#literary world politics

[qhazuban]

thoughts as i read "savage tongues" by azareen van der vliet oloomi, part 4

ok so here's an example. (also i'm reading the book in epub format and i really struggle with citations in this regard, especially with long chapters, which is something i need to figure out for my teaching!! but anyway...) in the first chapter, right, several pages in there's a section where the narrator says (I'm skipping over some parts with ellipses to highlight the areas that stand out most to me):

I was interested in how desire is shaped by the destructive logic of empire, how at times sex facilitates the transmission of historical violence from one body to another. Xavi [her husband], however, possessed a purity I'd never be able to access. He experienced sex as a bridge, as union, as an explosive, an exhilarating coming together; I didn't deny that was so, but that didn't constitute the entire inventory of my experiences. [...] [...] I resisted the line of thought that Xavi was sure would salvage me from my pain: demonizing Omar [someone who abused her] in order to purify myself. I had no interest in obliterating the contradictions of the past. To the contrary, I wanted to savor them. Xavi was, I felt, asking me to ignore the nuances of my relationship with Omar, the historical and political terrain that had informed it. He didn't see that in doing so I would be sacrificing my own sense of self and my ability to articulate that self in language. He didn't understand, at least initially, how his attitude, pure to the extreme, dispossessed me of my own narrative, my sexuality, my appetite for inquiry, my openness to examining the darkest aspects of human nature, the things most people prefer to look away from. I was left to raise the frightening questions alone. In the process of vilifying Omar, Xavi had unwittingly placed an invisible restriction on my speech; what I needed was an eruption of language. He couldn't tolerate the idea that I was complicit in my own destruction, that I had weaponized what little agency I had and wielded it against myself.

so i really like a lot of this! and it's totally something i would reblog or repost, or save to think about, ha.

but the thing is. even if this is just the beginning of the novel and all of this is explored better later, setting the novel up like this -- and having a stream of consciousness intellectual/emotional style of narrative -- only works if there are just as many questions and unanswered fragments and just -- emotions in the present, not only retrospective -- or maybe just if the language is explored more? i'm not sure. i just feel mixed about this. i think that we need more moments of perplexity and narrative confusion.

idk. i'm having trouble expressing this but, based on what i have been reading so far, as well as interviews with the author etc., it does not seem like there's really a lot of the... turning things on their head?... that i feel would actually make this kind of self-reflection more potent.

i think it probably comes across as *very* potent as-is to a lot of people -- and here i worry about sounding haughty again lol -- and it does feel potent to me too. but in an actual friendship or conversation or interaction or communication between diasporic writers and artists, if it were *actually* to be that and not the absolute shit that goes on in the sorry excuse of a literary world that currently exists -- in the moments that actually truly matter -- it's not just a restatement of what we know and we've read and realized and applied to our lives. there's restatement, yes, but there's also interpersonal hypocrisy and chaos and bizarreness and complexity that summing things up just won't work for.

and i worry that this novel -- in setting things up like this -- like how much can you explore scenes if you have already set things up with such clarity of self-actualization? i don't know if that makes sense. but i am just skeptical about what is actually happening here!!!

and also. so many times people say these kinds of things in the circles i've been part of. but what does it matter if, when it comes down to it, hardly anyone *actually* wants to do the extremely difficult work of exploring complicity, power, nuance, complexity, etc. in interpersonal situations???

[kaizenc]

“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout with some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.” ― George Orwell

Tote bag Link- Make Orwell Fiction Again Tote Bag

[voluptuarian]

[whispersofthepurplevalley]

I am not blind to the happenings in the world lately, I am not quiet either. I am just not vocal about it infront of the wrong crowd. It does more bad than good to put your concerns before audiences with half-baked knowledge.

People who are influenced by the news that sells aren't the ones who can be the flag bearers of change. They can barely separate right from the wrong. People who form opinions based on incomplete information aren't my companions either.

Revolution is a matter of calm, composed and patient people. It's a matter of the people of complete knowledge. You can't die for a cause if you don't know why you stand by it. Quick flames of inspiration die fast too.

When it comes to forming a community of change, I aim for the ones who are open to enlightenment—unlearning what is taught sometimes, relearning what is forgotten, and learning what is not known.

-Sabina Yesmin

[enigmaxcx]

we need to bring back assassinations.

[panvani]

On some level I appreciate encouraging people to read "translated novels," but the action itself is pretty hollow unless you have some concrete intellectual/artistic/whatever purpose or goal in mind while reading translated novels. The predominance of English language novels at the detriment of all others within the Anglosphere, when other languages/cultures tend to import translated English language novels at a high rate, is, indeed, problematic, but this is more because of general American media hegemony and its relationship to American exceptionalism than an esoteric quality inherent to the virtue of the Translated Novel. An English language novel by, for example, a (living) African or West Asian author represents a greater gesture towards international literacy than a translated classic from Western Europe, and neither of these represent real political or social understanding, just your willingness to engage with literary figures and traditions that are not already within the immediate American cultural sphere.

[gennsoup]

"The world is bad. One does not know whom to trust. The good ruler who stands for the people becomes a victim too soon. And bad rulers like bad sauce, stay longer! A world that knows not what it wants. A dizzy world, this."

Ola Rotimi, The Gods are Not to Blame

[fan-dweeb]

We’re studying Medea (by Euripides) in school, and I’ve been really into bnha recently……

Long story short, imagine a Medea-style story but about All For One.

Like, scratch vigilante/ villain Deku, if being able to explore the dawn of quirks from the perspective of either one of the most influential brothers isn’t the best study of morality and narrative building, I don’t know what is.

[qhazuban]

thoughts as i read "savage tongues" by azareen van der vliet oloomi, part 3

i think the problem that i’m having with Azareen van der Vliet’s writing here is that there are a lot of great and important insights, but it’s written in the stream of consciousness perspective of someone who has already figured so much out — many of the questions have also already been figured out — even the acknowledgment that there is always more language to be languaged is already figured out. and this feels incomplete and a little boring at some point. i want to stay with the moments of total whiplash and confusion, where the narrator is in the thick of it.

and maybe it gets better, or there are parts like that — i have only begun the book — but it’s not a great sign that so many pages are already just in this retrospective “figured it out” “profound insight” mode. maybe it would seem more revelatory and radical if i had read it in college without much knowledge of these subjects (colonialism, feminism, the western gaze, orientalism, the ironies and devastations of desire and empire) — i expect so. which sounds haughty — like i’m saying i already know everything! lol. i really don’t.

but like. if it’s not a conversation. if it’s just an explanation, and that explanatory overstated style is being treated as a radical literary subversion, an intentional technique — and seems really profound for people who haven’t necessarily studied or lived these things so much — then ok, but it’s like, the irony is that it really is being written and expressed for a social milieu of erudite elitist westerners then — to restate and proclaim our findings. it really is. perhaps cross-cultural, diasporic ones, but the language of “i have figured out these profound insights about my pain and how history has inscribed it” etc etc, like, this is only really interesting if we genuinely ask questions and show that process, yeah i guess “show don’t tell” again, but i mean.. ugh! there’s *some* validity in that!

and i feel like there needs to be — some kind of scientific curiosity there, like let’s see what happens if we explore this event or train of thought or encounter or experience — beyond what we know, however profound our knowledge already is… hmm, and i can see the value of this book being a conversation among diasporic intellectuals, yes, but even then — like can there be more curiosity? peril in the unknowing? idk maybe i’m being too harsh, this is why i never fit in anywhere, i always start with critique!!!

and i do run into the problem where i presume too much, of course i do. (this is reminding me of that time i really launched into a critique of a couple of [a particular poet's] poems, after many of her poems i loved and was jealous of — and how she excoriated me for my critique, which definitely presumed too much, and i definitely overstepped! it’s so embarrassing to remember. although i do think her whole attitude that her work should somehow not be critiqued or whatever was also rather frustrating. but like, that was a clear example of me burning a bridge rather than being kind, but then again the bridge was nonexistent and it was all futile anyway. but anyway….)

i do wish it was actually just — like i wish we could get beyond whatever tenderqueer bullshit about active listening and somatic whatever and never critiquing anything and blah blah blah and be able to give honest critiques, ask difficult questions, of each other’s art and writing. like there has to be some kind of other way of doing things than just “no critique, only conscious affirmation and listening!” OR “i am going to rip this poem apart for its lack of literary sophistication according to elitist standards” …… and i think that that in-between needs to really tackle the personal, the vulnerable, the political that cannot be separated from who we are and who we are figuring ourselves out to be. like art *is* interpersonal. trying to be fucking professional about it is such capitalist imperialist bullshit!

[joinsideke]

It's been for fucking ever, but my impression was that Rem's love for her was more familial. Also pretty sure the death gods couldn't fuck anyway.

this is the realest tweet i have ever seen in my life

[gildedbearediting]

Library Snap Shot Day

April 1st is both Library Snap Shot Day, and Edible Book Day. A day for both fun and awareness when it comes to celebrating literature, and public access to it. Library Snap Shot Day being a day to bring awareness to what life could and would be like without access to library services. Some may say that libraries no longer have any purpose or use in society with the rise of the internet and its…

[joncronshawauthor]

Exploring the Tropes in The Fall of Wolfsbane

As readers, many of us find a certain joy in understanding the tropes that make our favorite stories tick. Tropes, after all, are more than just recurring themes or motifs in literature; they offer a shorthand that helps us dive deeper into the world of a book, understand its characters better, and appreciate the narrative’s nuances. They are the threads that weave together the tapestry of a…

[baronessvonglitter]

Pretty Please

QZ!Joel Miller x f!bookworm!reader

Word count: 2.7K

Summary: your roommate Joel Miller is stressed out, and you offer a creative solution to ease that frustration

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, slight bullying (name calling - from Joel), reader is a bookworm and wears glasses, no age description for reader, Boston QZ, friends with benefits, oral sex (f receiving), soft!Joel, sub!Joel, dom/sub themes, edging, rough sex, unprotected p in v sex, Joel loves nerdy girls, reader is *shaved*, no use of y/n

Author's Note: I know that we all love a good strong DOM Joel, but I wanted to wade in the waters of the Ocean of Possibilities and see what a more submissive Joel would be like. Just like those CEO/investment banker types who visit dominatrices at the end of a long workday just to be treated like lesser than and hand over the reins of power for a bit. Maybe there's a part of Joel that likes being put in his place 🤫

JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST

It's just past curfew in the QZ and you're curled up with a good book. The new (to you) apartment you live in came with a great collection of literary masterpieces and your only delight in this cold, cruel world is reading by flashlight, at least until your surly, sourpuss roommate Joel Miller comes home.

The front door opens and slams shut loudly, making the thin walls vibrate. You sigh. He's back.

Joel walks in, looking tired and cantankerous as usual. You quickly shut off your light but not before he sees it. "What have I told you about wastin' the batteries?" he puts his hands on his hips, glaring at you.

Not in a mood to argue, you mumble a quick "Sorry" and scurry past him, but he catches your shoulder. "Just 'cause I can get stuff doesn't mean I will. You need to be more careful with our supplies.. what's this stuff you're readin' anyway?" He makes a grab for your book which you quickly hide behind your back.

