You can leave anything! from a song or a prompt or a picture 🫶🏻
If your're mean you're getting blocked.
Both !readers have names in my mind and sometimes i write with those names before making the fics xyou friendly so if sometimes i forget to correct that i apologize in advance!
If you give me a fluff scenario I'll be grateful bc my brain can't come up with those but if you ask for angst I'LL LOVE YOU.
Just a heads-up! The timeline in my stories isn’t strictly realistic—things happen closer together than they would in real life. I tweak events to fit the story, so don’t worry too much about exact dates!
All works on this masterlist are my original writing. I do not allow reposting, copying, translations, or adaptations of my stories without permission. Please respect my work!
About me!
Harley. She/her. I'm 20 and english is not my first language lol and I'm not from U.S., Psychology student! big swiftie.
my characters have a lot of details and unnecesary stuff i love to add, writting them is cathartic for me!
Summary: what happens when you mix malbec, very little clotting, lots of self pressure, fear of losing someone you love and some slight BDSM research? a meltdown.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x reader (not necessarily lawyer!reader but yeah it's her)
Genre: fluff, hurt/comfort?
WC: 2.5k!
TW: casual nudity, reader feels like she has to have sex, fem reader, alcohol, slight panic? idk somebody help
A/N: this is for all the people who feels weird for liking a little too much the use of safewords and consent lol
Masterlist (it's not necessary to read the first 4 chapters!)
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It had been over two months since the two of you had found yourselves in a moment like this — a week where Hotch had given Spencer the rest of the time off, and you weren’t buried under stacks of paperwork or burning yourself out trying to convince a jury.
For once, the world had slowed down. No deadlines, no crime scenes, no frantic calls. Just a quiet evening, unhurried.
A half-finished bottle of wine sat between you on the coffee table, something the two of you had started sharing on nights like this — a ritual that had grown into its own small kind of comfort.
“God, I’ve missed you,” you sighed, glass in hand, letting your gaze linger on his kind eyes.
Spencer’s lips curved, soft and a little dazed from the wine. “Well, I’ve missed you too. It’s been a while since we—”
“Had real sex?” you cut in, eyebrow raised.
He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “I was going to say relax properly… but maybe that too.”
The look he gave you then — those dopey, wine-softened eyes and the faint flush on his lips — made your stomach flip.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t been together in that way at all. But lately, it had been rushed — quick, desperate moments snatched at the end of long days, more about channeling the stress somewhere than about sinking into each other.
“Although the good thing is…” he murmured, taking your hand in his, “I’m all yours for the rest of the week.” He kissed your palm first, then trailed slowly upward — your wrist, your arm — until his lips brushed your shoulder and continued slowly to your neck.
You let out a content sigh, tilting your head as a second nature to give him more access. “Three full days of unlimited Spencer Reid? I should really buy a lottery ticket while my luck’s this good.”
He gave you that lopsided, wine-soft smile. “Lottery tickets are chance. This—” he whispered in your ear and left a soft kiss under your lobe, “—is guaranteed.”
You arched a brow, smirking. “Unlimited access, huh? Do you come with a user manual?”
Spencer chuckled, leaning closer. “I thought you liked puzzles.”
Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it, but it faded quickly when his lips hovered just shy of yours, warm breath ghosting against your mouth. For a moment, he waited — always giving you the choice, even when you were already leaning in.
You closed the gap first.
The kiss was soft at the start, a slow reacquainting. Then his hand slid along your jaw, steadying you like he was terrified of losing you, and the sigh that escaped you seemed to undo him completely. He deepened the kiss, careful but hungry, and you tasted the faint sweetness of wine on his lips.
Your glass clinked against the coffee table as you set it down blindly, hands finding his shirt, tugging him closer. His dopey, wine-flushed smile melted into something needier against your mouth, and when he pulled back just barely, his voice was already wrecked.
He began asking “Do you want to go to—”
“God, yes,” you cut him off, way too fast, way too breathless to care how desperate your voice sounded.
You barely made it down the hall, lips still pressed together, stumbling into walls and laughing between kisses. His hands framed your face, then slid down to your waist as if he couldn’t decide where he needed you most.
By the time you reached the bedroom, Spencer was just as breathless as you were — too caught up in you to care about anything else. He fumbled with the door, kicking it closed without breaking the kiss, and then took your face in his hands again like he couldn’t stand to let go.
Your laugh hitched against his mouth, muffled by how hungrily he kissed you back. “You’re supposed to be careful,” you teased between breaths.
