#jj criminal minds imagine

[thatboisus]

yall ever read a fanfic so majestic it completely altered your entire life

[sweatervest-obsessed]

Y/n: see how Garcia brought the shots back to the table?

Prentiss: very thoughtful.

JJ: very demure.

Morgan: what the fuck—

*hotch arrives*

Garcia: see how Hotch was late?

Prentiss: not very mindful.

Reid: not demure.

[amazingphanisnotonfire-imagines]

your camera roll if you worked at the bau (pictures that if you’re colleagues found out you had…they would kill you) ((and get away with it))

[lizzyk137]

Misunderstandings and Realizations- A Spencer Reid Fanfiction (Spencer X Reader)

Summary: You and Spencer started to drift apart after JJ's confession, you can handle it for only so long before leaving him. Warnings: Mentions of miscarriage, angst, fluff, brief mentions of sex, brief mention of serial killer, brief mention of seizure, talk of pregnancy, brief moments of being in a hospital Based on Season 14 episode 16 all throughout Season 15

Want to read more, visit my Masterlist!

Something went down.

Not in the bad way, well you guess you could say it was bad because there was a hostage situation with an Unsub, but something certainly happened.

You felt it when he came back home to you that night. Curling himself around you, kissing your neck all over before finally making passionate love to you, like the world would end if he didn't. Usually, you cuddle and fall asleep after you both clean up, but he left you in bed as he went out to the living room, his face masked of any emotion.

His face often did that now when you were around. You had asked the other team member's partners during your weekly get together at the park, but none of them knew what went down that night, not even Will. All he knew was that the Unsub played a game with JJ and Spencer, and JJ didn't tell him anything but that.

You saw the looks at Rossi's wedding, you tried to ignore them. Will seem oblivious to them, but you caught every single one. Spencer didn't ask you to dance either that night, something he loved to do with you since it gave him the excuse to hold you close, look into your eyes and give you kiss after kiss all while you giggled. He loved the feeling of your heart beating in sync with his, he had told you and since then he would randomly dance with you at home and especially when you both went out.

The looks continued throughout the night, the random hush conversations. They didn't stop even when Will got JJ to dance or Alvez came over to ask you to dance. Spencer didn't even seem to care when you said yes, and you spent the rest of the night dancing with Alvez and Pennelope. He just sat alone at the table, his gaze always finding JJ's.

--

Kristy watched you, her hand on her growing bump, as you ran around the playground with her youngest daughters. "Are you sure he isn't just stressed?" She had asked, her voice almost lost in the mixture of the kid's giggled and screams.

You peaked your head from behind one of the slide's. "He's been going to therapy and taking his medicine regularly. It could be but he's never been like this before."

You slid down the slide, the plastic being a little slicker than you thought causing you to fall off and onto the ground.

A pain in your stomach appeared, causing you to gasp, but you quickly brush it away as Henry and Michael came running up to you with a disheveled Will running to catch up with them. You played with the kids for a while, the pain growing more intense, before you slugged your way over to the bench where Kristy and Will sat.

"You should sit down. The kids are pushing you hard today." Kristy laughed. You sat down next to her, a cry escaping your lips as your body touched the cool bench beneath you. "Are you okay?"

You shook your head as the pain increased, your vision going blurry as you felt Will's hands grab your body before it hit the bench.

--

Spencer watched as Matt and Kristy laughed at what Luke said, Matt's arms circling his wife's very pregnant belly. He wondered if he would get to do that one day, but he shook the thought from his mind before going back to his conversation with Tara.

"How's Y/N, doing? She's been quiet the past couple of meet ups."

Spencer nodded his head before lying, "She's been okay, work has her stressed out. She spends most days reading or with the kids." He knew it wasn't the truth but every member of his team that has asked how you've been, he just gave the same reply. Because in all honesty, he didn't know the truth. One day you were just quiet.

He saw the cracks in your usual smiley self. You were a ray of sunshine, always what was needed to brighten up his usual gloomy self. He knew things have been different, he didn't want to admit it. His brain always confused on what he wanted and possibly who he wanted, though he would never tell you that. He always made himself busy, usually taking on more cases from police departments that needed help or booking more classes to teach. The only intimacy you both had was when he came home after cases. He would kiss you like your lips was the air he needed and then made love to you for hours before watching you drift off to sleep before moving to the couch which had become his bed every night because it wasn't right of him to lay next to you while he had been tossing around the idea of a life with another women.

Spencer knew you were lonely, but you stayed, he was thankful for that, he didn't know what he would do without you in his life. But he couldn't shake what was going through his head.

Somewhere in the midst of overthinking, his feet brought him to Kristy. She stood there glowing as she smiled, her hand still rubbing on her belly. "Come to say congratulations again, Dr. Reid?" Her eyes playful as she teased him.

"Um, do you know where Y/N is?" He asked. He hadn't been able to find you for the past hour, which shouldn't have been hard since the house only had so many hiding places.

"She didn't tell you, did she? She had an appointment this afternoon, but she should be here soon." Spencer nodded, trying to remember if you had told him, which you didn't because his brain wouldn't allow him to forget things. "This must be super hard on her though, so make sure you show her some extra love."

Spencer looked at her puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"You know, with the miscarriage. It has to be hard on her to go to this type of celebration." Spencer's puzzled expression only grew as she spoke, so she decided to continue on. "Did she not tell you? She told us she was going to tell you."

"Everyone knew?" His voice barely a whisper.

"No, no. Just Will, Penelope, Luke along with Matt and me. It happened about eight months ago. She fell down playing with the kids and passed out. Will brought her to the hospital, they said it was because she was so stressed."

"Because of work?" Spencer voice was squeaky as worry clouded his face even more.

Kristy's voice was soft but also annoyed. "No, because of what has been going on with you and JJ. She hasn't been herself since then."

--

You finally made it to the party, your nerves getting to you. Your doctor had confirmed the baby was fine and growing healthy. But you were worried, so worried. What if this ended up like before? Your worrying hadn't died down and Spencer hadn't down anything to change that.

Opening up the front door, you made your way into the house, the house filled with laughter and noise. Your eyes scanned for Spencer, but you couldn't find him. You eventually found Kristy; a smile plastered your face as you hugged her tight. She was one of the few people who could make you naturally smile.

"Oh, Y/N, I'm so sorry. I didn't know that you hadn't told Spencer, and I may have told him what happened." Her words fast and covered in worry.

"It's okay," you told her, your hands rubbing her arms. "I just haven't had the heart to do it."

"I didn't tell him what was going on now though." Kristy eyed your too big sweatshirt that had covered your bump before squealing. "How did it go?"

You laughed at her enthusiasm. "It went well, the doctor reassured me that everything was okay. They're healthy and happy. And no, I did not find out the sex either, so don't ask." Her face turned into a pout, and you couldn't help the laugh that slipped out. "Where is Spencer? I think we should definitely talk."

You made your way over to the back patio that Kristy said she had last seen him. You were going to come clean with everything that has happened the last eight months, but your determination faltered when you saw Spencer hugging JJ close to him, her hand rubbing circles on his back.

--

Diana was calling you. Which was strange since she hasn't called you in months. You answered and made your way to a quiet place in the house. You were happy she remembered you, the conversation flowing nicely before she told you about Spencer's visit. What he said and how he felt. She was worried about him, and as his childhood best friend she wanted to let you know what was said and what she had replied with.

You ended the call with the promise to call her back tomorrow. You sank down to the floor, your growing belly blocking you from curling up the way you wanted too.

What had you been expecting? Spencer finally coming clean to his mom that you were together. You doubted he would now that you had moved out without a word a month ago with no communication since. And Diana had proven you right. He made no mention of your relationship.

You took a deep breath and got up. Fixing your hair, you walked out of Matt's office and made your way to Kristy to tell her that you had finally made up your mind.

--

Months had gone by with silence.

No word from him.

No word from you.

You only heard what was going on via the team when they checked up on you. You told them that they didn't have to do that, but Emily said you were a part of the family, you had been for years, and not even Spencer's shitty attitude would change that.

Alvez had taken you in after you told Kristy that you were moving on from Spencer and going forth into motherhood alone. Alvez was someone you trusted, and your friendship grew these past few months. He watched out for you, and you watched out for any girl that you could set him up with. He said it was a win-win situation for him.

You didn't see each other anymore than friends, brother and sister if you really thought about it. But you were grateful for that. You needed it and Alvez enjoyed your company and having someone to watch Roxy while he was on cases. He helped you every time you cried about Spencer especially when you went to your baby appointments and your hormones would make it hard to concentrate on anything but the fact that you were doing this alone. Spencer had already moved on, and you were having his baby alone.

But this perfect set up wouldn't last. The baby was coming soon, and you had to find a place that you could have a proper nursery or at least more space than Alvez's tiny apartment. Plus, the chance that Luke would wind up in a relationship was high, any girl would fall in love with his great personality, and you didn't want to ruin what he could have.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" He asked, setting up the baby's car seat. "We would all feel better with having you here with the Chameleon running around still."

"I think it would be better to move out, I don't want to get in the way."

Alvez chuckled then sighed. "Y/N, you're not in the way. I know you felt that way for a bit, but you aren't. The team want you safe. So, stay here until we've caught the guy, alright?"

"Alright, but after that I'm moving out."

Weeks have gone by, the team on the lookout for the serial killer that had haunted Rossi. During that time, you had given birth to an adorable baby boy, the spitting image of Spencer. He was perfect and the sweetest baby, sleeping through the night, all the cuddles he gave you. He was just perfect.

Your phone rang, and you quickly got up to grab it before it awoke your sleeping son. "Hello?" You whispered.

"Oh, Y/N, Spencer..." You heard Penelope crying. "He.. he was shaking so badly... Oh my god, Spencer..."

"Penelope, slow down. Take a deep breath. Tell me what's going on."

Her words were rushed and mumbled, but from what you gathered, you were already packing your baby's stuff up and heading to the car before you got off the phone with her.

--

You rushed into the waiting room to find Penelope and he his mom sitting together. "Oh, Y/N." Diana got up and crushed you into a hug. "I'm so glad you're here."

"How is he?"

Penelope grabbed the baby bag from you. "He's awake now, they ran tests and he'll be okay. They're cleaning him up right now so we stepped out but should be able to see him soon."

You nodded and sat down. It wasn't long before they called you in, you lingered in the back. You hadn't spoken to Spencer for months and you didn't know how he would feel seeing you, especially with the state he was in currently. Plus, you didn't want to make his new girlfriend uncomfortable.

You watched him hug his mom and Penelope, a smile on his face, you could tell he was trying to calm both women's nerves. He chatted with them for a bit until his eyes landed on you in the doorway. He gave you a small smile, his eyes traveling down to the baby carrier in your hands.

His 100-watt smile returned as he looked to his mom and Penelope. "Do you mind if I have a minute with Y/N?" They both nodded and headed out. You lingered in the back of the room, Spencer just watching you.

"How are you feeling?" The silence was deafening, and you wanted to fill the space with something.

"I'll be okay. Is that-?" He nodded towards the carrier. You nodded to his question.

"Did you want to meet him?" You stepped closer when he gave you a small nod. You unhooked the still sleeping baby from his car seat and brought him over to meet Spencer. Spencer reached his arms out and your heart tightened a bit at the sight of your baby being held by his father for the first time. You gently laid your son in his arms, his face brightening with a big smile.

You sat there for a few minutes watching him make faces at your baby, cooing occasionally. You didn't even realize you had started crying until Spencer called your name, worry on his face.

"I'm sorry..." You quickly wiped the tears away.

"It's okay. Thank you for letting me meet him. What's his name?"

"Oh, um, he doesn't have one yet. Every time I think something may sound right; it just doesn't fit." You reached over to fix the blanket that was near your son's face. "The deadline is coming up, so I'll have to settle on something."

Spencer nodded; his one hand came up to stroke his son's face. "You'll find the right name, I know you will, Y/N."

Something in the way he said your name, made you break down. You couldn't stop the tears from flowing or how weak your legs felt. Spencer moved the baby and grabbed your hand, pulling you down to sit on the bed and held you close to him as you sobbed.

Your baby's cough stopped your sobs instantly and you whipped around to look at you sleeping sons face. You rubbed your hand over your face. "Have you been doing this alone?"

You nodded in reply. "I don't want to bother Alvez. He barely comes home with the Chameleon on the loose."

His hand found your face and cupped it gently, your tears still flowing. "I'm sorry I haven't been there. You've done it all alone. I should've been there."

You shook your head quickly. "It was me. I decided this. I didn't tell you." A sob escaped your lips. "It was just so hard without you there." Spencer opened his arm wide, inviting you to cuddle in and you did. You sat like that for a long time, Spencer's arm rubbing circles on your back as you held your arm over his other arm that was holding your son, your head on his chest.

You lifted your head up and looked at Spencer, his eyes on locking onto yours. The draw was powerful and neither of you realized what was happening until your lips touched. After that, you couldn't keep your lips off of him. Both of you pressing your bodies as close as you physically could with a baby in your arms, the need for each other growing with every second. You pulled away for air, guilt instantly hitting you.

"Spence... we shouldn't do this..." You mumbled between Spencer's kisses.

"Why?"

"Because... You have a girlfriend..." The assault on your lips continuing and you were trying not to enjoy it.

Spencer pulled away; his eyes still locked onto yours. "I don't have a girlfriend. I mean I did but I don't anymore. It- it was a fling to try to get over you, but I just couldn't, especially when I found out about our baby. I just want you, Y/N."

"But JJ...?"

"I was confused over what she said, that was wrong of me, but I knew I always needed you with me. I may be smart but I'm dumb when it comes to my feelings. When I found out you lost our baby, I lost it at the shower and JJ encouraged me to talk to you but when I came home you were gone." His eyes started to water, and he pulled you and your baby closer to him. "I've been a mess, barely sleeping, barely eating. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty, I know what I've done is not excusable and you have every right to not want me in your life, but I need you."

--

"Y/N!" Spencer whisper yelled at you to get your attention. You looked up at him to find him pointing at the sleepy baby he was holding. You walked over, a smile on your face to see your baby sleeping with his tongue slightly sticking out through his smile.

You giggled, wondering how you got so lucky to have such an adorable baby. "Are you almost ready to go?"

Spencer nodded, before reluctantly putting his sleeping son in his car seat. "Do we have to leave him?"

You giggled again at the silly pout on his face. "As much as I want to stay with him, I think we both need to mentally get out of this house." He nodded as he picked up his son's car seat and diaper bag before making his way out of the house with you locking up behind him.

After dropping your son off at your mother's, Spencer and you made your way to Penelope's sendoff party. Spencer placed his hand on your thigh, rubbing circles against your skin. He knew how anxious you were to be away from your child, hell he was just as anxious, but he knew you needed to see your friend off or you wouldn't forgive yourself.

He felt you relax after a minute, and he gave you a smile when you looked over at him. You sighed and continued to look at Spencer, taking in his features and how attractive it was watching him drive with one hand on your thigh.

The first few weeks after your reunion with Spencer was awkward. You didn't know how to react to everything going around you. The case was wrapped up, Penelope announced she was leaving, and Spencer wanting to get back together. Spencer and you took it slow, not wanting to rush into things, just learning what you both had miss, you decided on being friends and he had suggested in both of you getting a place together so it was easier to raise your son and Alvez could have his place back.

You declined at first but after some thought and Spencer showing you pictures of a few houses on the market, you caved in after seeing a two-story house with its wrap around porch and lilac bushes covering the front yard. All you could picture was your son running around the house playing as you sat on the porch in the early mornings, a book in hand. Since then, the next month and a half was getting the house turned into your home.

The friendship thing worked at first, but somehow you would end up staying up waiting on Spencer to come home from cases, him carrying you to bed when your body couldn't keep yourself awake. The early mornings where you cradled your son as you sat on the couch, Spencer's arms wrapped around you from behind, his face next to yours as he cooed at your little one. The random make out sessions in the kitchen when the tension became too strong.

And one night he gave you such a scare.

You sat waiting up for him, he had sent you a text that he was on his way home, but he wasn't answering your calls, and you feared the worse when he wasn't home hours later. When you heard the front door open, you stomped your way from the kitchen to see his smiling face, arms full of groceries and a bouquet of flowers. His smile faltered when he saw how angry you were, tears streaming down your face.

You yelled at him, careful not to walk the sleeping child upstairs, but enough for him to realize how angry you were with him. You angrily put away the groceries, telling him that he should've brought a charger to plug in his dead phone, or let her know that he was going to the store instead of saying he would be right home. He didn't understand why you were so upset with him, his brain too tired to figure it out until you blurted out that you loved him. He looked at you with an apologetic smile before pulling you into his arms, apologizing for worrying you.

Sighing in his arms, you looked up at him, the joke you were about to say escaping your mind when you saw the hunger in his eyes. He took your face in his hands and brought his lips to yours. The kiss was full of passion and love and when you pulled away for air, he told you he loved you. After that, the night was filled with passionate kisses and love making.

You smiled thinking back on the memory. Spencer still took things slow with you; he told you he didn't want to mess up his second chance. He slipped his hand on the small of your back as you made your way into Rossi's backyard.

All night Spencer seemed nervous, but you played it off on his dislike for change and Penelope leaving was a big change for him. You squeezed his hand that was on his chest as you slow danced to the music that was wafting around you. You nuzzled your head in his chest as you swayed even when the music stopped playing.

"Y/N." You looked up at Spencer's face, his dark eyes on yours. He kissed the back of your intwined hand and pulled away from you. He reached into his pocket and kneeled down as he pulled out a box. He opened the box to reveal a tear shaped diamond ring, your right hand covering the gasp that came from your lips.

"I know I said I would take it slow, but I can't imagine my life without you. I want to wake up beside you every morning, go to bed with you in my arms, play with our son in the backyard and watch him grow up and continue growing our family." A few stray tears fell down both of your cheeks, a smile stretching across your face at the mention of expanding your family. "I want you and your love, the gentle smiles you give, your contagious laugh. I don't ever want to let those go. You are my home, you are the only one I think of all day, the one who can calm me down with just one look, word or touch. I need you in order to be me. So, Y/N Y/L/N, will you please be my wife?"

"Yes!"

[fluentmoviequoter]

Words to Die By

The Rookie x Criminal Minds Crossover

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!BAU!reader

Summary: Seven years after failing to become an LAPD officer, you return to Los Angeles as a literary analyst with the FBI's behavioral analysis unit to catch a serial killer.

