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ch3shireacat · 5 days ago

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spencer reid x fem!bsf!reader tw .' language, gideon death mention, slight subjectiveness ( bc I can't help myself apparently, but overall wholesome ) an .' to the lovely anon who requested spencer sfw alphabet, thank you for requesting 🫶 you are my first request some of these take place pre relationship and post. i couldn't decide on a concrete timeline.

masterlist | series masterlist | dividers | join the taglist | requested!!!

a is for affection

spencer isn’t touchy with just anyone.

but you’re not just anyone.

he’s awkward about it at first—stiff hugs, nervous pats on the back, hands hovering midair like he’s unsure where to land them. but you never rush him. you never tease when he freezes, never flinch when he startles at your warmth. you just… let him figure it out.

and he does figure it out.

because you keep showing up.

every time you loop your arm through his, every time you knock your knee into his under the table, every time you cup his face between your palms and squish his cheeks while calling him my favorite boy, he softens a little more.

and now? affection from spencer reid is something sacred. something rare. something real.

he doesn’t always say what he feels—but he shows it. in little things.

like bringing you coffee just the way you like it. or resting his chin on your shoulder while you work late at your desk. or smoothing your hair back when you’re stressed and whispering, 'you’re doing so good,' because he knows it’s what you need to hear—even if your throat closes up and you pretend not to cry.

he doesn’t initiate pda in front of the team often, but he lets you do it. he lets you lean your head on his shoulder during briefings. lets you hold onto his arm when you’re cold. lets your hand find his under the table and stays like that—intertwined, steady, quiet.

the affection grows with every shared look, every inside joke, every soft laugh no one else understands. eventually, it becomes second nature. not a question of if he wants your touch, but when.

and when it’s just the two of you, when the lights are low and the case files are closed?

spencer becomes even softer.

his fingers trace slow circles on your arm. he lets you curl into his lap. he kisses your hair like he was born to, murmurs facts and comfort into your ear just to keep you close, just to feel you breathe.

he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

because deep down, spencer reid has always craved connection. and you made it safe to reach for it. you taught him affection isn’t weakness.

it’s the strongest thing he’s ever known.

b is for best friend

you’ve been his best friend longer than you’ve been anything else.

long before the tension, the teasing, the moments you both try not to replay at night—you were just his person. the one who knew how to ground him without using words. the one who never rolled your eyes when he launched into a ten-minute ramble about string theory or the mating rituals of sea slugs.

you always listened.

and spencer? spencer never forgot that.

you’re the person he texts first—about good days, bad days, weird dreams, book recommendations. you know the exact number of sugars he takes in his coffee and how he flinches when the microwave beeps too loudly. you keep extra hand sanitizer for him in your bag. you always carry his favorite pens.

and he… he always carries your lip balm. won’t even admit when he’s using it. just silently pops the cap, uses it, then tucks it back in his satchel like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

you bicker sometimes. he’s stubborn, and you’re worse. but even your arguments are intimate. soft. like a storm between two people who know they’ll always come back to each other. and you do—always.

he lets you see parts of him no one else sees.

the panic. the guilt. the grief. he tells you about the nightmares, the pressure, the fear of losing control. and you hold it all like it’s precious, not too heavy, not too much.

he tells you you’re his best friend. still. even when the looks linger too long, when your thigh brushes his beneath the table and neither of you move. even when he catches himself staring at your mouth during stakeouts. even when he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from calling you mine out loud. even when the two are way past friendship.

because you are his best friend.

the kind of best friend who stays.

c is for cuddles

spencer reid doesn’t cuddle.

not in the way people expect, at least.

he’s all long limbs and awkward hesitancy, all logic and overthinking. he overanalyzes body temperature and sleep cycles and whether he’s holding you too tightly or not enough. he’ll lie there for ten minutes just debating the appropriate number of fingers to rest on your waist.

but you cracked that code long ago. you never ask. you just curl into him without warning, usually during a movie or a stakeout or a particularly exhausting plane ride. and every time, he stiffens for a second—just a second—before he melts like a candle, quiet and slow, into you.

he’s a terrible big spoon. his knees hang off the edge of the bed and he apologizes at least three times before settling. but when you’re the one behind him—arms locked around his waist, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades—he sleeps deeper than he has in years.

in public, cuddling becomes something smaller, something quieter.

