blaysreid

[blaysreid]

Hello !! I LOVEEEE your writing and I was wondering if you ever did part 2’s on your stories? I just read “unrequited love” and I neeeed more !! If not totally understand:))

Hello!! THANK YOU SM HEHEHE I APPRECIATE U

and to answer your question yes I am working on part 2s for a few things and unrequited love is one of them !! Thank you for reading bae

[blaysreid]

This might be a weird question lol. But, how old are you? If It’s too personal, I’m sorry and you don’t have to answer. I was just curious! 🧐

Haha it's okay! I've said previously I'm 18 :) turning 19 this dec!

[blaysreid]

hi, sorry, I just wanted to ask, and this is prolly going to sound super dumb, are authors chill with people commenting on their old fanfics and stuff?

just want to make sure that I'm not inadvertently being annoying

I believe I speak for most authors when I say they’ll never be annoyed by any positive comments from their readers

authors, reblog if you love receiving new comments on your old works

[blaysreid]

GRADES DON'T DEFINE YOU - S.R

pairing = spencer + uni!reader

summary = after a tough exam, reader needs comfort. Spencer tries to help with facts but realizes what she really needs is love and he’s right there to hold her and remind her she’s amazing.

A/N = college haunts me even during summer... check out my masterlist if you enjoyed ! :p

The room was quiet except for the faint sound of your breathing, uneven and soft. You sat curled up on the couch, your shoulders trembling slightly but you said nothing. The paper in your hand, marked with red ink and a simple, crushing word was folded carefully but refused to be hidden.

Spencer hovered nearby, watching you with those sharp, curious eyes full of worry. He wanted to reach out, to do something, but he wasn’t sure what exactly. You had always been the strong one between you two, and seeing you so broken felt unfamiliar and fragile.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer said gently, voice low and careful. “I can see that this really hurts.”

You knew he didn't know what you were feeling. He never failed an exam in his entire life, he can read all about it but nothing compares to being in that place yourself.

You blinked a few times, fighting the sting behind your eyes, but no words came.

Spencer shifted closer and sat down beside you, the leather creaking softly under his weight. His hands fiddled with the corner of a book he’d been reading earlier, his mind racing.

“I’ve been thinking about this exam result" he said quietly, “and from a statistical perspective, one failure doesn’t define your entire academic future. Actually, studies show that students who encounter setbacks like this, but then adjust their study strategies, have a significantly higher chance of success later on.”

He paused, searching your face, hoping this knowledge might offer some comfort.

You looked down, eyes wet but silent. Your chest rose and fell with a slow, heavy sadness, not yet ready to speak, not even ready to let yourself believe the facts.

“The overall grade point average isn’t determined by any single test." Spencer continued, voice steady but softer now. “And there are countless examples and people like Einstein, or Edison who failed repeatedly before achieving success. It’s… it’s perfectly normal to experience failure.”

He glanced at you, suddenly aware of the distance in your eyes.

“Would you like me to… explain more? Maybe some strategies to recover or how to approach your studies differently? I can explain psychology to you in a way that's more understandable and less complex than the textbooks."

Your lips pressed together, but you remained still. The tears welled up again and spilled silently down your cheeks.

Spencer’s brow knit together in concern. He wanted to fix this, to make the pain stop, but the numbers weren’t reaching you.

After a long moment, he sighed. A deep, almost weary sound that wasn’t typical for him.

“I’m sorry.." he said quietly, almost to himself. “Sometimes I forget that facts and figures aren’t enough and sometimes you just need someone to be here.”

He reached out slowly, tentatively, and took your hand in his.

Your tears slowed, and after a few seconds, you shifted closer and leaned into him, resting your head lightly against his shoulder.

For the first time, your quiet sadness met Spencer’s warmth directly, not through words or stats, but just through the simple, human connection you both needed.

Spencer’s hand was steady, warm against your trembling fingers. He could feel how fragile you were, like you might shatter with the slightest pressure. His usual instinct was to analyze, to explain, to fix but right now, none of that mattered.

“I’m sorry I’m not… great at this,” he said softly, voice almost breaking. “Sometimes I think I can make everything okay with logic and facts. But I’m learning… sometimes that’s not what people need... Especially my girlfriend"

You lifted your head slowly, looking up at him with tired eyes that still shimmered with unshed tears. Your voice came out small, cracked, but clear: “You don’t have to be perfect, Spence. You don’t have to fix me. You're already the best boyfriend I could've ever asked for..”

He smiled gently, the hint of a tear glistening in his eye. “I just want to be here for you.”

Without another word, you pulled him into a quiet hug, tentative at first, then more urgent. You needed to feel grounded, to know you weren’t alone in this.

Spencer’s arms wrapped carefully around your shoulders, holding you close. His heart was pounding, his mind quiet for once, focused only on the person trembling against him.

“You’re so strong,” he whispered, voice steady and full of admiration. “Even when you feel broken, you keep going. I’m so proud of you.”

You pressed your cheek to his chest, breathing in the steady rhythm of his heart. The weight of failure didn’t disappear, but it softened because you were here, together.

You stayed nestled in Spencer’s arms, your body slowly relaxing as the storm of tears began to calm. His hands held you gently but firmly, like a steady anchor in the middle of your swirling sadness.

After a moment, Spencer lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes, his own shining with quiet devotion.

“You know,” he whispered, voice thick with feeling, “one test doesn’t measure who you truly are. It doesn’t capture your kindness, your strength, or your endless compassion. It doesn’t see your laughter, the way you care about people, or how you never give up even when things get really hard.”

Your breath hitched, and the small smile that broke through your tears made Spencer’s heart ache in the best way.

“I’m so proud of you,” he said, voice barely louder than a breath. “Not for grades, or scores, but for you. For every moment you show up, even when it’s tough. For all the love and light you bring to the world.. Especially to me.”

You blinked away tears and leaned your forehead against his, the warmth between you growing deeper.

“Thank you, Spencer,” you whispered back, voice thick but full of something like hope. “I needed to hear that. I needed you.”

He kissed your temple softly, lingering just there, like a promise.

“I’ll always be here,” he said, his words wrapping around you like a blanket. “Not to fix everything, but to hold you when it’s hard. To remind you how amazing you are. To love you exactly as you are.”

You pulled him into another hug, this time slower, sweeter, as if trying to memorize the way he felt against you.

In that quiet room, with your heart beating against his, the world outside didn’t matter. You had each other. And for now, that was everything.

tags = @summerobertsvariant @tokalotashiz @book-nerd-fan-girl

[blaysreid]

Hey im not sure if my request went through, I gave you an ask about spencer and reader working in the bau together and she gets hurt so Spencer is all worried and mad at everyone while she's just trying to reassure him, if you don't want to write this its okay!

Hii anon! I've got the request in my inbox!

But I have a few more before yours and I've been posting drafts from my notes that's been sitting there since last year 💔 then I'll start posting my new works I've wrote last month and start planning the requests I have!

I'll try to get through yours as quickly as I can:) sorry for the wait !!

[blaysreid]

HI BLAIRR

just wanted to say that I love the way you write Spencer so accurately to how he is in Criminal Minds!

HI ANON! Thank you I appreciate you 🙏 I try very hard to write him the same way he is presented in the series to make it the best for you guys :)

[blaysreid]

your profile picture is so adorable

YAY THANK YOU! He's truly mesmerising in every possible way 🥹

[blaysreid]

THROUGH SICKNESS AND HEALTH

pairing = sick!spencer + fem!reader

summary = When Spencer comes down with a cold, it’s your turn to return the care he once gave you. Complete with tea, forehead kisses, and way too many blankets. Sick days have never felt so sweet.

part one

The first sign something was wrong wasn’t the sneezing, it was the silence.

Reid, who usually filled the apartment with quiet ramblings about neurochemistry or obscure literary facts while making tea, was dead silent when you came in. No books open, no kettle whistling, no mumbled monologue about the philosophical implications of Edgar Allan Poe.

Just a lump under a blanket on the couch, hair poking out, sniffling quietly. A very pitiful, very sick genius lump.

“Spence?” you said softly, already toeing your shoes off, the worry tightening in your chest.

A groan came from under the blanket. “Mm… do not approach. Quarantine advised. I may be contagious.”

You stifled a laugh as you padded over. “Too late. I’ve already breathed your air. What’s going on, Dr. Reid? You dying?”

A mop of sweaty curls and flushed cheeks peeked out. “The likelihood is low. Statistically, the common cold lasts seven to ten days, and I’m currently on day three. But the subjective misery index is a ten out of ten.”

“Poor baby,” you said, already kneeling beside the couch, brushing damp hair off his forehead. “You’ve got a fever.”

He leaned into your touch like it was the first good thing that had happened to him all week. “101.2. I checked. Multiple times. To be sure. Also, I charted the progression. Want to see?”

You smiled. “Let’s skip the fever graph for now. Have you eaten?”

“No. Food is… unappealing. Even applesauce.”

You gasped. “That’s how I know it’s serious.”

Reid gave a weak nod. “Precisely.”

You pulled the blanket down a bit and kissed his warm forehead. “Alright, Dr. Doom, scoot over. I’m making tea and soup. And then we’re watching old movies and you’re going to let me take care of you.”

He blinked slowly, lashes heavy. “This feels like déjà vu.”

You tilted your head. “Hmm?”

He coughed once into the blanket, then sniffled. “When you had the flu three months ago. I brought you mint tea and read The Secret Garden out loud while you were half conscious.”

You chuckled. “You did. You gave me a lecture on how fever dreams affect REM sleep.”

“I just wanted to help,” he said, voice rough and quieter now, like he might fall asleep mid-sentence. “I hated seeing you miserable.”

You leaned down and pressed your lips gently to his. “Well, now it’s your turn. I’m gonna pamper the hell out of you.”

“Statistically, TLC improves recovery by at least thirty percent,” he mumbled.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm. Especially when kisses are involved.”

You gave him three quick kisses. One on each cheek and one on the nose.

He smiled, all soft and sleepy and full of love. “I might milk this a little.”

“You’d better.”

As you got up to make soup, Reid sank deeper into the blanket, murmuring something about oxytocin levels and immune response. But you caught his last sleepy words before they faded into sniffly silence.

“You’re my favorite medicine.”

Reid dozed on the couch while you moved around the kitchen, the quiet rustle of pots and the soft click of the stove filling the warm apartment. You’d managed to coax him into taking some medicine and now he was swaddled like a sleepy burrito, occasionally sniffling or mumbling something about “circadian rhythm disruptions.”

