dearlenore

[dearlenore]

I’m so sorry guys, I won’t be posting on this account ever again likely. My drafts won’t be posted. Writing on tumblr has taught me a lot about writing and now I’m going to work towards prepping for college life (dream school accepted) and writing a book I’ve had in the works for a LONG time. Thank you and you’ve all done so much for me 💕

[dearlenore]

My nerdy , tall , glasses wearing, fluffy haired bf watching me read Spencer Reid x Reader fanfiction after he just took me out to the aquarium, bought me food and got me fresh flowers

[dearlenore]

My dream is to see one of those “help me find this fic” posts and it perfectly describes smth I wrote

[dearlenore]

I NEED A SPENCER X READER BASED ON SABRINA CARPENTER’S BRITISH BED CHEM PERFORMANCE OMGGG😭 please some one do this for me I will owe u big timeee

[dearlenore]

AN ‘I FEEL’ STATEMENT. / S.REID / SUMMARY - Spencer and you interrogate a suspect

PAIRING: bau!reader x spencer reid / w/c: 1.7K / ???

a/n: guess who this is based on and win a cookie

Spencer didn’t even look up when you barged into the motel room.

“Don’t say it,” he said, flipping a page in the case file.

You froze in the doorway, still halfway through pulling off your FBI jacket. “Say what?”

“That the crime scene smelled like expired deli meat and failure.”

You made a face. “Okay, rude. That’s classic FBI fieldwork ambiance.”

He looked up and smirked. “You’re predictable.”

You tossed your jacket on the chair and flopped onto the bed beside him. “You like me because I’m predictable.”

“I love you in spite of it.”

You stuck your tongue out and stole the file from his hands. “Alright, Dr. Sass, what do we know?”

“Third victim, male, 30s, found in an alley behind a gas station that sells ‘hot dogs’ that may or may not be actual meat,” Spencer replied with a snarky tone , leaning back against the headboard. “Ligature marks, same positioning as the first two. Garcia’s running facial rec now.”

You flipped through the photos. “This guy looks like my ex.”

Spencer tilted his head. “Which one? Also…You dated a guy with a neck tattoo that says Loyalty Over Everything?”

“He had a motorcycle and a soft spot for cats. It was a phase…. And the tattoo said ‘I’m a dick’ in Chinese.”

“I sincerely hope your standards have risen.”

You gave him a smug look. “Please. I’m dating a literal genius with three PhDs. I upgraded.”

He hummed. “Four soon.”

“Whatever,” you said, nudging his arm. “You’re basically the FBI’s version of a trophy husband.”

He blinked. “Are you saying I’m your trophy husband?”

“Yeah. Except instead of a yacht I got… trauma and access to crime scenes. I guess?”

Spencer rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. “Romantic.”

You snickered. “That’s what they all say.”

For a while, you worked in comfortable silence, both reading over the files. The motel TV buzzed in the background, playing a rerun of some bad soap opera where the acting was worse than your last polygraph subject.

“So,” you said eventually, “you think this guy’s trying to make a point? The symmetry, the posing, the weird ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ energy of it all?”

Spencer looked thoughtful. “He’s definitely performing. But it’s subtle. Less drama, more… statement.”

“Like a TED Talk, but make it murder.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed. “I fucking hate Ted talks, people who talk for hours like that are so annoying.”

He glanced sideways at you. “Speak for yourself. I’m adorable.”

“You’re adorable in a ‘my girlfriend wants to kick my ass daily’ kind of way.”

“To be fair, you want to kick everyone’s ass. Some more sensually than others.”

“HEY! Me and Emily had a deal. Have you seen— actually don’t answer that I’d have to kill you.”

“I find you so oddly attractive.” He said, looking a bit perplexed by his own taste.

You bumped his shoulder gently. “You always say that like you’re surprised.”

Spencer gave you a soft look, the kind he saved for when the world got too heavy. “I’m not. You’re annoying and incredible.”

You grinned. “Aw. You’re such a sap when we’re surrounded by homicide photos. You should be more mindful of the dead,”

“Don’t ruin it.”

He leaned in to kiss you, brief and warm. Then he stole the case file back like the nerd he was.

“Fine,” you said, standing up and stretching. “I’ll go see if Morgan found anything useful, or if he’s just flirting with the local deputy again.”

“Tell him if she has a cowboy hat, he has my blessing.”

You grabbed your jacket, pausing at the door. “If I get shot, tell the team I died being hotter than all of them.”

Spencer looked up with a totally deadpan expression and whistled. “That goes without saying.”

You blew him a kiss and shut the door behind you, already drafting what you’d say to Morgan when you saw him.

Eventually , you’d caught the guy.

The suspect sat cuffed to the table, arms crossed, expression somewhere between cocky and confused. He’d asked for a lawyer three times. The team knew it. So did you. But now he was suddenly cooperative—and you had a feeling that had less to do with his conscience and more to do with the fact that Morgan had promised he’d be “dealing with Dr. Reid next.”

What he didn’t know?

He was getting both of you.

You stepped into the interrogation room, Spencer behind you, both of you in sync like you were about to perform a synchronized FBI ballet—but with more psychological warfare.

Outside the one-way glass, Morgan muttered, “This’ll be interesting.”

Inside the room, you dropped into the chair across from the suspect and offered a sugary smile.

“Hi, Marcus. Love the scowl. Very tough guy who definitely has never cried in a 90s Honda civic. Or was it a Toyota?”

Spencer sat beside you, calm and collected, opening the file in front of him like he was about to politely destroy a man’s entire worldview.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “So they sent the nerd and the girlfriend?”

You smiled wider. “Aw. You think I’m just the girlfriend. That’s cute.”

Spencer didn’t look up. “Statistically, assuming a woman is less competent in a professional setting increases the likelihood of public humiliation by seventy-three percent. But don’t worry, we’ll keep it between us.”

“For real? You just know that?” The suspect hissed.

“No asshole, I made it up…” Spencer mumbled, still looking at the file and reading it closely.

You slid the photo across the table—victim number two. “Let’s talk about this guy. You were seen outside his apartment the night he was killed. Coincidence, or did ya get the first time murder jitters?”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

Spencer’s voice was deceptively light. “We didn’t say you did. You said that. Interesting.”

You leaned in, resting your chin on your hand. “Also interesting? That your fingerprints were on the door handle, and the doormat has your boot tread on it. You’re either involved or you’re just deeply nosy.”

Marcus shrugged. “Maybe I was there. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, honey,” you said, voice syrupy-sweet. “People like you never do things for no reason. You can’t even microwave instant soup without making it about your masculinity.”

Spencer coughed like he was covering a laugh.

“Also if you’re microwaving soup shame on you. Put it in a damn pot on the stove like the rest of us.” You groaned, knowing damn well you did it yesterday.

“Look,” Marcus said, sitting up straighter. “I don’t have to say anything to you.”

You looked around the room , faux confusion on your face. He literally asked for you?

Spencer tapped the table twice. “Totally fair. You’re exercising your rights. But just to clarify, you’re not denying you were there. So if we subpoena your phone, we’re not going to be shocked by GPS data, right?”