your thigh against his in the bullpen. your head on his shoulder in the jet. his pinky hooking yours during late-night coffee runs. no one notices. but he does. god, he does.

your favorite way to cuddle him, though? on the couch. his head in your lap. your fingers in his hair.

he never says it, but you know it’s his favorite too. you can feel it in the way he hums, soft and low, when you comb through his curls. you can see it in the way his eyes flutter closed like he’s safe for once—like he doesn’t have to run equations or calculate risk or be anyone other than yours.

spencer reid doesn’t cuddle, its a germ thing. except when it comes to you.

and he never wants to stop.

d is for domestic moments

if anyone ever asked spencer what he pictured when he thought of the word home, he’d say your name.

it’s not just the place, or the smell of your lemon-and-lavender dish soap, or the fact that your cabinets are alphabetized because he helped you do it one slow sunday afternoon. it’s the sound of your voice calling him from another room. the clink of your mug beside his in the dish rack. the faint scent of your shampoo on his hoodie that you stole and never gave back.

its the little things.

you brush your teeth together, shoulder to shoulder at your tiny bathroom sink. you argue about laundry temperatures and laugh when he folds your shirts like file folders, citing optimal drawer space. he teases you for how you butter toast. you tease him for how he eats cereal dry. you leave little post-it notes on his bookshelves: drink water, stretch your legs, i’m proud of you.

he saves every one.

domestic life with you doesn’t look like anyone else’s. it’s not perfect. sometimes dinner burns. sometimes the sink leaks. sometimes you fall asleep on the couch and drool on his lap. but it’s real. it’s warm. it’s quiet and silly and safe.

and to spencer, who grew up in sterile rooms and too many books and not enough love, that is revolutionary.

you are the routine he never knew he needed.

the grocery list on the fridge. the sound of your humming in the shower. the way you hand him your keys without asking when he stays over. the way he makes the bed in the morning before you even wake up.

you call it domestic.

he calls it heaven.

e is for excitement

spencer doesn’t get excited like most people do.

he doesn’t jump up and down or shout from the rooftops. his excitement is quieter, tucked into the soft edges of his smile and the breathless way he talks when something lights him up.

however you bring out a different kind of excitement in him.

you make him laugh mid-sentence. you make him look forward to things—something he never really did before. trivia nights at the bar ( and the two of you always obviously ). a new coffee shop opening. a spontaneous road trip just because you read about a haunted bookstore two towns over.

it’s not just adrenaline, either. it’s anticipation.

excitement, to spencer, is your knuckles brushing his on the walk to the farmer’s market. it’s you dragging him to the front row of a concert he didn’t even want to go to—until he saw your face in the glow of the stage lights.

it’s the way you squeal when he brings you your favorite candy. the way you clap when the takeout arrives. the way you beam when he finishes a ramble and you actually listened to all of it.

your excitement is contagious, and his is nothing but devoted. yours is loud. his is loyal. and when you're excited about something, he's excited about it—purely because you are.

so when you ask if he wants to come with you—to the movie, to the bookstore, to your cousin’s wedding out of town—he doesn’t hesitate.

'yes,' he says.

because with you, even something painfully ordinary feels like an adventure.

f is for flirting

you flirt with spencer like it’s a game—like it’s breathing.

light, teasing touches to his arm when you pass him coffee. a smirk when you catch him staring at your mouth instead of listening to your facts. a playful, 'careful, spence. say one more sweet thing and i might fall in love with you.'

oh, it wrecks him.

because he doesn’t know how to flirt back. not really. not in the traditional sense. and definitely not on the same level you do so effortlessly. he fumbles. he blushes. he babbles about pheromones or victorian courtship rituals. sometimes he stares at you like you’ve short-circuited his brain.

but oh, when he does flirt back?

it’s fucking lethal.

he leans in close, voice low, eyes dark. says things like, 'do you always get this close to your friends?'

it stuns you every time. throws you off your rhythm. and he knows it.

because spencer may not flirt like you do—but he studies you. he waits, he learns, finds your weak spots and then he strikes when you least expect it.

it’s a dangerous little dance—the teasing, the tension, the way neither of you quite crosses the line.

g is for gratitude

he shows his gratitude in quiet, precise ways. he’s not great with grand declarations, and he doesn’t always know what to say in the moment—so instead, he does things.