“I am careful,” he managed, voice wrecked, “just… not right now.”
He walked you backward until the back of your knees bumped the edge of the bed, lips still on yours, hands never straying too far as though he was terrified of losing the contact even for a second.
“Do you want to try… what we talked about?” he asked, voice low, almost hesitant but full of need.
“Yeah,” you breathed, heart racing. “Sounds good.”
He grinned, just the tiniest bit dopey, and leaned in again, hands already roaming, like he couldn’t wait another second.
Just before this pseudo dry spell, you two had talked about trying something new — sensory deprivation. You’d been the one to suggest it, admitting you weren’t exactly sure what you wanted, just that you were curious. Spencer, ever the meticulous planner, had done all the research for you, carefully noting your absolute no’s, what to avoid, and how to make it safe and enjoyable.
The idea was simple: you’d wear a blindfold, letting him guide you entirely with his hands, his voice, and subtle touches, so you’d always know where he was without seeing him. He promised to keep talking to you the whole time, grounding you, making sure the trust and closeness between you stayed front and center.
Your shirt was already gone, his too, and the warmth of his fingertips felt like little sparks igniting trails of fire across your skin. Every touch made your pulse jump, every brush of his hand fanning the slow burn building between you.
He slid your pants down with deliberate care before pausing, reaching for one of his ties. He held it in his hands for a moment, almost contemplative.
Despite all his meticulous research — every article and forum he’d read about safety, about what materials were best — you’d insisted on the tie. Not because it was ideal, but because of the way his expression had shifted when you’d first mentioned it, something dark and hungry flickering in his eyes. You’d wanted that, wanted him in this moment, and he hadn’t argued.
Still, even now, his gaze searched yours as if asking for permission one last time.
You nodded, excitement bubbling in your chest as he slipped the tie over your eyes and tied it behind your head with deliberate care. His touch was gentle, his fingers brushing against your hair as though the smallest tug might hurt you.
“Is it too tight?” he asked softly, his voice low and cautious.
“No,” you reassured quickly, wanting to ease the tension you felt in him. “It’s perfect.”
He exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized he was holding, then pressed a tender kiss to each of your cheeks before finally claiming your mouth with an intensity that left you dizzy. His hands slid down your sides, firm and grounding, like he wanted you to feel him everywhere all at once.
You smiled against his lips, the blindfold already shifting your world into something sharper, every brush of his hands magnified.
“See?” you whispered between kisses. “Told you I’d like it.”
Spencer let out a shaky laugh, the sound vibrating against your mouth. “You’re not even giving me time to prove myself.”
“You’ve already proven yourself,” you murmured, fingers finding his hair, tugging lightly until he groaned.
You could feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears, excitement coursing through you as Spencer guided you back onto the mattress. You wanted this — wanted to enjoy it. The idea of trying something new hadn’t just come out of nowhere. A while back, JJ had confided that she and Will had hit a dry spell, routine wearing them thin until they almost came undone.
Maybe you and Spencer weren’t anything like JJ and Will, but the thought had stuck with you. What if you two fell into the same trap? What if the stress, the cases, the exhaustion chipped away at what you had until there was nothing left? You’d told yourself you wouldn’t let that happen — that you’d work on it, keep the spark alive, make sure you didn’t break.
So you let him keep kissing down your neck, lower, his lips igniting every nerve in your skin. It did feel good — more than good — but somewhere between the thrill and the unfamiliarity, something shifted.
You couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment excitement blurred into anxiety, or when the tension in your body stopped being about anticipation and started being about agitation.
Your fingers were tangled in his hair, tugging the way they always did, only this time it wasn’t out of passion — it was grounding, desperate. You wanted to like this, so you let him keep kissing you, his hands almost sliding your bra off. You had already said yes, and it had been so long since you’d been truly close like this, and—
“You okay?” he asked suddenly, his voice soft but steady.
He’d caught it. Of course he had. The way your lips stayed pressed shut, refusing to part for him, betraying the storm in your chest.
Normally, you sighed against his mouth, or let out little hums he cherished, every sound a quiet confirmation of closeness. But now, silence sat heavy between you.
“Y-yes… just keep going,” you stammered, trying to steady your voice. You didn’t want to ruin the night, the mood, or disappoint him.
Spencer paused, his hands still on your waist, eyes searching yours behind the blindfold. “Maybe… we should stop,” he murmured, pulling back just slightly, sensing the tension in your body.