"Just some Shakespeare," you lie.

Joel narrows his eyes as if detecting your fib. Suddenly he pulls you toward him and takes the book you're hiding. Eyeing the cover, he visibly blushes and swallows hard. "What's a nice girl like you readin' trash like this for?"

You find it impossible to meet his eyes as your heart roars in your ears. He has your copy of romantic erotica, an old book written decades ago about a woman who trains her lover to be her sex slave. You think to yourself there's no way you can finish it now that he's judging you.

"All right, Bookworm. Out," Joel says, nodding towards the hall before he settles in with a stiff whiskey drink.

Sighing you go to your room. Ever since you moved in a couple months ago after your former QZ was abandoned, Joel has treated you like little more than an imposition. His seemingly affectionate nicknames of "Bookworm" or "Four Eyes" on account of your fondness for books and your need of eyeglasses, respectively, has you wondering if he even cares to remember your real name.

Putting your book away you contemplate another existence. In your story a young woman brings a powerful man to his knees. Had the world not changed so irrevocably, would you have had the fortune of living a life like the characters in your books?

A shower is in order. Once you wash your hair and shave your legs (with shampoo and razors that Joel begrudgingly smuggled for you when you'd politely asked) your spirits are lifted. Hair towel-dried, you put on an oversize tee and some panties and start down the hall where you bump into Joel. He takes a look at your sleepwear and you can see the blush creep up his neck. "Can you put somethin' else on? I can see right through your shirt."

You look down and see your nipples, two puckered points through the cotton of your tee. "I'm just going to bed. Besides, I can wear what I want," you say in an unusually defiant tone.

Joel gets quiet, his body language clearly showing he's getting annoyed. "I just don't want to see you half-naked, Four Eyes." His frustration comes through clear. "Don't you have anything else you can wear?"

You sigh and walk past him to your bedroom closet and pull out a thick flannel shirt. You change with your back to him, feeling his eyes on you like two burning holes in your flesh. His breath hitches, eyes glued to his old shirt he'd let you borrow a time or two. Something primal awakens in him, which he quickly squashes.

"I'm all out of clean pajama pants," you shrug.

"Find some," he says sternly. "That shirt's gonna ride up on you. It's inappropriate."

"No." You stand your ground. "I'm not changing again." You take a moment to look at him, really look at him. He looks stiff, the veins prominent in his neck and forehead. You imagine his warm flesh beneath your kiss, and part of you softens towards him. "You really need to relax. You look stressed."

"Yeah, like you really give a shit," he mutters, looking away.

Studying him more intensely you realize he's not frustrated because you're not obeying him. From the bulge in his jeans it's evident he's turned on by you. Joel Miller is a good-looking guy when he's not being a full-on jerk. Hell, he may even be good-looking then. You take the situation into your hands and approach him, your tongue gliding over your lips. "I could help you relax.. if you want."

Joel freezes and you notice his breathing quicken. "What.. what do you mean by that?"

"You're upset with my lack of 'decent' clothes because I'm a distraction to you. Even if you don't like me, you're still attracted to me."

He gets flustered and it gives you satisfaction to see how much power you have over him. "Maybe.. no. I don't want to. I mean it. I have no interest in anything like that with you."

"Really? Your jeans are having a different reaction."

He looks down quickly, embarrassed and a bit surprised. "It doesn't mean anything," he looks askance.

"Do you want to touch me, Joel?" You start to unbutton your flannel shirt.

"You're my roommate. It's wrong," he says, yet his large, strong hands are reaching into your shirt. His fingers are rough and calloused but damn they feel like heaven as he cups your breasts, runs his thumbs slowly over your nipples.

"Don't think anymore, Joel. Just feel. Just be here with me."

He's unused to following his purely bodily instincts, having to live on his survival instincts for so long. But your skin is so soft and you're so warm and clean from your shower. "God, I want you," he whispers.

You take the lead and kiss him, filling in the space between you. Joel doesn't hold back, cupping your ass in his hands and pressing you to his need, his bulge in direct contact with your clit. Your panties dampen in response. Realizing how far he's taken it, how far he wants to take it, he mumbles an apology. "S..sorry."

"No. No apologies. I want this. Don't you?"

"God yes," he growls, meeting your eyes. He watches, rapt, as you slowly unbutton your shirt and remove it. He's speechless as you go to sit on the edge of the bed, knees parted. You beckon him with one finger.

"I know you've always wanted this," you tell him. "You fantasize about eating me out, how good I taste on your tongue."

As he comes to you he wonders where the shy, docile woman has gone. But he likes this new version of you. "How do you know what I think about?" he asks as his fingers curl into the waistband of your panties. You lift your hips as he eases your panties off. What he sees makes him growl with yearning. "You shaved."

You rest on your elbows, satisfied with the look of sheer gluttony on his face. "A girl's gotta have some luxuries in these trying times.." you smirk and run your fingers delicately over your clit and your smooth folds. Joel moves your hand away. Keeping his eyes on you he laps his broad tongue over your delicate womanhood, then swipes his tongue side to side over your sweet little clit.

You moan loudly at the intimate contact, threading your fingers through his hair. Joel devours you, and the little moans he makes reverberate through you, fill you with vibrations. While he's sucking your clit he slides two fingers in, crooking them so they rub your G-spot, and this combination makes you squirm with delight until you're pushed over the edge. He doesn't stop there, lapping up your honey, holding your thighs as they quake around his head.

"I've wanted this for so long," he growls against your belly, kissing his way up, divesting himself of his clothes. He feels your body heat radiate against him and teases your opening with the tip of his cock, spreading your slick onto him. He kisses both breasts, nuzzles your neck before claiming your mouth again, lining himself up with you. Out of habit you remove your glasses but he stops you. "Leave them on," he whispers. "You look so damn hot, like a naughty schoolgirl.." He watches as you put them on again, your eyes big and bright behind the lenses. Keeping his eyes on you he lets himself sink into your heat, slowly, letting you get accustomed to his size.

"Fuck," you whisper in awe as he fills you, starts to move against you.

He revels in the feel of your soft body underneath his, the snugness of your cunt that dares to take every inch of him. "You're so beautiful," he whispers, taking in the clean scent of your freshly washed skin, the natural fragrance of your arousal. With each press forward he elicits moans, sighs, gasps. Your heart thunders within when you feel how deeply you're joined.

"I need more," you tell him. "Please.."

"More?" His voice is shaky with desire.

"Harder," you gasp.

A dark growl gathers in his throat as he sees this new side of you begin to reveal itself. "You sure you want that from me?"

You nod. "I want you to release all your stress out inside me. Just use me. Please." You look up at him with innocent eyes. "Just for tonight, Joel. Tonight I'm yours."

His body looms large over you. "That's a big request, y'know."

"And I can handle it. I'm a big girl."

He nods, excitement flowing through his veins. "If anything becomes too much, you tell me. Okay?"

Your heart flip flops when he tells you this. Despite this random hookup, he's proving to be a caring gentleman. "I'll tell you, I promise."

Joel can't help but smile and he kisses your forehead. "Good." With heavy breaths he uses all his strength to fuck you into oblivion. He takes out his frustrations on your willing, eager body, his thick, large cock plunging into your tight cunt. "I'm gonna fuckin' tear you apart," he mutters.

His rough way with you takes your breath away, makes you tremble. Joel doesn't hold back, ruts against you, mouth watering as he watches your breasts bounce with each thrust. "God, you're gorgeous," he mumbles, leaning in to kiss you.

You whimper as your mouths meet again, tongues dancing against each other. "Joel.. you're so fucking good."

Grunting in response, he presses against you deeper, harder. You gasp, your body accepting every movement, stretching you more than you thought possible. "You feel too good," he moans.

"You're in.. so deep," you sigh. "Just a little more, I'm gonna--"

"Wait!" he groans, pulling himself away from you. "You're making me.. almost.. I can't hold back," he breathes heavily.

"Shh.." you climb onto his lap. "Let me help you. I'll do all the work," you promise. "All you have to do is grab my hips or touch my breasts," you instruct him, lining up his cock to fit into you again. Joel watches himself disappear between your swollen pussy lips.

"God.. slow.. please," he grunts, grabbing hold of your hips, moving his hands all over your body, exploring every inch of you.

"Yes," you agree, sighing sweetly. "You feel so good.. I like seeing what I can get out of you, Miller."

He lets out a short moan, gripping your hips tightly, running his fingers up the insides of your thighs. His touch is ubiquitous as you ride him slowly and thoroughly. "Please don't stop.. please don't stop." He tries to make it a command but he's so caught up in you that it comes off as begging. "God I want.. please, I need.." he can't even finish his sentences for how much his lust and need has taken over him.

"I know what you need," you moan, moving faster, slamming your hips down on his. The sounds of your colliding flesh fill the room.

"God damn it!" Joel grunts, unable to continue his line of thought. He starts to growl and groan, gritting his teeth.

You smile, biting your lip as you watch him coming apart, completely helpless beneath you. "I'm gonna tame this beast," you tell him boldly. "No one else can do it but me."

"I won't let anyone else handle me," he growls, trying to say something more meaningful, but his brain is overwhelmed. He's just handed over all control to you and it's making him crazy. "Just.. please.."

You stop moving altogether, staying still. "Please what?" you tease him from finishing.

He's about to blow but he can't even get a full sentence out. "Please," he repeats, shaking now just from the feel of you. "Don't stop.."

You remain still. "Say, 'pretty please.'"

"No," he groans. "You.. you won't get me like that." But there's a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Oh," you pout. "That's a shame. I was getting so close and I know you were, too." You start moving slowly and teasingly.

Joel's breath is faltering, pulse dangerously rapid. "Not like this.. wait.. I'm gonna.."

You stop again, a stern look on your face even though you're utterly enjoying dominating this big strong alpha male. "No. You're not," you command him.

Only able to communicate in grunts and groans, Joel thrusts upward, needing the relief that would make you both find release. You gasp, your cunt clenching around him. It would be so easy to just let him keep going, but you hold your hips firmly in place. "'Pretty please,'" you remind him.

"I'm gonna cum. Please let me cum," he whines, desperate now, his fingers tightening on your flesh.

You remove his grip and pin him down. "'Pretty. Please.'" Your lips are millimeters from his, and you can see tears start to well in his dark eyes.

He's losing it now. He's right on the precipice, pain and pleasure mixed as one while you edge him. "All right, okay, I'll say it.. pretty please," he grunts out, voice cracking.

"'Pretty please with sugar on top,'" you smirk. "Say it."

Joel shuts his eyes in frustration. "Pretty please with sugar on top."

You give his lips a tiny lick. "Good boy." Sitting up again you start riding him. You've won but you're both going to reap the benefits.

"God, keep goin'," he moans, eyes still shut, breath labored as he pushes against your hips.

"I'm gonna fucking break you, Miller," you growl, riding him at top speed, without mercy.