Warnings: angst, violence, discussions of autopsies and forensic science, literary references, fluff and banter, improper use of a meat locker

Word Count: 13k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Rules

As the slick black SUV with US government plates parks outside the LAPD Mid-Wilshire station, you try not to reminisce. It would be too easy to remember how excited you were to walk in on your first day after the police academy, too easy to remember the devastation and heartbreak you felt walking through the same doors after surrendering your badge. You open the car door and focus on the current job, keeping your head down as you follow your team into the station that once felt like home. After finding an empty space out of the officers’ way to wait while your boss speaks to the watch commander and captain, you unlock your phone and scroll through the case details you reviewed on the flight, looking for anything you might have missed.

“Can I help you?”

You look up from your phone, the case detail email disappearing as you press the power button and smile at the LAPD officer standing before you.

“Sorry, I’m waiting for the rest of my team,” you explain before brandishing your badge.

“Oh, no worries. This is my first time working in a task force,” she replies. “It’s exciting.”

You nod and subconsciously tug on your sleeves. Officer Chen is obviously a rookie, and her enthusiasm is refreshing.

“Is this your first time in LA?” she asks.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Chen, Bradford wants to see you before roll call,” another officer calls.

“Is Bradford your training officer?” you ask.

“He is. Do you know him?”

You look around, then say, “Tim is on, what? His tenth plain clothes day washout?”

“Eleventh,” she answers, surprised.

“Nice to meet you, Officer Chen.” You offer your hand and say, “I’m number five.”

Chen’s jaw drops before she asks, “And now you’re FBI? How did that happen?”

“Long story… But I’m a literary analyst for the behavioral analysis unit, not exactly a field agent.”

A passing officer stops, then steps backward to look at you. “Are you on Hotchner’s team?”

“I am. I assume you remember him?”

“You know an FBI agent, Officer Lopez?” Chen asks.

“He was responsible for over 100 convictions of corrupt cops six or seven years ago. Five of them were LAPD, and one was our watch commander,” Lopez explains. “Chen, we need to get to roll call.”

You nod to Lucy, then return your attention to an email from Penelope.

“Your phone should be at least twelve inches from your face to limit blue light exposure,” Spencer says as he enters the station. “Sixteen to eighteen inches is preferable.”

“Spencer,” you reply, smiling as you turn toward him. “Penelope used what appears to be 6-point font and then zoomed out. I appreciate the concern for my eye health but take it up with her.”

Spencer frowns and murmurs, “Sounds like a job for Morgan.”

“What’s that, pretty boy?” Derek inquires as if he was summoned by the utterance of his name. “Gettin’ girlie here a date?”

“In Los Angeles?” you ask incredulously. “Hard pass.”

“Right, because the location is the issue with the plan. Not the fact that we’re working a case, and new evidence was discovered this morning,” Hotch deadpans from your side.

“I can multitask, boss man,” Derek defends, tossing his arm over your shoulders.

“Psychologists have determined the human brain isn’t designed for successful multitasking,” Reid begins. “It can cause switch cost, which results when attention and information retainment are suddenly redirected from one task to another, and cognitive efficiency and performance diminish-“

“Says the walking brain with at least fourteen tabs open,” Derek jokes.

“They’re waiting for us,” Hotch reminds. “I mean, only if you’re ready.”

“Your station,” Derek tells you, shaking your shoulders gently as he follows you toward the roll call room.

“… and there is no excuse for failure to communicate,” Sergeant Wade Grey continues as you follow Hotch into the roll call room.

You stand between Hotch and Derek as he speaks and look around the room. Fourteen officers are seated at the tables, listening intently even as their eyes stray to the case board. JJ joins you a moment later, mouthing an apology to Hotch before passing him a folder.

“More evidence?” you whisper.

She nods, then whispers something to Spencer, who furrows his brows and squints at the case board. You know the look, and it increases your concern about the case. Though there have been two notes and a book tied to the previous crime scenes, you’re unsure why  Hotch decided you needed to join them in LA. You could have stayed in Virginia with Penelope, you think, but you trust him and the rest of your team. Turning away from JJ, you fight the urge to peek into Hotch’s open folder as you run your eyes up and down the rows of officers. You recognize Chen and Lopez from this morning, but stop when you see Tim Bradford.

Hotch notices your shoulders stiffen in the split second before you relax, and he taps his elbow against you. You look up at him, and he nods once to reassure you. You’re not alone, and unlike the last time you were in this station, someone else knows the truth of what happened.

“Any questions about the case?” Grey asks. He sighs when someone raises their hand and says, “Yes, Nolan?”

Nolan doesn’t seem concerned with Grey’s lethargy. “What’s the connection between the zoo and the first victim?”

Spencer shifts beside you, and Derek shakes his head in amusement. You can imagine the rambling fighting to get out of Reid, and you smile at Derek rather than laugh.

“I should’ve been clearer. Any questions about our side of the investigation?” Grey amends, and this time the officers stay quiet. “In that case, I’d like to introduce Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner of the FBI, the BAU unit chief, who has brought his team across the country to assist in this case.”

Hotch walks to the front of the room and sets his files on the podium. He fixes an evaluating glare on the officers before him, then nods.

JJ leans toward you and asks, “Remember how intimidating that look used to be?”

“Still makes me stand up a little straighter,” you admit.

“We’re here to help,” Hotch begins. “But that means that we need you to be as committed to solving this case as we are. If you’re not ready for that, you’re free to go.” No one moves, so Hotch says, “Good. Sergeant Grey has briefed me on each of you. You’re good officers, but street smarts and police procedure won’t get this monster off the street.”

“But talking about the suspect’s feelings will?” one of the officers jokes.

Hotch’s eyebrows raise, and his serious look fades into a knowing glare. “You must be Bradford.”

JJ takes your hand, and Derek exhales. They know more about your history in LA than the people in LA do, and you appreciate their friendship and presence.

“Sorry, sir,” Tim replies. “I only meant that there is tangible evidence at these scenes, and it seems to me that concrete proof will help us find this guy faster than dissecting his mind through his habits and words.”

Hotch returns behind the podium and admits, “I understand how our process could seem like a waste of time, and criminal profiling is not an exact science, we’re wrong sometimes, but you know as well as I do that there’s no one right way to solve a crime. The important thing in this situation is to get a killer off the streets before he claims more lives. If our behavioral analysis can assist in that, we’d appreciate your cooperation.”

“I can assure you that you have the LAPD’s complete cooperation,” Sergeant Grey interjects, looking pointedly at Tim. “And anyone unwilling to do so will be removed from this task force.”

Tim crosses his arms across his chest and nods, a position you remember well from your limited days as a rookie. You expected this type of attitude from him and possibly more cops. You truly believe that the BAU can offer insights Tim can’t glean from analyzing a crime scene or going through the processed evidence.

“Do any of you have questions for me or my communications liaison?” Hotch asks.

Several officers ask questions about task force protocol, what your team does, and other run-of-the-mill inquiries about the federal agency and its duties.

“I believe it is time for introductions?” Hotch says, stepping to the side as he welcomes Sergeant Grey back to the front of the room.

“The LAPD has selected fourteen of its best officers-“ He turns away from the room and lowers his voice to tell Hotch, “If you’re against rookies on the team, I’ve got some other officers on standby.”

“If you trust them, they’re welcome to stay.”

Grey nods and turns, then continues, “Officer Lopez, Officer Bishop and her rookie, John Nolan, Officer Janssen…”

You tune out most of the officers’ names, trusting Spencer to fill in any blanks for you, until you hear, “Officer Bradford and his rookie, Lucy Chen.”

You were in Lucy’s position just over seven years ago, and now you’re looking in from the outside. You love your job and appreciate the FBI and the BAU for giving you a home and a rewarding career. Yet, sometimes you’re still plagued by the inevitable wondering, what if?

“Pleasure to meet you all,” Hotch responds. “I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner, behind you is my team: Special Agents Reid, Morgan, Jareau…” Hotch meets your eyes before introducing you, and you watch him rather than Tim, who turns quickly in his chair and stares wide-eyed at you before controlling his expression and returning to his usual composed demeanor.

“How is a literary analyst helpful?” someone questions softly.

“This unit has taken down more serial criminals than you can name,” Wade snaps. “Show a little respect.”

“We’d like to brief you before the media,” Hotch explains. “If it’s possible to reconvene before tomorrow’s patrol begins, of course.”

“Not a problem. I want all of you back in here fifteen minutes before beginning of shift tomorrow,” Wade tells his officers. “Keep the conversation in this room, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the officers respond as they stand and file out of the door, some whispering together, others leaving quietly and alone.

“I think that went well,” Derek says as Hotch gathers his things.

“Socially speaking, there was a divide and a complete lack of faith in us,” Spencer argues. “Though there is the question of authority and a misunderstanding regarding our purpose and purview.”

“Pretty boy and I are going to go find some coffee.”

As Derek and Spencer leave, and JJ excuses herself to answer a phone call, you’re left alone with your current supervisor and former watch commander.

“It’s good to see you,” Wade says, smiling as he pulls you into a hug.

“You, too,” you respond. “Sorry I haven’t been back as much as I’d like.”

“I understand,” Wade assures. “And it seems that you’ve found your perfect place in the BAU.”

“We like to think so,” Hotch agrees. “Although…”

“Bradford won’t be a problem,” you interrupt.

Hotch tilts his head questioningly, and you add, “He fights back on new things, but he’s a good cop, so he’ll do what’s right in the end.”

Hotch hesitates, then asks, “Do you trust him?”

“With my life.”

“He’s the best I’ve got,” Wade comments. “But if there’s a question about him…”

“He’s Morgan, but more serious,” you tell Hotch. He doesn’t change his stare, so you sigh and promise, “I want him here. There’s no bad blood between us and he’s going to be invaluable in this.”

Hotch nods and looks away from you finally and begins asking Wade about one of the files turned in the night before, which you understand as your cue to leave. After you step out into the bullpen, Derek returns to your side.

“Where’s Spencer?” you ask, looking over his shoulder.

“Telling Officer Chen about the health benefits of doing something boring. How are you?”

“I’m okay. Hotch doesn’t seem to think so.”

Derek gasps and holds your shoulder to exclaim, “You have two overprotective father figures to work for now!”

You consider arguing for less than a second before you realize he’s right. Wade stayed in touch after you left LA. Hotch has never left room for you to wonder how he sees you and his need to protect you. So, you’re working on a case that feels like two different versions of your personality, and parts of your life have combined into one perfect yet terrifying case. And you haven’t even talked to Tim yet.

“I hope our hotel has a hot tub,” you lament.

“Plain clothes day washout number five, huh?” Lucy asks Tim as they patrol Los Angeles.

Tim shakes his head and doesn’t answer. He’s gone seven years without talking about you, only having to relive the heartbreak on your face and the disappointment he felt during his loneliest nights. Tim saw great potential in you, considered you more than a rookie, and taking your badge had affected him in a way he never expected. Now, you’re in the FBI, which is news to him, and you’re working on a case that he hasn’t been able to solve even with ten crime scenes to work with.

“What happened?” Lucy tries.

“None of your business, Chen,” he snaps. “That case, Hotchner’s team, all of it stays in the roll call room for now. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

A bell chimes above your head as you enter your favorite Los Angeles diner. It’s your first night in the city, and since you don’t know how long you’ll be here, you wanted to revisit it while you had a chance. When you mentioned the diner, your team gave you their orders to bring to the hotel, where they’re currently reviewing the autopsy reports. It feels wrong to leave them, but you sigh in the comfort of a place that once provided you a refuge after long days.

“Old habits?” you ask as you approach the counter.

Tim looks up from the laminate and watches you. You don’t meet his gaze but look at the menu while you wait for the waitress to return. This was your favorite diner when you started at the LAPD, and Tim has never given himself time to wonder why he kept coming back even after you left.

“Something like that,” he says. “So, uh, the FBI. That’s incredible.”

You shrug. “Not what I wanted, but I love it.”

Tim nods, unsure what else to say. You’re not the girl you were on day one in the academy, not even the girl who left the station in tears after washing out. Tim still sees you, the woman who fought for what was right never gave up, and was smarter than she ever realized. That’s not the person he saw your last week on patrol, but he knew you were still in there somewhere.

“How long have you been with the BAU?” he inquires.

The waitress returns, and you take the excuse to not answer Tim. You retrieve your phone from your pocket and read a large order from the screen, then pass a shiny, FBI-issued credit card over the counter.

“It’ll be a few minutes, hun,” the waitress informs as she returns the card. “Feel free to have a seat.”

You thank her and slide onto a stool, ensuring you leave an empty seat between you and Tim.

“Failing to become a police officer was one of the hardest things I’ve ever experienced,” you confess. “A few months later, Aaron Hotchner knocked on my door. There was a case nearby, a serial rapist who was leaving personalized love letters with every single victim. He found my résumé on a local job board and came to ask for help because of my background. The rest just fell into place, I guess.”

“You get to carry,” Tim points out, gesturing toward the holster on your hip, concealed from everyone else by your shirt. “They don’t let people who just ‘fall into place’ do that.”

“I did everything by the book, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m wondering what changed on plain clothes day,” he responds. “You were on track to be an amazing officer, and then that last week, you just… something changed.”

“I did.”

“There’s more to it.”

“There’s really not,” you insist. “If you don’t want to be on this task force-“

“I do. I wish you could see that you have the potential to lead it.”

“Hotch saved my life. I trust him.” Tim understands the part you don’t say: that you trust him more than yourself.

The waitress returns with two full bags, and you stand as you take them from the counter.

“Goodnight, Tim. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow.”

As you leave, the bell chimes over the door again, and Tim hears your voice in his head, the promise of another chance, but he doesn't miss the fact that you leave every time you see each other.

“What if - and hear me out on this - you just told him the truth,” Derek suggests.

You take a drink from a cheap Styrofoam cup and nod. “You’re right, Derek, why didn’t I think of that?”

“You know, most hotel chains serving breakfast fail to maintain proper culinary heat-“

Hotch raises one finger before Spencer can ruin breakfast for everyone. “Don’t.”

“I agree with Morgan,” JJ says. “There’s clearly questions there, and if you explain what happened, he’ll trust you more.”

“And he can deal with some of the guilt,” Hotch grumbles.

“What guilt?” you inquire, pausing with a cheap metal fork in your hand.

“He clearly blames himself for letting you lose your position,” Hotch explains.

“He knows how good you are, so that final week probably doesn’t make any sense to him,” Derek adds.

“He doesn’t,” you mutter. “He told me last night-“

“You saw him last night?” JJ exclaims.

“I ran into him at the diner.”

“He still goes to your diner?” Derek questions.

“It’s just a diner! But I saw him there and he insisted that there was more to what happened than me changing.”

“And you lied to him?” Hotch responds. “It’s over, you can tell him, you can shout it from the top of the Chinese theater.”

“That would be illegal,” Spencer mumbles.

“And wouldn’t change anything,” you add. “We’re here to work a case, not mend a bridge that has been-“ you scramble for the right word before finishing, “disintegrating for nearly a decade.”

Derek groans as he leans back in his seat, and Hotch finally looks up to say, “If this gets in the way of the case, I’ll have Garcia email him everything he needs to know.”

“I’m cutting holes in all of your quarter-zips tonight,” you threaten in return.

Hotch frowns and mouths, You’ll never find them all.

“Good morning,” Sergeant Grey calls as the door closes behind the twentieth and final member of the task force. “SSA Hotchner is going to fill you all in.”

“Thanks for coming in early,” Hotch begins. “There have been no new developments in the case since yesterday, but my team has created a preliminary profile based on the preexisting evidence and details from the first ten victims.”

Your phone buzzes with an incoming call from Garcia, and you exit the room to answer. “Whatcha got for us, gorgeous?”

“Ooh, does Derek know you’re talking to me like this?” she replies, her keyboard clicking in the background.

“Not like he’s competition,” you say with a playful scoff. “Find anything on the deep dive?”

“Nothing inherently helpful. The prelim suspects are all pretty similar, though one of them did alibi out. Carson Gillery was working remotely from Chicago during the second and third murders. Hotel and airline checks corroborate that.”

“I’ll tell Hotch. Anything else?”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Fine. Why?”

She stops typing suddenly and then inhales sharply.

“Garcia?” You ask.

The line beeps as she disconnects, and a phone on the desk closest to you begins ringing. A Virginia area code appears on the caller ID, and you stretch across the desk to pick up the receiver.

“Penelope?” you ask hurriedly.

“He’s in the data!” she explains, typing again. “He’s not doing much, but someone is overriding minor coding and there was another line tied into our call. I could hear him breathing; thought you were crying at first, but now I’m running a backward search to find this psycho.”

“None of the prelim suspects would know how to do that,” you point out.

“Uh oh,” Penelope breathes. “I think…  I think he left you a message.”

“What is it?”

“It’s in the seventh victim’s ME report, overwriting the details of the posthumous wounding to the back. It says 2/18/17… It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.”

“Henley,” you murmur, trying to connect the dots as you forget the first half of the message.

“There’s more,” Penelope says. “A copy of your one-way ticket to Virginia with an alternate ID that says, ‘thanks for the perfect opening night.’”

“It’s about me?” you whisper.

“I’m going to trace these messages,” Penelope declares. “You tell Hotch about this, and please, please do not try to investigate this on your own.”

“You got it. But can you send me a scan of page 39, no- 38, from the William Ernest Henley book in my office? I need the annotated copy of Invictus.”

“You got it. Tell Morgan and I said hi and I’m wearing-“

You hang up and take a deep breath as you return the receiver to the cradle.

“Agent Hotchner,” you call as you return. “I need a word.”

“Let me finish-“

“There’s been a development,” you interrupt. “An urgent one.”

Hotch sees the look in your eyes and calls Spencer to the front of the room to continue reviewing the patterns in the killings and to discuss the psychological traits and drivers they suspect the killer will have. Derek watches as Hotch and Grey follow you out of the roll call room. Meanwhile, JJ watches Officer Tim Bradford as he manages to conceal his concern but not his interest as he watches you through the glass walls.

“Garcia called with information on the prelim suspects,” you explain. “Someone tapped into the call, and then… whoever it was started manipulating her date on the FBI server. She did say that Carson Gillery alibied out, he was out of state for several of the murders, but whoever this guy is, he is incredibly close to this case.”

“Manipulated the data how?” Hotch asks.

You wring your fingers together as you answer, “He left a message. Garcia thinks it was for me.”

“Left it where?” Grey inquires.

“The seventh victim Mel Houghton’s autopsy report. It was a date and a line from a William Ernest Henley poem.”

“The date?” Hotch presses.

You inhale deeply before saying, “February 18, 2017.”

“The day you lost your position in the LAPD,” Grey remembers. “What does it mean?”

You look toward Hotch, and he shakes his head twice. There isn’t an obvious answer to Grey’s question, but the implication that this case has something to do with you isn’t good.

