noonew1lleverask

[noonew1lleverask]

is reading angst a way of self harm

[noonew1lleverask]

the virgin reid going full hermit over a girl he talked on the phone with for a few months vs. the chad hotch coming right back to work after his wife was murdered in front of his son

[noonew1lleverask]

called you again | s.r.

in which you make a late night phone call to your ex-boyfriend because you're convinced he's the only thing that can lull you to sleep

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst (h/c) content warnings: exes but they're still in love so... a lot of yearning, briefly mentions a bau case, inspired by a mattress and a tiktok. word count: 1.84k a/n: shout out to whichever anon from yesterday told me to post this!! you're a real one

Rolling over on your bed again, you tugged the comforter over your shoulder, hoping the fabric would form a cocoon around you. Mimicking the feeling of someone behind you, warm arms wrapped around you. You begged for the comfort that you needed in order to fall asleep, but sleep never came. 

Your exhaustion had come and gone, any hint of sleepiness wiped away when you moved from your couch to your bed. Insomnia had come to find you, a face so familiar that you had begun to greet sleepless nights with open arms. 

On your nightstand, your phone buzzed. Likely a social media notification or a news email telling you the end was near, but you rolled over anyway on the off chance that it was a text. Every night, you remind yourself that you should turn on do not disturb, but you’d spent years waiting for your phone to buzz at all hours, hoping for the opportunity to tell Spencer how your day was. That’s why you had to check your phone, hoping to see the contact with the heart next to it, remaining unchanged since you broke up with him two months ago. 

Cringing at the blue light on your sensitive eyes, you squinted at the notification. It was an email, holding the weekly advertisement for the grocery store. You tried to resist the disappointment that roiled in your brain, but it took over anyways. Disappointment that it wasn’t Spencer and shame that you’d thought he’d reach out to you after everything that happened between you. 

You clicked on your messages, looking at the short exchange from the day he came by to drop off a box of your things. He’d brought you coffee. You’d broken his heart two days before, and he brought you coffee from your favorite kiosk near his apartment. That kind of love was the epitome of Spencer Reid, and that was why it had killed you to let him go. 

As if your thumb had developed a mind of its own, you tapped on his contact and initiated a phone call, quickly sitting up in bed and ending the call, tossing your phone in the depths of your down comforter and glaring at it in horror. 

It must’ve been less than a minute before your phone started to buzz again, you rifled through the bedding to look at your phone, and there it was. The purple heart that you’d placed next to his name the night of your first date. It seemed cruel to take away his heart when you knew very well there was no love lost between the two of you. Swiping at the screen, you lifted the phone to your ear and took a nervous breath, “Hey.” 

“Are you okay?” He asked immediately, not responding to your greeting and instantly trying to get to the root cause of why you had called. 

You tried not to read into it, staring at your lap and fiddling with a loose thread on your pajama shorts. “Spence,” you said meekly, your voice hovering over a whisper as his question echoed in your head.

He was silent for a moment. You imagined he was considering hanging up on you until he spoke again, “Hang on.” 

You heeded his instruction, shifting awkwardly on your mattress and listening to the shuffling on the other end. It was almost two in the morning, and he didn’t sound like you had woken him up, so he must be out on a case. Something akin to deja vu came over you then, imagining him in some city that he’d never be able to explore while you waited in your apartment for the slightest bit of contact. 

“Y/N?” Spencer said your name, and every bit of embarrassment you felt related to this call faded away. You could deal with the humiliation if it meant you got to hear him say your name just one more time. “What’s wrong?”

Because it couldn’t just be that you wanted to hear his voice, the only reason you could possibly be calling him in the middle of the night was because something was wrong. You were stranded when the metro stopped running or someone had stolen your wallet. No, the pounding of your broken heart was keeping you up at night. Even now, it slammed into your ribcage, ricocheting with the reminder that this was all your fault. “Where are you?” You asked, sniffling through the question and wiping you face with your sleeve. 

He sighed on the other end of the call and you told yourself it was in relief that nothing was wrong. “Bismarck,” he responded softly, matching your tone of voice in only the way he could. “We got here this morning for a family annihilator,” he explained in more detail. 

You felt yourself falling into a familiar pattern, settling your body back in bed with your phone pressed to the side of your face. Family annihilators were hard on the whole team, but Spencer was someone who held family dynamics with the highest regard. It always broke him to see that destroyed. “How was the flight?” 

“It was alright,” he answered, entering a similar pattern as you. “We had to fly over tornado alley. It’s storm season, you know?” 

Humming, you nodded despite the fact that he can’t see you. “And I’m sure no one appreciated your facts about turbulence,” you said, a teasing lilt finding its way to your tone. 

He chuckled through the phone and your heart soared, “They never do. No one ever gets them like you, lo—” 

Your body stiffened as he caught himself. It would’ve been so easy for you to move past the initial comment if his instinct was to follow it up with a pet name. Lovey. He liked to call you lovey as a term of endearment. Your previously floating heart came back down to earth, “So it’s a bad case, huh? I should probably let you get back to work.” 

“Between you and me, I’m supposed to be at the hotel right now, so this would count as my break,” he told you, managing to coax you into staying on the phone. 

It was hard to be broken up with someone who hadn’t strictly done anything wrong, and it was hard to deny him conversation when he was wrapped up in such a dark case. “What’s the weather like?” You asked, choosing to talk about things that don’t truly matter. 

He sighed, “Cold, but I’m sure you could’ve guessed that. JJ whines about it every time she steps outside. We’re inside most of the time anyway, so I’m not really bothered.”

Weather was never an issue for Spencer, you used to think he’d be miserable in the winter, seeing as he grew up in Las Vegas, but it would seem that his time in Boston had completely changed him. 

“It’s finally getting warm here,” you mentioned. Though, of course he knew that already. Spencer hadn’t taken up residence in Bismarck, but sometimes it felt like he was 1,500 miles away, even when he was just across the river from you. It reminded you of all the times you’d disagreed on the temperature you should leave the thermostat at, and it brought a pit back to your chest. You used to insist that 68 degrees in the winter wasn’t the same as 68 degrees in the summer, and he’d tell you that it was the same temperature, it just felt different because of changing variables. 

Laying in your bed, you wished he was there to explain how the tilt of the earth’s axis affects the temperature, but instead, you could only talk to him about the weather. The cherry blossoms would bloom soon, and you wished he was here to take you to see them. “What’s wrong?” He asked you again, his voice was so gentle that it nearly crushed you. 

Looking at the other side of your bed, the side he used to sleep on, you sighed helplessly, “I can’t sleep.” It felt infantile to say it out loud, the average person would’ve taken something by now, but you could barely get yourself to stand up, let alone go to the medicine cabinet. 

“Have you taken anything?” He asked, reading your mind just like old times. 

You hummed, keeping your eyes on the other side of your mattress, “No. It’s too late anyway, I wouldn’t wake up for work.” 

“Maybe you should take something and take the day off, you sound exhausted,” he told you, a familiar worry crawling into his voice. 

The reminder of why you had left overwhelmed you. Spencer could give you all of the advice in the world, but he’d never be there to help you. Yours wasn’t the first relationship to fall victim to the BAUs hours, but it hurt nonetheless. You loved him so ardently that you’d forgotten to love yourself, and when you couldn’t take the distance anymore, you’d called the whole thing off. It was hard to love someone who wasn’t there, but it turns out distance does make the heart grow fonder. “Maybe,” you mumbled, looking at the divot on his side of the bed. 

It hurt you to acknowledge that the inanimate object you slept on had its own memory of Spencer. The impression of his body across the cushion reminded you of the space left by people in Pompeii, their suffering had been immortalized for people to gawk at 2,000 years later, but in 2,000 years, your romance with Spencer wouldn’t even qualify as a blip in the universe’s timeline. There would be no lasting impression of two lovers holding hands because he wasn’t yours and you were no longer his. 

“Spence?” You breathed into the receiver, looking at the memory foam imprint with tears in your eyes. 

He waited for a beat to respond, “Yeah?” 

Your chest ached to tell him that you loved him—that you had made a mistake, but that wasn’t fair to him. That wasn’t fair to you. “Stay safe, okay?” You whispered, hoping that one day things might be different, and if that day ever came along, you’d want him to at least consider the possibility of coming back to you. 

“Okay, sleep well,” he murmured back to you before the phone clicked off. 

At a sloth’s pace, you crawled onto the other side of your bed and curled yourself into a ball. When trees had objects left around their roots, they simply grew around the invasion, but your mattress was an inanimate object with no way of moving or growing or adapting to a life without him while you had no choice but to do so. Closing your eyes, silent tears streamed to the pillow that smelled faintly of his shampoo—no matter how many times you washed the pillowcase. Finally, you let your body relax into the memory of him. 