when you bring him coffee without asking? he refills your gas tank the next time you drive ( even though it one of the things he loathe the most, more than the task of driving itself ).

when you stay up late helping him organize his case files? he shows up at your door the next morning with your favorite pastry from that bakery two neighborhoods away just because he knows that it is your favorite.

when you talk him down from a panic spiral after a rough case? he leaves sticky notes all over your apartment—on your mirror, your fridge, your laptop—each one scribbled with a fact about how wonderful he thinks you are.

he doesn’t always say thank you, not in the conventional way. but you learn to read his version of it. the little offerings, the long looks, the way his hand always lingers just a little longer when he passes you something. the way his voice goes soft when he says your name.

and when you do call him out on it—when you tease, 'you never say thank you, you know that?'—he’ll look at you, a little sheepish, a little shy.

then while he knows your not serious, he'll get the uncontrollable urge to thank you in words he's yet to find. he’ll murmur, 'you’re right. i’m sorry. thank you… for everything.'

and he’ll say it like he means it. because he does. so much more than he can ever quite put into words.

h is for hugs

spencer isn’t much of a hugger ( just like the cuddling, its a germ thing )—at least not at first.

it’s not that he dislikes touch. he just… doesn’t always know what to do with it, especially when it's you. because he doesn't want to do anything to make you uncomfortable. he doesn't know where to put his arms, how long is too long, if he’s holding too tightly, if you can feel how fast his heart is racing.

you, on the other hand, hugged him like it was the most natural thing in the world. like he wasn’t awkward or fragile or some too-smart alien with a trauma record longer than his resume. you hugged him like you meant it. like he was human. like he was yours.

the first time it happened, he stood stiff and overwhelmed, arms hovering in the air like they were waiting for instruction. but you didn’t let go—not until he finally gave in and hugged you back.

now he craves it. practically needs it.

long, sleepy hugs in hotel hallways after a tough case. silent, tight ones when he doesn’t have the words. arms around your waist in your kitchen when you're making tea. a sleepy squeeze before falling asleep beside you—platonic, he says… but his hold always lingers.

he doesn’t say it, but you know: your hugs feel like home. and he’s never had one of those before.

I is for intimacy

intimacy with spencer reid isn’t loud. it’s not flashy or fast or careless. it’s quiet, careful, and most of all, earned.

it’s the way he refills your coffee the exact way you like it before you’ve even asked. the way he walks on the street side of the sidewalk without thinking. the way he lends you books and leaves little notes in the margins—not just quotes, but thoughts. Inside jokes. a silent kind of love letter.

it’s knowing which of his cardigans you like best and not caring when you end up borrowing it for weeks. it’s how he doesn’t flinch when you touch him anymore.

it’s letting you see him cry when gideon disappears and when the weight gets too heavy. it’s forehead presses in crowded places. fingers brushing yours under briefing tables. a single look across the plane aisle that says more than a conversation ever could.

with Spencer, intimacy is dangerous. because it’s addictive. and you both know, once that line is crossed, there’s no going back.

j is for jealousy

spencer is not a jealous man. ( at least, that’s what he tells himself. )

he’s logical, rational. he'd go as far as to claim his evolved.

except, he nearly chokes on his coffee when he sees you laughing at someone else's joke. except his jaw clenches when some local deputy leans just a little too close during a case consult. except, he absolutely does not hear a word morgan says when you giggle and touch the arm of that bartender.

you’re not his. you’re his best friend.

and that’s the problem, isn’t it?

because best friends don’t fantasize about pinning you against his bookcases. best friends don’t memorize the exact shade of your lip gloss or notice when someone else smudges it.

best friends don’t feel sick when you say you have a date and try to act like it doesn’t matter. he is not a jealous man.

but the second someone else makes you smile in that particular way? the second you lean in, all warm and pretty and completely unaware of the effect you have?

spencer Reid suddenly, acutely, violently wants to rewrite the definition of 'best friend.'

k is for kisses

you kiss him first.

it happens on his couch, buried in quiet. the soft flicker of a half-watched documentary plays on, ignored. the two of you are curled close, your body angled toward his, your legs slotted between his knees like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you’re wearing his hoodie—sleeves bunched in your fists, hem brushing your bare thighs—and he smells like coffee and paperback pages.

