#neurodivergent bau

[a-timely-problem]

Overheard at the BAU

The team: doing challenges during game night

Penelope: "For this task, you have to get this vase to the table without using your hands."

The rest of the team: "Alrighty!"

Spencer: "...like... not at all? Am I supposed to use my feet? Can I touch this with gloves and it doesn't count? Am I supposed to pick up other tools with my hands or would that disqualify me?"

The others: ...

Spencer: "I'm autistic, you should have seen this coming."

[theunholyvirginemilyprentiss]

My neurodivergent love language is infodumping, and I love seeing everyone on this app sharing their hyperfixations in the form of gifs, memes, and fanfics. Some characters in the criminal minds fandom I don’t even pay that much attention to, but am I going to giggle and kick my feet like a schoolgirl if you post a Drabble about them? Abso-fuckin-lutely.

[moshuwu]

You heard it here first people

[nereidprinc3ss]

trolley problem

in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned

flangst, hurt/comfort warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K

Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago. 

The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out. 

You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy. 

So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere. 

You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death. 

But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.

Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?

It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death. 

Just… not yours. 

Or maybe you’re just in deep denial. 

Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.

Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job. 

“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”

Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns. 

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to. 

“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”

Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?

“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”

At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well. 

“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”

Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital. 

“I didn’t walk into active g—”

“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”

“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”

You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”

“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.” 

The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.  

“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”

“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”

A beat. 

Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words. 

“Do you believe that?”

His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle. 

You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that. 

“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good. 

It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now. 

“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”

“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago. 

“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”

There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa. 

“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”

He snaps. 

“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”

“It’s my job, Spencer.”

“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”

“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”

“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was. 

You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking. 

“You need to eat something.”

Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before. 

However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now. 

“Spencer, please don’t—”

But the door is already whooshing closed. 

You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one. 

When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing. 

The door closes as quietly as it opens. 

This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse. 

Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get. 

“You didn’t bring food.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”

Fair enough. 

You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth. 

Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall. 

Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain. 

“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly. 

Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 

“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”

He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in. 

“I just wanna help people.”

“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”

“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night. 

“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”

The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise. 

“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”

For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.

When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention. 

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern. 

“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”

“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”

“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”

“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”

And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.

Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place. 

“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking. 

“Hm?”

He hesitates. 

“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”

“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”

“I mean beyond that.”

You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog. 

“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”

If he responds, you miss it. 

You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone. 

Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel. 

Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand. 

You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight. 

The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass. 

Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass. 

God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead. 

Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did. 

Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things. 

Maybe you’re tired of being human.

Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore. 

And yet. 

It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful. 

Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever. 

Maybe that’s something you envy.

But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour. 

You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now. 

You doubt they ever could. 

[beelmons]

#no you’re exactly right#Spencer with and ADHD partner makes so much sense the amount of completely useless and deranged conversations prompted by the most miniscule things they would have.....

Spencer x ADHD!girlfriend.

“…and that’s exactly why The Zodiac, in theory, was more prolific as a mathematician than a serial killer.” he finished his sentence as he drew a couple more words and connect lines on his whiteboard. His body turned in your direction, and it made you jump slightly on your spot on the couch.

“You’re so right, babe, that makes a lot of sense.” you said. Truth was, you had no idea what he was talking about. You were having dinner together, and you mentioned Zac Efron on the Bundy movie, things escalated, and he took out his whiteboard, and that’s what you remembered happening last.

You loved your boyfriend, and you absolutely adored hearing him ramble about whatever topic he was feeling passionate about. It was one of his most endearing features, and you vowed to yourself you would always be there to listen.

Tinsy problem, sometimes your brain was physically uncapable to keep up with his talking speed, and the second you didn’t understand something and you couldn’t just interrupt him to clarify it to you, your brain would fly somewhere else. It wasn’t because of boredom, his speeches were never dull to you, you were just wired that way, and there was little you could do about it but conceal it from him and try to pretend that you got everything he was sharing with you. At the end, that was your true intention every time.

His arms dropped defeatedly to leave the marker by his coffee table, immediately they traveled back to his chest, crossing them over it. “Okay. What was it this time?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” you frowned in confusion. He noticed your obliviousness and decided to walk in your direction, crouching down in front of the couch.

“You zoned out. I’m curious about what you were thinking about instead of The Zodiac.” he smiled.

“You noticed?!” you almost yelled out your question.

The chuckle that he let out, amused and surprised, easied the slight anxiety that you had began to feel. “You do that all the time, I’m pretty familiar with your present-body-absent-mind expression.” he clarified.

Your hands flew to your face, covering it with your palms in embarrassment. “I can’t believe you have known all along.” you mumbled against your own skin “I’m so sorry.” you said with a slightly saddened voice.

“Hey,” he reached out to grab your hands and guide them away from your face, taking them in his instead “why are you sorry?”

“I really love hearing you talk about things so passionately, I promise.” you tried to reassure him. He let out a smaller laugh this time.

“From all the people I’ve met in my life, you’re the only one that’s never asked me to stop.” his eyes moved to yours. His sight was longing and gentle, his thumbs rubbing at your hands with adoration. Your heart beat erraticly for a second, regardless of the amount of time you had been together, he still made you nervous, he wooed you with his beauty and kindness. “Regardless of how long my ramble is, or the topic. Not even that one time I was telling you about flatulence characteristics and types.” he admitted shyly.

You took back your hands and bent forward instead. Your fingers landed on his cheeks and you pulled him closer so you could place a gentle, loving kiss on his lips.

“And we weren’t even dating then.” you joked “Still, you should have said something.”

“It doesn’t bother me” he stated “If anything, I’m always amazed with the random, completely unrelated thoughts that pop into your mind during your zoning out. So, tell me, what was it this time?”

Your lips pursed slightly, eyes looking away shyly “I was wondering how faucets work.” you admitted and he yet again let out a gentle chuckle.

“I actually know the answer to that one.” his eyes narrowed and he turned back to stare at his messy whiteboard, his entire body still crouched before you. “Perhaps if I break it down on modules, and we have a dynamic activity in between, I can keep your attention engaged.” he said once he had turned back at you.

“Or we could make out. That keeps me engaged.” you mentioned, your hands tangling on his hair.

“Yeah, nevermind, let’s do that.”

[vatelixx]

On the concept of ‘want’, (part 1):

Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader (written with early-ish seasons Spencer in mind)

part two here.

SMUT!! (and fluff, and aftercare because im not a total hedonist), allusions to both Spencer and Reader being switches (but he’s mostly just down bad), autistic Spencer (the way it should be), mean reader (to everyone but him), reader has a very very high IQ when it comes to everything but a pretty genius— Spencer just wants that cookie so fucking bad.

Warnings: sub spencer (but also not entirely; he talks about human anatomy as he destroys her), maaaaaybe slight corruption kink (what? who wrote that there???), mentions of prior bullying and insecurity, first time (for Spencer, yess devirgin that hot nerd!!— do you think the BAU will get him a cake after?), brief mentions of past hypersexuality for reader, kinda rlly domestic. Some undertones of degradation but predominantly praise. Begging, crying (pussy so good he cried), etc etc

w.c: 5k (I feed)

a/n: Spencer’s first time getting fucked, my first time writing smut (we’re both going through it here). I’ve been watching too much Criminal Minds recently, so i’ve reverted back to my tumblr roots (im home i’m home). This is a new acc so like…. hi!!!

────────────

Right person, right time. It’s a concept that Spencer Reid is more than aware of. Define luck, at surface level, it’s a made-up hypothesis, idealistic, fantastical. Conjured up to aid the desperate (or the delusional). It’s something he refused to humour, obstinate to the notion, well, that was until you came spitballing into his life, sharp features, sharper tongue. You could cut with your words alone, a weapon to the BAU, jagged and fast-thinking, and so entirely unattainable. Rorschach tests, and an endless sea of profilers, it doesn’t matter— he’s not sure anyone is ever capable of truly pinpointing you.

Rocky start— after you became a permanent member to the team, it took months to coerce you into dropping your guard. A year and 14 days, to be exact.

But, it was possible. Hardened words and blunt comments shifted into something more with time. A gravitational pull, perhaps, that led to evolution— you, softer with him, more tender than you’ve ever showcased before.

Maybe it was that night when he told you about highschool, about what they did to him, boys like him, who were too intellectual for their own good. Different, in every sense of the word. Bullying at such a young, impressionable age can have prominent effects, chronic stress inflicted on an underdeveloped brain, they tied him to goal posts, stripped him naked, endless torment that he still carries with him now. Maybe that’s why you lowered your defenses. Put down the sword.

And sure, he never expected anything, nor asked for anything. He was definite that he wouldn’t get to experience cliche-dating. Longing glances and anticipated moments. It’s not like he was ever the most appealing candidate, too nervous, too neurodivergent. It’s hard to grow out of the mentality that no, everyone isn’t making fun of you, not when it consumed the entirety of his adolescence. That you can walk into a room, and not be seen, targeted, as an outcast. He’s just different. But he’s also human, and the chemicals in his brain do make him want.

You apparently. Because, you looked at him softly once, and he was done. Ruined. Gone for good. Or, in Morgan’s personal opinion, whipped.

And illogically, you wanted him too. That wasn’t ever part of the equation.

But theres a pattern now— dates every weekend. Movies, cafes, museums, an endless onslaught of you. Because somehow, thanks to luck, you reciprocated. He’ll never understand why, you’re too beautiful (it’s a hazard), but he tries. He tries.

──────────────────

December. A haze of christmas markets and blanketing coldness. You kiss him outside and he thinks he might be dying. You make him burn cold. He’s a logical person, so obviously he’s aware that he’s only freezing because your hands are shoved in his pockets, a desperate bid to seek warmth, but regardless, it’s more than he ever expected.

He laughs against your lips, fingers gripping the front of your coat as he draws you backwards so that you’re resting against a wall. “Mm..” he hums, “You should kiss me more often.”