You stirred the soup and peeked over the counter. His head was turned slightly to the side, lips parted just a bit, lashes resting against the tops of flushed cheeks. You didn’t think it was possible for someone to look both miserable and adorable at the same time, but here he was.

You tiptoed over with the tea first- chamomile, because you remembered what he made you drink when you were too congested to breathe properly. Back then, he sat on the edge of your bed and explained how “apigenin in chamomile binds to GABA receptors in the brain, producing a calming effect,” and then you passed out to the sound of his voice like it was the most soothing thing in the world.

Now it was your turn.

“Spence,” you whispered, nudging his shoulder gently.

His eyes blinked open, slow and confused. “Am I hallucinating, or do I smell honey?”

You grinned and sat next to him. “Not hallucinating. It’s in the tea. Chamomile with a little lemon and a lot of love.”

He blinked again. “That’s… incredibly sweet. From a flavor and romantic perspective.”

You held the mug for him as he took a careful sip. “See? No poison. Just TLC.”

“Mmm.” He leaned his head against your shoulder once he’d finished, eyes fluttering shut again. “You’re too good to me.”

“You read me The Secret Garden when I was dripping sweat and delusional,” you said, brushing his hair back again. “This is nothing.”

“I also changed your sheets and put your hair up because you were too weak to lift your arms,” he mumbled proudly.

“You did. And I cried and said you were the love of my life.”

“You were also high on cold medicine.”

“Still true.”

He smiled, leaning closer into you like your presence physically soothed him. After a moment, he murmured, “Did you know… physical affection during illness can reduce cortisol levels significantly? Which boosts immune function. And oxytocin helps regulate body temperature.”

“Really?” you said, feigning surprise. “So you’re saying I have to cuddle you? For scientific reasons?”

“For science,” he nodded seriously, voice all croaky and stuffy.

“Well, I’d never argue with science.”

You guided him into your arms, his body warm and heavy against yours, legs tangled with the blanket and arms sloppily winding around your waist. His head tucked beneath your chin, curls tickling your neck.

“You smell like VapoRub,” you whispered into his hair.

“You smell like soup,” he mumbled back.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He grunted in sleepy agreement. “I hypothesize that you love me.”

You smiled, pressing kiss after kiss into his curls, cheeks, and temple.

“Hypothesis confirmed.”

masterlist

TAG = @summerobertsvariant @book-nerd-fan-girl @tokalotashiz

[blaysreid]

FOLDED WORDS - S.R

pairing = shy!spencer + cafeowner!reader

summary = You work at a quiet little café tucked inside a bookstore. Spencer Reid is your shy, book-loving regular. One paper crane, a few handwritten notes, and a shared love of poetry later… he’s not just your favorite customer anymore.

You first noticed him because of his scarf.

Long, tan, kind of fraying at the ends. The type someone keeps for too long because it feels like a friend. He’d walked in on a rainy Thursday, droplets clinging to his curls, glasses fogged up, and asked, so softly you barely heard him for a black coffee with oat milk.

No sugar, just a napkin and a book tucked under his arm: The Bell Jar.

You wanted to ask what he thought of it. But he looked like the kind of person who felt things deeply, and you didn’t want to pry.

So instead, you slipped a paper crane beside his cup. You always left little origami shapes for new customers. Most people smiled politely and left them behind.

He tucked it in his book like a bookmark.

And came back the next day.

And the next.

It became a quiet routine. Always around 3:12 PM. Always with a book. Always sitting in the armchair by the corner window, where the sunlight fell in patches and the ivy from the outside wall snuck through the crack in the glass.

You started writing tiny notes under his cup sleeves.

Hope the book’s good today.

Your scarf looks cozy.

If you like Eliot, you’ll love Plath.

The fourth day, he left one back.

Folded neatly under his empty cup If you like Plath, you might like Rainer Maria Rilke.

You stared at it for a full minute, smiling like a dork.

By the second week, the notes became habit.

Little poems. Random facts.

You learned his name was Spencer.

That he didn’t technically work nearby, but preferred this spot because it was “quiet and well-curated.”

That his favorite book as a kid was A Wrinkle in Time, and he still didn’t quite understand why.

He learned that you liked Chopin, especially when it rained. He told you he preferred Mozart, especially on the plane. You told him your dream was to own a piano café. That you always wore mismatched socks on purpose because it “kept life unpredictable.”

And Spencer never felt he could relate to anyone as much as he does to you. So he told you about his mismatched socks and his purpose being "lucky".

You still hadn’t heard his voice beyond his coffee order.

Until one day. A Tuesday when he came in late, soaked from the rain. Hair curled into soft chaos. Shirt clinging slightly to his chest under a cardigan. And he looked at you like he was about to say something brave.

“I, uh…” He fiddled with the strap of his satchel. “I brought you something.”

You blinked. “Oh?”

He pulled out a book. Old, with a cracked spine and handed it to you.

“Letters to a Young Poet.”

Your name was written neatly on a sticky note on the cover. And below it Page 47.

Your fingers flipped fast.

The underlined passage read:

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart… Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

Your breath caught.

When you looked up, Spencer was staring at you wide-eyed and nervous, like he couldn’t believe he actually did it.

You smiled. Shyly looking into his eyes. "I think I’m going to need your number now, Bookstore Boy.”

His laugh was soft. Hopeful. He pushed his glasses up with one hand and said, “Only if I get to see your sock collection sometime.”

A/N = lowkey really want to make this into a mini series pls don't let this flop 💔

masterlist and tags

tags = @summerobertsvariant @tokalotashiz

[blaysreid]

HELLO! I'm sorry for the inconvenience but if you want to be tagged for any of my posts I made a form for you guys. This will just make it easier for me to keep up with and takes you like 2 minutes 🙏

You can access it here !

Unrequited love , cover story and burning evidence are currently my only ones I'm thinking of continuing but if there's something else I made space for u guys to lmk 🙏

[blaysreid]

PSYCH & CUDDLE - S.R

pairing = nerd!spencer + psychology!reader

summary = Reader struggles to study psychology, Spencer’s complex explanations only make her want to give up but his warm hugs, playful teasing, and gentle kisses make everything feel a little easier. Together, they navigate exams, flashcards, and late night cuddles, proving that love is the best kind of motivation!

A/N = personally imagined post prison reid 🤤 but any is lowkey so perfect. He's always gonna stay a lil nerd about his passions!

The textbook was open.

Spencer’s lecture had started.

And your brain had already checked out.

You were in his lap, the soft fleece throw blanket tucked around both of you like a shared secret. He had started off with good intentions, gently brushing his fingers through your hair while you highlighted chapter three of Psychological Theories in Practice. But then you had gone full gremlin.

“I don’t get this,” you muttered for the fifth time, slumping back against his chest dramatically. “Why does this even matter?”

Spencer didn’t even flinch. “Because understanding Erikson’s stages of psychosocial development is foundational if you want to”

“I’m gonna cry.” You tugged the blanket up over your face.

He chuckled quietly, arms wrapping tighter around your waist. “You said that ten minutes ago when we were on Piaget.”

“That’s because Piaget is worse” you whined. “All these old men with their stages and their schemas and their cognitive maps make me wanna walk straight into the id and disappear forever.”

“That’s Freud actually.”

“See?! There’s too many of them”

Spencer leaned down to nuzzle against your cheek, his voice still way too calm for your level of distress. “It’s not that bad. Erikson believed we go through eight stages in life, each centered around a key conflict. You’re in stage six right now, intimacy versus isolation. You’re developing deep emotional connections.”

“I’m literally developing a migraine” you said, head thunking back against his shoulder. “What stage is I want to kiss my boyfriend and go to sleep instead of study?”

Spencer tilted his head, pretending to ponder. “Hmm. That’s probably stage nine. Avoidance versus seduction”

You snorted and finally turned to look at him. “You just made that up.”

“I’m a doctor” he said, raising his brows. “I can do that.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “You’re a PhD, not a medical doctor.”

“Still counts” he said smugly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Now, if you can tell me the difference between Erikson and Freud, I’ll reward you.”

“Is the reward food?”

“No.”

“Is it a nap?”

“No.”

You shifted in his lap until your noses brushed. “Is it… kisses?”

A faint smile crept over his face, soft and helpless. “Possibly.”

“Okay.” You sat up straighter, suddenly invested in the conversation. “So. Freud is all dreams and sex and unconscious desire, and Erikson is the one who thinks I need to develop trust or something, which is hilarious because I have trust issues.”

Spencer tried not to laugh, but it escaped anyway, quiet, breathy, low. “That’s actually right.”

“Wait, seriously?” You blinked at him.

He nodded, genuinely impressed. “Trust versus mistrust is Erikson’s first stage, typically formed in infancy. It lays the groundwork for how safe we feel in relationships.”

You stared at the ceiling. “Well, damn. Maybe he was onto something.”

“Maybe you’re smarter than you think.”

You flopped dramatically again, letting your head fall into the crook of his neck. “Or maybe I just like when you talk all soft and nerdy while I pretend to listen.”

“You do pretend very well” he murmured, smiling against your temple.

“I really wasn’t paying attention to most of what you said” you admitted, cheek mushed against his shirt. “Your voice is too nice and your hands are too warm and I’m tired and I hate academia and I just want you to kiss me.”

Spencer leaned his head back on the couch, letting out a patient sigh. “You said you wanted to pass this class.”

“I do” you groaned. “But I also want you to spoon feed me the knowledge while I rest in peace.”

“That’s not how learning works.”

“That’s not how love works” you said dramatically, flopping onto your back which only tangled you deeper into his lap. The textbook slid to the floor with a dull thunk.

Spencer looked down at you, legs tangled with his, arms all askew, eyes blinking up at him with that defiant pout, and he melted.

“Okay” he said, giving in, “but if I kiss you, you’re not allowed to pretend you suddenly understand everything and then fall asleep.”

You blinked slowly. “That’s literally my entire plan.”

He looked like he was going to argue, but you tilted your head up and kissed him before he could.

Soft. Warm. Lazy. Like a sigh in the form of lips.

You felt his hand slide around the back of your neck, the other tracing slow, absentminded shapes against your spine. He always kissed you like he had spent years waiting to. Like time was irrelevant when you were in his arms. Like the world could wait.

When you finally pulled back, dazed and flushed, you whispered, “I understand nothing.”

Spencer smiled, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “I know.”

You curled into him like a cat, legs tangled again, head resting just beneath his chin. “Will you wake me up in twenty minutes so I can try again?”

“I’ll wake you in thirty” he said, already tucking the blanket higher.