you shift slightly, your temple resting against his shoulder. his fingers are tracing circles on your knee without realizing. and when you lift your head to look at him, something shifts in the air—subtle, but certain.

your gaze drops to his mouth.

and you kiss him. just like that.

gently. thoughtfully. like testing the water with your toes before diving in. his lips are soft—slightly parted from surprise, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and the back of his throat. you feel it—the way he freezes for half a second, like he’s afraid to move and wake up from a dream. but his hand on your leg doesn’t tighten. doesn’t flinch. just rests there, warm and steady.

the kiss lingers. then fades.

and when you pull back, his eyes are still closed.

he stays like that for a moment—eyes shut, breath shallow—as if memorizing it, etching it into the quietest corners of his mind.

then, slowly, he opens them.

and looks at you like he’s been holding his breath for years.

no words are exchanged. they’re not needed.

your fingers find his, lacing together.

and the next time you kiss—this time slower, deeper, more certain—he kisses you back like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do.

l is for love language

spencer shows love like he breathes—softly, instinctively, almost without realizing.

his love language isn’t grand gestures or flashy declarations. it’s quieter than that. it’s the second mug of tea he makes without asking, already prepared exactly how you like it. it’s the way he always walks on the side of the sidewalk closest to traffic. it’s the stack of books on your nightstand, handpicked and annotated, because he thought you’d like the prose in chapter seven.

it’s the way he remembers.

he remembers everything. the exact ratio of syrup you like in your coffee. the way your shoulders curl when you’re cold, even if you insist you’re not. the fact that certain songs make you cry, and which ones to play when you’re sad but want to feel held.

he’s not particularly good at saying the words—at least not at first. But his actions are a language of their own.

and when he does say it? it’s in the softest voice you’ve ever heard.

he says i love you like it’s a secret.

one meant only for you.

m is for mornings

he doesn’t like mornings. not in the way most people do, with coffee and sunlight and birdsong. he doesn’t rise early because he wants to — he rises because he has to. his brain refuses to rest for long. he’s been waking up before dawn since he was twelve. sometimes from nightmares. sometimes from panic. sometimes from sheer inertia.

now, there’s you and mornings have become something else entirely. they start slow and somewhat soft.tTame in a way spencer never knew he craved.

he always wakes first. his body trained to open his eyes just as the faintest sliver of light slips past the curtain seam. but he doesn’t move at first.

he looks at you. every time, without fail.

sometimes your face is smooshed awkwardly into your pillow, mouth parted, a little crease between your brows like you’re solving a puzzle in your dreams.

sometimes your arm is draped haphazardly across his chest like a seatbelt.

sometimes your hand has wormed beneath the hem of his shirt in your sleep — splayed warm across the skin of his stomach in a way that would drive him insane if he weren’t so thoroughly overwhelmed with affection.

sometimes you tangle around him like a vine.

sometimes you’re all the way across the bed, curled up with your back to him, and he has to fight the urge to pull you back with an arm around your waist and an anchor in his heart.

but the best mornings — the ones he wants to trap in amber and tuck into the pages of a book — are the ones where you cling to him like you were born in his arms. your face nestled into the crook of his neck. one leg slung high over his hip. a sleepy sigh escaping your lips as you press closer, even in unconsciousness.

it makes him positively melt.

he lies there, stiff and reverent, heart threatening to beat through his ribcage. he inhales the scent of your shampoo and lets himself fall into the quiet warmth of you. he doesn’t dare move.

because for once, his brain isn’t racing.

it isn’t listing prime numbers or translating ancient greek or replaying the screams of the case before. it isn’t reminding him of every way he’s failed or every way he could.

it’s just… quiet.

it’s just you.

and he’s selfish about it. he hoards the moment. he wraps his arms around you and buries his nose into your hair and pretends like he has every right in the world to be here. pretends you’re his in the daylight too, not just in these quiet, borrowed mornings before the world wakes up.

he doesn’t rush to get up anymore, not when you’re wrapped around him like this. not when you sigh his name in your sleep, soft and sweet and barely audible — like it’s instinct.

not when the first thing he sees every morning is your face.

if he had his way, he thinks, he’d never wake up alone again.

n is of nicknames

you give him so many.

it starts small. mostly innocent. a playful spence here, a sarcastic dr. reid there, said with a grin as you steal his coffee or beat him at chess. you try pretty boy once, just to see what happens — morgan nearly chokes on his water, and spencer turns red all the way down his neck.