You supposed you could always buy a new mattress, but that would mean fully letting him go.

[noonew1lleverask]

There’s a lot of reasons why you love Spencer.

word count: 917

Men. Men, the vile creatures, were so filled with… with hatred, and rage, and bitterness— just an overall unpleasant species with a horrible history tied to it. But, there was one exception to this.

“Spencer,” you called, and he answered;

“Yes, love?” Indeed, Spencer Reid was the exception, and these were the many reasons why…

He had a very lovely smile. Even the slight curve of it in private moments— when he tried to suppress it; shoving it down to a measly little smirk— could send your heart racing. But, the brilliance of his full, elated grin sent you into an overdrive— dopamine flooding your brain, an overwhelming wave of need crashing over you like the most violent of waves in the most violent of storms. You were unsure if you should hit him or kiss him— both hard enough to leave him dazed, both likely having similar effects on the genius. Once, you voiced your adoration of his smile over coffee, watched as he hid it selfishly behind the rim of his designated mug; name labeled on the side; and said, I don’t see it. Well, you’d replied, half tempted to lean across the table that suddenly felt too long, even if your feet were touching— the toe of his loafers brushing your ankle. “It’s not for you, then,” you’d said, a smile caught from his contagious beaming. “It’s just for the rest of the world to envy.

He had good hair. Good, thick hair of the softest texture, and the most rich brown. No matter the cut and, it remained appealing, at least to you. In the days past when Spencer’s hair lacked its curl, its fluff, and remained plastered to his head, even then you adored it. Its many forms had intrigued you throughout the years, so much so you began to think of it as a separate entity from Spencer entirely. “It’s a wig,” you’d tease when playing with it, and tug, leading to Spencer’s groans and moans, and he’d tug yours in return. He’d grown so much, not just his hair, but him. Once, there was a time when his hair was flat and quiet; he wouldn’t have pulled your hair in return then. Now, it was wild and wind-blown. Loud and proud— he’d pull your hair gently, for fear he’d hurt you, and when you both fell back with stomach-aching laughs at your childish antics, he’d gaze at you through the curtain of rich brown, and wait for you to push it back from his eyes, so you could see his adoring eyes, staring upon you in your “seraphic glory”.

His eyes were ever-shifting. They were hazel, so they were magical, you’d said. He’d laughed and asked what exactly led you to that conclusion. “You’re a magician, are you not?” You had him there.

“It’s science,” he’d replied, looking, oh, so lovely on these early Sundays when he insisted they play an early morning card game. The focus in his eyes, determination blazing, as if his life were on the line, amused you to no end. Especially when you won, which you rarely did. Not just for the blaze of competition to flare into the inferno of triumph, but for the kiss he’d smack against your cheek as a good-natured, thank you for feeding my ego.

You watched his eyes flit over his cards, and he betrayed nothing. What rests behind those calloused hands that traced your body so lovingly, that held you together when you shattered, that picked up your broken pieces even when his hands bled from the jagged edges of your broken soul? What did those eyes hide from you; those cheeky eyes, lively with green in the sunlight, deep black in the dark of your bedroom— soft and wholly swallowed by his pupils— so consumed by nothing but you, you, and you— when he wasn’t thinking of anything he was thinking of everything? “Full house,” apparently.

He was a handsome man. As you’ve so abhorrently declared to anyone who dared to listen to the dancing fool he’d unknowingly turned you into, constantly vying for his smile, for his laughter, for his eyes to soften, for his attention, for his love and care— for all of the things he readily delivered to you on a velvet pillow and bended knee, so firm in his belief you deserved it; the gift of him. You didn’t.

You knew you didn’t, yet you cherished him as he cherished you.

You didn’t love Spencer for his looks. You didn’t love him for his smile, his hair, or his eyes. You loved him. You loved how he held you as no man ever had. You loved his imperfections, you loved your fights, you loved his clumsiness, you loved his facts that he rambled on about for just a few minutes too long, you loved his hand in yours. You loved him so deeply it was now ingrained in your soul, and you sometimes wondered if there was an underlying dependency on him, and you’d worry, and he’d ask if you felt alone when he was in the room with you, not touching, not acknowledging, but merely existing beside you— breathing in precious oxygen he’d rather deliver directly from his mouth to yours. He never said that, but you’d know it went unsaid.

And you’d say no.

And he’d kiss your nose, and say, “Good. I think you should start worrying about dependency on me when you start letting me into the kitchen.”

.

Thanks for reading, lovelies! Hope you liked this, and have an awesome evening, day, or morning. You’re so loved (BY ME), and keep on being you no matter what. Love y’all, and thanks again<3<3

[noonew1lleverask]

How we feelin about this ladies?

👇

Men. Men, the vile creatures, were so filled with… with hatred, and rage, and bitterness— just an overall unpleasant species with a horrible history tied to it. But, there was one exception to this.

“Spencer,” you called, and he answered;

“Yes, love?” Indeed, Spencer Reid was the exception, and these were the many reasons why…

Do I know where it’s gonna go from here? No. No, I don’t. Give me a sleepless night and a monster, and it may be developed by Monday Eve.

[noonew1lleverask]

can I pls request: dad!spencer and his baby boy getting antsy and weepy but spencer not knowing what’s wrong until you come back from a long case and then he’s fine straight away

—Spencer and his baby miss you like crazy for 3k, fem

Things have been hot garbage since Monday. Saturday night and all Spencer wants is one good day, where Jude doesn’t cry, and Spencer doesn’t feel sick. Saturday morning it went on for hours —Jude started crying because his bottle was prematurely empty and he didn’t stop, the sobs petering into weeps, sniffly wet nose pressed to Spencer’s neck, then his chest, then his forehead. Poor boy can’t stay still. 

Spencer hasn’t eaten properly since you left. He can’t get more than a couple of mouthfuls in before Jude is protesting his own meal or snack and flopping sadly into a Jude-puddle. 

Spencer has suggested dinner again, because not eating makes you sad, but Jude doesn’t care what it does and Spencer puts electrolytes in his juice. He offers extra time at the swimming pool and the library, and he plays soccer outside despite terrible coordination because Jude loves to score. Nothing lasts long enough. Jude spends half of his waking time morose and clingy, the other hiding under beds or in the kitchen cabinet under the sink. Spencer makes him an appointment with the pediatrician for Wednesday morning. 

The waiting is agony. 

“I don’t think you should worry about it until you go,” you say down the phone, “you know that worrying twice is pointless. Not that you shouldn’t worry at all, I know it’s scary, but there’s nothing you can’t handle, Spence.” 

“If Jude is sick I definitely can’t handle that.” 

“Yes, you can. Don’t be stupid.” 

Stupid said very softly. Spencer misses your voice. He tries to go on cases but if they look too long, he stays home, ‘cos who does he trust enough to take care of Jude besides himself? There was one time where you stayed with Jude for a two-nighter just because you wanted to and Spencer missed being with the BAU, but he missed Jude more while he was there than he missed the work. He’s a professional consultant now, and it’s fine. He loves his life. He still goes to the office and sees his friends for coffee, and he gets to be with Jude all the time. If something happened to him… 

“He’s just not himself, it’s–” breaking my heart. 

“Emily said we’re a half hour from touching down in Quantico, I’ll come over?” 

Spencer didn’t consider you going home to your own place, but he should’ve. “Please. Maybe you can get through to him, or figure out what it is that’s making him so sad.” 

“What's he been eating?” 

“Nothing.” Spencer rubs his eyebrow and the headache there roughly. “Uh, he can’t stop himself from eating those carrot puffs. If you get a couple of those on the way in I’ll pay you back.” 

“Honey, I can buy the baby some snacks. What about you, are you eating?” 

“Not really,” he confesses quietly. 

“Anything you fancy?” 

He grins at your phrasing and your light tones. Maybe when Jude is a little older, a lot older, Spencer could go with you again. 

“Can you get me those chilli tortilla chips, please?” 

“And salsa?” 

“Please, if you don’t mind.” 

“I love all the snacks you love,” you laugh, “did you want something sweet, too? I really crave a three musketeers.” 

“That’s the worst candy bar you could’ve picked.” 

“It is not. And for that you aren’t getting one.”

Spencer laughs and sways Jude’s attention from the movie. He frowns at Spencer as if to say, What’s so funny? I’m miserable. And Spencer feels more sorry for him than anyone in the whole wide world. “What’s the matter, baby?” he murmurs. 