Everyone knows. The entire team is aware of this, an unspoken agreement that your lingering moments and aimless touching are not platonic in the slightest. You work with profilers, secrets are never quite effective. Everyone knows, but it’s taboo, something that needs to be left undisturbed. Do they expect you to break him? Does he? Maybe, maybe it would be worth it— to hurt for you, because it’s always been you. He’ll take anything, he’s not greedy. He’ll live off scraps if he has to, anything to satiate this want that burns solely for you.

“Actually.. you should just always be kissing me,” he suggests, tone soft, “Every day of the week. All the time. And—“ he laughs, “You should also stop stealing body warmth. It’s rude. Hypothermia usually occurs when body temperature dips to around 95F, oh oh but there are so many factors to consider—“

“Is this you trying to imply you’re cold?” you ask.

“Perhaps. Or maybe i’m implying you should be working harder to warm me up.”

You’ve grown soft, he thinks. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this level of affection. But its okay, you justify, mostly because it’s him. Spencer, and his pretty smile, and strange habits (sitting cross legged on tables, drinking coffee with excessive sugar, endless facts and a plethora of soft yearning glances at you when you’re interrogating— as if you’re not tearing an unsub to pieces). It’s terrifying, constant eggshells, because you can’t hurt him. Not like the others, distant fragments of your past.

You laugh in response to his comment, admiring the sight of him: flushed, with swollen lips and dilated eyes. He deserves to be like this, so thoroughly assured that despite all odds, you’re invested. All cards on the table. “You have a lot of requests, boy genius.”

He smiles boyishly. You’re hard lines, sure, a blade that can draw blood, but somehow, somehow, he’s always left unscathed. “Alright,” he answers, “You want requests? Here’s one, stay the night. Come over, stay over, i’ll cook breakfast and try not to burn it— and, and you can have the good side of the bed.”

“Spence,” you mutter, because of course there’s an underlying intention to ‘staying over’ and you're trying to be good here. To not let this fall into your past mistakes of sex and inevitable self-inflicted disgust. A cyclical cycle that clings to your skin. Everything is so new to him, the intimacy, the affection, and it’s nice being able to witness it— to see his reactions to innocuous touches, always disbelieving that he’s capable of this.

Fresh-eyes, so untainted to the sharpness of modern ‘love’.

You cup his face, god, under the dim shadows of the streetlight he’s beautiful. It’s a little alarming to be honest. More so disheartening really, because despite how much you remind him, he never believes you— obstinately refusing your compliments, as if you’d ever mock him. No, he’s different. He’s tender and disarming, and sometimes it feels unholy to touch him with calloused hands.

But, to Spencer, there is nothing unholy to this; the second you touch him, the entire universe crashes down into a singular moment.

“Just stay the night,” he reaffirms. It’s taken him over a month to get to this point, to be able to voice his wants, to comprehend his wants. Now, his thumb traces its way down the side of your face, tangible, real. “And tomorrow morning, there’ll be coffee and pancakes and—“ he laughs, “And there won’t be any regrets. I promise.”

You’re looking at him, wide-eyed and slightly disbelieving (because he’s somehow stumbled through the minefield of you without any consequences). He leans forward, his forehead resting against yours. “Don’t make me beg. I will beg.”

──────────────────

To confirm, he makes you incautious, irrational, willing to blatantly disregard any sort of control. Of course you end up at his apartment; the moment he mentioned begging, you were already half-way down the street.

Spencer’s place is… well, it’s everything you’d expect of him. Scattered novels adorning the floor, a mess of untidy thoughts, neglected papers on science, endless open textbooks left half-abandoned for other pursuits. It’s so him, clean but discombobulated.

He wants to apologize, make excuses for the lack of order, he probably should. He doesn’t do that though. He only crosses the room, stopping when he’s standing right in front of you, just gazing down. He has no idea what’s to come— for once, there are no patterns, no statistics he can reference.

So, he reaches for you, fingers tugging at the edges of your jacket. “Arms. Up,” he instructs and god, it’s a stupid order, but you follow it without any protest. He folds it over the couch, abandoned. Putting it back on alludes to leaving, and he’s hopeless enough to never want you to leave.

His hands then gravitate back to you and he starts to tug aimlessly at the material of your shirt. It’s been raining, and the fabric is soaked. “Hm,” he hums, “Off. Take it off.”

You laugh at that. Straight to the point. You don’t follow his orders, because one was certainly enough, and you’ve never been the type to obey blindly. Instead, you grip his waist, drive him back towards the nearest surface. An end table, some books go clattering, light damage, they’ll survive. His response is a gasp, a hitch of the breath.

“I was promised the good side of the bed, breakfast, pancakes. But sex? Hm, did you invite me over just to get in my pants? I’m wounded, Reid.” you mutter, pressing a series of soft kisses along the curvature of his jaw.

“No! No,” he retorts, breathless, “I was going to get you some comfortable clothes to change into. Damp clothes breed bacteria. You made this dirty,” Adding, “And not in the way I was concerned about.” under his breath.

You roll your eyes, “Oh, here we go—“ sure, you have the experience he lacks, but you’ve been on your best behavior. Dirty? That’s an insult to the exhausting self-restraint you’ve upheld recently.

“Yes— i’m the dirty one here, clearly.” you scoff, “Just casually corrupting you,” You tug him away from the end-table because you don’t want him bruised in any way, shape or form (it’s actually distressing; when you’re working, you seem hellbent on making sure no one even thinks about laying a hand on him. Unsubs be damned.)

Ego-centric, completely independent, individualistic until he came along.

You push him back against the couch, watching as he stumbles, as he falls. For a minute he just lies there, looking up at you with hazy eyes— pupils dilated and lips parted on a half-pained gasp.

And it’s a sight to see, the brilliant prodigy, the young genius, his normally-composed features now twisted into something stricken. His hands tighten around the material of the couch and he lets out a sound that’s a cross between a whine and a groan.

“Oh—“ that’s just a clear-cut moan, “You can definitely definitely keep corrupting me, in fact I endorse it. Completely.”

“3 PHDS, 2 B.A’s and you’re currently asking me to corrupt you? I don’t know, Doctor Reid, that’s certainly very forward,” you say, moving to sit on his lap, aware that you really should entertain this spot more often, even if you’re at severe risk of deflating.

Deflating. God. When did it come to this?

He laughs, “You’re the only person in this entire world that makes me act without a single coherent thought,” IQ abolished. “So yeah,” he murmurs, fingers tracing mindless patterns across the exposed strip of skin above your waistline. “Defini-definitively corrupt me.”

It’s taken so much to get to this point. So much to unpack, to understand, from Spencer’s perspective. There’s a lifetime of bullying that he has to dismantle, and sometimes he still anticipates the punchline when you kiss him— the biting laughs, not entirely dissimilar to school, when someone would belittle him, fake being his friend just for entertainment value.

So, when you stumble into the bedroom, when you remove his shirt, he knows this is improvement. He’s fighting this internal battle, unsure on how he should act: coy or defiant. Both, really. He wants to cover himself up, to pretend like you don’t disarm him, to fight and fight until you make him bleed. Anything, he’ll take anything from you.

“You are so so pretty,” you mutter when he’s sprawled out across the bed. You’ve never been someone to resort to praise; sex had always been cold and clinical, something to relieve stress, to undermine the burden of work, and the endless weight of sanguinary. But now? If he is the eye of the storm, then you’ll happily commit to the chaos of this.

“Careful, you’ll make me inherit a disorder here.” he mutters. Narcism— he’s the least likely to ever develop such symptoms. “Or cry. I could cry, it’s a potential. Maybe break-down?”

“Or,” he adds, his hands tracing up towards your shoulder blades. “All of the above. The trifecta of issues. It’s very likely.”

He rolls over on top, you’re down to just your lingerie now, pretty lace contrasting against your skin. Removing your clothes had been a whole ordeal, he’s fairly certain he almost died; you’re the epitome of beautiful, and he’s not sure how he ended up with everything when he was so resolute, silently accepting, he would always obtain nothing.

“I want to kiss you, but I don’t know, I feel like my body has lost the ability to function at the moment.” he breathes out.

“You should definitely kiss me,” you confirm, posing it as a choice, one that he has any say over— when in reality, youre already tugging him closer. Lips meeting lips. It’s not sane how the world fades into a nebulous haze the moment your mouths connect; time remains constant, logistically, nothing has changed. But it’s just so much that for a moment you doubt the concept of existence, doubt everything but him.

Genius falling for genius. Only you could laugh when he traces molecules into your skin. Spelling out words with elements: Livermorium, Uranium. LV U, it might not be an exact replica of the three worded phrase, but it certainly gets the point across.

“Spence—“ you bite into his lip, tugging the soft tissue between your teeth.

He groans, whimpers, pulls you closer, eliminating every infinitesimal distance between, slotting his hips against yours. He draws away from your mouth, lips leaving a trail of kisses down your neck as he reaches for your hand, interlocking his fingers with yours and pinning it against the bed. His free one is now wandering, slipping beneath your panties to touch.

“Do you know how much I studied about human anatomy after you first kissed me?”

“Weeks.” he answers when you respond with a muffled groan. Your hands are on his back now, tracing the journey of his spine. He’s in over his head, but there’s so much want, so much he wants to do but never thought he would be capable of. And oh, when he begins to draw circles against your clit, slow experimental halos, those soft touches of yours evolve into grasping, gripping. By the time he’s got a finger slotted inside, he’s fairly certain he’s being scratched. Nail indents and faint white lines, souvenirs.

“I know about every erogenous zone the human body possesses, every single one.” He says, because whilst he might lack in physical experience, he has enough intellect to memorize placement, biology. Plus, he’s a fast learner. His finger bends, and both of you moan.

“Spence— fuck, feels good.” you gasp, tangled hands clutching tighter, tighter again until your knuckles are white and you’re trembling.

The human body is something of a fascination to him; the way it reacts, how each nerve and ligament can respond to even the most tentative of touches. But you aren’t every human, you are you, and he has an insatiable desire to discover and catalog every single response your body gives.

He adds another finger, slowly, eyes fixed on your face, gauging the reaction. When he curls both digits, a sharp exhale is your response. “I’m convinced I’ve discovered new anatomy facts in the last few months, just because of you.”