“He… he also had a picture of my plane ticket to Virginia and added a note, something about ‘thanks for the opening night,’” you add. “Hotch, if you have to take me off this case-“

“We need you,” he interjects. “The literary aspect of this case is progressing.”

“Does that mean we could limit our suspect search?” Wade asks, looking between you and Hotch.

“Not likely,” you reply with a sigh. “Plenty of literature enjoyers can’t be located purely based on that. There’s no evidence he’s educated or active in book clubs, debates, anything.”

“Garcia’s tracing the data changes?” Hotch assumes.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we work what we can until she gets back to us.”

“I need to see the novellas left with the victims,” you request. Hotch begins to speak, and you add, “Not the scans, the actual, physical stories left with their bodies.”

“I’ll get someone to go through the evidence with you,” Wade assures. “Any preference?”

You look into the roll call room through the glass sheeting, your eyes drifting past Tim as you decide, “Officer Chen, please.”

Wade nods once, then returns to the podium inside as Spencer concludes his comments on the psychology of the killer’s modus operandi.

“What are you expecting to find?” Hotch asks you.

“I really wish I knew,” you answer softly. “Hotch, what if this is all my fault?”

“The delusions of a killer have nothing to do with you. If something you did as an officer triggered him to start, there is no reason to assume he wouldn’t have started later. He’s clearly reality-challenged, living in a space between this world and the events of his imagination, and that is not on you.”

You nod, rubbing your forehead as you think. “Literature is clearly important to him. If it comes to it, will you let me go with JJ to a press conference?”

Hotch hesitates, and you know he doesn’t like the idea of putting his team in public view, unless absolutely necessary, but he says, “Fine. Only if it gets that far.”

“Hotch? February 2017 had massive storms. Urban flooding, mudslides, wind, snowfall, there was mayhem that week. I mean, a police chase with a DUI driver, a car fell into a sinkhole. I used some of those cases to…” You trail off, remembering all of the things you did wrong.

“Talk to me,” Hotch encourages.

“Any one of the people who had contact with the LAPD that weekend could have been pushed over the edge. He could have been killing for seven years, since whatever happened, but just got bold and brazen enough to make it public.”

Hotch leaves your side for a moment to wave Spencer out. When he joins you and Hotch in the bullpen, Hotch gestures for you to explain your theory.

“I suppose,” Spencer muses. “The killings have progressed minimally since the first victim three months ago. It does point toward a more practiced unsub, someone who has, in their mind, perfected their method. Yes, it’s completely possible.”

“The books,” Hotch points out. “Those are new. Unsolved cases with novellas or poems shoved down victims’ throats would have caught someone’s attention by now.”

“Serial killers gain experience with each new offense,” Spencer explains. “The learning curve is steep because of the logistics it takes to commit a murder. If he’s been killing without being caught, the thrill of killing would empower him to take more chances. In this case, the trophy aspect of his MO could easily have changed, but his idiosyncratic psychological needs remain the same.”

“We don’t have enough people to comb through seven years of cold cases to find similar killings,” you lament.

“We do have the media,” JJ interjects, sliding her phone into her pocket as she approaches. “It’s a long shot, but if we could find one or two, would it be enough to complete a profile?”

“An estimate of how long he’s been at this, with Garcia’s trace and the analysis of the literature at the scene… Yes, we could establish a firm MO and improve the unsub’s psychological profile.”

“Hold on,” Derek urges into his phone as he joins the rest of your team. He looks at you and says, “Give me your phone.”

You pass it to him, and he flips it in his free hand as he listens. He gives you an apologetic look and then drops it.

“Morgan!” Hotch exclaims as Derek brings the heel of his boot down on your phone screen.

“Unless Penelope told you to do that, I’m going to be very mad,” you say.

“Alright, baby girl, tell us all,” Derek requests as he puts his phone on speaker.

“I found our guy, or his IP address at least,” Penelope says.

“And?” Hotch asks. “Where is he?”

“That’s the thing. He’s in an apartment a few miles from the station.”

You recite your previous address and Penelope murmurs, “That’s the one.”

Penelope explains how she traced his data trail before you interrupt to ask, “Is there anything about another cop in it?”

“Uh, there were some numbers,” she answers.

“34381?” you guess. “And 6147?”

“Amongst others, yeah. Do they mean something to you?”

“One is Officer Bradford’s badge number. The other is Sergeant Kenneth Adamson.”

“I’ll run the rest of the numbers against the LAPD database and get back to you.”

“Are all of our phones in need of stomping?” Spencer asks before Penelope hangs up.

“Not yet,” she replies, and then the line clicks.

“Running everything is going to take too long,” you complain. “He’s probably already targeted his next victim. He could be writing the novella for all we know!”

“His system is organized,” Spencer explains. “We can use that. The past victims have been a week or more apart. Even if he does change his timeline because we’re here, he needs time to plan, write, correct?”

“Yes,” you answer. “He could do it overnight if the circumstances called for it.”

“Assuming he’ll take a break between kills, however…”

“We have two days,” Derek concludes. “Let’s hope he’s not too organized, doc.”

“He’s a criminal,” JJ says. “They all get stupid and forgetful.”

“We don’t change anything. He’s changing the rules, pushing himself, but we’re not playing his game,” Hotch says. “And, for the moment, we keep the LAPD connection to ourselves.”

“What if they could help?” JJ argues.

“No.”

“Act like we have a week, and he won’t expect us to be ready to go,” you say. “In that case, I’ll start analyzing the literature.”

“Speaking of which.” JJ pulls a paper from her bag and says, “The homicide detective said CSI found this on a secondary scene analysis.”

You read the scan of the evidence, and your eyes widen as you look up at Derek. “Good thing you came with. He’s building a bomb.”

“Whoa,” Derek says with little intonation in his voice, but his hands raise as he moves his head in surprise. “Explain the progression from writing stories to bombs.”

“Postmodern literature is the most recent literary movement that contains vulgarity in diction and violence. It’s often used as an authentic portrayal of humanity, depicting violence against gender, race, and the human body,” Spencer answers. “Epic poetry was one of the first storytelling forms to depict interpersonal violence.”

Derek rolls his eyes at Spencer’s reply to the rhetorical question, and you add, “The Victorian literary period was marked by violence through the use of suffering and physical dangers as literary themes. The gothic genre aestheticized the darker elements of human life, explored sexual violence, dramatic monologues, and realistic violence like robbery, beheadings, even serial murders.”

“Which affects us how?” Hotch inquires.

“William Ernest Henley was a prominent figure in the later years of the Victorian movement. He sent lines from Invictus to Garcia, and that piece has been the poem of choice for extremists and terrorists to justify their violence in the last few years. There is some hardship beyond our killer’s control, and this is how he’s dealing with it.”

“Still doubting your hypothesis?” Hotch deadpans.

“Wouldn’t he have to stop all of the suffering somehow?” JJ asks.

“Yes. But he hasn’t decided on an endgame yet, we’ll see the signs of that when it comes. The beginning of a plan for a bomb isn’t concerning yet. For now, we continue as planned, but he will likely strike again in 24 to 48 hours.”

“They’re getting concerned,” Derek whispers, waving toward the roll call room.

“I’ll handle them. You have your assignments,” Hotch states. “We reconvene tonight after end of shift.”

“Yes, sir,” you agree with the rest of your team.

As you return to the roll call room between JJ and Derek, you keep your eyes on the front of the room, ignoring how Tim turns to look at you. Hotch gives an acceptable excuse for your team’s private meeting and then provides tasks with Sergeant Wade.

“What about me?” Lucy asks as the other officers exit into the bullpen.

“You’re with me,” you reply, stepping toward her as you smile. “If that’s okay.”

“Yes!” Lucy cheers. She clears her throat and amends, “Yes, of course, I’d love to help.”

“Keep me updated,” Hotch tells you.

“Yes, sir. Oh, and…” You move your fingers in a scissor motion to remind him of your previous threat before concluding, “Spencer has the information you asked for.”

Hotch nods once, and Wade smiles. Suddenly, you’re hit with the feeling of being torn apart, stuck between the life you wanted and the one you have. When the case is solved, the killer is behind bars, and you’ll have to leave these people again. At least you’ve finally remembered that planes travel both ways.

“Ten victims,” you say as you pin the last picture to the bulletin board in the office you and Lucy have set up. “Six novellas, a book, two pamphlets, and a bloody poem.”

Lucy’s eyes follow the red thread connecting the victims to their evidence and the order of the killings as you stare at the T.S. Eliot poem from the fifth scene with your hands on your hips.

Plus, a William Ernest Henley poem meant to bring me into the killer’s world, you think.

“Ready?” you ask Lucy.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You laugh and invite her to use your first name, then spread the evidence pictures from the first murder on the metal desk. It isn’t the same as reviewing the physical books and poems, the thick paper holding the twisted ideas of a serial killer left warm from the printer beside the lives he claimed for the sake of his own story. It’s the best you can do for now.

“Janice Davis, our first victim. The killer stapled a San Diego Zoo pamphlet to her chest.” You flip through the case file and add, “Antemortem. Ouch.”

“That looks like a building staple,” Lucy muses, leaning over the picture.

“It is. Your forensics lab determined it’s a Powernail galvanized seven-eighths inch crown staple. Intended purpose is woodworking and flooring, and one side of the staple extends out at an angle, so even if she was conscious long enough to try removing it… well, it would’ve hurt more to take it out.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“Unknown,” you read, furrowing your brows. “Manner of death: homicide. But it looks like they couldn’t determine the cause. Any chance ME Daniella Smith is still around?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy confesses. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Sorry, you’re good at this, I keep forgetting you’re a rookie.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever told me.”

You smile, then return to the evidence before you. “The next victim, Gregory Hunter, was found with a copy of Orwell’s Animal Farm open beneath his head. The page, as far as I can tell, is irrelevant.”

“Then what’s the point of leaving it there?”

“Hunter was Davis’s boss, and apparently they had been involved a few years prior to working together. Animal Farm presents Orwell’s ideas on power, equality, socialism and corruption.”

“All things the San Diego Zoo has been accused of abusing throughout history,” Lucy adds. “Along with the animals.”

“Precisely. Then it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that our killer was wronged by a failing class structure, abuse of power and control, inequality, or socialism.”

“That’s a lot of options.”

“Which is why we keep looking. Victim number three had a personalized novella…”

“The method of killing has been consistent with every victim. They’re injured, kept alive for three to twelve hours, and then killed. Janice Davis, victim one, was ruled as undetermined cause of death, but there was no evidence of blunt force trauma, gunshot wounds or poisoning, which we’d expect based on the sudden killings of the others,” Spencer explains.

“You can tune him out,” Derek whispers. “When his voice drops an octave, he’s about to ask a question.”

Tim nods, but he wasn’t listening to begin with. His mind keeps drifting to thoughts of you. He watched you talk to your team, has worked with you, and knows the depth of your talent and potential. Yet he continues to wonder how you truly came to work at such an elite division in the FBI and what you’re hiding.

“Do any of you have experience with crime scene investigation?” Spencer asks.

Several officers raise their hands, including Angela. Tim has guarded scenes and looked around on his own time, but he isn’t sure when his unique skills will be required for this case.

“Morgan,” Hotch calls from the doorway. “Take an officer to gather the literary evidence. Someone with a station ID has to sign it out for us.” He looks towards the front of the room and sighs. “And tell Spencer to wrap it up.”

“Doctor Morgan,” Derek calls as he stands. “Perhaps we should move on to the evidence snapshots and physical profile?”

Spencer nods and shifts his attention to the tools and proposed appearance of the killer.

“I’ve got a station ID,” Tim tells Derek. “If you need that evidence now.”

Derek sighs but waves for Tim to join him. He remains quiet while they walk to the evidence lockers, largely because he’s evaluating Tim. Derek knows about your time in Los Angeles, and even if he did encourage you to talk to Tim, he isn’t sure if Tim deserves your time.

“You were military?” Derek asks as they wait for the evidence to be thoroughly signed out and accounted for.

“Army,” Tim responds. “FBI always the goal for you?”

“Oh, nah, I started as a cop up in Chicago. Things just happened.”

“Seems to be a lot of that,” Tim murmurs, remembering your ‘fell into place’ excuse.

“Why be a TO?”

Tim shrugs. He’s never had a good answer for that question, and if he starts thinking, he might get caught up on his fifth washout.

“Special Agent Morgan,” the evidence officer says as he places a large box on the ledge. “Your supervisor has to sign this form upon evidence return.”

“Got it. Thank you.”

Derek picks up the box and steps back, but the officer places another box behind it. Tim takes it without a word and follows Derek to an office with a closed door.

He taps his foot against the door and calls, “Open up, pretty girl, these muscles are just for show!”

You smile as you open the door, and Tim clenches his jaw at the realization that Derek Morgan just called you ‘pretty girl.’

“I fear you’ve mistaken me for Penelope,” you tell him as you hold the door. “Thank you so much.”

Tim nods as he places the box down, and then looks at the case board.

“Oh, Tim,” Lucy says. “Do you know if ME Daniella Smith is still working?”

“She retired,” Tim replies.

You drop your shoulders and nod. “Thanks.”

“I can get her address and phone number, though,” he offers, partially to help and partially because he hates how disappointed you look.

“That would be amazing!” you reply happily. “Lucy, feel free to go with him, move around for a few minutes.”

Lucy follows Tim, and you close the door to talk to Derek. You explain that the literature points toward class structure, abuse of power, or socialism.

“Maybe he should move to Canada instead of killing then,” Derek muses. “Have you told Hotch?”

“Not yet. There’s also the string of violence in the literature. At first, it was metaphorical violence, a symbolic representation of the dangers of power in society, but it’s gotten more blatant, more Victorian in its realism.”

“The novellas?” he guesses.

“I haven’t gotten to read them in their entirety yet, I’ll start that now, but I’d guess he’s outlining his preferred method of violence as well as the reason.”

“Think it will shed some light on the explosives schematics? Which, by the way, are pretty weak. A bomb like that would be hard pressed to flip a Prius, it wouldn’t do major damage unless it was an incredibly confined space.”

“Ask Spencer what he thinks about the space,” you suggest. “The killings have been in relatively open spaces, but he’d know better than me if it means anything.”

“I’ll run it by him if I can get a word in.”

You laugh at Derek’s joke, but he turns serious again to ask, “Are you okay? I know this can’t be easy for you, working a case here after seven years.”

“I’m okay,” you promise. “I’ll let you know if that changes and I need a Morgan hug.”

Derek smiles as he opens the door, and Tim and Lucy return soon after.

“She lives three miles from here and said she’d talk to you,” Lucy relays.

“Let me tell my team.”

Tim raises a hand to stop you as you gather your things and repeats, “She said she’d talk to you. She recognized your name.”

“Oh.” Hotch walks by the door, and you step out quickly to explain, “I found the ME who couldn’t determine Janice Davis’s cause of death. She’s retired, but lives nearby and agreed to talk to me, but only me.”

Hotch weighs his options, but when he sees Tim behind you, he suggests, “Then you should probably take your TO.”

Your eyes widen in shock, but you trust Hotch, so you nod and step back into the office.

“You don’t have to,” you begin as Tim asks, “Ready?”

You fail to find the right words for several moments, then say, “Lucy, do you want to help Derek Morgan review crime scenes for construction and security?”

“Sure! Let me know if you need more help with this stuff when you get back,” she responds. “Good luck!”

“Thanks,” you say, though you think I’ll need it.

“Do you want to drive or should I?” Tim asks once you’re alone.

You lift keys from your pocket and say, “I will. Do you think Smith will be any help?”

“We can hope.”

“Can I address the elephant in the room?” Sergeant Grey asks.

“Be my guest,” Hotch answers, not looking up from his improved profile.

“Bradford isn’t operating at his usual level.”

“She is.”

“Which is why I think there may be more to his side of the story.”

Hotch looks up to propose, “You think he had something to do with Adamson’s misconduct?”

“No,” Wade assures, “nothing like that. But two days of fire-able offenses and not a single correction from her TO? Bradford either didn’t care that she gave up or, for some reason, he wasn’t in a position to.”

“The corruption we found ran deep. There’s a chance he was hoping to get a piece of the takeaway… or he was in a similar position to her.” Hotch reaches for his phone quickly after he speaks and raises it to his ear. “Garcia, I need you to run the badge numbers again. Tell me how many of them had a direct connection to Keith Adamson.”

“One second,” Penelope requests. “Software’s running it now. Oh, the medical examiner, Smith, she resigned less than an hour after the charges against Adamson came in. Thought that was interesting.”

“That’s one connection.”

“Okay, yep, all ten of the badge numbers embedded in the coding have connections to Adamson. Seven subordinates, his captain, and two IA investigators.”

“Thanks, Garcia.” Hotch ends the call and tells Wade, “Whatever Adamson did, it wasn’t just skimming the evidence pile, it pushed our killer over the edge.”

“I remember Janice Davis,” Daniella Smith says as she passes you a mug of hot tea. “She was young, twenty-six, I believe, and had a construction staple in her sternum.”

“Your official report listed the cause of death as indiscernible,” you reply, wrapping your hands around the mug as your thigh presses against Tim’s on the small settee. “Do you remember if you may have had any hypotheses?”

Daniella sighs as she lowers into a chair across from you. “It was asphyxiation. Her mouth was sealed with superglue, and she couldn't get enough air after a few hours of lying horizontally.”

Tim looks at you before demanding, “Why didn’t you put that in the report?”

“I was scared.”

“And you think the people living here weren’t?”

“Tim,” you whisper harshly. You shake your head as Daniella shrinks in her seat. “Why were you scared, Ms. Harris?” She shakes slightly, and you give her a moment to breathe before you ask, “Did someone at the police station ask you to lie?”

She laughs once, a sad sound before she wipes her nose and corrects, “He threatened me if I didn’t.”

“Who?” Tim asks.

“Sergeant Keith Adamson. He was the watch commander at the time. My career, my life, my marriage, he threatened to ruin it all if I didn’t cover up how she was killed.”

“Was there residue?” you inquire. “From the superglue?”

“There were trace amounts, and the lab was able to identify it easily.”

“It was the only death to be covered up, why do you think that is?”

Daniella looks up quickly, her eyes wide as she states, “Because it was an experiment. The others were killed more conventional, faster: a slit throat, hammer to the temple. Her death would have taken time.”

“Was the time of death in your report accurate?” you ask. “Because it was around the same time as the others even with the changed MO.”

“It was,” she explains, “he must have taken her earlier to get a head start.”

“You said it was an experiment,” Tim repeats. “She was victim number one. If it didn’t go well, wouldn’t the others have just been an improved, or changed, MO?”