“Is that my boy?” 

Spencer tries to pretend you saying such a thing doesn’t inspire extreme attraction. “That’s your boy,” he says, flustered beyond sense, “he’s not feeling the best.” 

Jude shuffles to Spencer’s seat. “I know, poor boy,” you murmur, “aw, I can’t wait to be home, I missed him so much more than I can say, this case felt like an age.” 

Doesn’t Spencer know it? He pinches the phone between his ear and shoulder, holding out his hands for Jude, slipping them into his armpits as Jude struggles up into his lap. “What’s wrong?” Spencer asks again. 

Jude pouts up at Spencer through long eyelashes. “Daddy, who’s on’a phone?” 

“Y/N. Do you want to talk?” 

Jude is rigid, his eyebrows pinched tightly, but he nods and holds his hand out for the phone. Spencer guides it gently to his ear. “Tell me if it’s too loud, okay?” 

“Hello?” Spencer hears you say. “Jude, lovely, are you there? Can you hear me?” 

“I hear you,” Jude says. 

“Hello. I miss you very much, I’m excited to come home. Daddy says you’re not feeling well, I’m very sorry to hear it. If you can think of anything I can get you or I can bring you to make you feel better, can you tell me now?” 

“Um…” Jude gives Spencer a betrayed glare that makes no sense.  “Dad?” 

“She said she misses you,” Spencer says softly. “She’s sorry you’re not happy. And she wants to know if you want a present, or a special dinner.” 

“No.” Jude straightens up, a little hand tight on the phone. “I miss you,” he says loudly. 

“I miss you too. I’ll see you soon, just a couple more hours. Can you be good for dad and have something to eat? Have some apple stars or a bowl of chips or a boppy?” 

Jude nods. 

Spencer huffs a laugh. “Say out loud,” he whispers. 

“Say what?” Jude asks. 

“He’s saying yes,” Spencer says loudly. 

“You’re gonna go have a boppy now?” you check. 

“Yeah,” Jude says. 

Your laugh is hard to hear, but Spencer knows it well, filling in the gaps in his head. “Okay, babe. You go have your boppy and I’ll see you real soon.” 

Jude perks up a little. He thanks you in his mind for being a miracle worker. Jude says, “Okay,” and you say, “Okay, bye-bye,” and Jude says, “Bye-bye, I love you,” which makes you backtrack to say, “I love you too! Okay? Go have your boppy. Bye, sweet boy.” 

Jude gives Spencer the phone nicely. 

Spencer can see you’ve hung up, so he puts the phone on the arm and takes Jude’s cheek into his palm. “Okay?” he asks. 

“I’m gonna have boppy now,” Jude informs him. 

“Yeah, let’s go make it.” 

It’s skim milk now Jude’s old enough, but he likes it all the same, and he drinks it held against Spencer’s chest where Spencer stands in the kitchen. Jude doesn’t fuss as Spencer starts writing a list on the fridge-pad. Milk, laundry detergent, carrots, tomatoes, potatoes, bread, cheese and broccoli pasta mix, cheese, noodles. “What do you want for your dinner tomorrow?” Spencer asks, unsurprised to go unanswered. He adds rice, hand soap, and crayons. 

Jude doesn’t fall asleep after the bottle. He stretches and cards a hand through his dad’s hair, clumsy but quiet without sulking for the first time in days. “Thank you, that feels nice,” Spencer whispers. 

Jude presses his nose up against Spencer’s jaw, bringing his other hand to double the stroking. “I love you very much, you know,” Spencer says. 

“Yeah.” 

“And things are going to be okay, I promise.” 

“Promise,” he repeats. 

“Want another boppy?” 

“Maybe I can have soup?” 

“Is that what your tummy wants?” Spencer opens the cabinet above the counter before Jude can say yes or no. “What soup do you want? Dad has tomato, chicken, mushroom, parsnip, I have all the best ones. Baby, let’s have soup and sandwiches.” 

“Mayo-yaise?” 

“Is that what you want? Like, a grilled cheese, or just toast and mayo?” He grins at his little weirdo. “You don’t even want the cheese, do you?” 

“No, I don‘ even wan’ the cheese,” Jude grins back. 

They make soup together. Spencer sits Jude next to the stove, positioning him between legs so he can’t fall or touch the saucepan. He opens two cans of tomato soup and adds fresh cream from the fridge to reduce the sourness, letting Jude pull basil from the window plant to sprinkle in after he’s brought it to a boil and then cooked it back down to a simmer. He gives it time to cool for at least ten minutes, stirring, and pressing the bread spread with mayonnaise into a sizzling frying pan, Jude mumbling at his side the whole time. Some stuff he understands, and some is jumbled nothing. “I think we can,” he says as Spencer pours the soup into two bowls. He leaves more than enough for you in the pot. 

“What do you think we can do?” Spencer asks. 

Jude only smiles. 

Jude takes a long, long time to eat his soup. Spencer heats it up again once, but Jude doesn’t mind it cold. Spencer finishes his in about five minutes and spends the next thirty waiting for you to come home. Over. Not home. 

“Have some more?” Jude asks. 

“You want more?” Spencer nearly chokes on his breath. 

“You and me.” 

“Sure,” Spencer says, standing, “babe,” —he kisses Jude’s head— “you can have,” —he gives another kiss while he's there— “as much as you want.” 

“Thanks thank you thanks.” 

“More sandwich, too?” 

“Can I have–” Jude struggles. “Dad, can we have bread without mayo-yaise?” 

“Just bread, not toasted? Still soft?” 

“Yes. Please.” 

“Sure, baby. Whatever you want.” 

Spencer likes that having a baby has made affection easier in every part of his life, he’s kinder to every child he meets because it’s easier now to call them lovely or beautiful or ask where their mom is, probably as a side effect of being loved resolutely. Jude loves Spencer so Spencer loves the world. It’s not exactly new rhetoric. 

Jude has managed a second piece of bread sans crust when you slip the door open across the house. Spencer grabs a paper towel to wipe Jude’s face and hands quickly.

“Hello?” you call gently, melodic in your cadence. 

Jude sits ramrod straight, batting Spencer’s hands away. “Hello?” he calls back. 

“Is that my Jude?” you ask, footsteps drawing nearer, your shoes clipping the wooden slat flooring, and then suddenly there in the kitchen doorway. “Hi, angel. I can’t believe you’re not feeling good, you look just the same as the last time I saw you!” You don’t take your bag off your shoulder, but you let the tote in your hand fall to the floor by the fridge. 

“Hi,” he says, like he’s in awe. 

Your expression softens further. “Hi.” 

Jude slides off of his chair and you go on one knee to reach for him, laughing softly as he digs his face into your neck, throwing his arms around you, too short to close. You hold his back in one arm. The other —Spencer’s heart feels squeezed in your palm— rests in the waves of his hair where they kiss Jude’s nape. 

“I’ve been so worried about you,” you confess, your hand turning to a fist on his back. You drag your knuckles up and down. 

“I miss you.” 

“Sorry, handsome, I didn’t mean to be away that long.” 

“I miss you.” 

“I missed you too.” 

Jude takes a breath somewhere near sobbing and startles both you and Spencer. “I miss you,” he insists. 

“Bud, it’s okay.” 

Jude takes in another horrible straggly breath that nearly forces Spencer onto his knees. 

“Miss you,” Jude says, clinging to you with white-knuckled hands, “miss you, don’t go.” 

“Baby, I’m not going.” 

“Miss you.” 

“I miss you too,” you say, locking eyes with Spencer over his head, your lashes like willow, wide in confusion. 

Jude swallows harshly but nods like you’ve said something he can agree too. 

You shift Jude against your chest and stand. In your winter peacoat, your scarf and your silky black tights, you aren’t shy about squeezing poor rumpled Jude to your chest, ignoring his frizzed hair and his soup-stained t-shirt, all love as you rub his shuddering back. “Jude, you okay?” you ask quietly. 

“You was gone for too long.” 

Spencer can hardly hear him. 

“I was, huh?” 

“Too much.” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d miss me this much. I didn’t mean to make you sad.” 

“You’ll be in the bed with me?” 

“Is that what you want me to do?” you ask patiently. 

“Yeah.” 

“If dad says it’s okay, we’ll sleep in the big bed.”

Jude spins in your arms, imploring Spencer desperately, “Please, daddy? Please?”

Of course you can stay in the big bed. It’s not unusual for you to spend the night, and you stopped suffering the couch a long time ago. 

The moment Jude knows you aren’t going home, he starts to act like himself again. He stops the shuddery breath that makes Spencer hot behind the eyes. His mumbling turns to a more curious probing —Why were you gone so long? Did you miss him? Can I come with you nex’ time? 

