inkydelusions

[inkydelusions]

fine. i'll do it myself

does anybody know is garcia!reader is a thing? if so do you have some good recs?

[inkydelusions]

does anybody know is garcia!reader is a thing? if so do you have some good recs?

[inkydelusions]

this remains one of my favourite scenes ever

CRIMINAL MINDS 2.21 — "Open Season"

[inkydelusions]

thinking of opening the requests but also kinda nervous cause i’ve never done it before

[inkydelusions]

nobody asked but in my head these are “written in the stars” & “rom com material” spencer and reader

happy birthday - 1.9k

summary: birthday cakes and frog headbands... spencer and you put up the cutest little birthday party for your pretty baby girl. c.warning: fem!reader. talks of pregnancy. suggestive ? maybe? if you squint your eyes and look at it from afar. overall it’s just girldad!spencer being the perfect dad and the perfect man. a/n: i’ve been reading a lot of dad!spencer content lately and couldn’t help myself but to write this little fluffy blurb. consider this my application for the girldad!spencer fan club

the kitchen window is wide open and a soft spring breeze makes the cream-colored curtains dance swiftly. humming, you pour a mixture of flour and some other ingredients in a bowl, trying to follow the instructions written in the cooking book that’s open in front of you. you’ve never been particularly good at baking, but you thought that today’s occasion was worth it.

today, your daughter turns three years old, and you’re set to bake her the best cake ever known to men. or, at least, you’ll try. you’re going over the fifth step on the recipe one more time when there’s burst of giggles and stomps coming from the hallway.

you and spencer live in a small department in the city, the same where he used to live before he met you. it has two rooms, a small living room and an even smaller, but cozy, kitchen with a window that opens to a great, noisy avenue. it’s not your typical big, flashy family house, but it is a home.

there are toys around every corner, and the fridge is plastered in pictures of the three of you, as well as coloring pages and doodles in every color of the rainbow. there are two sets of blankets hanging on the back of the couch; a big, wooly one, and a smaller one made of patchwork in green tones—you made it while you were pregnant with your baby girl, crocheting a small square every day for a couple of months. the dishes are mismatched, and there’s a splatter of pink or green in every piece of clutter you own. a tiny pink fork, a big, twirly green spoon. there are doodles on the shower wall, too. as well as a special set of aquatic toys to use as bribe on the nights when your daughter feels like a shower is the closest thing to torture.

the apartment may be small, but you love the suffocating love that emanates from every corner.

when you look up from the mass of eggs and flour inside the mixing bowl you see spencer and your kid standing on the threshold. he’s holding her in his arms, a wide smile on his lips as she sings a song none of you recognize because her words are barely understandable.

“how is it going?” spencer asks, walking towards you.

with the three of you in the kitchen, there’s no room to move, but it doesn’t matter because there’s no other place you’d like to be right now.

“i think i missed a step, so right now i’m just free-styling it.”

he laughs, tilting his head back, and your daughter laughs with him. as usual, his daddy’s happiness makes her beam with joy. when you take a closer look at them as they smile and laugh together you realize just how similar they are. the way your little girl’s nose wrinkles when she grins is the same as spencer’s. and that mischievous glint in her eyes when she’s about to say something she knows she shouldn’t say is the same as his daddy’s when he’s teasing you.

“mommy, what you doin’?” the little girl asks, shaking in spencer’s arms in an attempt to get to yours.

“mommy is baking a cake for our little birthday girl,” he says, trying his best to keep her from falling as you wash your hands.

“birday?” she asks.

once your hands are clean and dry, you open your arms wide to her and she almost flies from spencer’s arms to yours. he then takes the lead with the cake.

“yes, baby. your birthday. how old are you turning today?”

she looks up at you with those big, brown eyes she inherited from her dad, not really knowing what to answer. you show her three fingers and start counting them with a singsong tune, and spencer can only grin at himself.

he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this complete in his life. mixing butter and flour and vanilla essence into a mixing bowl with pictures of mickey mouse on the sides, the noise of your sweet voice singing and the giggles of his daughter are the perfect music to accompany the moment. all of his most important memories to date have taken place in this same tiny kitchen.

your first kiss, which was soon followed by your first time sleeping together. it started on the counter. he’d been cooking dinner for the two of you on your third date. he’d been talking about anything and everything as he danced around the kitchen, taking ingredients from the fridge, chopping them on the cutting board next to you. at some point, he’d ended up standing between your legs as he reached to take out some spices from the cupboard right over you head. he’d leaned in so close you could smell his cologne and you’d looked up at him and he’d felt his knees weaken. you looked so insanely beautiful, half your face casted in shadows, the other lit only by the soft, orange glow of the light above the stove. spices forgotten, he couldn’t help himself. he leaned down and clashed your lips together in a kiss. he’d been dreaming of that exact instant since he saw you for the first time. as had you. after that, you became a mess of hands buried in each others hair, pulling at each other’s clothes. dinner forgotten, you encircled his hips with your legs and he didn’t think it twice before walking you to his room.

two years later, you were sitting on the small kitchen table, waiting for him to come home with a positive pregnancy test in your hands. all day, you’d felt anxious, not really knowing how he’d react. what if he didn’t want it? what if he… left you?

“hey, baby, i’m home.” you heard his voice call your name from the entryway when you didn’t answer. “baby?”

“in the kitchen,” you’d answered.

the moment he saw you sitting on that chair, with you head low and your shoulders slumped he’d dropped his bag on the table and knelt in front of you.

“hey, hey. baby, what’s wrong? talk to me, please.”

and that’s when he saw it. the small, white and pink test. you couldn’t see it because you were still looking away from him, but his cheeks were tight with a broad smile, and his eyes got watery really fast.

“is it…” he swallowed hard. “is it positive?”

you could only nod. the silence stretched between you two for a minute, and you only dared to look up when you heard a ragged sob coming from him.

“why are you…?”

“i’m going to be a dad?” he asked, a mess of joyful tears. “are we… are we going to be parents?”

“do you want to?” your voice was wobbly, and spencer was quick to wipe the tears off your cheeks.

“of course i do! there’s nothing i would want more in this life than to create a family with you.”

that managed to pull a ragged sob out of your chest. still kneeling on the floor, spencer hugged you by the waist, laying his forehead against your belly.

“i’ll have to get a better job, though,” you started talking, still crying. “we’ll need the money. and we’ll need to make room for the baby.”

“hey, hey. look at me.” taking hold of your cheeks, spencer spoke sweetly and softly. “right now, the only thing you have to focus on is your health. yes, and on loving and caring for our baby. we’ll figure out the rest later. and i can free up my office to make room for her.”

you laughed, sniffing. “her? spencer i’m two weeks pregnant, there’s no way we know it yet.”

“oh, trust me. i know a lot of things.” he kissed your forehead. “and i know she’s going to be a girl, and she will be just as beautiful as her mother.”

when you daughter took her first steps she did it so she could reach you in the kitchen. she’d been playing with spencer, both of them sitting on the living room floor. then, you’d started singing as you finished putting the dishes away after dinner. spencer still recalls the way her small head tilted towards the sound of your voice, how her eyes seemed to scan the room, looking for you. she then started to stand up, and spencer followed close, ready to catch her before she fell. but she didn’t. with wobbly legs, and tripping a couple of times along the way, she walked up to you, and when she saw you standing next to the kitchen counter, drying some dishes with a dish rag, she started cooing and clapping.

“oh my god, baby,” you beamed as you saw her on the threshold, spencer close behind.

your crouched down, encouraging her to keep walking towards you. at the sight of her mom’s open arms, your daughter quickened her pace, palms wide open on her sides and a big grin on her face.

“good job, honey! you were so fast,” your chirped, kissing her chubby cheeks.

“what are you thinking about?” you ask when you notice spencer has zoned out, the spatula he was using to pour the cake mix into the mold dripping on the counter.

he shakes his head, grabbing a towel to clean up the mess. “just how much i love this place.” he puts the cake in the oven, and as he raised back up, he stopped right in front of you and your kid. “how much i love you both.”

as you wait for the cake to bake, spencer and you help your daughter get ready for the small party you had prepared for her. this year, the theme is frogs. recently, she has become obsessed with them recently, and so instead of a tiara like last year, now she wears a green headband with two big googly eyes—the same one you and spencer are wearing too, matching with your kid—and the decorations are all green and frog related.

“did you know some frogs can jump twenty times their body length,” spencer states as he finishes putting up some cartoon pictures of frogs on the living room wall. “and there’s this one, the wood frog, which can live north of the arctic circle, surviving for weeks with sixty-five percent of its body frozen.”

“spencer, honey, i don’t think she understands a single word you’re saying right now,” you tell him as you finish helping your daughter put on the green tutu dress you bought her a few days ago.

“oh, trust me, she does.” he smiles at you, and it’s so damn cute, so… boyish, that it makes your heart throb like you were falling in love with him all over again.“baby, why don’t you show mommy how frogs jump?”

immediately, she gets down, crouched with her hands resting against the floor in the space between her legs. and then she jumps.

“that’s right, baby!” he praises her.

“dad, you. now you.”

“me? you want me to jump like a frog, too?” she nods effusively. “okay, baby. anything for you.”

and so spencer gets in the same position, occupying about eighty percent of your living room space, and you watch from the couch as him and your daughter jump around. they’re both giggling and croaking. spencer keeps spitting some random facts about frogs from time to time. meanwhile, you observe them both, absorbing every instant, every laugh. it’s moments like these, when spencer shows his most childish side that you remember why you fell in love with him. he’s perfect for you, he’s perfect for your daughter, and you couldn’t be any prouder that you decided to create a family with him.

thanks for reading <3 likes & reblogs are appreciated !!

tags !! @siennnaaa1202 ; @kusanagisunshine-blog-blog ; @girllblogging777 ; @superbeaglewitch ; @tokalotashiz

[inkydelusions]

mr work dork and miss work dork lover - s. reid

criminal minds masterlist ||

Summary: spending an early morning with Spencer before both of you need to go to work.  

Pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

Word Count: 0.9k 

Warnings: kissing, gilmore girls reference (we can be friends if you caught that)   

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

“Look who’s awake, sleepyhead.” You hear his voice before you open your eyes. How he knows you’re awake, you’ll never know, but you imagine it has something to do with the fact that he profiles people for a living.  

You whine out intelligible words that Spencer can’t quite comprehend, but then he manages to understand between your whines, “I’m still sleeping, stop making conversation with me.” 

Spencer chuckles, his voice warm with amusement. “Technically, if you’re still sleeping, you wouldn’t be talking.” 

You groan in protest, burying your face deeper into the pillow. “Stop using logic against me.” 

You hear the rustle of fabric as he shifts beside you, and then the unmistakable weight of an arm draping over your waist. He’s warm, the kind of comforting warmth that makes it even harder to want to leave the bed. “I read a study once that said waking up to a familiar voice can make the transition from sleep to consciousness much easier,” he muses, his fingers lazily tracing patterns against your hip. 