Maybe it’s not fair that he’s so good. First times are supposed to be fumbling and awkward, a mess of hormones and inexperience. To say you haven’t been touched like this before is a severe understatement. The meaningless sex, the onslaught of bodies doesn’t measure up to him, the way he’s so focused on how you respond, on what your body enjoys— it would be endearing (and it is!), but you're currently too preoccupied to voice such a notion.

“Doing so good, holy shit—“ you mutter, blissed out beyond comprehension. You're making art on his back, only vaguely aware of the pain. Though when you realize you’ve scarred his skin, you're drawing away, moving to tangle your hand in his hair instead. But Spencer doesn’t even care, doesn’t even register the inflictions; he likes the physical marks you leave behind, a tangible remnant of all you do to him.

And sure, he’d laugh, usually, at your responses. But it’s hard to laugh, when his own ability to form any coherent sound has been completely destroyed. He’s a mess, his breathing shaky, and his brain is a constant buzz of fragmented musings consisting of you, you, you.

He draws his fingers out, earning a discernible groan, maybe a fuck you (which he does intend to do). But right now, he’s already slotting his face between your thighs, removing those soaked, ruined, panties of yours. He doesn’t have a single thing to compare it to. But he already knows this is his favorite place to be, and he’s fairly certain he’ll be spending most nights between your thighs, learning and memorizing every reaction and noise, each movement, and the ways to repeat them.

He runs his tongue along your clit, savoring just how wet you are, a mess that he can bury his face into. You’re looking down at him with something akin to shock now, and he can only laugh, blow air against your clit, then drag his tongue back over the sensitive bud, drawing it into his mouth to suck.

His movements are tentative at first, unpractised, but soon gaining confidence. He doesnt need to do this, you're aware— you could take him now. And yet, hes here, between your thighs for no reason other than want. Your reaction is visceral, because it’s always been about efficiency in the past, quick touches to get you there before the other person can derive their own pleasure from the act.

He’s not like that. God, hes not like that at all.

“Oh,” is all you can say, gripping his hair down to the root, instructing each movement until he gains incentive, finding repeat patterns that your body reacts to. Then, you can only arch and moan, noises filtered out into the air. He’s back to opening you up now, two deft fingers pressed inside, working diligently to tear you apart.

“Oh? That’s all you have to say to me? Oh?” he retorts.

“Shut up,” you huff, “Put that mouth of yours to work.”

“Mhm— I plan to. God, you’re so perfect.” he mutters, voice distorted, muffled. “That’s it—“ he fights the urge to explain exactly what’s occurring in your body every time his fingers abuse that spot. Instead, he keeps his mouth busy.

He’s certain he’s memorized most areas of your body from years of pining, and that’s what brings him an unrepentant sense of satisfaction. Because he was memorizing your body, you, long before he even got the chance to touch or taste you.

“Wanna stay here,” he says, and he’s being petulant now, because there’s something so good about being reduced to movements. To follow the pattern, to take care of your body, mindless to anything else but you. Pussy-drunk, to put it less eloquently.

“Shit,” you buck up against his mouth, watching as he buries his face entirely into you, as he replaces his fingers with his tongue, nose bumping bumping your clit, consuming his senses entirely.

“Use my face, yeah. ‘M all yours anyway.”

“Fuck, fuck fuck— Spence. Gonna cum—“

When you fall apart, inevitable, he doesn’t stop— not until you’re boneless and spent beneath him. Back arching, stars burning through closed eyes. Pretty constellations that have you blissed out beyond belief. The pleasure is white-hot, feverish in intensity.

And then he’s moving, shifting his body back over you. He’s all soft touches and languid kisses against your mouth, not bothering to break contact as he settles himself fully over you, the weight of his hips pressing into yours. He’s hard, dick pushing up against his boxers, his sexual libido had always been low until you came into his life. Now, his wants seem to fight for release constantly.

“My turn, I believe.” he grins, pressing a kiss to your jaw, “Not that you have to, of course. It’s not an obligation, uh— more so a beg?”

“Of course it’s an obligation,” he goes to protest, to say you don’t owe him anything, so you sigh. “A thankyou, maybe?”

Fumbling hands, still shaky from pleasure, undo buttons. Unclasping his belt, removing loose fabric until he's bare before you. There’s something nervous to his gaze, something unspoken, lingering in the air. “Hey, hey. I’ve got you, yeah? You’re okay,” you promise, before your eyes shamelessly look down. He’s straining, pre-cum lingering at his tip, dick pressed up against his stomach now. “Fuck, okay— yeah. Good. Great even.” first time you've ever stumbled over a sentence in your life.

There’s so much to be concerned about. The fact he’s naked, that you could destroy everything with a few serrated words, years and years of rebuilding, reconstructing. But you don’t— and he can’t help but laugh nervously. “Glad to be up to your standards. I’d uh, hate to disappoint.”

“Always the over-achiever,” you respond, shifting away from him— there’s amusement to your expression when he groans, pitifully, when he rolls onto his back, draping an arm over his face.

Predictable. Condoms in his bedside table. At least he's prepared. You open the wrapper with your teeth, discarding it somewhere amongst the tangle of limbs and sheets, too hellbent on finding him again.

Oh, in this position, you have full, unrestricted view of his body. Endless planes of skin, begging to be marked, sentenced indefinitely to your touch. By the time you straddle his hips, hes a flushed mess beneath you. “I— um, you look really really pretty right now.” he stumbles, idiot.

His dilated eyes take you in. Every contour and curve, the way your hair hangs over your face, eyes up eyes up eyes up. He fails when you run your hand across his dick, thumb brushing against the tip. By the time you’ve slipped the condom over him, hes gone. Bucking and moaning, and so so much better than his hand could ever be.

He wants to be inside of you, but it’s hard to think right now, let alone vocalize the words. I want, he thinks, I want everything, with you.

Your name is on his tongue, muttered and repeated, a reverent prayer of sorts. He needs to gain back his control here, to return to equal footing.

“Yeah—“ he breathes out, “So much of an overachiever, considering I had you making all of those noises—“ his words falter, die out, when you sink down. When you take him. Wrapped around, tight. Warm heat that sets alight every nerve in his overstimulated body. He has half the mind to apologize for his comment because you’re about to ruin him, he knows.

“I thought you wanted me to corrupt you, hm?” you retort. The pace is slow, mostly for his own sanity. Though, the feel of him, the way he slots into you, warm skin pressed against warm skin is intoxicating, and it’s a battle to keep your composure. To not just fall apart under the weight of him.

“What’s that, pretty boy? Struggling? Because you were so egotistical a few seconds ago? Where’s all that ego gone? Straight between your legs, I think.”

A whimper. It’s a whimper, a pained thing ripped straight from his throat. He’s making indiscernible noises now, messy sounds pooling from his swollen lips. The praise, the strained undertones of degradation? It’s too much. But god does he love you for it, because that’s you through and through. Sharp, and brittle to everyone but him, he wants to look, he does, albeit he has to turn his head to the side, bury half of his face in a pillow because he’s gone. At this point, he can only take it.

“I— um, mhm. Yeah,” he slurs. He’s almost incoherent at this point; he’s been reduced to nothing, just a mass of skin, bone, and flesh at your disposal, to own and use and he can’t find it in himself to feel humiliated about it, not when it’s you.

“Can’t— um, I was wrong, you’re— oh god,” the sounds of your body hitting his, back arching as your pace picks up. “Oh, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry —baby, can’t, can’t take it. That’s…”

It’s a lot for his first time, that’s for certain.

“Yes, you you can. I know you can, Spence.” you mutter, interlocking your fingers, letting them hang near your hips. “You feel so good— so so fucking good. Look at you, so brain dead for me. Taking it all so well, love.”

Love?— oh he wants to be buried with that one. He’s a mindless disaster, impenetrably devoted to you alone.

He doesn’t even know how he’s saying words at this point, it’s as if his brain-to-mouth connection has been severed by your very presence itself. It’s not possible to form a coherent thought when you’re riding him like this, taking him so deep that he’s seeing stars. There’s tears pooling in his eyes, he looks pretty when he cries. Especially when it’s derived from pleasure, when he can let go of the burdens, everything he’s endured, when it’s just sensation. Nothing more, no more thoughts.

There’s safety here, an element of home, home home bliss, that has him keening. He wants to stay buried here forever, where nothing can ever hurt him again. When it’s just you, and your pretty words, and your exploitative power to destroy him. You never do, anyway. Even when you could, you restrain.

“Can’t, ’m gonna…, Please, please, don’t stop.” he whines, “Pleasepleaseplease— oh, can’t— I can’t.”

He grips you tight, rolls you over, mostly so he can feel you closer. The sight of you riding him was excruciating, but this is worse because now there’s no gap separating you. Now, he can bury his face into the crook of your neck, burn himself in the warmth of your touch.

“Spence..” you mutter.

“I know. I know—“ hes ruined, sloppy thrusts, whimpers catching against the stifling air. “Feels s’good.”

He doesn’t know what to do, how to breathe, so he just runs his thumb over your clit, watching your prominent reaction, watching as you gasp, moan— oh, and then you’re clenching around him, tightening the pleasure, and yesyesyes.

You’re too gone, moving still, and he can only cant his hips forwards, buck and squirm until he’s sobbing under the weight of your ministrations, releasing so hard that he can barely remember his name, no cognitive function, in the haze of his orgasm.

“There’s my boy— so pretty for me.” he can vaguely hear you saying, and if you’re talking him through it, he can only hear snippets of praise now anyway.

“Mhm— mhm. Yours, yeah.” he mumbles, body sinking against the sheets, a few little whimpers escaping his lips as you milk the rest of his pleasure from him.

Tangled limbs and sweat-stained skin. “You okay?” you ask in the aftermath.

“So okay,” he agrees, shifting closer, back pressed against your torso— sue him for being little spoon.

──────────────────

The next morning, you wake to an absence of Spencer. It’s unsettling, to say the least. So, you're quick to fumble over the buttons of one of his shirts, fabric creased, matching the tousled nature of your hair, disheveled, remnants of the ruination of last night.

For a moment, you consider that he might’ve left — but there he is, in the kitchen, attempting to make breakfast.

