lostinwonderland314

[lostinwonderland314]

dying to know how reader reacted to finding out she was pregnant in the boyfriend experience uni 😫 likeeee ik she wasn’t ready for kids in uncle brooster but bradley was so were there mixed feelings abt it? especially since there was no telling when he’d be deployed again

Hi nonny, I don’t know where you are in the cosmos. But this is for you x

A/N I forgot I had this. I don't have the time this close to Xmas/at all to proof/improve so for those of you still in the TGM, I hope you enjoy and merry merry, happy happy xx

“Roll the dice,�� you reiterate to Bradley. “If we get pregnant, great. If we don’t…”

“It’s you and me and we are great with that,” Bradley answered, the faintest glint of hope in his shining honey eyes.

You knew he was on Team Baby. He wasn't pressing it; he couldn’t. That wasn’t fair to you… to him or anyone else. You’d said your piece well before you got engaged, and well before today.

The day you married him.

But in the back of the afterglow of lovemaking as husband and wife, you’d told him you’d go off birth control after your honeymoon if he still wanted to try for a baby. You didn’t want it to be immediate, you wanted to enjoy being married and the fun that came with it. And Bradley agreed. You didn’t want to be thinking about periods and not drinking and having the time of your lives. Bradley was busier with work now than ever before, and with the work extensions complete, new staffing, and more small business to take care of, even though you were together every night? You were still doing your own things, barely getting into bed at the same time.

Thing was, you were only hoping to be a newlywed once - marriage wasn't as big a thing for you as it was for Bradley. And even babies. You loved your niece and nephew and Uncle Brooster was fantastic with them - it always left a pang in your heart that he would be such a good father. But even he admitted he wouldn't have the first idea of how to do it since his dad wasn't around when he was growing up and Maverick wasn't exactly an example of patriarchal learning.

You didn’t want to add the stress of calculating ovulation even if an app would do it for you, the disappointment of periods coming… you just wanted to have fun fucking, and pleasing each other as you moved into the next phase of your lives. The stress Annie went through and the lengths she was going to with IVF therapies - overwhelming hormones, nausea, mood swings, sore boobs, abdominal discomfort. God, when you had a difficult period, you could assume similarly but as Annie went through her treatments, at a fairly young age, it was eye-opening at best.

You remembered one sentence so vividly that it scared you to your bones, “When your biological clock starts… it’s all that your brain hears. You can’t undo it and it messes with your head.”

See? Terrifying. Fair for all involved.

But when your period was late after about two periods since going off birth control, you kind of hoped it was the drama of irregular periods and what it brought. It was why you went on the pill in the first place in your teens.

But there was something different as you channel surfed and Bradley cooked in the (motherfucking, finally renovated) kitchen. A strange cramping in your tummy. Not unbearable, but noticeable as you pressed against the pulsating pressure and made a face. Sighing, you unfolded yourself from the couch and moved to your handsome husband. You tenderly kissed between his shoulder blades and he gave an over the top shudder, as you giggled into his skin. He put his utensil down and turned to you, holding your chin in his calloused bug hand and giving you a quick peck before you quietly excused yourself, but not yet willing to admit to him it was to do a pregnancy test. And you weren’t entirely surprised when it revealed you were 1-2 weeks pregnant. And you weren’t entirely surprised when you showed him the positive pregnancy test after dinner that still certainly said PREGNANT in fat, bold letters.

“It tells you how many weeks?” Bradley was astonished, his eyes glued to the digital reading before him.

“Clever, huh?” you said quietly. Bradley’s honey eyes flicked to regard you. Unreadable at best, erring on the side of too quiet. Reserved, but not disappointed, he had trouble reading you sometimes, and this was one he'd need you to talk through. He needed to know exactly what was going on through your head.

“You good?” he asked softly, grasping the test in his strong palm. It was so small but it held his world in his grip. He put the test down to caress your jaw, forcing your gaze to him. “Love…” his fingers light as they sunk into the hair at the nape of your neck. “My sweet girl,” he called to you.

“I think I am. It’s just… quick," you surrender, falling into his sound touch.

“It is quick,” Bradley agreed, kissing your hair. “Is it too quick?”

“Maybe…” you admitted as he pressed a kiss into your temple and wrapped his strong arms around you. He felt too warm and he protected you without question, you really couldn’t imagine life without him right there.

“If it’s too soon, that’s okay," he said softly.

“I saw how hard it was for Annie and just expected we’d be on our own a bit longer. Genetics and shit."

He bit back his smile and your inadvertent joke, or necessary sarcasm. Bradley hummed. “I think your genetics are pretty fine, if you ask me.”

Eyes rolling in corny, you muttered his name as a warning that jokes were unnecessary at this time.

“Okay, okay,” he answered, palms up, teasing off. He knew you were withholding and he knew he was holding everything back in his body not to go over the top with the excitement bubbling in his entire being. “Love, is this what you want? If you're not ready - if you have changed your mind - ”

I just need some time,” you admitted, cutting him off. “Just to get used to…” your voice trailed.

Bradley nodded. He in no way felt like it was his place to speak and as the facial one between the pair of you? Well. So he just continued to hold you and whisper that whatever you decided was okay, and he would support you with anything you decided, a lot or not he wasn’t sure. He thought you were on the same page. He thought you both wanted this -

Like you, his insides were much and could feel himself lightheaded. He grounded himself and carefully reminded himself this wasn’t about him for now. It was getting your beautifully convoluted brain and heart to the same place his was:

Ready.

“What if this is our only chance?” You asked quietly. “What if - “ you shut your mouth and the guilt of situation started to overwhelm you. Bradley only hummed, still choosing to remain mute. “Would you hate me?”

He remained reflective a moment, choosing his words carefully his best option.

“No, love. But I would never live with myself if I forced you to do something you weren’t ready for. Come,” he took your hands and led you to the bedroom. He helped you take off your clothes, his large palm resting gently over your abdomen for just a second longer than he should have and it didn’t go unnoticed by you.

His baby in your protective, strong body.

He pulled back the duvet and patted your pillow as you snuck under the cold sheets, thinking maybe you could sleep a year. He climbed in after you, the warm skin of his chest against your back under the slowly spinning ceiling fan. His fingertips traced your hip, slowly drawing his name on your skin. "If you don't want to do this, it's okay.”

There was your voice of reason.

“But it's still something you'll need to consider pretty quick..."

Always offering you both sides.

It was silent a while and while Bradley’s excitement was guarded carefully, even he knew this conversation was not the light and excited one he thought you’d share instead.

"I want this," you were able to say, but it was easier with him not boring his eyes into yours. He kissed your shoulder and nuzzled the nape of your neck.

"I love you," he said so softly you almost didn't hear him. "I won't let you do this alone."

The fateful night you told your family and the Dagger Squad was when it really started to feel real. Your pregnancy to that point has been pretty good. You only turned green as food cooked around you so it was easy to excuse yourself and the extreme exhaustion that overwhelmed you the first trimester slinked away entering the second. You weren’t horribly unwell but things were definitely changing within you.

Boobs sore and off limits to Bradley even though he’d playfully volunteered his palms but your personal support system. It went about as well as expected.

“Just ginger ale tonight?” Bob smiled a while later. You’d been chatting quietly together while Bradley’s squad played pool and generally one-upped each other around you.

“What do you mean?” God, you hated lying to such a delight as Bob. He was so sweet, and although Bradley had alluded to his well-guarded playboy-like ways, he was always darling to you.

“I have four sisters,” he sipped his water. “She pretended she was drinking bourbon and ginger ale to throw everyone off the scent she was…” he chuckled quietly and you’d be damned if you’d figured him out. “It’s okay,” he said quickly. “I understand if you’re just not drinking tonight.”

And while your family was aware of your news, Bradley had sworn not to tell his friends just yet. You weren’t ready to be looked in on 24/7 by overzealous Navy pilots.

“Nearly four months,” you said quietly.

“Phoenix guessed a little less,” he winked. “I won’t tell, but I’m very happy for you both. This baby will be so loved. Or smothered,” he shrugged playfully. “One of the two.”

“Bob?”

“Yes, ma’am?” He responded as you rolled your eyes playfully.

“This is how you do it, isn’t it?”

“Do what?” He played dumb.

“Find women. Because you watch and listen.” And suddenly it all made such sense as he blushed, toying with his glass.

“I can’t reveal all my trade secrets, but showing a little interest helps,” he admitted.

“I wanna know all your tricks. You’re absolutely fascinating to me.”

And for the first time, you heard Bob Floyd cackle as he nodded. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that’s never gonna happen.”

"You're getting deployed?" you look at Bradley, eyes wild, six months of baby belly between you. His head fell back.

"I know."

"You know?" you screeched, spoiled for months of your husband home and he finds himself deployed as you enter your final trimester. "Bradley, you'll be away for the birth of your daughter."

"I know..." he said a little meeker. He was sick about this conversation. Sick.

"Did you not put in the leave paperwork?"

"Of course I did. Baby, this classification is my first real role as team leader. As command.”

"Who's going with you?"

"Payback, Fanboy," he confirmed softly.

“Will you be home for Christmas?”

He nodded. “Yes,” he stepped towards you, his large palms sinking into the round belly under his grasp, tickling the stretching skin. You sighed and collapsed into his hold. “Even if I have to jump overboard and swim back myself, I will be here for Christmas. I’m sorry, love. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m just scared. The birth is one thing… but I can’t raise a baby in my own,” you said, the fear in your evident.

“And I’d never let you,” he whispered into your hair.

"If you see one ounce of action, I swear to you, don't dare come home."

He nodded. Dear God, he knew. The most danger Bradley Bradshaw had ever been in was at this moment. And as his baby girl kicked him from her little cocoon in retaliation for making her Mama wild, he knew that nothing g else mattered anymore and that someway, somehow he was going to find a way to be home for his girls.

masterlist.

[lostinwonderland314]

Here Comes the Sun

pairing: s.r x fem!bau!reader word count: 2.8k contents: not proof read i’m sorry… fluffy :3 title taken from a beatles song, suggestive content, but no smut!!!rushed, badly written, post prison!reid, professor!reid mentioned, very tiny jeid reference, eventually sweetheart!spence, his tism is showing, cuddling <33, emily is a little shit the one time she’s mentioned, allusions to sex, sneakin’ around a/n: this is kinda bad… idk. i just needed to post a fic because im sure you guys are tired of me thirsting over glasses reid </3

You joined the team when Reid was on sabbatical leave. You were yet to be introduced to him until your second week. He was insensitive and distant, especially with you (only distant); he lacked that shine in his eyes you saw in other people. To which the team clarified he wasn’t forever like that, and he’d changed after he went to prison. You felt nothing but empathy for him, and you wished he could find that happiness he once harbored.

In the first one hundred days you got to know him, you unknowingly profiled his every move. Every diminutive gesture, a raise of an eyebrow to a giggle that slipped from his lips. You deduced that he was most comfortable around JJ and Luke, and he missed a former agent named Derek Morgan. He was least relaxed around you; he shielded himself near you. He would plow his hands into his pockets and purse his lips awkwardly.

You’d managed to pry a few conversations out of him, and you couldn’t be more different than him. Despite your job, you were the biggest optimist ever. Spencer was a blunt realist, which you’d expected, but his honesty shocked you. You two had serious conversations, less lighthearted than the ones you heard him have with other members. It made you wish that he would be more comfortable with you.

You would watch him from afar, your heart breaking at his permanent pout and glossy eyes. You would seldom ask ‘a penny for his thoughts,’ but he always hesitated, simply laughing it off, pulling the infamous ‘I’m fine.’

You, of course, respected his boundaries, but you felt as if you hadn't even developed any camaraderie. You two felt like strangers, because it was all you were. There was no bond; there was no relationship. Simply coworkers, and you didn’t think that he wanted anything more than that.

Of course, you preferred a professional relationship, but sometimes you wished he would give you a smile like he did to any other member. After what he’s been through, you don’t blame him for not wanting to develop new, close relationships. It would only make it worse to force a friendship upon you two. If it doesn’t happen, that’s it.

Then, it was thirty days without him. It felt no different than your average days at the BAU. Other team members were affected, but you couldn’t feel any more normal. It wasn’t that you didn’t care for him, but the complete opposite. It was simply that he wasn’t a key part of your social life as the other team members were. Of course, working the cases felt slightly different—void of his nerdy aura.

The air felt less tense for you. You were closer with the other team members; you couldn’t deny that you felt bad to feel better without Spencer. It wasn’t because he was gone, per se, you simply felt more comfortable.

The thirty days seemed to be the longest month of your life, because when you saw him, you felt relieved to know he was there, he was alive. First day back at the BAU, he wrapped his arms around JJ tightly, spinning her in a circle, erupting gentle laughter from the blonde. You smiled, because it was a wholesome sight, and you totally didn’t wish that she were you.

Winter came around with Spencer, and the team received significantly fewer cases, which made you wonder if even serial killers feared the cold. The thought was almost humorous. The rare cases the team received were in the warmer states like Arizona and Florida. It was nice to seldom escape the cold and experience a bit of warmth this time of year.

Unfortunately, some serial killers feared nothing. The team accepted a case in North Dakota, an unsub taking advantage of the cold, utilizing it to torture their victims. Though you were a profiler, you could never actually be in someone's brain, and you could never figure out where such creativity came from.

You and Spencer arrived at the first crime scene. It wasn’t unusual, because you guys worked well together professionally. You strode in sync, walking over to the lifeless, cold victim. You shivered, in horror and because you were cold. You two had been standing in the middle of a field; what would’ve been beautiful grass was covered in snow.

“This is… unusual,” you acknowledged quietly, because it was more than obvious. Spencer let out an amused scoff and nod, his breath causing tiny clouds to form in the wintry air.

You two examined the victim with meticulousness and sympathy. You couldn’t bring yourself to look into the victim’s dull eyes. You almost winced at the sight of their body overall. The contrast between their practically blue body and the blood from their chest was horrific.

You sighed with a shiver as you turned to walk away, Spencer still examining the victim, imprinting the image into his head for future reference. You didn’t bother to ask whether he was coming or not, because he had to get back to the station, so it would only be stupid to ask.

Closing in on the distance to the car, you felt a warm, cozy object encircle your neck: Spencer’s purple scarf. He didn’t have to, but your whole body was practically shaking, and he couldn’t handle it.

You turned around to him, the cool wind blowing his hair out of place (not that it was in place to start). “You’ll be cold.” You started to take the scarf off, and he immediately grabbed your hand, stopping you.

“Sorry, um, no. Keep it. I’m fine, and you’re shivering.” His hand still holding yours, until he realized the awkward position, he let go. “Are you warm?”

You nodded, which wasn’t a lie to simply satisfy him. You now understood why he wore it recently. It was welcoming, warm, and relaxing. You felt like the fierce cold couldn’t touch you anymore, though you knew it’d win.

He stepped over to the driver's side, avoiding the ice in the road, to open the door for you.

“I’m the driver, Reid. You didn’t have to do that.” You smiled at him involuntarily, the gesture just sweet. You quickly started up the car, yearning for the warmth that would leave the vents.

“It’s just respectful.” He hummed, closing the door behind you as you leaned down into the car. He strolled back to the passenger side, taking the seat next to you, taking in the heating temperature of the car.

“You’re suddenly a gentleman, hm?” You chuckled, glancing over to Spencer, a slight smile crept onto his lips.

You could seriously get used to this.

The next roughly ninety days of winter were warm because you were filled with warmth. Each morning at the BAU, Spencer would make you a cup of coffee and have it on your desk before or right on time as you arrived. It prompted for a conversation—specifically, each time an awkward conversation about the weather, which was the same every day, but it was an excuse to interact. He became comfortable enough to ramble to you; it was mostly about how D.C. didn’t even get the worst winter in the US and comparing your fortunate weather to other states that were freezing.

You’d be bored in the morning; Spencer was a form of entertainment, but not just that. He seemed the happiest when he could talk and talk so much. He had so much to say, and people let him say so little. It disheartened him, so of course, he expected it from you. He didn’t expect your pout when he suddenly stopped talking, it made his eyes light up.

