You and Spencer Reid were paired the day you met at the FBI Academy, and neither of you ever really chose to be apart again. He cries when you cry, you laugh when he laughs, and he falls in love only when you do. You mirror each other without trying, orbiting the same gravity, bound by something deeper than choice. Like the sun and the moon—forever aligned, forever drawn—yet never granted the stillness of an eclipse.
Warnings & Tags: this series will go through almost every chapter of every season but it's going to rewrite them! i will stray from the canon quite a bit at times. suggestive themes and eventual explicit. extra slooow burn. friends to something weird to lovers. lack of communication. situationship of more than ten years.
Note: Honestly this is my new hobby and my perfect excuse to watch the show for the thousandth time:) so don’t worry, it won’t affect the posting of my other fics <3
Status: In process (very slow updates, sorry).
𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐍𝐄
✦ chapter one
✦ chapter two
✦ chapter three
✦ chapter four
✦ chapter five
✦ chapter six
✦ chapter seven
Tag list ❤︎: Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!
summary: after his release from prison, spencer returns to a life that no longer feels like his own. haunted by what he’s endured, he doesn’t expect kindness, least of all from you. yet, little by little, spencer learns how to trust again… and it all starts with you.
pairing: spencer reid x sweetheart!reader
content warnings: small age gap, maeve arc doesn't exist / never existed (sorry !!), spencer's trauma from prison is constantly mentioned
a/n: hai lovelies !! i'm so sorry for this long ( unplanned ) hiatus, but i'm back with a series and i really hope you like it !! <3 i'm going to try my best to update it weekly, but no promises can be made as most chapters still need to be edited.
Thankyou for your support! This has definitely been an interesting few months for me with so many people suddenly following and even being able to start a Patreon!,and I appreciate it! I'm glad you like my art and would like to give back as thanks!
I'll be doing an art raffle! I'll randomly select one person to request a full illustration like the ones above!
💛How to enter! Follow and reblog this post and you'll be entered! If you reblog on a side blog and follow from your main blog,make sure to note it in your tags! And that's it!
(If you're already a follower you just need to reblog)
💛Rules for requests once you've been chosen!
SFW only
No poly relationships/no canon character x canon character
Results will be given on September 13th :) Thankyou once again for your support and goodluck <3
A software development technique in which two programmers work together at one workstation. One, the driver, writes code while the other, the observer or navigator, reviews each line of code as it is typed in.
part one: driver
who? spencer reid (s1) x analyst!reader
what? prequel to greylist; you invite yourself onto a case to help penelope after an unsub runs a blackhat operation onto her set-up, getting to know your best friend's team in the process.
word count: 3.9k (sort of turned into a case-fic)
content warnings: elle's shooting is mentioned, reference to SA
a/n: this got seriously long, i'm so sorry, i hope you all like it, and part two will be coming - based on when penelope gets shot
“What kind of MIT graduate is a technophobe?” you asked, even as you were plugged in next to Penelope's workstation. Your eyes are glued to the screen, parsing through each line of code as Penelope wrote it. It was rare for you to get this attached to someone, but Penelope's hard not to let in with her funky earrings and sparkly glasses and chunky bracelets.
"The kind with three PhDs, apparently," she replied, before cursing softly as she notices you correct her code.
"Ugh, that sounds insufferable," you mutter, curling your upper lip, rubbing the small ache that was growing in the back of your neck. You've been at this for hours, helping Penelope develop software that can identify the tiniest detail from CCTV footage, invasion of privacy damned. You knew it's an ethical line you have to blur in counterintelligence. But you've found your groove and if you lose track now, who knows when you'll both get a chance to sit and write again?
"He's not that bad, actually," Penelope said, blue eyes watching her screen intently, manicured nails clacking over her keyboard, chewing the same gum she had popped in when you'd both started. "He's not exactly a looker, not like my darling Morgan. Did I tell you he called me baby girl?"
"How romantic," you said dryly, reaching for the packet of Twizzlers you were both sharing. "He didn't know your name."
"You haven't seen him," Penelope said, her voice dreamy. "He's beautiful, the Adonis to my Aphrodite--"
"You know Adonis died, right?" you asked her, raising a brow and she tossed a Malteser at you.
"Stop ruining my fantasies!" she cried and you snickered under your breath.
"I'm not picking that up. Anyway, more importantly, what's Agent Greenaway like?"
And so it goes for another hour, until you both swap roles, and you're complete focus and drive and determination as you get these codes out, and Spencer Reid is nothing more than a name picked up in conversation.