You don’t baulk. When Jude knocks the door while you’re changing and again while you’re freshening up, you don’t mind. You open the door with water running down your arms and chin and sit him on the sink basin while you brush your teeth. Spencer isn’t offended that you’ve taken over, it’s love. Like, his stomach aches with fondness watching you with Jude. You’ve been gentle from the beginning, loved Jude since he was a furious little baby crying himself sick in Spencer’s lap, and now you’re somehow more than that. You answer Jude’s why’s and when’s with the best you have. You pretend you aren’t tired, waiting for the three of you to sardine together in the dimly lit bed before you let out your first yawn. 

“Are you tired?” Jude asks you knowingly.  

“Not too much. How about you, are you tired?” 

“Not too much,” he echoes. Jude turns to Spencer, looking his age again. “Are you tired?” 

“I’m the most tired I’ve ever been,” he says. 

He doesn’t have his schoolboy heart attacks seeing you in your pajamas anymore, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still find it special and secret when you rub your bare face and settle on your pillow, one eye hidden, the other sluggish. “Maybe we can rest our eyes with dad,” you suggest in a whisper, “he can sleep, and you can give him a cuddle.” 

Jude reaches for your hand. 

You hum softly. “I'm not going anywhere.” 

Slowly, Jude reaches for Spencer with his other hand. 

“Me neither,” he says. 

They ‘rest their eyes’ until Jude falls asleep, snoring in snuffs by your head. Spencer takes his glasses and folds them up for the nightstand, before curling into him. 

Cautious not to disturb Jude, you reach over to hold Spencer’s arm, locking Jude in, and giving Spencer some much needed reassurance. You don’t talk. Your thumb rubs into a ridge, a sore spot, and after a moment it’s sore in a new way. 

“I can’t believe I didn’t realise it was you,” he says. 

“Realise what?” 

“Jude missed you. It was you.” 

Your smile is gaussian. Happy and smudged. You pull Spencer closer to you, which in turn brings Jude right up on your chest. Spencer isn’t too cowardly to curve the arm you're holding right up over you in turn. His fingertips flirt with the dip in your spine, but stay. 

“You’re not saying all this fuss was about me being away.” 

“I’m wondering if it was.” 

You don’t respond. 

“You know how he gets when he can’t see me for the day,” Spencer says, afraid of waking Jude and of saying something too obviously adoring, “I should’ve guessed he missed you.” 

“He doesn’t love me like he loves you, Spencer. Jude loves you like you’re… it’s… I wish you could see him when he’s with you, it’s like you’re the same person…” You smile apologetically. “Sorry, I don’t know how to say it.”

Spencer doesn’t know how to answer. He stares at Jude’s neck. “I know how he loves me, ‘cos it’s how much I love him. I just think after seeing him tonight, it’s obvious what was going on with him.” 

“Don’t speak too soon, okay?” you say. “Let’s wait until tomorrow to decide he’s alright again.” 

Spencer draws a line down Jude’s nose. What a kid. Exhausting, beautiful Jude. 

“I missed you,” he says under his breath, not looking at you. “Don’t think I realised how much, either.” 

“I missed you, too,” you say. When you laugh, it’s like your voice has split and feathered into softness he can’t touch. “I didn’t think it was possible to miss someone like I missed you both. I kept thinking about Jude, when he used to do all that gibberish babble between real words and you’d ask him to repeat himself and he’d be too shy to do it. And his eyes, and his curls, I… I really love him. I’m so lucky that you let me.” 

I love you, Spencer thinks. From the day we met, and again when you called yourself my friend. Again, when you spent the first week of Jude’s homecoming sleeping on the couch and waking with every cry, soothing tears no matter who they came from, patient and tired, endlessly pretty. 

“I didn’t let you,” Spencer says. “You’re ferocious.” 

“Ha!” you whisper. “Ferocious. I like it.” 

“I like you,” he says. It’s all he’s brave enough to confess. 

“I’m a little sweet on you, Spencer Reid,” you say, turning your head up with a yawn. “I’m so tired.”

“Then sleep. We should sleep, I’m tired, too,” he says, sure he’d meant to say I love you, I want you to stay, I want to reach over and hold your neck and stay here for days. 

Spencer allows himself the last one. You whisper goodnight, your face tickled by a small head of hair.

[noonew1lleverask]

Guys, I want to write a Spencer x reader thing SO BAD. But like, how do I write for Spencer?? I’m not a certified genius, and I have no clue how to relate anything anyone says back to some statistic, study, or little fact or whatever.

Anyways, I wanna take requests, but I’m not totally sure how considering I’m so new to posting on tumblr.

PLEASE HELP ME OUT HERE LOVELIES😭

[noonew1lleverask]

Cold Morning

This suddenly came to, so it sucks ofc <3 enjoy it tho you pathetic losers. Love y’all.

It’s a cold, brisk fall morning, and your attitude matches the weather. Your snappy attitude dissuades Spencer into a pitiful silence, and guilt consumes you. Do you make up for your curt tone and lack of empathy, or do you let the silence smother your relationship into a state of restlessness?

Warnings: none? You’re slightly mean to Spencer, so angst possibly? Fluff, for sure. Bad writing. Local pet store; kittens displayed in a window, early 2000’s pet movie ts. IT IS FEM READER BTW, which I realized after I finished it. So sorry.

Word count: 846 <3

“Are you cold?” He asks, so attentive. So, so attentive. Gosh, I hate it.

I nod, offering him a quick, tight smile and curt nod. “Mm-mm, I’m all good, Dr. Reid.”

Spencer’s brows furrow, a slight quiver to them, but he doesn’t press any further. He looks forward— then down, focusing on his feet to make sure he doesn’t trip over an invisible string specifically strung to scuff his shiny new loafers.

Silence falls over us, and noise surrounds us. The area we found ourselves in was bustling with activity; cars rushing by, their tires crunching along the gravel roads and kicking up pebbles against the curb. Voices fill the air and rise into the sky, merely conversation but it feels purposeful. Like everyone’s in on a joke we’ll never understand, their quiet giggles not over Linda’s wacky new nighttime routine, but instead over the awkward boy and his fumbling hands, and the aloof girl and her permanently shrugged shoulders.

I risk a look over at Spencer, even though every voice in my head whispers no, no, no— do not do this, you know you’ll just feel bad and give in.

But I don’t listen. When do I ever listen to anyone, especially my own conscious?

My eyes flicker to their furthest corner, and I see it; the hung head, hair shrouding his features from me besides his lips pressed tightly together in resignment.

I sigh and stop. He stops as well, and looks back at me with a tilt of his head, and turns to face me— hands shoved deep into the pockets of his brown coat he offered earlier to me, his purple scarf ruffling against the front of his wrinkled button-down, aggravating his polka-dotted tie I bought him as a birthday gift.

My tongue feels too large in my mouth as I say, “I’m sorry.”

His brows raise, almost expectantly, and he replies, “For what?”

“Being rude. And cold.”

“So you are cold?”

“N-no, I-“ I cut myself off to catch my breath, or lack thereof. My cheeks burn, no doubt flushing due to more than the October chill whipping through the air, rustling the dry leaves and pulling them free from branches. I look down to the sidewalk, watching as a dead, shriveled leaf floats by, skidded along the pavement. “I was being… cold, as in I was being dismissive and purposefully blunt.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I regret lowering my head. I want to see his expression, I want to see if his eyes soften or harden; lighten or darken; meet mine or flick away to the pet store beside us, a batch of calico kittens watching us with rapt attention, their tails flicking. “It’s okay,” he finally says, and I’m quick to argue, lifting my head.

“No, it’s not.”

“It is,” he insists, and I huff, stepping closer.

“Could you, like, be mad at me for once? Say ‘yeah, you were rude and blunt and impolite, and I think I deserve an apology’.”

He was silent, then, “What will that do?”

Now I’m silent, my jaw hanging as I search for an answer.

“It’ll… it’ll give me some insight into how you feel,” I eventually land on, blinking away. Spencer tilts his head, a little smile playing at his lips.

“I thought you were a profiler?” He jokes. Spencer; joking. It stuns me, and I huff a soft, unexpected laugh.

“I… I am, but you…” My voice trails off, and I carefully continue with an unknowing expression. “You’re particularly difficult for me to understand. Your behavior.”

His smile grows now, no longer timid, into something smug that tugs me between wanting to kiss him or slug him. “Then you must be an awful profiler.”