You leaned toward Spencer and whispered loudly, “Is this the part where we pretend we don’t already have that?”

He nodded seriously. “Yes, for dramatic effect.”

Marcus shifted. “You’re bluffing.”

“Buddy,” you said, leaning back. “The FBI does two things really well: crush dreams and ruin lives. And my boyfriend here’s got a PhD in both.”

Spencer added, “Technically only one, but I did minor in destroying egos.”

“Oh for real? That’s fine I have a masters in being better than most people and humbling men. I think that’ll suffice.” You replied.

Outside the glass, JJ blinked. “Are they… flirting? In the middle of an interrogation?”

Hotch muttered, “I think it’s working?”

Back inside, the suspect was starting to sweat, his earlier confidence deflating like a balloon at a sad birthday party.

You pulled out another photo—this time of Marcus’s ex, who had filed a restraining order last year. You dropped it gently on the table.

Spencer’s voice was quiet. “She’s scared of you.”

“And she was like 16.”

Marcus looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor as Spencer flipped to the next page in the file.

“Her name was Emily,” he said calmly, tapping the paper. “She filed for a restraining order at sixteen. Updated it again when she turned seventeen.”

Marcus scoffed. “She was—she acted older than she was.”

You blinked. Spencer’s jaw twitched.

“Oh wow,” you said, leaning forward. “Do you have an I feel statement about that?”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, like—‘I feel like I want to date children’?”

You nodded thoughtfully. “That’s the vibe I’m getting too. Really leaning into the predator energy.”

“I’m not a predator,” Marcus snapped, defensive now, angry. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Spencer arched a brow. “We literally read your search history.”

You added, “And the restraining order. And the texts. And your very creative Reddit username.”

“Subtle wasn’t your strong suit,” Spencer muttered.

You leaned back in your chair, folding your arms. “So here’s what we do know about you, Marcus: you’re insecure, violent when women say no, and very interested in people who are still in Algebra II. That about cover it?”

He opened his mouth—then shut it again.

“That’s what I thought,” you said sweetly, before glancing over at Spencer with a grin. “See? We’re so good at this.”

He smiled back. “Terrifyingly good.”

“You think this is funny?” Marcus snapped, finally rattled. “This little good cop, bad cop thing?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Good cop? You sweet summer child.”

“We’re not good cop, bad cop,” Spencer added helpfully. “We’re bad cop, worse cop.”

“I’m worse,” you chimed in. “Obviously.”

Spencer nodded. “That tracks.”

Marcus was silent, jaw tense.

You leaned in again, tone shifting. “Look. You talk to us, you get some control back. You don’t, and we throw this entire file at the prosecutor and let them tear you apart. Your call.”

Spencer added, “Statistically, cooperating suspects receive lighter sentences. Not that you seem like a man who cares about consequences, given your stunning history of rage texting and unpaid parking tickets… and dating children.”

You smiled. “Seriously, ten tickets? What are you, allergic to parallel parking?”

Marcus stared at the table, finally cracking.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he muttered.

You and Spencer exchanged a glance.

“Okay,” you said, sitting back. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

[dearlenore]

https://www.tumblr.com/dearlenore/781096715931516929/hi-dont-mean-to-be-rude-but-would-you-mind-not?source=share

personally, i usually don't see any oc fics under the x reader tag. and if i do, it's usually a white oc or even a white reader so i ask the author to tag that. cause i don't mind it, i just wanna know what I'm getting into

I understand, thank you so so much for informing me, I encourage all of my followers to write to me with any discomforts they might have, I won’t use the tag in the future and I sincerely apologize for the confusion. Thank you for educating me anon!!❤️🥹 all love and have a great day!!

[dearlenore]

hi lovely!!!! for the x reader/x oc thing when I see something that is x oc tagged as x reader, I personally don’t get offended or annoyed when I see it, I’ve always just assumed that it was a mistake by the author and thought nothing of it haha!! ik there are some people who DO get offended when they see it and in that case I’m like….just unfollow?? like girl it’s not that big a deal😂

however i + other fanfic enjoyers i know actually talked about this recently bc there was an author who was incorrectly tagging their fics as smut just to increase the engagement on it, which is their choice as a writer and it’s their writing to do as they please with - but our opinion was that we search tags on a blog to find content that matches the tags, and it seemed like we all just kinda move away from blogs who mix and match tags/incorrectly tag things on purpose? that was just the consensus of how we all felt in our conversation, and other ppl may feel totally different and have different habits, and at the end of the day it really is up to the writer!! i just share this bc u requested feedback and i know that my fanfic friends and i tend to unfollow/disengage with blogs that mix and match tags because we use tags a lot and there’s not really a point to doing that if the tags aren’t going to match😂😅

shoutout to you and that anon for being so cutie and respectful abt it tho bc it really is a weird gray area haha. like at the end of the day, only you get to decide what happens with your writing and that’s that, but mixing and matching tags is a huge turn off for some readers🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️like yeah, I might engage w ur content less bc of it but i will run to ur defense if someone tries to give u shit for it!!😂😂🫡🫡🫶🫶

Tysm!! I really am only interested in what’s best for the people who consume the content I put out so I won’t be using the x Reader tag in the future just for the comfort of my followers, I appreciate your input thank you for being so kind!!❤️🥹

[dearlenore]

Couldnt comment so I had to reblog, I LOVE THISSS tysm for writing my idea angel you’re seriously so talented and sweet 🥹❤️

Hellooooo guyss! So uhhh i saw this and was like... sooo I'll try that- But you gotta be honest with me if it's dog shit 🧍 Anywayyyy- Enjoy✨✨✨

"Isn’t She a Delight?"

Spencer Reid sat tied to a chair in the middle of an abandoned warehouse, the ropes around his wrists barely tight enough to count as secure. He’d already mentally cataloged fifteen different ways to get out of them if needed. But honestly? He didn’t feel very rushed.

The unsub pacing in front of him—early thirties, twitchy, clearly in over his head—was trying very hard to look threatening. Keyword: trying.

“I need leverage,” the man snapped. “You’re FBI. That’s gotta be worth something.”

Spencer tilted his head. “Statistically speaking, taking an FBI agent hostage only increases your chances of being caught by 87 percent. And you didn’t even frisk me. I still have my phone.”

“…Shit.”

Before the unsub could panic further, the warehouse doors slammed open with a loud bang. A figure stormed in, hair wild, gun drawn, and eyes absolutely feral.

“You son of a bitch!” she screamed. “I swear to God, if you hurt him, I will end you! I will burn this whole building down with you in it, do you hear me?!”

The unsub flinched like he’d just seen a demon crawl out of hell. “Who the—who the fuck is that?!”

Spencer perked up. “Oh! That’s my girlfriend. Isn’t she a delight?”

“Spencer!” you snapped, storming toward him and immediately starting to untie the barely-there knots. “You good? Did he touch you? Did he breathe wrong?”

“I’m fine,” Spencer said, clearly amused. “He offered me a granola bar earlier.”

“You fed him?” you barked at the unsub, who was now slowly raising his hands in surrender.

“It was expired,” Spencer clarified.