Joel is at a complete loss of self, having lost any semblance of control. "Do it.. please," are the only words he can manage among incoherent sounds and grunts as he rises up to hold you.

You feel the friction between you like lightning as you satisfy yourself on his generous cock. "Joel Miller, you're such a good boy for me!" You move against each other in desperation, seeking the moment that will bring you to cum together. You feel him start to twitch and just then your climax hits like a tidal wave. You scream his name as you feel his copious release inside you. All Joel can say is your name, your real name, uttered in an entreaty of gratitude as he buries his face in your neck.

"Sorry if I got a little rough with you before.." he mumbles into your skin.

"I like your roughness," you tell him as you ruffle his soft grey hair with your fingers. "You had a lot that you needed to let out."

He lifts his head and softly kisses the side of your mouth. "Just so you know, I don't intend on stoppin' at just tonight. I have a lot of stress that needs releasing."

"Stressful times we're living in.." You trace his beard with your fingertips and he quickly moves in to kiss your palm.

"Damn right. And it looks like you did tame this beast."

You grin. "Does that make me Beauty?"

"Maybe that's what I'll call you from now on.."

"It's a lot better than 'Bookworm' or 'Four Eyes'."

"I'll still call you those things, from time to time," he grins, and your entire body is warm from his smile.

You are delicate with him now, knowing this man will probably steal your heart just as you've already stolen his.

divider by @saradika 👑

[magical-reid]

The Quiet One

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Genre: fluff

Content warnings: Reader gets taken during a case and starts isolating herself

Word count: 11.1K (It's long, I know)

Summary: Spencer Reid becomes increasingly intrigued by Y/N, a reserved but brilliant new member of the BAU, who remains distant from the team despite her exceptional skills. As they spend more time together, Spencer finds himself drawn to her quiet strength and vulnerability, leading to a growing connection between them.

Spencer’s POV

Spencer Reid didn’t need to be an expert in psychology to know that Y/N was hiding something. It wasn’t a dark secret—at least, he didn’t think so—but it was a part of herself she kept locked away.

She was new, sure, but most new agents took Garcia’s boisterous affection or Morgan’s teasing in stride after a week or two. Y/N, however, stayed remarkably quiet unless the conversation turned to a case. Then she was brilliant—her analyses sharp and concise, her physical prowess undeniable in the field. Even Hotch had complimented her work ethic within the first month, which was rare.

But socially? She was an enigma, answering questions with one-word responses or polite nods. Garcia had deemed it her “personal mission” to get Y/N to loosen up.

And now, Spencer found himself curious too.

Reader’s POV

The BAU bullpen was oddly calm for once. Cases were lighter this week, leaving the team to catch up on paperwork. You didn’t mind it—it gave you time to settle into the rhythm of things.

Sitting at your desk during lunch, you pulled a battered paperback from your bag. It was a comfort read, one you returned to when the world felt overwhelming. The words on the page blurred slightly as you chewed on the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the faint hum of conversation between Morgan and JJ.

Then came the voice.

“That’s Jane Eyre, right?”

You glanced up to find Dr. Spencer Reid standing by your desk. His hands were shoved awkwardly into his pockets, a rare flicker of nervousness in his expression.

“Uh… yeah,” you said, holding up the book. “It is.”

“You know, Charlotte Brontë originally published it under the pseudonym Currer Bell because women authors weren’t taken seriously in the 19th century,” Spencer said, his voice gaining confidence as he dove into familiar territory. “It was actually one of the first novels to really explore the concept of the ‘modern woman.’”

You blinked at him, unsure whether to be impressed or amused. “I didn’t know that.”

His eyes lit up, and you instantly regretted not saying something more engaging.

“Well, there’s actually a lot of debate about whether Jane Eyre is autobiographical. Brontë infuses so many elements of her own life into the story, especially Jane’s resilience and independence—”

“Reid!” Morgan called from across the room, grinning. “Are you giving another one of your literary lectures?”

Spencer flushed, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “I, uh… I was just—”

You shut the book and offered a small smile. “It’s fine. I didn’t mind.”

That placated him, and he nodded quickly before retreating to his desk.

You couldn’t help but replay the interaction in your head for the rest of the day. Spencer had an undeniable passion for knowledge, and for the first time since joining the team, you found yourself wondering if you’d like to hear more of what he had to say.

Spencer’s POV

It started as a casual observation: Y/N always ate lunch alone.

After their brief interaction earlier that day, Spencer couldn’t help but notice her more often. She stayed on the periphery of conversations, her focus always sharp, but there was an unshakable air of… loneliness about her.

Garcia was determined to change that.

“I swear, my magic isn’t working on her!” Garcia huffed as she leaned against his desk later that afternoon. “But mark my words, Reid, I will crack that shell.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow. “You’re treating her like a puzzle.”

“Because she is a puzzle! She’s this brilliant, badass, stone-cold agent who also reads classics on her lunch break? She’s practically you in a different font.”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond but shut it again. The comparison caught him off guard. Was that why he was so fascinated by Y/N?

Reader’s POV

Over the following weeks, Spencer became a surprising constant. It started with the occasional factoid about the books you were reading, but it soon extended to case-related conversations. You found his intelligence refreshing, and his quiet, thoughtful presence felt like something you could trust.

Garcia, on the other hand, was a force of nature.

“Okay, Miss Mysterious, you are coming to Rossi’s this weekend, and I will not take no for an answer,” she declared one Friday afternoon, her hands on her hips.

You tried to protest, but Garcia had a way of steamrolling right over you. Before you knew it, you were at Rossi’s house that Saturday evening, surrounded by your team.

Spencer’s POV

He watched from across the room as Y/N sat next to Garcia, a soft laugh escaping her lips as the tech analyst recounted some over-the-top story. It was the first time he’d seen Y/N genuinely relaxed, her quiet demeanor giving way to something brighter.

She caught his gaze and smiled hesitantly.

Spencer felt his heart skip a beat.

Reader’s POV

Rossi’s house felt warm in a way you hadn’t expected. The deep wood tones, the glowing fire in the hearth, and the hum of your team’s laughter filled the space with an almost familial intimacy. You’d arrived tense, unsure of how to handle this uncharted territory, but Garcia had stuck by you like glue, coaxing you into conversations with her sunny enthusiasm.

To your surprise, you didn’t mind.

“You’re not allergic to wine, are you?” Garcia asked, pressing a glass into your hand before you could protest. “This is Rossi’s best stuff. Don’t embarrass me by turning it down.”

You gave her a faint smirk and took a small sip, letting the rich flavor spread across your tongue. “It’s good.”

“Good?” Rossi barked from across the room. “That’s a $300 bottle! Show some respect!”

You startled, but Morgan waved him off. “Don’t let him scare you, Y/N. Rossi says that about every bottle he pulls out of his cellar.”

The group laughed, and you felt yourself relax by a fraction. You didn’t belong here, not fully—not yet—but it was nice to pretend for a little while.

It wasn’t until later in the evening, when the group had spread out into smaller clusters, that you found yourself wandering onto Rossi’s back patio. The cool night air was a relief after the heat of the crowded living room, and you leaned against the railing, gazing out at the sprawling yard.

The sound of the door opening behind you made you glance back. Spencer stepped outside, a mug in hand.

“Coffee?” you asked, eyebrows raised.

He nodded sheepishly. “I don’t drink, so… this is my go-to.”

You turned back to the yard. “Makes sense.”

Spencer hesitated before moving to stand beside you. For a moment, the two of you stood in silence, the faint hum of conversation from inside fading into the background.

“You handled yourself well tonight,” he said finally.

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

“With the team,” he clarified, his gaze flicking to yours. “I know how overwhelming it can be. They’re… intense.”

A small laugh escaped you. “That’s one way to put it.”

He smiled at that, his face softening in a way that made your chest ache.

“I’m not great at these things either,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “Social gatherings, I mean. But… it gets easier.”

“Does it?” you asked, surprising even yourself with the vulnerability in your tone.

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “They’re good people. It just takes time to feel like you belong.”

You studied him for a moment, his profile outlined by the soft glow of the patio lights. It was strange, how he seemed to understand you in a way that no one else had tried to.

“Thanks, Spencer,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned to you fully, his eyes searching yours. “For what?”

“For… being you, I guess.”

His brow furrowed, but before he could respond, Garcia’s voice rang out from the doorway.

“There you are, lovebirds! C’mon, it’s picture time!”

You flushed, stepping back instinctively, but Spencer’s soft chuckle eased your embarrassment.

“Let’s not keep her waiting,” he said, gesturing toward the door.

As the two of you returned to the chaos inside, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, you were starting to belong after all.

Spencer’s POV

The next few weeks were… different.

Y/N was still reserved, but something had shifted. She smiled more, lingered a little longer when the team joked around, and even initiated conversations once or twice.

Spencer found himself drawn to her even more. He wasn’t sure when his interest had crossed into something deeper—maybe it was the way her eyes lit up when she talked about a case, or how she always seemed to carry herself with quiet determination.

What he did know was that he wanted to spend more time with her.

Reader’s POV

It was late when you returned to the office after a long day in the field. Most of the team had gone home, but the glow from Spencer’s desk lamp caught your eye as you passed by.

“You’re still here?” you asked, leaning against the doorway.

He looked up, startled. “Oh, yeah. Just… catching up on paperwork.”

You hesitated before stepping into the room. “Do you want some company?”

Spencer blinked at you, clearly surprised, but he nodded. “Sure.”

You pulled a chair up beside him, glancing at the neat stacks of files on his desk. “You’re ridiculously organized, you know that?”

He chuckled. “Comes with the territory.”

For a while, the two of you worked in companionable silence, the quiet hum of the office almost soothing. It wasn’t until you reached for a file at the same time that your hands brushed, and you both froze.

“Sorry,” you muttered, pulling back quickly.

“No, it’s—” He cleared his throat. “It’s fine.”

Your eyes met, and for a brief moment, the air between you felt charged with something unspoken. But then the moment passed, and you both returned to your work, your hearts beating just a little faster.

Reader’s POV

The call came in at 3 a.m., pulling you out of a restless sleep. By the time you arrived at the BAU office, coffee in hand and exhaustion tugging at your limbs, the rest of the team was already gathered in the briefing room.

“Morning, sunshine,” Garcia greeted with mock cheerfulness as you slid into your seat.

“Morning,” you mumbled back, earning a sympathetic smile from her.

Hotch wasted no time launching into the details. “We’ve got three bodies in the last week, all women in their early twenties. Each victim was abducted, kept for approximately 48 hours, and then left in a public location. The cause of death is strangulation. The local PD in Richmond has requested our assistance.”

As the photos of the victims flashed across the screen, your stomach tightened. Young, bright faces extinguished too soon.

“Are we looking at someone who knew them?” you asked, your voice steady despite the knot forming in your gut.

JJ shook her head. “The victims don’t seem to have any connections to each other. Different neighborhoods, different jobs, no shared social circles.”

“So we’re dealing with an unsub who’s opportunistic,” Rossi said, leaning back in his chair.