“And you’ll quiz me after?”

“Mmhmm.”

You yawned. “Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“I still hate Erikson.”

He laughed quietly into your hair. “That makes two of us.”

And with your textbook on the floor, your arms wrapped around him, and his hand steady on your back, you finally let yourself drift into sleep, intimacy versus isolation be damned.

An hour later you woke up to the sound of a highlighter cap being clicked. Repeatedly.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Annoyingly rhythmic. Intentionally loud.

You cracked one eye open. Spencer was sitting next to you now, legs folded beneath him on the couch, your psychology textbook back in his lap. His hair was a little messier, his cardigan sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and the world’s most smug expression was plastered on his face.

“Sleep well?” he asked without looking up.

“No,” you grumbled, burying your face into a pillow. “My dreams were haunted by Erikson and his weird developmental hang-ups.”

“Good” he said cheerfully, finally glancing at you. “Because now we’re going to revisit them. I made flashcards.”

You sat up slowly. “You what?”

Spencer held up a small, perfectly stacked pile of handwritten index cards. Color-coded. Labeled. Numbered.

“You really are the villain of my academic career” you said.

“Thank you” he replied, handing you the first card. “Now. Stage one.”

You stared blankly at the card.

He raised an eyebrow. “If you say ‘migraine versus murder’ again, I will cancel all future kisses.”

Your jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.”

He shrugged. “Try me.”

You flopped back dramatically again, groaning into the pillow. “I changed my mind. I want Freud back. At least he was interestingly deranged.”

Spencer chuckled and leaned over you, voice softer now. “Come on. You can do this. Just twenty minutes. I even made a reward system.”

You sat up slowly, suspicious. “Reward system?”

“For every two stages you get right, you get a kiss. Five right and I’ll make you dinner.”

You blinked. “Okay that’s kind of hot.”

“I know” he said without shame. “Now stop stalling. Stage one. Erikson. Go.”

You squinted at the card. “Trust versus mistrust. Infancy. Developing secure attachment.”

Spencer smiled. “Perfect. See? You remember.”

“No I don’t. I’m just really motivated by pasta and affection.”

“That still counts as learning” he said, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “One down.”

You melted slightly, only to get immediately bombarded by card two.

“Stage two?”

“Autonomy versus…” You paused. “Shame? Doubt?”

“Correct” he said, eyes lighting up. “Early childhood. Independence development.”

“Wow. Okay. Give me another kiss. Stat.”

He obliged. Slowly, lazily, like you were something delicate he liked to take his time with.

“This is actually a really good study method” you mumbled against his lips.

“I know” he said again, far too pleased with himself.

The next ten minutes passed like that. Flashes of theory, snorts of laughter, wrong answers paired with exaggerated groans. Every right one got you another kiss, sometimes a forehead press, once even a tiny, dramatic slow clap from Spencer that made you threaten to throw the flashcards in the sink.

Eventually, you slumped against him again, defeated but proud. “Okay. So Erikson’s not the devil. Just slightly obsessed with identity crises.”

“And Freud?”

“Still a freak.”

Spencer nodded in approval. “I think you’re ready for the quiz tomorrow.”

You groaned and dropped your head into his lap again. “I’m not even halfway done with the readings. College is fake. Psychology is fake. Reality is fake.”

“Mmhm” he murmured, brushing his fingers through your hair again. “And yet, you remembered every stage.”

“Because of the kisses. If I fail, I’m blaming you for being too pretty.”

“If you fail, I’ll re-enroll and take the class with you.”

You peeked up. “You would?”

“In a heartbeat.”

You grinned. “God, you’re such a nerd.”

“And you love it.”

Unfortunately, you did.

And fortunately, you also had the world’s smartest, most patient, slightly annoying tutor-boyfriend in your corner. With flashcards.

tag list = @summerobertsvariant

[blaysreid]

STATIC - S.R

pairing = spencer + bau!gf!reader

summary = You get hurt, and he loves you more than ever but the fear and guilt crush him. He pulls away, leaving a silence neither knows how to break. When you ask if it’s still real, he admits he’s lost. You can't take his words and decide it's best for you to leave.

genre = hurt and angst

He doesn’t visit the hospital.

You’re barely conscious when the team brings you in. Sirens screaming. Blood drying against your skin. The world spins, then fades. Someone holds your hand. Maybe it’s JJ. Maybe Emily. You aren’t sure.

But it’s not Spencer.

You don’t see him until three days later.

You’re sitting up in bed, drowsy from painkillers, throat dry from worry. The door opens. He steps in like a shadow. Still in his work clothes. Still refusing to meet your eyes.

You smile, weak and relieved.

“Spence…”

He stops a full foot away from the bed. Doesn’t smile back.

“I just wanted to see if you were awake.” he says.

That’s all.

No hug. No handhold. No kiss to your forehead like he always did after bad cases.

Just silence.

You nod slowly. Try to reach for him. He takes a tiny step back.

“I’m okay,” you offer gently. “The bullet missed anything major. I’ll be home in a couple days.”

He nods once. Swallows hard.

“That’s good.”

Then, without another word, he turns around and walks out.

The door closes.

And all that’s left is the soft hiss of your IV and the hum of the monitor beside you.

It’s the first time you realize he’s scared of you now.

Not because he doesn’t love you.

Because he does.

And that’s the problem.

You’re home four days later.

The pain in your side throbs with every step, but it’s manageable. What isn’t manageable is the fact that Spencer hasn’t called. Not once. Not even a text.

Morgan and JJ visit. Garcia brings soup and a blanket with cats on it. They all ask the same thing: “How are you? How’s Reid?”

You lie.

You say he’s just processing.

You say it like it doesn’t hurt.

But you know Spencer. You know how he gets when he’s afraid. When something threatens the one thing he thinks he doesn’t deserve. He doesn’t cling. He retreats.

He doesn’t say “I love you.” He says nothing.

A week later, he finally comes over.

He brings tea, the same one he always makes you when you’re sick. The lemon blend you used to share under soft blankets in winter. He puts it down on the coffee table and doesn’t sit.

You stand across from him in silence.

“I thought you’d come sooner." you say.

He doesn’t answer.

You take a step forward.

“I almost died, Spence.”

“I know.”

“Then why do I feel like I lost you instead?”

His jaw tightens. His hands stay in his pockets.

“You didn’t lose me.”

“Then what is this? You won’t talk to me. You won’t look at me. I needed you, and you left.”

“I didn’t know what to do,” he says quietly.

You take another step.

“You could’ve just held my hand. That’s all. You could’ve held it.”

He finally looks at you. His eyes are wide. His voice shakes.

“If I touched you, I wouldn’t have let go.”

You freeze.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers. “So I left before it could happen.”

That’s when you realize what he’s doing.

He’s preparing to lose you. On purpose. So it won’t destroy him when the world takes you away.

But the worst part?

He’s already halfway gone in his head.

You see him every day.

At the bullpen. On the jet. In the elevator.

He’s always there, just like before. But it’s like someone turned the volume down on him. He doesn’t meet your eyes. He doesn’t sit beside you. He doesn’t offer you coffee or mumble facts under his breath or smile when you laugh.

He’s there, but not really.

He’s performing his job like nothing happened, but with you, he’s distant. Cautious. Like you’re a memory he’s trying to erase.

On the sixth day back, you catch him staring at you during a briefing. The second your eyes meet his, he looks away.

You snap that night.

You show up at his apartment. He opens the door like he’s surprised, like he forgot you still had a key.

“Hi,” you say.

He steps aside, silent.

The place is dark. Unwashed mug on the counter. Books unopened. Couch cushions flattened like he hasn’t been sleeping in a bed.

You turn to face him. “We work together, Spencer. You can’t just pretend I don’t exist.”

He leans back against the door. “I’m not pretending.”

“Then what is this?”

He doesn’t answer.

You take a step forward. “Do you not love me anymore?”

His eyes flutter shut. “I do.”

“Then why are you hurting me like this?”

“I can’t lose you again,” he says softly.

“You didn’t lose me.”

“I almost did.”

You go still.

“When they said it was bad, when I saw the blood on your shirt, I-" His voice breaks. “I thought I’d never get to say goodbye. I thought I’d never get to say I love you again. So now I’m stuck, because I still love you and I still almost lost you and I don’t know how to be near you without falling apart.”

You’re quiet.

Then you whisper, “We were happy, Spencer.”

He nods. “That’s the part that hurts most.”

You cross the space between you and press your forehead to his. “Then stop punishing both of us.”

He shakes under your hands.

He doesn’t answer.

He just closes his eyes and lets himself be held.

You stay the night.

Not in the way you used to. You don’t curl up with him under a blanket, legs tangled, laughter spilling into soft kisses. You sleep on the opposite side of the bed, both of you facing away, backs turned like bookends in different stories.

In the morning, you sit across from him at the table.

You watch him pour his coffee like it’s any other day. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. There’s a weight pressing down on the table. A silence that isn’t comfortable. It’s cold. Hollow. Familiar now.

You finally say it.

“Are we still together?”

He freezes.

You let the words hang there. Let them echo. Let them hurt.

Spencer doesn’t look up.

“I don’t know." he says.

You feel the crack in your chest stretch open. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t know how to be what you need right now. I don’t know how to stop being afraid of you dying. I don’t know how to be next to you without panicking. I love you, but it feels like that’s not enough.”

You stare at him, swallowing the sting behind your eyes. “So you’re not saying you don’t love me.”

“No,” he says, finally meeting your eyes. “I love you so much it makes me sick.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re already gone?”

He looks devastated. Like he doesn’t know.

You rise from the table slowly. You grab your bag. He stands too, panic starting to rise in his chest.

“Where are you going?”

“I think I need space." you say, voice gentle, not cruel.

Spencer reaches out but doesn’t touch you. His hand hovers. Then lowers. "Space?"

“Will you come back?” he asks.

You pause at the door.

“I don’t know,” you whisper.

You leave.

And for the first time in his life, Spencer Reid doesn’t have the answer.

tag list = @summerobertsvariant

[blaysreid]

THE SILENCE BETWEEN - S.R

pairing = selectivemutism!spencer + traumarecoveryspecialist!reader

summary = After trauma steals Spencer’s voice, you help him heal in silence. Through quiet moments and gentle care, he slowly finds his way back until the first words he speaks again. Being about you.

genre = hurt and comfort

The hospital lights did not buzz, but they hummed. That quiet, artificial noise you only notice when everything else has gone silent. You stood outside his room for a while, uncertain if knocking made sense when he could not answer.