you keep it in your pocket for emergencies.

but as your friendship deepens — as something warmer and softer grows in the space between you — your nicknames shift.

sometimes it’s doc, said teasingly when he gets too in his head, or spencey, which he pretends to hate but never corrects, especially not when it's coming from your lips.

other times it’s gentler. intimate. you say hey, genius when you hand him his lunch, or my favorite nerd when he walks in late with six books under his arm. on your sleepiest mornings, it’s just a mumbled baby against his shoulder — and that is the one that wrecks him.

he doesn’t say much in return at first. he’s too careful, too quiet, too worried he’ll misstep and make you uncomfortable. but over time — little by little — he gathers his courage.

he calls you trouble when you tease him. sweetheart when he’s tired and lets his guard down. sunshine when you’re bundled in his bed on a gray morning and he can’t believe he gets to hold you like this.

but your favorite?

your favorite is when he says your name.

not a nickname. not shortened or altered. just your name — reverent, quiet, and full of every unspoken thing he’s too shy to say.

because somehow, when spencer says your name, it sounds like poetry. like worship. like the most important word he’s ever learned.

o is for on cloud nine

he doesn’t do giddy.

he’s too anxious, too self-contained, too prone to overthinking. joy for him is usually quiet—an upward curve of the lips, a soft exhale through the nose, the crease between his brows finally smoothing out for a moment.

but you change that.

you make him giddy.

the first time you kiss his cheek absentmindedly during a case debriefing? he smiles all day. the team notices. morgan jokes that someone must've gotten laid. spencer turns red and insists that’s not what happened ( even though the idea alone makes him dizzy ).

when you curl up next to him on the couch with a book, resting your head on his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he physically melts. you don’t see it, but he closes his eyes and lets his cheek brush the crown of your head. he doesn’t even need to read. you are the moment.

he has entire thought spirals about how lucky he is to know you, let alone love you. and when you actually tell him you love him?

he has to sit down.

literally.

on the floor.

because his knees give out.

spencer reid doesn’t always know how to express the way you make him feel — but you can always tell.

it’s in the way he glances at you like he’s making sure you’re still real. in the little, breathless huffs of laughter when you say something ridiculous. in the way he looks at your hand before taking it, like he can’t believe it’s allowed.

you are his favorite surprise. his softest place to land. and when he’s with you, he’s never once wondered what it feels like to float.

p is for physical touch

spencer used to flinch at casual contact. he wasn’t a hugger. didn’t lean in close. didn’t drape his arm around the back of the couch or press his knee to yours under the table.

you snuck in under his defenses, slow and natural. the first time you looped your arm through his on a walk, he thought his nervous system was short-circuiting. but you didn’t even notice. you just pointed out some flowers blooming by the sidewalk like you hadn’t just turned his world inside out.

now, he craves your touch the same way he craves quiet or books or the smell of old paper.

your fingers brushing his sleeve. your knees tucked under his thighs when you share a too-small couch. the way you smooth his collar when he’s fidgeting before a presentation.

and when he’s overwhelmed—head spinning, chest tight, spiraling—he always finds his way back to you. you hold his hand like it’s an anchor. you rub small circles between his shoulder blades when he forgets how to breathe.

he never asks. you just know.

and if you do ask—'spence, do you need a hug?'—he’ll nod, and bury his face in your shoulder like he’s trying to hide inside you.

because in a way, he kind of is.

when you fall asleep on his shoulder during a movie, or grab his hand without looking during a busy crosswalk—he doesn’t flinch anymore.

he leans in.

q is for quirks

he notices every single one of yours.

the way you tap your fingers on your coffee cup when you're thinking. how your nose scrunches when you’re trying not to laugh. the very specific way you fold your notes into little squares—color-coded corners, even if you swear you're not that organized.

spencer catalogues these details like they’re rare scientific data. not because he means to, but because he can’t help it. you fascinate him.

and when you make fun of his quirks—his never-ending facts, his tendency to gesture with a pen when he's lecturing, the way he counts things under his breath when he's stressed—it doesn't feel mean.

tt feels like home.

you’re the only person who can call him a walking encyclopedia and make it sound like a love poem.

