The way Damian looks at you, eyes clouded with adoration and yearning. His hardened eyes softened when they landed on your figure; they lit up softly when you entered a room. You notice it every time.
He stares until your eyes catch his, breaking out in a grin as you make a beeline straight to him.
It’s almost natural—you being by his side 24/7. His family says nothing; maybe Jason and Tim say things under their breaths (it doesn’t bother you or Damian); everyone has grown used to it.
You're so attentive when it comes to Damian; you remember everything about him down to the T, and He’s quick to catch it. When you would bring him his favorite candy at times, or when you would mention a Shojo manga he was currently reading.
Sometimes he would wait by the front door of the manor—waiting for you to knock. A part of him knew you would be coming.
And you knew he would be by the door waiting.
You two can’t explain it; there’s a soft tug on both your hearts when you're together. Not the kind that brings you pain—but the kind that puts you at ease, with butterflies in your stomachs.
You know what it is, and so does he.
But neither of you decided to say anything about it.
Touches started slow and soft, linking pinkies together as you walked side by side. Those touches didn’t last long—they had turned into something more.
Fingers lace together with swaying arms, bright smiles that reach eyes, and soft rosy cheeks.
His family wasn’t the only one that noticed; the entire population of Gotham had noticed too. Rumors had spread; media pages were filled with bold headlines; people whispered to one another.
You two have a good laugh at it.
Pictures spread quickly, the most popular being you two together at a charity event his father had planned and prepared for. You two stand in the corner, almost pressed up against each other. Damian’s hand is placed firmly on your hip, while the other is shoved in his pocket. Your hand is placed on his chest while the other sneaks over—fingers brushing his. And you two are smiling, your head slightly leaning against his shoulder.
It was the most normal thing you two were caught doing.
You had seemed to tame him; his heart belonged to you, and your heart had belonged to him.
Your place in his arms had seemed right from the very beginning—it didn’t matter if you were happy or simply upset, in tears even; Damian liked it, so you won’t deny him when he opened his arms up slightly, waiting for you to crash into him.
Soft kisses had seemed to linger, never on the lips—simply too afraid to cross the line. Damian had a habit of kissing the temple or hairline. At times, his lips would reach the tips of your fingers or your palm when you would place them over his mouth.
To put himself at ease, his lips would find your heartbeat—right along your wrist. It makes your heart skip a beat, and he chuckles when he feels it against his lips.
You had a habit too—kissing his scars that paint his skin. It sends shivers down his spine, prompting him to reach for more. You have easy access to his neck, kissing along a small scar that’s visible to your eyes. You tell him you can feel his heartbeat slightly, and he tells you you’re hallucinating as he turns away.
Whether you two decided to be friends or lovers, it didn’t matter; labels weren’t either of your guys' things.
Identify problem -> brainstorm solution -> execute. This process has never failed you before. So what if the solution for this particular issue involves getting into a fake relationship with the new professor? It’s a means to an end. Nothing more. But Professor Reid—far too tender, and all too eager for scraps of affection—seems intent to make this harder than it should be.
contents: post-series, fake dating, one sided rivalry to lovers, professor!Spencer Reid, legal age gap (reader 29 and Spencer is 38), prof!reader, she wears glasses and it WILL be referenced a lot, fluff and other romcom-y shenanigans, no use of y/n. Not a series, more of a semi-related universe, but I recommend reading act one together for better context and build up!
ACT ONE - the set up
coffee with the enemy
-> Spencer Reid is new but he’s already the university golden boy. Fellow faculty adore him, students worship the ground he walks on, even the administration loves him. You’re committed to your disdain for him—until he offers you access to his collection of medieval literature. [3k]
BESPECTACLED²
-> A phone call from your childhood best friend adds to the stress of midterms. You seek refuge in the library, only to run into Spencer Reid. Somewhere between excel sheets, checking exams, and some accidental flirting, the stress dissipates and your annoyance fizzles into something strangely iridescent. [4.1k]
FACULTY WHISPERS
-> All that attention on university golden boy Spencer Reid hits a peak, only to sour into malicious gossip. You’re not one to defend a man, so you do the next best thing—offer a temporary solution. [3.6k]
ACT TWO - blossoming alone over you
***Fics labeled with 𓍯𓂃𓏧💍will revolve around the wedding reader and Spencer will be attending as a fake couple
FOOTNOTES ON INTIMACY
-> Boundaries are important in any relationship—even fake ones (especially in fake ones). Spencer Reid is very good at sticking to the rules you’ve discussed together, until he does something off script that sends you spiraling. [2.4k]
HARD LAUNCH
-> Spencer doesn’t understand the significance of a social media hard launch. To compromise, he invites you as his date to a faculty soiree, prompting a night filled with nosy colleagues, and PDA you tell yourself you don't enjoy. [6.4k]
I DON'T EVEN DARE TO WISH IT
-> A concerned Spencer Reid shows up at your doorstep when you miss two days of classes, bearing take out and gentle reassurance. Somehow he ends up in your bed. [5.2k]
KISS ME AND I MIGHT DROP DEAD
-> Maybe practicing to kiss your fake boyfriend on your bed isn't the best idea, because now the image of him sprawled atop your sheets is burned in your mind and your lips ache to memorize the shape of his. [2k]
extras:
HONEYBEA masterlist - or a future timeline where they have a daughter
meet prof!reader
fake dating rules!