You peek an eye open, glaring at him half-heartedly. “I hate that you make everything sound like a lecture.” 

Spencer grins, unfazed. “And yet, you still keep me around.” 

You let out an exaggerated sigh, finally turning toward him. “That’s because I tolerate you.” 

His smile softens as he leans in slightly, his breath warm against your cheek. “Oh? Just tolerate me?” 

You hum, feigning deep thought. “Well… tolerate, like, adore—same thing.” He laughs, and the sound is so light, so full of something fond, that you can’t help but smile, too. His fingers continue their lazy movements against your skin, lulling you into that perfect space between wakefulness and sleep again. “Five more minutes?” you mumble, already snuggling closer. 

Spencer presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “We really need to get up for work, angel.” 

“But Spence,” you drag out his name, whining, “I thought you loved me.” 

“I do love you.” He says, chuckling as he presses a kiss onto your pouty lips, “But our bosses won’t be too happy with us if we’re late now, will they?” 

You scoff, “Hotch loves me.” 

Spencer huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Hotch tolerates you.” 

You gasp, scandalized, finally prying your eyes open to glare at him. “That is not true. He has a soft spot for me.” 

Spencer raises a skeptical brow. “Hotch has a soft spot for Jack. Maybe for Rossi’s cooking. But you?” 

“Yes, me,” you insist, propping yourself up on an elbow. “Remember that one time I brought him coffee before a case, and he actually smiled?” 

Spencer tilts his head, pretending to consider. “That was more of a… mild decrease in his usual frown.” 

You roll your eyes, flopping dramatically back onto the mattress. “You just don’t want to admit that I’m his favorite.” 

Spencer hums, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face. “You are my favorite,” he murmurs, voice softer now. 

You feel your heart stutter at the sincerity in his tone. He always does that, throws out some offhanded, devastatingly sweet comment like it’s nothing. Like it’s the easiest truth in the world. Smiling, you reach up, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips. “Well, you’re mine, too. Even if you do use statistics against me before I’ve had coffee.” 

Spencer grins, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “I’ll make you a deal—if you get up now, I’ll grab us coffee on the way in.” 

You groan, burying your face in his chest. “Fine. But only because I love you more than sleep.” 

He laughs, wrapping his arms around you. “I’ll take it.” 

“Can I at least get a kiss first before you make me leave our warm bed?” Spencer smiles, leaning in, his eyes flickering between yours and your lips. You can feel his breath against your skin, the warmth of him so close, and you tilt your head slightly in anticipation. Just as his lips are about to brush yours, he suddenly pulls away, smirking. You blink, momentarily stunned. “Spencer Reid, did you just—” 

He’s already rolling off the bed, stretching like he didn’t just completely leave you hanging. “We’re going to be late,” he teases, heading toward the dresser. 

You throw a pillow at him, groaning in frustration. “Work dork!” 

He laughs, catching the pillow mid-air and tossing it back onto the bed. “Work dork lover,” he calls back, grinning at you. 

You narrow your eyes. “Not anymore. You’ve lost your privileges.” 

Spencer raises a skeptical brow. “Oh, really?” 

“Yep. No forehead kisses, no hand holding, no cuddles—” Before you can finish, he’s already moving back toward the bed. In a blur of long limbs and mischievous intent, he cages you in beneath him, his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of your head. 

“You sure about that?” he murmurs, tilting his head as he studies you. 

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is. “M-maybe…” 

Spencer’s smirk deepens. “Maybe?” 

Your resolve crumbles when he dips down, lips ghosting over your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—but not quite kissing you. “You’re the worst,” you whisper, your fingers gripping his shirt. 

He finally presses a lingering kiss to your lips, slow and teasing, before pulling back just enough to grin at you. “Still the worst?” 

You exhale, dazed. “I take it back. Work dork lover is acceptable.” 

Spencer laughs, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before standing up. “Come on, angel. Coffee’s waiting.” 

And, as much as you hate to admit it, he wins this round. 

[inkydelusions]

I just love him in this era

[inkydelusions]

"if reid dies i quit" - penelope garcia

[inkydelusions]

i need him in a way that can’t be put into words

spencer reid in that scene in 2x05

[inkydelusions]

happy birthday - 1.9k

summary: birthday cakes and frog headbands... spencer and you put up the cutest little birthday party for your pretty baby girl. c.warning: fem!reader. talks of pregnancy. suggestive ? maybe? if you squint your eyes and look at it from afar. overall it’s just girldad!spencer being the perfect dad and the perfect man. a/n: i’ve been reading a lot of dad!spencer content lately and couldn’t help myself but to write this little fluffy blurb. consider this my application for the girldad!spencer fan club

the kitchen window is wide open and a soft spring breeze makes the cream-colored curtains dance swiftly. humming, you pour a mixture of flour and some other ingredients in a bowl, trying to follow the instructions written in the cooking book that’s open in front of you. you’ve never been particularly good at baking, but you thought that today’s occasion was worth it.

today, your daughter turns three years old, and you’re set to bake her the best cake ever known to men. or, at least, you’ll try. you’re going over the fifth step on the recipe one more time when there’s burst of giggles and stomps coming from the hallway.

you and spencer live in a small department in the city, the same where he used to live before he met you. it has two rooms, a small living room and an even smaller, but cozy, kitchen with a window that opens to a great, noisy avenue. it’s not your typical big, flashy family house, but it is a home.

there are toys around every corner, and the fridge is plastered in pictures of the three of you, as well as coloring pages and doodles in every color of the rainbow. there are two sets of blankets hanging on the back of the couch; a big, wooly one, and a smaller one made of patchwork in green tones—you made it while you were pregnant with your baby girl, crocheting a small square every day for a couple of months. the dishes are mismatched, and there’s a splatter of pink or green in every piece of clutter you own. a tiny pink fork, a big, twirly green spoon. there are doodles on the shower wall, too. as well as a special set of aquatic toys to use as bribe on the nights when your daughter feels like a shower is the closest thing to torture.

the apartment may be small, but you love the suffocating love that emanates from every corner.

when you look up from the mass of eggs and flour inside the mixing bowl you see spencer and your kid standing on the threshold. he’s holding her in his arms, a wide smile on his lips as she sings a song none of you recognize because her words are barely understandable.

“how is it going?” spencer asks, walking towards you.

with the three of you in the kitchen, there’s no room to move, but it doesn’t matter because there’s no other place you’d like to be right now.

“i think i missed a step, so right now i’m just free-styling it.”

he laughs, tilting his head back, and your daughter laughs with him. as usual, his daddy’s happiness makes her beam with joy. when you take a closer look at them as they smile and laugh together you realize just how similar they are. the way your little girl’s nose wrinkles when she grins is the same as spencer’s. and that mischievous glint in her eyes when she’s about to say something she knows she shouldn’t say is the same as his daddy’s when he’s teasing you.

“mommy, what you doin’?” the little girl asks, shaking in spencer’s arms in an attempt to get to yours.

“mommy is baking a cake for our little birthday girl,” he says, trying his best to keep her from falling as you wash your hands.

“birday?” she asks.

once your hands are clean and dry, you open your arms wide to her and she almost flies from spencer’s arms to yours. he then takes the lead with the cake.

“yes, baby. your birthday. how old are you turning today?”

she looks up at you with those big, brown eyes she inherited from her dad, not really knowing what to answer. you show her three fingers and start counting them with a singsong tune, and spencer can only grin at himself.

he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this complete in his life. mixing butter and flour and vanilla essence into a mixing bowl with pictures of mickey mouse on the sides, the noise of your sweet voice singing and the giggles of his daughter are the perfect music to accompany the moment. all of his most important memories to date have taken place in this same tiny kitchen.

your first kiss, which was soon followed by your first time sleeping together. it started on the counter. he’d been cooking dinner for the two of you on your third date. he’d been talking about anything and everything as he danced around the kitchen, taking ingredients from the fridge, chopping them on the cutting board next to you. at some point, he’d ended up standing between your legs as he reached to take out some spices from the cupboard right over you head. he’d leaned in so close you could smell his cologne and you’d looked up at him and he’d felt his knees weaken. you looked so insanely beautiful, half your face casted in shadows, the other lit only by the soft, orange glow of the light above the stove. spices forgotten, he couldn’t help himself. he leaned down and clashed your lips together in a kiss. he’d been dreaming of that exact instant since he saw you for the first time. as had you. after that, you became a mess of hands buried in each others hair, pulling at each other’s clothes. dinner forgotten, you encircled his hips with your legs and he didn’t think it twice before walking you to his room.

two years later, you were sitting on the small kitchen table, waiting for him to come home with a positive pregnancy test in your hands. all day, you’d felt anxious, not really knowing how he’d react. what if he didn’t want it? what if he… left you?

“hey, baby, i’m home.” you heard his voice call your name from the entryway when you didn’t answer. “baby?”

“in the kitchen,” you’d answered.

the moment he saw you sitting on that chair, with you head low and your shoulders slumped he’d dropped his bag on the table and knelt in front of you.

“hey, hey. baby, what’s wrong? talk to me, please.”

and that’s when he saw it. the small, white and pink test. you couldn’t see it because you were still looking away from him, but his cheeks were tight with a broad smile, and his eyes got watery really fast.

“is it…” he swallowed hard. “is it positive?”

you could only nod. the silence stretched between you two for a minute, and you only dared to look up when you heard a ragged sob coming from him.

“why are you…?”

“i’m going to be a dad?” he asked, a mess of joyful tears. “are we… are we going to be parents?”

“do you want to?” your voice was wobbly, and spencer was quick to wipe the tears off your cheeks.

“of course i do! there’s nothing i would want more in this life than to create a family with you.”

that managed to pull a ragged sob out of your chest. still kneeling on the floor, spencer hugged you by the waist, laying his forehead against your belly.

“i’ll have to get a better job, though,” you started talking, still crying. “we’ll need the money. and we’ll need to make room for the baby.”

“hey, hey. look at me.” taking hold of your cheeks, spencer spoke sweetly and softly. “right now, the only thing you have to focus on is your health. yes, and on loving and caring for our baby. we’ll figure out the rest later. and i can free up my office to make room for her.”

you laughed, sniffing. “her? spencer i’m two weeks pregnant, there’s no way we know it yet.”

“oh, trust me. i know a lot of things.” he kissed your forehead. “and i know she’s going to be a girl, and she will be just as beautiful as her mother.”

when you daughter took her first steps she did it so she could reach you in the kitchen. she’d been playing with spencer, both of them sitting on the living room floor. then, you’d started singing as you finished putting the dishes away after dinner. spencer still recalls the way her small head tilted towards the sound of your voice, how her eyes seemed to scan the room, looking for you. she then started to stand up, and spencer followed close, ready to catch her before she fell. but she didn’t. with wobbly legs, and tripping a couple of times along the way, she walked up to you, and when she saw you standing next to the kitchen counter, drying some dishes with a dish rag, she started cooing and clapping.