“Most likely,” Spencer chimed in. “The cooling-off period is short, which could indicate a lack of control or a growing compulsion.”

As the team delved into theories and assigned tasks, you felt Spencer’s gaze linger on you for a moment. When you glanced his way, he offered a faint nod, as if to say, We’ve got this.

Spencer’s POV

Something about this case felt different.

It wasn’t the pattern—he’d seen similar cases before—but the look in Y/N’s eyes as she examined the crime scene photos. She was usually composed, but there was a flicker of something raw beneath her quiet exterior.

“Spence?” JJ’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “You ready to head to the ME’s office?”

He nodded quickly, grabbing his bag. As they left, he caught sight of Y/N slipping into the SUV with Morgan and Rossi, her expression unreadable.

Reader’s POV

The first day in Richmond was grueling. You’d interviewed families of the victims, combed through hours of CCTV footage, and spent far too long staring at a map of potential dump sites. By the time the team regrouped at the precinct that evening, the weight of the case was pressing down on you like a vice.

“Y/N,” Spencer said softly as you sat down at a desk in the corner, your head in your hands.

You looked up to find him holding out a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” you murmured, taking it from him.

He hesitated before sitting beside you. “You okay?”

You nodded, though the lump in your throat betrayed you. “It’s just… hard. They’re so young.”

Spencer’s expression softened. “It’s okay to feel that way. It means you care.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “How do you deal with it? Knowing that… we can’t save them all?”

“I remind myself that we can save the next one,” he said quietly. “That’s what keeps me going.”

His words settled over you like a balm, easing some of the tension in your chest.

“Thanks, Spencer,” you said after a moment.

He offered a small smile. “Anytime.”

The break came on the second day. Spencer had been poring over geographical profiles when he noticed a pattern in the unsub’s movements—a cluster of locations that centered around a local park.

“It’s a comfort zone,” he explained as the team gathered around. “The unsub likely lives or works nearby.”

With Garcia’s help, you narrowed down a list of potential suspects. One name stood out: Michael Devlin, a maintenance worker with a history of domestic violence.

“We’ve got enough for a warrant,” Hotch said, his voice clipped. “Morgan, Rossi, Y/N—head to his residence. Reid, JJ, and I will coordinate with SWAT in case he runs.”

Your heart pounded as you pulled on your vest and climbed into the SUV. The tension was palpable as Morgan briefed the team on the way to Devlin’s house.

“He’s dangerous, but he’s not expecting us,” Morgan said. “Stay sharp.”

The house was eerily quiet when you arrived. Morgan motioned for you to take the back while he and Rossi approached the front.

Gun drawn, you moved silently around the perimeter, your pulse thrumming in your ears. A faint noise from inside made you freeze—a muffled cry.

You signaled to Morgan, who nodded and motioned for you to breach the back door.

The next moments were a blur. The door splintered under your weight, and you swept through the darkened hallway, your flashlight cutting through the gloom.

“FBI!” you shouted. “Hands in the air!”

In the basement, you found Devlin with his latest victim—a young woman, bound and gagged but alive. Devlin lunged toward her, but you didn’t hesitate. One precise shot to his leg sent him crumpling to the ground.

“Suspect down!” you called, rushing to the woman’s side.

Morgan and Rossi were there seconds later, securing Devlin while you freed the woman.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, your hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through you. “You’re safe now.”

The team returned to the hotel late that night, exhausted but victorious. You’d saved someone.

As you sat on the edge of your bed, the weight of the day finally caught up to you. A knock at the door startled you, and when you opened it, you found Spencer standing there.

“I thought you might want some company,” he said, holding up a bag of takeout.

You stepped aside, letting him in.

The two of you sat in companionable silence, the unspoken bond between you stronger than ever.

“You did good today,” Spencer said softly, breaking the silence.

“So did you,” you replied, meeting his gaze.

For a moment, neither of you looked away. The air felt charged again, but this time, you didn’t retreat.

“Thank you,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Spencer’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Anytime.”

The weeks following the Richmond case brought you and Spencer closer in ways you hadn’t anticipated. It wasn’t anything dramatic—no sweeping gestures or long, soul-baring conversations. Instead, it was the little moments that built a quiet, steady foundation.

You started spending more time at his desk between cases, initially just to borrow books or bounce ideas off him, but it became something more. A shared cup of coffee here, a late-night brainstorming session there. The rest of the team noticed, of course, but they didn’t say much—except for Garcia, who gave you a sly wink whenever she caught you lingering near Spencer.

It wasn’t just Spencer, though. You were starting to feel more connected to the entire team. Rossi’s dry humor, Morgan’s teasing camaraderie, JJ’s quiet support, and Garcia’s unrelenting cheerfulness—all of it felt like pieces of a puzzle finally snapping into place.

But Spencer… he was different.

Spencer’s POV

It had become second nature to seek out Y/N when he needed a fresh perspective. Her sharp mind complemented his own, and her methodical approach often helped him piece together details he might have overlooked.

But it wasn’t just her intelligence that drew him in—it was the way she listened. Spencer wasn’t used to people really listening when he rambled about obscure facts or spiraled into tangents. Y/N didn’t just tolerate it; she seemed genuinely interested, even when he went off-topic.

He found himself looking for excuses to talk to her, whether it was about a case, a book, or even something as mundane as coffee preferences.

“You’re spending a lot of time with our newbie,” Morgan teased one afternoon as Spencer returned to his desk.

Spencer bristled. “We’re just… working well together.”

Morgan’s grin widened. “Sure you are, kid. Sure you are.”

Spencer tried to ignore him, but the comment stuck in his mind for the rest of the day. Was it really so obvious?

Reader’s POV

The next case was in Chicago—three bodies were found in abandoned buildings, each with eerily similar staging. The unsub was methodical, leaving almost no evidence behind. It wasn’t until the fourth victim was found that a pattern began to emerge.

“We’re looking at someone with a background in construction or architecture,” you said during the briefing, pointing to the detailed layout drawn on the whiteboard. “Each site was chosen for its isolation and structural integrity. He’s not just picking random locations; he’s planning this down to the last detail.”

Spencer nodded, adding to your analysis. “It’s possible he sees himself as an artist. The staging suggests a need for control, but also a desire for recognition. He’s leaving a signature.”

Hotch glanced between the two of you. “Work with Garcia to identify anyone with the right skill set and a history of violence. We need to narrow this down before he strikes again.”

You and Spencer were paired up to interview a potential suspect—a reclusive architect with a history of volatile behavior. As you drove through the quiet streets of Chicago, the conversation drifted to more personal topics.

“Do you miss it?” Spencer asked suddenly, his gaze focused on the road ahead.

“Miss what?”

“The academy,” he clarified. “Before the field. Before…” He gestured vaguely.

You considered the question for a moment. “Not really. I mean, it was challenging, but I always knew I wanted to be out here, making a difference. What about you? Do you miss… normalcy?”

Spencer laughed softly. “I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced normalcy. But I think I’ve found something better.”

His words hung in the air, and you felt your chest tighten.

Before you could respond, the GPS announced your arrival, pulling you back to the present.

The interview didn’t yield much—your suspect was uncooperative, but there wasn’t enough evidence to hold him. As you and Spencer left the building, the frustration was palpable.

“He’s hiding something,” you muttered as you walked to the car.

Spencer nodded. “Agreed. But without concrete evidence, we can’t—”

A sharp noise interrupted him—a metallic clang, followed by a figure darting into the alley beside the building.

“Stay here,” you said instinctively, drawing your weapon.

“Wait—” Spencer started to protest, but you were already moving.

The alley was narrow and dimly lit, and the figure was fast, but your training kicked in. You rounded a corner just in time to see the man scaling a fence.

“FBI! Stop!”

He didn’t.

You followed, adrenaline surging as you climbed the fence and hit the ground running. The suspect turned sharply, heading into an abandoned warehouse.

You slowed as you entered, your heart pounding. The faint sound of footsteps echoed through the cavernous space.

“Y/N!” Spencer’s voice called from behind you, and you turned to see him catching up, his own weapon drawn.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said, your voice tight.

“And let you go in alone? Not a chance.”

Before you could argue, the suspect lunged from the shadows. Spencer reacted instantly, stepping between you and the attacker. The fight was brief but chaotic, and by the time you secured the suspect with cuffs, your hands were trembling.

“Are you okay?” Spencer asked, his eyes scanning you for injuries.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, though your heart was still racing. “You?”

He nodded, his expression softening. “I’m fine.”

For a moment, you just stood there, the weight of the encounter settling over you. Then, without thinking, you reached out and placed a hand on his arm.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

Spencer’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Anytime.”

The suspect turned out to be a crucial lead, and the case wrapped up soon after. On the flight home, you found yourself sitting beside Spencer, the two of you poring over a book he’d brought.

“You’re starting to remind me of Reid 2.0,” Morgan teased as he walked by.

You rolled your eyes, but Spencer smiled.

“Is that such a bad thing?” you asked, glancing at Spencer.

He shook his head, his expression unreadable. “Not at all.”

As the plane soared through the clouds, you couldn’t help but feel that your partnership with Spencer was becoming something more—something you weren’t quite ready to name yet, but something that felt right all the same.

(Next Case)

The case had felt off from the start.

You’d arrived in a small Colorado town after two young women disappeared within days of each other. The unsub had a clear pattern—abducting women in their twenties, keeping them for a few days, and leaving their mutilated bodies in remote areas.

You’d all felt the clock ticking with each passing hour. But even as the team worked tirelessly to profile the unsub and narrow down suspects, you couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong—something you couldn’t quite put into words.

You were walking back to the SUV alone after canvassing a witness when it happened.

A sharp sting at the base of your neck.

Then, darkness.

Spencer’s POV

“She should have been back by now,” Spencer said, his voice tight with worry.

The team had regrouped at the precinct, but Y/N’s absence was glaring. She’d been checking in regularly all day, but her last update had come nearly an hour ago.

“She probably just got held up with a witness,” Morgan offered, though even he sounded unconvinced.

“No,” Spencer said, his jaw clenched. “Something’s wrong.”

Garcia’s voice crackled through the speakerphone. “I’ve got her GPS! It’s… oh, no. It’s not moving. Her phone’s near a deserted building on the outskirts of town.”

Hotch didn’t hesitate. “Morgan, Reid, let’s go. JJ, Rossi, stay here and coordinate with the local PD. Garcia, keep tracking her phone.”

Spencer’s chest tightened as they raced toward the location, dread clawing at his insides.

Reader’s POV

You woke to blinding pain.

Your arms were wrenched behind you, your wrists bound with coarse rope that cut into your skin. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of a single bulb overhead.

A figure loomed above you, his face obscured.

“Finally awake,” he said, his voice calm, almost casual.

You struggled against the restraints, your breath coming in sharp gasps.

“Don’t bother,” the man said, crouching to meet your gaze. “It’s just you and me now. And I don’t like it when people scream.”

He raised something shiny—a blade—and you froze.

The first cut was shallow, a deliberate line across your arm. Pain bloomed, sharp and hot, and you bit down hard on your lip to keep from crying out.