“No, no… come on,” you insisted, forcing a smile, your voice a little too eager. “I’m enjoying this. I swear.”
But your chest tightened with every word, a heaviness you couldn’t push away. The lie slipped out of necessity — not malice — because you wanted this, needed it, but your body was screaming in quiet panic.
He untied the knot on the blindfold with ease, knowing that if he looked at you now, you wouldn’t be able to deny him anything.
The blindfold slipped away, and the first thing you saw was him — eyes soft, worried, and completely focused on you. For a moment, you couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe properly.
Spencer leaned in slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Hey,” he whispered, voice low and steady. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
You let out a shaky laugh, burying your face in his chest. “I… I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want to ruin it.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said firmly, tilting your chin up so your eyes met his.
“But I have to like this,” you blurted, trying to explain yourself, your voice tight.
Spencer frowned slightly, tilting his head. “You don’t have to like anything. Why do you think that?” he asked, gentle but pointed at the word you’d chosen.
“No, of course I know that,” you rushed, shaking your head. “It’s just… I don’t want us to get boring without realizing it. I don’t want routine to eat us alive.”
His expression softened instantly. “Well… statistically, around 62% of long-term couples worry about ‘getting boring,’ but the research shows that the majority of them actually build deeper intimacy over time. Desire changes, sure, but it doesn’t disappear — not when there’s trust, not when there’s us.” He brushed his thumb along your cheek, grounding you. “Boring isn’t our problem. Disconnection would be. And we’re not disconnected. Not even close.”
You exhaled slowly, trying to ease the tightness in your chest as your fingers absently played with his silky curls. Numbers might not lie, but somehow you always found yourself believing you’d end up the exception — the one who fell on the wrong side of the statistic.
“Is that why you wanted to try this?” he asked softly, his eyes searching yours.
You hesitated, heat rising in your cheeks. “I mean… not entirely,” you admitted, voice low. “But it sort of came up after I talked to JJ. She mentioned how she and Will went through this dry spell and how it almost pushed them apart and…” You trailed off, embarrassed. “I guess it stuck with me more than I realized.”
Spencer tilted his head, a small, thoughtful smile tugging at his lips. “You and I are nothing like JJ and Will,” he said softly, brushing a loose curl behind your ear. “Not even close. But… I get why it stuck with you. You want to make sure we don’t slide into something we don’t notice.”
You nodded, fingers still tangled in his hair, heart slowing a little under his steady gaze. “Yeah… I just don’t want us to… fade into routine or something.”
“Routine doesn’t scare me,” he murmured, thumb brushing along your cheek. “You don’t scare me. And… we’re capable of more than we give ourselves credit for. Nights like this, trust like this… it proves that.”
You let out a shaky laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “You make it sound so… simple.”
He chuckled softly, lips brushing yours. “It isn’t simple,” he admitted. “But it’s worth it. You’re worth it. And if I have to use statistics, analogies, or bad metaphors to convince you, I will. Every single time.”
The tension in your chest eased further, replaced by warmth, by the undeniable pull of closeness. And for the first time since the panic hit, you let yourself believe it — just for a moment — that it really could be safe to feel, to trust, to be with him.
You felt a little ridiculous — sitting there in just your panties and an undone bra after nearly having a breakdown — yet the skin-to-skin warmth pressed against you was something you would never trade for anything in the world.
“I’m sorry for… ruining the mood,” you murmured, letting your head fall back against the pillows, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Who said anything about ruining anything?” Spencer replied, lifting both of you carefully and turning so his back rested against the headboard, with you straddling him, giving you all the room in the world to not feel encaged by him.
“Oh, come on,” you laughed nervously. “I doubt you want anything after that.”
“All I know is,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder as his hands adjusted your bra again, “we still have some wine.” He nuzzled your neck, the kiss gentle, almost a caress. “And I brought you dark chocolate from Chicago. Plus,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “there’s this article I’ve been dying to tell you about.”
You shivered at the mixture of warmth, softness, and playful intimacy. Even after the panic, even after everything, Spencer had this effortless way of grounding you while keeping the connection electric.
You grinned, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his jaw. “Chocolate and articles, huh? You really know how to woo me.”
Spencer laughed softly, eyes twinkling. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”
“And wine,” you reminded him, teasing.
“Never underestimate the power of a good malbec,” he replied, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
You both laughed, the tension of earlier completely dissolved, leaving only warmth, teasing touches, and the easy, electric closeness that had defined your night. For now, nothing else mattered — just the two of you, the wine, the chocolate, and that perfect mix of comfort and playful desire that always seemed to find its way back.