You actually cared.

He beamed before he started prattling on again, and you listened intently as you sipped your coffee, his purple scarf around your neck—which he noticed, and it made his heart flutter.

“You really… like the scarf?” he haphazardly blurted in the middle of his rambling, with something of humor in his voice.

“Of course I do! It’s also given me a chance to wear all of the purple in my closet while staying warm.” You nodded, looking down at your outfit, wearing a purple cardigan he hadn't seen before. He noticed your new versatility in style, and he liked it. “Why wouldn't I like it?”

“Oh—It’s just old. I've had it for a while, and it’s kind of ugly. It, um..." he cleared his throat, “it looks great on you.”

“Are you flirting with me, Reid?”

His face flushed an unusual shade of red, and his lips immediately parted to object, but he couldn't say anything. He simply looked like a tomato.

“Oh, no, I was joking!” You giggled a bit, the back of your hand traveling to his cheek to feel the heat of his face. “I know you weren't flirting.”

“O-oh…” He spoke through an uneasy chuckle, and your hand on his face served no consolation to his nervousness.

Even this moment wasn't too awkward, it was humorous to you, and Spencer was minorly embarrassed, mainly adoring your giggles at his red face. The idea of germs was in the back of his mind as you handled his face, but he couldn't care less.

You had one more case with him before he left on sabbatical leave. You took advantage of it. You had the chance (not even a choice, actually) to share a hotel room, and you couldn’t help but think it would make it awkward again.

Spencer had been lying in bed before you were out of your work clothes. He was lying on his back, his eyes tightly closed, afraid to see something he didn't want to.

“Asleep already?” You were changing into the comfortable clothes you packed to sleep in. You would've packed better if you knew someone had to see you in your pajamas.

“No, I’m afraid I might see you… you know, changing.”

“Afraid?” You chuckled, climbing into your side of the bed, a lot of space between you two, which was comfortable and not awkward.

“You know what I mean.” He sighed as he turned to face you, his eyes opening to notice the comedically large space. “I think you could move a bit closer?”

You scooted a bit closer, the space shrinking narrowly. “Just a little more,” he murmured.

“Do you want to cuddle with me, Reid?” You jested as you two lay a few inches apart now.

A giggle erupted from his lips, but he shook his head. He reached out to sweep your hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek. He examined your facial structure closely, and you stared into his big hazel eyes.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” you hummed, stifling a smile as his eyes widened in surprise. “Sorry to scare you.”

“No, I’m sorry for staring.” He pulled his hand away, your skin immediately missing his frigid fingers.

You murmured a quiet assurance to him, holding the eye contact for a moment. A moment of adoration.

“Can we?” he vaguely proposed.

“What?”

“Can we cuddle?” He breathed out a shaky breath, opening his mouth to object to his own proposal, but you cut him off before he could.

“I’d like that, if you’re truly comfortable with it.”You closed the space between you two, and you felt Spencer wrap his arm around you, gently lifting you up, some of your weight resting on him.

You two lay like that for a while, his hand encircling your waist, his index finger sketching obscure shapes on your clothes abdomen. You were half asleep, his melodic breaths lulling you to sleep. Your face in his neck, you could feel his pulse against your lips. It was clearly intimate, but you could tell he had no intent to try to initiate anything further. He made you feel safe.

“Good night,” he murmured as he felt your eyelashes flutter shut against his neck. You reiterated it lazily, more of a hum than anything. He simply smiled, pressing a kiss to your scalp as you dozed off.

But you felt it.

This was the first time you’d genuinely been affected by his presence, or lack of it. You walked in, and there was no cup of coffee on your desk. It was disheartening, truly, because the cup of coffee was the greatest reminder of his presence and how much he began to care about you.

“Someone’s missing Reid.” Emily chuckled as she watched the coffee drip into the pot. There was enough for her, but she waited until there was enough for both of you to get a cup, stalling for time to talk.

You turned to her as a look of curiosity painted your face. Then you noticed his personalized mug was gone too. “Who?”

“You, newbie.” Though the term was reserved for Luke, Emily still used it for you because you were fairly new.

That obvious?

“Well, of course I do! He’s a valuable asset to the team. It only makes sense to miss his presence,” you explained, an odd defensiveness in your tone.

Emily hid her smirk and simply nodded, agreeing with you. She poured coffee into her mug, leaving just enough for you.

You were still dumbfounded by the fact that she drank her coffee black and the fact that you were not discreet at all.

So, you’d spend the next month evidently pining.

Or so you thought.

“So, how are you settling in without me?” you teased over the phone, standing near the toaster, making sure your toast didn’t get too dark.

“Not too well, I think this feeling is called yearning,” Spencer exaggerated, setting up for early morning lectures.

“Hm, ditto.” You jumped a bit as the toast popped up without warning—of course—having been immersed in the conversation with Spencer. “You could always visit me, or vice versa,” you proposed.

There was silence for longer than you would've liked, but you gave him a moment to think.

“I’d like that… to visit you, I mean. My apartment isn't the most organized,” he agreed, a quiet chuckle exiting his lips.

“It’s a date!” You beamed as you placed your toast onto a plate. The sun shone through your opened curtains, casting a light onto your dining table.

“Great. I’ll see you tonight.” And with that being the end, you noticed that you two were talking for half an hour.

You would have never guessed that one day, you would be cuddled up with your coworker who you were certain hated you. On your couch, in his Caltech sweatshirt that he generously offered you for no reason, and he was only wearing, what was before, a matching shirt that was slightly tight on his new muscles.

In this moment you knew that—you didn’t have to guess it—but you didn’t know how his lips ended up clashing with yours, ignoring whatever movie you were watching, captured in this random makeout session. And he kissed you with love, like he feared he would never be able to do it again.

Spencer pulled away hesitantly. “I’m sorry, the movie—“

“No, it’s okay. The movie can wait.” He immediately nodded in agreement as you pulled him back in. His hand on your stomach unhurriedly pushed you down onto the couch, your head held up by the armrest.

He sat in between your legs, his kisses beginning to trail down your neck, and soon, that sweatshirt he gave you was long gone, and everything else.

Nothing about him surprised you, especially not how gentle he was. It was basically expected.

As stated before, Spencer never surprised you much since the second you learned he was a genius. He knew how to do most everything, but you didn’t imagine that he knew how to treat a woman so greatly.

“Do you feel okay?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose.

All you could do was nod, your eyes slowly opening and closing. You could feel a cloth cleaning you gently; it was relieving, just like the touch of his lips to your skin.

“Have I said it yet?”

“Said what?”

“That I love you,” you hummed, you could faintly see him shaking his head.

“No, but I know, and I love you too,” he said it casually, as if he’d said it a million times already. “And I can’t exaggerate how much I mean it.”

You reached up to swat his hair away from his face, his big hazel eyes visible to you now. Your eyes trailed down to the marks on his neck, you grimaced. “Do you have to teach tomorrow?”

“I don’t… have to. I can spend tomorrow with you.”

Your eyes were busy trailing downward, and then you felt perverse, so you redirected your vision to his eyes. “Work,” you complained, sitting upright.

“Right.” He sighed. When he was on sabbatical leave, he tried his best to forget about work, and you most definitely helped. “So this is fraternization, isn’t it?”

You shook your head, pulling him down onto you once more. “Not if no one knows.” You hummed as you watched the sun peek through the blinds, shining onto Spencer’s face, which reminded you how late—or early—you guys had been up.

Till the first day of spring, you could say.

[lostinwonderland314]

joy sneaks in

you're chosen to host the BAU's annual christmas party at your apartment, where spencer's books line your shelves and his sweaters are tangled in your laundry. the days leading up to the party are a blur of stuffing his things into every drawer and cupboard you can find. it’s your mess. your life together. and it’s everything.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: fluff

content: domestic! and also a christmas party! less on the party and more on how spencer and bau!reader suck at lying though; which make for some humorous moments.

word count: 3.8k

note: i wrote this awhile back and felt like posting it too. honestly a tad bit dramatised for comedy's sake but whatever i love domesticity and nervous!spencer. and it was fun writing them flounder about.

a line: For the first time, the thought of being home doesn’t feel like a concession; it feels like choosing happiness.

joy does not arrive with a fanfare on a red carpet strewn with the flowers of a perfect life joy sneaks in as you pour a cup of coffee - donna ashworth

It starts innocuously enough—a draw from Hotch's coffee mug, a simple slip of paper pulled out in front of the team, the scrawl of your name on it in black pen, and the pause before your name is announced in his unmistakably measured tone. “Looks like you’re hosting the Christmas party this year.”

Derek grins, his laugh a low rumble. “Oh, this is gonna be good,” he drawls, shooting you a look that’s practically dripping with amusement.

You feel all the eyes on you, and the weight of it sinks into your chest. Your first instinct is to swallow it down, play it cool, try not to look at Spencer. Hosting a party means opening up your space— the space that’s been shared with Spencer for the last six months. Your apartment, which has slowly morphed into a mix of the two of you, a messy blend of both your lives—where his books spill off your shelves and his sweaters are tangled in your laundry, where his favourite mug has a place in your cupboard.

Derek leans back in his chair, arms crossed, his smirk a beacon for trouble. “Better start tidying up, huh?”  You laugh it off, aiming for nonchalance but his teasing lands squarely in your chest. Your heart does that familiar flip when your gaze slips, unbidden, to Spencer who to your dismay, is standing there with his eyes ever so slightly widened like a deer caught in the headlights. You can feel the team’s teasing smiles from every corner of the room, their unspoken questions hanging in the air. But beneath their teasing, there’s an edge. Suspicion. They’ve been suspecting for weeks, piecing together the small clues you’ve been desperately trying to keep under wraps. 

And why wouldn’t they? The truth is, you’ve been dodging their invites lately, throwing out flimsy excuses about “errands” or “early mornings” that didn’t quite stick. At first, it was the occasional “I’ve got other plans”, but it became more frequent, more noticeable until even Derek had started to raise an eyebrow. He’d started poking at the seams of your alibis weeks ago, slouching against your desk with an eyebrow arched in pure disbelief. “C’mon, pretty girl,” he’d said. “What gives? You’ve gone full hermit mode on us.” You’d brushed it off, offering up a half-hearted excuse about how you’ll definitely join them next week, but Derek didn’t look convinced. And neither did the rest of the team. They weren’t blind, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that there was something—or rather someone you weren’t telling them about. 

Then there was Garcia, sidling up to you with that twinkle in her eye that only ever meant trouble. “Spill,” she demanded, hands on her hips. “Who is he? And when do I get to give him the Penelope Garcia Official Seal of Approval™?” You had laughed, and tried to deflect with a vague answer about how busy things had been. “Whoever he is, he better be worth it, because you”—she jabs a finger at you with exaggerated flair—“never skip a night out. Ever. We’re talking borderline-unbreakable attendance!” 

You bite back a smile, your mind flickering to those wild nights—sweaty dance floors, drinks flowing, laughter that echoed until dawn. It’s still a little surreal to think you’ve turned into one of those girls—the kind who would happily trade a night out with friends for a quiet evening in with their boyfriend. That was never your style. It was always a point of contention with past boyfriends. They always wanted more of your time, wanted more of your presence, but the idea of slowing down for someone else always felt like a compromise.

But somehow, with Spencer, it doesn’t quite feel like you're giving up anything at all. The simple, quiet moments with him have a gravity you never expected. Cooking dinner together while music hums softly in the background, curling up on the couch with a movie you’ve both seen a dozen times, or just sitting in comfortable silence as he reads and you scroll through your phone. The domesticity, the softness, the ease of it all—it feels complete. With Spencer, those quiet evenings aren’t boring. They’re grounding. For the first time, the thought of being home doesn’t feel like a concession; it feels like choosing happiness.

Honestly, you don’t really know how the team hasn’t put two and two together yet. Maybe it’s because you and Spencer had always been close—it was easy for them to chalk it up to that. Since you’d joined a year ago, it just felt natural to click with him, the two of you always slipping into the same rhythm. You were closest in age, after all, and the team had seen you trading inside jokes over takeout on stakeouts, hunched over books in the quiet moments after cases. In their eyes, it was harmless, a friendship born of long hours and shared exhaustion—Not that that came without teasing. 

The question was always there, floating just beneath the surface of their casual remarks. Words unspoken, a line uncrossed. That is, until a tense night in Texas where you had gotten far too close to an unsub. The team had gotten to you in time of course, they always do. But that didn't help shake off the lingering memories of the encounter as you stared out the window of the jet. It was so simple—a quiet look, his hand slipping into yours, his thumb gently tracing over your trembling fingers as you looked out the window trying to dispel the the thoughts of whatever had happened just hours ago—and suddenly, it was like every wall you’d both put up had just vanished. His touch held a weight that words couldn’t carry, and in that touch, something between you shifted, settling into a place neither of you had been willing to acknowledge before. Looking back, maybe you’d both felt it coming long before, but neither of you had dared to say it out loud. 

You and Spencer had made the decision together—keep things quiet a little while longer. It wasn’t the right time. Not yet. You wanted to savour the privacy of your stolen moments: his hand brushing yours during late-night coffee runs, your head resting on his shoulder as you both tried to survive the tail-end of a grueling case. It was fragile, precious. You could already hear the laughter, the surprise, the “We knew it!” and the endless questions about how long it had been going on, how you kept it from them, how you didn’t tell them sooner. And you could already feel the weight of that—how you’d both be under a microscope in a way you just weren’t ready for. You liked the privacy, the simple, quiet moments that only the two of you shared. It was yours, together, something no one else needed to know about just yet.

The days leading up to the party are a blur of frantic cleaning, shoving Spencer’s belongings into anywhere they can fit. “Emily’s a hawk with this stuff,” Spencer mutters, half-buried in a pile of mismatched socks and paperbacks. It had started with a few quick attempts at tidying up, but soon it turned into a frenzy of stuffing things—his things—into every drawer and cupboard you can find trying to make your place look like you’re just you. 

You hold up a pair of slippers with a dubious look. “Do these scream, ‘man secretly living here’?” You hesitate, then stuff them into your wardrobe anyway. “Hotch will see the shoes. He’s thorough.” At one point, Spencer just starts throwing random clothes into a duffel bag with a kind of desperate determination, muttering something about how “Derek knows way too much about my wardrobe”. Despite the chaos, there’s laughter—giddy, shared moments, like when Spencer hisses in horror at your attempt to cram his gift—an English copy of War and Peace—under the coffee table. “That’s sacrilege,” he whispers furiously, clutching the book to his chest as if shielding it from harm. You have to bite back a grin.

There’s a particular moment though, when you’re crouched beside the couch again, frantically trying to shove a few stray novels underneath the coffee table hoping they’ll blend in with the meticulously arranged stack of Architectural Digest magazines you’d placed there purely for ‘decorative purposes’. Spencer suddenly peeks out from the bedroom, his eyes wide with alarm, his expression a mix of disbelief and panic. “Hey, can you, uh, maybe not put those under the coffee table?” he whispers urgently. 

You pause, halfway through your task, and blink up at him. “Why?”

“It’s just—” He looks around frantically as though an ominous presence has settled around you. “They will know. They’ll know,” he repeats, shaking his head, the weight of some unspeakable doom settling over him. It’s all you can do not to burst out laughing. You try to keep the situation light, but then you see the look in Spencer’s eyes. This is serious business. 

And you nearly lose it, stifling a laugh so hard it hurts. The sheer absurdity of the situation.  Yet, beneath the humour, there’s something grounding about it—in the middle of the chaos, the intimacy of it all hits you harder than you expected. This isn’t just a mess; it’s your mess. Your life together. And it’s everything.

By the time the day comes and the team arrives, the apartment looks borderline staged. You feel a little more prepared—almost confident even. You breathe a little easier, relieved that all the obvious signs have been concealed. You act casual, ushering them in with drinks and snacks, but the sharp-eyed profilers in the room are already picking up on things you’ve missed. Rossi’s gaze flickers to the second set of keys on the hook. JJ raises an eyebrow at the coffee machine by your counter. You don't drink coffee. And Derek? He’s grinning like the cat that caught the canary, leaning against the wall and watching it all unfold.