“oh my god, baby,” you beamed as you saw her on the threshold, spencer close behind.

your crouched down, encouraging her to keep walking towards you. at the sight of her mom’s open arms, your daughter quickened her pace, palms wide open on her sides and a big grin on her face.

“good job, honey! you were so fast,” your chirped, kissing her chubby cheeks.

“what are you thinking about?” you ask when you notice spencer has zoned out, the spatula he was using to pour the cake mix into the mold dripping on the counter.

he shakes his head, grabbing a towel to clean up the mess. “just how much i love this place.” he puts the cake in the oven, and as he raised back up, he stopped right in front of you and your kid. “how much i love you both.”

as you wait for the cake to bake, spencer and you help your daughter get ready for the small party you had prepared for her. this year, the theme is frogs. recently, she has become obsessed with them recently, and so instead of a tiara like last year, now she wears a green headband with two big googly eyes—the same one you and spencer are wearing too, matching with your kid—and the decorations are all green and frog related.

“did you know some frogs can jump twenty times their body length,” spencer states as he finishes putting up some cartoon pictures of frogs on the living room wall. “and there’s this one, the wood frog, which can live north of the arctic circle, surviving for weeks with sixty-five percent of its body frozen.”

“spencer, honey, i don’t think she understands a single word you’re saying right now,” you tell him as you finish helping your daughter put on the green tutu dress you bought her a few days ago.

“oh, trust me, she does.” he smiles at you, and it’s so damn cute, so… boyish, that it makes your heart throb like you were falling in love with him all over again.“baby, why don’t you show mommy how frogs jump?”

immediately, she gets down, crouched with her hands resting against the floor in the space between her legs. and then she jumps.

“that’s right, baby!” he praises her.

“dad, you. now you.”

“me? you want me to jump like a frog, too?” she nods effusively. “okay, baby. anything for you.”

and so spencer gets in the same position, occupying about eighty percent of your living room space, and you watch from the couch as him and your daughter jump around. they’re both giggling and croaking. spencer keeps spitting some random facts about frogs from time to time. meanwhile, you observe them both, absorbing every instant, every laugh. it’s moments like these, when spencer shows his most childish side that you remember why you fell in love with him. he’s perfect for you, he’s perfect for your daughter, and you couldn’t be any prouder that you decided to create a family with him.

thanks for reading <3 likes & reblogs are appreciated !!

tags !! @siennnaaa1202 ; @kusanagisunshine-blog-blog ; @girllblogging777 ; @superbeaglewitch ; @tokalotashiz

[inkydelusions]

you dont have to tag everything with spencer x reader when its not spencer x reader

hi ! so i’ve been seeing this type of asks recently in other blogs. when i add the tags to my posts i do it automatically. i have a set of tags that i use in all my spencer related posts and that’s what i click on every time i post something spencer related. i personally don’t understand why it is such a big deal that so many people have been receiving the same type of messages, but i’ll try to keep it in mind next time. thx for the heads up tho !!

[inkydelusions]

rewatching season four and i still can’t believe spencer is supposed to not know about a clockwork orange like ???? in my head that man has both read the book and watched the movie and his copy of the book is sooooo battered, the pages are yellowed, and the margins are full of annotations

[inkydelusions]

take a look at this wip… (and ignore the typo)

i need your opinions on this before i dive deeper into what could possibly turn into a veeeery long series

[inkydelusions]

he would be offended by this btw

[inkydelusions]

the last time - 3.1k

"i find myself at your door, just like all those times before" - taylor swift

summary: in the middle of the night, spencer returns once again, begging for forgiveness. but this time, after years of broken promises and emotional neglect, reader finally chooses to close the door—for good. c.warning: fem!reader. so much angst and anger and frustration omg. this is a breakup story, so yeah. a/n: i present to you the first fic in the spencer reid as taylor swift lyrics series i'll be slowly publishing. i was supposed to publish these in order, but the angsty gods spoke to me and i started with red because of them. this is also my first try at writing anything that's not fluffy and cute and romantic, so let me know how i did! also, thanks to the amazing @emilys-house for the inspo for this series !! go check her the bau as lyrics from every taylor swift album series.

series masterlist | pinterest board

it’s three am when there’s a knock on your door. you already know who it is. of course it’s him. coming to apologize one more time, to beg you to come back one more time.

a flash of lightning comes through the window, illuminating the small space of your living room as your stand up from the couch, griping the blanket around your shoulders tighter. your feet move at the our volition, like they know the route all too well. you’ve been through this before, way too many times.

you’ll open the door and he’ll be standing there, puppy eyes shining from underneath disheveled hair. he’ll try to hug you, he’ll start saying “i’m sorry” over and over again. and you’ll start believing him. you’ll fall for it yet again, just like all those times before. and you’ll welcome him back into your arms because it’s the only place where you’ve ever truly felt safe.

and then, in a couple of weeks, he’ll remember there are things far more important in his life than you. and he’ll kick you out of it once again.

there’s another knock on the door.

“baby, please. open the door. i need to see you. i really need to talk to you.”

his voice. he sounds so broken. you leans your back against the door, letting your head fall back against it.

“spencer, leave. i don’t want to fight right now.”

“then we won’t. i just need to talk to you.” you could hear the slight tremble in his voice. “please.”

spencer lets his forehead fall against your apartment door. he hates this. he hates that this has been your life for almost a year. 

tonight, after tossing and turning in his bed, feeling the empty spot beside him cold enough to make him shiver, he decided to come see you, come fix things so you could return where you were meant to be. next to him.

what he doesn’t know is that, barely ten minutes before he arrived at your door you had jolted awake, covered in sweat and with your cheeks damp with tears, after having yet another bad dream. it was the third time this week, and every time they got more violent. and in every single one of them, spencer died miles away from you, and you found out through the news channel days later.

“baby, please.”

just one minute, you tell yourself. i need to see he’s alright. 

and then it’ll be over.

with a soft click, you open the door, and he quickly stands straight. his legs almost fail him at the sight of you. your tired eyes and the dark circles underneath them. your cheeks look shallow, as if the fights between you are physically affecting you. that almost makes him sick. 

you pull the blanket tighter over your shoulders, staring up at him with not even a trace of animosity in your eyes. spencer sniffs, trying to keep his composure, and asks, “may i… can i come in?”

“i don’t think that’s a good idea.”

you notice his damp hair, his wet clothes, and you know if he comes in you’ll feel bad about it, you’ll try to make him comfortable, and you’ll fall for it once again.

“baby, please…”

“don’t call me that.” you snap, eyes sharp and cold. “you lost all your rights to call me that a while ago, spencer.”

the way you pronounce his name feels like a stab straight though his heart, almost making him sob.

“i miss you,” he whispers, biting his trembling lip.

i miss you too, a tiny voice whispers inside your head. but you’re too angry to listen to it right now.

“i’m sure you do now,” you respond bitterly. “what about two weeks ago, when you left for a case in a whole different country? did you miss me then? you surely didn’t even think of calling me to let me know you were leaving, or to tell me how you were doing afterwards. it was nice to find out you were still alive through your friends, though.”

“you know i can’t always talk about the cases i work on.”

with a sigh, you shake your head. “good night, spencer.”

you make to close the door, but he stops it, palm wide open against the dark wood.

“i’m sorry. that was the wrong thing to say. sorry.” spencer lets his head fall with a sigh. “i keep doing this, don’t i? i try to fix it, abut instead i fuck it up even worse.”

“it is your signature move, yes.”

“i’m sorry.”

there’s a beat of silence. another clap of thunder that makes spencer shiver. he pulls at the sleeves of his sweater, rubbing them together, maybe to keep himself warm, maybe to keep himself from reaching for you.

you can’t help yourself at the sad sight and move out of the way so he can enter your apartment. he whispers a soft thank you as he enters, but his eyes are casted down, not daring to keep seeing the coldness and anger shining in yours.

“i think i still have some of your clothes laying around. wait here, i’ll get them for you.” you don’t give him an opportunity to say anything as you disappear down the hallway he knows leads to your bedroom. 

as much as he tries to keep himself from doing it, he looks around your apartment finding bits and pieces of you everywhere, and feeling like a stranger in a place that used to be as much his as it is yours. he glances at the numerous pictures hanging on the entryway walls and the notices there are few less pictures of him and you together as he remembered seeing last time.

there’s this one in particular that makes him smile even through the biting cold and the sour taste of defeat in his mouth. in the picture, penelope is hugging you tightly and you’re smiling so broadly your eyes are closed, your cheeks flushed pink as you awkwardly tried to return the hug.

penelope was the first one to find out about your relationship, and once spencer introduced you two, it was like a match made in heaven. penelope felt like you were her soulmate, not his. there are a few other pictures of you with your closest friends, some others where you’re posing alone in front of some monuments, and there are some candids he took of you in the few, and short times he got to spend with you.

as he sniffs again, trying his hardest not to cry, he’s overwhelmed with the smell of your perfume. it’s everywhere around him. it used to be all over his apartment, too. on his sheets, on the sweaters you used to steal from his wardrobe in the middle of the night, when the night grew too cold and the duvet in his bed wasn’t enough. it used to be all over him, and it was his favorite fragrance.

he had forgotten what it smelled like. and he hates himself for it.

“this is all i could find,” you say, returning with a navy blue sweater and a pair of sweats. you offer it to him without even daring to look him in the eye. he takes it with shaky hands, thanking you under his breath. “you know where the bathroom is.”

he doesn’t protest. he’s tempted to joke that it wouldn’t be the first time you’d see him undress. but the tight look on your face lets him know you’re already thinking about that, and you’re clearly not enjoying the memory.

with a nod, he walks to the small bathroom right next to your room. he glances at it as he passes by, noticing the messy sheets, the piles of clothing on your computer chair. and that one picture frame on your desk.

it’s the one you found together at a thrift store a while ago. you thought it looked cute, spencer believed it was the most atrocious thing he’d ever seen, but the way you looked at it, the way you kept going back to that aisle unable to make a choice about whether you should buy it or not. 

“you’re right, it does look weird,” you said, tilting your head as if a new angle was going to make the monstrosity look any less ugly.

finally, when you were distracted checking out some vintage ceramics, he’d excused himself and went back for it. and good thing he did because, right as he was reaching for it, another girl almost got it. sorry, he said, my girlfriend really liked it. you didn’t know about this until an hour later when, back at your apartment, he pulled the picture frame from his shoulder bag and showed it you.