Hello lovely! (i’m not sure how to repost things/if i did it right so, sorry if you already saw this) I honestly have no words for how this made me feel. When I saw that you had written my request, I knew it would be amazing, cause that’s just the writer that you are. But I never could of expected this to hit me THIS HARD. I felt like this was made for me word. by. word.
“Because you’d stopped thinking clearly and started acting on the noise.”
“The noise” describes it perfectly.
“You felt guilty. You always did. Guilty for being such an inconvenience.
For needing him to sit behind you like a sentry while you disassociated in warm water.”
This is how I feel every. second. of. every. day.
“That something so simple—so mundane—would become a reason to unravel.”
I tend to unravel easily, I never quite thought of it like this.
“I know these are all pretty words that don’t get into your head. That bounce right off the part of you that believes you’re unlovable.”
… how’d you know I feel unlovable?!
I know this is a long rant, but I just wanted you to know how much this means to me. Seriously, I will never be able to express to you how perfect and truly beautiful this is to me. Let alone it being my half assed request this masterpiece came from.
Have an amazing life lovely ☕️🍪
hii i barely know how to use tumblr so dw. your words are so beautiful thank you ❤️. i know it's been a while since you sent the request so i thought whoever sent it already forgot about it lol. im so happy it brought you comfort about your feelings and i really hope you're getting the professional help you might need over this self destructive thoughts you're having.
i tried to not get super academic about how depression looks like and also add what i felt when i was going through a depressive episode. what helped me the most was my therapist. and if can't get access to one (bc it's a universal privilege :/) i hope you have people who you can rely on and make you feel safe 🫶🏻
you are more than valid. feeling unlovable doesn't translate as being unlovable. if you ever feel the need to talk to someone im here for you ❤️
(also srry for replying late i was hyper focused on a embroidery project lol)
Summary: in which spencer stays and takes care of you from your worst enemy, your mind.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x depressed!reader (not necessarily lawyer!reader but yeah it's her)
Genre: hurt/comfort
WC: 2.1k!
TW: talks about sh, depression, casual nudity
A/N: please read with caution, depression can look several different ways!, thank u for the request IM SO STUPID I JUST NOTICED THE SUMMARY WAS WRONG SORRY
Masterlist (it's not necessary to read the first 4 chapters!)
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You sank into the bath, bubbles perfumed with sandalwood and citrus clinging to your skin, the scent doing little to soften the relentless flood of thoughts crashing through your head. You tried to line them up, contain them somehow, but they never stopped. Never slowed.
Spencer sat down behind you in the border of the tub without asking.
Not out of routine, but out of fear.
Because his thoughts weren’t paranoid.
Because you’d done dangerous things before when he wasn’t looking.
Because you’d stopped thinking clearly and started acting on the noise.
He was scared you might crank the hot water until it scalded your skin.
Or let your fingers drift too close to the candle you’d lit under the excuse of trying to relax.
Or scrub at your arms until the skin was raw and furious. Again.
Because Spencer Reid, who knew every corner of your mind and every dark hallway you tried to lock up, understood that sometimes the only thing you could seek when your brain betrayed you… was pain.
And he hated that he understood that.
You felt guilty. You always did. Guilty for being such an inconvenience.
For needing him to sit behind you like a sentry while you disassociated in warm water.
For the way his hands moved with silent purpose, kneading the tightness out of your back, the sponge in his palm soft and patient against your shoulder blades.
Every gentle touch was a reminder of how deeply he loved you, and how powerless love felt when your own mind turned violent against you.
“work today?” he asked quietly, already knowing the answer.
But he asked anyway.
Because he’d rather hear you scream than say nothing at all.
Because silence was the thing that scared him most.
You didn’t answer right away.
The words got stuck somewhere between your lungs and your teeth, and instead of speaking, you let your head fall forward, tears slipping down your face before you even noticed them.
He had read countless studies on high-functioning depressive episodes. He could recite them from memory—statistics, symptoms, even emerging treatments—and still, it never felt like enough. Not when you were slipping through his fingers in real time. Not when all that knowledge just sat there in his chest, inert and useless, while you drowned in plain sight.
He’d suggested—gently, then not so gently—that you take a temporary leave. Time off. Just a few weeks to breathe.
You had shut him down immediately.
Because “work makes me feel normal.”