“Nice place,” he says smoothly, his tone loaded. Rossi’s eyes fall on the meticulously organized bookshelf, your heart stutters. “War and Peace,” he says, picking up the hefty copy with a raised brow. “Yours?” 

You freeze, your stomach sinking, silently cursing yourself for giving in to Spencer’s insistence that it was too precious to be shoved under the dusty coffee table. It had seemed fine at the time, but you should’ve known better. 

“Yes,” you say too quickly. “Mine. I’m really, uh, passionate about Tolstoy.”

Derek raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Since when?

You flounder, trying to remember any of Spencer’s ramblings about the book that you may or may not tune out at times. Your mind races as you remember brief mentions about symbolism and war and societal constraints. “Since, um…well, you know, Tolstoy is…deep. About…symbolism. And…life.”

Spencer, bless him, is standing behind them in your kitchen, making desperate hand signals to help you out. He subtly taps his chest, mouthing “individualism,” then points at his head, clearly trying to convey something intellectual that’s just not coming through. His hands flutter around like he’s illustrating the grandness of Russian literature, and you do your best to follow his cues. You latch onto it like a life raft. “Individualism and thinking about—uh—society!” You nod vigorously, wishing you could disappear into the floor. Emily eyes you, smiling a little too knowingly. Spencer, meanwhile, is practically acting out War and Peace like a mime in the background, pretending to hold a musket, then making exaggerated ‘thinking’ gestures, trying to help you navigate this act. 

“I just love Tolstoy’s exploration of, uh, individual identity within societal constraints…” you manage, brows furrowing as if trying to convince even yourself of the words spilling out. Rossi’s brow lifts, skepticism dancing in his eyes, but he says nothing, clearly amused as he watches you scramble, letting you dig yourself a little deeper. He’s David Rossi for a reason—The man’s silence is practically weaponized, making you ramble on and on, as if you’ll somehow stumble your way into a believable explanation. You’re nervous-rambling now and you can feel yourself grasping at threads, scrambling to remember something—anything—that sounds remotely convincing. You start stumbling over a vaguely remembered plot point and that’s when Spencer starts making his way towards you from the kitchen, grimacing as you butcher the story. He walks toward you almost as if to steady you, a silent plea for you to stop digging yourself a bigger hole than you already have. “Yeah, well… it’s, uh, definitely a classic,” he says, stepping in.

Spencer subtly coughs behind his hand, catching Derek’s attention for just a second—enough to let you scramble for closing line. But the team’s smirks only grow. “Well,” Emily says with a laugh, “if you’re such a big fan of this Tolstoy guy, why don't you tell us your favorite passage hm?” You try not to cast a desperate look Spencer’s way. Spencer opens his mouth like he’s about to cut in, but Derek catches his attention with a look that says, Don’t even think about it, Spence.

Their eyes dart between the two of you, waiting for something. You can feel the tension building. Spencer stands there looking on, probably trying to telepathically send you the correct Tolstoy quote—or any Tolstoy quote at this point, but you’re lost in a sea of flailing words and desperate thoughts.

“Uh, no, actually, I don’t have a favorite passage,” you finally stammer. “It’s just, you know, the themes are really profound.”

Emily crosses her arms and gives you a once-over, clearly reveling in whatever spectacle just unfolded. “Uh-huh.” You roll your eyes, but before you can fire back, Rossi smoothly redirects the group’s attention to the kitchen, likely throwing you a lifeline to salvage what little dignity remains. You and Spencer exchange glances, his lips quirking in the faintest hint of a smile. It’s a private little conspiracy you two have shared for half a year, but now, as the night wears on, it’s starting to feel like the universe has other plans.

It doesn’t help that your team is sharp—they catch everything, a roomful of profilers who thrive on details, and tonight, every small habit, every casual touch seems magnified. Garcia narrows her eyes when she spots Spencer absentmindedly reaching to fix the crooked frame on the shelf. “You know where that goes, huh, Boy Wonder?” she teases, winking, and Spencer mumbles something about “aesthetic consistency,” looking thoroughly flustered.

You try to brush it off, laughing along with her, but then there’s Hotch, eyeing the stack of board games in the corner, the ones you both picked out last month on a whim. “Didn’t know you were into game nights,” he comments. “Oh, yeah. Huge fan of… Scrabble,” you say, your voice a little too high, trying not to look at Spencer, who’s doing everything he can to stifle a laugh. 

You can practically hear the thoughts running through his head, probably remembering the night you’d blown up at him after he beat you four times in a row with a ridiculously pretentious winning word—quixotic, no less. You’d been so mad, you’d tossed your tiles and stormed off like a petulant child. Now, judging from the way he's trying to hide his grin, the twitch at the corner of his lips, it's clear he hasn’t forgotten the fiery aftermath either. You roll your eyes, fighting back a smile. 

Your life with him has become this strange, endearing mix of shared routines and accidental collections. Where he’s meticulous, you’re spontaneous, always flying by the seat of your pants and, at times, leaving him with a resigned sigh when you’ve left your keys in places you never should. It’s a quiet chaos, but it works. And now, as you stumble through the evening, every little piece of your life— your lives are flashing under the team’s increasingly suspicious gaze. 

JJ picks up a scarf lying casually on the floor, half-tucked beneath one of your jackets. She holds it up with a curious look. “Hey, Spence, this yours?” Spencer’s heart skips a beat, and he quickly tries to school his expression, but the wide-eyed panic is hard to hide. He looks at the scarf as if it’s just been resurrected from the depths of his lost belongings. “Oh thanks!” he says, dramatically, “I’ve been looking everywhere for that!” He reaches for the scarf with an eagerness that betrays his attempt at nonchalance, fumbling with it awkwardly. “I thought I’d lost it,” he adds, his words tumbling out in an over-explained rush as his fingers fuss with the fabric.

JJ doesn't buy it. Not for a second. “Funny, I thought you brought it with you today,” she says, a knowing smirk creeping onto her face. “Since, you know, it’s right here by the door.”

Spencer freezes again, scrambling for a response. “Right... yeah, that—that makes sense. Of course.” He forces out a laugh, the sound more nervous than casual, and wraps the scarf around his neck with an exaggerated flourish. “Good to have it back,” he adds weakly, trying and failing to look composed.

JJ just shakes her head, her grin widening. “Sure, Spence. Whatever you say.” She watches him for a moment longer, clearly amused by the whole thing, before finally turning away, letting him stew in his overdramatic act. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Spencer breathes a sigh of relief, but his cheeks are still tinged with pink, and he can’t help but glance nervously over at you hoping you’re doing a better job than him at keeping this increasingly bad act up. 

By the time Garcia corners Spencer in the kitchen, her grin is practically predatory. “You guys are terrible at this, you know.” Spencer looks all too comfortable setting dishes away for someone who has only ever been to your place 'once or twice'. Spencer sighs, defeated, but there’s a soft smile tugging at his lips as he watches you across the room. “Yeah,” he says, more to himself than to her. “We are.” Spencer, at least, seems resigned, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he watches you across the room, fumbling as you desperately try (and fail) to explain away a forgotten pair of mismatched socks by the door—somehow "yours" now, despite them clearly being too big.

You can feel your cheeks burning as the night progresses, their eyes catching every little detail—his fingers brushing against yours when he hands you a drink, the way you absentmindedly drape your arm behind him on the couch as the night winds down after one too many said drinks. The team exchanges knowing glances, soft chuckles bubbling up around you as they take in every stray look and subtle movement between the two of you. 

As you say your goodbyes and thank yous, it’s clear you’ve been thoroughly caught. Emily snickers, shaking her head as she slips on her coat. “You two are adorable,” she murmurs, grinning without trying to hide it. You clear your throat feigning innocence, trying to look casual. She turns back with a sly smirk, her voice laced with amusement. “So Spence," she asks, challenging, "You staying the night?”

The room falls silent. They all know. You both know they know. Spencer, ever the professional, tries to brush it off. “I’ll help clean up,” he says nonchalantly, but the team is already rolling their eyes, clearly seeing right through the act. They’ve been in this business long enough to recognize the signs.

You try to come up with something clever but Spencer knows it’s game over. He steps in beside you and there’s that look on his face, that soft, earnest expression he gets when he’s about to confess something—whether it’s a fact about astrophysics or a half-hidden truth he’s been holding close. “Alright, alright” he says, glancing at you for reassurance. “You got us.”

Spencer slips his hand into yours, his fingers warm and steady, grounding you in this moment. A round of knowing laughter echoes through the room, with Derek clapping Spencer on the back, Garcia gasping dramatically, and Rossi chuckling, muttering something along the lines of “about time”.

Spencer squeezes your hand. You squeeze back.

The team leaves you with a final round of cheers and teasing winks, and as the door clicks shut, you turn to Spencer, his smile mirroring your own. You hear the unmistakable whoops and cheers from outside. A laugh bubbles up inside you.

Once the house quiets and the last footsteps fade away, Spencer pulls you into his arms. The soft glow of the christmas lights he'd helped you put up yesterday creates a warm halo around him as he looks down at you, that adoring smile still tugging at his lips. “Guess the secret’s out,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheek.

You shake your head, a little amused at how badly you’d tried to cover up something everyone already knew. “We really are terrible at this,” you admit.

“Well,” he replies in a low voice, “it could’ve gone worse.”

You laugh, resting your head against his chest. “Think they bought it, even for a moment?”

“Not a chance sweetheart,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “But it was fun watching you try.”

You lean into him, the warmth of his touch, his presence grounding you in a way you never expected but now can't imagine living without. You look around the room, taking in the space you’ve shared together. Sure, most of his belongings are still hidden away, tucked somewhat haphazardly in the cupboards or behind closed doors, but there are traces of him everywhere. It’s in the small things—the little hints of Spencer imprinted into the fabric of your life.

There are hints of Spencer in the kitchen sink, the one he fixed when it started leaking a few months ago. You had been ready to call a plumber, but Spencer had insisted he could handle it. He always does.

There are hints of Spencer in how you've stopped arranging your plates a certain way just for aesthetics because he'd proven how much more convenient it was to stack them according to how often you used them.

There are hints of Spencer in the stain on the couch from pasta night three weeks ago, a mishap that still makes you both laugh whenever you catch sight of it.

There are things only the two of you can understand. A code only the two of you can decipher. Small, unnoticed details that no one else can see—No matter how observant they are, no matter how well they think they can read you. 

And so maybe it's okay that the secret you’ve shared for months now belongs to the people who matter most. Because as you think of these little hints of Spencer—the way he’s subtly woven himself into your life and you into his—you realize that some things do get to stay your own little secret after all. And in that, there’s something beautiful, something that’s just yours.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

[lostinwonderland314]

nonexistent rizz

the team is shocked to see that… early seasons!spencer pulls?? and he has pulled????

(aka, the team discovers that early seasons!spence has a girlfriend)

a/n: first cm fic!!! super indulgent, deffo way longer than it had to be but I don’t care, I love love love the dynamic of the s1/s2 team and I NEEDED to write it

cw: alcohol consumption, reader referred to as a woman, reader is around spencer’s age in s1/s2 (23-24), completely inaccurate early 2000s technology i think, cuties being cute, not edited in any way

wc: 2k

part two

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

“‘O Keefe’s! My wonderful, wonderful sweethearts, we are going out!” The moment the team steps out of the elevator, Penelope is bombarding them, hands moving wildly as words seem to tumble out of her mouth. “And yes, Hotch, I am sure we have no cases lined up yet, and yes, I’m sure JJ can corroborate that the moment she gets to her office and no, you may not stay behind, tonight is compulsory. That stands for you too, Gideon!”

Hotch hasn’t even opened his mouth, shaking his head in defeat as he takes in Garcia’s determined face. Under the watchful eyes of the team, his shoulders slump, a tired hand scrubbing down his face. “Fine. We all have to finish our reports, but if we’re all done in half an hour, we can go. Gideon?” He turns his face, hoping for Gideon to find a way to bunk off, but there’s a glint of amusement in the older man’s eye. “Sounds like there’s no getting out of it.” With that, he walks off, to his office. 

Penelope whoops excitedly, “Okay! That means we’re all going! That’s the first time since Gideon came back,” but her face sets slightly when she meets Spencer’s eye. “No. No, Baby Genius, you will not do this to me,”

“Garcia, I have pl-” “No! You are coming out with us, and we’re going to have a great time, and whatever Russian indie film you were going to watch will still be there for you tomorrow. Okay? No more complaining, baby, you know I won’t listen.” With a pat on his shoulder, she flounces off. Defeated, he doesn’t move from the elevator area, shrugging helplessly when Elle, JJ and Morgan brush past him to the bullpen. 

With a sigh, he takes out his phone, pressing his newly-programmed speed dial and bringing the phone to his ear. From Derek’s vantage point in the bullpen, he can see Spencer, pacing back and forth in front of the elevator doors, and he can see the moment whoever is on the other side picks up. The younger man’s face lights up, like when he’s on the receiving end of a rare Hotch smile out in the field, but more spirited, buoyant. Only snippets of the conversation float in through the slightly-ajar glass doors, but they’re enough to give him pause, and still his fingers above his keyboard.

“...Garcia’s got this plan for us all, and…”

“Yes, I know, I do like going out with them, but that’s not what I wanted to do…”

“...I took the metro tonight, so I think I’ll just… Really? You want to?”

At that point, Spencer turns, his voice muffling, and keeping Derek from his vested interest in his conversation. But what little he heard is more than enough to pique his interest. He flicks a pencil onto Elle’s desk. “Greenaway. You know if pretty boy’s mom is in town or something?” Elle looks up from her monitor, head tilting, “Not that I know of. Besides, doesn’t she not like flying? I don’t think he’d have her come here. Why do you ask?”

Derek doesn’t reply, simply gesturing to the glass doors, where Spencer is walking inside, his mouth twitching to conceal his smile. His steps are measured, like he’s trying to feign calm. He settles at his desk, hunching his back in a way that can’t be comfortable, typing rapidly as his knee jiggles up and down. Elle turns back to Derek, eyes wide with wonder. 

“That is not how you look getting off the phone with your mother.”

The incident is quickly forgotten, however, when the BAU team are crammed into a booth in the back of the low-lit bar. Penelope has roped Hotch into helping her bring drinks back from the bar, and the rest are speaking a little too loudly, arms flinging and bumping into the empty glasses littering the table. 

All except for Gideon, who, despite having had three glasses of whiskey, is still just as calm and observant as he is fully sober. It is this that causes him to zero in on Spencer, sitting across from him, sandwiched between Morgan and the newly-returned Garcia. 

There’s a pink flush across his high cheekbones, and he’s incredibly giggly, all things that are completely expected for him, a few drinks in. However, what the experienced profiler picks up on, are his darting eyes. Spencer can often be found staring into the middle distance, or, since Gideon taught him the importance of building rapport with victims and officers alike, trained steadily on the space between someone’s eyebrows, but this time it’s different.

His eyes flick to whoever’s talking, feigning interest, but every few seconds, it turns back down to his lap, where something is clutched in the hand he keeps under the table. If it were Hotch, Gideon would know with absolute certainty that he was watching his phone, waiting for a text from Haley.

But this is Spencer. The youngest person he knows. The youngest person he knows whose technological knowledge is somehow worse than Gideon’s own. What on earth would have Spencer acting- 

Oh. Gideon nearly gasps at Spencer’s movements. On his fifteenth peek down at his lap, Spencer stiffens, then draws his hand up from his lap to get closer to his face. It is his phone, and Spencer Reid has somehow learned to text as quickly as Morgan does. His thumbs fly over the buttons on his phone, and he can’t hold back the smile that spreads on his face.