“Oh, now I have to kill you,” you muttered.

“Please don’t,” the unsub whimpered.

Spencer just smiled brightly. “She’s very protective. I think it’s sweet.”

[dearlenore]

hi! don't mean to be rude but would you mind not tagging your oc fic as 'x reader'?

Hey angel! Tysm for this because this is something I actually wanted to discuss. I, personally as an ‘x reader’ consumer have never found issue in what they tag their fics to gather more engagement, I seldom see anyone who minds either because they’re relatively easy to ignore especially when my title is pretty transparent that it’s an oc.

I’m unaware of tumblr social etiquette unfortunately and I don’t want to offend or upset anyone either. If others could let me know if this is annoying or offensive please do.

I tend to consume a lot of ‘x oc’ content under that hashtag so I didn’t know it was against any rules.

Feedback appreciated!! Thank you and have a blessed day🥹❤️

[dearlenore]

BAMBI. / S.REID / SUMMARY - Spencer meets a young criminal law student

PAIRING: allison!grey x spencer reid / w/c: 2.0K / fluff

a/n: I wanna make this a series so bad, also credit to @cheriesbucky for inspiring me to share my oc!!<3 not proofread I fear…

The moment Spencer Reid stepped onto the Princeton campus, a familiar chill ran through him—not from the weather, though early April still bit through his coat—but from memory. These kinds of places never changed. The stone buildings. The tightly-trimmed lawns. The buzz of students too smart for their own good and not nearly as smart as they’d one day believe.

He wasn’t sure why he said yes when Rossi asked him to come along. It wasn’t like his presence was necessary—David Rossi could give a criminology seminar in his sleep, probably had before. But when the invitation came from the university, and Rossi offered a guest seat beside him on the panel, Spencer heard himself agree before he could figure out why.

Maybe it was nostalgia. Or maybe it was the ache—something deep and slow that settled in his chest more often these days, like a ghost of something he couldn’t name.

The lecture hall was warm, filled with the scent of dusty books, coffee cups, and a kind of hunger that only academic places carried. Spencer followed Rossi inside and took the side seat near the stage, where he could fade into the background. His eyes flicked around, scanning students who leaned over notebooks and laptops, whispering to one another in anticipation. Most didn’t recognize him. A few stared a moment too long, perhaps uncertain where they’d seen his face before.

Then he saw her.

Front row, dead center. Small. Maybe five-foot-five. Pale blue cardigan slipping off one shoulder, an open notebook resting delicately on her lap, even though she hadn’t written a single word yet. She was staring at Rossi like he was reading a poem. Not with infatuation—no—but fascination. Her eyes were wide, lit from inside with something he couldn’t place.

Curiosity. Eagerness. Maybe both.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and bit her pen in thought. The motion was small, almost automatic. And yet, it stuck in Spencer’s mind longer than it should have.

He forced himself to look away.

Rossi launched into his introduction, commanding the room with the ease of a seasoned profiler. “Who here knows the difference between an M.O. and a signature?” he asked.

A few hands shot up, and then—hers.

Spencer watched her from the corner of his vision. Noticed the way she hesitated for a second before raising her hand all the way, like she wasn’t sure if she had the right to speak.

“You,” Rossi called.

Her voice was soft. Musical. “M.O. is the method an offender uses to commit the crime—practical things. Signature is the psychological need they fulfill through specific acts. It’s not necessary to commit the crime, but it satisfies something deeper.”

Rossi nodded, clearly (at least mildly) impressed. “Textbook answer.”

Spencer found himself leaning forward.

Later, after the seminar ended and students began packing up their bags, she lingered. Most of the audience swarmed Rossi, shoving copies of his books at him for autographs or asking questions they could’ve Googled. But she stood a few feet away, notebook in hand, staring at the crowd intensely, as if deep in thought.

He should’ve left it alone.

But something about her kept pulling at him—an invisible string he couldn’t stop tugging.

“You asked a question earlier,” he said, calling out to her with his hands tucked into his coat pockets. “About signature behavior.”

She blinked up at him, startled at first, then visibly relaxing. “I did.” Her eyes flicked across his face. “You’re Dr. Reid, right?”

He nodded. “That’s me.”

“I’ve read a few of your papers,” she admitted, cheeks flushing pink as she smiled. “Especially the one on spatial-temporal patterning and ritualistic homicides. It’s… a little terrifying….But brilliant of course! Really brilliant!”

The panicked praise made something flutter in his chest, a reaction he didn’t quite expect. “Thank you. Most people don’t make it past the abstract.”

“I liked your footnotes,” she said, laughing a bit. “They read like side conversations. Almost like you’re thinking out loud.”

He smiled back before he realized he was doing it. “That’s… probably because I was.”

She laughed again—a small, bright sound that curled around his ribs and stayed there, placing itself as if he’d been missing it all along.

“I’m Allison,” she said.

“Allison,” he repeated. Her name fit her. Gentle. Old-fashioned in a soft way. “Are you majoring in criminology?”

“Psych and criminal justice,” she said. “Double major. I want to work with children who’ve experienced trauma. Maybe help them testify in court…. Or maybe just help them survive it. I’m only human.”

That stopped him for a moment.

So young. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-three or twenty-four. And yet, her voice didn’t waver when she said it. She meant every word. She’d sounded like him at that age.

“That’s… admirable,” he said, quieter now. “And difficult.”

“I know.” She laughed awkwardly again. “But I’ve seen what happens when no one helps them.” Allison flashed a small awkward tight lipped smile.

Spencer studied her. She didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t ask.

“I’m surprised you’re not one of Rossi’s groupies,” he offered lightly.

She shook her head. “He’s brilliant, but a little… intimidating. You’re a lot less scary and official looking… plus you’re not selling yourself so I just assumed I could relate to you more than him.”

Spencer laughed. “You’d be surprised. I’m just bad at it.”

She tilted her head. “I think that’s why I like your writing. You don’t try to convince anyone—you just share what you know. Like a polite invitation into your brain.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

There was a pause—brief, but thick. Students filtered out around them, filing toward the doors, laughing and shouting about midterms. But Spencer stood still. And so did she.

“I’m headed to the arts building,” she said, finally breaking the quiet. “They’re holding a mini recital in the quad. I’m playing violin with some of the kids from the local elementary school. It’s kind of chaotic, but… cute.”

He almost said goodbye.

Almost.

But instead—“Do you mind if I come?”

She blinked. “You want to?”

“I like violin.”

That made her smile again. Something sparkled in her eyes. “Sure. But only if you’re okay with tambourines and maracas interrupting every other note.”

“I’ve worked crime scenes next to train tracks and screaming neighbors,” he said. “I think I’ll manage.”

After Spencer had excused himself, they walked side by side through campus. The wind tugged at her cardigan again, and she didn’t bother fixing it. Her hair blew into her face, and when she laughed, it was as if the whole quad leaned in to listen.

They didn’t talk much as they walked across the quad.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt easy—like they’d done this before in some other life. Spencer glanced at her from time to time, watching how she tucked loose hair behind her ears, how her fingers curled tightly around the strap of her violin case. She was nervous, maybe. But not because of him.