Daniella frowns, and you lean forward to ask, “How many more were there?”

Tim slams the passenger door as you return to the car. Daniella disappears from the front window, crying as you start the engine.

“The FBI will charge me if this car gets damaged,” you mumble as you shift into reverse.

“Thirty deaths that she knows of!” Tim exclaims. “How could she cover all of those up?”

“Pretty easily. Self-preservation is a powerful motivator.”

“This monster has been at it for years. You were probably on the job for some of his murders, how can you say that?”

“It’s not my place to judge everyone involved in this case, Tim. Not yours either.”

Tim scoffs, but he’s interrupted by your phone ringing. You answer by saying your last name and Hotch’s voice fills the car as he speaks.

“There’s been another murder,” he says. You slap the steering wheel before he continues, “A double murder. I’m sending you the address. Drop Bradford at the station and meet us there.”

“Yes, sir.”

After the call ends, you grit your teeth to keep yourself from yelling. You spent too much time with the retired ME, and two more people are dead now.

“I’m going with you,” Tim states.

“No, you’re not. You heard him, you’re going back to the station.”

“You need me-“

“Actually, we don’t. We have jurisdiction now, Tim,” you snap.

“Do they know about everything you did your last week on the job?” Tim challenges. “How you ignored calls, put yourself, and me, in danger just to let the clearly guilty criminals go? I mean, you let a guy get away with assault and your handcuffs!”

You don’t reply because your mind begins racing. You had forgotten about that specific incident. Your last two days on the job were a blur, just forty-eight hours you have done everything you could to forget.

“Alexander Riley,” you murmur.

“What?” Tim snaps.

“Nothing, Tim. I’m sorry you’re not happy, but you don’t have authorization to join me, and I’m done breaking the rules.”

“Convenient.”

You hit the brakes too hard as you stop outside the back entrance of the station. Tim slams the door again before he walks inside, and you shift into park to call Derek.

“Are you still at the station?” you ask when he answers.

“We’re about to leave,” he replies. “Did you beat us to the scene? You know speed limits still apply to federal agents, right?”

“No, I’m at the station too. I need you to - without raising suspicion - get Hotch and Sergeant Grey out here.”

“Okay,” he agrees slowly. “Why?”

“Because I think I know who the killer is. Bring the novella from the ninth scene, it’s Heralded Angels.”

“You got it.”

You can hear the strain in Derek’s voice, but there’s too much on your mind to dwell on his reaction right now. After Hotch, JJ, Derek, and Spencer join you in the FBI-issued SUV, you follow Sergeant Grey, driving an unmarked car, to the double murder scene.

“You had something for me?” Grey asks as you approach the townhouse.

“I do. Trust me for a few more minutes and I’ll tell you everything?”

Wade nods, and you enter the bloody living room with your team. JJ waits outside, and as you squat beside a bookcase covered in blood splatter, you know you’re right.

“Alexander Riley,” you announce, pushing against your knees to stand. “I think he’s our killer.”

“Why?” Spencer asks. “Wait, who?”

“Alexander Riley is one of the men I should have arrested my last week as a rookie.” You look toward Wade as you continue, “He assaulted a store owner while looting during a flood, and I let him get away. He ran away with my handcuffs, but I didn’t try to stop him because I was sure Sergeant Adamson would have used it against me.”

“Abuse of power,” Hotch deduces.

“Right, and class system. You know, cop doesn’t do what cop is supposed to do. So, he may have taken his escape as a sign that something needed to change.”

“Based on his killings, I’d agree that he saw a wrong that needed to be fixed, but why murder?” Wade asks. “How does that fit his idea of making things right, evening everything?”

“He chose victims he viewed as outliers,” Spencer explains. “The first two victims were romantically involved, and then she got a job in his company.”

“The fifth victim was a single man with adopted children, and he left a copy of T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Hollow Men,’” you add. “He went after people who didn’t fit into our traditional class system or who benefitted from misused power. And, if that isn’t enough… there’s an extra novella in here.”

“What?” Hotch and Wade say, stepping toward you simultaneously.

“It’s a little bloody, but the words cop, dirty, and corrected system are showing up pretty well. My name’s on the first page, and I’d guess it’s on the last, too.”

“He’s going to target you?” Derek translates. “That’s not okay.”

“We need to find him first,” you reply. “He’s not going to press pause until he can get to me, he thinks he has to fix the entire world.”

“I’ll get a BOLO out,” Wade offers.

“Wait, Sergeant Grey,” Hotch calls. “I think this should come from us.” He turns toward you and adds, “It would mean more from you.”

“I’ll do it. Although, some of those cops aren’t going to like hearing that I had something to do with it.”

“Just send ‘em my way,” Derek jokes.

“Our profile is complete,” you begin, looking at the entire task force. “And we’ve used that profile, along with scene evidence, literary analysis, and previous arrest records to identify Alexander Riley as our killer. Sergeant Grey has posted a BOLO, and we’d like to send you out in patrol teams to assist in the search for Riley.”

Tim has his folder open, and you’re sure he’s reading the incident report filed after you let Riley get away.

“Maybe you should get out there and find him instead of sitting in our station and reading,” he snarks, closing his folder.

“Bradford,” Wade begins.

“No, it’s okay,” you assure. “I will be assisting in the search, and I will admit that my incompetence likely played a role in Mr. Riley’s progression from petty thief to serial killer. However, we have reason to believe he was killing in private long before he felt the need to leave his victims in plain view for Los Angeles and all of America to see.”

“Officer Bradford, he listed you by name in the novella left at Liza Renner’s murder,” Hotch interjects. “Do you know why he may have done that?”

“No idea. Sir.”

“I’d appreciate if you would stay and help review the story to find an idea, then.”

You look between Hotch and Tim quickly, but their icy stares make you look away before you continue explaining what the manhunt entails and how the FBI will assist.

“Be safe out there,” you conclude.

As officers stand and leave, Hotch and Wade walk to Tim’s side, and then all three of them exit through a different exit.

“That was fun,” you mumble to Derek.

“On the bright side, no one has been publicly executed in the US since 1936, so it’s unlikely you’ll be burned at the stake,” Spencer says.

“That is bright,” you respond. “Thanks, Reid.”

An officer asks for your assistance and leads you to an observation room. Your eyes widen when you realize Tim and Hotch are on the other side of the glass in an interview room. Rushing into the room, you’re surprised when Hotch invites you to take a seat. As the door closes, Tim clenches his fists and begins to stand.

“Sit down,” Hotch demands, unmoving as Tim rises from his chair. Tim turns, face-to-face with Hotch. “Sit down,” Hotch repeats, quieter yet firmer.

Tim falls back into his seat and crosses his arms to stare at you.

“You can blame me if you want,” you offer. “But it won’t change anything. Twelve people are dead because of me.”

“Then why is my rookie still patrolling the streets of LA looking for the man your team decided did this? Hotch here covering for you again?” Tim challenges.

“Shut up,” Hotch says as he sits beside you, across the Table from Tim.

“Kenneth Adamson,” you say. “Do you have any idea of what he did?”

“Fired you for taking the easy way out when you decided you didn’t want to be a cop anymore?”

“Intimidated me,” you reply. “Got indicted for it, but it was never made public knowledge because ‘he was facing enough personal and professional issues for the widespread results of his corruption.’ Good excuse, right? Tim, I happened to be the person who put cuffs on Alexander Riley and allowed his delusion to take over. I didn’t mean to turn him into a serial killer, but I still feel like I have blood on my hands.”

“Wait,” Tim requests, raising his hand. “Adamson intimidated you?”

“Yes.”

“You could have told me.”

You scoff, and Hotch raises his brows. “Like you would have believed me,” you reply.

Tim leans across the table, ignoring how Hotch moves closer to you, protective and ready to finish this case.

“He intimidated me too,” Tim confesses. “We should have told each other, but we messed up, and I’m sorry for that. Adamson was going to tell IA about something I did in the Army and twist it to get me fired if I didn’t find a way to get you off the force. Then you suddenly stopped trying and I thought… I guess I didn’t think about it, or I would’ve seen it.”

You look at Hotch, who shrugs. There likely isn’t proof that Adamson did to Tim what he did to you, but you have to make a choice. You can believe Tim Bradford or walk away.

“I caught him stealing evidence,” you say. “Skimming money from scenes before CSI got there, pulling jewelry from robbed houses, little things he didn’t think anyone would miss. When I saw him outright lie to a victim who only wanted her late mother’s locket back, I said something. And he was going to make my life a waking hell for it. So, I did what he asked and threw away my career.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your apologies, Tim. I want you to help me find Alexander Riley and put cuffs on him before he goes after another innocent person, because there is nothing to stop him from progressing to killing cops he sees as corrupt. We kept it from the other officers because of that, so please don’t make me regret trusting you.”

Tim nods and murmurs another apology. You read his lips as he says it, and when Hotch stands, you’re prepared to accept it.

“One more out of line comment and you’re off this task force, Officer Bradford,” Hotch says as he buttons his blazer.

“Yes, sir. I’ll do everything I can to assist you.”

“Do you know why Riley would have used your name as a cursed wanderer in Liza Renner’s novella?” you ask, standing beside Hotch.

“Cursed wanderer?” Tim repeats.

“Remorseful, unabsolved character tormented by their fate and their actions.”

“He must not remember you well,” Hotch tells Tim.

“He’s not a very good writer,” Spencer mutters as he flips the page of one of Alexander Riley’s novellas.

“Maybe we should find a way to charge him for that too,” Derek grumbles. “I mean, ‘Tim Bradford carried the weight of his sins, heavier than the Kevlar on his chest. Each day he was forced to face the memories of how he’d failed his partner, the only woman he may ever love, but would never deserve.’ That’s awful.”

You and Tim turn to face each other quickly, each wondering if you heard what Derek read correctly.

“Derek, does that- when you read it, does it seem like he’s saying his partner is the only woman he’d ever love? Same person?” you ask.

“Yeah. You.”

“That’s what I got too,” JJ agrees. “There’s characters in the third novella that look exactly like the two of you, but they’re married. Doomed by the narrative to watch each other die, but…”

“Are there characters like that in all of them?” Hotch asks.

The sound of papers flipping precedes several firm answers of “Yes.”

“They always die?” you add. “But he doesn’t know. He sees a relationship that isn’t there.”

Tim doesn’t say anything, but you ignore him as you ask JJ to use her laptop. After signing in to your email, you pull up the scans Penelope sent you from the books in your office.

“In the clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeoning of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed,” you read. “Black as the pit from pole to pole.”

“Are you gonna explain it or is this like Jeopardy?” Derek questions.

“He doesn’t portray our characters as corrupt,” you cheer. “We’re unfortunate, ‘doomed by the narrative’ players in a bigger game. I need the newest novella, the extra one from the double homicide scene.”

Wade knocks on the open door as you look through the evidence boxes on the table. He glances between you and Bradford before he asks, “Have any of you heard from Lopez and West?”

“They’re revisiting the last scene,” Hotch says. “They haven’t checked in?”

“Not recently.”

Tim looks at you, and when you meet his eyes, he offers, “We’ll find them.”

“Be careful,” Wade implores. “And keep me updated.”

“Can you do me a favor?” you ask.

“Anything,” JJ and Derek answer together.

“Look for any sign of restoration or avenging. It’ll probably be in the first novella, but I need to know if my character in his story is avenged somehow.”

“Revenge is a psychological response to wounds from others,” Spencer says. “Why would he be motivated to retaliate and justify this level of violence for you, if you’re the one who did wrong?”

“I think he may have changed his motives after Keith Adamson was indicted. If you find something, let me know, if not, Hotch probably has a better idea.”

You follow Tim to an unmarked car and ride in the passenger seat like you’ve pressed play after seven long years of having this part of your life on pause. Somehow, it feels better than before.

Tim's radio crackles as he makes the last turn to reach the crime scene.

“07-Adam-07,” Angela radios. “Sergeant Bradford, contact on channel 3.”

Tim changes the dial to channel 5 as he slows on the curb. You point to the dial, and he raises a thumb to tell you it wasn’t an accident.

“07-Adam-19,” he replies. “Go ahead, Lopez.”

“I think we found something that might be helpful to the detectives. Meet me at the scene and see if you agree?”

“I was already on the way. To tell you the truth, I don’t trust the feds. ETA two minutes.”

Tim returns his radio to the dash and then sits back to wait.

“Don’t trust the feds, huh?” you ask, smiling as he rolls his eyes.

“You really think he realized we were just as aggrieved as him?” Tim asks.

“Big word,” you murmur before dodging Tim’s weak backhand. “Why else would he keep us in the grand story he’s trying to write?”

“You said your character died in the new one.”

“All I saw was my name. I made an assumption without enough evidence. It was stupid.”

“Welcome to the club.”

Your phone buzzes, and you shake your head as you read the message from Penelope. “FBI tech guru Garcia hacked into the house’s security system. She’s got cameras inside. Riley has Lopez and West holed up in the master bathroom. My team and your watch commander are watching, ready to breach if this doesn’t go well.”

“You think it will?”

“I think Derek is going to be very mad after I do something reckless. That’s how it usually goes.”

Tim clears his throat awkwardly, then asks, “Are you and Morgan…?”

“No,” you answer with a laugh. “He’s just one of the many protective men I work with.”

“It’s been a minute and a half,” Tim says, changing the subject and breathing a little easier. “Are you ready?”

“I hope so.”

You exit the passenger seat as Tim pops the trunk. He passes you an LAPD bulletproof vest and a standard-issue belt to help you look more like a cop and less like a fed. After pulling the vest over your head, you struggle to get the belt in place beneath it. Tim gently takes it from you, his hands moving carefully around your waist as he clips the tactical buckle and slides the gun holster to its correct position.

“Thanks,” you whisper as he straightens, mere inches from you.

Tim drops his hands away from your sides but doesn’t move away. “Channel 3 is Lopez’s code,” he explains. “She only uses it when something’s wrong.”

Your phone buzzes again, and you turn away from Tim to answer it. “Hello?”

“Riley is armed,” Hotch says. “He’s got Lopez and West in the master bedroom on the ground floor. They’re uninjured, but he’s fidgety.”

“Did Derek ask Spencer about the bomb?”

“He did,” Spencer replies. Hotch’s phone is likely on speaker, and you turn your phone to allow Tim to hear too. “The bomb schematics were for a very closed-in space… like the townhouse you’re about to go into. It’s not incredibly enclosed, but given that Riley has issues with control, it could be a manifestation of claustrophobia. If his anxiety has caused a fear of enclosed spaces, based on the fear of losing control in those spaces, then he may be attempting to overcome that by giving himself power in the situation.”

“Could he be a cleithrophobe?” Tim wonders.

“What is that?” Derek asks, and you can imagine him looking around Wade’s office.

“I haven’t seen evidence of it,” Spencer answers. “He doesn’t seem to mind being closed in; the murders in the townhouse didn’t seem to affect him, but he is clearly concerned with power, control, and the hierarchy of those. It relates more to claustrophobia. Though I wouldn’t advise locking any doors to test it.”

You hang up suddenly and gesture to the townhouse. Tim looks up in time to see the curtain in an upstairs room fall back into place. He takes the lead, walking to the door with purpose and his hand on his gun. You follow him and look around the front porch for any sign that Riley is planning to kill anyone today.

Tim pushes the door open carefully, nodding to tell you it is unlocked before Angela calls his name. The novella with your name in it is still by the bookcase, and you remove it from the evidence bag and slide it under your vest. You trade places with Tim, going up the stairs first as he covers you. At the top of the landing, Alexander Riley steps out into the hallway with a gun strapped around his shoulders.

“You made it,” he says.

“We’re here to help, Riley,” you explain softly, holding your hands where he can see them. “You know that.”

He nods before jerking his head toward the doorway. You walk past him and stop in the center of the bedroom, scanning Angela and Jackson for any wounds. Luckily, they appear to be fine other than the handcuffs secured around their wrists.

“What’s the plan here?” Tim asks. “Not much room for error, Mr. Riley.”

“Give me your gun,” Alexander replies, holding his rifle with one hand as he extends the other toward Tim.

Tim complies, but his glance at you is a clear communication to not surrender your FBI-issued piece.

“Against the wall,” Alexander tells Tim. “You’re right, there isn’t room for error. But I’m prepared. I’ve been preparing since I lost everything.”

Tim sits against the wall, less than a foot from Angela. Alexander turns toward you, and his gaze softens. You were right, it seems. Alexander Riley has a soft spot for you; he thinks you’re like him, wronged by corruption and abused power, and you’re going to work that soft spot until he’s in cuffs.

“Take your vest off,” he requests. “Please.”

You don’t move but look pointedly at his gun before raising your eyes to his face.

“I won’t hurt you.”

Despite your instinct to refuse, to call in the cavalry and help Tim incapacitate the killer before you, there is too much at stake, and the longer you’re compliant, the longer Riley will keep everyone alive. So, you pull the vest over your head, not bothering to catch the novella as it falls to the floor, the blood on the cover contrasting the neutral carpet below your feet.

Back at the station, Hotch clenches his jaw as you open yourself to Riley, and Derek says, “Don’t do it… I might kill her for that.”

“You wrote it, right?” you ask, gesturing toward the stapled manuscript. “You wrote all of them.”

Riley fidgets, then nods.

You step toward him, keeping your expression soft and conveying understanding as you add, “I read some of them. They’re good, Alex. Can I call you Alex, or do you go by something else?”

“Alex is fine,” he replies, whispering your name under his breath like a prayer.

Tim shifts as Alexander’s attention changes slightly, morphing from a fierce protector into someone who wants to be by your side after you’ve been saved. You don’t spare a glance toward Tim, and for a brief moment, he wonders where you learned to do this. Then reality crashes back in like a wave that knocks Tim off his feet, the reminder that he could have taught you if he hadn’t let Keith Adamson get to him.

“In Brightest Day, you wrote a character who was a young cop, naïve and desperate to do the best thing,” you continue. “Who was she?”

“You know who,” Alex mutters.

You smile and ask, “Was I in all of them?”

“Of course.”

“That’s why you went to my old apartment before you sent the message to my friend in the FBI? Because I’m part of this? No, because you’re improving the character, right?”

“You were so far away,” he whispers.

“Alex, did you learn how to code just to talk to me?” you inquire softly.

He nods, then looks to the novella at your feet. The toes of your boots are inches from the paper, and his mouth twitches like he wants you away from it.

“Kick it,” he demands.

“Why? It’s art, it’s part of your soul,” you argue.

“Kick it.”