“Hey,” you mutter, leaning against the counter to watch.

Scratches adorn his back, indent marks from your nails, crescent reminders, stain his waist, and he’s content to wear them. If anything, he can’t wait to add to the budding collection.

Pancakes. The good side of the bed. Coffee. All of his promises from last night are being thoroughly met, even if he’s burning the food, and shit, he didn’t realize the coffee would be finished so soon. For all his calculations, he’s fairly off-center today.

And then, you come padding across his kitchen, embellished in only his shirt, unbuttoned near the top to expose your collarbone, and he’s fairly certain the last remainders of his IQ disappear.

“Hi! Hi,” he says, wide-eyed, “Um, making.. breakfast. You look, wow yeah.”

Breakfast lays forgotten.

[reidsgfbf]

under pressure || s. reid

description : in which reader forgets their weighted blanket, but spencer is more than happy to be their substitute

word count : 791 words!

notes : gn! reader, implied neurodivergent! reader, morgan gets bullied

Something you had always struggled with at work was understimulation. You never allowed yourself to stim, mostly for fear of judgement, but also because you feared it wasn’t professional for a seasoned BAU agent to stim in front of your coworkers.

Today was not that much different. After a quick bathroom break to stim happily now that you and the team were on the jet back to Quantico after a gruelling case in Denver, Colorado, you had returned to your spot on the sofa, rummaging through your go-bag to try and find your weighted blanket, only to remember you’d foolishly left it at home in your haste to get to the jet on time for the briefing after Hotch had called you about the case.

A little sigh escaped you. Luckily, most of the team were too preoccupied to hear your dismay; Hotch and Rossi sleeping, JJ and Emily playing snap on the games table, Morgan listening to his MP3 player and Spencer reading. It was him who heard your noise of consternation, and he looked up from his book. Upon seeing your perturbed expression, he closed it and inched out of his seat, approaching you.

“Are… you okay?” he asked, slightly nervously.

“I’m fine.” You told him, but it was clear he didn’t believe you.

Spencer raised a brow. “If you were fine, you wouldn’t have sighed like that. Now answer my question. Are you okay?”

Another sigh escaped you. “I forgot to pack my weighted blanket.” you admitted awkwardly. “I’m feeling really badly understimulated and I need some deep pressure.”

Spencer paused. “Deep pressure?” he repeated, momentarily dumbfounded before a bashful flush painted his cheeks pink. “Uh, would you like me to be your substitute?” he offered timidly.

You paused. Spencer Reid? Offering to be your weighted blanket? The opportunity was way too good to pass up.

“Yes.” you nodded in confirmation, moving to lie down on the sofa, and beckoning Spencer closer. He hesitantly did so, before pausing.

“Are you sure?” he asked, just to confirm. You rolled your eyes good-naturedly, but a small grin tugged at your lips.

“Just crush me, Dr. Reid.” you replied, so he gingerly laid on top of you. “Put more of your weight on me.” you ordered and he hesitated.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Spencer protested shyly.

“Put your weight on me!” you laughed, and he did so after another moment’s hesitation, sensing that you really did need it. You relaxed under him as you felt his weight on you, a blissful smile on your face.

You murmured your gratitude, and promptly fell asleep under Spencer, who smiled in astonishment at how fast you’d succumbed to the Sandman. Though, admittedly, his eyes were getting heavy too… and your soft and slow breathing was lulling him to sleep�� Surely you wouldn’t mind if he took a quick cat nap, would you? With that decided, he fell asleep too, his snoring mingling with yours.

Unbeknownst to the two of you sleeping beauties, the rest of the team had noticed what was going on, and even Hotch and Rossi had woken up. Morgan grinned.

“Oh, babygirl is going to flip if she doesn’t get any evidence of the two lovebirds snuggling.” he laughed, taking out his phone to take a picture, Emily following suit.

JJ rolled her eyes. “Leave them alone.” she scolded the two, with no real heat, as she too took out her phone and snapped a few pictures of you and Spencer slumbering together.

“Let them be.” Hotch, ever the hypocrite, added, as he also snapped a picture that may or may not eventually become his wallpaper for the next month.

It wasn’t until the plane was due to land that someone woke you and Spencer up, shaking your shoulders.

“Come on kids, the jet’s gonna land.” Rossi announced. Spencer blinked blearily as he slowly woke up, before jolting up and straddling you when he realised what position he’d woken up in. You did so too, accidentally smacking your forehead against Spencer’s making the both of you groan and hold a hand against your injured brows.

Morgan snorted. “You two really are made for each other. You’re both as graceful as baby deer on ice.” You and Spencer glared at the bald man, who raised his hands up in surrender.

“Shut it, baldilocks.” you grumbled tiredly and Spencer snickered, causing Morgan to fake a gasp of faux indignance.

“Agent.” Hotch scolded you, though there was a grin on his face.

“Sorry Morgan, for pointing out your shiny bald head.” you apologised half-heartedly, making the rest of the team laugh at Morgan’s affronted splutters. A little smile appeared on your face. Who knew forgetting your weighted blanket would lead to this?

[sanguineterrain]

Ahhhh yes I'm so excited that you're writing spencer! Could I request something with a reader who's also considered "weird" by people (aka neurodivergent) and it gets them down but spencer doesn't think they're weird obviously and maybe they bond over that? I hope this makes sense 🩷 love ur fics!!

hope this is okay :) spencer reid x gn!reader. rude cop alert, reader feels down about not picking up on invisible social expectations/cues, Spencer comforts them. ty for requesting!

****

New crime scenes make you lock in and hone your attention. You've always done that. Ever since you started at the BAU, that's meant that you break some invisible rule more often than not.

You approach the cop who called in the case from behind. "When did you find the—

He flinches, dropping his clipboard. Immediately, he rounds on you, annoyance palpable.

"Jesus, knock much?" he asks, brow low with frustration. "Sneaking up on people in this line of work is a bad habit."

"I'm sorry," you say, not quite sure what you're apologizing for. "When did you—"

"And who are you, exactly?" he interrupts, looking you over. "Selling cookies?" He laughs at his joke.

You push through, showing your badge and saying your name. The cop snorts.

"FBI, huh? Wouldn't have guessed. You don't act like it. You know you're supposed to sign in, right?"

"Yes, I know. I've been here for ten minutes," you say. You can't pinpoint exactly what you sense, but you recognize the tone someone gets when they're making fun of you.

"Ten minutes?" The cop looks past you. "I didn't see you."

"I signed in at 8:14."

You've learned that being precise is very important because it makes people more likely to believe you. Sometimes your precision puts people off, but you have to show them that you pay attention, lest they have any doubts.

"Uh-huh. Look, is your supervisor here? Someone in charge? I need to give this report to someone."

"You can give it to me. I was assigned to this case," you say.

He snorts. "Right. First time sniffing around a murder case, rookie?"

You blink, confused. "No. This is my thirty-third case."

He's about to respond when Derek interrupts. He flashes his badge, says his name, and the cop clearly respects him, straightening up.

"What have we got here?" Derek asks, and the cop launches into the explanation you've been wanting since you started the conversation.

You get that prickling sensation on your neck, that feeling of humiliation when you've missed some cue. Your first thought is that maybe the cop doesn't respect younger agents, but it's more than that. It's always more.

It's always something you've done.

You slink away, and Derek doesn't even glance at you, which is fine. He's busy. You won't take it personally.

You drift over to Hotch and Spencer instead. Hotch is talking to a witness who heard the gunshots. Spencer is supplementing his questions with information about how bullets splinter different types of wood. He looks at you as you approach and that instantly makes you feel better. Spencer never ignores you.

"Thank you very much," Hotch finally says, touching the witness on her arm briefly. "We'll call you if we have more questions. Someone will drive you home. If you'll follow me out."

She follows Hotch and then it's you and Spencer.

"What do you think?" you ask.

He shrugs. "Too early to tell. The witness said she heard sounds after the shots that she didn't recognize. What did the officer say?"

You shrug. "I don't know. Derek's taking his statement."

"I thought you were," Spencer says in confusion.

"I tried to, but he wouldn't talk to me. He said I don't act like an FBI agent. Called me a rookie."

It's part of the job, these kinds of interactions. Not every government worker is the nicest.

"I don't understand what's wrong with me," you say before Spencer can say anything. It's too honest for a crime scene. Anyone else would be annoyed by your whining.

Spencer shakes his head. "Nothing's wrong with you."

"I feel like there is," you say quietly.

Spencer's the only one who understands. He's been called every name under the sun. He's so smart, and you're always in awe at how smart he is, but, according to Hotch, some people get intimidated rather than awed and say mean things as a result.

You're not a genius like Spencer, though. You're just an agent. You're fine at your job, but sometimes you don't even get the chance to demonstrate that. You have no idea what makes you fumble simple interactions like taking a statement.

"So he made it seem like you're inexperienced," Spencer says.

You nod. "I don't know why. I went to him, about to ask a question, but I guess I startled him. He snapped at me to not sneak up on people. Then I apologized. People like when you apologize, right?"

Spencer shrugs thoughtfully. "Sometimes. Apparently, it's a very fine line between when you should and when you shouldn't. Did you introduce yourself?"

You frown. "Later, I did."

He hums. "Apparently, people don't respect our authority unless we're flashing it obnoxiously. That's what Penelope told me. Take a page out of Derek's book."

You both look at Derek, who's got his hands on his hips, posturing like he's in a procedural drama. Spencer shares in your laughter. It's like drinking the sweetest, richest cup of hot chocolate when Spencer looks at you like that.

"Do you do that?" you ask, smiling.

"Ah, apparently, I haven't quite nailed it. I'm the least approachable agent on the team, according to a DEA agent."

Your face falls. "I think you're approachable."

Spencer lifts his hands as if to say, what can you do? Maybe you should be the same. It's just so hard.

"I can't do anything right," you blurt, sobering up. "There's so many rules, Spencer. I just want to solve cases. Isn't that why we're here? That's why I went to the cop in the first place."

You feel babyish for complaining. You know what someone else would say: suck it up. But this job sometimes feels like you're on the field playing baseball, and everybody else is playing chess. No one else seems to struggle with the invisible rules of being an agent. No one except...