“Do you perform often?” he asked, his voice breaking the hush of spring wind.

“Only for things like this,” she replied. “The kids are part of a music therapy program downtown. Some are neurodivergent, some have anxiety, and a few are dealing with grief. Music helps….Even if it’s messy and loud.” Allison chuckled to herself, a small smile playing at her lips.

Spencer nodded. “There’s research to support that. Auditory rhythm can activate the limbic system and regulate emotional response.”

She glanced up at him, smiling. “You’d love our practice room. Pure chaos.” Allison made a cut air motion. “But their smiles make it worth it.”

When they reached the grass clearing near the art building, there were folding chairs set up in uneven rows, half-filled with local parents and students bundled against the breeze. Children buzzed around like bumblebees, laughing and crashing tambourines together, each sound a wild burst of joy.

Spencer hesitated at the edge of the group. His coat felt too formal, his shoes too polished. He never quite knew how to be casual, especially around people who moved so easily through the world.

“Want to sit?” she asked, gesturing toward an empty bench near the front.

“I’ll watch from here,” he said. “Better view.”

Allison gave him a quick smile, then moved to join the kids. One little boy immediately wrapped his arms around her waist, and she bent to hug him, laughing softly as he clung. Another girl handed her a bright red plastic maraca.

“She’s gonna play the pretty song again,” the girl told her.

“Only if you help me with rhythm,” Allison replied, crouching down to their level.

Spencer watched, unable to look away.

The violin came out of its case like something sacred. She tuned it quickly—gently—before resting it on her shoulder. The first note drifted out into the air like breath, soft and golden. Not perfect, not polished. But real.

The children chimed in soon after, their percussion wild and unsynchronized, but she never corrected them. She let them play. She let them be. And somehow, the mismatched rhythm and sharp off-beat clapping wove itself into something whole. Something alive.

Spencer sat still, arms folded, heart unexpectedly full.

She was luminous like this—wrapped in music, surrounded by joy, completely unaware of how radiant she looked. Not in an untouchable way, but in a quiet, reverent one. Like she was full of light and trying desperately not to spill it.

After a few songs—mostly lullabies and one wobbly rendition of You Are My Sunshine—the concert ended. The crowd clapped. The kids laughed. And Allison bowed deeply with exaggerated flair that made all the children giggle.

Spencer stood when she approached, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright from the cold.

“I warned you it’d be chaotic,” she said.

“It was,” he agreed. “But it was… good. Really good.”

She beamed at him, tucking the violin back in its case. “They’ve been practicing for weeks. I’m glad they didn’t freeze up.”

“You’re really good with them,” he said, watching the last few kids run back toward their parents.

“I just try to listen.” She shrugged. “Most of them don’t get that very often.”

They fell quiet again, the kind of silence that meant more than words. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting golden light across the quad. Allison stood there with her case at her side, the wind catching the edge of her cardigan again.

Spencer wanted to tell her she reminded him of spring. The kind of person who made things grow. But it felt too much, too soon, and he didn’t know how to say it without sounding foolish.

Instead, he asked, “Would you want to get coffee sometime?”

She blinked, looking surprised—but not displeased.

“With you?”

“With…me I’d hope,” he confirmed, nerves curling around his ribs. “If you want.”

Her smile was soft and slow. “I’d like that.”

They exchanged numbers awkwardly—Allison fumbling with her phone, Spencer typing with the kind of caution he usually reserved for crime scene reports. Then she glanced at the time and winced.

“I promised I’d help clean up the art room,” she said. “But… thank you. For coming.” She made an awkward gesture before hitting her fist into her palm and swaying nervously.

“I’m glad I did,” he said truthfully.

And he meant it.

Because even as he walked away—coat buttoned against the evening chill, the sounds of laughter still echoing behind him—Spencer knew something had shifted. Maybe it was the way she played. Maybe the way she listened.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way he felt a little warmer now.

Like she’d lit something in him he didn’t know was still capable of catching fire.

[dearlenore]

Writing a Spencer Reid x OC, so I thought I’d introduce her

INTRODUCING …

ALLISON GREY !

༉‧₊˚.

ALLISON GREY WHO… plants flowers like prayers, hands buried in the earth as if she can coax beauty from silence. She hums when she waters her garden, quiet melodies that sound like hope. Her world is gentle, sunlit, full of old books and soft sweaters and tea left to steep a little too long.

ALLISON GREY WHO… takes pictures of everything—sunlight on leaves, a sleeping cat in the window, her best friend’s laugh mid-air—because she’s terrified of forgetting how good things once were. She paints when words run dry and plays the violin like her heart remembers something her mind has long since let go.

ALLISON GREY WHO… who is sweetness and softness and stubborn light, who doesn’t raise her voice unless she’s protecting someone smaller than herself. Who smiles like it costs her nothing and loves like it costs her everything. Who meets Spencer Reid by accident—but stays by choice.

ALLISON GREY WHO… is desperate not to be forgotten, who would rather break in someone’s arms than be alone in her own. Who mistakes silence for punishment and affection for permission.

[dearlenore]

Yall loveeee me🤭 u spoil me w ur reblogs n comments i love u all tysm for nearly 800 followers in like 2 months?!?!?!🥹❤️

[dearlenore]

ok hear me out I think this would be so cute !!

spencer with a foreign girlfriend, and one day she comes home all stressed and exhausted from work and finds spencer organizing some vinyls of artists from their home country that he found, listening to them and making the effort to learn their language 😭

i 100% feel like reid would be the BEST boyfriend for someone foreign, he would definitely take the time to learn everything about their culture, their language...just kill me already honestly

OMG I TOTALLY FORGOT TO ANSWER THIS REQUEST HELP… Well you already saw it, hope you liked it!!

READ HERE

[dearlenore]

TE AMO MEANS I LOVE YOU. / S.REID / SUMMARY - Spencer doesn’t want you to feel homesick…

PAIRING: brazilian!reader x spencer reid / w/c: 1.3k / fluff

a/n: req so fire I don’t have anything to add😭 anon req here

You can barely feel your legs by the time you step through the front door. Everything aches—your back, your feet, your head. The combination of a long shift, missed meals, and a pounding homesickness you didn’t even realize had crept up on you leaves you disoriented and dazed. You drop your bag to the floor with a heavy thud and let your shoes fall off wherever they land.

“Spence?” you call out weakly, unsure if he’s even home.

No response.

Your heart dips. It’s silly—you’re not even mad. You just really wanted to collapse into his arms and let him talk about some obscure historical fact you won’t remember while you bury your face in the scent of his cardigan.

Dragging your feet forward, you turn toward the kitchen, hoping he might’ve left a note or something.

But what you see stops you cold.

It’s not just that Spencer is home—he’s in the living room, kneeling in front of the stereo, surrounded by what must be dozens of vinyl records and CDs. Some still in shrink wrap. Others open, their contents splayed out delicately on the rug, like he’s trying to solve a musical puzzle.

He doesn’t notice you at first. His long fingers are carefully placing one of the records into a sleeve. His lips move silently, probably reading the liner notes. You know that face—the one he makes when he’s concentrating too hard to hear anything around him.