You're good at your job; clean, organised, a hard worker with an eye for detail and little else in your social life, and so when Penelope's picked for the BAU, you're working your way up in counterintelligence, surrounded by more testosterone than Penelope. She's unorthodox, hasn't come up the way you have; you were astonished when you found out that she taught herself to code, dropping out of CalTech a year after she joined. It's why you offered to be her navigator, and you only really stay at your desk if you're working with privileged information. Otherwise, you're spending off-time with her, writing programs and algorithms, helping her multi-task when there's an overwhelming amount of information to track.
"My co-workers never get me flowers," you said, walking in with your laptop under your arm, a hand going to the yellow flowers arranged in a bouquet by her station and she spun in her chair, grinning giddily.
"They're from Gideon," she gushed and you raise a brow as you smell the daffodils.
“You know I don’t judge age gaps, but isn’t he starting to bald?” you asked and Penelope was already rolling her eyes as you picked up the card to read it.
“It’s not like that,” she insisted, watching you frown at the neat printed writing. “What is it?”
“Agent Gideon doesn’t write like this,” you said, wrinkling your brow, showing her the handwriting and Penelope shrugged.
“Maybe he wanted it to look nice.”
"I know I can be challenging, but your work is appreciated. J. Gideon?” you read out skeptically. “A) he’s not self-aware enough to call himself challenging, and B) he doesn’t sign off on messages like that. I’ve seen your Christmas present from last year.”
“You don’t know that,” Penelope retorted and you cock your head at her. “He-He was apologising for last week, when he was on crutches and—”
“Was being a total pain in your ass?” you asked with a chuckle, sitting down and opening your laptop. “What’s the going rate for daffodils these days? 10, 20 dollars?”
“What are you doing?” Penelope asked, then looking horrified as you’d already hacked your way into peeking at Gideon’s recent debit and credit purchases.
“No florists here,” you declared, showing her. “Although, he goes to the Smithsonian a lot.”
“He likes the bird exhibits, what are you guys doing?” came a confused voice from behind the both of you, and your eyes fall on a gangly, tall man, with a very unflattering yellow shirt with beige lines that matched his tie and trousers, brown hair tucked tightly behind his ears.
Penelope quickly slammed your laptop shut with a quick “Nothing!” and he furrowed his brow, spindly fingers fidgeting in front of him. You glanced at Penelope, trying to follow her cue.
“Yeah, what’s it to you?” you asked, the kind of tone you’d use with your own co-workers who linger around your desk, trying to copy your programs.
“Considering Gideon’s my boss, I’d like to know why you’re investigating his finances,” Spencer said, doing his best to exude confidence, but he didn’t quite manage it, his hands going to his pockets, and your cool stare makes him swallow. Oh, he’s going to be fun to play with.
“We’re just evaluating whether Gideon’s gonna ask Penelope here on a date,” you said, just to mess with him and keeping a straight face even as she shoved your shoulder, and he choked, his neck flushing red. “Oh, maybe he’ll take you to his cabin,” you add, looking at Penelope excitedly. “A couple glasses of wine, a nice dinner, light some candles—”
“I’m gonna shove this keyboard so far down your throat, all that’s going to come out are bit strings!” she cried, trying to clap a hand over your mouth as you laugh and by the time you look back at the door, he’s gone. “I think you’ve scarred him for life,” Penelope sighed, exasperated, smacking your shoulder hard and making you wince.
“Ow, no sense of humour, any of you,” you grumbled, rubbing your shoulder, and actually getting down to do the work you’re supposed to be doing. You like Penelope’s company, more than the kind of guys you’re surrounded by in counterintelligence.
You’re supposed to be parsing through online communication on a website potentially linked to a terrorist organisation in Somalia, waiting for your decryption program to finish running it, walking into Penelope’s den to find her pulling her apart her CPU, muttering to herself. “All work and no play?” she demanded at her array of screens, “All work and no play, huh? You just wait till I’m through with you!”
“Um… you good?” You asked, leaning against her doorway. You haven’t seen Penelope this angry since she’d been called into work the night they had tickets to the Pixies’ reunion tour.
“Someone had the nerve to run a blackhat op into my computers!” she cried, looking at you, red streaks in her crinkle-cut hair. “They hacked me, okay? But you can bet your sweet ass, I will find them. I've got honey pot farms hidden behind UML kernel data packets and a first generation honeynet I personally programmed. My snort logs list every visitor, every server request, every keystroke on this entire network. If I have to back-hack his I.P. all the way to the frickin'stone age, I will find this son of a bitch, okay?” As angry as she sounded, her blue eyes were welling up and Somalia was forgotten as you pulled your own chair up.