His hands slide out of his pockets, and they twitch at his sides, tapping against his thigh to keep from reaching out to me. I don’t notice it. I pretend I don’t. I shake my head, rolling my eyes high. “I guess I am,” I relent, shrugging my shoulders.

He gives in, and reaches out to take my hand in his. It’s warm from being stuffed in his pocket, and fuels my body with an energy I hadn’t realized I’d lost. His smile is no longer smug, but soft, gentle, private. It’s specially tailored for me. “Next time you’re purposely cruel, I’ll call you out,” he assures me, his voice low, as private as his smile. He leans in, and for a moment I have the impression that he’ll kiss me. He doesn’t, and I’m left unsatisfied. “C’mon. I think some caffeine will perk you right up.”

I don’t have the guts to tell him I am perked up. Who needs caffeine when you have his dazzling smiles and warm hands? Instead, I let him tug me along like a ragdoll, my legs barely working. I have to force myself to lift one foot in front of the other, my footsteps heavy behind his lightly tapping loafers.

The calico kittens watch us go, their yellow eyes following, their patch-work tails swishing back and forth.

[noonew1lleverask]

HEAR ME OUT!

post prison Spencer and shy!reader bonding over being total nerds. Books, shows... you name it

Bookstore Physics - S.R

summary: spencer suggests you should compare moral biases more often. you think he's making a philosophical point. he thinks he just asked you on a date

pairings: post!prison spencer reid x shy!medialiaison!reader

warnings: fluff, second hand embarrassment im sure, philosophical debates that are probably wrong bc i had to google and i know hardly knowing about mr kant, existential crisis but make it romantic, post prison reid, shy reader, prolonged eye contact

wc: 1.6k

a/n: thanks for requesting my lovely! happy superbowl to those who celebrate! go birds!

You were so close. Just one more inch, and your fingertips would finally graze the spine of the book that had been taunting you from its impossibly high perch. 

Rising to your tiptoes, you reached with all the reckless confidence of someone who had severely underestimated basic physics. The shelf wobbled under your grip, your shoes squeaking against the polished floor, and in that split second, you were faced with a terrifying possibility that you were about to take out the entire bookshelf, along with your dignity.

Something grabbed ahold of you, steadying you before you could faceplant directly into a pile of literary fiction. 

You went completely rigid. Because that wasn't just something. That was a Spencer Reid hand, long fingers, warm palm, and a freakishly strong grip for a man who treated physical exertion like a concept rather than a practice.

"Oh. Hi, Dr. Reid," you blurted, the words tumbling out clumsy and unpolished, as if your tongue had forgotten how to function. You winced instantly. "What are you doing here?"

Spencer didn't answer right away. His grip on your arm slackened, but he didn't step away, didn't even give you an inch of space, like he had no intention of letting you breathe properly.

Oh, that's fine. Air is overrated anyway.

"What am I doing here?" he repeated as if he were genuinely considering the question, but you knew better.

His expression hovered somewhere between pity and uncontained glee, the corners of his mouth twitching. 

Your lips parted, but your mind refused to cooperate, stuck on an endless loop of oh my god, did you actually just say that?

To Spencer Reid. The same Spencer who had, on multiple occasions, resorted to scribbling entire paragraphs on the back of receipts and once, when truly desperate, his own wrist. Spencer, who physically flinched at the sound of a cracked spine and once spent seventeen uninterrupted minutes explaining the significance of marginalia. Spencer who read like breathing and talked about prose like it was something alive.

And you, a person allegedly with working cognitive abilities, had just asked him what he was doing in a bookstore.

You opened your mouth, whether to correct yourself or just inhale enough oxygen to function again, you weren't sure, but before you could, Spencer, with precisely zero struggle, reached up and plucked the book from the shelf like it had been placed there specifically for him. 

"You should've asked for help," he murmured, and oh, that was definitely amusement in his voice.

"I-I had it under control."

One brow arched, unimpressed.

"Sure you did," he mused, lips twitching like they couldn’t quite decide whether to commit to a smirk. "Although, considering that 20% of bookstore-related injuries stem from ill-advised attempts at reaching high shelves, you were probably just one statistic away from a minor concussion."

You narrowed your eyes. "That's not—there's no way that's a real statistic."

Spencer barely reacted, flipping open the book with the same casual disinterest of someone checking the sky for clouds, except this wasn't a change in barometric pressure, and you were positive your entire nervous system had just gone into meltdown mode.

Your face burned, heat creeping up your spine and flooding through you veins at an alarming speed, and—oh, no—you had officially run out of places to look that weren't him.

And he (unfortunately) made such an easy focal point.

His shirt was rumpled like he'd spent the whole day forgetting to sit properly and a barely-there ink smudge kissed the edge of his palm, the kind only noticeable if you were close. His hair was at war with itself, some strands curling forward rebelliously against the collar of his cardigan, others falling forward, brushing the edge of his cheek.

He didn't glance up as he murmured, "Philosophy?"

The words barely had time to settle before your brain supplied an immediate translation: he was about to analyze you.

You could practically hear the gears turning, the internal mechanisms of his brain whirring at a speed that actually did defy physics. If you concentrated hard enough, you might've been able to hear the faint whir of neurons firing, piecing together a framework of analysis that was surely seconds away from being spoken into existence. He was surely already forming a hypothesis, already constructing some impossibly insightful revelation about what this particular title said about you, your worldview, your subconscious motivations.

"Well—yeah, that one," you said quickly, the words tripping over each other. “I mean, it’s not real philosophy—well, obviously, it is, but not in the way you would define foundational philosophy, but it still presents some really interesting moral dilemmas, and the writing is surprisingly digestible considering the subject matter is so—”

You clamped your mouth shut so fast it was a wonder your teeth didn’t rattle.

What were you even saying?

"Um—yeah. Philosophy. Or... something like that."

Spencer's lips twitched, and then, in a move so profoundly unsettling, he smiled.

Not just any smile, either. A real one. The kind that didn't just curve his mouth but softened him entirely, the corners tugging upward, a barely there dimple surfacing at his cheek. 

It hit you like a perfectly aimed dart—sharp, direct, and entirely crushing. Something fluttered wildly in your chest, light enough to feel stupid, but heavy enough to be a problem.

Then, still smiling, he tilted his head, leaning in just enough to invade your space, his voice dipping like he was handing you something fragile.

"I didn't take you for the existentialist type."

Your first instinct is to argue, to insist that you're far too well-rounded, too multifaceted, too impossible to be pinned down by a single school of thought. But before you can even begin to string words together, Spencer tilts his head just a little more, his eyes sweeping over you in a way that feels dangerously close to that same expression of analyzing once again.

And suddenly, you need to redirect this conversation, desperately, urgently, before your body betrays you, before you start visibly sweating or keel over like a fainting goat. Neither feels like an optimal outcome.

"I—I mean... I could say the same about you."

His lips quirk. "Interesting. And why's that?"

"I don't know. I always assumed you'd be more of a rationalist? Like, Descartes' methodical doubt feels like something you'd respect, and even Kant's categorical imperative, although that's more deontological ethics than strict rationalism, kind of aligns with the way you view morality and decision-making, and—"

You stop. Blink.

Oh no. You’re heavily invested in this man’s philosophical alignment.

You purse your lips, clearing your throat like that’ll erase the absurd level of thought you’ve just admitted to having.

"I mean, I'm probably way off."

Spencer flips the book closed, considering.

"I supposed you could argue I lean toward rationalism," he allows. "But morality is messy. Kant insists on universal law, and let's be real, most people abandon objectivity the second emotions get involved."

He glances at you then, a shift so small it shouldn't feel significant, but somehow, it does.

“For instance, we all make exceptions. We justify things we probably shouldn’t. Sometimes we prioritize people in ways that defy reason.”

His lips twitch. 

"Hypothetically speaking, of course."

“Well, yeah,” you say, caught up in the current of the conversation before you even realize you’ve been swept away. “People make emotional calculations constantly. Even when they claim objectivity, their decisions are shaped by personal attachments.”

The thought unspools too easily, words tumbling forward, carried by momentum.

“And it’s not just morality—it’s cognition in general. Have you read Jonathan Haidt’s work on moral intuitionism? He argues that people make moral judgments first based on instinct, and then rationalize them after the fact.”

You glance up, expecting a rapid-fire counterargument, some impossibly well-structured debate. But Spencer is just watching you.

"So what about you?" he asks suddenly. "Would you say you make exceptions?"

You pause.

"I mean… yeah? I guess I do. Everyone does, right? If someone I care about does something morally questionable, I’d probably be more inclined to defend them than if it were a stranger. I mean, that’s just human nature."

Then shrug. 