reasons for writing + diana reid & prof!reader headcanons
a/n: Think of this like a Hallmark movie (which, unsurprisingly, was what I was watching when I came up with this)—middling quality at best, but still (hopefully) fluffy and entertaining. No taglist, this is just my fun lil side project cause professor Reid is a NEED but I am, for better or for worse, too woke to make it x student. So here’s an almost 30-year-old assistant professor reader instead. gif by the best @reidgif
“hey just a heads up that this author writes dark fics” boohoo so scary how will you survive this!!!!! seriously go and talk to a real person in real life I beg you. “hey this person likes horror movies!!!! characters are brutally killed in those movies and this person enjoys it!!!! just a heads up” this is what some of y’all sound.
There were very few moments where Damian didn’t think of you. It was impossible really.
Even if you weren’t directly on his mind, it would always go back to you, one way or another. Everything after you came into his life, was compared to you.
He wouldn’t say you have taken over his life, but you most certainly have. Alfred baked his favorite cookies? Yours tasted better. Exact same recipe, exact same ingredients. But yours, tasted. Better.
His fancy expensive sheets that he used to be very particular about? Nope. Your sheets. He made sure to get the exact set you have and now that is on his bed. Washed in the very same detergent you use.
A cologne he hadn’t worn in years, it just wasn’t his scent. A bit too, earthy, for him. But the first time you went over, you tested his colognes. You said you liked that one the most. He began wearing it around you, eventually he just wore it all the time.
He was at a family dinner but you couldn’t make it. He moped. Picked at his food, interacted with his family but the second you texted him saying you finally got home. He excused himself from the dinner early and practically raced to your place. He pulled you into a hug and inhaled your scent.
Your presence over anyone else’s, you almost constantly on his mind. The man is infatuated, if not obsessed with you.
#i would start thanking each character but... #we're gonna be here for a while #so,i'll just thank the fandoms that contribute to the betterment of everyones mental health #and ao3 #thank you ao3❤️
most nights, spencer wakes to the sound of your sniffles—unlike most nights, he doesn’t have to ask why. the reason is visceral, tangible—staining the sheets when the wound dressing wasn’t tight enough, seeping and pooling right between the both of you where an ocean of your guilt already lies.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)
genre: flangst hurt comfort
content: many mentions of wounds and blood. bc spencer was shot. jesus reid woo! established relationship spencer and bau!reader deal with the aftermath of spencer taking a bullet for her
word count: 2.8k
note: based on this ask! for my jesus reid sassy man apocalypse flangst fight and make up lovers... this ones for you! i actually loved writing this sm @esote-rika u wonderful genius u!!! inspired by this poem that she sent me! might be one of my new favorite fics ive written
a line: In the bad dreams, over and over, you’re saying you’re sorry. In the worst dreams, he’s saying he forgives you.
“I’m sorry.”
Those were the first words out of your mouth when Spencer had woken up in the hospital. Before that, you'd been running on adrenaline, too focused on talking the unsub down. So certain—so sure—that he wouldn’t pull the trigger. That you’d be fine. That the father would be fine. And you were, mostly.
Because a hard shove sent you both tumbling to the ground. No broken bones, no bloody wounds—Just a bullet in Spencer’s leg instead of yours.
He held your hand through the tears, fingers gentle as they stroked through your hair while you wept against the edge of his hospital bed. Told you I’d take a bullet for you, honey. Spencer always joked about that. Romantic once—now, not so much. It is not an honour you ever wanted to hold.