“What can I do?” you asked and her phone rang, Penelope groaning as she stood up, jamming the answer button with the back of her screwdriver.
“What?” she demanded irritably.
“I need a rundown on a guy,” Morgan said and you frowned — as far as you knew, the rest of the team was on vacation, what with him telling everyone on the floor, including yours, about all fun he was gonna have at some Jamaican resort in Montego Bay.
“No,” Penelope said, shortly.
“No?” he asked and your hand came up to Penelope’s elbow.
“I can take care of this,” you offer and it seemed to take some steam off of your best friend. “Talk to me, Morgan,” you said, rolling your chair over and setting up on your own laptop. “What do you need?”
“Run a Frank Giles for me, would you, sweet thing?” Morgan asked and you huff, pulling up your deep background check program to run his name.
“Call me sweet thing again and I’ll feed your fingers to Clooney,” you replied, hearing him chuckle over the landline.
“My bad,” he said. “What do you have for me?”
“Hey, I’m working on a CPU half my usual size, gimme a minute, will you?” you replied.
“You’re a hard woman to please.”
“No fun in making it easy, is it?” you quip back as your results get back to you. “Frank Giles left Jamaica last night on the red eye. He flew to Florida, then got onto another flight to Virginia,” you relay to him.
“He’s from Virginia?” Morgan asked, confused.
“He’s got an address in Arlington,” you continued. “Long criminal record too; murder, robbery, sexual assault.”
“A guy was murdered in the resort here, head was cut off,” Morgan explained to you. “What are the chances you can find him for me?”
“Please, this stuff is child’s play,” you retorted, glancing down at Penelope on the floor. “This is what you do all day? Look people up?”
Penelope looked up from the floor at you. “Hey, I’m in a very vulnerable position right now!” You suppress a snort, working on ID’ing the victim.
“The room’s rented to a man named—”
“Marty Harris,” you said. “Also classic bad guy, fetish burglar and registered child sex offender. TSA flagged him, he was travelling with Giles.” You flex your fingers, cracking your knuckles, your blood not quite up.
“Alright, thanks, mama,” he said before hanging up and you scrunch your nose at being called that. Derek liked to flirt, and despite your best efforts, he’s not averse to being threatened. You spend the rest of the day backhacking the guy, Frank Giles on the back of you mind.
“How’d he get in, anyway?” you asked, frowning at your laptop. It’s not as well-kitted as your cubicle downstairs, but you can’t leave Penelope in the lurch like this.
“I don’t know,” Penelope cried, “all I know is I was in Camelot with Sir Kneighf again—”
“At work?” you asked, looking up instantly and the colour leeched from Penelope’s face. “Pen, no!”
“It was my personal laptop, I didn’t think—”
“Your laptop doesn’t have the same security, Pen, Christ!”
“I know that!” she yelled, her face fierce. “God, you don’t think I feel horrible enough already, and I can already see Hotch’s face when he finds out—”
“Hey, no, I’m sorry, listen,” you say automatically, scooting forward to comfort her. “Listen, it’s gonna be okay, alright? Whoever this guy is, he took advantage of you, alright? That’s what these guys do. They wait around until they find the weak link and strike.”
“I’m the weak link!” Penelope cried and you tutted, putting your laptop away and hugging her.
“Hey, no, you’re not,” you insisted, taking her glasses off so they wouldn’t get in the way. “You know how many cases these guys have solved because of you? How many lives they could’ve lost if you hadn’t found the right guy or the right address in time? Don’t beat yourself up over one mistake.”
And that’s exactly how clear you make yourself when you hear Gideon call her stupid — standing right by her side when she tells the entire team the truth. You’re not part of the team, Gideon’s not your supervisor, and it’s the first time you’ve met most of them face to face really, which makes it easier to stand your ground.
“You’d all be lost without Garcia’s technical skills, and you know it,” you said, defending your friend. “So, yeah, she made a mistake and the hacker got into your personnel files. It doesn’t explain how he knows all the other details of your life. It doesn’t explain how he knew about Morgan and Greenaway going to Jamaica, or your appreciation of the Chicago White Sox , who, by the way, haven’t won a championship since 1959 until last year.” There’s a moment of silence where Gideon just blinks at you, Elle suddenly very interested in her fist as her brow raised, and Aaron’s gaze bored into you. Spencer didn’t know whether to look at you or Gideon; you with your firm gaze and fingers curled around Penelope’s, or Gideon with his worn out expression.
“So, how did he find all this out?” Aaron said eventually, and the heat passes as they all move on. You glanced at Penelope, nodding subtly as she mouthed a ‘thank you’. Elle caught your gaze as you started to leave the profilers to their work, dimples forming on her sleepy face as she tried not to smile.