Tim nods in your peripheral, and you swallow before kicking it toward the door. Alex doesn’t hesitate to shoot the paper. You turn away from the noise, covering your ears even though it’s too late to keep your head from pounding. As the noise fades and your hearing returns, you see the shredded paper surrounding the hole in the floor.

“How does the story end, Alex?” you ask, stepping toward him again. “Are you like the truck drivers in Animal Farm? The cursed wanderer in Render Down you wrote for Liza? Or are you some new character that only cares about usurping the power for yourself?”

“It was never about me!” he replies, louder than you’ve heard him before. He softens his voice to repeat, “Never.”

“She was mine first,” Tim interjects suddenly.

Alex spins on his heel, the barrel of his rifle rising as he faces Tim. You shake your head wildly, desperate to stop him from saying something that will make Alex pull the trigger again. Angela looks down quickly, and you see her gun beneath the bed. As Alex’s chest heaves, his eyes locked unblinking on Tim’s, you move closer to the weapon, to Alex, and to freedom where you all walk out of here alive.

“I was saving her!” Alex roars. “From corruption, from Adamson, from you!”

“Adamson is the only one who hurt her,” Tim argues.

“February 17, 2017. You took your rookie to a noise disturbance call, and when you got there, four stupid young men were looting a flooded store during a break in the storms. She handcuffed one of them, but the rest ran. Then… then you started yelling at her, blaming her for all of it. While you were busy berating her, the other man ran with the handcuffs. I got away, but the power, the corruption, the greed was all getting to be too much. We hurt the owner because she was too worried about not getting insurance money for the water damage to empty out the register.”

“Something changed,” you say from beside Riley.

He doesn’t move away from Tim but stops talking to listen.

“In the first novella, it was you and me, wasn’t it? You wanted to make a new world together, save me from the love you thought would corrupt me.”

“Adamson used you too,” Alex tells Tim. “I made room for you to come with us and this is how you repay me? Chasing me for making things better. You’re back where you started.”

“Maybe now isn’t the time to act,” Jackson West says. “What if the world could’ve healed on its own and the people you killed might have helped?”

“Fool! They’ve gotten to you, too.”

As Alex’s finger slides onto the trigger, he turns toward Jackson. You don’t hesitate to lunge forward, closing the distance between yourself and Alexander. While you tackle him to the floor, he squeezes the trigger, and the shot rings through the now-silent townhouse and seems to echo for hours as your team watches in horror.

Tim pulls the handcuff key from his belt and passes it to Angela before he crawls on his hands and knees to reach you.

“I hope somebody got scans of that novella before he shot it,” you groan as you sit up.

Tim sighs, taking your face in his hands as he wipes blood from your temple.

“Is his writing really that good?” Jackson asks as he stands.

“It’s a little preachy,” you reply with a smile.

Your phone rings, and you swipe the screen to answer, then immediately hang up.

“That was your boss,” Tim points out.

“He can yell at me when he gets here.”

“Alexander Riley has been charged in the deaths of twelve Los Angeles residents,” JJ says at the press conference the morning after your encounter with Alex. “His victims include Janice Davis, Gregory Hunter, Bryce Keller, Hank Sheller, Peter Bristol, Liza Renner, Mel Houghton, Destiny Crest, Angelica Thomson, Alissa Alvarez, and Jack and Cassidy Wilson. Nearly three dozen cold cases are now being reopened, and the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit supports the LAPD’s claim that Riley could have committed these crimes as well. I’ll welcome any questions at this time.”

You scrunch your nose from the side, resisting the urge to remove the bandage on your forehead. Tim stands beside you, watching you.

Tim notices that the bandage is loose but doesn’t move before Hotch warns, “Don’t do anything in the public view that you don’t want to get out and give Riley a chance at walking.”

When the conference ends, Derek sighs and walks past Hotch to return to the hotel and pack. As he approaches you, he smiles and says, “And you didn’t want to come because I can’t help, and LA is too sunny.”

You try to punch Derek for his poor impression of you but miss as he breaks into a jog. Shaking your head, you turn to Tim and prepare a joke about how you don’t sound like that. Tim’s serious expression stops you, though.

“You didn’t think you could help?” he asks. “You were going to be an amazing cop, and I regret playing a part in taking that opportunity from you.”

You shrug and respond, “I like the FBI, and I got to tackle a murderer, so it all worked out.”

“Yeah,” Lucy interrupts, walking to your side. “But now you have to go back to Virginia.”

“Thank you,” Wade says, stopping at your side. “Come back soon, okay?”

You smile as he hands you a paper. As you read it, you sigh, then shove it into your pocket. The email came in this morning telling all active FBI agents about the new tactical unit, one which will work closely with the BAU. They’re actively recruiting, but if you tell Tim, you’re asking him to choose between you and the job again, and you can’t do that to him. Asking Tim to leave LA would be cruel, you think, so you force a smile onto your face.

“Thank you for everything,” you tell him. “Especially the part where you saved my life and the apology. I’ll try not to stay gone so long this time.”

Tim nods, and you smile at Lucy before following your team. He watches you walk away, ignores Lucy’s encouragement for him to chase you, and waits until you leave to whisper what he wants to say. But Tim lost his chance again. Worse, he lost you again.

Two Weeks Later

“Which one of you wants to die first?” the armed suspect asks, swinging his curved meat hook between you and Spencer.

“Probably you, right?” you whisper. “You know, my blood’ll be on it if he kills me first.”

“The mean value of Staphylococcus aureus in raw meat is 3.84 in a butcher shop,” Spencer replies. “I don’t know where that thing has been. At least your blood has been relatively well contained. And any amount of water on that thing increases the number of bacterial specimens transferred from the meat surface.”

The metal door of the meat locker blows open suddenly, and when the butcher before you turns to see what caused the noise, two men in tactical uniforms subdue him and confiscate the meat hook. Spencer rushes out of the facility, and you watch as the new FBI team takes your suspect into custody.

“I could have done that,” you complain.

“Sure you could, boot,” one of the men says, his voice muffled by the helmet.

You look toward him with your eyebrows raised. He takes his helmet off, and your jaw drops. Tim Bradford.

Smiling, you step toward him with questions racing in your mind, but he extends a gloved hand, holding it against your waist to stop you as he whispers, “Morgan has cameras everywhere.”

As you walk into the BAU bullpen together, Hotch looks up from a paper. He looks at you, then Tim, then back to you, and smiles. With wide eyes, you hide behind Tim’s shoulder, unsure what a Hotch smile could mean in this particular circumstance.

“We’re wheels up to Los Angeles in forty-five,” Hotch says.

“Why?” you ask, stepping out from behind Tim.

“There’s a domestic terrorist leaving Shakespeare at foreign-owned businesses hours before they’re bombed or become mass murder scenes.”

You nod, but before you can speak, Derek calls, “Bring Bradford! We could use the Army experience.”

Hotch narrows his eyes at Tim, then shrugs and agrees.

“Good, good,” you mumble, wrapping your hands around Tim’s arms. “I’ll show him the ropes then and we’ll be back in thirty.”

“Please do.”

You quickly forget the ropes as you drag Tim into Penelope’s empty office. He smiles and prepares to ask what this has to do with terrorism, but you slide your hands onto his jaw and kiss Tim. Finally. Tim's hands meet your waist, and he pulls you closer as he kisses you, both of you melting into one another and getting lost in the moment you’ve waited so long for. When you pull back, Tim keeps you close, smiling like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time, though he’s known your heart and potential for nearly a decade.

A quiet gasp draws your attention, and you both look to the door as Penelope says, “I’m telling Chocolate Thunder!”

[criminal-mindsincorrect]

Therapist, on a meeting with Reid : And what do we do when we are sad ?

Reid : Get a new PhD.

Therapist : No-

Morgan : Flirt with cute girls.

Therapist : ...What ? Wait, where did you come from ?

Garcia : Buy way too much cute stuff to forget.

Hotch : Work way too much.

Rossi : Hyper focus and be paranoid about killers.

Therapist, clearly not ready for this, or for people popping out of nowhere : Wait-

Emily : Fake death while getting high.

JJ : Close up and be completely silent.

Therapist :

Therapist, throwing their files on the ground : ...Nope. I quit.

[venusbyline]

Reddish ࿐ྂ Kinktober. 11, oct.

— pairing: Emily Prentiss x girlfriend!reader x Jennifer "JJ" Jareau

— type: smut, Kinktober (Criminal Minds Edition)

— kink: threesome FFF

— summary: You and JJ accidentally woke up Emily during the night and both of you have to apologize to her properly.

— word count: 2.1k

— tags/warnings: kinktober 11th day, female!reader, Jemily!married couple, threesome (female/female/female), throuple, scissoring/tribadism, fingering, oral (female receiving), overstimulation, face-sitting, praise kink, light degradation, squirting, hair-pulling, finger sucking, nipple play, breast worship, butt worship, curse words, argument, safeword (no use), age gap (older women/younger woman), mommy kink, voyeurism, grumpy x sunshine x sunshine, canon divergence, Mistress!Prentiss, Mommy!JJ, dom!Prentiss, switch!JJ, sub!reader. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— tagging list: @thatredlipped-classic @purplehaze206 @ehedrick012110 @hotchsmutrecs @slutcakes00 @emma-e-a @helo1281917

— crossposting: AO3

Emily was sleeping soundly after a stressful case. Her body tense under the covers, her sleep disturbed with random nightmares. Random victims. Random Unsubs. Anything that was bizarre enough for a BAU agent.

She was trying to hold on to her sleep despite the macabre dreams. Bad sleep was still better than nothing. A peaceful night was a gift she had not felt in a long time, and she did not plan on letting it go.

At least not until she heard the soft moans that sounded from the other bed in the hotel room.

Emily huffed, turning to her side and placing the pillow over her face with a failed attempt to remain focused on simply lying down and sleeping. She was not in the mood to listen to you and JJ having fun when she was so tense, when her body was disturbing her due so much stress.

As selfish as it was, Emily wanted the two of you to just shut up so she could go back to sleep, which was impossible when she started hearing the slick sounds of your pussy rubbing together with JJ's. "You guys are so fucking annoying, you know that?" The older agent grunted, gripping the pillow tighter, finding it increasingly impossible to muffle the sounds when the other two women seemed so focused on climaxing.

"S-sorry, Mistress..." You managed to whimper, feeling a little bad for waking Emily, but your hands remained on JJ's hips as the blonde spread her legs a little wider to have more flexibility to move herself.

Taking a deep breath, Emily removed the pillow from her face and turned to look at both of you, having a perfect view of JJ smirking to her while holding your leg open, her breasts bouncing as she moved. Emily could not observe you very clearly in that position, but she knew you were lying down and also naked, your hands grabbing JJ's hips and encouraging her to go faster. "You're being too soft on her. I bet she was the one who woke you up just because she couldn't sleep." Emily declared to JJ, who let out a little chuckle, knowing that her wife was right.

"Oh, you know our little girl... always so needy." JJ purred, stopping moving and watching your eyes widen at the break in expectation. You were so close to cum and she just denied you that out of nowhere.

"NO!" You sobbed, trying to rub against her but not being able to get it right underneath her. "Please, Mommy! Please!"

JJ reassured you, stroking the top of your head as she got off of you, your swollen and soaked pussy being quite a sight. She knew how much you needed that orgasm, but she also knew that annoying Emily was not very smart. "You already came once this night, little girl."

Emily rolled her eyes when you whimpered at JJ's argument. "A greedy whore." She grumbled, sitting on the bed and crossing her arms. "You're spoiling her too much. That's why she's like that. Always like a bitch in heat." She did not seem to mind when you lifted your head back, a sad pout on your reddened lips. "Don't give me that look. I was trying to sleep and you woke me up with your pathetic moans."

JJ watched the slight argument between his wife and their girlfriend with some amusement. The blonde stroked your hair for a moment longer before looking at Emily. "You're tense." She argued and Emily snorted, but remained silent, looking away at the room windows. "Now that you're awake, maybe we both should apologize to you for disturbing your sleep."

An excited look appeared on your face as Emily raised an eyebrow, considering the situation for a few seconds before sighing, patting the bed. "Okay, come here."

You got up from JJ's bed quickly, making the blonde laugh as you approached Emily's bed, your body naked, cheeks flushed and hair disheveled. Not even Emily could hide her smile as she caressed your face when you sat down in front of her.

You leaned closer to her hand, pouting sadly when she let go of your face and gestured for JJ to come closer, which her wife did without blinking. When the two of you were already sitting in front of Emily. She pulled JJ by her long hair, grabbing the blonde strands tightly and bringing her wife's lips to hers. You watched it all, rubbing your thighs together as Emily used her other hand to press JJ's breast, the soft skin squeezing and leaving a brief palm-shaped rosy mark.

When Emily left the blonde to look at her again, you let out a sigh when you saw the thread of saliva that connected their lips. "You ate her out." Emily tsked at JJ when she noticed your pussy's taste during the kiss, then turned to you. "Is that how you came the first time, little girl? With Jennifer's pretty lips on that greedy little pussy of yours?"

She said with a mocking tone and you nodded pathetically, opening your legs so the two women could get a view of your pussy, your own fingers beginning to trace circles on your clit to tease Emily further.

"Spoiled cunt..." She growled, hearing your giggle as she grabbed you by the hair too, before ordering. "I want you to eat me out while I taste Jennifer." She warned beforehand and you nodded in anticipation. You do not worry about the possibility of not cumming for the second time that night. You knew Emily too well to know that even if she was annoyed that you had disturbed her sleep, she was not going to deny you an extra orgasm. Emily Prentiss was not as heartless as she pretended to be.

You settled between her legs, pulling her pajama down, smirking at both the lack of panties and the sight of her dark pubic hair glistening with her arousal. Emily lay down and straightened up better, spreading her legs so you could be more comfortable, while JJ stayed next to her for a while, taking off Emily's shirt and kissing her lips for the second time.

You smiled when JJ's fingers connected with Emily's nipples, her breasts fuller than JJ's but with less pointed nipples. When Emily moaned as soon as JJ started caressing her soft mounds, you took that as good encouragement to begin your task. You left soft kisses on Emily's thighs, her skin shivering due the contrast of your mouth on her thigh and the rougher way JJ caressed her.

"Be a good girl and don't tease me..." Emily scolded you with a sigh, grabbing your hair once again so you could get closer to her already wet pussy.

"Did you get horny like that just listening to us scissoring?" You teased, earning a low growl from Emily and a giggle from JJ.

"Don't tease our Mistress." The blonde said, leaning down enough so she could take Emily's pink nipple into her mouth, licking it and looking at her with amused eyes as the older woman sighed with pleasure.

Your tongue teased Emily's wet folds, savoring the sweet taste of her juices that were dripping while JJ sucked Emily's breasts, her face buried there like a starving woman. You ran your lips through the dark hairs, licking up the drippings there before returning to the folds, now focusing on her clit. The little bud was already so swollen that Emily moaned loudly when your lips closed around it, sucking lightly. "Holy shit..." She arched her back upwards, growling when JJ took the opportunity to nibble on her sensitive breast. “You fucking whore.” Emily gripped JJ's long blonde hair, and you watched JJ's teasing actions weaken while you sucked Emily's clit.

"Sorry, Mistress." She whispered hushedly, her mouth now kissing Emily's collarbone apologetically, a more submissive version that only Emily could get out of her.

Instead of answer to her first, Emily turned to you, stroking your hair as you batted your eyelashes, your little mouth now reddish from sucking her clit. "Use your fingers, princess."

The soft pet name made you smile and nodded, resting your lips for a few moments and using your thumb to apply gentle circles there. Emily bit her lip, and played with your hair as if you were her loyal puppy. "Good girl..." She whispered, sticking her fingers inside your mouth so you could close your eyes and suck them for a few minutes, but without losing focus on your goal. With your thumb still rubbing her clit, you stuck two fingers inside Emily's hole, not daring to go gently, because you knew how much she liked rough sex.

"Damn, little girl... You're so good for me..." Emily moaned, looking at JJ with a little smirk. "Come here..."

JJ returned the smirk and adjusted herself into the necessary position, each of her legs on one side of Emily's head before slowly lowering herself down, a loud sigh escaping when Emily wasted no time and began licking her pink pussy, the nails painted red squeezing and scratching the blonde's breasts.

Unlike you, JJ had not cum yet, but her core was already wet and sensitive from rubbing against yours before Emily woke up. Despite not having reached any orgasm, JJ was stimulated enough that Emily's licks made her start to moan loudly, her hips riding faster, the tip of her wife's nose causing a delightful friction on her clit.

Without stopping the moves of two fingers inside Emily, you lowered yourself to taste her again, enjoying her moans muffled by JJ's pussy. It was quite a sight. From where you were positioned, you could see JJ sitting on Emily's face, her beautiful ass wiggling on top of the brunette.

You held yourself back from squeezing JJ's buttocks, and instead you chose to increase the speed of your hand, the fingering becoming so fast that Emily had to take her mouth off her wife's clit for a few seconds to moan loudly, her walls tightening your fingers before she cums hard while you sucked her bud too.

Not waiting for Emily to recover from her orgasm, you continued tasting her juices, just as JJ pulled her hair to bring her face back between her legs. Emily was a little bewildered by the situation. An orgasm by itself would not make her so exhausted, but she had only recently woken up, so her view was still blurry when she let you and JJ use her practically like a sex doll, the blonde rubbing her own pussy on Emily's face without much care and you fingerfucking her pussy and licked up her release that continued to flow.

Emily would definitely think about a severe punishment for you two later, but at that moment she allowed her girls to do whatever you want. When she noticed that JJ's moans were starting to get louder and her ride started to lose rhythm, Emily gently slapped you on the head, which left you a little confused at the moment, worried that she was trying to signal the safeword, but your fear went away when she raised one knee, the habitual position made you sigh in relief and you placed a soft kiss on her leg before fitting yourself there, your wet pussy meeting hers sensitive and almost sore.

You knew Emily was already very overstimulated, so your movements were gentler, rubbing against her gently and whining, one of your hands holding her hip and the other squeezing your own breasts. It did not take long for JJ to moan Emily's name and cum, squirting on her wife's face and making you cum right away after that view.

Just as you scissoring your clit against Emily's again to prolong your new recently reached orgasm, JJ also pushed her luck, rubbing her soaked pussy all over the brunette's face, panting and laying down next to her right after.

You sighed by the overstimulation and got off of Emily, seeing her cheeks flushed and wet from JJ's squirt and also seeing how reddish her pussy was now. You placed a soft kiss there that made her shiver. "That's enough, princess." JJ scolded you and stroked Emily's damp hair, making you pouted sadly, but nodding and lying down on Emily's other side.