You step closer, confused and stunned. “Spencer… what is all this?”

He finally looks up, startled, and then a wide, bashful smile spreads across his face. “You’re home early.”

You scoff, dropping your keys onto the counter and squinting at the organized chaos on the floor. “No, I’m actually late. I had to cover for Clara because her babysitter bailed. What is all this?”

Spencer stands slowly, brushing invisible lint from his pants. There’s a faint smudge of dust on his nose that makes him look boyish. “I was going to surprise you. I wasn’t finished yet.”

You blink. “With what? An entire music store?”

He chuckles and takes your hand, gently tugging you down to sit with him on the floor. “Do you remember a couple weeks ago, you said you missed home? That nothing here really sounded like Brazil?”

You nod slowly, your throat tightening. It had been an offhand comment, murmured into his chest after a stressful day. You hadn’t even realized he’d taken it to heart.

“Well,” he says, excitement flickering behind his soft eyes, “I did some research. A lot, actually. I talked to a Brazilian record collector online, and I found a store that imports vintage and modern music. Some of it’s digital, but I thought it would be more special to have the real thing. Something you can hold and play and… feel.”

He gestures to the piles. “There’s MPB—Chico Buarque, Gal Costa, Caetano Veloso. Some Bossa Nova—João Gilberto, Elis Regina. A few funk carioca and samba records too. And—oh!—I found a Tropicália collection from the ’60s. It was hard to find, but the guy I talked to helped me out.”

You’re frozen, eyes moving from album cover to album cover, tears threatening to blur everything. He says each name so carefully, stumbling a little over the pronunciations but clearly trying.

“I thought maybe we could build a little library,” he continues, a bit shy now, like he’s not sure he’s done the right thing. “A musical version of home. For you.”

Your lip trembles.

“Oh no,” Spencer says, eyes going wide. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You launch yourself at him before he can say anything else, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you press your face into his shoulder.

He immediately holds you back, murmuring, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” even though you’re not crying from sadness.

“I’m not upset,” you whisper, voice thick. “I’m just… I’m so tired. And I missed you. And then I walk in and you’ve done this?”

He chuckles softly into your hair. “You sounded so sad that day. I didn’t know how to fix it. But I thought… maybe music would help.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “This is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

He blushes, his hands settling on your waist. “I wanted you to feel like you belonged. Even when you’re far away from where you came from.”

Your heart stutters.

You’ve always loved how brilliant Spencer is, how his mind never stops moving. But it’s this—his softness, his attentiveness, the way he listens—that makes you fall in love with him again and again.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His smile deepens. “I love you too.”

You glance at the records again, something bubbling up in your chest. “Did you really get funk carioca?”

He grins. “Yes, and I regret it already. Some of those lyrics…”

You burst out laughing. “It’s not all inappropriate, I swear.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Because one of those songs taught me three Portuguese curse words I didn’t know before.”

You fall back against the couch, giggling uncontrollably. “Now you’re culturally enriched.”

“I’m something, that’s for sure.”

He stands and offers you a hand. “Come on. You haven’t even seen the best part.”

You let him pull you up, and he guides you to the little corner of the living room you’d both half-abandoned for months. It had been your reading nook at one point, but life got busy. The chair became a coat rack. The little table sat empty. But now, it’s glowing with soft light from a string of fairy lights. A portable record player sits on the table, already spinning a vinyl softly through the air.

The opening notes of “Águas de Março” float into the room—gentle, warm, familiar.

Your breath catches. “That’s… my dad used to play this when we were cleaning on Sundays.”

Spencer squeezes your hand. “I hoped it would feel like home.”

You sit down in the chair, letting the music wash over you, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, you relax.

Spencer kneels in front of you again, resting his arms on your knees. “Want to teach me the lyrics?”

You glance down at him, grinning. “You want to sing in Portuguese?”

“I want to impress your grandma next time we video call,” he admits sheepishly.

You laugh. “She already thinks you’re a genius.”

“I’d like her to also think I’m charming.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Okay. Repeat after me: ‘É pau, é pedra, é o fim do caminho…’”

He repeats it, tripping over the accent.

You giggle and gently correct him, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “Better.”

“Again?”

“‘É um resto de toco, é um pouco sozinho…’”

He says it again, a little smoother this time.

You don’t even notice how much time passes. You teach him line by line, each repetition followed by laughter and a kiss, until your cheeks hurt from smiling.

Eventually, you end up sprawled together on the rug, your head on his chest, your hand resting over his heart. The music continues to spin, one record after another, creating a bubble of nostalgia and love and safety around you both.

Spencer’s fingers draw soft patterns on your arm. “Do you think it helps?” he murmurs. “The music?”

You nod against him. “It feels like I’m not so far away. Like my past and my present are holding hands.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Then it was worth every penny.”

“You’re too good to me.”

He hums. “I think you underestimate how much I love you.”

You smile, eyes fluttering shut.

No one had ever loved you quite like this before—with thoughtfulness, with quiet gestures, with an understanding that homesickness isn’t always loud or obvious, but it’s there. Like a shadow.

And somehow, Spencer had found the perfect way to bring the sun back.

Later that night, as you fall asleep to the soft hum of Caetano Veloso playing from your new collection, Spencer whispers, “I think I’ll start learning Portuguese.”

You’re half-asleep, but you hear him.

“Why?” you murmur, curling closer.

“So I can talk to you in your first language. The way you dream.”

And you think, just before sleep pulls you under:

This man is my home, too.

[dearlenore]

HELL YEAHHHH another iconic work from the sweetest sweetheart, GO READ ITTT🥹❤️

“FIRST LESSON PRINCESS” | S.REID | SUMMARY—

“ Meanwhile First Spencer had to convinced you to let him give you driving lessons…..

Pairing: Oc.s. Princess!fem!reader X Spencer Reid / WC 2.6k / Fluff comfort , Spencer helps reader build confidence in herself about driving she didn’t think she had . “They bound over it . He teaches reader to drive . His little princess driver is mentioned no use of your name .

A/notes , I had this in my head for the whole day so I decided to write it I hope you enjoy it .. @dearlenore this is the one I was telling you about earlier.

Your reblogs likes are comments are appreciated

The gun range was where you went to clear your head, to steady the noise in your mind with something sharp and controlled. You had told Spencer it was silly how much he kept pushing the subject—why couldn’t he just drop it? You weren’t comfortable driving. It was as simple as that. But maybe he thought that with the right teacher, you’d change your mind.

The thought lingered as you lined up another shot. The sharp crack of the bullet echoed, but it didn’t drown out the familiar presence behind you.

Of course, he had found you. He always did.

"Great," you muttered, adjusting your aim before firing again.

Spencer didn’t speak at first, just let the moment settle between you. He was good at that, knowing when to let the silence do the work.

"Please, Reid. Don’t," you finally said, lowering the gun slightly.

"Don’t what?" His voice was even, but there was something behind it—something patient and knowing.

"You know what," you shot back, glancing at him over your shoulder. "I don’t want to talk about it."

"You don’t have to," he said, stepping closer. "Just listen."