sometimes you gently steal his mismatched socks, or purposefully mispronounce latin phrases just to see the way he corrects you without even looking up from his book.

you balance him. you unravel him a little.

if quirks are supposed to be strange or off-putting, then maybe you're both just a little strange. but that’s what makes it work. that’s what makes it wholly yours.

r is for rage

spencer doesn’t get angry easily. he gets frustrated, sure. he gets flustered. he gets overwhelmed and overstimulated and pushed to the brink. but rage? that’s rare. which is exactly why it’s so terrifying when it does show.

it takes a very specific kind of trigger: cruelty, injustice, manipulation. someone being deliberately unkind to someone more vulnerable than them—especially if that person is you.

you’ve only seen him truly, truly angry once.

you had brushed it off when someone said something awful to you in passing—some snide little comment about your intelligence, your worth, your relationship with spencer. but spencer had heard it. and something in him snapped.

he didn’t yell. he didn’t fight. he didn’t lose control. what he did was worse.

he went cold.

his voice dropped to this impossibly calm register. his posture stiffened. he didn’t blink, didn’t look away. he stared through the person like he was calculating every way to dismantle them—verbally, psychologically, existentially. like he could undo them with a few carefully chosen words.

you had to put your hand on his arm to bring him back. he’d blinked like he hadn’t realized how far he’d gone.

when spencer’s angry, he bottles it up. he intellectualizes it. he redirects it toward a puzzle, a lecture, a book with margins filled in red ink. but when that bottle shatters?

he doesn't raise his voice. he raises hell.

and if you’re the one being hurt?

he will never, ever let it go.

s is for secrets

spencer is a vault. a walking, talking, tragically earnest vault.

your secrets are kept in the deepest recesses of his mind—protected by eidetic memory and the kind of unshakable loyalty that borders on devotion. you could tell him something once, years ago, and he’d never bring it up again unless you did. but he’d remember. the exact words. the tone of your voice. the look in your eyes when you said it.

he holds those pieces of you like glass, carefully, reverently and never risking a crack.

but when it comes to his secrets?

that’s whole other story.

spencer is good at compartmentalizing. almost too good. he tells you the truth, sure—but never all of it. not because he wants to lie to you. he just… doesn’t want to burden you. or worse, scare you off.

he won’t tell you how long he stayed awake replaying your words from the jet. he won’t admit that he reread the same sentence in his book twelve times after you leaned over his desk in that stupid bralette. he won’t confess that every time you touch him—his hand, his arm, his shoulder—he feels it all night like a phantom burn under his skin.

the biggest secret he’s keeping?

he’s in love with you.

and he has been. quietly, painfully, and unquestionably.

he’s just scared that if he says it out loud, he won’t be able to unsay it. that if you don’t feel the same way, he’ll lose the one person who makes his world make sense.

so he keeps it buried.

under soft smiles.

under long glances.

under every whispered 'you’re my best friend.'

maybe someday, he’ll be brave enough to let it surface.

t is for texting

he is, predictably, a terrible texter—at least by modern standards.

not because he doesn’t want to talk to you. quite the opposite, actually. it’s just that spencer overthinks everything. a simple 'how are you?' turns into a five-paragraph essay he rewrites three times before giving up and sending, 'hey.'

you usually beat him to the punch anyway.

he replies quickly when it’s work-related. but if you text him something casual like 'miss you,' it’ll take him exactly twenty-three minutes to respond with something impossibly stiff like, 'that’s sweet. i’ve been thinking about you too.'

you once caught him googling 'casual responses to affectionate messages from best friend' and nearly cried laughing.

that being said—spencer does text you. constantly. he just does it in his way.

mid-case, you’ll get things like :

did you know oxytocin is released during prolonged eye contact?

you should drink more water today. you only had one bottle yesterday.

there’s a meteor shower tonight. want to sit on your roof again?

no emojis. no abbreviations. just pure spencer. thoughtful, intuitive, and quietly adoring.

you, of course, obliterate his inbox with chaos. photos, memes, out-of-pocket thirst traps, live updates of your day in ten-second intervals, you fucking name it.

he pretends to be exasperated. he’s not. he saves them all.

sometimes, when he misses you, he scrolls back months just to reread the random thoughts you’ve sent. just to feel close. just to remind himself what it’s like when you’re not there—talking to him like he’s the only one in the world worth texting.