Gideon’s eyes furrow, and he can’t hold back from nudging Hotch’s shoulder, pointing in Spencer’s direction. Hotch pulls himself away from his conversation with JJ, and Gideon can see his expression morph from mild interest, to confusion, to complete bewilderment. After a beat, his face turns to meet Gideon’s and his normally stoic demeanor is shaken, eyes wide. 

Spencer, however, doesn’t even notice his mentors’ faces, still tapping away at his phone and craning his neck to look around the bar. 

It’s a while later, when JJ has pulled the team (minus Hotch and Gideon) onto the dance floor, a few drinks past tipsy at this point. She’s laughing out loud, holding Elle’s hand and twirling her under her arm. Penelope and Derek are mock-waltzing, bursting into laughter every few steps, and Spencer… 

JJ pauses for a moment, before Elle pulls her into moving again. Her head whips around, trying to find Spencer, before giving up. He must be back at the table with Hotch and Gideon, he was never very comfortable dancing anyway. 

The four on the dance floor quickly devolve into a mess, swapping partners until they’re all dizzy and laughing. JJ and Penelope are shimmying back and forth together, when Penelope gasps a little, tapping JJ’s arm without ceasing her movements. “Jayj! Look, see that girl at the bar?” She gestures subtly at a younger woman, probably in her early twenties, wearing a purple wrap top that has JJ sighing wistfully. 

“Pen, I think I’ve seen my soulmate. Would it be weird for me to crawl over there and beg her for her shirt?” Penelope giggles, gripping JJ’s forearms so they can sway to the music dramatically. “Just a little, my sweet. How about we go ask her where it’s from, though? I think that would be a little more…” She goes uncharacteristically silent, and it has JJ twisting to see what shut her up. However, Penelope tightens her grip on her arms, keeping her from moving. 

“JJ. My love, my heart. You’ll always be honest with me, won’t you?” Now she’s worried. JJ nods quickly, deciding to just focus on Penelope. “Yeah, Garcia, of course. What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m seeing things, and you are one of the most qualified people in the world to tell me if I’m going crazy. I’m going to turn us around, and you’re going to look at the woman in that gorgeous top, and you are going to either scream, or send me off to Hotch for a psychological evaluation.” Her tone is serious, hushed, and JJ nods solemnly. 

The intricate plan is conducted, and JJ is now facing the bar, her eyes searching for the girl, when she stiffens, sucking in a breath. “Yes! I’m not crazy, you see it right? What is going on!” Penelope smacks her arm repeatedly, but JJ can’t tear her eyes away from it. It being something she couldn’t possibly have prepared herself for, not in her wildest imaginations.

The girl is sitting on a barstool, sipping at a cocktail, and chatting to… Spencer. Spencer, the BAU’s Spencer, child-prodigy-lovable-dork-awkward-mess Spencer Reid, is stood in between her legs, smiling down at Mystery Girl without a hint of fear. It’s devastatingly sweet, his eyes soft in a way she’s never seen before, as he nods along with whatever she’s saying. Penelope jolts her out of her trance with a tap to the arm, JJ whispering, “He’s so… carefree.” 

That’s the only way to describe it. He’s looking down at her, eyes locked onto hers, and he’s still. His hands aren’t tapping, his leg isn’t shaking. He’s just looking at her. 

JJ can feel Morgan and Elle huddle near her, questioning Penelope about what they’re looking at, before shutting up as they see it. She hears them take twin gasps, and huddle even closer. They stand in silence, surely a hindrance to the people dancing, but they can’t tear themselves away. 

It’s only when Spencer shatters their worlds once more that they finally find themselves able to move. Four pairs of eyes follow him, as he leans even further towards Mystery Girl, and they all bulge at once when he raises a hand, carding his fingers through her hair. Penelope whispers, “oh my god”, Elle grips JJ’s arm in a vice grip, and Derek makes an unseemly noise, before gripping their arms, tugging them back to the booth. 

They collapse in the seats, faces pale as they look at each other, next to a very confused Gideon and Hotch. 

“What? What is it?” Hotch questions them, brow furrowed deeply. None of them speak, however. Only Elle lifts a weak hand to point. She directs their attention to the sight at the bar, and they all turn back to it, gasping once again. They’re… “kissing,” Derek breathes, shocked. Hotch and Gideon stiffen, but still crane their heads until their eyes fall on what has rendered their highly trained team speechless. And their reactions are just as silent.

Mystery Girl has stood up, her arms around Spencer’s neck, and he’s leaned down to meet her lips, hands braced on her hips. It’s honestly not that scandalous, a lazy, casual kiss that they part from with twin smiles, but the FBI agents can’t handle it. They don’t say a word, straining their ears to hear whatever she is saying as he holds her hand (Penelope lets out a squeak at that), and walks with her towards the door, not even noticing that his coworkers have returned to the booth. Her voice is low, but Hotch manages to pick up a few of the words. 

“...go home and watch that movie I was telling you about? Metropolis, I think you’ll really…” And they’re off. Spencer Reid has left a bar, holding hands with a girl (that he’s apparently spoken to multiple times? Who refers to a place as home for both of them?), acting like it’s the most normal thing in the world. 

The group sits in silence, unable to muster a comment, when Penelope’s phone buzzes. She checks it, and silently turns the screen over so they can all read it. 

BOY GENIUS: Hey Garcia. I wasn’t feeling well so I decided to go home. See you Monday :-)

“What?”

[lostinwonderland314]

ive got quite a few... but we will start off simple and with something ive been DAYDREAMING about for a while

so reader is a new forensic scientist that started a lab in office for easier analysis of evidence (garcia reasonablism and best friendedness obviously) and earlier seasons reid likes to go in and hang out with her often and just be with her and they are both idiots in love and the first kiss is super rushed and akward; TEETH ROTTING FLUFF

i am too cryptic i fear but i will sell my left kidney for this fic PLEASE

spencer reid x forensic scientist!reader. fluff. 1.4k words. s1 spence!! descriptions of a case (typical cm stuff). std discussion? sorta? it's about a victim. reader doesn't have one don't worry. they're nerds your honour. 

a/n: i am SO sorry this took me so long?? writing fluff is not my strong suit (clearly). i researched bacteria for this fic. and std's. if penelope garcia looked up my search history she would ask why i'm asking about how to treat chlamydia. if the science talk is wrong, no it's not this is MY alternate reality. also i am but a wee acting major i know nothing about science? ANYWAYS thank u for the request angel it was so fun to write i hope i did it justice ♡ 

"Hey... I brought coffee."

Your head lifted from the computer screen you had been staring at for the past hour and a half, blinking your eyes to readjust to a light that wasn't blue — you were a big believer in warm toned overhead lights or nothing, and it was your first order of business upon getting a lab in the Quantico building. 

Your eyes softened upon recognising the man in your doorway, and your hands outstretched towards him to take the paper cup from him. 

It was a particularly gruelling case — a man putting victims through a meat grinder (charmingly so) meant your ability to positively ID victims based on... well, anything you'd usually ID them on, was out of the question. You were down to tampered with blood samples, and you were getting nothing. 

"Angel. Sent from heaven, I swear," you said, taking a sip of the warm, sweet (because anybody who drinks coffee black should be locked up) beverage that would help you in the long run. Spencer Reid's lips twitched into a smile — anxious, like the rest of him usually is whenever he's in your lab — and he dropped his gaze to the floor with a small shrug. 

"I thought you might need it. I know it's hard. This case," he said, and you nodded your head with an affirming nod.

"Tell me about it," you mumbled, spinning around in your chair, back to your computer, waving him over. "See this?" you pointed to the list of findings in one of the samples.

Your breathing hitched when you felt him behind you, not expecting him to be so close, his own breath audible by your ear. 

He hummed quietly as he read through the list, and you turned your head to the side to look at him. His lips were pulled into a frown as you watched him register everything — and God, was he pretty. "Yeah... Salmonella, Enteritidis, Listeria... they're all bacteria you can find in chicken. Raw chicken, to be precise. Did they send you chicken blood by mistake?" 

"That's what I thought," you said, snapping out of your Reid-induced-haze, and clicked at your computer until you pulled up another list. "But then I found these as well; Streptococcus mutans, Porphyromonas gingivalis, Fusobacterium and Lactobacillus. From the same sample. And I cross-checked it with all of them, and they're all like that. So I sent that to Garcia and asked if she could do some looking into butcher shops in the area, and she came up empty. So now I'm at a loss."

"Weird," he murmured, leaning further forward over your shoulder to stare at the screen a little more intently, and you found your breath hitching at it. Again.

"What do you see?"

"Chlamydia trachomatis."

"Oh. Yeah, all of the samples have it," you explained, and he nodded his head, before turning it to look at you. 

"Well, what do you do when you have a sexually transmitted disease?" he asked.

"Me? I don't—I don't know. I've never had a—" you cut yourself off when you saw his lips twitch into a smile, and your brain caught up with what he had just said, and your lips parted in an 'o' shape in realisation. "You'd go to your doctor."

"And if they all have it, then that means that—"

"—it's the UnSub whose got it," you cut him off, eyes lighting up as you sat up straighter. "Oh my God, I don't know how I didn't make that connection. Spencer Reid I need to reiterate that you are an angel sent from the heaven above, I could kiss you."

His eyes went wide, and his entire being froze, followed swiftly by you yourself freezing too, words you let spill past your lips registering a second too late. 

He stared at you. You stared at him. It was an awkward game of who would look away first, and it went on for hour long minutes. You needed to clear your throat but refused to, your lips opening and closing as you searched your brain for something — anything — to say to break up this tension.

"Are you serious?"

It was a meek whisper, and had you not been so hyper focussed on his lips, you probably would've missed it. You forced your gaze up to his eyes, catching the red tinge on his cheeks, mirroring your own. You decided if the one in a billion chance of a black hole swallowing the earth decided to happen now, you wouldn't complain.

"I mean, no," you force past your lips. A sentence you soon sorely regret when you watch a flicker of what you recognise to be hurt flash across his face. Maybe your brain made that expression up. Maybe it didn't. If it did, it was too late to consider that option, because you were already rambling again. "Unless you want me to be serious. In which case yes, I am totally serious. If not, then I'm not."

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and an embarrassingly nervous laugh left your lips. 

"Yes. I'm serious," you finalised. Because at least if he found that embarrassing and didn't feel the same back, you could kick him out of your lab and avoid him until you manage to swap units. Or move halfway across the world. Whichever came first.

Neither needed to come first, it seemed. Because his tense body shifted, turning to face you, his own eyes seemingly locked on your lips, the same way yours were only minutes prior. 

"Is it okay if I..." he trailed off, a hesitant hand reaching up to your face, waiting for your confirming nod before his fingertips relaxed on your cheek. You weren't even kissing him yet, and you already felt that nervous-excited mix pooling in your stomach.

He was in the same boat as you, his own breathing hitching when you didn't pull away instantly from his touch. But then he simply stared at you, for maybe a minute too long, because an exasperated sigh left your lips before you could stop it.

"You know, you actually have to put your lips on mine to kiss, Spencer," you say, and though your intent wasn't to fluster him, you did. 

"Yes, I—um, I know. I've just never... what if I screw this up?" he stammered, and your lips pulled into a smile. 

"Worst thing you can do is be a bad kisser."

"That's embarrassing."

"Just a little," you agreed with a nod, watching his face fall, and you laughed at the expression. "I'm kidding. It's not that hard, and you're good at everything."

"Not this."

"You don't know that."

He fell silent, and you knew you had won the verbal argument — he was certainly still disagreeing in his mind, but he was always good at picking his battles. 

But you knew he was never going to kiss you first. Not when one hand was flexing weirdly by his waist, unsure of what to do with it, and he was so awkwardly holding one cheek with the other. 

It was the only reason why you placed two palms on his own cheeks and pulled his face towards you. He let out a shocked yelp that had you laughing for only a second, cutting the sound off short with your lips on his. 

Spencer Reid was in fact good at everything. 

He was hesitant at first, and you wondered if he was ever going to kiss you back. But he did, and then you wondered if he was lying about never kissing anybody before.

Because he was insanely good, and the way he kissed you was maddening and addictive and it seemed you were (addictive) as well, for he was chasing your lips even when you tried to pull away. So you didn't, and instead allowed him to keep kissing you with so much pace and force you thought you'd break. 

"Spence... can't... breathe," you gasped out, and he pulled back in an instant, his eyes going wide. 

He was stammering out apologies that fell on deaf ears, because you were staring at him and he was gorgeous. In every sense of the word. With hair that had fallen into his glassy eyes, cheeks as pink as his lips that were screaming to be kissed again, need for oxygen be damned. 

And actually, if the one in a billion chance of a black hole swallowing the earth decided to happen now, you would complain. Very loudly.

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly ♡

[lostinwonderland314]

Please have heart and do not skip!

Donations urgently needed.

Nader and his family are nearly reaching half of their goal, and we need as much help as possible!

This fundraiser is vetted by @gazavetters, number four on the spreadsheet here

They're not asking for much, just €10 should suffice!

By donating, you are not only helping Nader, but you are saving him and his family.

We have managed to raise €12000 since the beginning of our campaign, and as with any other Palestinian who are fighting for their lives against the oppressors, I do not wish for Nader and his family to succumb to the murderous regime. Please, together we can raise enough so that they can afford for basic necessities as well as for them to be able to escape through the border crossing, once it opens.

We have already dealt with Zionists who attempted to compromise the campaign due to their own vendetta against the Ghazzans, and thanks to you all, we've successfully fough back and won, proving the veracity of this campaign. Please, do not back down. We need everything we can muster to help Nader and his family.

It's only gonna get harder now that UNRWA has been banned in the Settler state. Let's fight this battle together!

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[lostinwonderland314]

card trick | s.r.

in which you broach a subject with Spencer that you're sure will be a dealbreaker - you don't want kids

margovember

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: flangst content warnings: child-free by choice, magic tricks, selfishness (like. reader thinks she's selfish), chemist!reader word count: 1.08k a/n: this was lowkey hard to write because i do in fact want kids myself and i'm such a dad!spencer truther. but there was some fun within the challenge!!! ily <3

“Do you want to talk about it?” Spencer asked, watching as you braced yourself against the wall and kicked off your shoes, nudging them in the hallway until they were in place.

You hummed in response, “About what?” You inquired casually, proceeding to hand your coat on the rack and pull the sleeves of your sweater down. Avoiding his gaze, you bulldozed through to the kitchen, searching through the cabinets for an appropriate mug to make tea in.

He followed you to the kitchen, grabbing a mug and holding it out for you to take. You didn’t live here, but you knew your way around so well that someone might’ve gotten that idea. “Whatever it is that made you get so quiet tonight,” Spencer prodded, leaning over the kitchen counter and propping himself up.

Filtering through his tea collection, you faltered for a moment before continuing, picking a chamomile tea bag and flicking on the electric kettle. The two of you had just gotten back from dinner at Rossi’s, your second one since you and Spencer had started dating, where you watched Spencer spend hours doing magic tricks with Henry and Jack. You shook your head, watching the water in the kettle as it began to boil.

“Are you feeling alright?” Spencer asked, wondering if you had a physical ailment that was causing you to shut down. He had picked you up straight from work, maybe you were just exhausted.

This time you nodded, opening the wrapper for the tea bag and tossing the foil in the bin, “Yeah, long day,” you admitted, “Did you want tea?”

Spencer was quiet for a moment, watching as you instinctively grabbed another mug and prepared a cup of tea for him as well. It was starting to get chilly outside, so a warm tea was likely to have healing properties, “Have I done something?”

Now, you ignored his question, grabbing the mugs and bringing them over to the coffee table. You sat on the couch, nestling yourself into the corner and pulling a knit blanket over your lap. In your periphery, you watched him sit on the opposite side of the couch, and it was beyond your control when you finally spoke up, “Do you want kids?”

“I’ve never really given it much thought,” he responded, and you nearly flinched at his answer, convinced he was lying to save your feelings.

You shifted on the couch, staring down into the murkiness of your tea, “What does that mean?”