“Good,” he murmured. “You’re strong. Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Time became a blur after that. The pain was relentless—cuts, bruises, burns. He was methodical, asking questions he didn’t seem to care if you answered. You tried to focus on anything else—your training, the team, Spencer—but the agony kept dragging you back.

At some point, you lose consciousness again.

Spencer’s POV

When they found you, Spencer nearly collapsed with relief—and horror.

You were slumped in the corner of the room, your clothes torn and blood staining your skin. Cuts and bruises covered your body, and your face was pale, almost unrecognizable.

“Y/N!” Spencer was the first to reach you, dropping to his knees beside you.

Your eyes fluttered open, but there was no recognition in them, only fear.

“It’s me,” he said softly, his voice breaking. “It’s Spencer. You’re safe now.”

Your lips moved, but no sound came out.

Hotch and Morgan secured the unsub, who was screaming as they dragged him out of the building. Spencer barely registered it. All he could focus on was you—broken, fragile, and trembling in his arms.

Reader’s POV

The ride to the hospital was a blur. You were dimly aware of Spencer’s hand gripping yours, his voice low and soothing as he spoke to you, though you couldn’t make out the words.

The pain was overwhelming, but worse than that was the fear—the raw, unrelenting terror that you were still there, still in that room.

It wasn’t until you were in the hospital, surrounded by the sterile smell of antiseptic and the soft hum of machines, that you began to feel grounded again.

Spencer stayed by your side the entire time.

You didn’t want to go home.

The thought of returning to the BAU, to the same desks and faces, felt impossible. But Hotch had insisted you needed to recover somewhere familiar, and the team had gently assured you they’d be there every step of the way.

You sat alone on the plane, staring out the window, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself. The team kept their distance, speaking in hushed tones as they gave you space.

You hated how broken you felt. You hated the way the memories of that room kept flashing through your mind, the way your skin still crawled despite the warm blanket Garcia had draped over your shoulders.

And yet, when Spencer moved to sit beside you, you didn’t pull away.

You stayed silent as he settled in, the faint scent of his cologne reaching you. After a long moment, you leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

Spencer stiffened for half a second before relaxing, his arm curling around you protectively. He didn’t say anything—didn’t need to.

The rest of the team exchanged quiet glances but said nothing. They knew better than to interrupt.

For the first time since the ordeal, you felt… safe.

Spencer’s POV

She didn’t say a word the entire flight, but Spencer didn’t mind.

When she’d leaned into him, something in his chest had cracked open. He didn’t know what to say or do, but he knew he’d do anything to protect her from feeling that way again.

As the plane descended toward Quantico, he tightened his arm around her, silently promising her—and himself—that he’d be there for her, no matter what.

Reader’s POV

Recovery wasn’t linear.

You thought it might be—thought you could box up what happened and file it away in some corner of your mind. But the scars on your body weren’t just physical, and no matter how hard you tried, the memories of that room clung to you like smoke, thick and suffocating.

You barely left your apartment in the weeks after the case. The team gave you space but stayed present in small ways: a text from JJ checking in, a phone call from Morgan offering to bring dinner, Rossi dropping off an expensive bottle of wine “for when you’re ready.”

But Spencer and Garcia… they were different.

They didn’t just check-in. They showed up.

It started with the nightmares.

They came like clockwork, dragging you from sleep with a gasp and leaving you trembling in the dark. At first, you tried to handle them on your own. You’d curl up on the couch with a blanket, the TV murmuring softly in the background as you willed yourself to calm down.

But after one particularly bad night, your hands shaking so hard you couldn’t hold the phone steady, you called Spencer.

He answered on the second ring, his voice groggy but alert. “Y/N?”

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammered, immediately regretting the call. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t apologize,” he interrupted gently. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. But he waited, his patience endless.

“I had a nightmare,” you admitted finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

There was a pause, then: “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the line had already gone dead.

When Spencer showed up at your door, his hair mussed and his sweater slightly wrinkled, you felt a pang of guilt.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did,” he said firmly, stepping inside.

He didn’t press you to talk about the nightmare. Instead, he made tea while you curled up on the couch, his calm presence enough to ground you. He stayed until the sun came up, his hand resting lightly on your arm as you drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep.

That became your new normal. Every time the nightmares came, Spencer would be there, no matter the hour.

Garcia was the first to call you out on your self-imposed isolation.

“Okay, honey, I love you, but you’re starting to worry me,” she said one afternoon, her voice tinged with concern.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, though even you didn’t believe it.

“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly unconvinced. “So fine that you’ve become a hermit. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m just… not ready to go out yet.”

Garcia was quiet for a moment, then her tone brightened. “Alright, challenge accepted. If you won’t go to the world, the world will come to you.”

The next day, Spencer and Garcia showed up at your apartment with an armful of books.

“Welcome to the world’s tiniest bookstore,” Garcia announced, sweeping into your living room like a tornado.

“I may have gone a little overboard,” Spencer admitted, setting the books down on your coffee table.

“A little?” Garcia scoffed. “Reid, this isn’t overboard—it’s a full-on invasion.”

You couldn’t help but laugh as you flipped through the stack, your chest tightening at the sight of your favorite titles mixed in with a few new ones.

“You guys didn’t have to do this,” you said, your voice thick with emotion.

Garcia waved you off. “Please. This is nothing compared to the epic coffee shop we’re planning for tomorrow.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Coffee shop?”

“Just wait,” Spencer said with a small smile.

The next morning, your living room was transformed.

Garcia had brought fairy lights, a Bluetooth speaker, and pastries from your favorite bakery. Spencer had set up a coffee station, complete with syrups and a milk frother.

“Order up!” Garcia called, handing you a steaming cup of your favorite drink.

You curled up in your armchair, the faint sound of jazz playing in the background as you sipped your coffee. For the first time in weeks, you felt a flicker of something like peace.

It was Spencer’s idea to bring the theater to you.

He showed up one evening with Garcia in tow, a projector tucked under his arm and a bag of popcorn balanced precariously in Garcia’s hands.

“Movie night!” Garcia declared, dropping the popcorn onto your kitchen counter.

“What’s all this?” you asked, watching as Spencer set up the projector.

“Well, we figured since you’re not quite ready to hit the theaters yet, we’d bring the theaters to you,” he said, his tone casual but his eyes warm.

They went all out, dimming the lights and piling your couch with blankets and pillows. Spencer even gave a little lecture about the history of film before the movie started, earning an affectionate eye-roll from Garcia.

By the time the credits rolled, you were smiling—a real, genuine smile—and for the first time since the case, you felt like yourself again.

You weren’t fully healed. The nightmares still came, and there were moments when the memories felt too heavy to bear. But Spencer and Garcia didn’t let you carry it alone.

With every late-night visit, every carefully planned surprise, they reminded you that you weren’t broken. You were still you, even if it took time to feel whole again.

One night, as you sat on the couch with Spencer beside you, your head resting on his shoulder, you found yourself whispering, “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked, his voice soft.

“For… everything,” you said, your words faltering but earnest.

He didn’t respond right away, but his arm tightened around you.

“Anytime,” he said, and you knew he meant it.

The turning point came on a quiet Thursday night when the weight of everything finally broke through the walls you’d built around yourself.

It started innocuously enough. Spencer had come over, as he often did, with takeout from your favorite Thai place and a new book he thought you’d enjoy. The two of you had eaten in companionable silence, the TV murmuring in the background as the sky outside darkened.

You hadn’t planned to say anything. You hadn’t planned for any of it.

But then Spencer said something—something small and offhand about how strong you were—and it hit you like a freight train.

The tears came suddenly, unstoppable.

Spencer’s POV

He’d never seen her cry before.

Not during cases, not after the ordeal in Colorado, not even during the nightmares that haunted her nights. She’d always held herself together with an almost unnerving composure, her pain buried so deeply that even Spencer, with all his insight, couldn’t reach it.

But now, as she sat across from him on the couch, her head in her hands and her shoulders shaking with silent sobs, Spencer felt utterly helpless.

“Y/N,” he said softly, setting his food aside and leaning toward her. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head, her voice muffled. “I—I can’t…”

“Can’t what?” he pressed gently.

“I can’t keep pretending I’m okay,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m not okay, Spencer. I keep telling myself to move on, to be strong, but I—I don’t know how.”

Her admission shattered something in him.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he said, his voice steady despite the ache in his chest. “Not with me. Not with any of us.”

She looked up at him then, her eyes red and shining with tears. “But what if I never feel normal again? What if I’m always this… broken?”

Spencer didn’t hesitate. He reached out, his hands enveloping hers.

“You’re not broken,” he said firmly. “You’re healing. And healing isn’t linear—it’s messy and hard, and sometimes it feels impossible. But you’re not alone in this. I’m here. We’re all here.”

For a long moment, she just stared at him, her breath hitching. Then, slowly, she let herself lean into him, her forehead resting against his shoulder.

Spencer held her carefully, his arms wrapping around her as though she might shatter.

“You’re going to be okay,” he murmured. “I promise.”

Reader’s POV

It felt like something had shifted that night.

You’d spent so long keeping your pain locked away, afraid that letting it out would make you weak, make you a burden. But Spencer hadn’t turned away. He’d held you, his presence steady and unwavering, and for the first time in weeks, you felt like you could breathe.

Over the next few days, you found yourself opening up to him in ways you hadn’t before. Little things at first—a comment about how much you missed running, a quiet confession about a song that made you cry. And then bigger things, like the fear that still gripped you every time you stepped outside, or the way your scars made you feel like a stranger in your own skin.

Spencer listened to it all, never interrupting, never judging.

And when the words ran out, he simply stayed.

The real turning point came a few weeks later, when you found yourself standing in your kitchen with Spencer, the two of you cooking dinner together.

You’d insisted on making something from scratch, though Spencer had warned you that his cooking skills were questionable at best. He was carefully chopping vegetables under your watchful eye when he suddenly stopped, his brow furrowing.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

He hesitated, his gaze flicking to you. “I was just… thinking about how different things are now.”

“Different how?”

He set the knife down, leaning against the counter. “When you first joined the team, you were so… reserved. It felt like you were carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. And after Colorado, I thought…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“You thought what?” you prompted, your voice soft.

“I thought I might lose you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

The air between you seemed to shift, the unspoken tension that had been building for weeks finally coming to a head.

“You didn’t lose me,” you said quietly.

Spencer met your gaze, his eyes searching yours. “But I almost did. And it made me realize how much you mean to me.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I know this might not be the right time,” he continued, his voice steady but laced with vulnerability. “And I don’t want to make you feel pressured. But… I care about you, Y/N. More than I think I even realized until now.”

For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest.

Then, slowly, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his.

“I care about you too,” you said, your voice trembling. “More than I’ve let myself admit.”

Spencer’s expression softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“We don’t have to rush this,” he said. “Whatever you need—however long it takes—I’ll be here.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but this time, they weren’t from pain.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Spencer squeezed your hand gently, his presence grounding you once again.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight on your chest began to lift.