He suspected it was more about control than comfort. That courtroom confidence, that fire in your eyes when you argued a motion—it was the only space where your mind couldn’t betray you. In front of a jury, you could pretend the shadows didn’t follow you home. You could keep the mask on a little longer.
He didn’t push after that. Not because he agreed—but because he knew what it felt like to need control more than comfort. He had lived there once, too. And maybe still did.
But watching you now—barely holding it together behind your perfectly sharpened eyeliner and ironed blazers—he wasn’t sure how long “functioning” could keep disguising the “depressed” part.
He finished rinsing the last suds from your shoulder, fingers gentle as they traced over the outline of your clavicle, the water now lukewarm and your skin wrinkled from how long you’d stayed in. Without a word, he reached for the softest towel he could find—the one he’d bought months ago after reading a journal article that claimed sensory comfort could help with depressive episodes.
He guided you out of the bathroom with the same tenderness one might use with an injured bird—slow, silent, no sudden movements. You didn’t resist when he sat you down in front of the vanity. You couldn’t muster the energy to resist anything tonight.
Without a word, Spencer reached for the hairbrush before you could. You lifted a hand, instinctively.
“I can do it,” you muttered, your voice flat and unfamiliar in your own throat.
“I know you can,” he replied softly, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. “But I like doing it.”
It was half the truth.
The other half was the fear you’d yank the brush in frustration, pull too hard on your scalp until your skin stung. That you’d dig your nails into your scalp the way you sometimes did when the thoughts got too loud. That something so simple—so mundane—would become a reason to unravel.
So he did it for you.
Each stroke of the brush was slow, careful, following the rhythm of your breath. You stared at your reflection in the mirror—blank eyes, damp lashes, skin pale beneath the warm towel. You looked like someone else. Someone broken in places even you couldn’t reach anymore.
You felt like a doll.
But not the kind little girls dreamed of being.
Not porcelain or precious.
Just something that needed to be taken care of. Constant maintenance. Fragile in all the wrong ways. A responsibility, not a person. A ticking clock of disaster that couldn’t be left alone for fear of self-destruction.
Even your death, you thought bitterly, would be a burden to someone else.
And he was a liar. A liar for lying to you about not being a burden. A liar for saying he loved you. A liar for pretending to like take care of.
You turned abruptly, reaching for the brush with too much force—both hands clamped down like yanking it from him could prove something. That you were still functional. That you weren’t a doll. That you didn’t need to be managed or handled like something fragile.
But maybe because he was smarter.
Or maybe because he’d seen the micro-expression on your face a second before you even moved.
Or maybe because he knew you—down to the exact rhythm of your panic—
He stopped you.
Spencer’s hand clenched around the brush, holding it just firmly enough to keep it from slipping out of his grasp, and his other hand reached for your wrists—gentle but fast—fingers curling around them in one practiced movement.
“I said I can do it!” you bit out, eyes shining with unshed tears, almost tussling to get to the damn brush.
Your fingers clashed with his, frantic and shaking. It wasn’t about the brush. Not really. It was about control. Dignity. Proving—if not to him, then to yourself—that you weren’t completely lost.
He threw the brush somewhere out of reach, then quickly grabbed each of your wrists in his hands. He wished—more than anything—that he could shake some sense into you, if only it were possible.
His fingers tightened—not to hurt, never to hurt—but just enough to still your trembling hands, to anchor you from the edge he could feel you sliding toward, even as you fought him with useless resistance.
You pushed against him, half-hearted and wild-eyed, breath sharp and uneven.
“Just—let me—” you gasped, but the sentence cracked apart before you could finish it.
Let you what?
Let you hurt yourself?
Let you scream?
Let you get to the brush like it could somehow untangle the knots in your mind?
Let you have one second of control, even if it came at your own expense?
He didn’t know.
You didn’t either.
“Stop it,” Spencer snapped—not loud, but with an edge. Not angry. Just terrified.
There was a shake in his voice, like he was teetering on the edge—somewhere between begging and breaking.
“I know you’re going through something,” he said, breath catching halfway through. “And I promised I’d be here for you.”
His eyes searched yours—desperate, exhausted, pleading.
“But just—” he paused, jaw tightening, the words fighting their way up through his throat like they were splintered glass. He swallowed hard, getting to your eye level and resting your hands on his forehead.
“I love you,” he said, finally looking you in the eyes. And it wasn’t soft—it was clear. Like he needed you to hear it without question. “I truly do. Nothing that has to do with you will ever be a burden to me.”
You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to cry—but he kept going, not with force, but with insistence.