Crutches for a month. You’d been right there when the doctor ordered it, nodding, asking questions, voicing concerns. The two of you make do, as you always do. You move into his place, helping him with the little things. Because loving someone means loving them in health and in sickness. During the good times and the bad. Two sides of the same coin—But intimacy wears many faces.
You don’t think you’ve stopped crying since you saw the blood soaking into the grass.
You try to smile more when Spencer’s around. He says it helps—just as much as the medication, maybe more. So you do. More cuddles than usual. Coffee, just the way he wants it, because come on, the man took a bullet for you, the least you could do is not criticise his sugar intake.
But when he’s not there, the tears come. In the shower, where the water washes them away before you can. Waiting for the coffee to brew, blinking them back so they don’t salt the mug.
You whisper I’m sorrys into his hair when he falls asleep after the Doctor Who reruns, as many as he wants. Hope he feels it in the way your fingers card through his curls, lathering shampoo carefully. Hope he tastes it in the spoonfuls of breakfast you lift to his lips, even though his hands work just fine. Everything served in bed, of course, because that’s where he is.
Because that is where he has to be.
I’m sorry. You don’t think you’ll ever stop saying it.
Most nights, Spencer wakes to the sound of your sniffles—Unlike most nights, he doesn’t have to ask why. The reason is visceral, tangible—staining the sheets when the wound dressing wasn’t tight enough, seeping and pooling right between the both of you where an ocean of your guilt already lies.
Still, every night he does wake, he cups your cheeks with warm hands as he murmurs it’s okays.
He’ll say it again at 2 am, when he’s inevitably forced to rewind the bandage himself because somehow, you never seem to get it right. Another tally mark on the growing list of ways you’ve failed him.
And again at 4 am, when you shift too close in your sleep, bump against him, and wake to a sharp, stifled wince. Then the tears resurface, and the cycle repeats. God, you’re just a walking Murphy’s Law, aren’t you?
“Do you blame me?” you’d asked him one night, voice meek in the dark.
“You were in danger. I acted. I could never blame you.”
You replay that conversation more often than not. You love Spencer enough to believe that he means it—that in his mind, it’s the only truth that exists. The only truth that could ever exist.
But you don’t think you love yourself enough to believe it, too.
You move to the couch after the first week. Couldn’t take another night of accidental touches, of hearing his breath hitch in pain and feeling—remembering— that you’d put him there. Spencer had protested, threatened to order an air mattress just to sleep beside you, but you’d won in the end. He needed space. Comfort. Proper rest to heal.
Mostly, you just didn’t want him to see you crying anymore.
The couch isn’t so bad. Smells just enough like him to let it lull you to sleep. Has pillows that are fluffy enough to clutch in your grip when he insists on showering alone for the first time. The couch is close enough to hear the bottle of shampoo hit the floor and the pause that follows when you both realise he can’t bend down to pick it up himself. It’s also far enough away that you hear only the muffled curses that escape him when he tries to dress himself after—Spencer hardly ever swears.
And again, the couch is far enough away that he can’t see you cry.
Intimacy is familiarity, carved deep.
It is not synonymous with love, nor does it innately mean romance. It is a vulnerability between two people, a connection that forms through time, a trust that builds upon circumstance. Intimacy is a blade that cuts through flesh and bone, never to be used lightly. It sees everything—what you are, what he is, what the two of you have always been.
It’s the chaste kiss you press to his lips before leaving for the jet, van waiting down in the lobby. The long list of instructions, medications, emergency contacts scribbled onto paper—handed off to Garcia. The unanswered calls that drain your battery, each one landing in his voicemail.
When you’re away, you dream of Spencer. You’re steadying his crutch, rewrapping his wounds, pressing gentle kisses over healing scars.
In the bad dreams, over and over, you’re saying you’re sorry.
In the worst dreams, he’s saying he forgives you.
Intimacy is something etched into the marrow of you, amidst the flesh and bone, through the ache and the aftermath.
“Spence?” you call from the doorway, one hand braced against the wall as you toe off your shoes. “You in here? Garcia said you decided to head home.”
A muffled shuffle from his office draws your attention. When you step inside, you find him perched in his desk chair, one hand gripping his crutch, the other stretched toward a book just out of his reach on the bottom shelf.
“I didn’t decide to head home,” Spencer mutters, still not looking at you. “Garcia sent me home.”
You have to bite back a smile. “Garcia sent you home?” you echo, amused, crossing the room to retrieve the book from the shelf with ease. He returns your kind act with a heavy sigh even as you set the book on the table beside him.
