking you’re vain for caring so deeply about how people see you.

“I hope you know that… no matter what it is, I wouldn’t think any lesser of you.” He must realize what he says, because a second later, he abruptly adds, “none of us would.”

His voice is so soft, you might’ve missed it. You feel the subtle warmth of him leave, a warmth you hadn’t realized was even there until it was gone, as he finally shifts away from you, clearly in an attempt to give you privacy.

You finally glance back at him, meeting his gaze, already on you. His lips pull up in the faintest of smiles—not like his regular smiles, where his lips suck in; this one scarcely curls, and to the untrained eye may have looked passive. But you know him, have known him for months now, and you recognize this smile. The ones he gives you after solving particularly long cases, where fatigue and relief and happiness mix together into a gentle mocktail of emotions.

You finally manage to swallow the thick lump in your throat. Give him a gentle bump of your shoulder against his. “Thanks, Spence. I…” you gnaw at your lower lip, trying to find the words.

He shakes his head. The tears you’d successfully pushed down nearly threaten to spill over as you realize the way he places his hand near your hand closest to him, still covered by the shawl. In his own way, you suppose, he probably has an inkling of what happened—or at the very least, he’s giving you the choice to accept his comfort or not.

“You don’t have to tell me, of course,” he emphasizes, eyes flickering between you and the window you’d been looking at. “But I want you to know that, if you do want to talk about it—now or later—you always can.”

Before you can answer, the speaker crackles, coming to life to announce the jet would be landing. Hotchner startles up, and as the jet begins its descent, the rest of the BAU rustles awake. While everyone hauls their bags from the jet, still bleary-eyed and half-asleep, you tread off the jet, in step with Spencer. From the corner of your eye, you can see him glance over, and you lift your head slightly to meet his gaze, shooting him a light smile.

You would take him up on his offer, you decide. You're not sure when, but the minute you were ready and the time felt right, you’d confide in him, tell him about the NYPD.

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