The bullet had not hit him. That was not the trauma.

It was the fall. The sickening crack of his head against concrete. The blood pooling too fast. The moment he woke up with eyes wide open but no words on his tongue.

Reid was diagnosed with functional mutism, something the doctors said was likely temporary, but no one gave a timeline. Not that it mattered. The team had not seen him speak in five days. Not a sound. No mouth movements. Just blinking, nodding, sometimes flinching when someone asked him too many questions at once.

Hotch had asked you to be there. Not as an agent. Not as a profiler. Just a person. Someone calm. Someone who knew how to read the quiet.

You finally walked in.

Spencer sat by the window, knees drawn up to his chest like a child, forehead pressed against the glass. His hospital gown had been traded for loose sweats and a worn hoodie Emily brought from his apartment. His curls were still matted on one side where dried blood had been shaved away.

He did not turn when the door closed.

You did not say anything.

You just sat across from him, not in a chair but on the floor, mirroring his shape without crowding him. The silence between you stretched, but it was not tense. It was thick. A little awkward maybe, but not uncomfortable.

After a long while, he glanced over.

His eyes were a dull kind of wide. Not panicked. Not sad. Hollow. He looked at you like he was trying to find something familiar in your face and failing.

You smiled softly. “Hey.”

No response.

“I am not gonna talk a lot. Just letting you know I am here, okay?”

A slow blink. Then a tiny nod. Barely there.

You let the silence return.

The room was dim with late afternoon light. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeped steadily, but in here, everything felt distant. You reached into your bag and pulled out a notebook and pen, sliding it across the floor toward him. He did not reach for it. Just looked at it, then back at the window.

“Only if you want to,” you murmured.

Spencer moved eventually. Not to speak or write. Just to shift. He stretched one leg, lowered his arms. The movement was careful, like everything in him had to be re-learned.

You stayed. For hours. Until the room got darker and the nurse came in to check his vitals. He did not look at her. Barely flinched when the blood pressure cuff inflated.

But when she left, he glanced at you again.

This time, longer.

You gave him a small, open smile. “Want me to come back tomorrow?”

He stared.

Then nodded.

It was the first thing that felt like a yes.

The next morning, you brought books. Not for him to read. Not yet. But ones he liked. You knew he would see them and know what they meant. You placed them in a stack on the windowsill near his favorite chair and sat back down on the floor again.

He looked at you that day. Really looked. His gaze settled on your hands when you fidgeted with a hair tie. Your shoelaces when you crossed your legs. Your bag when it fell over and a granola bar rolled out.

You laughed a little at that.

“You want one?”

Spencer did not move. But the corner of his mouth lifted. Barely.

It was not a smile.

But it was something.

That night, back in your hotel, you practiced fingerspelling the alphabet. You did not know ASL. But something in you said maybe words were not coming back soon.

Maybe connection would have to find another way.

You tried spelling his name in the mirror. You looked ridiculous. You kept practicing.

Spencer did not speak the next day either. But when you signed hello, he stared at your hands for a long time, then nodded again.

Still quiet.

Still broken.

But less alone.

So you started keeping a schedule. Not a rigid one. Just soft structure. You came in at nine every morning. Sat in the same place. Brought the same tea. Spencer noticed every detail.

He had begun using the notebook.

Not often. A few words a day. Mostly simple things. Yes. No. Head hurts. Leave light on. The first sentence came on day eight. You found it scribbled faintly on the bottom corner of a page you had not seen him touch.

Do they think I am broken?

You did not answer right away. You just sat with it. Let it breathe in the space between you.

Then you picked up your own pen and wrote under it.

You are healing. Not broken.

Spencer stared at the paper for a long time. His thumb hovered above your words like he could trace them into his skin. Then he closed the notebook gently and leaned his head back against the window.

That night, you learned more ASL. Words that might matter to him. Tired. Afraid. Quiet. Safe. You fumbled through them, replaying the videos over and over until your hands stopped shaking.

The next day, you showed him. You signed safe and waited.

Spencer’s eyes followed every motion. His own hand lifted slowly, shakily, and formed a shaky thank you. It was not perfect. You knew he was still learning, still trying to believe he deserved that word.

But it meant something. It meant he wanted to try.

By the end of week two, he started sitting beside you. Not close enough to touch, but not across the room anymore. He had stopped wearing the hoodie every day. His hair had been washed. The books you brought had been moved around. You knew he was reading again. In secret. At night.

He still had not made a sound.

But the air between you had changed.

One afternoon, you found a folded page torn from the notebook left on the table. It had no greeting. Just a list.

Things I miss

Talking.

Music.

Chess.

Coffee with too much sugar.

Knowing how to be around people.

My team.

Myself.

You read it slowly. Then flipped it over and wrote your own.

Things I see

Your mind working.

Your kindness.

The way you still pay attention to everything.

How strong you are.

How you are still here.

How I believe in you.

You left it in the same spot. The next morning it was gone.

That was the day you saw it for the first time.

A real smile.

Small. Fragile. The corners of his lips curved as you dropped your bag and said good morning like you always did. His eyes had softened too. The fog in them was lifting.

He signed good morning back.

That night, you cried in the hotel bathroom. Not because you were sad. Not because of the pressure. You cried because it was working. He was still there.

He just needed time.

And someone who would not rush the silence.

The BAU flew home three weeks ago. Spencer stayed behind.

Technically he was still on medical leave, but the truth was everyone knew he was not ready. He had not spoken. He still flinched at sudden movement. Crowds made him visibly tense. There was a list of triggers no one had fully mapped yet. You were learning them in real time.

No one asked when you were coming back either. They knew. You never left.

The hospital released him on a Friday. You helped him pack. His hands trembled when he buttoned his coat. You didn’t say anything. Just smoothed the wrinkle in the collar and asked if he wanted to walk or take a cab.

He wrote one word.

Walk.

So you walked.

The air was cold but gentle. A late winter morning. The sun was out for the first time in days. Spencer kept close but not too close. Sometimes you could feel the tips of his fingers brush yours. Other times he drifted away, shoulders tight, eyes darting at every passing sound. You stopped once in front of a bookstore. He paused beside you. You pointed at a small display in the window.

He smiled again.

That night, you made tea at his apartment. It still smelled like dust and old books. You lit a candle in the corner and opened the windows a crack. Spencer moved around the space slowly, like he did not recognize it anymore. His hands ran across spines of books he had read a hundred times. His eyes found the chessboard he had not touched since October.

He sat down on the couch with the same notebook.

This place feels too loud now.

You read it. Then looked at him. His eyes flicked up to yours, uncertain.

You sat beside him.

We will make it quiet again.

He nodded.

The days that followed were slow. Gentle. Rebuilding.

He started keeping a whiteboard by the kitchen. You made labels for the pantry. You taught him a few more signs. You played soft jazz in the background while he read. Sometimes you spoke to him, sometimes you didn’t. You learned when to be still and when to lean in.

One night, the power flickered and you lit every candle you could find. He had fallen asleep on the couch. You curled up in the chair across from him and watched the shadows dance across his face. For the first time, he looked peaceful.

He had not dreamed since the accident.

That night, he did.

You heard it before you saw it. The soft, choked gasps from the couch. Then the sound of his fist hitting the side table in panic. You were on your knees beside him before your mind could catch up. You touched his shoulder gently, called his name once. Twice.

He woke with a jerk.

His eyes were wild. His hands shaking. For a terrifying moment, you thought he might bolt.

Then he saw you.

And instead, he crumbled.

Collapsed into you like his body could not hold itself anymore. You caught him. Held him. His head buried in your shoulder. One hand clenched in the back of your sweater. Your heart broke at the way he shook. You did not speak.

You just held him until the shaking slowed.

When he finally pulled back, you handed him the notebook. He took it, scribbled one line with trembling fingers.

I am scared I will never be okay again.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. Then wrote beneath it.

You will. You are already on your way back.

He stared at those words until tears filled his eyes again. Then slowly, quietly, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours.

For the first time in weeks, you felt his breath catch against your cheek. Not because he was crying.

Because he was breathing again.

Spencer started humming three days later.

You almost missed it. It was a soft, accidental thing. A tiny thread of sound while he poured tea, low and uneven. You looked up from the book in your lap. He froze mid-pour, the stream splashing a little against the cup’s edge.

He looked at you like he had just broken something.

But you smiled.

A real one. Bright and proud. The kind of smile you only give someone who just climbed a mountain and does not know it yet.

Spencer blinked. Then looked down at the tea again and finished pouring without another note.

You did not push.

You just sat in the quiet with your chest full of hope.

He kept humming. Little things. Under his breath while folding laundry. While reorganizing his books. Once while brushing his teeth. It was never on purpose. It was muscle memory. It was proof that his mind was surfacing again.

One morning you found a playlist on the kitchen counter.

“Songs I used to like before everything got too loud.”

You played it while you made breakfast.

Spencer stood in the hallway for a full minute. Then he walked over and sat at the table, quiet and still but listening.

It was a slow jazz number. You did not know the name.

You just knew that when you looked up, he was watching you again. Really watching.

His hand moved to the pen.

You remind me of quiet music.

You wrote under it.

You remind me of the kind that takes a while to understand but stays in your head for days.

He flushed, his face turning red, his eyes searching yours then looking away with a smile on his face.

You giggled, your soft voice filling his ears.

That night, he moved to the couch beside you without hesitation. Not a single flinch when your arms brushed. You passed him the blanket without a word. He took it and pulled half of it over your lap.

The closeness did not scare him anymore.

Later, when you leaned against his shoulder, you felt it. His breath catch. Then still. Then settle.

The next day, you were in the kitchen when it happened.

You were laughing at something on your phone. Something stupid. Your laugh echoed in the quiet. You heard his footsteps enter the room behind you.

And then you heard it.

A voice.

Soft. Raspy. Barely more than air.

“Your laugh.”

You turned.

Spencer stood in the doorway. Pale. Eyes wide. His lips still parted.

You stared. He stared back.

He had not said your name. Not yet.

But you walked to him slowly, careful not to overwhelm. Your hands reached up and touched his arms lightly, grounding him.

“Say it again,” you whispered.

His throat bobbed. His eyes glistened.

He opened his mouth. Tried. It came out hoarse.

“Your laugh. It… helped.”

And then he crumbled again. This time not in fear. Not in grief.

This time in relief.

You held him.

No notebooks. No silence. No pen.

Just sound. Fragile and real.

He had not said your name yet.

But now you knew he could.

And someday, he will.