“She was rearranging her case files. Said I was in the way.”
“Aw honey,” you coo, reaching out to fluff his curls. Normally, he’d lean into your touch, eyes going all soft with adoring affection. But tonight, there’s nothing. Your hand falls away, neglected.
“Have you eaten?” you try, hoping hunger is to blame for his mood. He barely acknowledges the question, offering only a curt nod.
“What’d you have?”
“One of those instant meals,” he mutters.
You frown. “I thought you hated that stuff.”
Spencer scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I’m in any position to cook now, am I?”
The window is shut but the study is ice cold. You knew he was upset when Hotch forbade him from coming along on the case. He had told you just as much, his frustrations only thinly veiled in the few text messages he’d sent. But whatever this is, you don’t understand why it’s suddenly being directed at you tonight.
“Did something happen while I was away?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” The sarcasm that drips in his tone pools together at your feet.
Most people work to live. Your boyfriend is not most people. He lives to work. The time he doesn’t spend solving cases is spent preparing for the next one—reading, researching, gathering knowledge for the inevitable moment it might be needed. You of all people know he hates being unoccupied. He’d explained it to you once, how much he detests idleness, the feeling of time slipping through his fingers with nothing to show for it.
And now here he is, sidelined. Left behind—with nobody else to point the finger at but you.
Not Garcia for shoo-ing him out of her Batcave. Not Hotch for being a stickler for the doctor’s orders. Just you.
“Is that it? You’re upset because Hotch didn’t let you come on the case?”
Spencer doesn't answer so you’re the one to take a step forward—both physically and metaphorically.
“Spence, talk to me. What’s gotten into you?”
The laugh that leaves Spencer doesn’t really sound like him at all. It comes out sharp and humourless—Empty, essentially.
“What’s gotten into me?” He exhales, shakes his head. “You mean other than a bullet?”
The breath you were holding slips from your lips, and for a moment, it feels like the bullet never left. It might as well have buried itself hilt deep, slicing through you and back out. Right now, you almost wished that were the case.
A bullet in your boyfriend is not a cross you ever wanted to bear but it is a cross you’re tied to carrying all the same.
Maybe it had been easier in the beginning. In the holding of hands in the ambulance, in the moving of mugs to accommodate yours. But in the wake of skin and gauze, of antiseptic burning raw and sheets gripped in clenched fists—What is there to thank god for?
Just a bullet.
Just a wound.
Just a bed too small to carry the hurt of two people.
“Spencer.”
For a man with a limp, he moves fast. The bedroom door slams shut behind him and you’re left to stand there by yourself, guilt seeping into the floorboards under you. Thank god for the couch.
You don’t dream of Spencer tonight. You don’t sleep at all. Which is why you hear it—the crutch slipping, the clattering against the wood of the floor. You tiptoe to the bedroom door, nudging it open.
“Hey, everything alright? Need your meds? Water? I can get—”
“S'fine,” Spencer says. His sigh is as heavy as it is exhausted as he bends down to retrieve his crutch.
“Oh. Okay…” You hesitate, lingering by the door. “Goodnight then.”
“Sweetheart—” Spencer exhales, soft and uneven. “I—I… wanted to talk.”
You swallow. “Talk?”
“What I did—how I acted just now—that wasn’t okay. And I’m sorry.”
It sounds weird coming from him. Wrong, almost. A man who took a bullet for you shouldn’t be apologising. A thousand sorrys from you wouldn’t even come close to enough, and you’re certain you’ve already said more than that.
“You don’t need to apologise, Spence, you—”
“I do.”
He tries to stand. You’re at his side before he can, pressing him back down with a gentle hand against his shoulder as you take a seat by the edge of the bed too.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I was frustrated. At Hotch, at Garcia, at myself. And I took it out on you.”
You nod silently, trying to understand.
“I’m not used to this,” he admits. “Being taken care of. Needing to be taken care of. It’s... hard. What I said before I left the room… I shouldn’t have. And I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”
Spencer isn’t one to dance around words. He thrives on specifics. Tonight, he doesn’t need to name it.
What’s gotten into me? You mean other than a bullet? The words have been reverberating in your skull since he said it.
“Do you—” Your voice sounds hollow in your throat, shaking as it leaves you. “Can you forgive me?”
Spencer’s seen you cry before. But the sight of you wiping away your own tears is not one he’s used to. He’s used to holding you through it, with soft hands, with light kisses. So, he takes your hand first, then coaxes your gaze up to meet his. It’s the first time you’ve seen him smile since you’ve gotten back.