In the weeks that followed, the fragile threads of your connection with Spencer began to weave into something stronger. There were no grand declarations or dramatic shifts—just quiet, intimate moments that built on the foundation you’d already created.

The nightmares still came, though less frequently now. Spencer was always there when you needed him, showing up at your door with that same gentle determination. But the dynamic had subtly changed.

One night, after a particularly vivid dream, you didn’t wait for him to pull out his phone or suggest tea. Instead, you moved closer on the couch, resting your head against his chest.

His arms came around you instantly, holding you securely as his steady heartbeat anchored you to the present.

“Better?” he murmured after a while, his voice low and soothing.

You nodded against him, your fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his sweater. “Better.”

From then on, it became your unspoken ritual. Spencer would hold you through the worst of it, and when the panic began to fade, you’d sit together in comfortable silence, your breaths syncing as the weight of the dream dissipated.

One evening, as the two of you sat at your kitchen table playing chess—well, he was playing chess, and you were doing your best to keep up—Spencer spoke quietly, his gaze fixed on the board.

“You know,” he said, moving a pawn, “I’ve never been very good at relationships.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? I find that hard to believe.”

He gave a self-deprecating smile. “It’s true. My job, my… personality—it doesn’t exactly make things easy. But with you, it feels… different.”

“Different how?” you asked, leaning your chin on your hand as you studied his face.

He hesitated, then met your gaze. “Like I don’t have to try so hard to be understood.”

Your chest tightened at his words. “You don’t,” you said softly.

The corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smile, and you knew you’d said exactly what he needed to hear.

Spencer showed his affection in quiet ways.

He’d slip a bookmark into the pages of your latest read with a handwritten note—a quote he thought you’d like or a simple “this reminded me of you.”

He’d remember your favorite tea and make sure the cupboard was always stocked, even if it meant sneaking a box into your cart during a grocery run.

He’d lend you his scarf on cold mornings, looping it around your neck with an almost reverent care.

You found yourself returning the favor in your own subtle ways. You’d leave post-it notes on his bookshelves with little comments about the titles you borrowed, enjoying the way he’d chuckle when he found them.

You’d teach him how to cook simple meals, laughing as he fumbled with the stove but never letting him give up.

And once, after he’d spent an exhausting day at the BAU, you’d shown up at his apartment with takeout and a copy of his favorite movie, sitting with him on the couch until he finally let himself relax.

The turning point in your growing relationship came during a particularly hard day at work. The case had been brutal, dredging up memories you’d tried to bury, and you’d found yourself withdrawing again.

Spencer noticed immediately.

“Y/N,” he said gently as the two of you worked late in the bullpen, the rest of the team long gone. “Talk to me.”

You hesitated, your hands tightening around the file in front of you. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t press, but his silence spoke volumes.

Finally, you set the file aside and looked at him. “It’s just… this case. It reminds me of Colorado. And I thought I was past that, but…” You trailed off, the words sticking in your throat.

Spencer reached across the desk, his hand brushing against yours. “Healing isn’t a straight line,” he said softly. “You’re allowed to have bad days.”

You swallowed hard, his understanding breaking through your defenses. “I don’t know how you always know exactly what to say.”

He gave a small shrug, his fingers curling around yours. “Maybe it’s because I know what it’s like to feel broken. And I know how much it helps to have someone who understands.”

You held his gaze, something unspoken passing between you. “Thank you,” you whispered.

“Always,” he said, his voice steady.

It happened on a quiet Sunday afternoon, as the two of you sat on your couch reading. The sunlight streamed through the window, casting a golden glow over the room.

You weren’t sure what prompted it—maybe it was the way Spencer had leaned closer to point something out in your book, or the way his hand lingered on yours for a beat too long.

Whatever it was, when you turned to look at him, you found him already watching you.

“Spencer,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze flicked to your lips, and for a moment, you thought he might pull back. But then, slowly, hesitantly, he leaned in.

The kiss was gentle at first, tentative and unsure. But as you relaxed into him, his hand came up to cup your cheek, deepening the connection.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads resting together, you couldn’t help but smile.

“That was…” you began, struggling to find the words.

“Long overdue?” he finished, his lips quirking in a shy smile.

You laughed softly, nodding. “Yeah. Long overdue.”

From that moment on, things felt… lighter.

You still had bad days, and Spencer still had his own struggles, but together, you found a balance. The quiet intimacy you’d built over months became the foundation for something stronger, something unshakable.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you could face whatever came next—because you weren’t alone anymore.

Being with Spencer wasn’t like anything you’d experienced before.

It wasn’t a whirlwind romance filled with grand gestures or dramatic declarations. It was quiet, steady, and deeply rooted in trust. Spencer was the kind of person who noticed the small things—when you were fidgeting with your hands because you were nervous when you couldn’t quite meet his eyes because something was weighing on you, when your lips twitched ever so slightly at a joke you pretended not to find funny.

And, in return, you began to notice him.

The way he’d drum his fingers on his desk when he was deep in thought. The way he’d tilt his head slightly when he was about to say something he thought might make him sound awkward. The way his eyes lit up whenever you spoke, as though nothing else in the world mattered.

It was terrifying and comforting all at once, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Spencer’s POV

Spencer wasn’t used to feeling this… settled.

He’d been in relationships before, but none of them felt like this. With Y/N, he didn’t feel the need to explain himself or hold back parts of who he was. She saw him—really saw him—and still chose to stay.

It scared him sometimes, the intensity of his feelings for her. But then she’d laugh at one of his rambling stories, or brush a strand of hair out of his face with a soft smile, and all his fears would melt away.

He didn’t know where this was going, but for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t afraid to find out.

One rare day off, Spencer showed up at your apartment with a grin that immediately set you on edge.

“What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Put your shoes on,” he said, his tone practically vibrating with excitement.

You frowned. “Why? Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” he said cryptically, rocking back on his heels.

You groaned, but his enthusiasm was infectious, and you found yourself grabbing your jacket.

The “surprise” turned out to be a day at a local botanical garden. Spencer’s excitement was almost childlike as he led you through the winding paths, pointing out rare plants and rattling off facts about their origins.

“This one,” he said, stopping in front of a sprawling orchid, “is called Paphiopedilum rothschildianum. It’s one of the rarest orchids in the world and can take up to 15 years to bloom.”

You tilted your head, pretending to be unimpressed. “That’s nice, but can it make coffee?”

Spencer chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll add that to my list of criteria for impressive plants.”

Despite your teasing, you found yourself captivated by his passion. Watching him light up over something so simple was a reminder of why you cared for him so deeply.

Later, as you sat together on a bench surrounded by blooming flowers, Spencer reached for your hand.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“For what?” you asked, genuinely puzzled.

“For letting me share this with you,” he said, his voice earnest.

Your chest tightened, and you squeezed his hand. “Always.”

Dating someone you worked with was tricky, especially at the BAU, where boundaries between personal and professional were already blurry.

You and Spencer had agreed to keep your relationship private—for now, at least. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust the team, but you both valued the quiet intimacy of what you’d built and weren’t ready to share it yet.

Still, there were moments when it was hard to hide.

Like when Spencer brought you coffee in the middle of a particularly stressful day and lingered just a little too long by your desk.

Or when Garcia caught the two of you exchanging a look across the bullpen and immediately raised an eyebrow.

“Spill,” she whispered to you later, cornering you in the break room.

“Spill what?” you asked innocently, though your cheeks betrayed you by turning red.

Garcia narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh. You’re lucky I love you, or I’d make it my personal mission to find out what you’re hiding.”

You laughed nervously and quickly changed the subject.

The first argument you and Spencer had wasn’t dramatic, but it rattled you nonetheless.

It started over something small—he’d forgotten to text you after a particularly dangerous case, and you’d spent the night worrying.

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Spencer said, his voice tinged with frustration as you stood in your living room. “I was just… caught up in the aftermath.”

“I get that,” you said, your arms crossed. “But you know how I feel about not knowing if you’re okay.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not used to this,” he admitted. “Having someone who worries about me.”

The vulnerability in his voice softened your anger, and you stepped closer, your expression gentler.

“I’m not trying to smother you,” you said quietly. “I just… I care about you, and I need to know you’re safe.”

Spencer’s shoulders sagged, and he nodded. “I’ll do better,” he said, his voice soft. “I promise.”

You reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “That’s all I ask.”

The tension melted, and as Spencer pulled you into his arms, you realized that even your arguments brought you closer.

As the months went on, your relationship deepened in ways you hadn’t thought possible. Spencer became your safe haven, the person you turned to in your darkest moments. And in turn, you became his—a steady presence in a world that often felt overwhelming.

There were still challenges, of course. The job was unforgiving, and your own lingering fears sometimes crept back in. But with Spencer by your side, you felt stronger—more capable of facing whatever came your way.

One night, as you lay in bed together, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your arm, he spoke softly.

“I love you.”

The words were quiet, almost hesitant, but they hit you like a tidal wave.

You turned to face him, your heart pounding. “I love you too,” you said, your voice steady despite the tears welling in your eyes.

Spencer’s lips curved into a small smile, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

In that moment, you knew you’d found something rare—something worth holding onto with everything you had.

It wasn’t like you and Spencer were trying to hide your relationship, exactly. You just… hadn’t told anyone yet. There was something comforting about keeping it to yourselves, about having a part of your lives that existed outside the chaos of the BAU.

But the team wasn’t made up of fools.

Between Garcia’s laser focus, Morgan’s teasing intuition, and JJ’s quiet observations, it was only a matter of time before someone put the pieces together.

The unraveling began on a Wednesday afternoon when Garcia came storming into the bullpen, waving her phone like a sword.

“Explain this to me!” she demanded, stopping in front of your desk.

You blinked up at her, confused. “Explain what?”

“This!” she said, thrusting her phone into your face.

On the screen was a photo Spencer had posted to his rarely-used Instagram: a blurry shot of a chessboard and two coffee cups sitting on a familiar coffee table—your coffee table.

“Why is Reid at your place drinking coffee?” Garcia asked, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

You scrambled for an excuse. “Uh, we were… playing chess. It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal?” Garcia echoed, her tone incredulous. “Reid doesn’t even post pictures of his cat! And now he’s posting pictures from your apartment?”

Before you could respond, Morgan sauntered over, clearly intrigued. “What’s this about Reid and Y/N?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, your face burning.

Morgan raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Sure doesn’t sound like nothing.”

You glared at him, but before the conversation could go any further, Hotch called everyone into the briefing room, saving you from further interrogation.

For now.

___________________________________________________________

The second slip came a week later when the team was out on a case in Seattle. You and Spencer had ended up sharing a room at the hotel due to a booking error, and you thought nothing of it. After all, you’d spent countless nights together—this was no different.

Except it was.

When Garcia called Spencer for an update, you could hear her voice loud and clear through the phone.

“Wait, what?” she screeched. “You’re sharing a room with Y/N?!”

“It’s not a big deal,” Spencer said, his tone even.

“Not a big deal?” Garcia repeated, her voice rising in pitch. “Are you two—oh my God. You are, aren’t you?!”