He pressed his lips in a thin white line for a moment as if he were considering his options, “I’ve never really been in a relationship where that was a discussion to have, so I’ve never done an in-depth evaluation of whether or not I want kids of my own.” He set his mug down on the coffee table and turned to you, “But I take it you have.”

Slowly, you nodded, skimming the handle of your mug with the pad of your thumb, “I don’t want kids,” you whispered, closing your eyes as soon as the words were out there.

Spencer was quiet, and you were afraid that the finality in your voice would be the reason you lost him forever. No more BAU family dinners at Rossi’s. No more phone calls seeking help on a case. No more whispering nonsensical science puns to each other in the middle of the night when you should be asleep. You were surprised when he answered, “That’s okay with me.”

You lifted your head, craning your neck to the side so you could determine whether or not he was messing with you. Instead, earnest brown eyes stared back at you, “It is?”

He shrugged lightly, “Admittedly, I’m not too fond of the idea of choosing between a family and the BAU. I’ve seen enough wedges driven and bridges burned to know that that’s not something I want to experience first-hand.”

“It’s just never felt like the right thing for me,” you elaborated on your own feelings, still not convinced of his. “Sometimes I… I think I’m too selfish to be a mother,” you confessed, setting your mug down and pulling your knees to your chest. “I see people around me and the things they sacrifice for their children, and I don’t think that could ever be something I do, Spence. It’s not in the cards for me.”

Cocking his head at you, Spencer studied you for a moment, “If you don’t want to be a mother, then you don’t have to.”

Your eyes burned fiercely at his words, so shocked by his response to what had sent previous boyfriends running for the hills. “I think maybe you should take some time to think about this because you said you never have before,” you advised him cautiously, setting your chin on your knee.

He shook his head dismissively, “I don’t need to think about it. If it’s a choice between you and some hypothetical children, then it’s really no choice at all.”

Closing your eyes, you let tears fall freely down your cheeks, “I just don’t want you to wake up someday and resent me for not giving you children. I don’t want you to roll over in bed and think about how I’ve somehow failed you.”

It was that statement that prompted Spencer to reach out to you, he tenderly looped an arm around your shoulders and pressed a kiss to your temple. “I could never resent you for making a decision about yourself like that, do you understand?”

“You’re just so good with them,” you bemoaned, recalling the flashing images of Spencer doing card tricks for the kids and refusing to reveal his secrets to them.

Spencer smiled softly at you, “It’s easy when you don’t actually have to do the raising of the children. I’m more than comfortable with my title of godfather and uncle.”

“But what if you need more?” You asked desperately, still horrified by your hypothetical day where Spencer wakes up with hate in his heart.

His other arm looped around you, pulling you closer to him, “Trust me when I say this: you are more than enough for me.” He squeezed you gently, “I can be good with kids and be perfectly content with never having any of my own. Those two things can coexist.”

Nodding absentmindedly, you leaned your head onto his shoulder, “Thank you,” you breathed, silent tears still streaming down your cheeks only to be swept away by your boyfriend’s deft fingers.

[lostinwonderland314]

SMILING LIKE A FOOL - A.H

a/n: heyyyy home slices it's me back from the dead! finals are killing me, and this was my procrastination piece. needed to write about my bombshell baby! but surprise she's the one getting flustered this time! gasp!

(for those of you who saw me spell write like right NO YOU DIDNT!!!)

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: um none i think idk friends its been too long since i've done this

wc: 1.8k

The knock was more a formality as you nudged the door open with your hip, juggling a stack of neatly organized files and a coffee cup with a pink heart sticker on the lid (discreet enough that only Hotch should see). Your gaze naturally gravitated to Hotch first, as it often did, lingering just a moment longer than necessary as you offered him a subtle wink. He cleared his throat awkwardly, adjusting his tie as he muttered something inaudible under his breath, his hand half-covering his mouth, though the slight color rising to his cheeks did not go unnoticed by you.

"Hi, good morning!"

You rounded the table, a sway in your step as you approached Hotch's chair. Setting the stack of items in front of him, you leaned in--closer than strictly necessary--your fingertips brushing his shoulder lightly. Your hair, delicately scented with roses, grazed his jawline as you shifted. His posture stiffened, his expression unreadable, though you caught the subtle flare of his nostrils as he inhaled sharply. 

"Sorry for interrupting," you said with a sweet smile that didn't match the glint in your eyes.

You weren't sorry, and the way Hotch's lips pressed into a thin line told you he saw right through the fib.  When he leaned back, almost imperceptibly into your space, his shoulder brushed against your stomach. His muttered thank you was low and gruff, and it almost felt like an admission of defeat. You smirked, basking in the victory of knowing how effortless you could unravel the infamous Aaron Hotchner with just a touch and a perfectly polished smile.

You smiled warmly at the team before straightening, your perfectly styled hair bouncing as you rolled up the sleeves of your sparkly sweater. The conference room was always too warm, and today was no exception. 

"Oh honey, you could never interrupt." Garcia was the first to butt in, followed by a few other sounds of agreement.

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Well, hey there, good looking." It was then that Morgan stepped into the room. His eyes sparkled as they landed on you, smile growing wider as he crossed the room. Without missing a beat, he slung an arm over your shoulder like it was second nature. "You feeling better?"

The past week had been a miserable blur of you twisting into every position imaginable to appease a stomachache that refused to budge. The first morning had been the worst--waking up suddenly, barely making it to the bathroom, and sparing Aaron's freshly washed sheets from catastrophe. For a brief, terrifying moment, your mind had spiraled to the possibility of pregnancy. But the nine-dollar test from Rite Aid had quickly put that fear to rest.

Before you could respond, Hotch cut in, "I told her she need to take more time off."

You gave him an exaggerated huff, placing a hand over your heart. "I'm totally fine, pinky promise."

Spencer, frowning slightly, chimed in, "When I asked for more time off to complete my latest paper on cognitive psychology, I had to justify every hour in writing."

Hotch ignored Spencer's grumble of favoritism (that was definitely true), clearly uninterested in entertaining the complaint. His gaze fixed squarely on you, his eyebrow raising as if to say, Go ahead, lie to me.

You edged closer, letting your smile grow sugary sweet. "Oh, don't worry about me, boss man! I have this weird ability to recover from sicknesses super quickly, like magic."

The blatant lie hung between you, and you could see in his eyes that he wasn't buying a word of it. That was part of the fun, honestly. He knew better; after all, he'd been there every step of the way through your so-called recovery. But still, his gaze lingered on you, jaw tightening as he swallowed back his words. He knew that saying too much would tip the scales, and he wasn't about to risk exposing what was to stay hidden. 

In truth, you weren't exactly quick to bounce back from illness--autoimmune disease problems and all--but you didn't mind too much. Not when it meant you got the full Hotch Care Package. You savored the attention and coddling. He held your hair, made you soup, rubbed your feet--all without a single complaint. The man was practically a saint, and honestly, you were tempted to milk it just a little bit longer.

"Hotch can say what he wants, but the rest of us are just glad to have you back, princess." Morgan released your shoulder with a tight squeeze before nodding toward the others. "Hendrick found something on the Anderson case in the lab, wants us to come check it out."

You lingered by the table, watching them file out one by one, leaving behind a trail of disorganized files and lukewarm coffee in their wake. Aaron stayed behind, turning his chair toward you as if he'd been waiting for this exact moment. Once the coast was clear, you hopped up on the table, swinging your legs slightly.

You flashed him a smile, pressing your palms onto the table and leaning in just a little, coking your head to the side as if studying him like a puzzle. He was watching you, of course--he always was. His lips twitched in that way you loved, forming the smallest smile, something that was becoming more and more common these days (which you proudly took credit for).

With a dramatic sigh that was probably a little over the top, you swung your legs around and plopped your high-heeled feet right in his lap.

"You know, Mr. Hotchner," you began, batting your lashes like it was second nature, "skipping the goodbye kiss this morning almost made me forget how much I really love your adorably grumpy face. Are you willing to have that on your conscience?"

Aaron let out a long sigh, gently easing your feet out of his lap, leaving them to swing idly. "You are going to get me in trouble."

You pouted, crossing your arms over your chest, the motion making his gaze linger on your tits before quickly returning to your face. "Well, you're already in trouble with someone."

He raised his eyebrows, pretending to be clueless. "And who might that be?"

You blinked innocently, not aware that it was a rhetorical question. "With me, duh!"

Hotch stood, closing the small space between you, and just like that, your pulse was racing like you were in high school all over again. How did he still have this effect on you? 

"Duh." He was teasing you now. You tried to glare at him, but it wasn't convincing--not with the way you were fighting the urge to grin like an idiot.

"So, are you going to make it up to me, or do I need to find someone else to keep my bed warm tonight?"

You arched a perfectly shaped brow, watching with barely concealed glee as Aaron's jaw tightened and his gaze darkened. He opened his mouth, ready to fire back, but you smirked and pushed further.

"Well, I'm sure Spencer or Morgan would be happy to—,"

You didn't even get to finish before his lips slammed into yours, silencing you with a kiss that made your heart flutter, and your mind go blank--forgetting every word you just said. The kiss was firm, yet urgent, as if he was trying to prove a point. You melted without hesitation, a giggle bubbling from your chest as your arms looped around his neck. His hands steadied you at your waist, and he pulled back, his expression had softened in that way that made him look ten years younger.

Still smiling, you pinched his side. "Mr. Hotchner! We're at work! Tsk tsk!"

Aaron exhaled a deep breath, pressing a fleeting kiss to your cheek. "I'll see you at home."

He straightened up and turned towards the door. You admired the view for just a moment, and you couldn't stop yourself from smiling--who gave him the right to look that hot while walking away? Determined not to be left behind, you quickly clattered after him, heels clicking (and probably echoing obnoxiously) across the floor.

"Also, can we order Chinese tonight?" You called out, pitching your voice a little louder as Aaron's annoyingly long strides widened the gap between you. 

Aaron response was a familiar, low grunt--one of the many unspoken agreements in your relationship that you'd grown to understand. Translation? Yes, dear.

"Oh, wait!" you blurted out, fumbling with your phone as you tried to type out your thoughts before they disappeared like soap bubbles. "And face masks! Can we do face masks? And--wait, wait, wait--The Holiday! Can we watch The Holiday?" 

You were juggling your phone, purse, and wild ideas all at once, scribbling your mental to-do list into your Notes app with one hand while the other flailed in an effort to keep balance. Aaron, still unbothered and impossibly composed, moved ahead like some well-dressed gazelle.

"Wait! I just had another idea--"

Aaron came to abrupt stop. You let out a squeak as you barely avoided plowing straight into his back, his forearm shooting out to steady you just in time. 

"Can we table this conversation for later?" he asked, that stoic voice doing absolutely nothing to hide his fondness for you.

You opened your mouth the protest that this was important, but he cut you off. "But yes--to all of the questions."

You gasped like you'd just won the lottery. "All of them? Even The Holiday?" You wiggled your eyebrows, grinning ear-to-ear. "I knew you loved that movie."

Aaron stopped you before you could say another word, his hand settling lightly on your arm as he leaned just a fraction closer. "No," he murmured, voice dropping low enough to send a shiver through you, "I just love you."

Your cheeks flared instantly, warmth blooming across your face as you blinked at him. "Oh."

Aaron watched you squirm for a moment, clearly enjoying your flustered state, far too smug for someone who'd just dropped the L word at work.

"I've told you I love you, haven't I?" He was teasing, knowing he had said it more times than you could count.

"Yeah, but you've never said it so... so loudly. And at work," you hissed, glancing over your shoulder as if someone might pop out of a closet and catch you.

He arched a brow. "That's loud?"

"For you it is!"

Aaron shook his head, laughing softly as he turned back towards the direction of the lab. "You're too easy to fluster. Go back to work before I decide to really embarrass you."

You were sure you had landed in a different dimension. You? Easy to fluster? 

"Ugh, you're the worst." You pressed your palms to your warm cheeks as you turned on your heel to head back to your desk.

But you were still grinning like an absolute fool the whole way.

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[lostinwonderland314]

Between letters.

When reader has been acting weird lately, Reid thinks she's going to break up with him but she's actually terrified because she has to give him some life-changing news.

who? Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

category: angst/fluff

warnings: Reid is hopeless, reader is a little mean because she doesn't know how to deal with the stress of her secret. Both must work on their communication. English is not my first language (if i forget something let me know, this is my first time doing this)

word count: 2.6K

a/n: Hello! Thank you to everyone who took the time to read what i wrote with so much love. I have written books, stories, poems but never a fanfic and i must admit that i enjoyed this a lot. Well, without further ado i hope you enjoy this and let me know if you liked it.

It is said that we should wait for good things. But it is so difficult to wait for them when we find ourselves in such a deep abyss, where we believe that the only thing we need is that warm ray of joy to get us out of the pond, to save us from dying in agony.

Spencer needed that warm ray of joy after Maeve's death. He desperately needed to feel alive again, but he had to wait what seemed like an eternity for you to come into his life.

Yet every devastating event like that leaves wounds that bleed into scars, some take perhaps too long and as the blood pours out, it destroys hope.

That's what happened to Reid. Because the day Maeve died, his hopes of having a wife and children, of having a family, died with her…

You came along a couple of years later. You admit that winning Spencer over was something that took time, it was slow but it was worth every second.

You were also thankful that he wasn't like the other jerks you dated before, who thought you would die for them just because you were the one who made the first move.

And that was the difference between you and Spencer. You never let that get you down, you kept trying until you found the one. Who knew it would be someone with three PhDs? Your trusted tarot reader, duh. But you didn't believe it, the guy seemed too perfect to be real.

But there he was, spinning around in his swivel chair when you first walked into the BAU bullpen.

"Who is he?" you asked with a curiosity you hadn't experienced in years.

"Oh, that's Spencer. One of our resident geniuses." The sweet Penelope Garcia cleared up your doubts.

The name tasted so sweet on your lips, it sounded so right. That was the day you decided he would be for you.

Spencer.

Well no, he actually thought you were a little crazy for staring at him so intently from a distance. And he thought you were weird, but he was too so it just made both fit together like puzzle pieces.

Of course you needed some extra help. You were trying to win over someone who hadn't dated in a long time and was also a bit reserved. Luckily for you, Morgan's advice scared him off so you followed JJ's, although it also helped that he was definitely mhm curious? about you.

The relationship seemed to be going great, both loved each other and he couldn't imagine his life without you. But if Spencer Reid had learned something in his life, it was that happiness lasts much less time than pain.

You were acting a little weird around him lately, you were irritable and he definitely knew you were hiding something.

"I think she's going to break up with me." One day he decided to confess his feelings to Morgan, when they were alone in the conference room.

Morgan frowned and dropped the current case file onto the table. “You’re kidding, right?” But with no response, Morgan knew otherwise. "Reid. She loves you so much it makes me a little sick.”

Reid remained with his worried expression. "She's slow to respond to my texts, she avoids me, and there's definitely something she's not telling me.” He counted your recent actions on his fingers before crossing his arms.

Morgan raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're profiling her."

Reid frowned. "What? Of course not." Yeah, that means of course yes.

Morgan shrugged. "Just talk to her or ask the girls, they should know something." This time he gave some good advice, not like the ones he used to give you.

Reid did as Morgan told him, but absolutely no one knew what was going on with you. Although everyone agreed that you were definitely hiding something.

You took a sip of coffee. "I watched that movie last night. People said it was really funny but I found it boring, although I admit the plot twist made me cry.” Yes, lately many things made you cry and it wasn't because of your moon in Pisces.

Anderson nodded. "Exactly! I couldn't even finish watching. I fell asleep."

“Anderson, would you excuse us for a minute?" Reid's appearance was a surprise, his insistence on talking to you wasn't.

"Of course, see you later." Then once Anderson left, Reid stood in front of you.

"What's wrong?" He got straight to the point, not like the previous times.

"Me? Nothing's wrong, I'm perfectly fine." But the drumming of your fingers on your coffee glass gave you away.

"Oh, of course." He crossed his arms, oh no, it seems his infinite patience turned out to be finite.