“Angel,” he breathes, “there’s nothing to forgive. I don’t blame you. For any of it. Do you remember what I said the first time?”
“I—yeah.”
“You were in danger. I acted. Simple as that.”
In theory, it is simple. Bullets move at roughly 2,700 feet per second. To reach you first, Spencer must have moved at 2,701.
It is not a lifetime of love of reflected in a single split second. It is a lifetime of love refracted, redirected—Love forced onto a different path the moment the bullet entered his body. Two sides of the same coin, wild violence amidst the intimacy. You see it day after day in the blood that trickles down his leg, in how his skin splits open in millimetres, in the way his body punishes itself for what his heart decided.
It is agonising to see how softly he hurts.
“I just—I’m so sorry, Spence. For this. For everything.”
“Honey,” he murmurs, “do you trust me?”
Your head jerks up. You sit straighter, wiping at your nose with the sleeve of your sweater. “Yeah, of course, Spence, I—”
“Then I need you to believe me when I say this.” He shifts, taking both your hands into his. He winces slightly but doesn’t let it stop him. “This? This isn’t your fault. Not at all. I need you to know that, baby. Okay?”
You’ve never been one to hold back or stay quiet during arguments with Spencer. Especially when he’s the first to admit he’s wrong—And, being Spencer, that hardly ever happens. More than you’d like to admit, he’s usually right. But this is different.
Because Spencer is wrong. He shouldn’t have said it. But “shouldn’t” doesn’t make it untrue.
Spencer was shot. Fact.
You weren’t. Fact.
And you weren’t shot because Spencer took the bullet for you.
Fact upon fact, stacking too tall, pressing down hard, choking you out.
“But it is though,” you whisper, though it comes out as more of a cry. “Spence, if it weren’t for me—”
“Honey, there is no version of events where I would’ve ever let that bullet touch you.” He gives your hands a light squeeze. “None.”
There is an intimacy in knowing love, at its core, is a kind of violence. It is a body rashly moved by instinct before the mind catches up. It is the sacrifice of flesh before the heart has even finished deciding, of stepping into the line of fire before you’ve even realised that you’ve moved.
With his heart, mind and body—That is how violently Spencer Reid loves you.
Spencer has always been fast. Faster than the bullet meant for you. Fast to love, quicker to comfort—He presses a kiss to your cheek where the last tear falls. “I mean it when I say that there is nothing you could’ve done, or Hotch could’ve done, or the Unsub could’ve done that wouldn’t have resulted in me taking the bullet for you.”
“Well,” you start, voice still sniffly from the remnants of your tears, “the unsub could’ve just... not shot.”
Spencer blinks. For a second, he’s still caught in the weight of his emotions. Then, his lips twitch, a knowing smile breaking through as he rolls his eyes.
“Smartass.”
A small giggle bubbles out of you. You lift your joined hands to press light kisses into the spaces between his fingers, into the cracks of him that you can reach. He lets you. Spencer doesn’t remember the last time you touched him like this—Not careful, not afraid. Not like guilt kissed your fingertips before they ever touched his skin.
“Baby,” he mumbles.
“Hm?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Spence.”
For the first time in weeks, you’re looking at him the way you always have. Not like a martyr you never asked for, carrying the weight of a sacrifice you never wanted him to make.
For the first time in weeks, you’re looking at him like it’s just him, and it’s just you.
No bullet. No blood. Just him. Just you.
“Will you sleep in here tonight?”
You freeze. He feels it immediately.
“Spence, I—I don’t know, I don’t want to hurt—” you murmur, blinking down at your interlocked fingers.
“You won’t,” he’s quick to reassure. “I just want you next to me. The sheets don’t smell like you anymore and I never sleep well without you. I wake up, and you’re out there, and it feels wrong. I just want to hold you. Please? It’s been days.”
You’re helpless when he speaks like that. Besides, the man took a bullet for you—how could you ever say no to him again, for as long as you live?
So you nod, shifting closer, barely hesitating before crawling into bed beside him. After some readjusting, you hear Spencer exhale, feel his arm curling around you, slotting you against his side like muscle memory. For the first time in days, you let yourself be held.
His lips brush your skin as he whispers, “thank you.”
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you so much for reading!
likes, comments or reblogs are very much appreciated!
ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it:
savior complex by phoebe bridgers
inside your mind by the 1975