"Yeah, but to that officer, it's also an assertion of power," Spencer says. "He's the kind of person who only responds to perceived authority. He didn't perceive authority from you, even though you have it, because you wouldn't be here if you didn't. So, he thinks you should've cowed to him and flattered him with inane niceties to get the information that you deserve to know to begin with."

You blink. "Really? All that?"

Spencer nods. "I've known lots of people like him. Classic law enforcement personality. For the record, I think it's stupid. You're smart, and you're good at your job. You shouldn't have to make yourself smaller to get people to do what's expected of them."

"I wish I could do something quiet," you say morosely. "Do autopsies or something. Stay out of the way."

Being quiet is easier. You work in a place where some talking is necessary, but it's also not strange to think quietly for periods of time. And people can't get mad at you when you're quiet.

But then, you really love the BAU. You'd hate to be transferred. You'd hate to be away from Spencer Reid.

"I don't want you to be quiet. You're good at what you do here," he says. "Don't let an insecure person make you doubt yourself. Also, you're not inexperienced: you've solved thirty-three cases."

You grin. There's nothing quite like being seen.

"Tell me more about bullets and different wood types," you say.

Spencer's face lights up, and you suddenly feel more sure that this is exactly where you're meant to be.

[missmitchieg]

But yeah, I really think the BAU dress code is button up shirts/dresses and neutral (boring and ugly) business suits with neckties and the like because if you look at the cyber crimes unit, that's what everyone wears

Plus, look at everyone in the earlier seasons.

I think one day, Hotch just looked around and went "you guys all look violently uncomfortable, wear your normal clothes and I'll call it a neurodivergent accommodation" and then everyone was free to wear cardigans, henleys, tank tops, brightly colored dresses with flamingos and zebra stripes, and converse and five inch heels.

[snarkylinda]

The thing is- Spencer can still be written as Bi, and it would fit his character almost seamlessly.

Ok so- we all know we were robbed of Bi king Spencer in the original show. Fuck CBS, all my homies hate CBS etc etc- BUT, and even tho we saw most of Spencer's adult life, an late, bisexual awakening would fit him alot actually.

Tara was easy to write as queer due to the fact we saw so little of her personal life on the original show- all we know it's that she was married and had a fiancee, so making her Pan in the revival wasn't that hard to fit in with that. Spencer is the opposite- we know him since he was 23. A babu. And know lots of lil bits and pieces of his childhood and teenage dreams- and we also know he does what he can to fit in.

This is mostly dedicated to his neurodivergent traits- stuff that was mostly the reason why he was so brutally picked on school. But come on- in the community we know what "trying to fit in" means growing.

So we have this kid that grew up on a unstable, sometimes downright hostile environment that went after him for being "unusual"- ofc he would never explore his own sexuality besides "Girls Pretty"- he is literally that "I might be No Binary but I have work tomorrow so I don't have time for that" meme. Boy was furthering his education and taking care of of his mom. He had alot of his plate already. High school/College is when most queer people figure out shit for themselves but, and I quote "I was 12- it was all very confusing". Any chance of having a relationship with a fellow student would be at best weird- at worst literally illegal.

So yeah, time to go solve crimes- his dating and personal life become non-existent. His only girlfriend he didn't even know show she looked until she got murdered and is heavily implied the grief and quilt was there UNTIL THE VERY LAST FUCKING EPISODE- thus stopping him from fully moving on with his life.

Flash forward to now- he is in therapy. He is often encouraged to do stuff out of his confort zone (ie: have a life) and hadn't been with the BAU for what? 3 years? 4?? And his ghost girlfriend told him to pretty much focus on healing and finding himself for once-

So in conclusion, give my boy a boyfriend.

[spencerfuckngreid]

· T H E A R T O F G E T T I N G T O K N O W | S P E N C E R R E I D · PT 2

· Pairing: Spencer Reid/OC · Category: Fluff · Warning: None · Words: 5098 · Parts: Pt 1 · Pt 3 · Pt 4 · Summary : Eli, a psychology expert and old friend of Luke's, joins the UAC as a consultant and quickly bonds with Spencer Reid. As they delve into a complex case, Eli and Spencer find themselves drawn to each other on a deeper level. · Note about Eli: Her neurodivergence (She is autistic) is implied but it's never really said.

· Spanish on Wattpad. English isn't my first language, be kind!

· Masterlist

The case we were working on kept progressing, and with it, the pace at the BAU was becoming increasingly hectic. They had been intense days, but the truth is, I was starting to feel more comfortable within the team. And amidst all the pressure and workload, Spencer and I had begun sharing small gestures that, though seemingly insignificant, were starting to mean a lot to me.

· P O V E L I ·

That morning, I arrived at the building earlier than usual. I hadn’t slept well, my mind restless from the case and how it was affecting my daily life. I walked into the office with a desperate need for caffeine. "Ugh… My God… I’m wiped out, I need like 18 coffees…"

When I entered the bullpen, I dropped my backpack and a couple of books I was carrying onto my desk with a bit of a sigh, but when I looked up, I noticed something: a black coffee waiting for me with a small note that read, "For a great start to your day – S."

I had to make an effort to contain my smile, knowing exactly who the thoughtful gesture was from. "Okay… Relax, it’s just a coffee." Spencer and I had been working late the night before, and at some point, we had started taking turns bringing coffee or snacks for each other. What began as a practical, casual gesture had become something more meaningful, at least for me, though maybe I was just imagining things…

As soon as I finished reading the note, Spencer appeared at the door, with his usual calm stride and a book in hand.

—Good morning —he said in a relaxed tone.

—Hey… thanks for the coffee. —I replied, raising the cup in a gesture of gratitude.

—It’s nothing —he shrugged casually. —I figured after the night we had, you’d need it as much as I do.

—You guessed right —I said, taking a sip and raising my eyebrows. —You remembered how I like it.

—Remembering things is kind of my thing. —he joked —You taught me how you like it, so I just remembered —as if he needed to clarify that, maybe it was a joke, I’m not sure.

—I guess… Yeah —I responded, acknowledging the obvious. —How are you? Looks like you’ve been here since before dawn.

—Actually… I never left, I couldn’t stop thinking about some inconsistencies we found yesterday —he explained, slightly shaking the cup in his hand.

—Really? I could’ve stayed… "I definitely would’ve stayed" Did you find anything interesting? —I asked, leaning in a bit to take a look at the documents spread out on the desk.

Spencer nodded, pointing to a couple of notes scribbled in the margins of one of the sheets.

—Look at this, I was reviewing the witness statements and noticed there are discrepancies in the timelines. Two of them, who claimed to have seen the suspect at the same time, described completely different things.

I leaned against the edge of the desk, taking a sip of my own coffee as I processed the information.

—Oh… Yeah, I see. It could mean we have more than one suspect, or that the main one is manipulating events in some way to confuse us.

—Exactly —Spencer said, and I could see that gleam in his eyes, the one that always appeared when a theory started to take shape in his mind. I hadn’t been at the BAU long, but I felt like I’d known him for ages. —Let’s not rule out the possibility of an accomplice.

—I think I’ll see if I can find any similarities in past crimes, I’ve got a few ideas swirling around in my head —I suggested, feeling the satisfaction that I might actually be onto something with this and could contribute. —Maybe there’s a connection we can follow.

Spencer nodded again, his attention returning to the documents, but not before giving me another one of those small smiles that I was starting to crave seeing and, dangerously, made me feel warm inside. "Damn it, Eli, enough, get it together."

—That would be great, Eli. Thanks for your help, I think I’m a bit overwhelmed lately… and you… well, just, thanks.

My blush was completely unavoidable.

—It’s… teamwork, right? —I replied, ignoring the fact that my face probably looked like a tomato in the sun. At least I didn’t stutter. I didn’t, did I…?

The next few hours passed in comfortable concentration. Every now and then, our eyes would meet from across the room, sharing small, knowing glances that no one else seemed to notice. Although we remained focused on the work, the atmosphere between us felt different. There was a pleasant undercurrent, something that was starting to grow within those small gestures that seemed insignificant but, in reality, were becoming more and more meaningful.

My phone started ringing; it was García, asking me to join her to review some notes I had made on the profiles. I assured her I’d be there in a moment, but before I could hang up, Spencer stood up and took a step forward. I felt my throat go dry, and I had to swallow when I sensed his gaze on me.

—"Would you… like to have lunch together today?" —he asked, with a slight hesitation in his voice. —"I'd like to talk to you about an article I read on the relationship between psychopathy and impulsivity; I think it could give us some clues for, for the case."

—"Sure, I'd love to." —I replied, trying not to sound too excited ”YES, I WANT” —"Shall we meet in a bit?"

After that last brief but intense interaction, "she's always so dramatic", I headed to García’s office. I was starting to realize that things were changing; I was no longer just interested in coming to work for the challenge of solving a criminal case… The small acts of kindness and the conversations we shared had begun to build a bridge between our seemingly different yet so complementary personalities.

I went to see García, not wanting to keep her waiting. She was, as always, surrounded by screens, with her mechanical keyboard producing a soft click as her fingers moved at lightning speed.

—"Ah, Eli!" —she exclaimed when she saw me walk in. —"Come here, little genius in the making. How’s everything going?"

—"Oh, well, I’m managing better, I’m getting the hang of it, thanks for asking ‘Penélope is so nice’." —I replied, placing some reports on her desk.

—"I’m so glad! You’re adjusting quickly, aren’t you?" —García looked at me with a mix of interest and a hint of mischief.

—"Yeah… I think so. Honestly, I’m more comfortable than I thought I’d be."

—"I see…" —she said, letting her comment hang in the air while her eyes sparkled with amusement. —"And how’s it going with Doctor Genius? Still all work and no play?"

—"With… Doctor Genius…?" —I wasn’t liking the direction this conversation was taking, to be honest. —"What’s that about? We work well together, that’s all. ‘Oh my god… Am I that obvious?’"

—"Uh-huh, sure, sure," —García replied, smiling like she knew something I didn’t. —"Well, whatever it is, I’m glad you’re fitting in well. Spencer isn’t easy to impress, unless you’re me, of course. I’m a genius too, maybe even more than him."