You sighed, setting the gun down. "Reid—"

"You’re not scared of shooting, but you’re scared of driving," he said gently. "You’re in control here. You can be in control there, too."

You scoffed, crossing your arms. "It’s not the same."

"It’s exactly the same," he countered. "Both require focus, control, and practice. The only difference is you’ve never been taught."

You swallowed, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the gun range. Your usual glow, the bubbly energy you carried like second nature, felt dimmed. Spencer had a way of seeing past it, of knowing when you weren’t just avoiding something—when you were afraid.

"I don’t want to learn," you admitted, softer this time.

"You don’t want to, or you don’t think you can?"

You looked away. "Both."

He didn’t argue. He just let that hang in the air before he said, "Let me teach you."

You let out a sharp laugh, shaking your head. "Reid, no—"

"You trust me, right?"

That stopped you. You turned to face him fully, his expression steady and sure.

"Of course, I do."

"Then let me help."

It was unfair how convincing he could be, how he made it sound so simple. But maybe, just maybe, with him—it could be.

You exhaled, gripping the edge of the table. "Fine. One lesson. That’s it."

Spencer just smiled, and for the first time, the idea was still little terrifying but how could you protest , in this moment, let’s go get coffee he adds , “ trust me he says , every thing will be okay I promise you .

You let him take you for coffee—not because you wanted to, but because Spencer Reid was persistent in that quiet, unshakable way of his. And for some reason, he had decided that getting you to talk about driving was worth the effort.

The café was warm, filled with the rich scent of roasted coffee and vanilla. You wrapped your hands around your cup, letting the heat seep into your palms, something—anything—to keep your focus off Spencer sitting across from you.

"So," he started, voice steady, careful. "The first step is just getting comfortable behind the wheel."

You sighed, staring into the swirl of cream in your coffee. "Reid—"

"Just hear me out." He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. "You don’t have to do anything yet. Just sit in the driver’s seat, get a feel for it. No pressure."

You shook your head. "You make it sound so easy."

"It can be," he said, tilting his head in that thoughtful way of his. "Or at least, it doesn’t have to be as terrifying as you think."

Your fingers tightened around the cup. "I don’t know, Reid. I just—" You exhaled sharply. "I don’t like the idea of being responsible for something that could go wrong so fast."

He nodded, not dismissing you, not brushing it off. Just listening.

"It’s about control," he said. "And you have more of it than you think."

You finally looked up at him, searching his face. He wasn’t pushing, not really. Just offering. And somehow, that made it harder to say no.

“Let’s go,” Spencer said, holding out his hand.

You raised a brow. “Reid—”

“Trust me,” he added, eyes locked on yours like that was supposed to be enough. And damn it, maybe it was.

With a sigh, you let him lead you outside. The second you spotted his car, you stopped short.

“Your personal car, Reid? No way.”

“I trust you,” he said simply, like that settled it. Then he opened the passenger door and gestured for you to get in. “Come on.”

You didn’t move. Arms crossed, weight shifted to one side, you gave him a look.

He sighed. “I had them swap my car while we were in the coffee shop.”

Your brows knit together. “What?”

“I figured it’d be easier for you to feel comfortable,” he added, climbing into the driver’s seat like this was the most normal thing in the world.

You exhaled through your nose, glancing at the car again. It wasn’t his usual SUV. Less intimidating, more manageable.

Damn him for thinking ahead.

“Fine,” you muttered, sliding in and folding your arms.

He shot you a knowing look. “Now what?” you asked.

“Patience,” he said, amusement tugging at his lips.

You sighed, staring straight ahead.

“You’re gonna love this,” he said, all confidence and certainty. “Once you realize you’re in control. Just like at the gun range.”

He takes you to a quiet gravel lot, the kind of place no one really drives on—somewhere out of the way, no pressure, no expectations. Just the first step.

Spencer pulls into a cleared-out section and parks, then turns to you.

“Alright,” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Switch seats.”

You blink at him. “No, Reid. Not yet.”

“Yes,” he says, already opening his door. “Come on.”

You don’t move. “Reid—”

“You’re just going to sit in the driver’s seat,” he says, matter-of-fact, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “That’s all. I just want to see you in the seat.”

You narrow your eyes, but he’s already out of the car, walking around to your side. When he opens the door, holding it like he’s giving you a choice but knowing you’ll give in, you let out a sharp sigh.

"Just to sit," you say, eyeing him warily.

"Just to sit," Spencer echoes, nodding like it’s a promise. Like he’s not pushing you toward anything more.

You hesitate for another second, then exhale sharply and step around the car. He watches, patient as ever, as you slide into the driver’s seat.

The moment you’re in, hands resting awkwardly in your lap, something shifts. The weight of it, the unfamiliarity. You grip the edge of the seat like it might keep you steady.

Spencer crouches slightly, leaning against the open door. "See? Not so bad."

You swallow, staring straight ahead. "It’s just a seat."

"Exactly." His voice is calm, reassuring. "And now you’re one step closer."

You shoot him a look. "This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?"

He smiles, just a little. "Maybe."

“Okay, can you adjust the seat?” Spencer asks, his tone gentle but firm. “To your liking.”

You hesitate, fingers twitching at your sides. “Reid—”

He places a hand on your arm, just enough to keep you grounded. “It’s just adjusting your seat, okay?” he says, his voice calm, reassuring.

You nod, still unsure, and lean forward to adjust it—higher, a little closer, just enough to feel like you could reach everything.

“Okay,” he says, watching you. “How does that feel?”

You shift slightly, trying to find comfort in the unfamiliar. “It feels… strange.”

Spencer smiles softly. “New things usually do.”

“Okay, look at me,” Spencer says, his voice steady, patient.

You meet his gaze, and he continues, “The rearview mirror is your friend. You’ll want to glance at it every once in a while, just to make sure everything’s good behind you. Understand?”

You nod, but he’s not done yet. “I’m going to let you adjust that, okay?” he adds, looking at you expectantly.

You hesitate, glancing at the mirror before meeting his eyes again. “Please, Spence…” you trail off, fingers twitching at the edge of the mirror. “It’s okay, I promise.”

You adjust the rearview mirror, your fingers brushing over the edges as you glance into it. Spencer watches you closely, noticing the way your posture relaxes just a little. The tension in your shoulders eases.

He smiles, his voice soft but knowing. “I can see you loosening up.”

You glance at him, eyes flickering.

He doesn’t let you off the hook. “You’re liking this, aren’t you?”

You look away, but he’s already got that look on his face—the one that says he knows you better than you think. “You can’t tell me you’re not.”

“Now,” he says, but you cut him off before he can continue.

“Why are you doing this, Reid?” The question slips out before you can stop it, your voice quieter than you meant. “Why are you helping me?”

You can feel your heart beating a little faster, the words tumbling out before you can reign them in. “I’m sorry, I just... I need to know,” you add, the vulnerability creeping into your tone even though you try to push it away. You look at him, searching his eyes for something—an answer, maybe. Anything. I just want an to know and please ,

“Don’t give me the whole ‘everyone needs to experience driving’ thing,” you say, frustration edging your words.