[blaysreid]

UNREQUITED LOVE - S.R

pairing = season9!spencer + bau!reader

genre = hurt / angst

summary = He never saw how deeply she loved him, how much of herself she gave without asking for anything back. While he falls for someone new, she’s left choking on years of silence and unspoken feelings. One night alone in the office, the truth finally shatters between them… and nothing will ever be the same.

content warning = The original plot does not exist here, so Spencer and Maeve do meet and they go on the dates! Maeve does NOT appear as a character in the story therefore she is only referenced through mentions and conversations.

You had loved him for longer than you ever meant to.

Not in the dramatic way books describe it. Not in chaos or longing that tore through rooms. Your love had always been quiet. It lived in corners. In the space between his breath and your patience.

It started when you were twenty four. That was the year he kissed another woman in a pool in Los Angeles, and you smiled through it. You smiled even though your chest had gone still the second she leaned in. You told him he deserved it. That you were happy for him. And he believed you. Of course he did. Because that’s what you were to him. Steady. Supportive. The best friend. The one who never asked for anything.

Even back then you thought maybe you’d outgrow it. The ache. The need. The invisible thing between your ribs that refused to move on. But it didn’t fade. It just sank deeper.

You loved him through all of it. Through the years that blurred together in long flights and longer cases. Through the trauma and the pieces of him that broke off without warning. Through his silence. Through his withdrawal. Through the addiction that swallowed him whole and spat him back out smaller.

You stayed.

You stayed when everyone else backed away slowly. You stayed when he snapped at you for asking if he’d eaten. You stayed when he couldn’t sleep, when he’d call in the middle of the night because the silence was louder than the pain. You stayed even when he didn’t thank you.

He never had to.

Because it wasn’t about being seen. Not at first. It was about loving someone so much that being near them felt like enough.

And it was. For a while.

You learned how to live beside the ache. You learned to fold your feelings into the way you brought him coffee without him asking. Into the way you waited for him to finish his statistics rants even when no one else cared. Into the way you made sure to always be there, not just for the job but for him. Always him.

That was the hardest part. Knowing how easy it was for him to count on you. How naturally he leaned into your presence without thinking twice.

You weren’t a question. You were an answer. You were just never his.

And still you stayed.

Until her name entered the room like a match striking open air.

Maeve.

He said it the first time like he wasn’t sure he should. Like he was afraid you’d tease him or brush it off. You didn’t. You smiled. Asked questions. Acted the way you always had, because what else were you supposed to do?

You could tell she made him happy. You could see it before he even admitted it. The way he lingered over his phone, the way his tone shifted when he talked about her voice, her words, the way she understood him.

You pretended to be happy for him. You even believed it some days.

Because the truth was you had never been able to hold anything against him. You had never learned how to be angry with him for things he didn’t know.

And still, deep down, something in you hoped. Not for much. Just for something. A glance. A pause. Some small moment where he might look at you a little longer. Maybe not fully see it. But feel it.

That hope died in one sentence.

You hadn’t meant to overhear it. You weren’t trying to listen. You were passing by Blake’s office when you heard his voice through the cracked door. You froze. Something about his tone, softer than usual, pulled you to a stop.

He was talking about her.

You heard the words before you could prepare yourself.

“It doesn’t matter what she looks like. She’s already the most beautiful girl in the world to me.”

It was simple. Honest. Kind.

And it shattered you.

Not because he called someone else beautiful. Not because he loved her. But because he said it like it had never even crossed his mind that anyone else could be.

All those years. All those nights. All the ways you tried to hold him up when he was falling. All the versions of yourself you offered him without asking for anything in return.

And he never even considered you.

You stood there just long enough to memorize the ache. And then you walked away.

You didn’t cry. Not then.

Instead you got quieter.

It wasn’t revenge. It wasn’t even bitterness. It was self-preservation.

The next time he started one of his rants, something about paleontology and cognitive biases, you didn’t ask follow-ups. You didn’t lean forward like you usually did or nudge him when he started talking too fast.

You just listened for a second. Then turned back to your files.

He paused. You felt it.

But he didn’t say anything.

And you didn’t explain.

You stopped meeting him at the coffee machine. You left rooms earlier. You skipped dinners. You stopped asking what he was reading.

When he brought up Maeve, you nodded but didn’t speak.

The distance didn’t happen all at once. You just stopped reaching out, and he didn’t notice you slipping away.

That was what hurt the most.

Not the fact that he loved someone else. Not even the fact that he didn’t love you.

It was that it was so easy for him not to notice that you had ever been there at all.

You could always tell when he was nervous.

He never fidgeted like most people. He didn’t pace or stammer or shift around. Spencer had a quieter sort of restlessness. He’d straighten his tie too many times. Flip the same page back and forth in a book without reading it. Tap the lid of his coffee cup with his thumb like he was trying to solve something that had no equation.

That morning, he was doing all of it.

And it didn’t take much to guess why.

He was meeting her. Finally.

You weren’t supposed to know it was tonight. You didn’t ask, hadn’t asked in weeks. But you knew anyway. He had been humming under his breath all morning. His hands moved faster, his words lighter, his smile softer. You didn’t need confirmation. You had spent years learning the language of his body.

“Do I look like someone meeting a potential girlfriend or like someone attending a grad seminar?” he asked.

You didn’t want to laugh. But you did. Quietly.

You didn’t want to look at him either. But you did.

He was beautiful. He always had been.

You reached forward, gently fixed the collar of his shirt, and said, “You look good, Spence. She’s going to love you.”

He smiled. That real kind of smile, not the ones he gave to strangers or coworkers or local detectives. The ones he gave when he felt safe. When he trusted the person in front of him to hold it.

And it hurt. So much it made your throat tighten.

You pulled your hand away and forced a breath. “I’m happy for you,” you said.

And you meant it.

You hated that you meant it.

Because even with everything tearing through you, some part of you still believed he deserved to be loved the way he wanted.

Even if it wasn’t by you.

Even if he never knew you wanted it to be.

The rest of the team noticed the change in the air.

JJ kept glancing between you and Spencer, concern softening her features. She didn’t say anything. Neither did Morgan. Not like he usually would. No teasing, no nudging. He gave Spencer a subtle pat on the back before heading out, and when he passed you, he gave a small, understanding look.

Blake didn’t even bother pretending. She looked at you like she knew. Like she had known all along.

But no one said a word.

Because they all knew it wasn’t their place.

It was his.

And he never claimed it.

That night, you sat on your bed with a book you didn’t read and a phone you didn’t touch. You imagined what she looked like. How she spoke. What it sounded like when she made him laugh.

You tried not to picture the way he looked at her. You failed.

You imagined the way he probably leaned closer without realizing it. The way his hands moved when he got excited about a topic. The way he probably rambled. How she probably liked it.

You imagined her leaning across the table, smiling like she knew him already. You imagined her seeing the things you saw first. And loving them. And knowing what to do with them.

And when your chest felt too tight to breathe, you turned off the lamp, laid in the dark, and stared at the ceiling.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t need to.

The ache was already stitched into your bones.

He came in the next morning glowing.

It wasn’t showy. It wasn’t loud. It was just him. Lighter. Fuller. His shoulders didn’t sag. His voice had a brightness to it that made something in your stomach turn.

“She’s…” He stopped mid-sentence, smiled to himself, and tried again. “She’s amazing.”

You didn’t turn your head. Just kept reading. You weren’t even sure what file you were holding.

“We talked for four hours,” he said. “Chess, poetry, physics… She’s the first person I’ve ever met who doesn’t blink when I talk about theoretical mathematics.”

You nodded slowly.

“That’s great, Spence.”

“She quoted Rilke,” he said, laughing softly. “In German. I didn’t even prompt her, she just knew it.”

You felt your jaw clench.

“I think I’m going to ask to see her again,” he added. “I just… I haven’t felt this seen in a long time.”

Your eyes were starting to sting. You blinked twice and forced a breath.

“You should.”

He finally turned to look at you.

“You okay?” he asked.

And you smiled. The smallest smile. Just enough to lie.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just tired.”

And then you stood up.

You didn’t give him time to ask anything else.

You didn’t want him to.

Because if he asked again, you would’ve shattered.

Few days later on a warm night, the bullpen was quiet. The lights were low, most of the team long gone. You and Spencer sat alone near the break area, the distant hum of a vending machine the only background sound.

You were both in your usual spots, opposite ends of the small table. The silence was soft at first. Comfortable. But then he started talking.

“We went to that used bookstore again. The one with the little poetry section near the back.” He smiled at the thought. “She remembered I mentioned that Neruda line. The one about love being born in silence. She found the book and highlighted it. Slipped it into my hand when I wasn’t looking.”

You gave a small nod. Your hands were wrapped around a mug that had gone cold thirty minutes ago.

Spencer kept going.

“She talks like she’s writing a novel. All her words feel intentional. She’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. And the way she listens… like she sees things most people miss. I don’t know. I feel different around her. Calmer, maybe.”

You didn’t say anything. Your eyes were still on the rim of your mug. He didn’t notice.

“I think I could really fall for her. I mean, it’s scary, but it feels kind of right. Like maybe this is what it’s supposed to feel like.”

You inhaled slowly.

“Spencer.”

He stopped mid sentence, still smiling, still lit up.

“Yeah?”

“Can you just… stop for a second.”

His brows knit. “Stop?”

You finally looked at him. Really looked.

“Just stop talking. Please.”

The silence that followed was deafening. His mouth parted slightly but no words came out. You blinked a few times, trying to force back the sting behind your eyes, but it was too late.

“I have listened to you talk about everything. Every theory, every book, every ridiculous statistic. I have listened to you ramble about string theory at two in the morning while covered in blood. I have defended you when cops were cruel and when people called you names. I have sat by your side through every overdose scare, every nightmare, every hollow eyed morning. I have loved you through every version of yourself, even the ones that almost killed you.”

Your voice cracked but you didn’t stop. Eyes teary, hands shaky and your words coming out quietly but firm.

“And the worst part is.. All you ever thought of me as a friend who's good at comforting.”

Spencer leaned forward, confused. You could see his mind trying to make sense of the words but not fast enough.

“I was there when you kissed someone else. Do you remember that? We were twenty-four. It was raining. You had just saved someone and she kissed you like it was the most cinematic thing in the world. I stood there and watched. I clapped for you. And then I cried alone in the hotel bathroom.”

His expression changed, eyes searching yours now.

“I kept loving you. Through every woman you looked at, through every wound you never let me treat, through every time you shut me out and then pulled me back in like it was nothing. And I stayed. Because I thought one day you might see me.”