You have your own work pending, writing up a program to feed the decrypted communication through that would flag recurring keywords, in Penelope’s den still. This close to evening, your supervisor wouldn’t care anyway. The hours you put in excuse you from actually having to sit in your cubicle. With the only two seats in the den occupied, Spencer was pacing behind Penelope who was busy backhacking Sir Kneighf.
“The card we got of Nellie Fox was from 1963,” he was saying to noone in particular, and you had the feeling he just didn’t want to be in that conference room alone, but his pacing was starting to get on your nerves. “But the team that Gideon’s fond of is actually the 1959 team.” You shared a glance at Penelope, slipping into telepathy.
“Can’t we get rid of him?”
“Not without making a mess,” she said with her face and you repressed a sigh as he kept going.
“So the code has to be from a book from 1963,” he said, twisting on his heel to face Penelope. “Is there a database that lists all the books published in a given year?”
“Individual publishers have lists, I don't think there's anything like a master one,” Penelope answered him. “Plus it would depend upon the year, because the further back you go, the less likely there'll be any database at all.
“And definitely not for 1963,” you piped up, Penelope nodding along and Spencer looked at you with a furrowed brow, then back to Penelope, leaning over her shoulder.
“Could you do me a favor? Type something into a search engine for me?” Spencer asked and Penelope scowled at him.
“I’m kind of in the middle of something,” she replied and as if you could tell the work would be shifted onto you, you attempted to surreptitiously leave, but Penelope’s hand latched around your wrist. “Weren’t you just wishing you had something to do?”
“No,” you tried in vain, “No, my program’ll be done in a couple of—” Neither of them were falling for it and Spencer was starting to pull out this puppy-faced look and you groaned. How did you keep getting in these situations? “Fine, put your face away,” you said irritably, sitting back down. “What am I Yahoo-ing?”
"Never would it be night, but always clear day to any man's sight,” Spencer recited, watching you type rapidly.
“It’s from ‘The Parliament of—”
“Fowls!” Spencer exclaimed, “I knew I’d heard it somewhere.” It was too late in the day for you to handle his excitement with any kind of grace, sharing a look with Penelope who simply shrugged, like he was always like this. “Yeah, yeah, Chaucer, my… My mom used to read it to me,” he said, not quite meeting anyone’s gaze… like he was ashamed of something. “It’s widely considered the world’s first Valentine’s poem.”
“Your mom read you Valentine's poems? Hello, therapy,” Penelope muttered under her breath and you smacked her arm playfully, Spencer too deep in thought to see it.
“The poem’s not long enough for it to be the book,” he said, still looking puzzled. “The code we got referred to it having at least 283 pages—”
“And it’s not from 1963, either,” you added dryly.
“Something published in 1963. A butterfly indigenous to Great Britain, so something from Great Britain,” he said to himself and you furrow your brow.
“Fowles,” you said, and it was like everything made sense. “With an e, Fowles. He wrote a book, The Collector, in the 60s,” you kept going, Penelope looking at you with an impressed gaze, Spencer hanging onto your every word. “It kind of matches your case. This lonely young man kidnaps a young art student and holds her in his cellar at his farmhouse, keeps her there for years, and she assumes he’s going to torture her or sexually assault her, but he’s waiting for her to fall in love with him, and he’s convinced she will, and by the end, she falls ill and dies. When he finds her, he wants to commit suicide, but he reads her diary and realises she never loved him so he buries her and the book ends with him thinking about abducting another girl.”
“Oh my God,” Penelope gasped, looking horrified.
“Yeah, it wasn’t great,” you replied, frowning and scrunching your nose. “The whole thing was in first person. It was weird to read.”
“Right, that’s the icky part,” Penelope said, dryly.
“We need to check it with the code, and it has to be the exact edition he has,” Spencer interrupted before either of you got side-tracked and you rolled your eyes, going into your bag to pull out your e-reader, connecting it to your laptop. Spencer hovered right above your shoulder, so close you could hear his breathing, feeling warmth flutter against your cheek, and you cleared your throat.
“Ever heard of personal space?” you asked irritably, turning to look at him and he looked back down at you, barely an inch between you two, and then he stammered out an apology as he stepped back, all while Penelope smirked at the two of you. While the book transferred, you worked on quickly creating an algorithm that would search and flag the given word on a given line, on a given page, and despite yourself, you’re a little impressed when Spencer recites each number from the code that the unsub had sent Haley.
“Show off,” you muttered under your breath as he quickly wrote the resulting poem onto a legal pad in chicken scratch writing.