"But that doesn’t mean I’m being hypocritical," you add quickly, as if you just realized how that sounded. "I think there’s a difference between conscious favoritism and subconscious moral bias. It’s not like I have a specific person I’d automatically justify no matter what."

Spencer exhales. "I think you're more consistent than you realize."

You blink at him. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs, lifting the book in his hands, fingers drumming idly against the cover. “You try so hard to rationalize your emotions. But I think, if it came down to it, you’d make an exception for someone. Just one.”

Your stomach knots, and it's humiliating how obvious you must be. You can feel your pulse everywhere, in your throat, your wrists, your temples, like your entire body is broadcasting, Hey, Spencer Reid is making you malfunction because he somehow sees right through you, somebody send help.

“I—well, I mean—”

“Relax, it’s just a theory.”

But something about the way he says it makes you not relax at all. And before you can scramble for some kind of coherent response, he nods toward your book.

“You should get that one,” he says lightly, handing you back the book. “I’d love to hear your take on it next time.”

You freeze. Next time?

Oh. Oh no. The words settle over you like an ill-timed realization, and your brain is running the math like you're about to file a report on your own social incompetence. Next time implies... a prior time, a recurring time, a pattern of times. Next time implies he assumes there will be a next time. 

And you assume that he assumes that you are the kind of person who could logically expect another bookstore trip with Spencer Reid as if that's just a thing that happens in your life. Which is absurd.

Your fingers tighten around the book, like holding onto an overpriced paperback will somehow restore balance to your rapidly deteriorating world. Your pulse is a problem and your ability to think critically is a casualty. 

You scramble for something, anything, to say, but before your brain can reboot, Spencer is already moving. 

Then just as he disappears into the next aisle, he tosses one final parting shot of his shoulder—

"See you soon, then."

taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[noonew1lleverask]

I’m such a fan of this oml

down the neck - spencer reid x sharpshooter!reader

"Stop breathing down my neck." You huff, glancing through the scope at the unsub.

"Well, I have to lay low too, no?" Spencer frowns.

"It doesn't matter." You squint, humming. "Hit the button and ask Hotch if I can shoot. Be fast."

"Hotch, we have a clear shot."

"I have a clear shot."

"Snippy—"

"Fire."

You click your tongue, pulling the trigger once to hit the unsub's hand and a second to snipe the gun out of range as Morgan flies into the place. You watch through the scope as Spencer looks through the binoculars, and you only start to sit up when you see Morgan pull the unsub out. Then, you actually sit up and start packing up.

"Stop breathing down my neck." You huff.

"You weren't complaining when I—"

You hold a finger to your lips, pointing at your earpiece as Spencer blinks, laughing when you hear a cough in your ears from Hotch.

"Sorry."

"Need I remind you both of—"

"Nope." You puff out your cheeks, slinging the gun around to your back as Spencer raises a brow. "Actually, I think Reid needs a quick reminder. He'd love to go through another HR meeting about how we shouldn't be fraternizing with—"

"We're good, Hotch." Spencer cuts you off, rolling his eyes at you. "We'll see you back at the station."

"You're driving." You mumble, turning off your mic. "Two dollars and I'll drive. Four dollars and I'll make a stop at McDonalds."

"And for five?"

"I'll sneak in a kiss plus everything else."

"I think that can be arranged." He hums, pulling out a five as you press your lips to his, tongue swiping over your bottom lips as he chases when you pull away. You stick your tongue out teasingly as you take the five, craning your neck so that his lips would hit your neck instead. "Hey."

"I'll drop a ten if you—"

"Reid."

You laugh as Spencer jolts straight, pinching the bridge of his nose at the sound of Hotch.

"Turn off your mic next time."

"Roger that, sir."

You're too busy laughing the rest of the way back to be able to drive. (but spencer has no complaints when you hand him back the five with a chaste kiss to his lips).

[noonew1lleverask]

Little Talks

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader Summary: Spencer's mind play tricks on him. You are there to soothe his fears away. WC: 1.3k A/N: fluffy angst! This is heavily based on 'Little Talks' and it hints at Spencer's fear of mental conditions. Reader is mentioned to be a doctor and they have a kid. I hope you guys like it! <3 | Masterlist

The gentle breeze outside made an equally gentle sound echo through the room. Light comes creeping in, barely illuminating the place, blocked by the big tree outside. The tree could use a swing for our future kids. I'll work on a project for it in the evening. Yes, in the evening, after I have dinner with my wife and my daughter, Harriet. But this sound, this nagging whistle of the air, couldn't let me fall asleep. The stairs seemed to creak as well, all night long, and it didn't give me peace, not like she did—not like anything could, anyway—so I couldn't get any rest. She wasn't laying by my side, something that, on other days, would coat my heart with a thick layer of relief, of happiness. Lately, even my heart feels empty.

I've been losing track and notion of time. It's like the days mash together and they last longer or shorter than they should. It terrifies me. I don't remember where I placed important things. I don't remember some of my life's milestones. I don't remember taking a shower most days. Nevertheless, some days, I do remember her. I remember her laughter and her being angry with me. Some days, I am bold enough to say that I remember everything about her.

The small glances we would exchange when we first met. The tiny freckle on her bottom lip. The way her hair felt against my fingertips. The feeling of our sweaty bodies against each other. The endless happy days, when we would simply hold each other as she read me her favorite books or vice-versa. The sight of her cradling our daughter in her arms, after giving birth to her. The sleepless nights we had spent keeping two pairs of eyes on her, making sure she had everything she needed. The exhausted breakdowns — taking turns to sleep and to watch Harriet. The feeling of feeling distant from her and the feeling of getting her back to my heart, the way it always had been, the way it always should be. The soft pace of our feet as she walked me around the house in the late hours of the night, showing me pictures and the history behind every single furniture in the house. To make me remember it. To make me remember her.

Lazily and a tad bit unwillingly, I get up. I make the bed, I brush my teeth, I take a shower. I change clothes. Today, I did it. I can't forget it. I take notes on what I did so far and it pains me to take minutes to read these ordinary tasks I've performed. Performed... Yes. Sometimes, I don't know how often—which is a pity because I've always wanted to be precise—the most basic tasks feel like carrying a dead body around, all for show and for making amends with my own slowly beating heart, that I did something to help.

Sometimes, said body keeps me up late at night. It takes different shapes, depending on how the day was earlier. Sometimes it turns into a ghost.

The kettle whistles and it reminds me to turn off the stove. As I pour the water over the coffee, I repeat over and over that I have turned off the fire. Then, I made my way out of the kitchen, steaming mugs in my hands. Over her mug, I place a stroopwafel so the caramel melts. I sit by the window and watch kids walking by, talking and giggling. It makes me think of Harry. I light up a candle — it's not cold, but I know she likes scented candles, so I try to make the house as comfortable as I can. She's gonna be home anytime now, and I made our coffee.

The hours go by. Each minute that passes, I lose my mind a little bit, slowly being overpowered by the feeling that something might have happened. Where is she? Where is Harry? I know my wife has long shifts at the hospital she works at, so an emergency must have taken place. She couldn't have just left. And... And, Harry... Harry is possibly spending time at her grandmother's. She loves visiting and having cooking sessions with grandma, so it's not a surprise. But the lack of news, the longing to hear something from them…

The coffee goes cold. The stroopwafel caramel stiffens as it had never been heated.

Is she gone?

Are they gone?

As I will myself to walk around the house, I struggle to recognize things and the ghost of her voice, even if I need to fight myself to keep memory of the sound of her, tells me stories. She tells me our story. Still, the plots of my favorite books are long forgotten. I walk to the bathroom and it catches my eye that only one side of the sink is taken by toiletries. There's also only one toothbrush. It didn't seem to faze me earlier. I don't even think I caught sight of it then.

What happened?

Days go by, blurred together by my loose, fragile, weak grip on reality. I can barely recognize my own expression in the mirror.

It's barely living, whatever this hellhole is. I go to bed early and rise late and feel as if I have hardly slept.¹

—

Spencer feels his body being shaken, softly delicately, lazily. "Spence, darling?”

“Mhmm?” He grumbles in response.

"Wake up, darling. You have a lecture today.”

Suddenly, it's as if a switch had been flipped in his head. He remembers it. He remembers her. He remembers them. The smell of the room makes him feel like he's slept here over the last hundred years. Breathing out a sigh of relief, he engulfs her in a hug, which makes her laugh, and he mutters, "I know. And you have an early shift. And—and we live together, we're happily married. We are parents. Good ones. I take Harry to the library and you give her basically a guided tour everywhere you go together. The kind of parents that take our kid to Disneyland, no matter how stressful and endless the lines are. And it's rewarding by the end of the day because Harry is knocked out on the bed and we finally have some time to ourselves and—and things are perfect."