Spencer’s eyes darted to you, his face a mix of panic and amusement. “Garcia, can we focus on the case?”

“Oh, we’ll talk about this later,” she said ominously before hanging up.

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “She knows.”

“She suspects,” Spencer corrected, though he didn’t look particularly convinced.

___________________________________________________________

It all came to a head during one of Rossi’s famous dinners.

You and Spencer had arrived together, as usual, but this time, you’d carpooled, which immediately caught JJ’s attention.

“Did you two come together?” she asked casually as you handed her your coat.

“Uh, yeah,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant. “It was just easier.”

“Right,” JJ said, her smile a little too knowing.

The evening went smoothly—until it didn’t.

You were helping Spencer carry dishes into the kitchen when Garcia cornered you, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“You know, you two make a terrible couple,” she said, her tone dripping with faux innocence.

You froze, a plate halfway to the sink. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on,” Garcia said, waving a hand. “We all know. You and Reid are about as subtle as a neon sign.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could, Morgan walked in with a wide grin.

“What’d I miss?”

“Garcia’s accusing me of dating Spencer,” you said, your voice a little too defensive.

“Accusing?” Morgan repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Nah, sweetheart, we’re just confirming.”

Your face went red, and you glanced at Spencer for backup, but he just sighed and set the dishes down.

“They’re not wrong,” he said simply.

The room went silent for a beat.

“Wait,” JJ said, walking in with Rossi and Hotch close behind. “Are you serious? You two are together?”

You looked at Spencer, your heart racing. He met your gaze, his expression calm, but you could see the faint tension in his shoulders.

“Yes,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “We’re together.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Garcia’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “I knew it!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Oh my gosh, this is so much better than I imagined. You two are like—like a bookish rom-com come to life!”

“Garcia,” you said, your face burning, “can we not make a big deal out of this?”

“Are you kidding?” she replied, her voice high with excitement. “This is the biggest deal! You and Reid? It’s like finding out Clark Kent and Lois Lane are secretly dating!”

“Technically,” Spencer started, “Lois Lane wasn’t actually aware of—”

“Not the time, Reid,” Morgan said, grinning as he leaned against the counter.

JJ folded her arms, her smile soft. “So how long has this been going on?”

“Uh…” You exchanged a glance with Spencer.

“A few months,” he said, his tone even.

“A few months?” Rossi interjected, his eyebrows raised. “You’ve been hiding this from us for months?”

“It’s not like we were trying to hide it,” you said quickly, your hands fidgeting. “We just… wanted to keep it private for a while.”

Hotch, who had been standing silently in the doorway, finally spoke. “And your relationship isn’t interfering with your work?”

“No, sir,” Spencer said immediately. “We’ve been careful to maintain professionalism in the field.”

Hotch studied the two of you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded. “As long as that remains the case, I have no objections.”

Relief flooded through you, and you gave him a small, grateful smile.

Morgan, however, was clearly enjoying himself. “So, Reid,” he said, clapping Spencer on the shoulder, “you finally made a move, huh? About time.”

Spencer’s face turned pink. “It wasn’t— I mean, we— It wasn’t like that,” he stammered.

“Sure it wasn’t,” Morgan said with a wink. “I’ve been watching you moon over her for months.”

“Morgan!” you protested, your own face heating up.

JJ chuckled. “Don’t let him get to you. We’re happy for you guys. Really.”

Garcia practically bounced on her heels. “Does this mean I can officially call you my favorite BAU couple? Because I’ve been holding back for so long, and—”

“Garcia,” you interrupted, laughing despite yourself, “let’s take it one step at a time, okay?”

Spencer’s POV

The teasing didn’t stop after dinner.

By the time everyone had moved into the living room, Garcia and Morgan were in full swing, grilling the two of you with questions about how you got together.

“Come on, give us something,” Garcia pleaded, her hands clasped dramatically. “Was there a grand romantic confession? A surprise kiss? A late-night stakeout where you realized you couldn’t live without each other?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Spencer said, his face still pink.

“She’s right,” JJ added with a laugh. “If anyone’s earned some privacy, it’s these two.”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Fine, fine. But don’t think this means we’re letting you off the hook completely. I’m keeping an eye on you, Reid.”

“Duly noted,” Spencer said dryly, though his lips twitched in a faint smile.

Reader’s POV

By the end of the night, you were exhausted but relieved. The team’s reactions had been overwhelming at first, but their acceptance and teasing affection had left you feeling lighter than you had in weeks.

As you and Spencer walked to his car, the cool night air brushing against your skin, you glanced at him, your heart full.

“Well, that could’ve gone worse,” you said with a small smile.

Spencer chuckled, unlocking the car. “I think Morgan’s never going to let this go.”

“Probably not,” you agreed, sliding into the passenger seat.

As he started the engine, you reached for his hand, your fingers threading through his.

“Thanks for being honest with them,” you said softly.

Spencer glanced at you, his expression warm. “I wasn’t going to let you handle that alone.”

The drive back to your apartment was quiet but comfortable, the tension of the evening melting away.

When he walked you to your door, you hesitated for a moment before pulling him into a gentle kiss.

“Goodnight, Spencer,” you murmured, your voice soft.

“Goodnight,” he replied, his eyes shining with affection.

As you closed the door behind you, you couldn’t help but smile.

The team knew now, and while things might be different going forward, you felt ready to face it—together.

___________________________________________________________

The team adjusted to your relationship with Spencer in their own ways, but the teasing never let up. It became a new dynamic, woven into the fabric of your daily lives at the BAU, and while it was occasionally embarrassing, you couldn’t deny that it brought a warmth to the team that hadn’t been there before.

___________________________________________________________

Garcia

Garcia, predictably, went all in.

She was ecstatic that her two “favorite nerds” were finally together, and she wasn’t shy about expressing it. She’d leave little notes on your desks with messages like “Lovebirds hard at work!” or “OTP: Reid & Y/N forever” scribbled in glittery pen.

One day, you caught her sneaking a photo of you and Spencer sitting close together during a case briefing.

“Garcia,” you hissed, narrowing your eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” she said, attempting (poorly) to hide her phone.

“Penelope,” Spencer said, his tone exasperated but fond.

“Fine,” she relented with a dramatic sigh. “But you two are too cute, and it’s practically my duty to document it. What if your hypothetical future kids want to see their parents in their adorable early days?”

You buried your face in your hands as Spencer stammered, his ears turning pink.

___________________________________________________________

Morgan

Morgan was relentless in his teasing, but you knew it came from a place of affection.

He had a knack for making both you and Spencer squirm in the most public ways possible.

“Reid,” he called out one morning as you all sat in the bullpen, “did you finally teach Y/N the quadratic formula last night? Or was it more of a hands-on tutoring session?”

You groaned, your face heating up. “Morgan, seriously?”

“What?” Morgan said with a grin. “Just trying to keep the workplace educational.”

Spencer rolled his eyes but shot you a small, reassuring smile. You’d both learned that ignoring Morgan was usually the best defense.

___________________________________________________________

JJ

JJ was quieter about her support but no less kind.

She’d give you subtle smiles when she caught you and Spencer exchanging glances or a soft nudge when the team’s teasing got out of hand.

One day, while you were working on a case together, she leaned in and said, “You’re good for him, you know.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“Spencer’s always been… a little isolated,” she said thoughtfully. “He has us, but he’s never really let someone in the way he’s let you in. It’s good to see him happy.”

Her words stayed with you long after the conversation ended, filling you with a quiet warmth.

___________________________________________________________

Rossi

Rossi was the least vocal about your relationship, but his approval came through in other ways.

He started inviting the two of you to his dinners more frequently, always seating you next to each other and making subtle comments like, “It’s nice to see Reid eating something other than takeout. You must be a good influence, Y/N.”

Once, when you thanked him for the meal as you were leaving, he gave you a knowing look. “Just take care of each other,” he said simply.

You nodded, the weight of his trust settling over you like a blanket.

___________________________________________________________

Hotch

Hotch was, as expected, professional about the whole thing. He never made any overt comments about your relationship but made it clear through his actions that he trusted you both to maintain your professionalism in the field.

That trust came to the forefront during a high-stakes case in New Orleans. You and Spencer were paired together to investigate a lead, and when the situation became tense, Hotch’s calm voice came through the comms.

“Reid, Y/N,” he said, his tone even. “I need you both to stay focused. You’re a team first.”

You could hear the unspoken meaning in his words: I trust you to keep your relationship separate from the job.

When the case wrapped successfully, he pulled you aside.

“You handled yourself well out there,” he said, his expression unreadable.

“Thank you, sir,” you said, standing a little straighter.

His gaze softened slightly. “You and Reid are good for each other. Just don’t let it cloud your judgment when it matters.”

“We won’t,” you promised, meaning every word.

___________________________________________________________

As time went on, your relationship with Spencer became a natural part of the team’s dynamic. The teasing remained, of course—Garcia’s glittery notes, Morgan’s innuendos, and Rossi’s subtle smirks were constants—but there was also an unspoken sense of support that ran deeper than you’d expected.

When cases got tough, the team knew to keep an extra eye on both of you, making sure the weight of the job didn’t pull you down too far. And when things were calm, they celebrated your happiness in their own unique ways, whether it was Garcia baking cupcakes with “R+Y” frosted on top or Morgan giving Spencer a mock toast at Rossi’s next dinner party.

You and Spencer never felt alone in your relationship—not with this group of people who had become your family.

___________________________________________________________

Months turned into a year, and your relationship with Spencer became a steady, unshakable part of your life. What had started as a quiet connection had grown into something deep and enduring—something that didn’t just survive the pressures of the job but thrived despite them.

It was a rare night off, and you and Spencer were curled up on your couch. The soft glow of a lamp cast long shadows across the room, and the faint scent of coffee lingered in the air. A chessboard sat between you, though neither of you had made a move in over an hour.

Instead, your attention was focused on Spencer as he explained a theory about quantum mechanics with the same enthusiasm he brought to every subject. His hands moved as he spoke, his eyes alight with the passion you adored.

“Am I boring you?” he asked suddenly, noticing your quiet smile.

“Not at all,” you said, leaning forward to rest your hand over his. “I just love listening to you.”

Spencer’s expression softened, and he turned his hand over to intertwine his fingers with yours.

“You’ve changed my life, you know,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head, caught off guard. “I could say the same about you.”

He smiled, his eyes searching yours. “I mean it. Before you, I didn’t think I’d ever find someone who really… understood me. But you do.”

Your chest tightened at the sincerity in his voice, and you reached up to cup his cheek. “You make me feel the same way, Spencer.”

The kiss that followed was soft and unhurried, a quiet affirmation of everything you’d built together.

___________________________________________________________

Rossi’s house was alive with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. The entire team had gathered for one of his famous dinners, and you couldn’t help but marvel at how far you’d come.

You stood in the kitchen with Garcia, the two of you laughing as she recounted an over-the-top story about a case from her early days at the BAU. Across the room, Spencer was deep in conversation with Rossi, his hands gesturing animatedly as he explained something.