The path to the end began at his start. To find her, first calm her long broken heart. She sits in a window, with secrets from her knight.
“Well, that isn’t medieval,” you said and Spencer frowned at it, scanning it over and over again. Without another word, he darted out of the office, leaving both of you bewildered. “You were right, he is an odd duck,” you murmured, staring at the open door.
“Should we follow him?” Penelope asked, looking at you.
“I’ve put off my own work long enough,” you said, shaking her head and Penelope nodded, understanding.
“Thanks. For sticking around,” she said softly and you smiled at her faintly.
“Always.”
You should go home. Shower. Sleep. But Elle’s been shot and you can’t leave, not in good conscience. You hate yourself for being this sentimental, this soft but that’s what Penelope does to you. She softens you, makes you kinder, makes you laugh. If it had been you who had lost a teammate, Penelope would have been glued to your side.
So you stick around, blinking sleep out of your eyes, settled in the BAU’s kitchen with a cup of coffee and a bagel, both stale, looking for coded messages. Not for the first time, you think about where you could be. Coding for Apple, or Microsoft. Developing software in Silicon Valley. They don’t have stale bagels in Silicon Valley.
You stretched uncomfortably in your chair, gaze flitting up to the conference room, the bullpen stretched out between you and the BAU. You’re not a people person, or you weren’t before you met Penelope. You preferred the solitude of your cubicle, or you thought you had. The very virtue of your profession had left you without other female friends, and the ones you had before this job had drifted away. Counter-intelligence was by its very nature an isolating field, and Penelope was one of the few who didn’t mind your secrets. But seeing this team rally, even if Gideon had yelled at her, seeing them work together, as irritating as it had felt in the moment, filled you with a sense of loneliness. All you had was Penelope, but you weren’t the only one she had. Far from it.
That’s what prompts you to approach the older woman sitting alone in the conference room with her journal. Sitting by the window. “Hi,” you said meekly, stepping into the room, clocking the visitor’s badge on the woman’s sweater. She’s wearing a pale flowery dress, her bag sandwiched between her side and elbow. Her hair was short, like a boy’s, and blonde, and yet, something about her painfully reminds you of Spencer. Something around the eyes and the shape of her face.
“Is it lunch time yet?” she asked without looking up and you frowned, looking out the window to see the sprawl of Quantico blanketed in the dark blue of the night.
“Uh, no, not yet,” you said, sounding lame even to yourself. God, this was such a mistake.
“I'm lecturing everyone in Tristan and Iseult. They're all gathering in my room after lunch.” the woman said, looking up at you, and you offered a smile.
“Which version?” you asked, pulling up a chair as the woman gave you an impressed look.
“Malory’s. Beroul’s seemed too long to assign. You’ve read it?” she asked and you shook your head.
“Not in its entirety,” you replied somberly. “Not a lot of downtime with my job. But I know the gist of it.”
“Shame,” the woman said, letting out a sigh. “I always say, the best way to read a book is to listen to someone read it.”
That’s when Reid rushes in, relaxed until he sees you sitting in front of his mother, his temple creasing, and you raised your hand, waving it at him with a sheepish smile. “We uh, we found Rebecca,” he said, looking between you and his mom, two worlds colliding sooner than he would’ve liked. “You saved her life, Mom,” he said softly.
“Who’s Rebecca?” she asked and his smile evaporated, glancing at you for explanation but you shake you head.
“She’s not lucid,” you murmured, watching him swallow, his cheer dissipating.
“Oh,” he said quietly, blinking as he processed it, looking at Diana as she continued to write, and you stood up to leave. “Thanks,” he murmured to you as you walked off.
“I didn’t do anything,” you said, brow creasing and he looked at you with a boyishness that stops your breath.
“Thanks anyway,” he insisted and you nodded curtly.
“Elle okay?” you asked.
“She will be.” So you pat his arm and leave him with his mom, shaking off the fondness you’d started to feel for him.
download these two then setup paint studio
right click one of the icons after its done and click “file location”
copy the crack files into the main paint studio file then click on the crack.exe till it says ok
open paint studio
I don't have the mind to write a ff right now but i have a tiny blurb in my head i need to release, so if anyone wanna use it in a work then please do and tag me!
Spencer x reader
Reader: "why don't you talk with me about this?"
Spencer: "this has nothing to do with you... I don't need your pity okay?!"
R: "pity? You think i pity you? Well i don't spencer! I want to be there for you - help you! Be the person you talk to about such things! Because that's what a relationship is about! That's what Love is about!
theartofmadeline
yousharknotpass