"Thanks, Mommy. Thanks, Mistress." You whispered to both of them, placing a soft kiss on Emily's lips, which she responded with a weak tired smile. "You want me to draw us a bath?"

Emily slowly shook her head, stroking your hair. "Don't. Right now I just wanna rest and sleep next to my two favorite girls." She smiled at you and then at JJ, letting each of you settle in next to her, the smell of sex filling the hotel room, even though neither of you cared. JJ placed Emily's head on her own chest, caressing her black hair and you hugged the brunette's waist, head resting on her shoulder until the three of you fell asleep.

Criminal Minds Edition - Masterlist

HOTD Edition - Masterlist

Venusbyline's Kinktober 2024 - Masterlist

[thir10th]

Emily, screaming at a couple of guys who just got beaten at darts by JJ: YEAH! THAT’S MY GIRLFRIEND YOU SUCKERS!!

JJ: your wife, Emily

Emily: MY WIFE! EVEN BETTER

[dalamjisung]

A muted shade of green ✧ Chapter 2: He's not yours to keep

genre: more angst than fluff, but I swear fluff is coming up next!

word count: 5562

pairing: reader x spencer reid

description: you are trying to make sense of all this mess, but it's time to learn that, sometimes, things are just messy and chaotic and you have to learn to look for the silver linings.

a muted shade of green masterlist

previous chapter // next chapter

author's note: I am absolutely over the moon with the response I've gotten on this series and I'm really thankful for all the love and support <3 if you want to join the taglist for this series, please let me know in the comments!

You don’t usually dream. 

Well, actually, if you tell Spencer that, he will say that you’re wrong– you do dream, you just don’t remember it. It’s common, not really recalling the scenes your brain conjure, Spencer would say; it can be due to a series of factors including high levels of stress and poor sleep. He would then tell you to stay home for a day, read a good book, and drink one of his fancy teas Penelope got for him a long time ago. 

But the thing is, Spencer can’t really tell you any of it. 

Not when you seem to be avoiding him even inside his own home. 

It starts after you wake up still in his armchair, feeling exhausted and disgustingly sticky, you finally have a couple of moments to yourself. Spencer is still sleeping, and you’re actually surprised to see him stretched out on the couch– his tie is throw on his coffee table, the purple colour suddenly too bright in the dim apartment, but otherwise, still wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday. You don’t understand why he didn’t change into pyjamas, but then again, you don’t understand much of anything right now. 

So you go through the facts. 

One by one, you list them in your mind– and little by little it dawns on you just how bad this really is. It’s hard, conceptualising that this is reality; that you really do have a psychopath targeting you. It’s the kind of thing that you only saw in those TV shows you loved to binge on late night, the kind of thing you read on the newspaper, happening to other people, but never really you. Except, it is happening to you, and you are not sure what to do next. Do you just sit and wait for her to make a move? Do you continue to live your life normally? How? How are you supposed to ignore the fact that a, as Agent Hotchner had described her, ‘prolific serial killer’ might know who are?

“Oh my god,” You whisper to yourself, head falling in your hands. The watch on your wrist, an old, analogue thing your mom had given you before you left New York, is pointing to a time you would never have been awake before. 5:23 in the morning. The sun is not even up yet and you have hours before you have to open the store, but then again, you have to clean the mess that was left behind due to your rushed departure from it. You wince, disgusted at the thought of having to clean old vomit from the floor, and disgusted with the bitter taste it left behind. Right now, you are a shell of a human being and you need to get yourself back together. 

You follow a familiar routine of recovery. It’s something you’ve done before and something you will surely have to do again, and it all starts with a simple list. 

Firstly, you need to get up. You need to stretch your legs, throw them to the side, and stand. You need to walk, remind your self that you can still make your own path even if it’s only to the bathroom down the hall. 

Then, you need to brush your teeth. The bitter taste stuck to your mouth makes you wince with memories that you want to bury. 

Showering would be your third step, but this is not your home. This is not your space, and these are not your things. 

A pettier side of you, one that is bothered and angry and irritated in a superficial level, wants to march back out to the living room, as loudly as you can, and shake Spencer away. You want to wake him up at the crack of dawn and make him share your torment, because in some level, even if you try to push against it, you blame him. Deep inside, you know that there is a big difference between the two– between blaming him and it being his fault. One is purposeful, conscious; it’s a decision you take and lay on his head. If you blame him, you commit yourself to hate him. The latter, however, is a fact. It’s irrefutable and immutable as the fact that you need air to live. It is his fault, but it was not his goal. 

“He didn’t mean it, but it’s still his fault,” You whisper to yourself, pushing yourself off the sink to try and figure out his shower. It is his house, that’s a fact. But you also deserve a nice, warm shower, and that is another fact. He pushed you to come stay with him, so you need to also push yourself to feel comfortable in this space that feels so foreign to your senses. “He didn’t mean it, but it’s still his fault.”

The words become your mantra. He didn’t mean it, but it’s still his fault. Somewhere in you, you know you have what it takes to forgive, but you just don’t have what it’s needed to forget. By repeating those words, you allow your brain to slowly process this situation as what it is– something that happened because of him, but not by him. As much as you want someone to blame, someone to scream at, Spencer Reid just isn’t that person. 

It takes you a moment to realise you don’t really have a towel or any of your products here, and using Spencer’s shampoo just feels… odd. Like an invasion of his space almost. “Oh thank god for you, Spencer,” You sighed, happy to see the pairing of shampoo and conditioner sitting perfectly on the corner. His hair had been one of the first things you noticed about him, all chestnut and shaggy and longish, but you are aware that not every man knows the basic of self-care. There is something about the way his smell takes over the bathroom, floating with the evaporation of the warm water hitting your skin, makes you smile. You feel closer to Spencer than you’ve ever been, and that is when your sense of danger hits. Your heart starts speeding, and your breathing is suddenly really shallow, and you’re trying to come out of the shower, to breathe in cold air, but all you get is humid mist and you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe at all, you can’t–

“Spencer!” You gasp, eyes wide in desperation once your legs feel like they might just give out. Scrambling to hold yourself up, your hands knock over some things in the counter, making more noise on top of the running shower. “SPENCER!” 

“What? What? What– oh my god,” The door slams against the wall and back, almost hitting him on the side when he crouched down next to your naked, curled up body. It’s quite unnatural for you to witness, him jumping into action so fast, like he is trained to make these decisions in a split second. But then you remember that he actually is trained to make these quick choices– like grabbing the towel before anything else, covering you without a single quip about your nakedness; like sitting you up and putting your back against the wall; like turning off the shower and sitting back down right next to you, breathing deeply and loudly. It’s unconscious, how you let your breathing fall in line with his, and it takes a moment to realise he’s doing this on purpose. “Y/N, are you okay?” 

“No,” You whisper, shaking from either the cold or the nerves or both. There are goosebumps all over your legs, the towel not covering you much from the top of your thighs down. “Spencer, I’m not okay. I’m… Until yesterday, you were just the adorable guy who shared my love for books. Y-You’d come into the store smiling and we’d talk and talk and– and now I have a serial killer possibly tracking me. How am I supposed to be okay? I’m so scared… oh god, I’m so scared, Spencer…” The one thing you are proud, amidst your utter embarrassment, is that you are not crying anymore. You still sound a bit rough, throat tired and hurting, and there is no energy left in you and he can hear that, you know he can, because when your voice echoes in the silent bathroom, kicking from wall to wall, you hear it too– the exhaustion and the numbness and the emptiness left behind. 

“I-I’m still that guy,” He stutters, head falling down in shame but voice still twinged with something resembling hope. “I love books. I love talking to you about books, I love going to your store first thing in the morning. I’m still this guy, I just… I just happen to work for the FBI.”

“Yeah, but I… I think that after having my life turned upside down because of a serial killer who has a crush on you, I’m just not that same girl.”

That is the last time you talk to him that day.

—————————————

Actually, that was the last time you talked to him that entire week. 

After he dropped you at the store that day and you were forced to face the embarrassing remnants of your lowest moment in life, moping old vomit from the floor, that feeling of turmoil in your chest died down. It settled. And it hardened. 

He tried making conversation on the walk back to his, but you’re clearly not up for it, so his voice slowed down, getting lower and lower, until it stopped altogether. This time, you shower before bed and make a beeline to the armchair again, letting Spencer’s begs and pleas for you to sleep on the bed fall in deft ears.

For five days, you two don’t talk. 

It’s a dance of chaos, how you step around each other at the apartment, and seeing him biting his words back or catching a glimpse of the bags under his eyes makes you feel guilty; of course it does. But you know that you can’t help him right now. Even if you were to forgive him, to force your mercy onto the situation, it wouldn’t be genuine. It would give him a false sense of relief while you’d forever be uncomfortable next to him, and you don’t want that. You don’t want to feel on edge next to Spencer, you don’t want to feel nauseous and scared when you’re with him. You want to talk about books and coffee and favourite places to order take out from. Instead, all you get to do is talk about her.

It would be a lie to say you don’t feel slightly jealous with the way that his mind seems to be so wrapped around Cat Adams. The imposed talking ban is hard on you both, that much you know, but the more Spencer let it happen, the more he let it stretch out and continue, the more you feel like maybe he doesn’t care that much. Maybe what is hard for him is the awkward tension trapped in his own apartment, rather than the pain of seeing each other so close yet not being able to laugh like you used to. And you know– you know how ridiculous your thought are, how childish you’re acting, but you can’t really blame yourself for being so on edge lately, not when your emotions are so zip and zapping through your body like thunder and lightening. 

There are exceptions, though. In this case three exceptions, three moments in a day in which he brakes the ban, and you, for once, allow yourself some weakness. 

“Good morning,” Is moment one. He says that every day, when he blinks himself awake on the couch. Ever since you’ve been there, a total of six days now, Spencer has slept on the couch, right next to the armchair you’ve claimed as your own. For these, you meet his eyes and nod, as if saying same to you.

Breakfast is quiet. He makes coffee and you make eggs, because despite you being there under forced circumstances, you are not going to be ungrateful and so you pay him back by getting groceries and cooking most meals. Which leads you to exception number two– the moment when he drops you at the bookstore.

You two walk there at 8 and he’s gone by 8:07, giving you enough time to mumble a “Be safe,” and give him his lunch for the day. He tried telling you that you didn’t have to cook for him, but you don’t really listen. As pathetic as it seems, this is the one way you’ve found to keep what you two had before, alive. 

The third exception is the one that truly breaks your heart, again and again. It’s when he gets home, and he looks exhausted, and his hands fidget with the files he holds close to his chest. You are the first thing he looks for, and you almost melt at the way his shoulders visibly relax when he spots you– always ready for bed, always in the armchair. He stopped trying to come get you at the bookstore at night once you’ve agreed to let the officers walk you home. The spare key he added to your keychain should hold a bigger meaning than it does, though it feels like it does hold a bigger weight. A means to an end, you tell yourself every time you unlock his front door. This is just a means to an end. “Thank you,” he will then say, before he even moves to the kitchen to see whatever it was on the plate you had made and set in the microwave for him. “And good night.” By then, you’re already semi-asleep and you don’t really say anything. 

You never thought you would miss these forbidden exceptions when they’re gone. 

You know that travel is a big part of Spencer’s job, but with all that is going on, you never really considered the fact that he might need to leave for a few days. At least not until he calls you, right before you lock the store. The irregularity of it all has you scrambling to pick it up. “Spencer?” You barely whisper, voice cracking in half as little by little, you freeze up. The sensation is like ice running through your veins, burning it’s way to your heart until it makes it stop. “Spencer? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” He quickly answers, voice rushed in a way that makes you relax. He always talks fast and you find it incredibly endearing, even during these times apart. “I’m okay, it’s okay. I’m calling because we got a case.”

“Uh, okay?”

“Y/N, that means they need us in Ohio. Today.” He seems almost hesitant to tell you he needs to leave the state. 

And you are as hesitant to accept it. “Oh,” You mumble, suddenly needing to making sure the officer assigned to you is still outside and ready to go. “Okay. Do… Do you need clothes or something?” 

Spencer’s chuckle almost makes it all okay. Almost. “No, thank you. I just– I want you to be comfortable, okay? Feel free to sleep in my bed and do anything you want to do, I don’t mind! Feel at home! Just… be comfortable.” 

For a second you nod, forgetting he can’t see you right now. “Okay. Thank you.” 

“And Y/N?”

“Yeah?” You started biting your nails when you were twelve and middle school was kicking your ass. To this day, right now, you still bite them when you’re nervous. 

“It’s good hearing your voice.” 

Going home and knowing he won’t be there is not as comforting as you thought it could be. The two of you are not speaking and the constant walking on egg shells does get tiring, so you try to rationalise this as something that is just not that bad. Maybe Spencer going on his mysterious trips is not that bad anymore. Before, your curiosity was your downfall– you worried he had gotten sick or worse. However, you don’t think knowing the truth is much better. The nature of his job is incredibly dangerous, and you don’t even know much about it. Now, you still worry, that much hasn’t changed. What has changed, though, is that getting sick would be considered lucky. Right now, you worried about the ‘or worse’. 

Your mom’s voice fills the empty space for a while. She texted you a couple of days ago and you just now got around to calling. “Sweetheart, how do we switch to video again? I want to see your face.” Alarm bells sound off in your mind and you immediately shut down the idea. “Sorry mom, I can’t right now. I’ll video call you tomorrow, okay? I’m cooking dinner right now.” Her worry is that of a mother, comforting like a blanket and familiar like a home. It is not, though, the worry you want. 

For obvious reasons, you don’t tell her what’s going on, much rather preferring to tell her about the mundane things that keep you going. “And I sold out of the book!” You say, a short-lived excitement running through you. “It’s quite exciting, mom– since I opened the shop I have never sold out of anything! This is a first!”

“That’s amazing, sweetie!” She says, and you can’t help but wonder how Spencer would’ve reacted to the news if he was there. It’s only then that you realise you’re halfway through making him a plate for when he comes home, except he won’t be back until the case is complete and you gulp, too aware of the common noises you hear around you. 

This is when you realise how much you miss you Spencer. And how much, even if unconsciously, he makes you feel comfortable and safe. You thought it was the apartment, but now, by yourself, laying on the armchair yet again, you feel vulnerable and exposed. Footsteps can be heard from time to time, neighbours getting home or leaving for the night, and every time, without a fault, you hold your breath and wait. Maybe the door will open and she will be there, or maybe it will be another delivery. God, it could be anything– a letter, flowers, another box. Knowing that Cat Adams had such easy access to Spencer’s apartment is enough to get you up and running to his room. 

Green. The walls are green, muted and cozy, and you smile even when your eyes sting with tears. There is a hole in your heart right now and it’s Spencer shaped. “God,” You groan, rubbing your tears clean so aggressively that it hurts. “When did things get so fucked up?” 

There’s no real answer to that, and you if you think any longer about this, your brain might just implode. For now, all you need is to sleep, but that won’t happen for a while; not with the way your heart speeds up at every crackle coming from his old, metal heather. Still, the chill air of Autumn seeps in through the walls, and you shiver. I want you to be comfortable, Spencer had said before leaving, and you might be crossing some boundaries right now, but you need him close to feel comfortable. You might not be able to get him, but the next best thing you have right now is one of his sweaters, and you have no qualms about opening his wardrobe and grabbing the first thing you find. Ironically enough, it’s an FBI Academy hoodie, though you can’t really imagine Spencer and all his formal glory in a hoodie. You put it on, nonetheless, shutting the door with your foot and just as you turn around, your eyes catch sight of something. Something big, and beige, and bone chilling. 

The box. 

In the heat of the moment, you simply thought he had throw it away. Hell, it would’ve made sense to throw it away! What the fuck was that box doing there…? With a shaky breath, you open the wardrobe door again, hoping, praying, that you were actually hallucinating and that what you saw was nothing but a shoe box or a bag. “God, please, be a bag, be a bag…” Safe to say, your words are in vain. “Fuck, Spencer, what is wrong with you?”

You’re shaking when you pull the box out of its hiding place, breathing shallow and fast. Reason escapes you as you quickly open it, not worried about how it was or even about putting it back in place; if it was up to you, this box would’ve been gone a long time ago. Clearly, it had not been up to you. “Oh my god, I’m going to be sick.” 

Expectations are a tricky thing to deal with. When it comes to your life, you never expected anything big. You know your limitation better than anyone and the largest you’ve dreamt before was the store. You didn’t expect an FBI agent. You didn’t expect a serial killer. And you certainly didn’t expect a box full of sex toys. “What the…” You don’t want to touch them, not with your bare hands, but it looks like there are tens of toys in there, varying in shapes and sizes and colours. It makes you wonder… last he told you, her games are psychological and manipulative. From what you are seeing, though, this is incredibly physical. This is about touch and intimacy and… fuck. This is about connection. You don’t have to be a profiler to know that, not when you are so secretive about your own toys, hidden in the back of your besides drawer away from unwanted eyes. It’s a private thing, and only people you trusted, people you let into your life, knew about them. 

Before you know what you’re doing, you rush to find your phone. It’s somewhere in the house, and you need to find it, you need to call him. “Pick up,” You whisper when you finally find it in the living room, under your favourite blanket on the chair. Even your fingers are shaking, vision a bit blurred from the adrenaline rushing through you– you feel like you’re in danger, and you don’t know what to do. “Spence, pick up, pick up, please pick up–“

“Hello?” You almost cry when you hear his raspy voice on the other side. It doesn’t make you feel any better to think that you might just have woken him up.

“Spencer,” You whine, embarrass with how needy you sound. The nice officer that brought you home is standing outside the door, and you could’ve gone to him– could’ve opened the door, asked him to stay inside, talk to him a little. Or you could’ve called Penelope. She had given you her number with promises that more often then not, she stayed behind to work from the BAU office. There is no place safer than my office, she had promised you, but how do you tell her that the problem is not your environment, it’s not where you are or what you’re doing… how do you tell her that the problem is you? She might not understand it so you don’t even dare try to explain it. You don’t dare to give her and the team this part of yourself too and you shut your mouth with a firm hand over your lips. 

Memories of a life you left behind flash behind your eyes, and you whimper, hugging your knees to your chest while you hear him desperately calling for you. As far as you can, you kick that godforsaken box away from you. “Y/N?! Y/N, say something, please! Are you okay? Y/N!”

“I’m here,” You whisper, pushing your hair away from your face. “I’m here.’ 

“What’s going on?” 

“Spencer, I–” A moment of regret and hesitation makes you pause. What can he even do all the way from Ohio? “I want to go home.” 

You’re not his priority. 

You’ll never be his priority. 

There is no point to this.