He opened his mouth again. You shook your head.

“No. You don’t get to talk.”

Tears fell freely now. You didn’t bother wiping them.

“You told Blake that she was the most beautiful girl in the world. That it didn’t matter what she looked like. And that hurt Spencer. Because I always knew you didn’t love me but hearing it like that… like it was final… like it was real…"

Spencer’s face was pale now. His hands were clasped tightly together, knuckles white.

“I started pulling back because I didn’t know how else to protect myself. I couldn’t keep waiting for you to look at me. And every time you opened your mouth to talk about her, I felt like I was being stabbed. So yeah, I shut you out. And I’m sorry if that hurt you. But I've loved you for years. You never saw it and acknowledged anything I did for you as more than a friendly gesture.”

You finally stopped speaking. It felt like the air had been ripped from your lungs.

Spencer leaned toward you, his mouth parting as if he had something to say. But then something shifted behind you. A sound.

You turned around slowly.

Morgan and Garcia stood frozen just a few feet away, wide eyed and silent. They must have come back for something and walked straight into the wreckage.

You blinked. Your heart sank deeper than you thought possible.

You stood up.

Spencer reached out instinctively but didn’t move fast enough.

You walked away. Pushing through Morgan, Out the doors. Down the hall.

And you didn’t look back.

masterlist tag

[blaysreid]

STRAWBERRY PICNIC - S.R

pairing = touchy!bf!spencer + gf!reader

summary = A sunny picnic turns into soft kisses, tangled limbs, and quiet laughter under the trees. Later, it’s warm sheets and wandering hands, breathless moments and one too many philosophical tangents. Spencer’s mind races, yours melts, and somehow it’s perfect anyway.

content warning = MAKING OUTTTT, lots of touches all in bed. No actual smut!! They're very close and cute.

A/N = My account is legit flopping please interact and check out my other posts.. 🙏

The blanket is too big for just two people, but Spencer insists on unfolding the whole thing anyway.

“It’s better this way,” he mumbles as he smooths the corners down against the grass. “That way, if we roll around or if the wind picks up nothing gets dirty.”

You laugh softly, sitting cross legged near the middle while he fusses over the edges. His hair is curling at the ends from the summer air. Warmth clings to his cheeks in a pinkish hue, the same one that always shows up when he’s proud of something or nervous about being close to you.

The park is quiet, just after noon. A few families in the distance. A dog barking happily near the trees. But here, under the shade of a tree Spencer claimed was “statistically the safest place to avoid sunstroke,” it feels like you’re in your own little world.

He finally sits beside you, close but not quite touching, until you lean your shoulder against his.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods once.

Then, after a pause, his voice softens. “I just… really like this. Being here with you.”

Your chest warms. You glance at the basket between you, filled with things he packed, half of which are way too specific to ever come from a regular grocery run.

You pull out a small container of strawberries. They’re perfectly red and neatly sliced.

“You cut these?”

Spencer shrugs, but his lips curve up.

“I read they taste sweeter if you chill them and slice them in halves before serving. Something about the surface area and sugar exposure. I” He catches your expression and stops himself, cheeks flushing again. “Sorry. That wasn’t very romantic.”

You rest your head on his shoulder.

“It was,” you say.

A beat of silence. Then another.

He lets out a breath. Relaxing into you.

You feel the weight of his hand settle gently over yours where it rests on your knee. His fingers play lightly with your skin, tracing tiny, absentminded patterns. The kind of touch that says I love you without needing words.

A breeze moves through the branches above, ruffling his hair. You reach up to brush it from his eyes. He closes them for a moment under your touch, like it’s something holy.

Then his voice, soft like the July wind.

“I used to think quiet meant lonely.”

You glance up at him. He’s still looking down at your hand.

“But now…” he trails off.

“Now?” you whisper.

He finally lifts his eyes to yours. There’s something shy in his gaze. Something reverent.

“Now I think it can mean safe.”

You lean in and kiss his cheek.

He leans into it like he’s trying to remember how it feels forever.

Later, after the strawberries are gone and the air grows a little heavier with heat, Spencer shifts behind you and fluffs the pillow he brought from home. You didn’t even realize he’d packed it, but of course he did. Of course he thought ahead.

You tilt your head with a smile. “You planned this like a stakeout.”

He gives you that small, crooked grin, the one that melts just beneath his eyes.

“Technically, I planned it like a field operation. Optimal shade, low noise exposure, ideal visibility, a soft perimeter for comfort.”

You crawl back toward him and sink down between his legs, letting your back rest against his chest. His arms come around you right away, warm and secure. He exhales like you just completed something.

“A soft perimeter?” you echo, eyebrows raised. “Are you talking about the blanket?”

“Yes,” he replies immediately. “And also your body. You’re very soft.”

You snort. “Did you just call me a human perimeter?”

He rests his chin on your shoulder, smug now. “An exceptionally cuddly one. Top-tier defense system.”

You reach back and swat lightly at his thigh. “You’re such a nerd.”

He leans in and kisses your cheek. “And yet, here you are. Sitting in my lap. Voluntarily.”

“Stockholm Syndrome.”

“Mmm. Classic deflection. Also, by the way, I packed three flavors of jam. I don’t know if you noticed. But that’s love.”

You blink. “Did you just equate emotional commitment with a jam variety?”

“I’m not saying all love can be measured by jam,” he says, pausing for effect. “But it doesn’t hurt.”

You tilt your head back against him and laugh, full and real. His arms squeeze a little tighter.

“You’re impossible,” you say, still smiling.

He grins into your hair. “You like me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“You love me,” he sings, the words muffled against your shoulder.

“Tragically.”

“Say it.”

“Nope.”

He drops his head with a dramatic sigh. “I bring you shade, strawberries, structural support, and jam. And still. No verbal validation.”

You twist around a little in his arms until you can meet his eyes. They’re soft and golden and way too proud of themselves.

You kiss him. Light at first. Then slower.

When you pull away, he’s flushed and smiling.

“That was validation,” you murmur.

He kisses you again. Just because he can. Then he tucks his chin over your shoulder and speaks into your ear.

“You’re my favorite human perimeter.”

You groan. “Stop. I’m never letting you plan another date again.”

“Yes you are.”

You sigh. “Yeah. I am."

You lean into his face pressing another kiss on his cheek before closing your eyes and letting the sun wash over you both.

After a while when the heat isn't as strong, the wind gets stronger, you both know you slowly have to make your way back home.

But for now you’re still nestled between Spencer’s legs, your back to his chest and his arms looped lazily around your waist. The sun’s shifted now, light dappling through the branches above. There’s a half-empty bottle of lemonade rolling around somewhere to the side, but neither of you moves.

You’re too deep in it now.

Not the cuddling. The conversation.

“I just think Kant had this way of moralizing action that kind of overlooks how… fundamentally irrational people are,” you say, twisting the edge of the blanket between your fingers. “Like, duty and obligation? Sure. But people don’t really behave based on abstract reason. Not consistently. Not unless there’s something primal anchoring them to it.”

You pause, turning your head slightly like you’re waiting for a challenge.

Silence.

No rebuttal.

You glance up at him.

Spencer is just staring at you.

Eyes wide. Lips slightly parted. Like he’s witnessing a solar eclipse.

“What..?” you ask, squinting. “What is that face.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. His voice comes out quiet.

“You’re talking about Kant. While sitting in my lap. In a park. Eating strawberries. And you’re actually criticizing him correctly. With nuance. And passion.”

You blink.

“Okay, but you taught me half of this stuff.”

“Still,” he breathes, brushing his fingers slowly along your arm like he’s grounding himself. “Hearing you say it. Like that. I think my entire central nervous system just short-circuited.”

You grin.

He doesn’t.

“I’m serious,” he says, eyes still fixed on you. “This is very attractive behavior.”

You laugh. “Did you just say my philosophical rant turns you on?”

He doesn’t even flinch. “Yes. It genuinely does. Please continue. Possibly slower. Possibly with a bibliography.”

You roll your eyes and reach back to flick his leg, but he catches your hand and kisses the knuckle.

“I mean it,” he says more softly, voice lower now. “You know how rare this is? To feel understood like this? You didn’t just read what I gave you. You… you felt it.”

You rest your head back on his shoulder again. His lips press into your hairline.

“You are unbelievably cheesy,” you murmur, grinning.

“And you are unbelievably hot when you quote Kant in a tank top.”

You gasp. “You can’t say that! That’s not even a sexy philosopher!”

“It is now.”

You both break into laughter, tangled up in each other, arms wrapped around limbs and sun-warmed skin. His fingers toy with the hem of your shirt absentmindedly, more like he’s grounding himself than anything else. He’s still smiling when he speaks again, this time quieter.

“You’ve got a little bit of me inside you,” he whispers.

You blink.

“Okay that sounded-”

“Yup,” you cut in.

“Intellectually,” he clarifies, laughing through the embarrassment. “That’s what I meant.”

You laugh too. “Sure, genius. We’ll go with that.”

He wraps his arms tighter around your waist.

And you stay like that. Under the trees. Philosophers and fruit and flawed humanity.

And two people who have never felt more perfectly understood.

—–-

It starts the way all the best things do, slow and unassuming.

You’re lying in bed now, after the park, after the leftover jam sticky fingers and forehead kisses and the slow walk home. The golden hour melted into dusk. The bedroom glows faintly with it. The windows are cracked, the fan hums low, and Spencer is under the sheets with you.

You’re curled into him again. Familiar. Warm.

But it’s different now.

You shift slightly, fitting your leg between his, and you feel it. The tension in his muscles. The sharp inhale. The way his hands, always hesitant, always soft, suddenly press into your back like he’s anchoring himself to you.

You don’t say anything.

You just move again. Slower this time. Deliberate.

That’s all it takes.

His lips are on yours a second later.

It starts soft. Lingering. Like he’s still trying to figure out if he’s dreaming.

But then you open your mouth to him.

And his brain shuts off completely.

He rolls you onto your back gently but firmly, kissing you deeper now, hands sliding under the hem of your shirt, fingers pressing into your waist like he needs to memorize the feel of you. You arch into him without thinking, and he makes a quiet, broken sound in his throat like he can’t quite believe it.

You tangle your hands in his hair, tug just slightly.

He groans.

His mouth drops to your neck, then your collarbone, and you feel him there, flushed and solid above you, and everything starts unraveling fast.

His hand slides up your side, fingers grazing over your ribs. His other hand is tangled in yours. Your legs shift, opening slightly under his. His hips press down, just enough to make your breath catch.

“Spence.” you whisper.