You immediately took a defensive stance. "Yes. I was perfectly fine before you came to interrupt my conversation with Anderson."

"About movies?" He didn't say it, but you knew he thought it was a nonsense, at least now that he was definitely irritated.

“Yes!" Your outburst earned you a few glances from the other agents. But both were too wrapped up in the tense conversation to deal with them.

"Sure, you have time to talk to other people about movies, but you don't even say a damn good morning to me.” You had to be careful what you said, you were in unfamiliar territory now, as Reid didn't usually swear.

"You're overreacting." Yeah... That probably wasn't the most brilliant thing you've ever said, but you were trying not to give away your secret, at least not yet.

“Overacting?” He was offended by your words. “You talk to everyone in the building except me. You used to spend as much time with me as possible, did I do something wrong?” A hint of fear and insecurity crept into his annoyed tone.

You shook your head. “Of course not.”

He put his hand on your shoulder. “Then tell me what’s wrong.” His tone was firm, but not harsh. Although it was obvious that he wasn't making a request of you.

"Spencer, I already told you that nothing is wrong with me." You emphasized the nothing.

He exhaled in frustration, he was 90% sure that this would work. "Fine! Then don't tell me anything." His patience had run out and he wasn't going to beg you anymore. It had been a week like this and he couldn't take it anymore, so he let go of your shoulder and walked away without even looking at you or giving you a sweet kiss on the cheek.

∗⋅✧⋅∗

Everything was dark, you reached for the light switch and then the spotlight illuminated your apartment. It was a less warm space without Spencer there.

You sighed before throwing your bag on the couch and closed the door.

You stood there for a couple of minutes staring at the lonely space. Well since you became Spencer Reid's girlfriend there weren't many lonely nights, mornings or afternoons.

You would definitely prefer him to be here right now, rambling or mumbling a foreign language movie to you. But for now you had to keep your secret, and that meant keeping Reid away.

The growl of your stomach snapped you out of your mind, so you headed straight for the fridge. But the smell of something made you nauseous, so you immediately ran to the bathroom to empty the contents of your stomach on the toilet.

Yes. You had to hurry to sweeten this horrible memory with a concerned Spencer who would hold your hair and rub your back while you threw up.

After dinner and take a warm shower, you were tired enough to do anything else, so you settled into bed to sleep. But your brain had other plans…

"You look... not very awake." Tara commented as soon as you dropped your coat on the back of your chair.

"I only slept three damn hours," you nearly growled before throwing yourself into the chair and running your hands over your face. You needed a liter of coffee.

Tara stopped typing on her computer and looked at you. "Is this something to do with your strange behavior the last week?" When she got no response, she said your name seriously.

You pulled your hands away from your face. “I…” you began to fiddle with the rings on your fingers, the burden of unspoken words beginning to weigh on your shoulders. "God, why does everyone suddenly care about my fucking life?" You opted for annoyance as the perfect disguise for your vulnerability.

"Hey. None of us want to bother you, but we care about your life because we are your friends and we love you." Tara used a serious tone, like a scolding, but there was genuine affection behind her words. "Besides, Reid is suffering because of your attitude."

A pang of guilt hit your chest. “I don’t want to hurt him.” You whispered.

“I know.” She walked over to your desk. “But you’re hurting him, even if you don’t mean to.”

You swallowed before looking up. "It's just that there's something..." You took a deep breath, this was harder than you thought. "Things are changing, things are definitely going to change if I say this, it's going to be real and I don't know how to feel about it. I need someone to tell me what to do, because I feel so lost."

Tara placed one of her hands over yours. "Well, if I'm going to help you, I need you to tell me what's wrong." Her voice was warm.

"I want Spencer to know first." But your half-hearted answer was enough for her to know.

"In that case you should tell him, because none of his PhDs include mind reading." She made a little joke that actually made you smile.

"Yeah, I know. He'll probably solve everything out like he always does." Then you looked straight at his empty desk, at the nameplate: Spencer Reid. "But I want to give him a surprise, something that will make him happy. I can't just walk up and say hey…” Then you forced yourself to close your mouth when you realized you were going to say more than necessary, although in reality Tara already had her suspicions.

"Okay, I'll help you." She sounded very determined and you really appreciated her help and that she wouldn't question you as much as the others.

∗⋅✧⋅∗

You spun around in your chair and then had an epiphany, but not like the Taylor Swift song. "Crossword!" Your excitement got you the looks of several agents in the bullpen, luckily one of them was Tara.

"With a secret message?"

"Yes. It's literally the best way." You said excitedly.

But in your mind everything was easier than it really was.

You ruffled your hair as you forced yourself to think more, giving you a splitting headache. "When did I think this would be a good idea? Doing a crossword puzzle for the average person is easy, but not for a genius with an IQ of 187." You dropped your head onto your desk.

"You need help."

"But who's as smart as Spencer?" You muttered defeated, still with your head hidden between your arms and the wood of the desk.

Someone ruffled your hair. “Mhm. Tesla? Einstein?”

You immediately raised your head, only to see the famous Derek Morgan. “They’re dead.” You snorted.

Morgan raised his hands in peace. "Hey, what's the bad mood, baby girl? I just answered your question." He let out one of his signature laughs.

You rolled your eyes. You wished you could turn off some damn switch that was responsible for making you so easily angry. God, WHY? You were starting to get desperate.

"Blake!" Another epiphany, you were really on top of it. You didn't even explain it to Tara, you just ran to the parking lot to get your phone which you had forgotten in the car.

Alex Blake was happy to help you put together a crossword puzzle for Spencer. Although she warned you that he once solved one in about five minutes.

Yeah, well, you were going to take the risk.

Once the crossword puzzle with the secret message was ready, you set out to find Reid.

As you were leaving Garcia's office he was getting out of the elevator, but he didn't even notice you. He continued on his way and god, why did he look so attractive?

"Spencer." You caught up to him as he walked up the stairs.

"Not now, I'm busy." He replied with a seriousness not typical of him.

"With what?" You frowned.

"I said I'm busy." I didn't even look at you as he continued walking to the conference room.

You called out to him, but he ignored you. “We need to talk.” You said seriously, raising your voice.

He turned to look at you, with an expression that betrayed nothing of what he truly felt. "I said I'm busy, we'll talk later." That didn't convince you. “I have to do a geographic profile and you have to work on victimology like Hotch asked you to.”

He stopped in his tracks immediately, freezing halfway. He had never experienced anything like this before, but he knew well what we need to talk meant.

The end was near? You were beginning to doubt and he was very sure, only that he would delay it as much as he could.

∗⋅✧⋅∗

You were about to give up, but you really needed him to know. So you resorted to plan B.

"Derek Morgan, my favorite person in the world." You appeared in front of him, with a big smile.

Morgan let out a light laugh. "Yeah sure, what can I do for you, gorgeous?"

"I think Spencer is upset with me."

"He definitely is." He said it without hesitation and it definitely didn't help the state of your aching heart.

"Okay..." You handed him the crossword puzzle. "Could you please give him this for me?"

He picked up the crossword puzzle. "If you think he's going to forgive you for avoiding him for a week just by giving him a crossword puzzle that he'll finish in two seconds, you might be right."

"Just give it to her, okay?"

"Of course. But in exchange for Penelope being the godmother.”

You immediately frowned, but you reacted a little late because Morgan had already left to deliver your order.

From your desk you watched everything. From how Morgan entered the conference room to give Spencer the crossword puzzle to how the bastard answered it in five minutes. When it took you like three hours to do.

But the best part was when he realized the secret message and ran out of the conference room.

But when he saw you, his quickened steps took on a much, much slower pace.

"Tell me what's true." His low tone sounded like a plea.

A slight smile appeared on your face. "Yeah. That's why I've been acting weird, you know I can't keep secre-"

Your words were cut off when his lips met yours. In a kiss so sweet and soft that it was enough to dispel every single one of your doubts.

A few seconds later, he pulled away from the kiss, leaving you wanting more.

He caressed your cheek with his thumb. "You didn't have to do a crossword puzzle to tell me you were pregnant."

"I wanted to surprise you." You whispered.

A smile that could light up this whole town formed on his lips. "I love you so much." He then kissed you warmly again.

And so it was that the foundations that had crumbled with Maeve's death slowly re-emerged. They began to build themselves again with your arrival and now with this news, their foundations were stronger than ever, because at last he was going to have the family he had dreamed of for a tortuous time.

🏷️ @floraisunwell

[lostinwonderland314]

and it feels like home | s.r.

in which Spencer confesses his love to you at the oddest of places - your sister's wedding

margovember

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: could be angst if you know what's coming next, jareau!reader, down bad!spencer, yearning, reader feels unlovable, spencer drinks champagne, reader does not drink, reader is shorter than spencer, reader wears a dress and heels word count: 1.93k a/n: and just like that, margovember is over (i have one more request for it technically but it's an episode rewrite so that'll take me longer to write). i was in need of some good yearning - this covers a request for their first kiss and for a fic with francesca by hozier levels of yearning.

You allowed yourself to be led away from the party. The past twenty-four hours had been amassed of you running around like a headless chicken, trying to put together your sister’s one-step-below shotgun wedding. Now that the party was in full swing, you willingly followed Spencer through the garden, a few remaining speeches going on in the background as the two of you rounded a corner, out of sight of party guests. “If I didn’t know you, I’d think you were leading me away from everyone to kill me,” you said offhandedly, adjusting the way your shawl fell over your shoulders.

Instead of looking up at Spencer, your eyes homed in on the way he was holding your hand as if he were about to lift it and press a kiss to your knuckles. Butterflies flurried in your stomach at the thought, but you quickly dewinged them, trying to focus on the issue at hand.

Something was wrong with Spencer; you could see it in the way he was shaking his hands. It looked like he was trying to get excess water off of them or if there was energy trying to exit via his fingertips. You were worried about him, sometimes he fidgeted when he was craving—though you’d only seen him in that state once before and you couldn’t ascertain what would have triggered him.

“I have to talk to you,” he repeated the same words that he’d told you when he first took your hand back at the gazebo. He had to be preparing to tell you something awful, you could tell from the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes when you finally glanced up at him. Deep brown irises flittered around, noticing each small detail that you and Dave had plotted out, but he never noticed you.

The blue dress that you had picked out to go well with the flowers and your hair was previously pinned to perfection but had since fallen out while you tried to sort out a last-minute issue with the caterers, but he didn’t seem to take mind of any of it. For better or for worse, you supposed. “What do you need, Spence?” You asked him, cocking your head and trying not to notice the twinkle in his eye when you called him ‘Spence.’ You promised yourself months ago that you’d stop waiting for someone who would never want you back.

You just couldn’t seem to get away from Spencer Reid.

It wasn’t that you saw yourself as undesirable, but a small part of yourself was under the impression that if he hadn’t made a move yet, it was never going to happen. He knew too much about you; he’d been the one to pick you up off of the floor when your last relationship fell apart. You wondered if he felt the same way, recalling the night you spent on his bathroom floor because you were terrified of finding a needle in his vein.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Spencer finally spoke, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking at you nervously. You eyed him curiously, the question faintly reminiscent of something a man would ask you if he were making small talk.

Foolishly, you had thought that you and Spencer had been well past small talk at this point, “No,” you answered, dragging out the vowel. “You already knew that, though,” You had talked to him about it last night when the subject of weddings came up, naturally.

He nodded in confirmation, “Right, yeah. Yes, I just needed to make sure before I started this conversation.” Spencer glanced over his shoulder as if he were being watched, or maybe he wanted to make sure no one saw the two of you in close vicinity.

You squinted at him, trying to get a feel for what he wanted to talk about without outwardly profiling him. “What conversation?” You asked, feeling like you were enveloped in a spiraling line of questioning—like you’d never get a straightforward answer.

“Do you remember this time last year? We’d just finished that sex trafficking case, and we were finishing paperwork late in the office, and you asked me if I’d ever been in love,” he said, panting like he was running a marathon. “I told you no, and at the time that was the truth. However, the circumstances have changed.”

Your stomach flipped, surging well past butterflies at this point as your face warmed—what was he trying to say?

He finally dropped your hand, resorting to placing each of his hands on your waist, stopping you from pulling away. Spencer felt impossibly close to you, even though the two of you had irrefutably been closer together, but not even an embrace would match up with the look he was giving you now. “I couldn’t let myself love you, not while you were in a relationship. It felt cruel to me, and it felt cruel to you because you had a boyfriend. It feels like we’ve already lived a lifetime together when we’ve never truly been together,” he told you, gently squeezing your waist as he spoke animatedly.

Instinctively, you took a step back from him, your breathing faltered slightly when you saw hurt flash in his eyes, “Why?” Your voice was no more than a breath, an appalled, exasperated breath. “Why here? Why now, Spence? We’re at my sister’s wedding,” you placed a hand on your chest “Please, can we talk about this tomorrow?”

Spencer was shaking his head before you’d even finished speaking, “No, it has to be now. I need to do this now,” desperation crept into his tone as he stepped forward, practically caging you against the siding of Rossi’s mansion.

You didn’t feel trapped, though, even with Spencer’s arms on either side of you, he was still Spencer. “Why now, Spence?” You peered up at him through your mascara-covered lashes. Maybe this was a consequence of his environment, surrounded by an evening that was sure to involve declarations of love, so he elected to make one of his own with you as a victim.

“Because I thought you were in that building,” he said exasperatedly, wide brown eyes watching you as if the answer had been completely obvious the entire time.

Realization dawned over you as you recalled the events from a few days ago: the bank robbery turned explosion that somehow ended in a marriage proposal. You chewed on the inside of your cheek as you eyed Spencer curiously, “You thought I’d gotten hurt.”

Spencer sighed, “I thought you were dead.” His eyes were trained on yours like there was nothing else in the world for him to look at, “For a moment, I lived my worst nightmare because I didn’t know if you were dead or alive, and I was stuck in Quantico with no way to reach you.”

Everything about the explosion was hazy, everyone was shouting for someone else, and you thought you’d imagined someone calling your name. You’d convinced yourself you were hearing things, some sort of after effect of the blast, but Spencer had been looking for you. “Spence,” you whispered, unable to gather the words you were so desperately searching for.

He shrugged helplessly, “I can’t go another day without telling you I love you.”

You felt like you were being stabbed in the chest repeatedly, unsure if you were on the verge of laughter or tears. “You never showed… I didn’t think—”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever met who I have a hard time reading, and I thought… I thought that if I waited for you someday, you’d realize that you love me too. I sat and I waited, and I helped you get over your ex and I am so grateful for you and your friendship, but it’s not enough for me,” he told you, no longer panting. This was Spencer completely levelheaded, emphatically declaring his love for you. “I need more of you and I can’t wait any longer.”

Eventually, the jig would be up. Someone would jump out from the bushes, and they’d let you know that you were indeed being Punk’d, but right now you were just looking into the eyes of someone who loved you. It would seem that no one else had ever truly loved you before, because the look Spencer was giving you could only be defined as love, yet it was unfamiliar to you. “You love me?” You asked, your voice no more than a whisper.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he looked at you, “I love you in ways that no one has ever loved anyone before, I’m sure of it.”

“Okay,” you breathed, eyes studying his expression for any hint of regret.

“Would you allow me that?” He stepped away, dropping his arms at his side, “I know I cornered you tonight, and it’s perfectly fine if you don’t have an answer for me tonight, but I’d wait years for you if that’s what it took.”

You were shaking your head as you took the opportunity to step toward him, propping yourself up on your tiptoes and pressing your lips to his, the picture-perfect moment for the two of you. Perhaps you startled him at first because it took him a moment to wrap his arms around you, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he pulled your body flush with his.

His lips tasted like champagne, and the soft tinge of the alcohol on your mouth only served to intoxicate you further, even though you yourself didn’t drink from a flute.

The universe had a funny way of working in your favor, and this time, it had given you your first meeting with Spencer almost four years ago. You had nearly two years of friendship under your belt now, which is why it was so easy for you to pull away from him slightly, grinning against his lips as you whispered, “I love you too.”