“…did something happen?” This is the Spencer you know– voice soft and guarded– and for a second it feels like you two are getting to know each other all over again. “Did officer Kaper make you uncomfortable? I’ll ask for a change of guard, I’ll–“

“N-No,” You cut him off with a shaky exhale. Your head falls on your free hand, finger tangled with your messy hair, and you tug on it. Sharply, the tingly pain on your scalp grounds you for a second, brings you back to this situation you created. “No, Spence, no no no, I just want to go home, I need to go home, I–“ 

“Y/N, breathe,” He coaches you as gently as he can, voice stable and strong, everything you seem to be lacking. “You’re going to set yourself off in a panic again if you don’t breathe. You’re safe in my apartment, okay? I know it’s not the same as being home, I know, but you’re safe there!”

“You’re not here, Spence!” 

There is a moment of silence for both of you. “You’re not here and you didn’t throw that fucking box away,” You whisper, keeping the moment something in between just the two of you. It’s enough that you are falling apart like this in front of Spencer, you don’t need officer Kaper bursting in the door to witness this too.

“You found the box,” He sighs. This is the first time you notice just how tired he sounds.

“I found the box,” You confirm, sniffling in a stubborn attempt to not start crying all over again. 

“It’s evidence. I can’t throw it away, Y/N.”

“Why is it here?”

“I’ve been working on the case on my free time and it just made sense to keep it at home…” 

“Spence, I want to go home. I don’t feel safe,” You admit, shaking your head. “I don’t feel safe here when you’re not here, Spence, I want to go home.” 

“I thought you hated me.”

“Spencer…” He has a point, though, and you know it. This is the first time you two speak in days, the first time you experience this type of comfort again, but it’s still not enough. He’s still not here, next to you, watching over you. He’s still not with you. “Spencer, I’m sorry.” 

“Silly girl, why are you apologising?” He asks, chuckling on the other side and you can picture him– you can see him shaking his head, hair falling around his pretty face like a perfect picture frame when his eyes, pure honey with specks of green, search for yours. Yeah… you can imagine it to perfection, almost like you are the one with eidetic memory. “This is all my fault. And I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you, Y/N and I’m trying to protect you, so I need you to stay there, okay? I need you to stay in my apartment, please.” 

You don’t know what to tell him. Your eyes wander around the room, looking at all the details he left behind without even noticing. There is a copy of Dostoevsky on the bed side table. I hate Russian literature, you remember telling him once. He was in the shop, bringing you coffee, when you caught a glimpse of a book you certainly didn’t sell him. And I’m appalled you’ve been buying books somewhere else. The way he laughed then, like his biggest problem in the world was explaining to you that this had been a gift from a friend and that he would never betray your trust like this. What do you hate so much about it?, he had asked, leaning over the counter and into you, eager to debate this topic he loved so much. I hate that it’s all about suffering. Even the moments of realisation and self-improvement, they are all through suffering and misery. And of course he had a retort to that, fingers twitching with his enthusiasm. But it’s contextual, you see! Those were written in time of civil unrest and political chaos, and it makes sense to have characters and plot lines that revolve around suffering when that is all you know from the world around you. To this day, your answer paralyses you. I’m a believer in silver linings and happy endings. And not because I’m naive or ignorant, but because the world around me has made me believe that there must be something better out there. Isn’t that nicer?

“Y/N, please tell me you’ll stay there, I need you to stay there.” 

His words almost escape you, but you catch them in the very last minute. It gives you a glimpse into a side of him he has yet to show you, and it absolutely shatters your heart in bits. I need you to stay there, he had said. Not you need to stay there, but I need you to stay there. Suddenly, you realise that this– all of this, the relocation, the involvement of the FBI, the dropping off and picking up– is not just for you. 

“I’ll stay here,” Whispering with him like this helps. “I’ll stay. I’m sorry I woke you up.” 

“Don’t be. I’m happy you called.” 

“I’ll let you go back to sleep, but Spence?” 

“Yeah?”

“Be safe. I need you back here.”

“I’ll be home in no time.” 

For a second, you trust him. You trust everything will be okay, that you can make everything okay until he gets back, and then you’ll pass the responsibility onto him. For a second, you trust him, but you also trust yourself. 

Everything will be okay. 

Everything will be okay. 

Everything will be okay. 

You fall asleep like this; wearing his hoodie and hugging your phone, nose buried on his pillow in hopes to dream of him. The sun wakes you up, and there are birds chirping at your window. Despite the heaviness you feel in you and dooming headache you know will settle soon, the romantic in you believes that today will be a good day. That today will be an okay day.

“Miss Y/L/N? It’s officer Kaper.” 

The knock doesn’t scare you anymore. On days one through three it had you jumping on air, heart about to stop from how fast it was beating. Days four and five were easier, less scary and more anxious, waiting for the punctual 9AM knock. From day six onwards, it was a welcome start to your day, knowing that someone is looking after you. 

You check the fisheye like Spencer told you to, and then you open the door only when you recognise the face on the other side. “Good morning, Officer,” You smile, nodding at him a bit stiffly. The two of you had been formally introduced by JJ, but it didn’t make this any less awkward for you. “Would you like some coffee?” 

“Sure,” He nods, smiling as he comes inside with his usual stack of mail. Everyday, without fail, someone picks up your mail and brings it to Officer Kaper. “Here’s your mail for the day, ma’am.” 

“How was the night shift?” It’s almost like a scripted conversation, these back and forth questions you throw at each other, and you’re finding that you hate this. You hate the stiff conversations and the self-imposed bans. But this is day two, and in just more two days, Spencer would be home. And you would talk to him, just like you used to before, just like you did over the phone. Nothing will change; you’re not going home any time soon and Cat Adams isn’t going to just magically disappear. It’s time to accept it and learn how to live with it, as hard as that sounds. 

Sifting through your mail has to be your favourite part of the day. It’s normal, slightly boring, and a peek into the routine you used to have and love. No one ever sends you letters, so it’s just bills. “Water, electricity, marketing, marketing,” The coffee is brewing in the background and Officer Kaper is telling you about his daughter. She’s a tiny girl, just two and very, very shy, but apparently, she loves stories. “I might have a book for her,” You get distracted from the letters for a second, smiling at the kind officer. “I’ll bring it to you later tonight!” 

When you look back again, it’s the one on top. 

The envelope is white, like any other letter, and it has no thing in the back but your name and address scribbled in red, a big heart right next to it. “Uh, Officer, this is… this is weird.” You’ve been instructed to let someone know if you received anything unlabelled or unexpected. This letter is certainly unexpected. “It has no return address.” 

“May I open it?” He asks and you nod. He opens it with a knife, pulling a small piece of paper inside. “Okay, it seems like a normal letter. There is no signature of any kind.”

“What does it say?” You’re nervous now, walking around Officer Kaper to read over his shoulder. “Oh my god.” 

“Does this mean anything to you?” 

Nodding, you’re dialling Spencer’s number already. “It means I’m fucked.” 

On the table, laid a message you’d never forget.

He’s not yours to keep. 

---------------------------------------

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[cuddleprofiler]

A SECRET IN YOUR SMILE - When Spencer and you go on a date and end up dancing in the rain

Word count: 3.4k approximately

Genre: Fluff

A/N: I have written this fic for @pathologicalreid 's Margovember. I hope you like it Margot <3

I have tried to change my writing style.

“That was nice,” Spencer says, looking at you like he’s trying to send a secret message through his eyes. You swear he’s about to pull out a satellite dish and try to communicate via telepathy. Seriously, if he could figure out how to do that, he’d be the first person to turn it into a PhD thesis.

You smirk, leaning slightly toward him. “Then would you say I made your night, Dr. Spencer Reid?” You say it playfully, your voice light and full of sweetness. The night air is cool against your skin, and the moonlight casts a soft glow over the empty street around you.

Spencer turned his head to you, a smile tugging at his lips, but it was the way his eyes lingered on you that made your heart flutter. The gentle curve of his smile didn’t just come from the joke—it came from something deeper, something unspoken that was hard for him to name.

When you said his full name, Spencer felt a stirring he wasn’t used to. It was as if, in that moment, you had torn down all the walls that usually kept him safe from his own vulnerability. You didn’t just speak his name—you made him feel as though it had purpose, as if it meant something. Maybe it was because no one had ever softened it like that before. Not since his mother.

His breath caught as you looked up at him. You always made him feel safe in a way that nothing else could. There was no judgment in your eyes, no expectation, just an openness that let him be who he was—broken, complicated, and sometimes unsure. Yet with you, he never felt any of those things were reasons to pull away. With you, they were just pieces of him, and you loved them anyway.

“Spencer?” Your voice gently pulled him out of his thoughts. He had been lost in them, but it was a place he didn’t mind being—especially when you were there.

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice a little breathless, as if you had caught him off guard. He glanced over at you, eyes wide, and a quiet smile spread across his face. “You did. Yeah.”

You smiled at his flustered response, though you sensed a deeper current beneath it. There were things in his past, things he didn’t share with anyone, but you knew—he knew—he didn’t have to say them for you to understand. Your smile softened at the thought. You knew that this—this moment, this connection—was something more than he ever let himself believe he deserved.

“Actually, no one has done something like this for me,” he said, the confession coming out quieter than he’d intended. A flicker of shame, maybe. Maybe just self-doubt. His voice wavered, but there was something else behind it—something that told you he had more to say but couldn’t quite get it out.

You can tell he’s thinking about something deeper — about how no one has treated him this way before. And you can’t say you’re surprised. Spencer Reid is the type of guy who doesn’t get a lot of praise or affection, at least not in the way he deserves. You know that. He’s always had walls up, and yet, somehow, you’ve always managed to slip past them without even trying.

You smiled, but it was gentler now, aware of the weight of his words. Your heart twisted slightly, but you masked it with a softness in your expression that only Spencer would recognize. You knew this wasn’t just about the date—it was about the history he carried, the unspoken scars he hid.

“So you hadn’t been corrupted yet?” you say with a dramatic gasp, raising your fist to the sky. “YES!” You almost trip over your own feet, but you recover and strike a pose like you’re the hero in a cheesy action movie. Spencer cracks up, shaking his head, but the way he looks at you? Like you just won the gold medal in charm.

 “Alright, now I’m gonna teach you how a real woman treats a handsome, insightful, gentleman like you,” you tease, winking at him. Spencer’s laughter is pure, his whole face lighting up at your theatrics.

You raised an eyebrow. “Actually, you’re more insightful.” You could feel the pride in his gaze, in the way his eyes followed you with quiet admiration.

“That’s not possible. You profile people, Spence, and you have three PhDs,” you said with a playful grin, but there was an undertone of sincerity in your voice. It was so easy to get lost in Spencer’s brilliance that sometimes you forgot how rare it was for someone to be this passionate, this dedicated to something they loved.

Spencer’s gaze softened, and he tilted his head as he met your eyes. “And you’re a Quantum Computing researcher. You’re more insightful than you’re giving yourself credit for, Y/N,” he said. The pride was still there, but now it had grown into something more personal, something that made you feel seen in a way you rarely allowed yourself to be.

“Your field is amazing, Y/N. It has so much potential to grow—mixing quantum mechanics with computers. It has huge research potential.” His words were earnest, but it was the way he said them—like he meant every syllable like he was truly captivated by what you did—that made your heart swell.

You blinked at him in surprise. “I didn’t think you’d be so… fascinated by it,” you said, genuinely touched by his interest. You smile, feeling a little self-conscious but secretly thrilled. “It’s not exactly a field a lot of people understand.” You laugh softly, thinking of all the men you’ve met who couldn’t even look past your work to see you as anything other than ‘too smart.’ Spencer, though, he sees you. Really see you.

"Honestly, I don't know how Emily Prentiss managed to get us together, but thank god she did," you murmur under your breath, sending a quiet prayer to whoever’s listening.

"Your field is amazing," Spencer says, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "Mixing quantum mechanics with computing? That's huge. You’ve got so much potential to change things."

You smile at him, feeling both proud and a little shy at his praise. "Well, thank you. You're not so bad yourself, you know." You wink, and his grin stretches wider.

"I’m just lucky I found someone who actually gets me," he says, glancing sideways at you with that quiet intensity. "You're the most intriguing person I’ve ever met, Y/N."

You laughed softly, but the warmth of his words lingered. "And not all men would be interested in their girlfriend’s field," you say, your voice softening. "I mean, I've had more than a few dates with men who... just couldn’t handle it, you know?"

Spencer laughs softly, a fondness slipping into his tone. "Well, they’re all missing out. They can’t see the full picture like I can."

You looked at him, captivated by his words. A small laugh escaped you, but it was warm, touched with something deeper.

“You know, the shine of your words would brighten your reputation in any girl’s mind, right?” You asked, teasing him, but your eyes searched his face, hoping to gauge whether he knew how much power his words held over you. His tilted look made you laugh out loud.

“You’re so adorable, Spencer,” you said, your voice softening with affection. “You know not all men would be interested in their girlfriend’s field. Many women face those who belittle them for their intelligence, who don’t appreciate them for who they are.”

You leaned closer, your voice quiet but sincere. “If they got to know I have such a great boyfriend, they might try to snatch you away.” You winked, playfully swiping your hand across his arm.

“Well, they’d all be disappointed,” Spencer said with a smile, his fondness slipping through his words. “I have a very gorgeous girlfriend who I’m not gonna leave. No matter what.”

You feel the weight of his words, the sincerity that lingers in the air between you two, and it makes you pause for a moment. Like he’s offering you a secret promise only the two of you understand. It feels like home.

You freeze for a second, your heart skipping a beat at the way he said “not leaving.” It’s casual like he’s just stating the obvious, but for some reason, it makes your chest feel a little tight. A warm little bubble of emotion rises inside you, and you blink it away, hoping he doesn’t notice.

You roll your eyes dramatically. “I swear, Spencer, you keep making these ‘I’m-not-going-anywhere’ declarations, and I’m gonna need to see a cardiologist.”

Spencer, utterly unaware of the havoc he’s wreaking on your heart, just grins. "I’ll go with you if that’s what you need. We can make it a date.”

You smiled softly, your heart swelling with affection.

“What if she drinks your whole pot of coffee?” you asked, your voice taking on mock seriousness.

Spencer’s eyes widen, his voice going up a pitch. “You wouldn’t!” He looks at you, half horrified, half playful, and it makes you laugh again.

“What if I eat all the sugar as well, Spencer?” You asked with a sly grin, your words teasing him as you shot a glance over your shoulder to gauge his reaction. You could almost feel the weight of his answer hanging in the air, a playful, stormy tension crackling between you two.

Spencer stood there, motionless, his gaze unreadable. His hands were at his sides, and there wasn’t even a twitch in his expression. You stopped walking and turned back, brows furrowing in confusion. Was this really bothering him this much? Your eyes searched his face, waiting for something, anything to give you a clue.

“Spencer?” You poked him on the cheek, once, then twice, your eyes searching for any flicker of expression that would tell you what was happening in his mind.

“Spencer!” A third poke, this time more insistent, and still, nothing—just that maddening stillness. “Did I break him?” You muttered under your breath, a small, teasing laugh escaping as you wondered if your mention of sugar had been too much of a blow to his senses.

The moment you saw him raise his hand, a smirk threatening to escape, your eyes widened. With a sharp, playful shriek, you bolted in the opposite direction, knowing exactly what was coming.

“I trusted you,” you called over your shoulder, eyes wide in mock outrage as you sprinted down the street, your heels clicking loudly against the pavement. Spencer was right behind you, his long legs easily closing the distance.

“Y/N, you made a mistake by telling me.” His voice was steady, almost teasing, but the underlying tone of warning was clear.

“I shouldn’t have told you about tickling.” You slumped against him, your arms folding over your chest as you surrendered to the inevitability of his grip. His strength was a comfort—one you never minded giving in to when it came to moments like this.

“Technically, you didn’t tell me.” Spencer’s voice was light, but there was that mischievous glint in his eyes that made your stomach flip. “You just made it obvious. You feel ticklish when someone touches your shoulder. It was kind of hard to miss.”

“Not always!” You half-yelled, the protest feeling more like a playful challenge than an argument.

“Mostly, honey,” he said with a shrug, his smile knowing, the corners of his lips curving in a way that made you want to melt and run at the same time.

But before either of you could continue your teasing back and forth, the weather—so far so quiet—suddenly began to shift. A few drops fell, small at first, almost apologetic, but then the heavens opened, and rain poured down in torrents, soaking everything in its path.

In an instant, you were both running, your hands still clasped together, trying to keep your balance in the downpour. You could hear the echo of your footsteps against the pavement, the soft splash of rain on the street. Spencer had his cardigan out, draping it over your head to shield you, but it was a losing battle. Within moments, both of you were thoroughly drenched, your clothes clinging to your skin, water running down your faces.

As you reached the bus stand, you pulled the cardigan tighter around your shoulders, seeking any relief from the cold. The yellow lamplight flickered overhead, casting a soft, golden hue on the wet world around you. The sound of the rain hitting the ground was the only thing that filled the space between you, soothing and quiet. The storm raged, but here, in this small patch of light, you were safe.

You tilted your head back slightly, taking in the sight of the rain pouring down, your lips parting in a gentle smile. There was something about it—the rawness, the purity of the moment—that filled you with a kind of peace.

“I love rain,” you said, your voice soft, almost a secret shared with the world around you.

Spencer’s gaze shifted to you, his eyes searching your face, as though trying to understand this new piece of you that had revealed itself. “You do?” His voice was laced with both curiosity and admiration, his smile widening as he took in your fascination with the moment.

“Yeah,” you answered, simply and truthfully.

Spencer thought about it for a moment, weighing his options. And in that quiet pause, you saw his heart make a decision. With a gentle pull, he took your hand, his fingers warm against your chilled skin. “Come on,” he said, his voice firm, but with the warmth of someone who only ever wanted to see you happy. “Come on, we’re going out there.”

You blinked, laughing incredulously as you looked at him. “What?”

“You love rain, right?” He didn’t hesitate. His grip on your hand tightened as he gently tugged you further. “Then come on.” His gaze softened, something more than just fondness there—trust, perhaps.

“But you don’t…” You hesitated, still unsure.

“Not exactly. I don’t love getting drenched, but you do. And besides,” he shrugged, as if it was the simplest thing in the world, “I love the solitude it brings. The quiet.” A little smile tugged at his lips as his eyes danced with a deeper affection. And I love you, he thought, but didn’t say aloud.

The way his confidence shone through told you everything you needed to know. Without another word, you let him lead you out into the storm.

The world felt quieter now, as you both stood in the middle of the street, drenched and laughing. You closed your eyes, the rain falling around you in a symphony of gentle sounds—earth and water and life—all mingling together.