He kisses you again, open mouthed, desperate now, one hand dipping to the waistband of your shorts. His fingertips slide beneath the fabric. He’s just about to-

“Wait,” he breathes.

You freeze. “What?” You're just about to ask if something's wrong. If you touched him in the wrong place or if he wants to go further.

But he doesn't let your thoughts linger any longer with his lips still on your neck when he says it, voice muffled.

“This is exactly what Kant warned about.”

You blink up at the ceiling.

“No.”

He lifts his head, flushed, dazed, breathing hard. “I’m serious. The blurring of rational thought in the face of human desire. He was terrified of this.”

“Spencer." you say, completely deadpan. “You were literally about to take my pants off.”

He looks down at your shorts. Then up at you. Then at your shorts again.

“I still am." he says, leaning down to kiss you again before giving you a cheeky smile and grinning in your face as if he didn't just turn the moment into a philosophical talk.

You pull back a fraction. “Not until you promise to stop quoting dead philosophers while you’re on top of me.”

“But it’s relevant.." he whispers into your ear. “Kant would be losing his mind right now.”

You shove his shoulder and laugh, and he drops his forehead to yours, still grinning, still out of breath.

You cup his face with both hands.

“Tell Kant to wait his turn.”

Spencer kisses you again, slower this time, deeper.

“He’s going to be so mad at me.”

“Good,” you whisper against his lips. “He deserves it.”

And then you’re kissing again, tangled limbs and warm sheets and laughter between every breath. His hands never stop moving. Neither do yours.

"And I deserve you right now" You softly mumble against his lips.

He smiles at that, soft boba eyes looking down into yours, admiring your face, your eyes. Admiring you.

And just then, somewhere in the back of your mind, you swear you hear Spencer whisper:

“God, you’re such a beautiful moral contradiction.”

And you fall in love with him all over again.

master list

[blaysreid]

1000 notes that's insane 😔

COVER STORY

pairing = oblivious!spencer + headoverheels!reader

summary = While going through a restricted room for files, Spencer and Reader are nearly caught. To protect what they’ve discovered, she whispers one impossible request "kiss me". And suddenly what starts as a cover becomes something far harder to fake.

content warning = kissing and making out but no smut. just touchy Spencer being needy without realisation.

The precinct air felt heavier at night. The room light was harsh and sterile, the kind that made everything feel more exposed than it should be. You were leaning over the conference table, palms flat against the surface, pulse a little too fast for how still you were trying to stay.

Hotch stood at the head of the room, arms folded, jaw tight. His gaze kept flicking between you and Spencer. He could sense it, not just the tension from the case, but something else. You hoped he didn’t name it. You couldn’t afford to have it named.

Spencer was next to you. Too close, honestly. You could feel the heat radiating from his arm, the light pressure of his sleeve brushing yours when he shifted. It was stupid. Three years in the BAU and you were still like this. Still ridiculously aware of every small movement he made, every time his voice dipped low when he was thinking out loud, every time he met your eyes like he didn’t mean to, like he couldn’t help it.

You were here to talk about the case. That was the whole point. And yet all you could think about was how it felt standing beside him, how the sharp scent of his aftershave mixed with the paper and dust and tension hanging in the room.

You tried to focus.

“There’s something they’re not telling us Hotch" you said, your voice sharper than intended.

Hotch raised an eyebrow. “Specifics?”

You hesitated, just long enough to feel Spencer’s eyes on you. His silence wasn’t passive, it never was. It was heavy. Calculated. A sign that he was either about to say something you’d been trying not to admit to yourself, or that he wanted you to be the one to say it first.

So you did. “Something's off not just about this case but this whole secrecy between the officers.” you said. “The way they’re handling this… they’re not just uncooperative. It’s like they’re trying to control what we see.”

Hotch didn’t answer right away. His eyes were locked on you, analytical, reading between the lines the same way he always did. You felt Spencer shift slightly beside you, hands in the pockets of his cardigan, brows drawn as he looked down at the files again.

“And there are gaps in every report,” Spencer said, his voice quiet but steady. “They’re too clean. Too consistent to be random. Like someone edited them before we even got access.”

He leaned in a little, fingers brushing lightly over the corner of the crime scene photo as he pointed to a timestamp. “This is the second scene. They said the footage was corrupted… but this mark.. see that? That’s from a recorder pause. Manual. Someone stopped the tape.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. It wasn’t fear exactly. It was pressure. The tight, growing weight in your chest that something about this case was much bigger than what was written in ink. Your heart was already pounding a little too fast, but not just because of the evidence. It was because of him.

The fluorescent light caught the soft angles of his face and the way his jaw tensed when he was concentrating, the small furrow in his brow. His hair had fallen slightly over his forehead again, and you felt that stupid, familiar ache start to crawl up your spine.

You’d liked him since the beginning truthfully. Since that awkward, rainy morning three years ago when you walked into Quantico for the first time and he offered you coffee without ever looking directly at you.

It had started slow with quiet admiration, long glances, late night case talks and his comforting words to make you feel better. He was in BAU for a few years before you joined, he knew how things worked and how badly it affects you in the beginning. Therefore he was always ready to show his support towards you. But it wasn't just calming words to you. It was something more.

Now, watching him piece together the parts of something dangerous, watching the way his brain worked through layers and lies, it hit you all over again. Hard.

You didn’t realize you were staring until he glanced up.

His eyes met yours.

Sharp. Soft. Curious.

There was a flicker of something behind them, something unreadable but far from indifferent. And suddenly the air between you felt different. Not heavy. Not cold.

Just… charged. And you wonder if he feels that same feeling inside your chest like butterflies are everywhere and for a second everything but his fades away.

Then Hotch’s phone buzzed. The moment snapped.

He answered with that clipped, professional tone, then tapped the screen to put the call on speaker. Garcia’s voice crackled through, bright but serious.

“Okay, boss. You’re not gonna like this. I did a bit of digging after you sent me those scans and guess what our sweet little department’s been hiding?”

Hotch looked at you and Spencer, jaw set. “What did you find?”

“A whole ass room, that’s what I found,” Garcia said. “It’s buried in the building’s floor plans, looks like a completely normal room. No surveillance, no active logins. Just… nothing. Like it’s locked off from everyone. But someone’s using it. And I've found out It’s where they’re keeping files that don’t show up in their regular system.”

Spencer looked up sharply. You could already see the wheels turning in his head.

“Someone doesn’t want us in there,” he said under his breath.

“Exactly,” Garcia replied. “Which means you have to get in. The door should be open right now until 5pm. Which means you better hurry up before they close it off for the night”

Hotch didn’t hesitate. “Reid. You’re going in. Take her with you.”

You blinked. Spencer looked over at you.

The weight of his eyes again. Not soft this time. Serious. And Something about the way Hotch said it felt heavier than it should’ve.

Spencer straightened his shoulders and nodded. “We’ll find it.”

You swallowed the nerves crawling up your throat. It wasn’t the hidden room that made your heart beat faster.

It was going in there with him.

The hallway beyond the main bullpen was poorly lit, lined with locked doors and empty desks that hadn’t seen use in years. You could still hear the low murmur of officers talking in the squad room a floor below. Too many bodies, too many eyes. But Hotch had bought you a window, and it wouldn’t last long.

Spencer walked ahead of you, quiet and quick. His posture was a little stiff, like he knew you weren’t supposed to be here but he was going anyway. That part didn’t surprise you. He always followed the rules… until he didn’t. You’d seen it more than once on cases like this when something about the math didn’t add up, when the facts refused to sit still. That’s when he changed. Still soft-spoken, still polite… but sharp. Focused. Unflinching.

The badge clipped to your hip swung slightly as you walked. It wouldn’t help you here. Not in this situation where everyone is hiding the reality of the case from agents.

“Wait,” you whispered, grabbing Spencer’s arm gently just before the corner.

He paused, turning his head just enough to hear you, and you could feel the warmth of his body even with the space between you. It was stupid, but your fingers tingled where they’d brushed his sleeve. You dropped your hand.

“Two officers coming down the west stairs,” you murmured.

Spencer nodded once, barely perceptible, then leaned in closer than necessary to point toward a side door you hadn’t noticed before. “Janitor’s closet. Connects to the file corridor. If we cut through, we can reach the archive wing from behind.”

You blinked. “You sure?”

He gave the faintest smile. “I memorized the blueprint Garcia sent.”

Of course he did.

You slipped in behind him, pressing the door shut just as footsteps echoed down the hallway behind you. Inside, it smelled like bleach and old paper towels. Dark. Cramped. Close.

You could feel his breath. Hear the tiny inhale he tried to stifle when your shoulder accidentally brushed his chest.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

By the time you reached the sealed corridor Garcia mentioned, your pulse was back under control.. barely. The hallway here was silent. No cameras. No badge scanner, just an old room with a cracked door.

Spencer stepped forward, fingers gliding over the handle pushing it down slowly until the door creaked open.

Inside, it was dusty like nobody's entered it in weeks. Room reeking of poor insulation and secrets. Metal shelves lined the walls, stacked with unlabeled folders, worn tape reels, and scattered evidence boxes. At the side of the room, a waist-high counter stretched beneath a long strip of flickering fluorescent light.

“We won’t have much time,” you said, but your voice felt far away. You quickly started searching for the box of documents you needed to find.

Because the moment you stepped fully inside, something changed.

It was the silence. The proximity. The fact that you and Spencer were suddenly alone, surrounded by sealed truths and flickering shadows. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just another room, just another case, and that the flutter in your stomach was from adrenaline.

But it wasn’t.

"I found it." Spencer called out, his voice pulling you back to your feet as you make your way back to the front of the room.

You moved toward the counter, trying to shake it off. Focus. That’s all you had to do. You weren’t the type to swoon over someone just because they smelled like old books and stood too close in the dark. You weren’t seventeen.

You hoisted yourself up onto the counter, hoping your knees wouldn't feel so weak anymore. Boots thudding softly against the metal as you settled on the edge. Casual. Confident. Or so you hoped.

Spencer didn’t sit. He stood beside you, shoulder inches from your knee, fingers flipping carefully through the packet he’d pulled from the shelf.

“This is it,” he said, thumbing the corner of a faded document. “These files, none of them were scanned into the system. These are the originals.”

You leaned toward him without realizing it. The scent of his cologne — barely there, clean, something warm — hit you again, and you had to focus on the folder in your lap to keep from looking at him.

He kept reading, shifting a little closer without meaning to. His arm brushed your leg this time.

Neither of you moved.