—"Oh… uh… Thanks, I guess, Penélope. But really, we’re just working together, although I have to admit, it’s a pleasure to work with him. He’s incredibly brilliant, well, you are too, but you know what I mean. ‘A pleasure? Damn it, don’t say that! Well, it is, actually… What’s wrong with that…?’"

—"It sure is a pleasure…" —García nodded with a little grin.

· P O V S P E N C E R ·

The day went on, and as lunchtime approached, I found myself thinking about how to start a conversation with Eli. I wanted to get to know her better, but I wasn’t sure under what pretext that didn’t involve work. When we finally met in the cafeteria, I felt a bit more relaxed.

—"I hope you’re hungry," —I said as we sat down at a table by the window. —"I brought some of my favorite books on the topic I mentioned earlier."

Eli smiled, taking one of the books I offered her.

—"I thought it was an article," —she replied with a soft smile as she flipped through the book. —"Not that I’m complaining, I actually like it, always prepared."

—"Well," —I said, feeling a bit awkward with the compliment. —"Yes, here’s the article, these books expand on the information, these are related, and these... Well, these just seemed interesting." —I couldn’t help but laugh, I think I can be a bit intense sometimes.

Eli looked at me with curiosity, as if she was evaluating me, then glanced at all the material. After a moment, she smiled like she genuinely appreciated that I had brought all of it, not in a way to make me feel better, but because she was truly interested.

—"You know?" —she said, looking up from the book. —"I never thought I’d get along so well with you. At first, I thought you’d be... I don’t know..."

—"Hard to deal with?" —I asked with a self-deprecating smile.

—"Something like that," —she admitted with a soft laugh. —"Well, we all have our prejudices."

I couldn’t help but laugh too, surprised at how easy it was to talk to her.

—"I’m not the best at socializing," —I confessed, fiddling with a napkin. —"I feel more comfortable with books and data than with people, but... I don’t know, with you it’s different. It’s easier."

I could swear my comment made her a little embarrassed, that half-smile she sometimes had, which I loved, appeared.

—"Data provides security, I get it, I also find refuge in it, but..." —she said, pausing as if reflecting on her own statement. —"They’re just collections of information made by people, and people make mistakes... sometimes data, statistics, books... can be wrong, or the information evolves with society, there are advancements... etc. Maybe I’m rambling, I don’t know where I was going with this, really. I meant to say that... Well, I don’t know, I don’t remember, sorry." —She let out a small laugh as if laughing at herself.

Her brief reflection made me smile. Every little interaction we had helped me get to know her a bit more in detail, to understand how she worked, and I liked that.

—"No, no, that makes sense," —I said, looking her directly in the eyes for the first time in what seemed like a while. —"I liked your reflection, it makes me feel uneasy, but I enjoyed hearing it."

We continued talking about the case, about books, and about our personal experiences. Before I knew it, it was time to head back to the office. Eli stayed behind, reviewing some data.

The day went on, and I had an unsettling feeling in my stomach or maybe in my throat, like a knot. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. There was something about the way she worked, her willingness to help without expecting anything in return, her kindness… But there was something more, something I couldn’t quite identify.

I decided to step out for a moment to clear my head. As I walked down the hallway, I ran into Luke, who was reviewing some reports near the coffee machine.

—"Hey, Reid," —Luke greeted me when he saw me. —"How’s it going?"

—"Uh… Fine, fine," —I responded, though I knew my tone wasn’t entirely convincing.

Luke raised an eyebrow, clearly noticing that something was bothering me.

—"Alright, Reid, something’s spinning at full speed in that head of yours, and it’s already smoking. Is it about the case? We’re making good progress, honestly I’m glad Emily thought it was a good idea for Eli to collaborate, she’s being helpful."

—"Yeah, well, it was definitely the right call, she... she’s incredible." —Maybe I was being too obvious.

Luke smiled, a gesture that indicated he already knew where this was going.

—"She is... pretty incredible," —he said, nodding with a satisfied smile.

I shrugged, feeling a mix of discomfort and relief at the same time.

—"I’m not sure what’s going on, it’s just that... I’ve noticed there’s something different about the way we work together. And I don’t just mean her professional skill, which is impressive. It’s more... personal."

Luke listened silently, letting the words flow as I tried to organize my thoughts.

—"Wow, you really needed to talk..." —He said in a teasing but friendly tone, leaning against the wall to show he was ready to listen. —"Don’t worry, whatever you say stays between us."

I took a deep breath before continuing, knowing it was time to confront what I had been feeling.

—"I guess… It’s hard to explain," —I began, choosing my words carefully. —"Eli is... different. I don’t know if it’s because of the way she sees things, or because she has a way of connecting with people that makes me feel more... " —I paused, searching for the right word. —"Comfortable. It’s like, for the first time in a long time, working with someone doesn’t feel like an obligation, but like something I actually enjoy. I’ve been so... I don’t know, but with her..."

Luke nodded, as if he understood perfectly what I was trying to say.

—"So, you like spending time with her," —he concluded, without judgment. —"And that... scares you?"

—"Yeah, maybe, I’m not used to feeling this way at work. Really, anywhere. I’ve always kept a certain distance, but with Eli... it’s like that barrier just doesn’t exist. And I’m not sure if it’s something I should be worried about, or if I should embrace it."

Luke crossed his arms, thinking for a moment before responding.

—"Man, connecting with someone like that is amazing, it’s not something that happens every day, it can be a bit scary, but on the other hand, if you push it away, you might miss out on something great. You don’t have to decide anything right now. Just let things take their course. If you enjoy her company, keep going and see what happens. Although..."

His words gave me a certain sense of calm. Maybe Luke was right, maybe I didn’t need to have all the answers right away. I could let things evolve naturally, without pressure.

—"Although..." —That made me nervous.

—"She’s like a sister to me, a pain in the ass sometimes, but like a sister, so I’m warning you, if you hurt her... She can take care of herself, she’s worryingly strong and sometimes scary, so run. Especially if she looks you directly in the eyes, intensely, like... seriously, you know?"

—"Thanks… For the… warning?" —I said, feeling a bit more... concerned. Though I think I was laughing at the way he explained the intense look —"Well, aside from the danger of death... I’ll try to just, I don’t know, not overthink things, I think, if I’m even capable of that. Thanks for listening."

—"Always, man," —Luke replied with a little laugh. —"We’re here to support you. Anything you need, you know where to find me, but never tell her I told you that, okay? Eli can be a bit... well, just don’t tell her."

After our chat, I went back to the office feeling more centered but also a little confused about whether Eli might actually end my life. I reminded myself that I didn’t have to analyze every detail, something I often struggled to accept. Sometimes, things just happen, and that’s okay. Although it’s really easy to say, making it happen…

When I returned to my desk, I found Eli still working, her focus entirely on the screen. I realized there was something calming about her presence, something that made the chaos that often surrounded our work seem more manageable. I approached and sat down next to her.

—"How’s the investigation going?"

Eli looked up and smiled at me, a smile that seemed to light up the entire room.

—"I think I’ve found some patterns that could be useful," —she responded, turning the screen to show me what she had been analyzing. —"I was going through old cases, and there’s a series of crimes where the suspects used disguises or altered their appearance to confuse witnesses. Nothing exactly the same, but there are similarities that could help us understand how our unsub thinks."

I leaned forward, examining the information she had gathered. Her analysis was detailed and precise, and I could see the effort she had put into it.

—"Oh… This is really helpful, Eli," —I said, admiring her work. —"This might be what helps us move to the next step."

She nodded, satisfied with my approval.

—"I’m happy to help. Working with you has been great; I’m learning so much in such a short time. It’s like an intensive internship or something," —she joked.

I felt a warm sense of pride hearing her words. Knowing that my presence and support were helping her grow professionally made me feel like we were building something important together.

—"It’s a pleasure working with you too," —I tried to be sincere.

Eli looked at me for a moment, and suddenly I remembered what Luke had said—maybe he was right. Maybe it wasn’t just professional admiration I was feeling, and maybe I didn’t have to resist it.

When the workday finally ended, I realized I didn’t want our interaction to stop there. We had spent so many hours focused on the case that we barely had time to talk about other things, to get to know each other better outside the office environment. I decided to take a risk. Now or never.

—"Hey, Eli," —I began, trying to sound casual. —"I was thinking… I’ve been wanting to go to an exhibition at the Contemporary Art Museum that ends this weekend. I was… thinking of going, and I wondered if… if you’d like to join me…" —I could feel my confidence waning as I spoke.

Eli seemed surprised by the invitation, but her smile let me know she didn’t dislike the idea at all. Yes, it was that smile I liked. And her reaction… Well, I didn’t expect it, to be honest.

· P O V E L I ·

At the end of the day, as we were getting ready to leave the office, Spencer approached my desk. He seemed a bit nervous, which made me want to smile. "He’s adorable when he makes that face…"

—"Hey, Eli," —I think he was trying to sound casual. —"I was thinking… I’ve been wanting to go to an exhibition at the Contemporary Art Museum that ends this weekend. I was… thinking of going, and I wondered if… if you’d like to join me…" —His nervousness was becoming more and more evident.

I stayed silent for a second, surprised by the invitation. It was such a spontaneous offer that it caught me off guard, but at the same time… The truth is, I was really excited.

"Sure, sounds great" —No, that’s not what I responded, although I would have loved to sound that calm and mature for my age, let’s not forget I’m 29. What actually happened was:

—"REALLY??" —I got way more excited than I thought when he asked if I wanted to go to the museum; I’d been wanting to go for weeks and hadn’t found the time. I wasn’t really aware of my excitement, it’s hard for me to control my intensity sometimes, and I found myself in front of him, touching his arm. —"Of course, I want to go! I didn’t realize it was the deadline already, I’ve been wanting to go for weeks!"

Spencer’s smile widened slightly, his eyebrows raised, and his expression was more like disbelief. "Way to go, Eli, he invites you out, and you act like a ten-year-old with a lollipop, ugh… stop, stop being yourself for a moment and act… act normal, damn it…"

—"I’ll pick you up on Saturday at… ten, maybe?" —He had one eyebrow raised and a slightly amused smile, as if my reaction entertained him.