u is for understanding

spencer doesn’t just understand you—he studies you like a science, memorizes you like scripture, holds your emotional tells with the same reverence he gives to the periodic table.

he knows when you're upset even before you do.

a certain hitch in your breath? he clocks it. the way your fingers fidget with the hem of your sleeve? he’s already sitting up straighter beside you. if you’re quiet in a way that isn’t restful, he hears it in the silence.

you don’t have to speak.

you just have to exist, and he reads you like a well-worn paperback.

and more than that, spencer listens. not just with his ears—but with his whole body. his full attention. his kind eyes, his tilted head, the gentle way he says your name when you’re spiraling : 'hey… i’m here.'

he doesn’t jump to fix things unless you ask. doesn’t tell you what to feel. he just gives you a soft place to land.

because that’s what you are for him.

you understand him, too—in a way no one else really has. you don’t get overwhelmed when he info-dumps or loses track of the conversation mid-sentence. you don’t flinch when he stumbles over social cues or blurts something too honest too fast. you know that he’s trying.

you’ve never made him feel like too much.

that’s why it works—why this friendship-turned-something-more feels inevitable.

because spencer doesn’t just understand you.

he accepts you unconditionally.

v is for vacation

vacations with spencer are planned. down to the museum hours, the best walking routes, and which cafés serve the best local pastries ( he probably read twenty reviews, cross-referenced photos, and made a ranked list in his notebook ).

he’s a walking itinerary. but—he only pulls it out if you ask.

because even though he thrives on structure, for you, he’s learned to be flexible. to let things unfold. to enjoy the chaos of wrong turns and missed buses and rainstorms that send you running for cover under a shared awning.

he’ll pick a place based on your offhand comment months ago. 'i’ve always wanted to see the northern lights…' you’ll blink when he surprises you with flight confirmations.

spencer’s ideal trip is somewhere cool and quiet—a cozy cabin with a wood-burning fireplace, a tiny local bookstore, and no cell reception. he’ll sit beside you with a mug of tea and a blanket, reading aloud if you ask. or silently, your knees brushing.

but he’ll do beaches for you. he’ll wear embarrassingly high-spf sunscreen and a button-down in the sand, claiming he’s fine as he squints in the sun and holds your tote bag. he’ll stay until sunset just to see you happy.

and when the sun dips below the horizon and the sky turns gold, he’ll lean over and say quietly, 'you’re my favorite view.'

( which you’ll tease him for. endlessly. but still write down in your notes app to keep forever. )

w is for whining

he claims he doesn’t whine, but you know better.

it’s subtle—softer than a true whine, more like a string of muttered protests delivered in that breathy, under-his-breath tone he thinks you don’t hear.

he whines when he’s tired but refuses to go to bed. when you steal the last slice of pizza without offering to split it. when you take the blanket and wrap yourself in it like a burrito. when he’s the little spoon and you start inching away.

you’ll hear it, all curled up and sulky :

'you said we’d watch the documentary…' 'you didn’t even ask if i wanted the crust…' 'that’s not sharing, that’s theft…'

if you laugh, he only gets poutier.

and yes—he likes when you whine. obviously not in public, not at work, but in private, domestic spaces where you're soft with him.

whining that you’re cold, that your feet hurt, that he hasn’t cuddled you enough today.

he’ll roll his eyes, but he’s already tugging you closer. tucking the blanket around your shoulders. rubbing circles into your calves. sliding a hand over your waist with a quiet : 'better?'

he never admits it, but your whining makes him feel wanted. needed. necessary.

( which he is, but he still likes hearing it. )

x is for x factor

it’s not just his brain. it’s not just the way he knows things, stores them, retrieves them like magic—though yes, that part is hot.

it’s not even the softness he keeps tucked behind a dozen defense mechanisms, or the quiet way he listens when you ramble, or the fact that he always remembers your coffee order, even when you change it six times in a row.

it’s all of that. but more than anything, spencer’s x factor is that he cares.

deeply and unconditionally and when it comes to you, quietly.

he cares when you say you’re fine but clearly aren’t. he notices when you wear the sweatshirt he thought he lost. he pretends not to notice when you cry in the dark and think he’s asleep—just pulls you in closer instead.

he’s emotionally fluent in your every mood. your silence, your sarcasm, your signals. he anticipates your needs before you voice them. knows when to push, when to pull, and when to simply sit with you in the quiet.