You extended your hand toward Spencer, a silent invitation, a beckoning that pulled him toward you as you both began to move together. The rain no longer felt like a downpour, but like an invitation to something new, something shared, something simple. You danced together, the rhythm of the rain matching the beat of your hearts, your spirits blending into the quiet, beautiful chaos of the storm.

The rain fell harder, but neither of you cared. You spun, and he spun with you, not perfectly, but it didn’t matter. You were together, lost in this simple, beautiful moment of joy. Spencer pulled you close, his hand around your waist as his other arm snaked around your back, holding you steady. You could feel the warmth of him, even through the rain.

And in that moment, Spencer Reid, for once, didn’t feel different. He didn’t feel out of place or disconnected from the world around him. He felt... home. And he knew, without a doubt, that you were his home.

Spencer realized that everything he once thought wasn’t possible for him was now right here in his arms. Your presence was his answer, his unspoken dream come true. And for that, he could never express enough gratitude—for you, for this life, for Emily, who had brought you to him.

He continued to gaze at you, his eyes intense yet somehow full of wonder, as if trying to read the hidden depths of you. The air between you both felt different now, charged in a way it hadn’t been before. Something had shifted. Something that neither of you had anticipated, but both felt with a quiet certainty.

You flushed under his steady gaze. Normally, you avoided staring directly into Spencer’s eyes for too long. You preferred glancing at him, quick little moments of connection, but right now, his gaze felt like too much—like it was peeling back layers you weren't ready to share.

You looked away, awkwardly focusing on something else—anything but the intensity of his eyes. But before you could settle on the car parked nearby, you felt his hand gently lift your chin, guiding your face back toward him. His thumb traced a small, tender circle on your skin, and you couldn’t help but shiver slightly.

“You keep looking away, honey,” Spencer’s voice was soft, almost like a quiet confession, and it shot warmth straight through you. His words curled inside your chest, grounding you in a way that left you speechless. You tried to break the silence.

“There was something there,” you muttered, attempting to save yourself from the teasing look he was giving you. But you knew there was no escaping that playful glint in his eyes.

The two of you continued down the path, but the sharp pain in your feet that had been there before seemed to disappear. The moment was too perfect to think about anything else. Still, the quiet frustration over your heels persisted. “Damn, these heels,” you muttered under your breath, rubbing your aching feet.

Spencer, ever the observant one, heard your soft exhale and noticed the slight wince as you walked. “What happened?” His voice was concerned, gentle.

“It’s just these heels, nothing much,” you replied, but you couldn’t help but shoot the shoes a look that spoke volumes. Spencer, ever the mind reader, saw through your act.

“What if I pick you up? You wouldn’t feel any pain,” he offered, voice laced with genuine care. The thought of you in pain hurt him more than he cared to admit, and he wanted to do anything—anything at all—to ease that discomfort.

“Spencer, it’s okay. I’ll manage,” you reassured him, but the look on your face, part stubbornness and part affection made it clear that you weren’t fooling him.

But Spencer, always the one to offer help even when it wasn’t asked, didn’t wait for permission. One moment, you were standing on your own two feet; the next, you were in his arms, effortlessly lifted by the man who could do anything in your eyes.

“Spencer!” You laughed, your voice a mix of surprise and mock protest, but you knew from the look in his eyes that nothing was going to stop him now.

He smiled, clearly proud of himself. “Did you know that red carnations symbolize love, admiration, and deep affection?” The words tumbled out, a sudden shift in conversation that you knew was leading somewhere. “While roses are associated with purity and innocence, they also symbolize respect and sincerity—”

You looped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself a little closer to his chest, knowing exactly where this was going. You’d heard him talk about flowers before, but this time, it felt different, like he was trying to say something beyond the simple meanings of petals and stems.

“—and their combination together—”

You finished for him, smiling up at Spencer with a playful glint in your eyes. “Means passionate love, respect, and pure affection.”

Spencer blinked in surprise, his lips parting slightly as if he hadn’t expected you to finish the thought. You smirked, delighted at how easily you could read him.

“I was seeing how long it would take you to notice the significance,” you teased, the corners of your mouth tugging upward.

He studied you for a moment, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “You really thought about today a lot?” His voice held a note of amusement, mixed with affection.

You raised an eyebrow, your smile widening. “Sweetheart, when one has a lovely boyfriend like you, they ought to put in the effort. I’d put thought and effort into you every day.”

His heart swelled, and for a moment, the rest of the world disappeared. It was just the two of you, standing together, entwined in the quiet love you’d both found—something Spencer had never believed would happen, but now couldn’t imagine living without.

[jessicaslittlelovesickmess]

Ten years too late

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x Reader, Jj x Emily

Warning: unrequited feelings, Emily moved on, jj sucks, Mama Emily, slight angst, homewrecking?, jemily angst

Summary: Emily moved on just like JJ had..so why does JJ suddenly want Emily?

“It gives me you” JJ looked up at Emily who shook her head “no-don’t do this” she whispered to the blonde “I love you Emily”. The air felt suffocating “you need to leave JJ” the grey haired woman swallowed as she stepped back trying not to make eye contact.

“I’m married JJ, you’re married!”

“I love you, I’m sorry” the blonde apologised “did you still love me when you married Will? Did you love me when you had his children? Did you love me when you went home to your family?” Emily sighed looking at JJ who looked ready to cry. “Or did you love me once I met Y/n? Once we got married? Do you love me now that I refuse to drop everything in my life for you? I loved you JJ for years well before Will was on the scene”.

“I loved you hoping that one day you would wake up and realise I was there but you didn’t not until it pleased you. I have a family- a reason to come home.. i have something to lose JJ and now you want me?”

“That’s no fair Emily you can’t- you can’t say that” JJ cried “say what? The truth? I’m sorry it took so long for you to admit your truth but it’s ten years too late”. The jingling of keys burst their now staring contest as the front door swung open “mama?” A small voice called out in the home.

The sound of little feet pattering in the home as the little girl ran excitedly towards the older woman before she leapt into awaiting arms.

“Hey honey” you whispered kissing Emily as you entered the kitchen “Hey JJ, I didn’t know you would visit- oh are you okay?” You rushed to the teary eyed blondes side. “She’s fine, JJ was just leaving” Emily blurted following JJ’s eyes she was staring at your pregnancy bump “it’s getting late” she sighed.

You nodded with a sympathetic smile as you squeezed her shoulder “I’m always here to talk” if only you knew she was just trying to get your wife. “Thank you Y/n, you’re too kind” JJ smiled up at you sadly “she’s the kindest” Emily confirmed kissing your forehead.

Emily walked the blonde out as you went to get your daughter’s bath ready, Elizabeth clinging to her mama’s side. “I love you Emily, please” JJ begged lowly hoping your daughter wouldn’t understand “I will be your friend..nothing else” closing the door JJ sat alone outside.

Ten years too late

[halfwayhearted]

I seen that you did a lot of Criminal minds stuff could you do one for JJ please😄

Super Crush — Jennifer Jareau.

Pairing: Jennifer Jareau x Fem!Reader

Summary: Unable to stop yourself from sharing your future plans, you notice JJ’s eyes wandering unmistakably.

Word Count: 425+

Disclaimer/s — WUH LUH WUH + established relationship! :3

A/N: Truuuuuuuuuuuust, I need her expeditiously. Also, I got back to this sooo late, that’s my bad… hey…

One question, just one, had you rambling. A lot.

The blonde in front of you didn’t seem to mind. As soon as she asked the question and you answered almost immediately, she turned toward you, tilted her head, and crossed her arms.

That was one of the reasons why you loved her.

If anyone was truly attentive, it was her. She was more than happy to listen whenever you spoke. If asked, she’d claim it was because she found your plans intriguing. But in reality, it was so she could bask in the sound of your voice—the way it’d rise with excitement when you talked about something even remotely riveting, or the way it’d soften tenderly when you mentioned something that clearly upset you. She could always, always understand you through those subtle nuances.

Maybe you were… too excited. Deciding to calm down a bit, you slowly wrung your hands together, finally taking a deep breath and the chance to actually look at her as you continued.

That’s when you noticed. Her gaze had wandered down to your mouth, and she seemed completely unaware that you had caught her in the act.

Could you even say that you caught her? What if something was distracting her? You suddenly felt a little self-conscious, “Did my lip gloss smear?” Your fingers swiping at the corner of your lips.

With that, she stiffened, eyes locking onto yours in an instant. “Did it—what? No, no, it's good.”

‘It’s good.’ It’s good. Right… why was she looking?

That question lingers in your mind when you speak, your eyes narrowing playfully. “You are so not subtle, do you know that, Jennifer?”

She sputters at the accusation, “I am subtle.”

“No, you’re not!” You laughed, “You were looking at my lips for a solid three minutes before I even said something. That’s creepy, you’re creepy.”

“Oh, so… what, I can’t look at my girlfriend now?”

Well! Well. “What do you want for dinner, hm?”

A short laugh escapes her lips while her body instinctively leans toward yours, her hand sliding around your back. “Huh, that’s what I thought… and it doesn’t matter. It’s your day to choose.”

“It’s either take-out or I make something. Oh! How about tacos? It’s Taco Tuesday. That okay?”

JJ hums, “Sounds good, I’ll get what you get.”

“Okay! I’ll go order,” you paused, “Love you.”

Placing a gentle kiss to your shoulder, she plops down on the couch, her eyes sparkling with affection as she smiles and says, “I love you, too.”

Likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated ^_^.

DT(s) — @pedrilcvr ! ౨ৎ

[lizzyk137]

I'm Never Letting You Go- Spencer Reid Fanfic (Spencer X Reader)

Summary: Spencer has you worried that he won't want your baby and you don't know how to tell him. Warnings: Angst, brief mention of gun shots, yelling over a dangerous situation, fluff Based off of Season 4 Episode 5

Want to read more, visit my Masterlist!

"Woo, he's kicking. a lot today." JJ exclaims chuckling, hand on her every growing belly.

Spencer looks up from his case file before rambling, "In the third trimester, there is about thirty fetal movements per hour. Babies kick to explore movement and strengthen muscle."

JJ just stares at him dumbfounded, before asking, "Have you ever actually felt a baby kick?" She grabs Spencer's hand and places on the side of her belly, his face showing his confusion. JJ nods, as they both can feel the baby kick. "You feel that?"

"Does that freak you out?" Spencer whispers, quickly looking up at JJ then back down to where his hand was still be pressed to her belly.

"No, not at all." Her face, now showing confusion at his question, before looking at him teasingly. "Why does it freak you out?"

"Very much so," Spencer says as he rips his hand away and brings his attention back to his case file, earning a chuckle out of JJ.

You watch quietly, your own hand on your small baby bump. Your boyfriend of a year just said a baby kicking freaks him out. You couldn't wrap your head around the grossed look on his face while he said it. You didn't know if Spencer wanted kids, it somehow never came up and you were still unsure of when to tell him, but after he said that you weren't sure if anytime would be the right time.

Spencer was happy when JJ announced her pregnancy, but after that he wasn't himself when JJ was around. Always watching her curiously, like he was unsure if being himself was okay to do around the growing baby. He eventually became more relaxed and even did some research on babies, always spouting out information when he could, but he still wasn't fully acting like his adorably dorky self.

The pregnancy was a surprise for you and early on in your relationship with Spencer. You haven't officially told anyone in the BAU about your relationship, Spencer worried about getting in trouble and wanting to look professional. You understood what he meant, and it was easier to hide your relationship out in the field so you wouldn't be used against each other if an unsub caught you. It may have been easy to hide from others, but not the team. They easily found out but said nothing about it. It was killing them not to tease Spencer about it though, but they respected your privacy when you asked them not tell Spencer.

You tried to keep this a secret though but that proved challenging, especially when the morning sickness started. JJ had caught you red handed in the bathroom one morning, while Emily and Penelope figured it out after you declined wine after a tough case, which you never did. Soon Morgan, Rossi and Hotch found out, all promising to keep this a secret too from Spencer. They were all worried that you've yet to tell him and you were already showing, but with the case load being heavy, you've yet to spend any real alone time with Spencer especially since your belly started to grow, which was surprisingly fast.

But now you were really unsure about telling Spencer and Emily could see the frustration on your face when you walked out of the conference room.

-----

Spencer watched as JJ fanned herself with a case file as she rubbed her swollen belly with a small smile on his face, before turning around to realize Emily caught him, a smirk on her face as he tried to play it off like he was just looking around.

"You considering it?" She asks, Spencer looking up at her.

He looked at her, eyebrows furrowing. "Considering what?"

"Having baby geniuses one day." She looks confidently at him before it was replaced with a teasing glint in her eyes.

His face turns to one of consideration before the phone rings and he quickly answers it, glad to have a distraction from the question asked of him.

He didn't understand her question nor the sad look on her face after he dodged her question. She quickly got up while he was still on the phone, his eyes following her as she quickly made her way to you before whispering in your ear. You got up quickly, one hand covering your mouth and another your stomach as you ran to the bathroom, Emily hot on your heels.

Where you alright? Where you sick? Did Emily say something to you to make you so upset? What did Emily say anyways and why did she run right to you after asking him such a personal question.

Spencer didn't want to admit to himself that he did want a family, especially with you. It was still so early on in your relationship and your careers that he didn't want to scare you away with talks about wanting a family. So, he did everything he could to deny his interest.

He just didn't want to lose you.

----

You were avoiding Spencer as the case went on. You knew it wasn't right or healthy but after seeing him showing disgust and zero interest babies, you just didn't know how to approach him. You were being dumb, and Rossi did let you know that.

"My sweet girl, you are starting to show, just tell the kid. You'll figure out what to do, no matter what he says." Rossi gave your hand a small squeeze. He was always soft with you, thinking of you like a daughter, though sometimes you could go without the hard parenting.

Emily reminded you that you all had them no matter if Spencer wanted to be in the picture or not.

You nodded, trying hard not to think about Spencer not being with you anymore. You loved him too much and you didn't want to lose him.

----

You were running top speeds towards the train, somehow beating Morgan to the train's ladder as you climbed up it, making your way to the top before taking off again as you made your way from one car to the next. Morgan was trying to catch up with you, yelling at you to be careful as he let the team know via his head set about what you were doing.

Spencer was worried, he knew you were upset with him, though he couldn't figure out why, but he didn't want you getting hurt, it would be something else you'd have to worry about with whatever he may have done.

"Hotch get her quick, she's too close for my liking!" Morgan yelled out.

"Oh my god, Morgan catch her!" Rossi screamed a second later, Spencer's heart stopped beating for a second waiting for news on if you were alright. Gun shots rang out and Spencer rubbed his hands over his face.

"All clear, we're safe." Morgan's voice rang out a few moments later.

Within the next half hour, he saw you make your way through the double doors, a frustrated look on your face while Morgan, Hotch and Rossi followed behind you, clearly upset and lecturing you.

Spencer ran over to make sure you were okay, but Morgan cut him off, stopping you in your tracks. "You're pregnant and you need to start looking out for the baby not just you." His voice was hard and loud, before continuing, his voice shaky. "If I wasn't there, you and your baby could have been hurt, or worse killed."

Spencer's feet had already stopped and he could feel his jaw slack and opened at Morgan's words. Your eyes grew wide as you saw him standing behind Morgan stunned.

"Oh Spencer..." You whispered before he took off running. You ran behind him, ripping your vest off as it constricted your belly.

You headed out into the night, the warm air slapping you as you came out of the cool building. "Spencer! Wait!" You yelled out, your legs still shaky from almost falling off the ladder of the caboose train before Morgan caught you.

Spencer suddenly stopped, almost causing you to run into him before he suddenly turned around and looking at you through tear filled eyes. His body shook and he went to point at you before bringing his hand down to his side. "Your pregnant?" His voice was barely a whisper but still strong.

All you could do was nod.

"How long have you known?"

You gulped, your eyes barely reaching his. "I'm a little over four months along."

"You've known for that long and you haven't told me?" He was furious now, tears streaming down his face as he stared at you.

You shook your head, tears starting to fall. "I didn't know how to tell you. You haven't shown any interest in wanting kids." The next part, you whispered, not wanting to think about the look he gave to JJ's moving belly. "You said it freaked you out."

He looked at you confused before his face softened as he looked at your broken face, tears falling down your face as you stared at the ground. He took a step forward before wrapping you in his arms. "Baby, no. I-I just said that and acted weird because I didn't want to scare you away with talks about wanting a family." You sobbed into his chest at that part, your short arms circling him. "I want nothing more than to be with you, start a life with you and have little geniuses running around." He chuckled, using what Emily had used to talk about his babies. Now he realized what she was hinting at.

You were pregnant. He was upset with you for hiding it, but he couldn't blame you for not knowing how to tell him, especially with how he acted. He stroked the back of your head, planting little kisses in your hair. "Are you sure you want to be a dad right now?"

He chuckled at how cute your mumbling in his chest was. He pulled away, putting both hands on the side of your face, forcing you to look at him, his smile wide. "Y/N, I couldn't think of a better time."

A smile crept onto your face, before he brought his lips to yours. "Thank you. I'm sorry I kept it from you." He just shook your head.

"There is nothing to apologize for, except for the amount of stress you put me under tonight going after that unsub." You laughed as you pulled him back into a hug. "Promise me that you'll be safer?"

"I promise." You mumbled, sleepiness starting to get to you.

After a few moments of silence, he pulled away from you, his eyes soft with curiosity. "Um- can I feel?" He looked and nodded down towards your belly.

You giggled at his nervousness as you finished taking off your vest, your hand naturally resting on the small bump that was showing through your tight tank top.

His hands shakily came to your sides as he knelt down before giving your belly a kiss then introduced himself as your baby's daddy, making you laugh aloud. A small movement in your belly stopped you, Spencer and you slowly looking at each other with wide eyes before you jumped up and down shrieking with joy, the team coming out of the station, worried something happened.

They watched as Spencer picked you up, twirling you around both of you laughing and shrieking with excitement at the growing life inside of you. Their smiles growing as they made their way over to the two of you to celebrate.

Spencer twirled you again as you kissed him before pulling back to look into each other's eyes.

I'm never letting you go, you both thought.

[criminal-mindsincorrect]

Rossi, first day with the team, witnessing the fire goblin (Emily), the muscular only boy (Morgan), the emotional support baby (Garcia), the fucked up mentally baby (Reid), the mom (JJ) and the dad (Hotch).

Rossi :

Rossi : What, from the bottom of my heart, the FUCK.

[amazingphanisnotonfire-imagines]

girlfriend!jj

[moniquesine]

Emily Prentiss calling herself Mommy 👀 [Criminal Minds Evolution]