—"Sounds perfect," —I replied, this time containing my absurd excitement.

We said our goodbyes, and as I walked to my car, I couldn’t help but smile. "AHHHHHHH" —I got into the car, and when I grabbed the steering wheel, I think I screamed a little, I probably looked like a teenager. Even after acting like an idiot, he kept the invitation, I couldn’t believe it.

Saturday took an eternity to arrive, but we both seemed eager for it. He sent me related articles, and we talked about the subject during meals. When Saturday finally came and Spencer arrived to pick me up, the initial awkwardness quickly disappeared. The museum was fascinating, full of pieces that sparked interesting debates between us. We talked about the meaning behind the works but also veered into more personal topics at times.

—"I’ve always found contemporary art hard to understand…" —Spencer admitted while we observed an abstract sculpture. —"It’s like it’s designed to confuse rather than communicate something concrete." —He said with a confused expression.

I smiled at his comment. “I love it when he makes that face… Aww” —"That’s what I like about it. It forces you to think outside the box, to question what you see and feel. Abstract art was born to oppose established norms. The birth of photography was a huge revolution; when it was no longer necessary to faithfully represent pompous society… Artists could be free to challenge social conventions."

He looked at me with an intensity that made me feel a little nervous. But since he didn’t interrupt me, I let myself go.

—"Sometimes art… the beauty of it, is letting yourself be carried away by its forms and colors, assuming that you can’t control it and that what it tells you might not be what you perceive because your sociocultural and emotional context isn’t the same as the artist’s. I mean… I’m talking too much, but y-you get my point, right? “You don’t even understand it yourself, how is someone else going to understand it…” I wasn’t sure if what I was saying was convincing him or boring him. I usually held back when I liked a topic; I always had the feeling that I bored people when I talked, so I got used to that, to being quiet more than talking. I don’t know why I felt so comfortable with him. “Of course you’re talking too much… shh”

—"You mean that maybe I need to learn to stop trying to find a concrete meaning in everything, a reason, and just enjoy it."

—"Yeah, I guess so, that sounds good." —I laughed. —"When I talk, it sounds much more… chaotic."

We continued exploring the museum, but as we went on, the atmosphere between us became increasingly relaxed and comfortable. There was something about the way our conversations flowed that made everything seem natural, as if we had always been friends.

When we finally left the museum, we decided to continue the afternoon in a small nearby bookstore. Spencer and I shared a fascination for books, and spending time in a bookstore was the perfect ending to an already special day.

· P O V S P E N C E R ·

The walk after leaving the museum was pleasant, full of conversations about topics that had nothing to do with work. In fact, work was the one thing we didn’t talk about all day. We discussed books, music, places we wanted to visit someday. I was surprised by how easy it was to talk with Eli, without any effort.

—"Do you have a favorite book?" —I asked as we walked leisurely, without any particular direction.

—"Yes, I do," —she responded quickly, smiling at the question. —"The End of Eternity by Asimov."

I don’t know why it surprised me that she liked Isaac Asimov.

—"It’s not one of his most highly regarded books."

—"Are you surprised, or is it just me? That book is amazing, it has everything, it’s… perfect."

I couldn’t help but be completely captivated, always so enthusiastic about everything she likes, you can’t help but feel infected by it. —"It’s a great book, that’s true."

The sun was starting to set, tinting the sky with shades of orange and pink as we continued walking peacefully.

—"Thank you for inviting me today, Spencer," —we were heading towards the subway station. —"I really needed this. Starting at the BAU has been intense, and this… I needed it."

—"I cleared my throat, looking away for a second, feeling a warmth in my chest that I hadn’t experienced in a long time. —"I needed it too. Sometimes it’s… easy to forget that there’s a world outside of work."

We stayed silent for a moment, walking side by side, and I couldn’t help but think that there was something more in this silence, something that didn’t need to be said but that we both felt. It was a connection that was beginning to take shape, but we didn’t dare express it in words.

When we reached the station, Eli and I stopped, realizing that our routes diverged here. However, neither of us seemed ready to say goodbye just yet.

—"Spencer," —Eli said, breaking the silence. —"Um… I wanted to tell you something…"

—"You can tell me anything," —I replied softly, leaning slightly toward her to show that I was ready to listen.

Eli seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if searching for the right words. Finally, she took a deep breath and spoke.

—"Well, it’s nothing special, just…" —she said, nervously —"Since I joined the team, I’ve felt a bit out of place, and I… sometimes feel like I have to prove something. But with you, it’s been different. I feel comfortable, like I don’t have to try so hard to be accepted."

The sincerity of her words touched me more than I expected. I knew how difficult it could be to fit into a team like ours, where the pressure was constant and the expectations high. I felt a wave of empathy for her and a need to let her know that she wasn’t alone.

—"I understand how you feel. But from day one, you’ve proven to be a valuable part of the team."

Eli smiled, but it was a shy smile, as if she wasn’t used to receiving that kind of praise.

—"Oh, okay, well… Thank you," —she said quietly. —"…For making it easy for me…"

—"I haven’t had to make it easy, it’s been easy." —I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. —"It’s not common for me to feel comfortable with someone. Usually, I’m pretty… reserved," —I added with a conspiratorial smile, scratching my neck. Eli laughed softly, nodding.

—"Yes, I’ve noticed," —she said in a playful tone. —"But I like that part of you. There’s something comforting in knowing that you don’t have to talk all the time for things to make sense. Silence with you never feels awkward."

We stood there, at the entrance of the station, while the flow of people came and went around us. It seemed like the whole world was in motion, but the two of us were in a bubble, a moment suspended in time.

Finally, I broke the silence, finding the courage to go further.

—"Maybe we could do this more often," —I suggested, hoping I didn’t sound too eager. —"Go out and talk about things that aren’t related to work, I mean… It doesn’t have to be anything formal, just… more of… well, this."

Eli looked at me, and I could have sworn there was a small smile on her lips.

—"I’d like that," —she replied, her voice soft, almost shy.

I nodded, and I think I held back a sigh of relief and joy. I had the feeling that in just a few hours, something had changed between us. Something that, though still subtle, was taking shape with every small gesture, with every word shared.

We said goodbye with a smile, knowing that what we had started today wouldn’t stop there. There was a mutual understanding.

As I headed home, I couldn’t stop thinking about Eli, about how easy it had been to open up to her, about how much I wanted to spend more time together. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I was on the right track, not just in my career but also in my personal life. Although it might be that I was getting ahead of myself, at that moment, that’s how I felt.

· P O V E L I ·

On Monday, when I arrived at the office, I found a small note on my desk next to a coffee. The handwriting was Spencer’s, and as I read it, I couldn’t help but smile, biting my lip. As if that would somehow contain the redness of my cheeks.

"Thank you for Saturday, it was amazing. Here’s a little gift, something I thought you’d like. - S"

Next to the note was a book, carefully wrapped. I unwrapped it with curiosity and found a beautiful edition of my favorite book, "The End of Eternity" by Isaac Asimov. I think my heart was beating so fast that I almost had a heart attack. “Oh my god… I’m dying…” Not only had he listened to what I said, but he had also made an effort to let me know that he was willing to share something that was important to me.

“…He’s adorable.”

· Requests via DM ·

[a-timely-problem]

Overheard at the BAU

Spencer: "I'm not depressed!"

JJ: "no lying, Spence!"

Spencer: "I'm not depressed, I'm just very furious with life"

Emily, sliding past on a skateboard while Derek is running after her with lightsabers in hand: "Moooood"

[spritehouse]

rewatching "luke" here are my thoughts and notes:

- teased by phill and kate about how he doesn't ask for help, saying "i got this"

- phill jokingly calls him "the great communicator" before asking what's up at the bau. luke responds, "everything's good" followed by a long, awkward pause + only delves into deeper conversation when phill probes

- apparently doesn't give lisa or phill any details about cases, or even send lisa a text in the middle of the day to check in

less then 5 minutes in? this man is neurodivergent. anyways.

- he begrudgingly gives penelope details about the move-in with lisa. penelope is obviously looking for more romantic details, but he just gives her a play-by-play

- fucking awful liar

- pretty standard moral code (victims deserve justice. killing their killer doesn't do that) and a kind of pride(?) (similar to how derek refused to let a sniper kill doyle when they had the shot, like refused to let the sniper kill ramos)

- called lisa to check in after she says that he doesn't

- HE CALLS SPENCER "Spence" ITS CANON. (14x6, 17:16)

- has what appears to be a panic attack after finding out lisa might be in trouble. this is a pretty standard response but i'm self-projecting shhhhh

- was the one to discover his BEST FRIENDS DEAD BODY and then had to get on his knees after the police arrived and explain to them that he's with the fbi WHILE STARING AT HIS BEST FRIEND'S BODY

side note:

he has at least two decorative "A"s in his apartment

[introverted-author]

Arla

Emily gets a service dog. JJ is allergic | Written for @prentiss-theorem bingo. Fulfills the prompt 'Maybe I'm allergic to them?'

Emily didn’t think that she had ever experienced this level of anxiety. As she sat in the small room with her wife JJ right beside her, she couldn’t stop the thoughts racing in her head.

Will they be a boy or a girl? Black lab or yellow lab? What colour will their eyes be? Will I like their name? Please let me like their name!

Things had gotten really bad for her after the Doyle case. She hadn’t been able to leave the house, let alone work. And when JJ had suggested a service dog, everything had fallen into place. Emily had been waiting for a service dog for her PTSD for two years. And in just a few short minutes, she would finally be meeting her new partner.

All of these thoughts and more sped through her brain and she was aware of how stupidly nervous she was and the fact that she would probably be crying as soon as she saw them. JJ was gently running her thumb along Emily’s knuckles, doing her best to soothe her wife’s anxieties. It was times like these when Emily was so grateful to have JJ at her side.

After what felt like both a millenia and ten seconds, the door clicked open and in walked a trainer and the most beautiful golden Labrador that Emily had ever laid her eyes on. As soon as the trainer led the lab over, they were up on two paws, leaning on Emily’s lap as they butted their head into Emily’s chest.