Garcia nudged you, her grin wide. “He’s crazy about you, you know.”

You smiled, glancing at Spencer. “I’m pretty crazy about him, too.”

“Well, duh,” she said, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “I mean, you’re practically the BAU’s golden couple at this point.”

“You don’t think it’s weird?” you asked, suddenly curious.

Garcia tilted her head, her expression softening. “Honey, weird doesn’t even come close to describing the BAU. But you two? You’re good for each other. And we’re all lucky to have you both.”

Before you could respond, Morgan called out from the dining room. “Come on, you two! Food’s getting cold!”

Garcia grabbed your hand, dragging you toward the table.

As you sat down beside Spencer, his hand found yours under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. You leaned into him, a quiet smile playing on your lips as the team fell into their usual rhythm of teasing and storytelling.

___________________________________________________________ 

Later that night, as you and Spencer walked back to your car under the glow of the streetlights, you felt a sense of peace you hadn’t known was possible.

“Did you have fun?” he asked, his voice soft.

You nodded, your fingers laced with his. “Always.”

He glanced at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “What are you thinking about?”

You stopped walking, turning to face him. “How lucky I am,” you said simply.

Spencer’s eyes softened, and he stepped closer, his hands resting on your waist. “I’m the lucky one.”

The kiss you shared under the stars was filled with the quiet certainty that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you’d face them together.

You’d found your place—with Spencer, with the team, with the life you’d built. And for the first time in a long time, you felt whole.

[creature-wizard]

Looks like it's time to talk about starseeds and the New Age movement again.

Since I'm seeing more starseed content being posted, I'm gonna make another post on why the whole starseed thing and the surrounding New Age belief system are... not good.

So for those who don't know, New Age mythology is essentially a hodgepodge of cherrypicked and distorted myths from various cultures, racist pseudohistory, and far right conspiracy theories. To put it very briefly, starseeds are supposedly here to help Earth resist the reptilians, a race of politics-manipulating, war-starting, media-controlling blood-drinking aliens. For those who don't recognize the tropes here, these are basically all antisemitic canards. The reptilian alien myth as most know it today comes from David Icke, who ultimately cribbed a bunch of his material from The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion, a Russian hoax created to justify violence against Jews. He was also influenced by the work of people like Fritz Springmeier, a hateful crank who based much of his work on other hateful cranks.

(David Icke, by the way, also claims that transgender is an evil reptilian conspiracy. You'll never find just one form of bigotry with these people.)

There are supposedly numerous alien races out there, and one of the most prominent among them are the Pleiadians, AKA Nordics. While modern depictions of the Pleiadians give them more variety in skintone, there's no denying that older Pleiadian mythology basically pictured them as Aryans In Space, even associating them with the swastika.

You see what's going on here? "Good" swastika-loving Aryan aliens versus "evil" Jewish aliens? Sound familiar?

Racism isn't just a tangential part of the starseed myth, either. It lies at its very core. It's inextricably tied in with the ancient astronaut hypothesis, which has a history of racist motivation behind it. The TL;DR is that a bunch of white people couldn't believe that non-white people had built a bunch of things they couldn't figure out how to build themselves (EG, the Great Pyramids), so they proposed that the real builders were anyone from Atlanteans to aliens. (Atlantis, by the way, never existed; it was a literary device created by Plato.)

One supposed purpose of starseeds is to help the world "wake up to the truth," which basically just means "convert people to New Age spirituality." New Age believes that world peace is contingent on a majority of the world being converted to New Age belief, and that resistance against their belief system is ultimately the work of the aforementioned reptilian aliens.

To put it another way, New Agers think they understand other cultures' spiritual traditions better than the actual members of said cultures, and think that anyone who disagrees with them is being manipulated by the conspiracy, or is an agent of the conspiracy. This includes Indigenous cultures which are already endangered from white Christian colonialism.

Essentially, endangered cultures cannot speak up for themselves and resist New Agers' efforts at cultural assimilation without being labeled a problem and an enemy. It's basically white Christian colonialism repackaged as "spiritual, not religious."

Again - if you heard from these people that some ancient text or myth describes extraterrestrial beings visiting our planet for one reason or another, you heard misinformation. They twist and misrepresent literally every myth and text they get their hands on. For example, you may have heard that the vimanas from Hindu traditions were actually alien spacecraft. They were no such thing. Or maybe you heard that the Book of Enoch describes aliens performing genetic experimentation on humans. It literally does not. At best, all of the stories they cite just kind of sound like aliens if you ignore most of their content and pay no attention to their cultural contexts.

The starseed movement preys on alienated people, especially autistic people and people with ADHD. You can look up nearly any list of signs that you're supposedly a starseed, and many of them will align perfectly with characteristics associated with autism and/or ADHD, or that people with these conditions commonly report. Some people within the movement even go so far as to claim that ADHD and autism don't even exist, but were actually made up by the conspiracy as a cover to suppress and control starseeds, which is some yikes-as-hell ableism.

So basically, people are being told that if they have these certain characteristics or symptoms, that means it's their job to spread New Age spirituality to defeat the conspiracy and help others ascend to the fifth density.

And what's the fifth density, you might ask? It's supposedly humanity's next evolutionary level, because New Age is also based on biological misconceptions. Supposedly once everyone's DNA "upgrades," they'll essentially morph into an aetheric form. Supposedly, this is preceded by a number of "ascension symptoms," including depression, headache, gastrointestinal issues, and any number of other symptoms that could indicate almost anything, including stress.

What many of these people don't realize is, this prediction has already failed. Back in the 2000s and 2010s, experiencing "ascension symptoms" was supposed to precede ascension to 5D beginning December 21, 2012. One lady, Denise Le Fay, was convinced that the hair loss she was experiencing in 2008 was an ascension symptom. As we can see by looking her up, she's very much still with us on the 3D plane these days, repeating the same tired old scripts New Agers recycle endlessly.

By the way, everything you near New Agers saying today about old systems being dismantled, dark forces being arrested or kicked off the planet, and new economic systems on the horizon? They've been recycling these scripts for years now. Take a look at this page written back in 2012. You got stuff about the complete dismantling of an enormous network of sinister forces," "the arrest and removal of a world-wide cabal," and a "new economic system."

("Cabal," by the way, is a dogwhistle term for "Jews.")

Furthermore, people in this movement are often encouraged to try and access past life memories through dreams or hypnosis, which makes the whole thing feel even more real to them. But the thing is, you can have incredibly vivid experiences about literally anything you put your mind to - the people in the reality shifting having vivid experiences of living another life in the Harry Potter universe are a great example of this. Just because you have vivid experiences, doesn't mean they have any bearing on anything happening in this reality.

So yeah, the starseed movement and the larger New Age movement are both extremely harmful. They promote racist pseudohistory, medically-irresponsible pseudoscience, conspiracy theories that target numerous marginalized groups, and functionally target aliened people with ADHD and autism to convince them that spreading its beliefs is their job.

[bluebells-and-dragonflies]

Viktor has carried a torch for you for months, maybe even years, before you know anything about it.

He knows exactly when it started. Not at first sight, which relieves him- at least he's managed to avoid one cliche in this embarrassment.

You'd been regularly visiting the lab for a while. As one of the three people Jayce would call an actual friend, you had carte blanche to occupy the space whenever you liked (which Jayce had given without consulting Viktor. He likely wouldn't have minded, especially in those early, heady days of partnership, but still, it's the principle of the thing), and weekday afternoons often found you lounging on the beaten couch in the middle of the room, neck-deep in your literary and political studies. Those days were often quiet, except for the rustle of pages, the scratch of chalk on blackboard, the occasional sigh as someone's focus stuttered. Nothing to object to. Nothing to notice.

Unfortunately, long-term serenity was perhaps too much to ask considering his choice in business partner. As frequently as your days were spent in deep thought, they were spent in constant conversation with Jayce, and that is where Viktor's problem began.

Viktor has been self-contained for so long that he can no longer remember whether or not his isolation is a choice or simply consequence of who he is. He has always preferred the company of his own mind to the friendship of others, with one, perhaps two, exceptions. Almost always, he prefers to observe, watching the people around him rather than engaging. When he has something more important to think about- which, today and also basically every day, working so hard to bring magic to a material world, he certainly does- he simply allows conversation to wash over him and continues his work. Instinct, not just habit.

Except. From the first, listening to you speak- really speak, with passion or sincerity or wryness, anything so long as you're saying something- was as distracting, as riveting, as the snatch of orchestral music heard when passing a concert hall. The bell-struck sound of your laugh, your quick, dry wit. The way you managed to make the most mundane topics and the dullest days seem worth notice. It was- you were- distracting. Distracting enough that he found himself joining in with you, parrying a point you've just made or riffing on a joke. And when you'd counter him, or laugh at one of his asides, or, memorably, descend with him into a near-shouting match over which neighborhood bakery made the best macarons, he felt electric. You made him braver, funnier, more himself. Within months, you'd become the second person he would call a friend.

It's humiliating, frankly. He, a grown man who prides himself on his rationality and composure, whipping around in his chair whenever there's a knock on the laboratory door and feeling himself deflate when the person who walks through it isn't you. He, a respected scientist, unable to sleep when he finally makes it to his bed (or, more frequently, the couch in the lab) because he can't close his eyes without seeing your face. He, a man who has always prided himself on his rationality and composure, doodling on half-forgotten pages of work while he daydreams about burying his face in your hair.

He tries to distract himself. It doesn't work.

He's sick with you- that's the only way he can think to describe it on the sodden, drunken night he spends with Jayce the day after his birthday (how Jayce ever found out when his birthday was is still a mystery that irks him to no end), when the liquor and the tide of his emotion create an impulsive need to speak to someone, anyone, about you. You've made him sick, lovesick, in the truest sense of the phrase- he can hardly eat, hardly sleep, you've taken over so many of his thoughts. Overhearing you talk about your date was enough to undo him, send him straight back to the rib-breaking jealousy usually reserved for teenagers, and he's nearly thirty. He got nauseous- physically, actually, nauseous- picturing another person touching you. It's humiliating, unbearable, completely unbefitting a man of science.

He feels out of his mind, possessed. You haunt him like a ghost. The idea of you hovers at his shoulder as he goes about his day asserting itself at every opportunity. He wants it to stop. He wishes it was you and not your spirit.

Jayce, to his credit, handles this remarkably well. He waits until he's sure Viktor's tirade is over before he asks do you want to do something about it?, but Viktor only laughs derisively and slams the rest of his vodka glass back like it's water. I only take risks when there is a chance of success.

If Viktor was less drunk, he would notice Jayce's tells. He would notice how he's been practically bouncing with energy, how he's been fighting to hold back a grin. He might even ask what the problem was. As it is, he's smashed, and too wrapped up in self-pity to do it anyway. So it comes as an immense surprise when Jayce replies, I'd take the bet.

Viktor's head jerks up . What?

I can't really say. There would be a direct attempt on my life. Jayce drums his fingers on the table between them. Insider trading, you know, deeply frowned upon. But trust me. Ask. See what happens.

The moment he says it, Viktor knows that he will.