“what? you got it for me?” you beamed at him. smushing his cheeks between your palms and kissing him “i love you so much.”

the frame was still as ugly as ever, but where it used to stand bright and proud right next to your computer screen, showcasing a picture of the two of you kissing during your first Christmas together, it is now laying down, discarded and forgotten.

exactly how you feel in this relationship.

he snaps the bathroom door closed behind him and starts undressing almost immediately. god, he’s tired. his eyes are muted, no hint of the joyful spark they used to have when he first met you. the bruise on his left cheek is barely there anymore, but he knows you noticed it when you first saw him at your door. he could see it in the subtle way your eyes widened but just a second.

a while ago, you would’ve immediately asked him about what had happened, you would’ve made him sit on your couch and put some ice on it—even though it was already old and fading—, but he would have let you baby him because he loved it, and he loved you. and he would’ve simply sat there in silence, staring at you with loving eyes and a soft smile pulling at his lips as you talked about how much you hated that he put his life in danger so often.

and then he’d kiss you to shut you up because he loved the feeling of his lips against yours just as much as he loved to hear your voice nagging at him for almost dying. again.

“you need to stop doing that,” you’d say right after, your forehead resting right against his, your lips a breath away.

“i don’t think i ever will.”

out all the things you miss about spencer, his kisses are probably on your top three, followed close by the feeling of his palms against your naked skin, tracing soft patterns up and down your back, gripping your hips, or simply holding your cheeks as he stares lovingly into your eyes.

when he comes back to the living room, you’re sitting on the couch, legs pulled tight to your chest, chin on top of your knees. you’re staring off the window, and the warm glow of the lamplights does nothing but highlight the shine in your eyes. you’re not crying, not yet. but you look miserable. and spencer hates being the one that made you feel like that.

“where can i put-?”

“do you know what day was yesterday?” you ask suddenly, not looking away from the window.

he answers after a couple of seconds. he sounds so oblivious, a questioning tone as if he didn’t understand why you would make such a stupid question.

“you really don’t remember, do you?” you turn you eyes back to him, flashing with hurt and anger and… disappointment.

“what are you…?”

shit.

you see it in slow motion, the moment it finally clicks. his eyes go wide, his mouth opens and closes a million times as he tries to come up with a lame excuse. you can but huff a laugh, shaking your head.

“you’d think that someone with such a good memory, someone who remembers random facts and even the name of the fourth mistress of some random spanish king would also remember his girlfriend’s birthday.”

there’s such venom in your voice, and spencer can’t even complain about it. he knows this is it. his last strike. and he’s never felt more afraid of what’s to come.

he did remember your birthday. he spent the whole day reminding himself of calling you the moment he got a break from the case the team had been working on. he just… hadn’t been able to make time for that call.

“i’m so sorry, baby. really.”

he drops his wet clothes on a chair nearby and walks to you. he tries to sit down next to you, but the moment his leg graces yours you jump off the couch.

“i want you to leave, spencer. you came and said what you needed to say. now, i want you gone.” you point at the door.

“please. i need you. please, let’s talk.”

“what do you even want to talk about, spencer?” you finally snap at him, raising your arms in exasperation. “there is literally nothing else to say.”

“there is. i’m sure there is.” at this point you’re not sure if he has a death wish and is trying to egg you on to get you to finally do it.

“oh, so you want to talk? fine.” crossing your arms over your chest, you finally turn him. “remember that time i told you about my best friends’ wedding and how i wanted you come with me, and how you promised me you’d defintely be there? and remember how i went alone. how i had to sit through the entire service, the entire dinner party, with an empty seat beside me? do you know what the worst part of that was? it wasn’t the fact that i was the lucky one to catch the bouquet at the end. oh, yes i did.” you emphasize when you see his eyes open wide. “i did, and you weren’t there to joke about how one of the bridesmaids almost pushed me into the pool to get the bouquet. you weren’t there to hug me and celebrate with me,. you. weren’t. there.”

every word is a jab to his chest, the frown in between your eyebrows only growing deeper with anger.

“the worst part was spending all night praying for a phone call to let me know that you were doing fine. that you hadn’t been tortured or killed, or who-knows-what-else. but you didn’t even call!”

standing in the middle of your living room you feel as small as ever, shaking with anger and crying like you haven’t cried in ages. you know spencer is dying to come comfort you, but you also know he’s smarter than that.

“do you have any idea of how tiring it is to always have to beg you to put me on the top of your list?” you ask in a whisper. swallowing hard you decide to confess the one thing that had been nagging at you for the past few weeks. you haven’t even dared to share this with your closest friend. “did you know i’ve been having really bad nightmares lately. nightmares where i become one of your unsubs just to have your attention focused on me for a while? do you realize how fucking sad that it, spencer?”

“i didn’t know about that,” he speaks for the first time in minutes and his voice comes out broken, just like he feels inside.

“of course you didn’t know!” you yell, throwing your arms to the air with frustration. “because you weren’t there, laying next to me in bed, how you were supposed to.”

“i’m sorry.”

“don’t you have anything else to say?” you almost yell, eyes pleading. “what even is the point of this relationship, spencer?”

“don’t say that. don’t…” his lip trembles and he takes a step towards you, but you take a step back.

“why do we keep doing this?” you blink the tears away, but they just keep coming. “we’ll fix it tonight, and it’ll be broken again tomorrow morning. you’ll leave, and then i won’t hear from you again for a month or two. then you’ll come back knocking at my door, like all those times before. you’ll apologize, i’ll fall for it… i’m tired, spencer.” the breath you let out is ragged and raw. “so fucking tired.”

“i’ll make it better, baby. i promise. i’ll change, i’ll try to be more present.”

“you’ve said that before.” you shake your head. every single time he comes up with the same lie. i’ll make ir better. i’ll change. i’ll fix it.

“i’ll do it this time. i promise.” he’s desperate, hands reaching for you and you scurry away again and again. “please. let me fix this.”

“no, spencer.”

the sob that scapes from between your lips makes him shiver. his hands reach for yours one more time, but you interlock your fingers and hide them behind your back.

“i’m done. this is it. this is the last time i beg you to think of me.” you take one final step back, opening a wide breach between you two. “please, leave.”

he shakes his head, eyes bright with unshed tears. “no, please. let’s-”

you wipe your cheeks, turning towards your bedroom. “goodbye, spencer.”

“this is it? is this really it?” his voice is barely above a whisper.

“maybe the next girl will be lucky enough to be a priority in your life.”

“you’re a priority in my life!” he desperately follows you towards your bedroom.

“no, i’m not!” you stop on the threshold. “you love me. i know you do. but you’re lying to yourself if you think i’m a priority in your life. there’s always something else more important. i can’t keep competing with your job for your attention.”

“you don’t have to. i’ll call more often, i’ll-”

“you won’t have to, spencer.” you grab the doorknob, knuckles white as you hold onto it, searching for the strength to finally close the door. “i really wish you the best. i love you. but that’s not enough. not anymore.”

spencer standing the hallway, eyes glued to the wooden door to your bedroom. he can hear your sobs from the other side of the door, but he’s frozen in place, the only movement that of his chest raising up and down with ragged breaths. he can feel the tears running down his cheeks but he doesn’t move to wipe them off.

“i love you too,” he whispers towards the closed door. “i don’t think i will ever stop loving you.”

thanks for reading <3 likes & reblogs are appreciated !!

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series masterlist | pinterest board

[inkydelusions]

Come Back...Be Here.

Pairing: spencer reid x girlfriend!reader

Summary: He chose the job. She never got the chance to choose. Now oceans and silence stretch between them. But some loves don’t disappear, no matter the distance. Missed chances, late-night calls, and finding your way back. Along the lyrics of the song "Come Back...Be Here" by Taylor Swift.

Masterlist

You hadn’t planned on seeing him again—not tonight, not ever if you were being honest.

But there he stood. Leaning against the frame of your door like the night never ended badly between you two. Like he hadn’t walked away three weeks ago with a barely whispered goodbye and a promise he didn’t keep. You were still wearing the black dress from your sister’s engagement party. Hair curled. Lips red. He looked just the same as he always did—messy curls, chestnut cardigan, tired eyes.

“Looks like you haven’t change much, since I last saw you.” A flicker of a smile touched his lips. “And you’ve still wear that red lip classic thing that I like.” You sighed and leaned against the edge of the couch. “What are you doing here, Spencer?” He stepped inside without asking. Of course he did. “I shouldn’t be here. I know that. But I—I kept thinking about you. About us.”

You scoffed. “There is no ‘us’, remember? That’s what you said before leaving.” “I said I couldn’t stay,” he corrected softly. “There’s a difference.” You hated the way your heart still sped up at the sound of his voice. “And now what? You just show up, say the right words, and I forget how badly it hurt?” “I’m not saying that,” he said. “But we never really ended, did we? Not fully. We just... paused.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Because damn it, he was right. Even with all the back-and-forth, the late night calls, the brief meetimgs, and the stolen glances in the cafe near where you lived—it never really ended. And that was the problem.

He stepped closer. “I’ve tried to move on, Y/N. God knows I’ve tried. But...” You met his gaze. “But what?” “I keep coming back to you. It’s like—we’re caught in this loop. You and me.”

You exhaled shakily. “Spencer, this isn’t healthy.”

“I know,” he said. “But... it’s us.” You looked away, heart thudding. “I said I wouldn’t do this again.” “I know.” “You leave, then you come back. And it’s always the same.” “That’s the thing,” he said. “We always come back to eachother.” His voice cracked at the end. Like even he hated how true it sounded.

You looked at him for a long moment. “Say we do this again... How do I know you won’t run next time?” “I don’t want to run anymore,” he said. “But I can’t promise it’ll be easy. I just know I want you in my life. However you’ll have me.” You crossed your arms, studying the man who had both ruined and revived you so many times.

“…One condition,” you said finally. His brows raised. “Anything.”

You smirked, just a little. “No disappearing in the middle of the night. If you’re going to come back, you stay. At least for coffee in the morning.” He smiled, relief softening his whole face. “I’ll bring the pastries.”

You reached for his hand without thinking, and just like that—like the guitar riff of a familiar song—you fell back into the rhythm of you and him. You both knew it might not last forever. But it would always come back.

“The delicate beginning rush.”

The sun filtered in through your blinds, casting warm golden stripes across your sheets. You stirred, feeling the heat of another body near yours before your mind fully caught up.

Then you remembered.

Him.

Last night.

And the way it had all happened again—like muscle memory. You turned slowly. Spencer was already awake, laying on his side, head resting on his hand as he watched you.

“I wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” you said groggily. He gave a sleepy half-smile. “You said stay for coffee.” You arched a brow. “You brought pastries?”

He gestured toward the kitchen with a little nod. “Raspberry danish. And a chocolate croissant, in case you changed your mind about fruit fillings.”

You tried to fight the smile tugging at your lips. “That’s dangerously thoughtful.”

“I’m a dangerous man,” he said, mock-serious.

You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling. “What happens now, Spencer?”

He didn’t answer right away. You knew he hated that question. It was a future question. And the two of you had never done well in the future.

He finally said, “I don’t know. But I know I want to try. For real this time.”

You turned to face him. “We always say that.”

“I know,” he admitted. “But I’ve been thinking... maybe we’re not broken. Maybe we’re just... complicated.”

You laughed softly. “Is that your profiler opinion?” “No,” he said. “It’s my human one.”