Spencer kissed you again, moving one of his hands to gently cup your jaw, moving his velvet soft lips against yours with purpose and care. Your arms were thrown over his shoulders, elbows crossing at the nape of your neck to support you. You’d have to get used to the height difference, and you’re sure you will.

“Hey, Y/N,” Someone called out, and the two of you bolted away from each other like opposite charges, “I think it’s about time to cut the cake, your�� Oh.”  

It seems the two of you did not move fast enough, for you were now faced with Emily and her knowing gaze. Your eyes flickered over to Spencer just briefly before you looked back at Emily, “Okay,” you responded to her, your voice hoarse, “I’ll let the caterers know.” You started your trudge to the backyard, picking up your feet so your heels wouldn’t dig into the grass. “Are you coming?” You turned and faced Spencer; a watercolor pink brushed across his cheeks.

“I’ll be right there,” he answered, giving you a soft, patented Spencer smile.

You looked nervously over at Emily, dreading the fact that this thing between you and Spencer was barely fledgling and the team was already going to be aware. “You know,” she started, and you braced yourself for the teasing, “London’s a pretty good place to keep a secret.”

Mouthing a thank you to her, the two of you stepped forward, turning around only when Spencer called out your name one last time, “Save me a dance?”

You laughed slightly at the dopey grin he bore on his face before nodding, “For you? Always.”  

[lostinwonderland314]

[lostinwonderland314]

[lostinwonderland314]

sober thoughts | s.reid

summary: pining!reader makes a drunk call to spencer after going out with friends, and is aggressively trying to flirt with him.  tags: reader is DRUNK! alcohol!! dont read if thats not okay!!, fluffy as fuck, spencer is the most gentle of gentlemen, pining!reader, reader wears makeup/dress/heels, spencer is lowkey bad at flirting but he shows affection in weird ways, one use of Y/N (sorry i know) a/n: this has been bouncing around in my head for a while. sigh. word count: 1.9k masterlist

He was used to seeing you tipsy, if that was even the right word for it. 

You were friends, after all. Best friends, even. And the fact that he lived only a few doors down from the pub the team frequented made it stupid not to offer his couch to you after going out with the team. 

You weren’t a heavy drinker by any stretch of the imagination. Every now and then on a Friday night, you’d head out with the team and have one, maybe two drinks if you were feeling particularly adventurous–but you still didn’t want to drive home, especially when he was offering his home to you. Truthfully, you just liked getting to hang out with him. You liked getting to exist in his orbit and discuss a random topic late into the night. It had become normal for you, an excuse to do something together that didn’t revolve around work. 

What was not normal was the fact that it was a Saturday at 11 PM and you were really drunk, calling him. 

Your contact photo filled his screen, illuminating the dark room. You weren’t one to call, preferring the convenience of a text. Especially this late, which worried him a bit. He picked up quickly, tucking the phone to his ear.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Hey, Spencer?” It wasn’t your voice. “This is Molly, Y/N’s friend. I’m sorry to call so late. We’re out with some friends from college celebrating someone’s birthday, and she got… like, drunk drunk, kinda sloppy… and she’s been blabbing about you for a while. She wanted me to call you.”

“Oh,” he sighs. He runs a hand through his hair, preparing himself. “Can you put her on?”

“Yeah. Not sure you’ll get anything out of her, though. Here…”

He can hear the general chatter and chaos of the bar over the call. There’s some rustling sounds before you finally take the phone.

“Hi,” you say, your voice dripping with a certain kind of fondness. He can hear the smile through the screen. 

“Hey,” he replies. ”You having fun?”

“Oh, Spencer, I was… I haven’t heard your voice in so long. What’re you…” you trail off, lifting the phone from your ear to answer someone else. “Sorry. ‘S so loud in here.

He chuckles to himself. “I saw you yesterday.”

“Yeah, ‘nd that was… Oh, I can’t do math right now. A long time ago.”

“Are you okay?”

On the other side of town, you were sitting in a barstool, swiping your finger along the beads of condensation rolling down the glass of water in front of you. 

“Mhm. ‘M good. Fine. Drunk.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” he smiles. “Are you gonna be able to get home?”

“Uhh…” you pause. “I was gonna Uber… but then I thought that maybe… if you weren't busy… we could hang out…” 

He could vaguely make out dialog on the other end of the phone. Some kind of “Girl, this sounds really pathetic,” followed by a “Shhhh!” in two other drunken voices.

“But I could also make Molly order me an Uber,” you added. “‘S okay. Nevermind.”

“No, you're not getting in an Uber inebriated. That’s ridiculous.”

“‘M not inebriated.”

A background voice comes back. “Yeah, you are.”

Spencer sighs into the phone. “Just… send me your location, please? I’ll come get you.”

“O-kay. ‘M sending it right now, jus’ tell me when you-”

The call went dead before you could finish your thought, which he chalked up to some kind of drunken user error. A few seconds later a text came through 

You: dropped a pin

You: its molly again. let me know if you got this

He responded, relieved that you had someone looking after you, before getting ready and grabbing his keys. 

-

You were sitting on a bench outside the bar. The air was cool and crisp, but you were warm, your skin clammy from the alcohol. You had been mumbling something incoherent about Spencer, he’s just so good to me, Molly, and oh, god, I don’t know what to do with myself, and…

Molly, who had been trying to sober you up (unsuccessfully), was standing in front of you, arms crossed, listening to your incessant rambling.

“...’nd sometimes he talks to me, ‘nd I have no idea what he’s talking about but he’s so hot when he’s smart. You should hear, it, Mol’.”

Cars pass on the street behind you, filling the silence momentarily. Molly looks over her shoulder, scanning the street before turning back to you. “Alright. Be quiet. He’s here” 

“Don’t care.”

She puts her hand out to help you up, which you accept rising to your feet. You’re surprised by how unsteady you feel, but you focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

“I’ll make fun of you for this tomorrow,” she says. 

You only have a few seconds to grumble in protest before Spencer reaches you. He scans you quickly, chuckling to himself.

“You are a mess,” he says, amused. 

You feel slightly infantilized watching Molly hand over all your personal effects to him. You weren’t even sure when you’d put down your wallet and keys, much less where, but you’re thankful she picked them up and not someone else.

“Good luck,” She tells him. She pats your arm before turning back to the bar, leaving you alone on the street with him. 

“You okay?” He asks. You watch him shuck off his jacket, which he helps you slide over your arms.

“‘M fine,” you reply. “Warm.”

“Because you’re drunk.” He keeps his eyes trained on the zipper of the jacket, or really anywhere that isn't you in that dress. “Alcohol is a vasodilator. So you feel warm. But it's forty degrees outside, and hypothermia doesn't care.”

You pout at him, watching as he pulls the zipper tab up enough to shield you from the cold. Only then does he really look at you. 

“I wanted you to see my pretty dress,” you pout. Your words come out slurred still. 

You meet his eyes for a split second. He opens his mouth, seemingly about to reply, but quickly decides against it. He shakes his head as if to clear the thought.

“Come on. We gotta get you home.” 

“You don't like it?” 

“I didn't say that.” He tucks a hand under your arm as you begin back down the street, keeping you steady. 

“So you do like it?” You look over at him, your face more excited than he was expecting. 

“It’s very pretty,” he replies.

Your shoulder bumps his as you walk, seemingly unable to maintain a straight path along the sidewalk. The click of your heels against the pavement is uneven, despite your efforts to maintain some kind of composure, and unfortunately for you, he’s right, and it's freezing outside. You make steady progress down the block, placing all your focus on not falling flat on your face. Thankfully, he doesn't live all that far.

“D’you think I look pretty, too?” You ask, approaching the steps to his apartment.

“What are you trying to do?” he asks, looking down at you. He takes in the slight flush of your cheeks as the effects of the alcohol battle the chill in the air.

“I’m trying to flirt with you. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh, you're going to be difficult all night, aren't you?” He sighs, ignoring the question. He pauses outside the door, keys in hand, and unlocks the door before guiding you inside. 

“You don't ever want to flirt with me.”

The door falls shut behind you with a clunk. The room is dark, with only the distant light from a lamp somewhere across the room illuminating it. You squint when he turns on the big light.

“That’s not true,” he says, quietly. If you weren’t hanging on to his every word, you might have missed it. He carefully unzips the jacket, tugging it off your shoulders and setting it on the table.

“So why won’t you flirt with me right now?” 

“Because you’re drunk,” He guides you towards the couch, his touch still careful as ever. 

You flop down onto the cushions. The leather sticks to your legs as you sit. Being the gentleman he is, he has already left pajamas out, his pajamas, you’d since claimed as your own, with the blanket you steal every time you stay over. 

“So what?” You begin working at the clasp on your heels, fumbling with the leather straps to no avail. 

“So, you’re drunk.” He repeats, reappearing in front of you. He sits on the edge of the coffee table in front of you, and hands you a pack of makeup wipes. “Do you need help with your shoes?” 

You nod. A soft breath of laughter escapes him as he leans in to help you take them off, setting them on the carpeted floor. 

“Spence,” you look at the pack of wipes. “Why do you have these?”

“Because every time you’re here you forget them,” he replies. 

“Oh.” You rip them open. “You don’t have a secret girlfriend?”

“No,” he replies, lowering your foot back to the ground. 

“You don't let other drunk girls sleep over?” You paw at your eyeliner, effectively smearing it around more than removing it. 

“I don't let anyone sleep over,” he says, taking the wipe from you. “Just you. Close your eyes.”

“Because you love me?” 

His fingers find the underside of your chin, gently tilting your face towards his so he can finish swiping away the last of your eyeliner. Maybe you’re blushing as a result of the alcohol warming your bloodstream, but the more likely answer is him, at this proximity. 

As soon as he’s done wiping your eyes, you open them again to look up at him. 

“You’re bold when you’re drunk,” he says, smiling. He sets the used wipe down on the table.

“Mhm. You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m not going to,” He says. “Sorry. Go get changed.”

“That wasn’t a ‘no’,” you say. You collect the clothes off the couch and slink across the apartment into the bathroom to change. You don’t bother shutting the bathroom door before slinking off the dress you were wearing and sliding on the pajamas he’d left for you. Once you finish, you collect your dress off the floor and make your way back towards the couch, settling right into the cushions as you frequently did on nights like this. 

You were formulating another complaint about his lack of reciprocation, but your thoughts were interrupted as he pulled the blanket on his couch over you. Your blanket, or at least one you’d claimed as your own during one of your nights spent here. He had already turned off the ceiling fan, which you’d always insisted off when you slept over. You followed him with your gaze as he turned the lights off, swapping them instead for a smaller, softer light somewhere in the kitchen, remembering the way you’d always insisted he leave a light on somewhere, just for you. Your phone was already charging on a side table, your heels sitting nicely by the door, your keys on his key holder, evidence of you, everywhere, details that were distinctly for your comfort. Maybe you had missed his signals. 

“I think you do love me…” 

He reappeared a moment later, crouching in front of you with that look. He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Go to sleep.”

“And I love you. And I called you because I wanted to tell you that.” 

“You really need to sleep it off. You’re saying things you don’t mean.”

“But I do mean it,” you whined. “I swear. Ask me again tomorrow.”

“You won’t remember this tomorrow,” he laughed. 

“But I will. I promise,” you replied. “No bedtime kiss?”

Of course, this time you did pick up the way he looked at you. 

“No, honey. Maybe tomorrow.”

[lostinwonderland314]

away from home

you tried to focus, really you did, as introductions were made but the the air, heavy with expectation, proved to be too distracting. instead, you stood quietly as the introductions were tossed around, nodding politely, offering a smile where you could, silently trying to piece together who was who and how you fit into all of this. this work is part of a series: series masterlist

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: flangst?

content: mentions of crime scenes and blood. lit student reader meets the team as she helps them understand poems leading to a startling discovery.

word count: 3.5k

note: thank you for all the love on part 1! i hope you enjoy part 2! please exercise a willing suspension of disbelief... #imjstagirl

a line: “Reid,” Hotch’s voice cut through the silence, calm but with an unmistakable sharpness, “You brought her in without briefing her?” The disbelief in his tone was clear.

​​The wolf, I knew, would lead me deep into the woods Away from home, to a dark tangled thorny place Lit by the eyes of owls. I crawled in his wake My stockings ripped to shreds, scraps of red from my blazer Snagged on twig and branch, murder clues. I lost both shoes - carol ann duffy

The glass facade of the FBI headquarters gleamed intimidatingly in the cold of the morning light—too polished, too perfect. You tugged awkwardly at your sleeves as you stepped through the doors following closely behind Spencer.

Inside was cooler than you thought it would be, though that made sense. Spencer had warned you without warning you, really—his rows of sweater vests and cardigans, each more sensible than the last, each dripping with practicality, had spoken for him. 

Your turtleneck—cream, plain, nothing remarkable—had seemed like the right choice this morning, though now you felt absurd for caring. It was a little something you’d like to call the ‘Yes, I study literature, and yes, this is my life’s work, but if I get a detail wrong and someone else dies, please don’t throw me in jail’ look. Somehow it felt like the best you could manage under the circumstances.

The elevator ride was a tense, quiet affair. For a moment, neither of you spoke, till his fingers brushed yours—timid, tentative. A flicker of the timid Spencer you’d met many months ago—a nervous presence in the corner of a book club, flipping through pages with a reverence you still found endearing. The same Spencer who’d spent weeks tiptoeing around conversations about book spines and hardcovers, so cautious and shy, that you’d eventually asked him out yourself. 

Today though, you’re the one on edge. 

“You’re nervous,” he observed softly. "Don't be."

“Wow, Sherlock, how’d you crack that one?"

His quiet laugh melted some of the tension, and he gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. You tried for a small smile, but you were certain it came out as more of a grimace. Sensing your apprehension, he pressed on. 

“They’re only going to ask a few questions after you’re done,” he said, his thumb brushing light, soothing circles against the back of your hand. “I’ll be there the whole time.” Before you could reply, the elevator stopped, doors sliding open with a quiet hiss. 

One last squeeze, then his hand slipped from yours.

The bullpen—Spencer called it that once, you remembered—wasn’t what you’d imagined either. It was smaller, somehow, though not cramped. Papers stacked high on desks, smell of coffee lingering in the air. Maybe even a little quaint, albeit no less intimidating. A blonde woman by one of the desks looked up at the sound of your footsteps. She smiled, quick and warm.

“Hey, Spence.” 

Oh. You didn’t know they called him that too.

Before her gaze could settle on you, Spencer stepped forward, the two of them exchanging in hushed conversation. You hung back, trying not to look as lost as you felt, your eyes roaming over the room as fragments of their conversation drifted your way.

“They’re all in there,” the woman said, jerking her head toward a nearby door.

“And the photos? I don’t want her seeing—”

“Took them down this morning. They’re only in the briefs.”

“Right, okay. Thanks, JJ.”

Spencer glanced over his shoulder at you then, a hint of something soft in his eyes before his expression shut down again, unreadable. “Let’s go.”

You managed a shaky exhale, pressing your lips into a tight line. Now or never, you thought. 

The meeting room was dim, suffocating in its stillness. Blinds drawn, a table littered with files and mugs of what you assumed to be coffee—some half-empty, their rims stained. Names were exchanged, though too quick to catch. You tried to focus, really you did, as introductions were made but the the air, heavy with expectation, proved to be too distracting. Instead, you stood quietly as the introductions were tossed around, nodding politely, offering a smile where you could, silently trying to piece together who was who and how you fit into all of this.

It wasn’t until the blonde lady, who you now knew as JJ, spoke up again that your focus snapped back into place.

“...and she’ll be joining us for this case,” she said, gesturing toward you.

A man—Derek, you thought—grinned, leaning back in his chair. “As Pretty Boy’s plus one, or...?” he asked, his tone teasing.

Pretty boy? That’s a new one. 

“Morgan,” the man at the head of the table cut in—sharp, commanding. That would be Hotch, you assumed.

Spencer’s answer came swiftly, without hesitation, “As a consultant.”