Her eyes soften. She knows what he's been dreaming of. She always adds something that grounds him even further to reality. "You learned how to make braids when I was still pregnant so that Harry would have the prettiest hair. And tonight we'll go to a parent-teacher meeting.”

He chuckles and she grins at him, knowing they'll be given a lecture about how Harry is brilliant, but she can't shut up to save her life. Spencer hears the sounds in the bedroom next door and he is flooded with pure love. And relief. And gratefulness, to have built and now to share a home with you. She knows, his wife, that no matter how difficult life gets, she will always be the happiest person in the world to have met him, to have loved him. She tells him so everyday, whether through words or actions. Or simply existing — small snippets of her being there always brings a smile to his face. An overpriced coffee, the black tea she likes to drink before bed, the school notes Harry sticks to the fridge because they are hell-bent on giving her a sense of responsibility and participating in her life.

As Spencer closed his eyes, his arms wrapped around your frame, he pictures your face and its expressions. The way your smile reaches your eyes, making them close in the shape of crescent moons... The way your lip would quiver just slightly before you got emotional. The way your lips get plumper after he kissed you relentlessly.

"The sun has risen again, darling. And we will make the most out of today.

He smiles. She knows what it means.

If we're together, we're well.

divider by @cafekitsune <3

¹: a quote from lemony snicket's beatrice letters <3<3

[noonew1lleverask]

Love and Loathing

Y’all, I’m posting again. TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW! I don’t know what’s taken over my body, but I’m loving this rush of inspiration, and I hope you guys are, too. This one is more concise because I locked in this time.

Description

You didn’t expect this when you joined the BAU. A young man by the name of Spencer Reid had captured your heart, with no intention of giving it back. You were obsessed at first, simply adoring his mind and aching to know every wrinkle and fold. Then, it deepened into… what? Yearning? Love? You weren’t sure, and you hated it. You were meant to be smarter than this, yet here you were: deep in a pit of self-loathing, all because of this… boy wonder. How will you cope?

Spencer Reid x gn!reader, second-person pov, fluff? angst? No smut🫶

Word count: 1700

Character count:9476

Emotions of wild proportion typically sat snugly beside each other, nestled in arms strong and steady, and under this veil of affection, daggers were pointed at their backs. Under constant threat, love could turn to hatred so easily.

Falling is an unstoppable action. Gravity is cruel as it pulls on your body, demanding the ground to meet you in a forced hug of one-sidedness.

You crashed to the ground when you met Spencer Reid. He was something entirely novel to you, this man. He stood tall at 6’1, with a steady set to his shoulders you frequently found hunched over books. He smelled of something light and sharp, a slip of pine into your every day life, like slowly introducing a new tea into your mornings, adding goals to the end of the week. Unsure how, but utterly grateful, Spencer Reid had become something important to you; pivotal to your mental and physical state. The dependency you felt towards him was unhealthy, and you knew this, but you couldn’t… stop.

The praise he’d deliver to you filled your veins like heroin. It was addictive. The smiles slipped to you across the round-table were consumed greedily, savored like a decadent truffle on your tongue. Everything about the man enamored you. You could have said it was love, but that was jumping the gun by then. You simply found him… incredible, to put it lightly. A genius in the FBI; his mind was a labyrinth you were foaming at the mouth to understand.

Over a brunch with an old friend, your newfound passion for the man was addressed.

“You talk about him like he’s a god or something,” she commented, angling her fork to sink into the corner of the syrup drenched toast on her plate, covered with glistening fruits sitting on a pillowy bed of whipped cream. She scooped up a dollop of whip cream onto her fork alongside the triangle of french toast, and shoved it into her mouth.

“I mean.” You hated when she spoke with her mouth full, but kept your lips glued. “How special can this guy be?”

You wanted to tell her exactly that. Your teeth chattered with restraint as you held back from jumping onto the table and shouting your praises over this man.

God, what had you become?

.

.

.

Late evenings in the bullpen had become a creature comfort to you. You weren’t even sure why. Actually, you were. You were very sure, you just didn’t want to admit how cold your apartment had become, how deep the wound of loneliness had uncomfortably grown. The bullpen carried a lingering warmth from the camaraderie of the day, and you relished in it when you could. Which was a lot.

Most nights were spent alone with the soft yellow of your desk lamp, but some nights a few agents lingered like you. It made you wonder— hope, even— if they were as lonely as you. Maybe they would come up to you, ask you questions about your life out of the blue. You would hate that, you knew you would, but you wanted it anyways.

How the hell did you explain that?

Tonight was one of those nights, and this time, you didn’t wonder if this agent was lonesome. He was. His lashes shadowed his sharp cheekbones, dancing across his skin as they fluttered with each turn of the book laid flat on his desk. It was leather-bound and old, something that looked like it would crumble under the slightest pressure, which explained why Spencer handled it with grace and tenderness. Would he touch someone he loved like that?

You didn’t realize you were staring until he caught your eyes, blinking those dazzling eyes of his owlishly. You didn’t look away— you didn’t know if you could. “Good evening,” he said. Polite and casual, as he always was.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, your heart was in your throat. Swallowing, you steeled your nerves and replied, “Good evening.”

Spencer looked between you and his book, debating, before he finally closed his novel, lowering the cover with trembling fingertips. “You stay late a lot.”

Astute observation, Einstein.

���I do,” you confirmed.

As expected, he asked, “Why?”

Why? Because I cannot go home to a dark apartment. I cannot see the couples dancing on the streets, their laughter echoing up to reach my balcony like a taunt. Because I’m a lonely fool who’s hopefully in love with you, when I don’t even love myself.

“My heating’s broke,” came your answer. You were a good liar. You’d honed the skill after years of family gatherings, of friends who looked past the glassy shine of your eyes. “It should be fixed soon, though.”

“Your heating’s been broken for… two weeks, and you’re just now getting it fixed?” He sounded skeptical, his fingers tracing the binding of his book.

Refusing to answer, you instead questioned him. “Why stay after just to read a book?” You shrugged your shoulders casually. “You can do that at home, can’t you?”

The smile that grew on his lips was deadly to you. It was teasing and playful, something boyish that gave you the inane urge to shrivel up and die. “My heating happens to be broken, too,” he answered.

If you were a more hopeful person, with just an edge more delusion, you’d believe he was flirting.

Returning his smile, yours was more tentative and practiced. “Guess we’re both in bad shape, aren’t we?”

“I guess we are.” His gaze was scrutinizing, and you wanted to crawl under your desk to hide from it, regressing to a childlike state to shy away from the millions of questions dancing in his eyes. Was this meant to be an interrogation, or casual conversation?

You didn’t say anything more after that. He went back to his novel, reading at an abnormal speed as per usual, and you back to your work. You always had work to do; files upon files because you all but begged Hotch for them. Cold cases were excellent distractions. Field reports were less interesting, but your writing was consistently formal enough to persuade Hotch to deliver you more work.

The night seemed to stretch on, the ticking of the clock overwhelming as it echoed in your ears. Your eyes grew tired, which was the tell-tale sign that it was time for you to go back home to your apartment. You sighed, rubbing your eyes, and the action drew Spencer’s attention to you.

“Going home?” He stood from his desk, taking up his coat and sliding it over his long arms.

The swift eagerness of his actions startled you for a moment, and you stuttered, “Uh, y-yeah, I am. I can’t really blink without my eyes burning anymore, so…”

His brows drew together in concern. “Your eyes are probably dry. The air conditioning in here is… aggressive.”

You hummed in reply, slowly pulling your body from your chair. It was like picking up a cat, but your own body. You felt the pull of exhaustion in the backs of your calves, threatening to pull you down to the floor. You refused to let it win, because you’d rather be shot by a psychotic UNSUB before falling apart in front of Spencer.

Suddenly, he was behind you as you threw your coat over your blouse, which caused you to jump. He sheepishly grimaced, cheeks flushing. “Sorry.” His satchel was tossed over his shoulder, sagging into a curve with the weight of the items inside. Books, you assumed.

“I’ll walk you out.”

You quickly turned him down. “Oh, no, Reid. I’m fine, really. I can—“

“I’ll walk you out. It’s no problem.” His tone was final, and it made something in your stomach twist with an unpleasant pleasantry you hated yourself for relishing in.

Your answer was meek. “Okay.”

He held the door open for you on your way out to the bullpen, allowing the glass door to fall shut behind him as he sped up to match your pace. He pressed the button for the elevator, the down arrow flashing orange.