You sat up slowly, tugging the sheets around you. “Complicated doesn’t fix the way it hurts when you leave.” He sat up beside you. “I can’t erase that. But I can choose not to do it again.”

You looked at him, eyes searching for something. Maybe a crack in the promise, maybe hope. “You and I,” you whispered, “We’re like ghosts in each other’s lives. We fade in and out, but never really go away.”

He nodded. “That’s what scares me. That I’ll always want you. Even when it’s not right.”

Silence settled for a moment. Not heavy. Not light. Just... real. Then he reached for your hand, fingers hesitant but warm.

“I think we’re right enough to keep trying,” he said quietly. “Because you and me? We never go out of style.” You stared at your intertwined fingers. Then looked at him.

And maybe it was the way the morning light hit his face, or the way your chest ached a little less when he was near—but you believed him. Just for today.

So you squeezed his hand and said, “Then let’s get coffee. Before we ruin it again.” He smiled, and it wasn’t just that soft, nervous smile you’d seen too many times before.

It was hope.

It was a start.

And as he followed you into the kitchen, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—it could last a little longer this time.

You tried to be normal.

And at first, it almost worked.

You went grocery shopping together like a couple in a toothpaste commercial. Argued over bagels. Bought lavender dish soap. You cooked pasta while he read out loud from a book of weird Victorian riddles. He left his cardigan on the back of your kitchen chair like it belonged there.

It was quiet. Domestic. Strange.

It made your heart ache in a way that felt suspiciously like joy.

But normal had its limits. Because you weren’t just anyone. And neither was he.

Normal didn’t account for crime scenes at 3 AM. Or pictures of crimescenes on your diner table. Or the way Spencer sometimes sat on your couch with his fists clenched after a case, eyes distant, trembling in a way he didn’t want you to see.

You noticed, though. You always noticed. One night, two weeks in, you asked softly, “Are you okay?”

He was sitting in your bed with the case file closed beside him, half-empty glass of water on the nightstand. You saw the tension in his shoulders. The kind that never fully left.

“I’m fine,” he said, without looking up.

You reached over and took the file, sliding it off the bed. “That’s not what I asked.” He looked at you then, eyes sharp but tired. “I don’t know how to do this. Be... here. Be happy. With you.”

You felt your throat tighten.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” you whispered. “I just need you to stay.”

He exhaled slowly, hands gripping the edge of the blanket. “Every time I try to build something good, it collapses. I’ve lost people, Y/N. You know that.”

You did. You knew better than most.

You crawled over and rested your head on his shoulder. “So stop running from the fact that you’re allowed to have something good again.”

He turned his head toward you, voice barely above a whisper. “You think we’re good?”

You smiled, just barely. “I think we’re chaotic and messy and a little tragic—but yeah. I think we’re good.”

He looked down at you, something soft behind his eyes. “You still wear that red lipstick, even when you know it’ll end up on my collar.”

You smirked. “It’s part of the brand.”

He leaned in and kissed your temple. “We’re not normal, are we?”

You tilted your head up to meet his eyes. “No. But maybe normal’s overrated.”

And in that moment, tangled in bedsheets and old trauma, in whispered jokes and bruised hope, you both knew: Whatever this was—whatever you were—style might not be practical.

But it was real. And that was enough for now.

“I told myself, don't get attached.”

“Remind me again,” you said, arms around Spencer’s neck as he kissed you against your front door, “why we’re sneaking around like we’re fifteen.”

He smiled against your jaw. “Because I work with federal agents trained to detect deception and you are, very distinctly, not FBI.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you think they don’t know? You’ve been less subtle than a car alarm.”

Spencer grinned, hands trailing down your sides. “I’m not that obvious.” You leaned back. “You left your badge here last week.”

“…Okay, that’s a little obvious.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, and for a moment you forgot about the very real, very awkward complications that came with dating a BAU profiler.

Until—

*knock knock knock*

You froze. “Please tell me that’s not—” Spencer pulled back, eyes wide. “…Oh no.”

You whipped the door open before he could stop you.

And there they were.

Derek Morgan. JJ. Emily. Coffee cups in hand. In the middle of a casual off-day brunch patrol that had not been meant to include uncovering their resident genius’s not-so-secret romance.

Morgan blinked. “Well damn. Reid, you didn’t say you had company.” JJ’s mouth hung open, then curved into a slow grin. “This is where you’ve been disappearing to?”

Spencer opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Emily smirked. “This feels like the part where you tell us it’s not what it looks like.”

You cleared your throat, stepping fully into the doorway in your oversized hoodie—Spencer’s, of course. “Hi,” you said, holding out your hand. “I’m Y/N. Definitely not FBI. Apparently very bad at hiding.”

Morgan grinned, shaking your hand. “Nice to meet you. We’ve been trying to figure out what the hell’s been making Reid smile like he knows a secret.” JJ leaned in, stage-whispering, “Now we know.”

Spencer groaned behind you. “Can we just skip the part where you all analyze this like a crime scene?”

Emily raised a brow. “No. Absolutely not.”

You laughed, half-embarrassed, half-trying to own it. “Listen, I know this is weird. And messy. I’ve never dated someone whose coworkers carry guns and quote statistics about behavioral patterns.”

“You get used to it,” JJ said sympathetically. “Mostly.”

Morgan crossed his arms, studying you. “You know he’s got… a lot of history, right?”

Spencer tensed behind you. You reached back and took his hand. “I do,” you said. “And I’m not trying to fix him or rescue him or turn him into anything he’s not. I just want to be there. That’s it.”

Morgan looked at you a moment longer, then nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “That’s fair.”

Spencer exhaled in visible relief.

As the team filed off toward the corner cafe—still teasing him, of course—you turned to him.

“Well. So much for subtle.”

He laughed, tugging you into a hug. “I think they like you.”

You smirked. “That’s good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

And as his arms wrapped around you, grounding you to the center of the storm that was Spencer Reid, you realized:

Normal or not, secret or exposed—this felt like staying.

You weren’t even trying to start a fight.

It began with a text.

Y/N (19:37): hey, are you okay?

Spencer (21:42): Busy. Case went long.

Y/N (21:44): That’s all I get?

Y/N (21:50): are you okay??

You stared at the screen, stomach twisting. You knew better than to take his cold responses personally, but tonight, it hit different. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was how he'd pulled away the last few days like a tide slipping out before a storm.

When he walked through your door after midnight—looking exhausted, shirt rumpled, not even meeting your eyes—you tried to keep your voice calm.

“Spencer. What’s going on?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just dropped his bag and rubbed the back of his neck.

You stepped closer. “You’ve been distant for days. I don’t expect constant texts, but I do expect something. Some sign you still alive, that you want to be here.”

He finally looked up, and there was a flicker of sharpness in his voice that surprised you.

“I don’t have time to reassure you every second.”

That stung. “I’m not asking for every second. I’m asking for something. This—whatever we are—it doesn’t work without communication.”

Spencer ran a hand through his hair, already regretting his tone but too raw to fix it. “You knew what this would be. My job, my schedule—”

“I didn’t sign up to feel invisible,” you snapped. “Not after everything we’ve already been through.”

He froze. “I’m not doing this right now.”

“Yes, you are,” you said, louder than you meant to. “You don’t get to shut down and walk out every time things get hard.”

Spencer’s jaw clenched. “I’m not walking out.”

“You always do,” you said, voice breaking. “When it gets too real. When I start to mean too much. You panic and retreat and leave me standing here wondering if I’m just another thing you’ll run from.”

Silence.

A long one.

Then: “I’m not running because you mean too little,” he said hoarsely. “I run because you mean too much.”

Your heart dropped.

He looked at you then—eyes full of so much pain it made your chest ache.

“You think I don’t feel it?” he said. “The second I start to believe I can be happy again, I remember what happened last time. Maeve. I loved her and she died. Because of me.”

Your breath caught. He’d never said her name out loud to you before.

“She wasn’t your fault,” you whispered.

“But she was mine to protect.” His voice cracked. “And I failed. So how the hell am I supposed to trust myself to love you?”

Tears slipped down your cheek before you realized they’d come.

“Then why did you come back?”

He looked like he didn’t have an answer.

You stepped back a pace. “You came back, Spencer. You kissed me. You brought pastries. You told me to believe in this again. And now you’re breaking it because you’re scared?”

“I’m terrified,” he admitted.

You swallowed hard, voice quiet. “Then fight for it anyway. Or walk away. But don’t do this half-in, half-out thing. I can’t survive it again.”

Silence.

Then he did something you didn’t expect.

He sat down on the edge of the couch, buried his face in his hands, and whispered, “I don’t want to lose you.”

You walked over slowly and knelt in front of him. Gently pulled his hands away.

“Then don’t,” you said.

Your voice wasn’t angry anymore. It was tired. Sad. But still full of love.

“I don’t need perfect. I just need honest.”

He nodded, throat tight. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” you said, resting your forehead against his. “So am I.”

And maybe that was enough—for now.

Not to fix it.

But to keep going.

Spencer fell asleep on your couch that night—still in his work clothes, head tilted back, brow furrowed even in rest. You hadn’t spoken much after the fight. Just enough to make space for silence that didn’t feel like punishment.

You brought him a blanket, tucked it gently around his shoulders, and sat beside him on the floor for a while—knees pulled to your chest, eyes on the shadows dancing across your ceiling.

You didn’t sleep much either.

In the morning, he woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of a chair scraping across tile. His eyes opened slowly, and he found you sitting at the kitchen table, wearing his cardigan over your pajamas, holding a mug in both hands like it was anchoring you.

He stood, moved toward you with that hesitant energy he always carried when he wasn’t sure he was welcome.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he said softly.

You nodded. “Didn’t want to wake you. You looked like you needed the rest.”

He paused. “Can I sit?”

You gestured to the chair across from you. He sat.

A long beat passed.

You finally said, “I meant what I said last night. I can’t do this if you keep disappearing every time your fear gets too loud.”

He nodded slowly. “I know.”

You looked up at him then—really looked—and saw the guilt painted all over his face. The way his shoulders slumped. The bruise of regret in his eyes.

“I’ve built my whole life around fear,” he said quietly. “Predicting outcomes. Controlling what I can. It makes me good at my job, but terrible at trusting the things I want most.”

You exhaled, voice soft. “I don’t need you to stop being afraid. I just need you to stop letting it make your choices for you.”

He reached across the table then, tentative but steady, and took your hand.

“Then this is me trying,” he whispered.

You stared down at your fingers, entwined with his. “You always say the right thing.”

He gave a quiet, sad laugh. “I wish saying it was enough.”

“It’s not,” you said honestly. “But showing up is a good start.”

He nodded, eyes shining a little now. “I want to show up. For you. For us.”

Your throat tightened, but you smiled. “Good. Because I bought those dumb raspberry pastries again.”

He blinked, surprised. “You hate raspberry.”

“I do,” you said. “But you like them. So maybe we start small. You eat the pastry. I drink the coffee. And we try again.”