“And how exactly did you come across this... consultant, Reid?” A dark-haired woman purred. Her tone was light but edged with teasing curiosity. It was evident in the way her smile glinted, playful, though the man—Hotch, you were certain now—shot her a look that suggested restraint. 

“At a bookclub,” you smiled, the words coming out steadier than you’d expected. It was a feeble attempt to navigate the tension or rather, to just get through it. Say something, say anything. It reminded you of school, moments when you’d latch onto the simplest question with the most straightforward answer just to feel like you were part of the conversation.

“Book club,” the woman echoed, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Of course.”

“Reid,” Hotch said, drawing all attention back to the task at hand. “If you’d both like to start.”

“Yes, please,” Spencer said, the words slipping out a little quicker than he probably intended. “Garcia is the—”

“Pulling it up right now!” the redhead interrupted brightly. “All three Duffy poems annotated and transcribed as you requested—coming on the big screen in…” 

You watched as she typed furiously for a moment before pushing a button. “Now!”, she finished. 

Just like that, the familiar words flashed across the screen, casting the room in a soft, muted glow. “Printed yours on classic paper just for you, boy genius,” Garcia chirped, nodding toward the neatly arranged file in front of Spencer. He shot her a small, grateful smile. And while you made a mental note to ask him about the nicknames later, you couldn’t help but think how easy she—Garcia, you heard Spencer say—was to like. 

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The entire team seemed to sit straighter, their attention sharpening as the poems appeared on the screen. You forced yourself to meet their collective gaze, suddenly hyper-aware of every movement.

“Well—” you began, standing slowly, but the word caught in your throat.

Taking a step forward, you willed yourself to focus, but the moment quickly faltered when your foot caught on a loose wire. The stumble was embarrassing as it was fast—awkward and ungraceful. Before you could even think about catching yourself, Spencer’s hands were there, steadying you with a firm grip around your waist. If you hadn’t been blushing already, you definitely were now.

It was—compromising, to say the least.

it was also impossible to ignore the subtle ripple of awareness that swept through the room. When you finally settled back into your chair—deciding that yes, sitting was definitely the better option—the awkward tangle of fingers and gestures only made it worse. 

“Maybe I need to join a book club,” an older man teased, mock seriousness hiding his amusement. The flush on both your cheeks and Spencer’s was hard to miss.

Your cough broke the tension. “Right, um, well,” you said again, this time striving for steadiness. “I guess—Uh, I’ll start with the overall themes of the poems.” You winced internally as the words came out more like a question than a statement. Spencer met your eyes with a small, encouraging smile. You took a deep breath, grounding yourself. 

Turning toward the screen, you were more than thankful for the familiar cadence the poems provided, a welcome anchor amidst your nerves. “Each of these poems,” you managed, your voice gradually finding its strength, “They explore different facets of longing, connection, and disconnection. They’re unified by Duffy’s ability to convey intimacy in a way that feels both personal and universal.” You shifted slightly, gesturing toward a specific line. “Her use of metaphors—like here in the second stanza of Warming Her Pearls—is subtle but evocative.

Spencer’s gaze didn’t leave you. You clung to his silent reassurance as you pressed on. “Note here, the words: ‘Slack on my neck, her rope.’ All three poems carry this underlying theme of violence—sometimes concealed, sometimes blatant.”

“Except in the last note.” Spencer added. You nodded fervently in agreement. 

“All alone. Little Red Cap. There’s nothing subtle about it anymore. The violence in there is raw and deliberate,” You continued, glancing back at the screen. “As he slept, one chop, scrotum to throat, and saw. The glistening, virgin white of my grandmother’s bones.” You quoted the lines onscreen. “She’s angry. Vengeful, even.”

“It’s a significant escalation.” The older gentleman noted. Rossi, you ventured to guess. 

“Right. The shift from subtle tension to overt aggression isn’t just thematic anymore.” Spencer added. “It mirrors the unsub’s own behavior in the crimescenes.”

Derek’s chair creaked as he leaned back, his arms folding thoughtfully across his chest. “And we’re thinking these poems are, what, a roadmap? A way to track how she’s falling apart?”

You hesitated, considering the question. “I wouldn’t necessarily say they’re a map, they’re not a reflection of her so much as an extension of her unraveling,” you said slowly. “We use this term often—It’s almost like a manifestation of how the violence is spilling out, consuming her.”

You glanced up at them, searching their faces for understanding. Hotch gave a subtle nod of approval, eyes fixed on the screen.

“And what’s most compelling,” you continued with growing confidence, easing the conversation back into analysis, “is how Duffy’s structure mirrors this emotional push-and-pull. For example, the enjambment here mirrors a lack of closure, a yearning that doesn’t quite resolve.” You point to another stanza, drawing attention to the jagged rhythm of the lines. “The abrupt stops and starts in her verse mirror a loss of control—”

“Sorry, enjamb—what?” Derek tilted his head, the unfamiliar term halting his question halfway.

“Enjambment,” Spencer interjected smoothly. “It’s when a line of poetry flows into the next without a pause or punctuation.”

The woman with dark hair—Emily, you learned—leaned forward, her brow furrowed as she studied the stanza on the screen, absentmindedly toying with a pencil in her hands. “So you’re saying the way the lines break—how they don’t resolve—it’s deliberate. It’s supposed to feel... incomplete?”

Spencer nodded again, eager to explain. “Yes, exactly. It’s a structural choice to keep the reader moving forward without any pauses.”

“Actually…” You paused, then glanced at him with a sheepish smile. “Yes and no. It’s not just about the movement. It’s also about the unresolved feeling it creates. The lines break without closure on purpose. It’s sheds light on the emotional chaos the speaker is experiencing.”

The room went quiet for a beat, everyone turning toward Spencer, who seemed momentarily taken aback.

“Well,” Rossi broke the pause with a dry laugh, “This is a first.”

Spencer blinked, surprised, then chuckled softly. “I guess I stand corrected.”

You couldn’t help but grin. “Don’t worry, Spence. We all have our moments.”

“Correcting Reid and cracking jokes?” Derek said, his tone teasing, “Oh, I like her already.” At that, even Hotch let out the faintest hints of a smile. 

Once you found your footing, it was surprisingly easy to keep the momentum going, almost as if you were back in one of the classes you’d TA-ed for—a familiar, comfortable flow. It came with a blur of of questions, some serious, others lighter. That line, she meant it literally? No, Derek, we don’t know if Carol Ann Duffy actually gave her lover a real onion for Valentine’s Day. And yes, Garcia, I wouldn’t be too pleased either if that was my gift. Spencer’s gaze met yours time and time again. His smile was a little fuller, more open, and—dare you think it—proud. 

As the meeting wound down, Spencer’s focus remained on you. You were speaking with Hotch by his office, nodding intently at whatever he it was he was saying. Spencer leaned slightly back against the doorway, arms crossed loosely, eyes following your movements. Even when Hotch’s phone buzzed, cutting the discussion short and pulling him away, Spencer’s gaze lingered on you.

“She really knows her stuff, huh?” JJ said softly, a small smile tugging at her lips. 

Garcia leaned forward, eyes sparkling with approval. “Oh, I adore her,” she declared with trademark enthusiasm. “Smart, funny—Spencer Reid, how on earth have you been keeping her under wraps?”

Emily quirked a brow, her smirk teasing. “Hey Reid, remind me again which book club this was? Might have to drop by myself.” 

Spencer barely shifted, barely acknowledged their teasing. They’d caught him mid-thought, and his response was subtle but telling—a smile he didn’t bother to suppress. 

“Pretty too,” JJ mouthed quietly, eyebrows raised, giving Spencer a playful thumbs-up as Hotch called her over with a sharp nod. She offered you a small smile as she passed you. 

When you finally crossed the room to where they were standing, Spencer straightened, taking a step closer to meet you halfway. The fondness in his eyes was a quiet but telling softness that gave him away entirely. He couldn’t hide it even if he tried to—The way his expression softened as he watched you was answer enough.

“Hey, you,” he greeted, his voice softer now, his hands sliding into his pockets as you stopped in front of him.

“Hey,” you replied, your smile mirroring his. 

“You did great in there,” he said, his eyes holding yours.

You tilted your head slightly, your smile playful. “You think so?” 

“I know so.” Spencer’s lips twitched into a small, lopsided grin, his tone carrying just the faintest touch of humor. Before you could roll your eyes at his cheesiness, he added, “No, seriously. Hotch had that smile—you don’t want to know what happened to the last consultant who didn’t impress him.”

You leaned in conspiratorially, lowering your voice. “He called me by my last name and all. That’s good, right?”

“Oh, most definitely,” Spencer chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “That’s basically your official BAU initiation,” he said, earning a laugh from you in response. 

Nearby, Garcia and Emily exchanged knowing glances, their collective amusement barely concealed. There was an ease between the two of you everyone could see—comfortable in all the right ways.

“I’ll see you tonight?” you asked, leaning a little closer, your voice dropping into something almost private. “We can order in.” Spencer opened his mouth to respond, but Hotch’s sharp tone cut through the air. 

“Reid. Meeting room. Now.”

Spencer’s head snapped toward Hotch instinctively, but not before he casted a glance toward you, worry etched faintly in the crease of his brow. Hotch’s gaze was intense, brows furrowed in a way that signaled urgency. JJ was close behind him, her own face taut with concern. Before Spencer could speak, Hotch’s eyes flicked toward you. 

“Both of you.”

Spencer’s expression shifted instantly, his lips parting as though to say something else in protest, but the force in Hotch’s tone left no room for delay. Without a word, you followed them into the meeting room, Spencer falling into step beside you. He brushed his shoulder lightly against yours, just for a second—a brief moment of reassurance—before stepping ahead to hold the door open.

JJ wasted no time. She set the tone with her first words. 

“The last note we received wasn’t the last crime,” she began, her tone marked by an undercurrent of urgency, “It was the first.”

The room fell into a stunned silence for a moment, then erupted into a flurry of questions.

“How the hell did that happen?” Emily asked, breaking the silence. Her tone was sharp, impatient.

Hotch’s jaw tightened as he replied grimly. “Pathology assumed the timeline was linear because the crime scenes were discovered only a day apart. But the toxicology report just came back—trace amounts of formaldehyde were found in the last one. Enough that it went unnoticed at first.”

“Preservation,” Spencer murmured, his brow furrowing. “The unsub kept the body.”

“So everything we’ve been assuming about the escalation—it’s off?” Derek asked frustratingly as he ran a hand down his face. “If the last note was actually the first crime, then we’ve been looking at this all wrong.”

You watched as Spencer leaned forward slightly, nodding in agreement. “The progression isn’t linear.”

“That changes everything,” Rossi said, “If this is just the beginning, then the escalation’s going to happen a hell of a lot faster.”

“That puts Warner first, doesn’t it?” Emily asked,  “She was found along the trail off Route 74. So, that would mean her note is ‘All alone.’ Which poem was that from again?” she added, turning to you for clarification.

“Little Red Cap,” Spencer answered, finishing the thought for you.

“Who’s Warner?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it. As soon as the words left your mouth, you knew it was the wrong move. The room went unnervingly still, every pair of eyes shifting toward you.

For a moment, no one spoke. Hotch stopped mid-motion, his hand hovering over his face as if he had been expecting this but still couldn’t quite believe it. He let out a long, measured sigh, the tension in the room discernable.

“Reid,” Hotch’s voice cut through the silence, calm but with an unmistakable sharpness, “You brought her in without briefing her?” The disbelief in his tone was clear. 

Spencer froze, his posture stiffening, a mix of surprise and guilt flashing across his face. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then tried again. “I—uh,” he stammered, clearly flustered. “I thought— I thought it wasn’t necessary because—”

Hotch raised a hand, effectively silencing him with just a glance. “JJ,” Hotch added, his tone expectant. Without another word, she slid a case file across the table toward you. It was a clear, unspoken message. There was no turning back now. You were in this—whether Spencer liked it or not.

Hotch’s gaze softened ever so slightly when he turned to you, the reprimand fading from his tone. “Take your time. I understand it’s a lot to process.” You swallowed nervously and managed a small nod. 

Hotch’s eyes flicked back to Spencer, narrowing slightly. “You know better,” he said, the reproach lingering in his gaze. Your heart tightened as Spencer winced visibly, his lips pressing together in an almost imperceptible sign of distress. His usually composed demeanor seemed completely undone, now clearly as rattled as you by the situation.

The team continued their discussion, voices overlapping in a controlled urgency as you turned your focus to the case file. The photos stared back at you, streaked with deep crimson, each image more brutal than the last. You flipped through the pages with bated breath as you fought to process the sheer violence of it. 

Three crime scenes. Three murders. Three bodies.

Joni Munroe.

Nicole Jayson.

Eleanor Warner.

All women in their twenties. Young. Living alone. All stabbed. 

A waitress. A dog walker. A student. 

"Was there a connection between the—the victims?" you asked, the words awkwardly halting as they left your lips. It was a struggle to piece together the overwhelming flood of information let alone find the effort to form a coherent question. God, how does Spencer do this everyday?

JJ answered you, as if she’d been expecting the question. “They all attended Virginia West University,” she said, her tone steady. “But none of them had any ties to each other. Warner was the only current student. The rest had graduated, different years, different classes.”

You nodded slowly, trying to offer her a small, understanding smile. The room buzzed continued to buzz around you as Derek broke through the haze, his voice charged. “Babygirl, check reports for any bodies found in the past 48 hours.”

Babygirl? Okay, you definitely had to ask Spencer about the nicknames later. For now, it was a welcome distraction though, momentarily diverting your attention away from the unsettling splotches of maroon staining the photos in front of you.

“Bodies? No, the unsub wouldn’t have acted that fast,” Spencer corrected, his tone almost automatic. “Check for missing persons instead.”

Rossi didn’t miss a beat, nodding sharply. “Garcia, cross-reference recent missing persons reports. Check for females.” 

“On it,” Garcia said, her fingers already flying across the keyboard. The clacking of keys filled the momentary silence. “Okay,” she said after a pause, her voice tight with focus. “I’ve got two reports from the last 48 hours. Marsha Williams, 63, homemaker, retired professor. And Jeanine Wayland, 26, worked at a gas station.”

“Wayland—She fits the profile,” Emily said, leaning in toward the glowing screen. “Young, low-income job. Garcia, do we know if she was from Virgina West too?”

“Give me a second.” Garcia’s voice was tight with focus as her fingers flew across the keyboard. 

A shift stirred within you. If the last note was really the first, the team was right. It redefined everything. Little red cap.  Your mind raced back to your conversation with Spencer last night. The wolf symbolized someone older, predatory. They were students, weren’t they? Yes—all three of them. 

You swallowed. “Um, Garcia?” you asked hesitantly, your voice wavering slightly as the weight of the room’s focus pressed in on you. “Marsha Williams—what university did she teach at?”

There was a brief pause, the rapid tap of Garcia’s fingers on the keyboard filling the silence. “Hold on, let me check… okay, it says here she received the Action Teaching Award, Long service awards, 10 years, 20 years—Wanna bet she makes it to 30?"

"Garcia," Hotch said warningly.

"Sorry, sorry, and 25 years—all at—” Garcia's voice faltered, a sharp intake of breath following.

“Words, babygirl,” Derek prodded gently.

When she finally replied, her voice was taut with unease. 

“All at Virginia West University.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

[lostinwonderland314]

[lostinwonderland314]

[lostinwonderland314]

Plot Bunnies: Lennon Fletcher

When Lennon was hired to be not only Rebecca Walton’s assistant but to help her take down Rebecca’s newly claimed football club from the inside- well, she was a bit unsure. Still, Rebecca insisted that she would keep Lennon on as her personal assistant for whatever her further endeavors may be. So, at least she would still have a job.

Unfortunately, Lennon was a bit of a people person and after the new gaffer’s arrival sparking up the team, she was at a crossroads.

Still, she trudged on for Rebecca- ignoring the little voice in her own head and especially ignoring her brewing feelings for the gruff team captain.

After all, it was all for the job- right?