“Her name is Arla,” the trainer said, looking on with a fond smile as Emily lost herself in golden fur and deep brown eyes.

“Hi Arla,” Emily beamed, high in the clouds as she doted on the materialisation of dreams that had taken far too long to come true. Emily didn’t know how long the two of them played, tears of elation trickling down Emily’s cheeks.

…

JJ didn’t seem to be able to stop sneezing.

They had been home for a few nights with Arla after an intense week of training. JJ had taken the next month off of work at the BAU to help Arla settle in. And everytime that Arla was on JJ’s lap, she broke out in a fit of sneezes.

“Your eyes are really red Jayje,” Emily commented with trepidation from the armchair opposing the couch. “Are you okay?”

JJ sniffled, wiped her watery eyes and said, “... I think I might be allergic to Arla.”

“Oh no. Jayje, I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you were allergic to dogs otherwise-”

“Em, relax,” JJ said, holding up her hands. “I didn’t know that I was allergic either. And it’s really not that bad-”

“You have snot dripping from your nose.”

Emily laughed as JJ panicked, frantically snatching a tissue from the box on the coffee table and blowing her nose.

“You never saw that!” JJ exclaimed as Emily laughed, enjoying her wife’s embarrassment.

“But seriously,” JJ started. “What should we do about Arla?”

“We could call Reid? He might have some ideas.”

“Whatever happened to Google?”

“You know Reid is more accurate than Google could ever be. Besides, if he doesn’t ramble at least once a day he’ll explode in a blast of neurodivergent glory.”

JJ shrugged and nodded, continuing to allow Arla to lie on her lap despite the increasingly apparent consequences. Emily took her phone from the coffee table and was quick to find Reid’s contact and press the call button.

“Hey Reid,” Emily smiled when the doctor picked up after only a few rings. “How’s it going? Got a case?”

“No, today’s a paperwork day,” Reid said, switching on the FaceTime feature and beaming as Emily appeared on his screen. Reid preferred FaceTimes as he found it easier to pick up on the other person’s emotions when he could see them. “I haven’t seen you in a week and three days! We’ve all missed you and JJ. How is Arla? I cannot wait to meet her!”

“Arla’s good,” Emily flipped the camera around to show Arla and JJ. JJ’s face brightened up and she waved before being interrupted by another sneeze.

“Is JJ okay?” Reid asked as Emily turned the camera back to herself. “It looks like she might have a cold or allergic rhinitis.”

“We think that JJ might be allergic to Arla. We thought we should ring you to get your verdict.”

“Emily, I’m not a medical doctor.”

“But you are better than every search engine combined.”

Reid laughed at that, nodding. “Well, I would recommend going to a doctor - a doctor who is qualified in the medical field, Emily. They can diagnose JJ and provide you with a treatment plan which will likely consist of taking antihistamines or even immunotherapy. But given that the symptoms that JJ is experiencing are relatively mild, antihistamines will probably be all that she requires.”

“Thanks Reid!” JJ called from the couch, groaning as she sneezed again.

“No problem. But for now you might want to separate yourself from Arla.”

JJ sighed in disappointment before Emily called the lab over to herself. JJ laughed as she watched Arla climb right up into her wife’s lap.

“We’ll see you in a few weeks Reid,” Emily said, knowing that Reid didn’t have long until he would get in trouble with Hotch for having a personal phone call - no matter who it was from.

“See you Emily.”

And with that Emily’s phone returned to her home screen. Emily was quick to open up Google and make an appointment with their GP for a few days' time.

…

The GP had referred JJ to an allergy clinic and it wasn’t until they were both back at work and Arla was settled into the team that the appointment occurred. A skin prick test confirmed that yes, JJ was allergic to dogs. However, the allergist was happy to inform the couple that JJ’s symptoms could be easily treated with some prescription medication that the allergist was quick to prescribe.

As soon as JJ began taking the medication, she found that her symptoms faded away and she could happily lavish love on Arla as much as she desired without a single sneeze. There had been a few hiccups along the way but now the Prentiss-Jareaus were an unstoppable team.

[beelmons]

BAU guys + Love Languages (Pt1)

According to Dr. Gary Chapman, there're 5 main ways in which we show and receive love. These are some head canons on the love languages I think apply to each BAU guys. Are you compatible? My ask is always open if you want to share your thoughts and hcs with me! If you want to find out your love language you can take a free test here!

Spencer Reid

Giving: Spencer definitely shows love through acts of services. He's the type of partner/friend that will help you with a chore or offer to do it for you. He's a "fixer" even if sometimes he doesn't understand what that means. As a friend, he'll constantly notice if you're struggling with a task and offer a solution. As a romantic partner, he'll always be ontop of your needs, physical and emotional, to make sure that they are being solved.

When communication is not good, he might come across as insensitive, sometimes you just want to vent and be heard. He might seem like he wants to one-up you or show you that he could solve the problem faster, but that's not his intention. He wants you to be well again, as quickly as he can make it happen.

Receiving: Words of affirmation is how he understands you love him. Thanks to his autistic tendencies/neurodivergent coding he has trouble understanding social cues and underlying messages. You have to be forward with him about everything you do, no matter how fast he can pick up on your mood, if you don't tell him what's wrong, he won't be able to tell.

If you're not able to communicate properly, he might feel unwanted and pushed away. Simple expressions such as "you did good" "thank you so much for helping me" "I appreciate your input on my work/issues" can be very fulfilling for him. He needs to be reminded of what he does well so he can continue doing it, even if he himself doesn't verbalize his feelings a lot. Physical touch and quality time are his least present languages.

Aaron Hotchner

Giving: Hotch mentions time and again how he tries his best to provide both the team and his family his undivided attention. Doesn't this sound just like quality time? His job might take him away for weeks at a time, sure, but it's his whole and complete intention to give you every second he has destined for you without any interruptions.

Because of the line of duty, this can be complicated, sometimes making you feel as if you come last. Even when his love language is in conflict with his line of work, once he's not working, it's all about you and his loved ones. Listening to hours of your rambling, not even looking at his phone (if it's not an emergency), watching an entire movie without falling asleep. When you're with him, he's there, he's present in every way.

His guilt and regret from being away can sometimes add a bit of gift giving to the love language, but even if he shows up with a bouqué of flowers, remember that's only a token, he's there for you and nothing but you.

Receiving: In the same way he makes all the effort to be there, he expects you to be there with him. If you start looking at your phone or pioritizing time with others over time with him, he will feel unhappy and unloved, it’s all about the quality time. Receiving gifts and physical touch don't go a very long way with him, so if you are making him feel unloved you will have to find another way to remind him. This doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy cuddles and gifts every now and then.

Words of affirmation can also be a good way to communicate your love for him, but it's only a support language for quality time. Having dinner without looking at the time, doing a puzzle together, cooperating to help Jack with his homework, those are the moments his heart feels the fullest.

Derek Morgan

Giving: This man will shower you with so many words of affirmation and compliments you might feel like suffocating at times. He will praise you and let you know how adored, cared for, and desired you are. Mix it up with a bit of gift giving, and you've got that attentive boyfriend. Communication is key, because you might run into some trouble if you can't agree exactly on what a praise is. He can run his mouth, and sometimes he says stuff that, even if it's not ill intentioned, might come out as harsh and judgemental.

If you struggle with your self-perception, at times it might feel like he's lying to you or trying to deceive you for an specific purpose. Remind yourself that Derek Morgan is one of the most honest men to ever exist, and he would never say a word he didn't mean (as long as he isn't angry!).

Receiving: This PDA king needs his share of lovin', physical touch is how you can remind him he's the man of your dreams. Holding his hand, touching his shoulder, kissing him in public. He loves being displayed as your man, he loves feeling the electricity generated by your skin when it touches his. If you struggle with physical touch, he might come to think you don't desire him. You'd have to be open about your feelings towards the gestures, and come up with some rules, maybe you don't initiate the contact but try your best to not reject them.

During intimate times, it's very relevant that you initiate contact every once in a while, otherwise he might feel the relationship is one-sided. If you're unable to provide the touch he needs, at least make sure you give him quality time, when you're with him, it should only be about the two of you. This is only a supplement, but it will remind him of your care for him. The least understanble love languages for this man are acts of service and receiving gifts. He can do and buy things for himself, thank you very much.

[protege-not-protagonist]

Welcome Page

The Protege

My ongoing Criminal Minds fic where in Spencer, seeking a happy ending, left the BAU. Meanwhile, a young neurodivergent woman, Grace is hired to fill his spot on the team. After receiving some news intended for Dr Reid, Grace takes the opportunity to meet her predecessor and ask for his advice. Together they form a kinship as they realise they are moving on from past trauma with very different approaches. Both try to encourage each other in navigating their different stages of life. (Basically a new season of criminal minds with a main character with ADHD with Spencer as her mentor, plus a happy ending and seperate love interest for Spencer)

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About me:

Hi am Proe, welcome to my Criminal Minds and fanfic blog. I'm 24, Australian and AuADHD. I'm pretty friendly, very happy to chat in DMs and receive anon asks. My favourite colour is teal, I love dogs, seal, owls and some of my interests are true crime, writing and history. I write so that my works are suitable for a broad audience as I know some fans are still young, and wish to be included. I aim for you guys to have an enjoyable experience on my blog and also be a safe place.

My main, where all my randomness goes is @tytoowl so if you see that user lurking around, that's me.

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I encourage readers with any concerns to read TWs at the start of the chapter notes. Any graphic violence, gore and sexual references will be heavily tagged. If I have missed tags or you think I should tag something, please let me know via DM. If I do end up writing any explicitly sexual scenes in my works they will be separated, standalone and tagged MDNI 18+ and I will use the tumblr mature content tag. If any of my fic recs are explict, these will be also tagged accordingly.

I encourage people under 18 to filter their tags and correctly report their age in their settings, it is mostly to protect yourself, trust me. I have my own negative experiences from when I was your age and I am very happy to share instructions on how to filter your tags, or my experience of how reading stuff I shouldn't of affected me. Just ask.