The air felt heavier here. Not dangerous, just… charged. Like even though you were both focusing on the yet to be solved case, you understood there's unspoken words yet to be said.

You wondered if he noticed. If he felt it, too.

But Spencer was impossible to read. His eyes stayed on the files, mouth slightly parted in concentration. But there was a faint flush at the edge of his collar. Barely there. But real.

You turned a page, pretending not to notice. Pretending you weren’t thinking about how easy it would be to reach over. To tuck that curl behind his ear. To say something you couldn’t take back.

But instead, you cleared your throat.

“Anything useful?”

Spencer blinked, almost startled. Then nodded. “Very. Did you find anything?”

Still no distance between you. "Just the information we already have"

Still no words about it yet he hums in agreement.

The door had clicked shut behind you both just ten minutes ago. You and Spencer stood alone in the dim room, lit only by the buzzing fluorescents overhead.

“This is insane,” you muttered under your breath, flipping through one of the file boxes on the shelf. “I mean, this whole section’s been completely hidden from any reports.”

“Not just hidden,” Spencer said from beside you, pulling out another manila folder. “Look at this... These are from the original investigation. Some of these witness statements never made it into the official file we were given.”

You turned and leaned against the metal counter, trying to act unaffected trying to ignore how close he was to you now, how warm his voice was even when he was being clinical. "I can't believe they'd think that we wouldn't be able to find out about this."

He stood only a foot away. His eyes flicked over the page in his hands, jaw tensed, brows pulled tight. You’d known Spencer for three years now. Joined the BAU together. Watched him from the other side of glass, from across motel rooms, jet seats, crime scenes.

You wanted to say something, but you got distracted again just watching the way his lips moved while he read.

It wasn’t fair. You bottled up so many emotions towards him, of course sometimes there's gonna be cracks and you can't hold back.

But he was so focused. So serious. And all you could think about was how badly you wanted to run your thumb along the edge of his jaw. How your stomach kept flipping every time he looked at you for too long.

You were about to say something anything when footsteps echoed down the hallway.

You both froze.

Spencer’s hand tightened around the folder. You turned your head slowly toward the slightly ajar door — and that’s when you hear it.

An officer talking into a radio, his footsteps getting closer and closer with the keys dangling in his hand.

You didn’t even breathe.

His voice carried faintly as he muttered something into his mic maybe checking in with someone, maybe just stopping to listen.

The door was open enough that if he glanced in. if he took one step closer, he’d see everything.

The documents. The open drawers. You. Him.

Your pulse spiked hard in your ears. You looked at Spencer. His jaw was clenched, eyes wide but actions swift as he moved the documents behind the now closed box. As if not one document left that box in the first place.

But you both knew there's no excuse for you being there regardless of that closed box. There's no reason you could've went to a floor that's not in use, lights off, door barely open.

And then, without thinking, you grabbed his sleeve, pulling him between your legs and whispered:

“Spencer, kiss me.”

He turned so fast it was almost comical. “What?!”

“He’s gonna look in here,” you said in a rush. “We have no excuse, no way of leaving. Pretend we're- you know..”

Spencer’s mouth opened, stunned silent, eyes darting between your face and the doorway. “I—”

And then he moved.

He stepped forward, fast and sharp, and suddenly he was pressed up against you, hand braced against the counter beside your hip. The other one found your waist—awkward at first, but then steady.

Then his lips were on yours.

And just like that—your brain short-circuited.

You hadn’t thought it through. Not the part where his breath would catch. Or the way his fingers tightened slightly, unsure, until you kissed him back. The heat of his chest against yours. The way his lips were soft but nervous, like he didn’t know how to fake this kind of thing, because maybe he’d never wanted to fake it.

You heard movement outside.

But you didn’t stop. Because his hands became greedy, pulling you closer by your waist. Your legs now wrapped around him, hand tugging on his perfect curls as he whimpers into your mouth from the feeling.

He leaned in more. Letting you touch him, letting you feel his soft hair as your other hand slid up his chest, curling lightly into the collar of his shirt.

And that’s when the door creaked wide open. Right when his hands fiddled with the top buttons on your shirt, completely forgetting about the officer, the case, the documents and where you were. His mind was filled with you.

“Oh—uh—whoa.”

You barely pulled away, still taking one last second of that kiss to cherish when you've cleared your head.

The officer stood in the doorway, blinking at the sight of you tangled together.

“Well… that’s one way to kill time on shift,” he said, laughing under his breath.

You broke the kiss and turned quickly, trying to hide your red face in Spencer’s shoulder. “Oh my god Spence I told you we were being reckless,” you said, feigning flustered giggles. Trying to hide the reality between what was actually going on.

Spencer stammered something like, “Sorry.. uh-we didn’t mean to-”

The officer held up a hand, shaking his head. “You agents are all the same. I’ll let it slide, but this room’s off limits. Go somewhere else and take your, uh… moment, somewhere else too.”

You laughed nervously again, until you felt Spencer's hand tighten on you, picking you up before placing you back on the ground and pulling your hand in his. “C'mon.”

Spencer managed a crooked, helpless smile. the worst actor you’d ever seen and while you pretend to fix your clothes, the officer obviously feeling the need to face the other way, Spencer slowly slid one of the folders to the side with his sleeve as you shifted off the counter. Your hand stayed casually on top of the incriminating file, sliding it smoothly under your jacket.

The officer didn’t seem to notice.

Didn’t even glance at either of you anymore, simply focusing on locking the door the second Spencer stepped out the door.

As you two walked out, shoulders brushing, you could feel Spencer vibrating with tension beside you.

You kept your expression calm, playful. But your heart was still racing.

And behind the flush on his cheeks and the scatter in his breath, Spencer Reid looked like a man who was never, ever, going to forget that kiss.

A/N = if you enjoyed please check out my other works, im new and it'd really help out to see if I should continue if people are interested :)

[blaysreid]

BACKSEAT RIDE - S.R

pairing = pda!spencer + bau!reader

summary = Catching an unsub was the mission, but somehow you and Spencer Reid ended up tangled in the backseat while Morgan judged you from the front. Between whispered warnings, accidental cuddling, and a kiss you definitely didn’t plan, the real crime might be the PDA.

A/N = CRACK FIC YAYY!!!

Morgan was behind the wheel, eyes locked on the road. Emily sat shotgun, flipping through her tablet with quiet focus.

You sat in the backseat, body pressed into the window, fingers drumming on your thigh. Spencer was next to you, thigh almost brushing yours. Close enough to feel, not close enough to admit.

The silence was thick. The kind that came before things got loud.

Spencer leaned toward you slowly. You barely noticed until his breath was brushing against the edge of your jaw.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low. Quiet. Meant just for you.

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

He hesitated for a second. Then his hand slid across the seat and landed lightly on your knee. It wasn’t bold. Just there. Steady. Grounding.

“Stay close to Morgan or me when we go in,” he murmured. “Please.”

You turned to him slightly, heart thudding. “I will.”

His eyes searched yours. “No hero moves. Just be safe. Promise?”

“I promise,” you whispered.

His thumb rubbed your knee gently. He didn’t look away. “Good.”

And of course.

Of course.

Morgan cleared his throat loudly from the front. “Wow. Thank you guys so much for worrying about me. That really means a lot.”

You and Spencer jolted slightly apart, grinning like guilty kids.

“We just want you to be safe too,” you said innocently.

“Yeah,” Spencer added, dry as ever, “your safety is extremely high on my emotional priority list.”

Morgan gave an exaggerated sniff. “Touched.”

Emily didn’t even look up. “This is so much worse than the flirting. They’re in a sarcasm loop.”

“I don’t flirt,” you muttered, which only made Spencer smile more.

Morgan threw a glance in the rearview mirror. “You two were practically forehead to forehead. That’s a hostage negotiation distance.”

Spencer folded his arms but didn’t stop smiling. “Technically, that’s sixteen inches. We were at about ten.”

You smacked his arm lightly. “Stop helping him.”

But Spencer just laughed, fingers brushing yours again like he wasn’t done being close.

As the SUV turned off the main road, you felt his hand graze your leg again.

You didn’t move it away.

—–-

The SUV rolled over the cracked pavement, humming low as the city faded behind you. The case was over. Clean takedown. No one hurt. Just long hours and longer silence now that the adrenaline had worn off.

This time, when you got into the backseat, you didn’t hesitate.

You slid right next to Spencer. His arm brushed yours and stayed there. You let your head rest lightly on his shoulder, your body turning into his like it had been waiting to.

Emily sat in the passenger seat now, going over the files one last time, while Morgan drove with the windows cracked just enough to let the air in.

It was quiet for a while. Nobody said much. The road stretched on.

Then Morgan broke the silence like he always did.

“Hey, Prentiss.” he said casually, one hand on the wheel, “you wanna hear something cute?”

Emily didn’t look up. “Not really.”

“Oh come on. This one’s good. On the way to the takedown? These two were back there whispering. All forehead to forehead. Making googly eyes. Thought they were about to write wedding vows.”

Spencer looked up, confused but amused. “That’s not true.”

You lifted your head off his shoulder, protesting through a laugh. “We weren’t even close to forehead to forehead.”

Morgan looked at you through the rearview mirror. “You were emotionally forehead to forehead.”

Emily turned around just enough to look at the both of you. “Wait. Were you two-?”

“No,” you said at the same time as Spencer. “Absolutely not,” he added.

Morgan smirked. “I’m just saying. If you’re gonna have a little cuddle party back there, at least own it.”

You glanced at Spencer, who was already looking at you.

His eyes held yours for maybe half a second longer than necessary.

And then, without saying a word, he leaned in and kissed you. Quick. Soft. Like he’d been waiting to do it all day.

You blinked, stunned, and then smiled slowly.

Emily groaned. “Oh my God.”

Morgan nearly swerved. “Did you just-? You actually-? In the backseat?”

“Didn’t happen..” Spencer said calmly, arm now resting around your shoulders like it belonged there.

You tucked into his side with a grin. “Definitely didn’t happen.”

Morgan laughed out loud. “You two are a menace. An actual menace.”

Emily turned back around in her seat. “This is why I requested the other SUV.”

Spencer tilted his head toward you. “Worth the risk?”

You nodded, whispering against his shirt. “Always.”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “I’m never driving you two again.”

You and Spencer stayed tangled in the backseat, laughing quietly while the road stretched on in front of you.

And if his hand stayed on your thigh the whole ride to the airport, nobody said a thing.

A/N = please interact, reblog! And check out the rest of my works if you enjoyed 🙏🙏

tag = @summerobertsvariant