He stood beside you, his hands in his pockets, as you waited. You stood beside him, hands twisting together in front of you, eyes on the metal doors, watching your blurrier reflections, as you waited.

“I lied about my heating.”

You didn’t look over at him, but you were sure he heard your heavy exhale.

“And I’m sure you lied about yours too.” Partly true. It didn’t surprise you that he saw through your lie like glass. Right now, you felt like you were being pressed against glass, watching the scene through an out-of-body experience.

His feet scuffed the floor next to you, nervously shifting. “I know why you stay late, and I… relate. I understand what it feels like to enter your home but feel like a stranger to it.”

You dared to turn your head, and he was already looking at you, his chin tilted slightly to fully meet your gaze. And, God, you were hooked. There it was, that rush of adrenaline again, a high you would surely crash from the minute your door locked behind you.

Something was intense there in his gaze, heady. You could get drunk off of it alone, and you were sure you were. Your legs turned to jelly, and your fingertips numbed as you clenched your hands together.

“I know your apartment’s heating is fine, more than fine, considering your income and the area you live, but…” A shy smile pulled at his lips. “Let’s pretend you’re freezing, so… you can come over to mine? And I can offer you some midnight take out to warm you up?”

Your heart raced in your chest, threatening to burst free from your body and land on the floor with a sickening splat; a bloody mess. That wouldn’t be pleasant. It’d be disgusting, and would drive Spencer further away from you than a father from his family.

Feeling escaped your limbs, but you knew if you did collapse out of sheer… disbelief, he’d catch you. His arms were lean and steady, like tree branches, and you wondered how they’d feel wrapped around your body.

Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe immediately after your reply, you’d know.

“I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

(Part 2 of Spencer’s POV?)

Thank you so much for reading! Have a wonderful night, day, afternoon— and know you are so incredibly loved by me, God, and so many more people you have yet to meet! THANK YOUUU!

[noonew1lleverask]

Over and Over Again

Hello people. I’ve literally never posted on tumblr before, but I really really wanted to because I had this Spencer Reid idea. This sucks, and if you have any critic or advice for me, PLEASE LET ME KNOW. I hope you like it. There’s no warnings, besides a storm, maybe? Again, never posted before, yes, the banner is huge. I know. I do not know how to fix these things. I’m yapping.

ANYWAYS: this blurb was written based off of the song Would You Fall in Love with Me Again from EPIC (dog, listen to it, it’s the best musical ever). Loosely based, really. I hope you love it.

“I’ve changed,” he insisted. He persistently insisted, pacing his living room floor, expertly dodging books left face-open on the floor , words subject to dim lighting above them, watching like a crowded theater as he stood before her, laying himself bare. He wasn’t a man anymore— couldn’t she see that? He was a monster.

She watched him with wrinkled brows, mentally undoing the puzzle she’d spent all of her time knowing him trying to solve. She couldn’t understand it. Why did he think he had any right to tell her this? She knew he changed, it was obvious, it was natural, considering what happened. Yet, he spoke of his shift in demeanor as if it wasn’t obvious, as if she wasn’t aware of the yellow warning signs flashing by her as she drove down the road, speedometer reaching unsafe levels, but she couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to.

Stepping forward, toes catching against the corners of his precious literature now tossed aside in the face of his internal storm, she caught him by his wrists, stopping him. “Spencer—“

The words burst from his mouth, drowning her out. “I’m not the man you fell in love with. What I did in there?”

Despite his insistence, his hands slid down, entwining their fingers together and holding tightly, too afraid to let go, too desperate to cling to a lifeline suddenly cast toward him, a precious lifeboat of brilliant orange in a raging sea, waves of resistance keeping him at bay.

“What I did in there… it’s not… you have to understand. I did what I had to do—“

“Then that makes you more man than monster— that makes you human. You lived— the human instinct is to live— stop trying to… to dissuade me! Spencer, I—“

“Please—“

The desperation sat heavily in his eyes, glimpses of a lake hidden deep within a dark forest, a glimpse of heavenly seas of emerald spoke of in Revelations. They flickered, flashing between adoration and aggravation, desperation and deprivation. Duty and desire warred inside his mind, a voice near the back of his mind reminding him of his sins, of his transgressions. She didn’t need that. She needed clean cut and safety. How could she find wealth of any kind with him?

Electricity crackled between them, rolling like the breaching thunder outside of his apartment.

He didn’t believe in fate. He didn’t believe in destiny or signs, but this? This seemed to perfectly concocted. If there was a God, He was making his opinion known of the situation inside of Spencer’s apartment, expressing his vehement hatred of the private world they’d come to build together. He would tear it down if Spencer didn’t first.

Her eyes flashed to the window, and snapped back to him, mirroring his desperation; destruction; adoration; anger. She held his hands tighter, nails digging into the flesh of his knuckles. The singe of pain was needed, it tied him to her, fed his selfish desires to have her, to keep her inside of him, tucked securely into the empty cavity of his chest.

Her voice was a rasp as she seemed to beg, all but falling to her knees to clutch to his pant leg and sob like a child. “‘Please’— you keep saying ‘please’. Stop saying that!” She exclaimed, holding his hands tighter. Her body felt rigid, tense with all of the emotions tightly wound inside of her, aching to be let free in a cacophony of rage, explosion of lust, a torrent of emotions. “Spencer, I love you! I will fall in love with you over and over again, and I don’t care what you did. I don’t care who you hurt— do you think I haven’t hurt people, too?”

“Not like I have,” he attempted to intervene, and she quickly shushed him.

“What you have done in moments of desperation doesn’t matter to me!… Okay, it does. It matters to me because I… you’re here with me. You’re with me, holding my hands, telling me not to love you— but you told me I was the only thing keeping you sane. My letters were your anchor. Was that not true?”

His silence was answer enough. The thin press of his rose lips told her everything she needed to know. With a grating strength, she released his wrist, and drew her hand to his face. His stubble tickled her palm as she cupped his jaw, watched him lean into her touch like a sunflower towards the sun.

“Stop fighting me,” she whimpered. Her voice had lost it’s strength, but not it’s conviction. “Stop trying to keep me away from you… If I wanted to leave you, if I believed, truly believed you were a monster… I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

He looked so tired. When he smiled it was torn. This wasn’t the same man as before, but it was Spencer. Spencer fucking Reid, and she’d be damned if she didn’t love him just as much; maybe more.

“I love you,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears she hadn’t realized began spilling over her cheeks, collecting at her jaw and running down her neck in hot rivulets.

His pupils swelled at the sight.

Her words began to snowball, as did her volume as it rose and rose with every word, her strength returning under the clear dilation of his pupils; a solid tell he was just as affected as her. “And I won’t stop loving you, because you will always be the man I fell in love with. No matter what you’ve done, where you’ve been— damnit, Spencer—!“

His head dipped forward suddenly, lips catching hers in a powerful press of lips that she’d yearned for since he first delivered her a smile that broke through clouds over her head, offered one of his relentless facts of seemingly infinite wisdom that drew her deeper into this… well of adoration she’d fallen headfirst into.

Heat blossomed at the base of her spine, racing up her back to leave her lightheaded as she fell into him, hands falling to loosely clutch his shirt. His arms wound around her waist to capture her weak form, clutching her to him, his fingers curled into her shirt, wrinkling the fabric.

His lips perused hers with a desperate leisure, a slow hunger that threatened to tear him limb from limb. His seams were already loosened, and she was tugging, whether she knew it or not.

Pulling back reluctantly, he breathed heavily against her mouth. Bursts of moist, warm air hit her skin. She felt it curl around her cheeks, sink into her ears, her temporal lobe soaking in the lingering tingle of his lips on hers, leaving her drunk.

“I love you,” he whispered to her, his voice barely audible over the rain slamming against the windows of his living room. He had forgotten about God’s wrath looming outside of his windows.

She laughed softly, her voice still hiccuping around her steadily falling tears. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to say that?”

He smiled, a genuine, full smile of exuberant happiness. “Too long.”

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING IF YOU DID! <3 Even if you didn’t, thanks so much anyways! Remember, you are loved and appreciated by someone. You are loved and appreciated by me, and I hope you have a wonderful day wherever you are.

[noonew1lleverask]

[noonew1lleverask]

[noonew1lleverask]

i need him rn bro.

[noonew1lleverask]

Matthew Gray Gubler in Pittsburgh, PA (2006) 

“The leaves are very nice. They’re on the ground, which I’m a fan of. I’m gonna jump through them later. I brought my rake. I checked it at the airport.”

the ultimate level of babie