He stood, walked around the table, and leaned down to kiss your forehead.

And this time, it wasn’t desperate.

It wasn’t fiery or frantic.

It was steady.

Still.

Soft.

Healing.

“I’m still here,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes.

“So am I.”

“But in my mind, I play it back.”

You weren’t supposed to be there.

Your best friend had dragged you to a fundraiser gala you didn’t belong at — something about “supporting federal initiatives” and “free wine.” You’d worn the one dress that didn’t have a stain on it, spent twenty minutes pretending to know what the hell a federal subcommittee even was, and finally gave up and wandered toward the quietest corner of the building.

And that’s where you saw him.

Leaning awkwardly against the far wall in a suit that fit his arms like he’d grown into it reluctantly. Hair slightly too long. Tie slightly too crooked. Fingers curled tightly around a glass of ginger ale like it was a shield.

You almost didn’t say anything.

Almost walked past him without a word.

But then he muttered—under his breath, to no one—

“Ninety-three percent of people here are faking it. But I still feel like the weird one.”

You turned.

Raised your eyebrows.

“Did you just say that out loud?”

He jumped slightly, as if he’d forgotten his thoughts could escape.

“…Yes.”

You smiled, stepping closer. “Well, make it ninety-four percent. I have no idea what’s happening either.”

He blinked at you, surprised. And then—just barely—he smiled.

It lit something up behind his eyes.

“I’m Spencer,” he said after a pause, offering his hand.

“Y/N,” you said, shaking it. “Do you work here, or are you just pretending really convincingly?”

He chuckled. “I’m with the BAU. Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

Your brows lifted. “So like… profiling serial killers?”

His head tilted slightly, curious. “Most people don’t get it that quickly.”

You sipped your champagne. “I’ve seen your team on TV.”

His face did not hide the twitch of recognition-slash-discomfort. “It’s... more than what they show.”

You laughed. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a very academic no.”

You ended up talking for thirty minutes. Then an hour. The party blurred around you. You found yourself sitting on the edge of a planter, shoes off, laughing about obscure psychology studies and his weird obsession with chess, while he listened to you describe your work, your favorite books, your irrational fear of geese.

At one point he said, “You talk like you’re not afraid of silence.”

You replied, “You look like you’re used to people filling it.”

And that was it. The shift.

The spark.

He asked if you’d want to meet again sometime.

You said, “I already hope you don’t disappear.”

He said, with almost no hesitation, “I don’t want to.”

And maybe that should’ve been your first warning.

Because people like Spencer Reid don’t just walk into your life.

They disrupt it.

In the best, most terrifying way.

Back in the present, you found the photo someone had taken of that gala—both of you in the background, blurry but laughing. You held it in your hands as Spencer walked into the kitchen, half-awake.

You looked up at him. “Remember this night?”

He leaned over your shoulder, smiled. “How could I forget?”

You turned, wrapped your arms around his waist. “You were so shy.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “You were so patient.”

You smirked. “Still am.”

He looked down at you. “I’m still grateful.”

And somewhere between the past and the present, you realized:

You didn’t fall in love all at once.

You chose each other—over and over.

From that first glance to now.

“You didn’t tell her I was coming?”

Spencer had the decency to look sheepish as the elevator opened to the BAU floor.

“I might’ve… mentioned it vaguely. In a non-specific, non-threatening way.”

You stared at him. “You said what, exactly?”

“That I was bringing someone upstairs. To… meet Garcia. In an entirely non-romantic, totally platonic—”

You cut him off, eyes wide. “Spencer.”

“I panicked.”

Before you could drag him back into the elevator, a high-pitched squeal rang from across the bullpen.

“DR. REID!”

You turned just in time to see a blur of florals, sequins, and blonde hair charging toward you.

You barely had time to prepare before she pulled you into a very enthusiastic hug.

“You’re even cuter than I imagined,” Penelope Garcia said, stepping back to examine you like a particularly beautiful art piece. “And believe me, I imagined.”

You blinked. “Um—hi?”

“Penelope Garcia. Oracle of all things digital. Also, Spencer’s ride-or-die, which means I have questions. But I also brought you cookies.” She shoved a tin into your hands. “Because interrogations are more fun with sugar.”

Spencer groaned behind you. “Please don’t scare her off.”

Garcia turned dramatically. “You’re lucky I didn’t run a full background check the moment I found out someone was making you smile like a Hallmark character.”

You bit back a smile. “To be fair… he does that all on his own.”

Garcia’s face softened just slightly, like you’d passed the first test.

“Well. You’ve got good taste in cardigans and compliments. You’re doing great so far.”

Spencer mumbled something and ducked into his office like a man fleeing a war zone. Garcia pulled you toward her desk.

“No, no. You’re staying. I’ve waited weeks for this. Sit. Tell me everything. First kiss, first fight, what his sock drawer looks like, go.”

You laughed, actually kind of relieved. “Do you always do this?” She tilted her head, serious now. “Only when it matters.”

That hit you harder than you expected. Because it meant this—you—mattered. And somehow, coming from Garcia… that made it real.

You sat, sipping the weird soda she handed you, telling stories and answering rapid-fire questions while photos of cats and case files blinked across her screens.

Eventually, Garcia’s voice softened.

“You love him?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I do.”

She looked at you for a long moment, eyes softer than you’d ever seen.

“Good,” she said. “Because he deserves someone who sees the light in him. Even when he can’t.”

You swallowed.

“Thank you. For protecting him.”

She smiled. “Now I get to protect you, too.”

Behind you, Spencer leaned against the doorframe, watching you with something like awe in his eyes.

Later, as the three of you walked out together, Garcia winked and said, “Don’t break him. But if you do, at least do it gently. And with glitter.”

You squeezed Spencer’s hand.

“I won’t.”

And you meant it.

“If I had known what I'd known now.”

“Taxi cabs and busy streets.”

Later that night, you and Spencer walked through the streets of D.C., coffee cups in hand, the air still warm from the fading sun. It felt like a normal day—until he kept glancing at you with that look.

You noticed it. The way he opened his mouth once, twice, then closed it again.

“What?” you finally asked, bumping his arm with yours. “You’ve been weird since we left Quantico.” He looked down, bashful. “Garcia likes you.”

You grinned. “That was a very polite way of saying she interrogated me.” “She interrogates everyone. It’s how she shows love.”

You laughed, but then his expression shifted.

“I, um…” He hesitated, voice going softer. “I heard you. Earlier. When you were talking to her.” You blinked. “Heard what?”

He looked straight ahead, like he couldn’t quite meet your eyes yet. “You said you loved me.”

Your breath caught. You hadn’t even realized you’d said it aloud until that moment. Garcia had asked, you’d answered—without thinking, without hesitating. Like the truth had just spilled out because it had nowhere else left to hide.

“I—” you started, but he stopped walking.

He turned to face you completely.

“You don’t have to take it back,” he said quickly. “Or explain. I just wanted to tell you that I heard it. And…” You waited.

Waited through the little war you saw happening behind his eyes. Then he took a breath and stepped closer.

“I love you too.”

The words were so quiet you almost didn’t hear them.

But you did.

You heard them.

And the weight of them, the honesty in them, hit you like a tidal wave. You stared at him. He stared at you.

“I love you,” he said again, firmer now. Like he meant to leave no room for doubt. “I think I’ve loved you since you didn’t laugh when I panicked over that chessboard on our second date. Or maybe before that. Maybe since the gala. Or before I even knew your name.”

You stepped closer, your free hand reaching for his. “You have this habit,” you whispered, “of saying the exact thing that makes my heart ache in the best way.”

He smiled, eyes bright now. “It’s science. Emotional vulnerability produces oxytocin and—”

You kissed him.

Slow. Warm. No rush. Just the kind of kiss that means I see you. I’m not going anywhere.

When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his and whispered, “I meant it, you know. I love you.”

He nodded.

“I believe you now.”

“Right when I was just about to fall.”

And under the quiet D.C. sky, beneath the hum of the city and the buzz of too much caffeine and just enough truth, Spencer Reid held your hand like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

Because maybe it was.

You didn’t mean to find it.

You were looking for an extra charger in the drawer by Spencer’s desk — the one filled with mismatched cables and half-filled notebooks and pens that all somehow worked even though they looked a decade old.

And underneath it all, folded neatly between the pages of a worn paperback, was a photo. A woman. Dark hair, soft smile. A library in the background. She looked like she laughed quietly. Like she had secrets.

You didn’t touch the photo. You didn’t have to. You knew who she was. You’d never asked. Not because you didn’t wonder, but because you were waiting for him to be ready. You shut the drawer softly, quietly, and went back to making tea.

Later that night, he found you sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, hands wrapped around your mug like a shield. He sat beside you, slow, deliberate. Like he knew something had shifted.

After a minute, he said quietly, “You found the photo.” You nodded, not looking at him yet. “I wasn’t snooping. I swear.” “I know.” His voice was gentle. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Silence settled between you. Not heavy, but not weightless either. You finally turned to him. “She was important to you.”

He nodded. “She was.”

You waited.

“I never got to say goodbye,” he said. “Not really. Not out loud.” You didn’t speak — just reached out, took his hand, gave him space to breathe.

“I loved her,” he said. “In a way that was… quiet. Safe. She was the first person in a long time who made me feel like I wasn’t too much.” Your heart clenched, but you kept holding his hand. Kept listening.

“I don’t think I ever stopped loving her,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t room in me for something new. For you.” You looked at him, voice soft. “I don’t want to take her place, Spencer.”

He shook his head. “You couldn’t. You don’t have to.”

Another pause.

“Loving you feels… different,” he continued. “Less like something I’m protecting. More like something I’m building. It’s scarier. But it’s stronger.”

You blinked back tears.

“Do you talk to her?” you asked.

“Sometimes,” he said. “In my head. When I’m afraid. When I miss her.” You nodded. “I think she’d want you to be happy.”

“I think she’d like you,” he said, with the softest smile. “You’re bold. Kind. You tell the truth, even when it hurts.” You leaned into his side, resting your head on his shoulder.

“I can’t promise I won’t feel weird about her sometimes,” you admitted. “But I won’t run from it. From her. From you.”

He pressed a kiss to your hair.

“That’s more than I could’ve asked for.”

You stayed like that — curled up in shared silence — until the weight of grief and love and memory softened into something bearable.

Not gone.

Not forgotten.

But held.

Together.

It started with a letter on Spencer’s desk. Thick paper. Government seal. And a heading that read:

UNITED NATIONS PSYCHOLOGY & BEHAVIORAL SCIENCE RESEARCH INITIATIVE – Geneva Division

Lead Field Analyst: Dr. Spencer Reid – Conditional Acceptance Pending

The room went quiet. Your heartbeat didn’t. You stared at it for a long time before saying anything.

“Without knowing anything at all.”

He walked in minutes later, coffee in hand, completely unaware. “Hey,” he said casually. “Want to watch that documentary tonight?”

You turned slowly.