“Don’t give me that ‘it’s the adult thing to do’ speech either.” You look at him, determined. “I want to know why you, Spencer Reid, are helping me.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just holds your gaze, like he’s thinking it through. Then, he leans in a little closer, closing the space between you.

“Because I want to,” he says, his voice quiet but sure.

There’s a pause. His eyes soften, almost like he’s asking you to hear something more. “Why can’t you accept my help?” he asks, his words carrying more than just a simple offer.

“Put your hands on the steering wheel,” he says softly, almost like he’s trying to be patient.

You glance over at him, something shifting in your chest. “I can feel it, you know?” you say, your voice a little sharper than you meant. “You’re into me. Whether you want to admit it or not, I can tell.”

He doesn’t flinch, just meets your eyes with that steady, quiet intensity. There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again, his tone still calm, but there’s a warmth to it now. “Please, just put your hands on the steering wheel,” he repeats, his voice gentle but firm, like he’s asking you to trust him.

You place your hands on the steering wheel, your fingers slightly trembling. “Okay,” you say, trying to steady yourself.

Spencer glances at you, a teasing edge to his voice. “You know which one’s the brake, right?”

You nod, your grip tightening. “Yeah, I got it.”

“This is drive,” he says, pointing to the gear shift. “And this is park. Right now, we’re in park.” He glances at you again, his smile gentle. “We haven’t even turned it on yet.”

You glance at the dashboard. “So that’s the next step?”

He nods, his voice patient. “Are you ready for that?”

You take a deep breath. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Spencer watches you for a beat longer, his eyes soft but still focused. “You still haven’t answered me,” you say, you’re voice tone quieter now, more deliberate.

You turn to him, a flicker of determination crossing your face. “I know you’re into me, Spence,” you say, the words leaving your mouth before you can stop them.

He shifts slightly, his gaze steady but something flickering in his eyes. “We can’t have distractions right now,” he says, his voice steady, though the way he says it betrays a hint of something softer underneath.

"Okay," you say, a little more firmly this time. "So, I'll start the car if you tell me. Otherwise, Dr. Reid, we're done for today."

You let the words hang between you, feeling the weight of them.

He doesn’t immediately respond, just watches you, his gaze softening. “I just want to help you,” he says, his voice almost a whisper. “Why can’t you accept that?”

You shift, leaning slightly forward, keeping your eyes locked on his. “So, you’re scared to admit you have feelings for me?” The question slips out before you can stop it, leaving a quiet tension in the space between you.

You decide to start the engine, your foot pressing gently on the brake.

Spencer is quiet for a moment, his surprise clear. “I thought you wouldn’t start it if I didn’t answer,” he says, his voice softer than usual.

You glance at him, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. “You already had,” you reply. “Your body language gave it away. I’ve been noticing the signs for a while now.”

He meets your gaze, a little taken aback. “I just wanted you to admit it,” you add, your voice quieter now, but still firm. “But it’s fine. I’m in control, right?” You lean back slightly, almost daring him to respond.

"Right," he says, his voice slightly unsteady, as if the change in you had caught him off guard. He watches you, his expression softening, a hint of admiration in his eyes.

It’s not just the way you’re handling the car or the lesson—there’s something else in your confidence, something that pulls him in deeper than he expected. If he hadn’t noticed it before, he definitely does now. And he can’t deny it.

"Are you scared now, Spence?" you ask, a teasing edge in your voice, but there's an undercurrent of something else, something that feels more vulnerable than you'd like to admit.

"No," he replies, his tone steady, though there's a flicker of something deeper behind his eyes.

You shift the car into drive, slowly easing your foot off the brake. Your gaze flicks to the rearview mirror, then to the outside mirrors, checking the alignment. They're even, you think, and it gives you a little more confidence.

You drive forward, the engine humming softly beneath you. Spencer doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you, the silence stretching comfortably between you. Finally, after what feels like forever, he speaks. "You got this," he says, his voice low, like he’s not just talking about the car, but about something more.

You smile, the tension easing as the drive feels less daunting than you expected. "This isn’t as bad as I thought," you admit, the hint of a laugh in your voice.

Spencer glances at you, a smirk tugging at his lips. "What’s that smile for?" he asks, his tone teasing. "You’re liking it, aren’t you?"

You raise an eyebrow, a playful glint in your eyes. "First, you admit you have feelings for me, then I’ll tell you."

Spencer’s expression softens, but he doesn’t say anything, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than usual. You giggle, the sound light and carefree, but there’s a quiet understanding between you both now, something unspoken that hangs in the air.

"Okay," Spencer says, his voice steady, but there's a hint of pride in his eyes. "Remember where the coffee shop is? About five minutes back there?"

You nod, a little nervous, but you can feel your confidence building.

"Ready for the big test?" he asks, his tone light, though you can tell he’s watching you closely.

"I’m not sure about that, Spence," you reply, feeling the weight of the moment.

"Remember, you're in control," he says gently, his gaze soft. "It’ll be okay. Just take us back to the coffee shop."

You take a deep breath, focusing as you find a spot to turn around and head back. Spencer watches you, a quiet pride in his expression. As you stop at the stop sign, he gives you a nod. "You’re doing great," he says, his voice warm with encouragement.

You finally see the town in the distance. "Okay," you think to yourself, "they’re just driving. Like you , but this is your first time It’s your first real lesson, not just a casual drive.

The light turns green, and you pull forward, turning left as you spot the coffee shop ahead. You find a parking spot and ease the car into it, your heart racing a little.

"Great job," Spencer says, a genuine smile on his face. "For your first lesson, how does it feel to be in control?"

You shift the car into park, your hands still slightly shaking as the adrenaline starts to fade. "Okay," you say, letting out a breath. "That was terrifying, but in a good way," you add, a small laugh escaping your lips.

"Spence, thank you," you continue, your voice softer now, more sincere. "I never thought I could actually do it," you admit, glancing at him. "But you... you believed in me."

He looks at you, his expression gentle but unreadable, and you feel your heart race for a different reason now. "You pushed me," you say, almost pleading, "Please tell me... please, just admit it to me."

Spencer quirks an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "What do I get out of this?" he repeats, his voice low and teasing. "What do I get? I got to see you come out of your shell. I got to see you open up to me, trust me to teach you to drive."

He pauses for a moment, his gaze steady as he watches you. "I got to see you loosen up, see the expression on your face when you finally got the hang of it. When you felt in control, like you do at the gun range."

Your breath catches, his words hitting you harder than expected. "So, you want me to admit I have feelings for you?" he says, his voice quieter now, more earnest. He leans in just slightly, and for a brief second, everything feels more real between you two. "Fine," he continues, his voice softer. "I do."

"Spence," you say, your voice softer now, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "I knew it... I knew you had feelings for me this whole time."

You pause, the words coming out before you can stop them. "I have feelings for you too," you admit, a quiet honesty in your voice. "I just never thought I'd make it this far with driving... with you out there, pushing me."

Before you can say anything else, he opens his door and unbuckles his seatbelt. "What are you doing?" you ask, your eyebrows furrowing.

"Stay there," he says, but his tone is light, almost teasing.