and the kicker? he never expects credit.

it’s just… who he is. spencer is himself the x factor. a slow burn, a steady fire, a man who makes falling feel like flying—because you know he’ll catch you. every time.

y is for yearning

spencer doesn’t just miss you. he yearns for you.

there is a difference.

missing someone is a passing ache, an absence in a moment. yearning is persistent. chronic. a dull pulse of longing that lives beneath his skin and lingers in every breath.

when you’re gone—whether it’s a few hours or a few weeks—spencer doesn’t just notice. he feels it. physically.

his brain, so used to buzzing with fact and theory, gets fuzzy at the edges, like he’s operating at 80% capacity, like some vital piece of him clocked out with you and hasn’t returned. he’ll try to ignore it at first and bury himself in pages of a dusty tome or hyper-fixate on a new equation, but it always circles back to you.

to how you brush your fingers through his curls when you’re sitting too close. to the way your perfume clings to his cardigans when you borrow one and give it back days later. to the voice messages you leave—rambling, chaotic, full of laughter—and how he replays them at two am with the volume turned all the way up.

he watches the door of the bau bullpen like it might conjure you if he stares hard enough. he keeps your name open in his contacts, thumb hovering over the call button, before locking his phone and tossing it onto the couch like it offended him.

sometimes, when it’s bad—really bad—he’ll fall asleep with one of your sweatshirts tucked under his pillow. he’ll wake up with it clutched to his chest like a security blanket.

and if anyone asks?

he shrugs and says he’s fine. says he’s busy. says he’s tired.

but really, he’s just spencer: a genius with a tragic crush, loving you in silence like it’s the only language he knows.

the worst part is, he never lets himself believe you could feel the same. so he bottles it up. every flutter of affection. every quiet ache. every skipped heartbeat.

but it leaks out. in the way he always remembers how you take your coffee. in the way he memorizes your laugh like scripture. in the way he turns to you first—always first—like gravity doesn't apply to anyone else.

and when you finally walk into the room again—after a trip, or a weekend apart, or even just lunch out of the office—his chest tightens with relief.

not that he says that. he just gives you a soft smile. offers you the muffin he saved and pretends he didn’t spend the entire time you were gone retracing the shape of your name in his mind like it was a lifeline.

spencer reid doesn’t just miss you. he belongs to you. he just hasn’t told you yet.

z is for zzz

he insists he’s a light sleeper. but that’s only half true.

he wants to be a light sleeper—ready at any moment for the phone to ring, for the case to drop, for something to go wrong. but the moment you curl into his side and tuck yourself against him like you belong there? he’s out like a light.

he sleeps best with you beside him—like his mind finally gives him permission to rest. his muscles soften, his breathing slows. and while the world outside keeps spinning, spencer finally, finally feels still.

and yes—he talks in his sleep. not often, but sometimes you’ll catch whispers in the early hours : mumbled bits of fact, unfinished sentences, your name.

god, your name.

like a lullaby tangled in his dreams.

he’s not a natural cuddler—at least, he wasn’t until you. but now? the moment you’re in bed, he’s got a hand on you somewhere : fingers grazing your wrist, palm pressed to your waist, your ankle resting against his. he sleeps best when he knows you’re there, that he can feel you. and if you shift away in your sleep, give it ten minutes—he’ll find you again.

he doesn’t snore. but he does let out the softest little exhales when he’s fully relaxed, the kind of sound you’d never hear at work or on the jet or in the field. the kind of sound he only makes when he’s safe. home.

he has sleep shirts, sure. pajama sets even. but nine times out of ten, he ends up in one of your oversized tees instead. claims it’s because your detergent smells like lavender and is neurologically calming. you know better. he just wants to be surrounded by you—even in sleep.

and when you wake up before him (rare, but it happens ), you get to see it : the real spencer reid.

hair a mess. mouth slightly parted. arms tangled in the sheets. that furrow in his brow gone, like he’s never known pain or fear or expectation. just you. just rest. just peace.

and if you lean over and kiss his cheek?

he’ll stir, sigh, and mutter the softest 'morning, honey,' still half-asleep.

( and then promptly fall right back into dreaming about you. )

in conclusion, spencer reid is whole heartedly, one hundred percent gone for you in every way possible.

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