“When were you going to tell me?” Spencer blinked. “Tell you what?” You didn’t say anything. Just showed him the letter.

His face fell.

“Y/N…”

“No,” you said, standing. “Don’t ‘Y/N’ me. When were you going to tell me you accepted?”

He set the coffee down. “I was going to. I just hadn’t figured out how.” “How?” you snapped. “How to lie better? Or how to make it sound like I shouldn’t be hurt?”

“That’s not fair—”

“What’s not fair is you already chose, Spencer! You said yes. You said yes to a YEAR. You said yes to leaving me and didn’t even give me a chance to talk about it.”

“How strange that I don't know you at all.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Because I knew if I talked to you, I wouldn’t do it.” You froze. That admission hit harder than any lie.

“Oh,” you whispered. “So I’m the reason you almost didn’t chase your dream. Is that it?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“But it’s what you believe.”

“I didn’t want to make you feel like I was choosing between you and the work.”

“But you were. And you didn’t choose me.”

Silence.

He stepped closer. “It’s not forever—”

You took a step back. “But it’s without me.”

“I can't help but wish you took me with you.”

His voice cracked. “I didn’t know how to say goodbye.”

“Then maybe you should’ve figured that out before you made the decision for both of us.” He swallowed, chest rising and falling fast. “I love you.” You laughed bitterly. “Yeah? Then why do I feel like a footnote?” “I was scared,” he whispered. “Scared I’d never get another offer like this. Scared if I stayed, I’d resent you. And scared if I left, I’d lose you.” You nodded slowly. “Well. Congratulations. You got what you were afraid of.”

Spencer closed his eyes like he’d been punched. You grabbed your coat, voice shaking. “Go to Geneva. Do the work. Be brilliant. But don’t pretend this didn’t cost something.” And then you walked out — before either of you could take it back.

“Come back, be here.”

Later that night, Spencer sat alone, the laptop still open. He hovered over the email. The acceptance. And for the first time in his life, he couldn’t tell if being right felt worse than being alone.

“She’s not even in the FBI,” Garcia said quietly, her voice shaking. “And he still did this.”

That was what made it worse.

You weren’t one of them — not technically. You didn’t carry a badge or read behavioral patterns or chase monsters in the dark.

You were the one who made Spencer come home. The one who reminded him there was a world outside of case files and serial killers. And now you were the one he was leaving behind.

Without warning.

Without a say.

Emily leaned on the edge of the table, arms crossed, staring Spencer down. “So you accepted the fellowship,” she said. “And didn’t tell her until after?” He looked away. “It wasn’t that simple.”

“No,” Rossi said. “It was simple. You just made it complicated.” Spencer bristled. “I didn’t want her to stop me.” “Did she ask you not to go?” JJ pressed. “She didn’t have to,” he muttered. “I knew if I looked her in the eyes, I wouldn’t go.”

Garcia was pacing.

“She’s not a profiler. She’s not trained for this kind of heartbreak. She’s just…” Her voice broke. “She’s just a person who loved you.”

That silence was worse than shouting.

“She trusted you,” Tara said gently. “And you left her behind like she was a footnote.”

“I love her,” Spencer said, barely audible.

“No one’s saying you don’t,” JJ replied. “But love doesn’t matter if you can’t respect someone enough to let them in before you change their future.”

Garcia finally stopped pacing.

“I had to sit in her living room yesterday while she made me tea with hands that were shaking. She said she was ‘happy for you,’ like she wasn’t falling apart.”

“Garcia…” he started.

“No,” she said. “You don’t get to ‘Garcia’ me right now.” She stepped closer.

“She was your soft place. Your real life. And you blew it up because you were scared of letting her love you more than you love the job.”

Spencer blinked fast, his voice thin.

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like, Spencer?” Garcia asked. “Because from where I’m standing, you got everything you ever said you wanted — and somehow still managed to make the one person who believed in you feel like she never mattered.”

Spencer didn’t answer.

Because there was no good answer.

Emily looked at him. “We’re proud of you. We are. But don’t expect us to pretend you didn’t break something good.”

He nodded slowly.

And for the first time in his career, success felt like failure.

“One last kiss, then catch your flight.”

It was two nights before his flight.

The knock on your door came just after 10 PM. You almost didn’t open it. But of course you did. You always did when it was him.

He stood there in that coat you hated — the one that smelled like old libraries and sleepless nights.

And you? You looked like someone who hadn’t slept in three days. “Can I come in?” he asked quietly. You stepped aside. Said nothing.

He walked in slowly, like the room might reject him. You stayed by the door. “I don’t know how to make this better,” he said. Your arms stayed crossed. “Then maybe don’t try.” “Please,” he said, voice catching. “Please just—say something.” You looked at him, jaw tight. “You already said everything, Spencer. You just didn’t say it to me.”

He flinched. “I was scared,” he admitted. “Of choosing wrong. Of regretting it. Of—”

“Of being honest with me,” you cut in. He exhaled. “Yes.”

Silence sat between you. “I thought I had to go,” he continued, “because I didn’t know who I was without this job. Without the work.”

“And who are you with me?” you asked, voice breaking. “Because I thought we were building something. I thought I was part of your life.”

“How strange that I don't know you at all.”

“You are,” he said quickly. “God, Y/N, you are. I just didn’t know how to take both of you with me.” You shook your head, tears brimming. “You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to try. You didn’t trust me with the choice.” He stepped closer. “I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he said. “Not yet. I just— I’m asking if there’s still a version of this where I go and we don’t end.”

You looked up at him, pain in every breath. “I don’t know,” you whispered. “I don’t know if I can love you the same way knowing you didn’t love me enough to fight for us first.” That gutted him.

But you didn’t walk away. Not yet.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small. A book. A well-worn paperback of Persuasion. “I bought this for you in San Diego during a case, before everything blew up,” he said. “You once said it was your favorite because it was about second chances.”

You stared at it. At him. “You don’t have to take me back,” he said. “But maybe… just maybe you could read it again. And think about us.” He placed it on the table, like it might disappear. And then he whispered, “I still want a life with you. Even if it starts again after I get back.”

“Stumbled through the long goodbye.”

You didn’t say anything. To scared to even speak. An overwhelming amount of emotions storming in you. You closed the door after he left. On the table beside the door he left the book, face-down. A note slipped between the pages in his handwriting:

“Sometimes we are forced into second chances. And sometimes, we choose them.”

— Yours, maybe.

The hotel was beautiful.

High ceilings. Big windows. A view of the Alps in the distance. The kind of place meant for people who feel proud of where they’ve landed. But Spencer didn’t feel proud. He felt… unfinished.

“And this is when the feeling sinks in.”

He unpacked in silence. Folded his cardigans. Lined up his journals. Filled the bathroom with his usual toiletries. The second toothbrush stayed in his bag.

His watch ticked too loud. The silence pressed in, thick and unfamiliar. He sat at the desk and pulled out a photo you once printed for him — the one where you're curled up in his arms, laughing into his chest like the world outside didn’t exist.

He stared at it. And said your name out loud, just once. Like a prayer. Like a wound. It didn’t make him feel better.

“I don't wanna miss you like this.”

He tried to sleep. He just couldn't. He turned to your side of the bed instinctively. It was cold. Of course it was. He reached for his phone more than once that night. Hovered over your name. Typed half a message:

"I hate that I'm here without you."

Deleted it.

Typed again:

“I thought this would feel worth it.”

Deleted that too.

At 3:12 AM, he gave up and pulled out the book he gave you — the extra copy he bought for himself. Persuasion. The same page you once quoted to him came up like fate: “You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.” He shut the book slowly, let the ache sit in his chest, and whispered into the dark: “God, I miss you.”

And the worst part? You weren’t asleep either. Back in your apartment, you sat on the floor in his hoodie, the same book unopened beside you. Phone in hand. Name on screen.

No message sent. And 3,000 miles away, Spencer felt that silence like gravity.

“4:00 a.m. the second day.”

Day 11.

Spencer couldn’t focus. He sat at the long wooden conference table in the Institute library, notebooks scattered around him, three pens open, not one word written in thirty minutes.

The fluorescent lights buzzed. Someone was typing aggressively across the room. He kept trying to return to the paper in front of him. Cognitive flexibility in multilingual memory recall. He’d read the abstract four times. He still couldn’t tell you what it was about.

Day 12.

He was supposed to meet with the other researchers on his team.

He was late. He forgot to bring the data set he was assigned to prep. "You okay, Reid?” someone asked. He nodded too quickly. “Just jet lag.” It wasn’t jet lag. It was you.

Or more accurately, the absence of you. You hadn’t responded to his last message. Or the one before that. He didn’t blame you. He just missed you. And missing you made everything else feel… wrong.

Even the things he’d once fought for.

“Come back, be here.”

Day 15.

He had a dream the night before that you were in his kitchen — the one back home. Wearing that worn flannel shirt he always reached for. You were making tea. You looked up at him and smiled and said, “You never left.” Then he woke up in a bed that wasn’t his, with a view that felt like a painting, and no message on his phone.

He didn’t make it into the office that day. He stayed in bed. Stared at the ceiling. Listened to your last voicemail on repeat.

Just to hear your voice.

Day 16.

He finally emailed Garcia. Subject line: Quick Question. It wasn’t a question. He just wanted to talk to someone who knew you. They Zoomed. She took one look at him and frowned.

“Spencer… you look like a haunted man.” “I feel like one.”

“Still no word from her?” He shook his head. Penelope sighed. “This is what happens when you try to outrun love, genius. It doesn’t just wait quietly back home. It takes you with it.” He nodded slowly. “I thought I’d feel like myself again here.” “Do you?” He didn’t answer.

That night, he started a letter. Handwritten. Messy. Raw.

Dear Y/N,

I thought this would fix something in me. I thought I needed to prove I could be more than the man who fell apart. But every version of me without you feels…

…fractured.

You once said I made your world quieter.

But without you, mine won’t shut up.

I don’t know if it’s too late. I just needed you to know that nothing about this works without you.

He didn’t send it. But he folded it carefully. And put it in the same drawer as your picture. Right next to the book he still hadn’t finished.

You didn’t plan on seeing Garcia that day.

But she showed up anyway — on your doorstep, oversized tote slung over her shoulder, sunglasses in her hair, holding your favorite latte and wearing that look. The one that meant, We’re talking whether you like it or not. You sighed, stepping aside. “You brought caffeine. I can’t say no to that.” “Exactly,” she said, breezing inside. “Bribery: the foundation of any good friendship.”

You hadn’t seen her in two weeks. Not since Spencer left.

She sat on your couch, handed you the coffee, and gave you a long, searching look. And then: “Sweetheart,” she said softly. “He’s not okay.” You blinked. Looked away. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Tough,” she said. “Because I do.”

You didn’t answer. She leaned forward, voice gentle but firm. “Do you know how many times he’s emailed me in the last week?”