You giggle. "Okay," you reply, watching him as he gets out of the car and walks around to your side. The moment his hand touches the door handle, your heart skips a beat.

"Spence?" you say, but before you can finish, he pulls open the driver’s side door. Without a word, he reaches in, gently pulls you out of the car, and spins you into his arms.

You laugh, your cheeks flushing. "What is this?" you ask, breathless, unable to hold back your giggles.

His smile is warm, his eyes twinkling with something you can't quite name. "Just enjoying the moment," he says softly, the distance between you shrinking until it feels like everything else has faded away, your heart skips , thank you for believing in me you whisper, he pulls you in for another hug .. anytime he says , he grabs your hand lets go get bite to eat he says to celebrate your first lesson my little driver princess.. you smile holding on to his arm ..

[dearlenore]

15 MINUTES. / L.ALVEZ / SUMMARY - Luke takes care of you after a sleep attack

PAIRING: narcoleptic!reader x luke alvez / w/c: 1.2k / fluff

a/n: In Sabrina we trust, also this might be my second Luke alvez piece so be nice to me, this suggestion was PRECIOUS as a chronically ill girly , anon request here

You’d warned them when you joined the team, countless times actually.

“I’m not fragile or a liability,” you’d said softly, fingers laced tightly in your lap. “I can manage to be a good media liaison. I’ve managed and lived with this for years. Some days are just better than others.”

They’d nodded, Emily asked a few careful questions, Spencer was fascinated. And Luke Alvez? Silent, unreadable— just staring at you with soft eyes that seemed to memorize everything about you.

You thought he’d be the one to tread carefully around you, like a ballerina on pointe shoes.

He wasn’t.

He was worse.

He acted like it didn’t matter.

And for some reason, that annoyed you.

“You don’t have to carry that…” You’d said between yawns, entirely unrelated to your condition as you watched him sling your go bag over his shoulder.

“I know I don’t,” he laughed. “I want to.”

“Are you patronizing me?” You said, almost too quiet to be accusatory.

“I’m not, I just wanna help.” He reassured you, holding his hands in mock surrender.

You looked at him like a dear in headlights which made him laugh.

“I don’t treat you any differently than my other female co workers.” Luke shrugged.

Your chest fluttered with something you couldn’t quite explain, but it made you sweat. You felt annoyed by the safety he made you feel, the kindness he showed you.

Because for some reason, the way you got lightheaded around him, the way you nearly fell asleep around him was all too much. Too soon.

The first time it happened in front of him, you were flying back from Miami. The case had ended early and you were curled up against the window, a small pillow underneath your head

Luke was sitting across the aisle, pretending not to look at you with slight concern at your sleepy state. He did that a lot. You’d gotten good at pretending not to notice.

The last thing you remembered was the hum of the engine, a sense of light headedness and an indescribable sleepiness.

Then—blackness.

One could argue it was sleep but it felt more like passing out, because your sure as heck didn’t feel refreshed afterwards.

Like someone pulled a plug from the back of your brain.

When you’d finally woken up, you were practically drooling against his thigh, your pillow had snuck out from beneath you and the imprint of the window lingered on your cheek.

His hand was on your shoulder, your cheek resting against his pant leg. He didn’t say anything—just reached down with his free hand and passed you a bottle of water like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You took it quietly, feeling embarrassment at your vulnerability.

“You were out for fifteen minutes,” he said softly. “You twitched a little. I figured you’d want someone close, just in case.”

Fighting the shame, you looked up at him, mumbling a quiet thank you with a smile. He seemed partially surprised you hadn’t moved.

Rather than mention it, he ran his fingers through your hair.

After that, you tried your best to avoid him, avoid what he made you feel but it was no use.

The case in Vermont was different, to say the least. You and Luke were tasked with investigating the scene. Usually this was a simple task but as luck would have it… it wasn’t for you.

Nearly the moment you’d knelt down, everything went dark. You hadn’t thought to inform him you weren’t feeling well.

Not only did you neglect to eat but you also didn’t bother to sleep much the past night or so since the little boy had gone missing.

“Y/N. Come on. Come back to me. That’s it. Eyes on me.”

That’s the first thing you hear.

You blinked up.

Luke was holding you—his body crouched low, your head cradled gently in his lap. One hand cupped the side of your face; the other stroked your hair with careful tenderness. He looked… wrecked.

And angry. But not at you.

At the world, maybe. Or whatever cruel twist of fate made you the one who had to live like this.

You tried to sit up, but your limbs were trembling.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

He shook his head. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend. Minimize.” His voice cracked just slightly. “You scared me.”

That stopped you.

“You’re not supposed to be scared,” you murmured, almost childlike.

“I don’t care what I’m supposed to be,” he said. “You went down like someone flipped a switch. You could’ve hit your head. You could’ve—” He stopped himself. Swallowed hard. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I don’t like being looked at like I’m broken.” You snickered light heartedly.

“I’m not looking at you like you’re broken,” he said. “I’m looking at you like I care.”

And you didn’t have words for that.

So you let him hold you.

Just for a little while.

Just long enough to remember that softness doesn’t always mean weakness.

He knocked on your motel door that night. Again.

You didn’t pretend you were asleep.

You opened the door, and he was standing there—sweatshirt, jeans, a paper bag in hand.

“I brought you ginger ale. And a muffin. I don’t know if you ate. You crashed hard.”

You stepped aside.

No words. Just trust.

He sat at the edge of the bed while you pulled a blanket around your shoulders. Your hands were still shaking faintly, the crash coming on slow.

You looked at him.

“Will you stay?” you asked, voice small.

He didn’t hesitate.

He kicked off his shoes, settled beside you, and pulled you into his chest.

The room was silent except for the hum of the AC and the soft cadence of his voice as he murmured a story from his K9 days, letting it fill the air like a lullaby.

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

But you remembered the feeling:

Safe. Warm.

Not alone.

The next morning, you woke tangled in him—his chest under your cheek, your fingers clutching the edge of his shirt like a lifeline.

His hand was still in your hair.

You shifted slightly, half-expecting him to pull away.

He didn’t.

He looked down at you, bleary-eyed and beautiful, and whispered:

“You don’t have to keep running. I’m not going anywhere.”

Something about those words unraveled you completely.

So when he leaned in, slow and reverent, and pressed a kiss to your temple—

You let him.

And when you turned your head and kissed him back—

He let you.

Soft. Slow. Breathless.

Like neither of you had ever been kissed like that before.

After that, everything changed. But nothing did.

You still worked beside each other. Still chased down unsubs and pieced together patterns in blood and tragedy.

But now you had someone to catch you when the tide came in.

Someone who didn’t flinch when your body betrayed you.

Someone who stayed.

And for the first time in a long time—you let yourself fall.

Not into sleep.

Into him.

Into love.

All it had taken were those 15 minutes to fall in love with him. Unconscious or otherwise.

[dearlenore]

luke alvez x chronicallyill reader (pots, fibromyalgia)

I am a request writing machineeeee anyways this is so precious I’m obsessed as a chronically ill girly, hope you don’t mind I chose a different chronic illness🥹❤️

READ HERE