You stayed quiet. “Seven,” she said. “Seven emails. None of them about work. All of them about you.” You laughed bitterly. “And yet not one to me.” “Oh, he’s written you,” she said. “I saw the drafts. Long letters. Pages. But he’s terrified he broke something in you.”

You swallowed hard. “He left, Penelope.” “I know. And I was furious. I am still kind of furious. But Y/N… he’s unraveling over there.”

Your chest tightened. “I don't wanna miss you like this.”

“He can’t focus. He’s forgetting meetings. He's pulling all-nighters but doing nothing with them. The research director actually called me to ask if he was okay — and I had to lie, because ‘No, he’s not, he left the love of his life behind like an idiot’ doesn’t fit well in an HR report.” Tears burned your eyes.

“Come back, be here.”

She softened her voice. “He misses you. Like, real miss-you. Not 'regret' miss-you — wanting-his-life-back miss-you.” You whispered, “He left anyway.” “I know. And you’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to not want him back. But I also know you’ve been staring at your phone every night since he left, just waiting for something to feel right again.”

You wiped a tear off your cheek. Garcia stood up and crossed to you. “This thing between you two? It’s not over unless you say it is.” “I don’t know if I can forgive him.” “That’s okay,” she said. “Just… don’t lie to yourself and say you don’t love him.”

You nodded. Quiet. Broken open again.

“Come back, be here.”

Garcia pulled you into a hug, fierce and warm.

And whispered, “He’s coming home in three weeks for a conference. He doesn’t know I told you. But maybe that’s the universe giving you both one more chance to stop pretending you’re over it.”

You didn’t answer. But your hands gripped her tighter. Like maybe you were already considering what you’d say if you saw him again.

The rain tapped against the window like a ticking clock.

You sat on the floor of your bedroom, knees pulled to your chest, a blanket around your shoulders. The book Spencer had given you last fall was open in your lap, but the words were nothing but black smudges tonight.

Your phone sat next to you. No new messages. You picked it up. Checked again. Still nothing.

The ache was quiet, but sharp. It wasn’t like the dramatic sobbing kind of grief. It was the kind that settles in your bones, the kind that comes when you realize you’re doing life alone again—even though you weren’t supposed to.

You called the one person who always answered.

“Garcia?”

She picked up immediately. “Hey, sweetness. You okay?”

You hesitated. Your throat tightened. “I don’t know.”

“Talk to me.”

You looked at the empty spot beside you. The one he used to curl into. The one that still smelled like him when you tried hard enough.

Your voice cracked, low and honest. “This is falling in love in the cruelest way.”

“Oh, honey…”

“This is falling for him,” you whispered. “Still. But he’s… worlds away.”

There was silence on her end, but you knew she was listening with every ounce of her heart.

You wiped a tear with the sleeve of Spencer’s hoodie. “He’s in Geneva. I know it’s only for a little while longer, but… he feels so far. Like I can’t reach him. Like I’m trying to love someone across an ocean, and all I want is for him to be here.”

Garcia’s voice softened. “Say that again.”

You took a shaky breath. Let it out slowly.

“In New York, be here,” you said. “But he’s in Geneva.”

Another breath. And then, the part that cracked your chest open. “And I break down. ’Cause it’s not fair that he’s not around.”

Garcia’s voice broke. “You miss him.”

“So much it makes my ribs feel like glass.”

She was quiet for a beat. Then, gently: “Want me to stay on the phone until you fall asleep?”

You nodded, even though she couldn’t see you. “Please.”

You lay down slowly, blanket still wrapped around you. The line stayed open. No pressure. Just soft breathing and comfort on the other end. And somewhere, hours ahead, Spencer was probably looking at the same moon.

Spencer hadn’t seen Quantico in almost two month.

It was surreal walking through the old hallways again—familiar walls, familiar voices, and yet, nothing quite settled inside him.

The team had arranged a small get-together that night. “Just something casual,” Garcia had promised. “Snacks, hugs, mild emotional damage.”

He tried not to think too much as he stepped into the room at Rossi’s place. It was warm. Loud. Home. JJ hugged him tight. Emily clapped him on the back. Luke handed him a beer. Garcia cried exactly the way he knew she would.

But every time someone walked through the door…

His head snapped up. Every single time. And every time…

It wasn’t you. Not once. And it burned.

“Come back, be here.”

He stayed for two hours. He tried to laugh. Tried to smile. He kept glancing at the door, heart climbing his throat. Garcia noticed, of course. “She’s not coming,” she said gently, pulling him aside. “I invited her. But she didn’t RSVP.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I thought maybe…”

“I know,” she whispered.

By the time 10:30 rolled around, he couldn’t fake it anymore. He slipped out. No big goodbye. Just a quiet, ghost-like exit.

The hotel room was too quiet. Too bright. Too cold. He dropped his bag. Took off his coat. Sat on the edge of the bed and stared at nothing.

You didn’t come.

And the worst part? He didn’t even blame you. He buried his head in his hands, feeling the ache coil up in his chest like something living.

God, he was stupid. He shouldn’t have expected anything. He left. He chose to leave. And now—

*knock knock*

He froze. Two soft knocks. Not housekeeping. He stood slowly. Heart hammering. Opened the door. And there you were.

Hair curled slightly from the night air. Hands shoved in your coat pockets. A flicker of nerves in your eyes. You looked up at him like you weren’t sure you were allowed to. “Hey,” you said softly.

He stared at you, stunned. “I didn’t go to the party,” you continued. “I couldn’t.” “Why?” he managed, voice hoarse. You looked down. “I was scared if I saw you there, I’d forget how angry I still am.”

Ouch.

He nodded. “You deserve to be angry.” Silence. And then, barely above a whisper— “But I missed you anyway.”

His breath caught. You looked up at him again. “I didn’t want to see you in front of everyone. I wanted to see you here. Just… you.”

His hands trembled. “I didn’t think you’d come.” “I almost didn’t.” “And now?” You swallowed. “Now I’m wondering if this door is going to close… or if you’ll let me in.”

He didn’t say a word. He stepped back. Held the door open. And you walked in. Slowly. Quietly. Like you’d never been gone.

It was past 3:00 a.m. by the time the last word was spoken.

Neither of you knew who said it. There wasn’t a grand conclusion to the hours-long conversation—no sweeping fix, no perfect closure.

Just silence. And honesty. And finally, peace.

You were curled up on one side of the bed, tucked under the too-white hotel duvet, still fully clothed. Spencer had changed into a soft gray T-shirt but left his jeans on. He lay beside you, arm barely brushing yours. Neither of you moved You stared at the ceiling together for a while. Let the quiet stretch. Then, gently, softly— “Will you face me?” he asked.

You turned over, shifting until you were facing him, nose a few inches from his. His eyes were tired, but clear. A softness lived there again—one that hadn’t been there since the night he told you he was leaving.

His hand reached forward slowly, landing on the blanket near yours. Not touching, not pushing. Just… waiting. You inched your hand over until your fingers slid between his. Finally.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It wasn’t a promise.

It was enough.

He let out a long breath, like he’d been holding it for weeks. And then, with his forehead barely brushing yours, he whispered: “I haven’t really slept since I left.” You nodded once. “Me either.”

“Do you think we could now?” You answered by tugging the blanket a little higher, then resting your hand over his heart. It was steady. Slower already. He smiled softly. “You always do that.”

“What?” “Put my mind to sleep.” You whispered back, “That’s because you always wake up my heart.” “You said it in a simple way.”

And with that, you both closed your eyes.

For the first time in weeks—no tossing, no racing thoughts, no dreams laced with absence— you slept. Not just because you were tired. But because, finally, you felt safe again.

The morning came soft. Sunlight poured in through the slats of the hotel curtains, falling across the bed like a secret. Spencer stirred first, blinking against the warmth, a little disoriented—until he felt your weight beside him.

You were still curled into his side. His shirt had slid off one shoulder during the night. And for the first time in a month, he felt human again. Alive.

You opened your eyes slowly. Saw him watching you. “Hi,” you whispered, voice still sleep-soaked. “Hi.” Neither of you moved right away. Eventually, you sat up. Rubbed your eyes. Ran a hand through your hair. Then looked over your shoulder at him.

“We should talk,” you said gently. “Before I turn this into something in my head that it isn’t.” He nodded. Sat up too. “I’d like that.”

You turned to face him fully. Feet tucked beneath you on the bed. Legs barely brushing his.

“I don’t want you to give up the study,” you started. “I need you to know that.” “I’m not sure I still want it,” he admitted. “Don’t say that just because I’m here.” “I’m not. I’m saying it because I don’t feel like me when I’m not with you. And if a job takes that away from me, then maybe it’s not the right job.”

You reached for his hand—twined your fingers.

“Then let’s try something before it comes to that,” you said. “Long distance.” His eyebrows lifted. “You mean—?” “I mean… what if we didn’t treat this like it has to be all or nothing? What if we try? Texts. Late-night calls. Long weekends. Letters. Anything we can.”

He stared at you, wonder in his eyes. “You’d really do that?” “I almost didn’t,” you said honestly. “But Garcia gave me your hotel address.” His eyes widened. “She—wait, she gave it to you?”

You smiled, sheepish. “She said, and I quote, ‘If you want to fix this, stop being passive and go knock on his door like the main character you are.’” He huffed a soft laugh. “Of course she did.”

You leaned in. Pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “I’ll let you shower and get your head on straight,” you said, sliding off the bed. “I’ve got to head to work. But…” you paused at the door, pulling your coat on, “Dinner tonight?” “Where?” “Anywhere. Just you.”

He smiled. “You have no idea how badly I want that.” You left with a soft click of the door.

“And this is when the feeling sinks in.”

And he sat there for a moment. Quiet. Grateful. Then grabbed his phone and dialed.

“Hello?”

“Garcia. It’s me.”

“Oof. You sound suspiciously well-rested.”

He smiled, sinking back against the pillows. “She showed up last night.”

Penelope let out a dramatic gasp. “Did she punch you or kiss you?”

“Neither. She… talked. We talked. All night.”

“…So you slept. Actually slept?”

“For the first time since I left.”

A pause. A smile even through the phone line.

“She told me you gave her my hotel address,” he added.

“Oops,” she said unconvincingly.

“Thank you.”

There was a pause.

Then softly—

“You’re welcome, boy genius."

[inkydelusions]

spencer reid as taylor swift lyrics series masterlist

🪽 angst | ✉ fluff | 🪐 hurt/comfort | 🦢 smut

this series is inspired by @emilys-house's own. the following stories are based on her "the bau as lyrics from every taylor swift album" series, unless specified otherwise

debut - coming soon

fearless - coming soon

speak now - coming soon

red - the last time (3.1k) 🪽

in the middle of the night, spencer returns once again, begging for forgiveness. but this time, after years of broken promises and emotional neglect, reader finally chooses to close the door—for good.

1989 - coming soon

reputation - coming soon

lover - coming soon

flokore - coming soon

evermore - coming soon

midnights - coming soon

the tortured poets department - coming soon