“And if I have to repeat myself a hundred times, I will. I’ll say it a thousand if that’s what it takes. Every damn day if I need to.”
Your lip trembled, and he saw it—that flicker of guilt, or maybe recognition, or maybe just pain that had nowhere else to go.
“I know,” he said softly, thumb brushing beneath your eye again. “I know these are all pretty words that don’t get into your head. That bounce right off the part of you that believes you’re unlovable.”
His voice cracked, and he let out a breath through his nose, trying to steady it. Because he had to be strong for both of you. Because you would do the same for him.
“And I know you love me too, despite not saying it in a long time.”
His words were calm, steady—but the weight behind them pressed against your ribs.
You blinked. Had it really been that long?
You hadn’t realized. You didn’t remember much these days—days bled into nights, and weeks stacked like forgotten papers on your desk. You remembered to do tasks. You remembered deadlines. You remembered how much your knees hurt in the morning and how the mirror made you flinch. But you didn’t remember when you last told him you loved him.
And that realization landed hard in your chest.
Your eyes dropped to his hands still wrapped gently around your wrists. His fingers were so careful. Always careful.
That cracked something open inside you. So sharply, so suddenly, that a sob erupted from your lips before you could stop it.
He let go of your wrists instantly, arms circling around you without hesitation, drawing you in. Your face buried itself into the crook of his neck, and you gripped the fabric of his shirt like it could hold you together. His hand cradled the back of your head, the other wrapped firmly around your back, grounding you while your tears soaked through his clothes.
“I don’t like being like this,” you choked out between sobs. “I do love you, I promise. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I—”
“Shh,” he murmured against your temple. “Nothing is wrong with you.”
You cried harder, like the words hit a place inside you that hadn’t been touched in years.
“You’re struggling. That doesn’t make you broken, it makes you human,” he whispered, his voice low and steady, even as his own eyes welled. “And I’m not going anywhere. No matter what version of you wakes up in the morning. I love all of you.”
You clung to him like he was the only tether left between you and the void. Because in many ways, he was. Your fingers fisted the fabric of his shirt, desperate, terrified—not of him, but of yourself. Of what more damage the darkness curling inside you could still do.
What it could make you say. What it could make you stop feeling.
He didn’t move, didn’t flinch. One arm wrapped firmly around your back, the other cradled the nape of your neck, fingertips threading through damp strands of your hair with gentle insistence.
“You’ll get better,” he whispered, and there wasn’t a single crack in it—just quiet, absolute certainty. “It will take time. And effort. And probably more bad days than either of us want.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, almost bracing for the but that usually followed.
But it never came.
“I’ll be here,” he continued, pressing his lips to your temple, voice steady, grounding.
When you finally calmed down, Spencer gently finished brushing your hair, his movements slow and careful like he was threading peace back into every strand. He helped you slip into your softest pajamas—loose, comforting fabric that wouldn’t irritate your sensitive skin.
Then he handed you a small glass of water and a soft, weighted blanket. One of those designed with deep-pressure therapy in mind. A little ridiculous, maybe, but there was research behind it. Weighted stimulation had been shown to activate the parasympathetic nervous system, reducing cortisol levels and helping with emotional regulation. He’d read three papers on it before buying the damn thing.
He would never stop fighting for you to be you again—
not just the version the world saw, but the one buried beneath all the pain and silence.
Because to him, you were worth every battle, every sleepless night, every whispered promise.
And no matter how long it took, he would be there—steadfast, unwavering—holding the line until you found your way back to yourself.
.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳.
Feedback feeds motivation! Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated <3
Hello lovely, if your taking requests, may i request depressed reader x spencer reid. like hurt comfort, spencer comforting reader who’s having a hard time. (maybe sh but only if your comfortable with writing that)
Have a great day! ☕️🍪
hi! i basically obliged myself to write something and not doom scroll all day after passing all my finals lol. im posting your request tomorrow. i hope it's what you wanted or imagined. i think i went on a tangent about the comforting lol.
as a psychology student i want to clarify diagnosis is a privilege given by capitalism (don't make me elaborate bc i'll bore you) and it's also something you can not diagnose yourself with. It's important to understand that having depressive episodes is normal as long as they don't last longer than around 2 weeks!
i did include sh, it's not the typical depressed!reader who rots in bed bc that's also a stereotype and a privilege.
i do not want to offend anyone by all this. i believe information and knowledge is power. and depression gets way too romanticized.
thank you for your request. it made me want to write again ❤️.
Summary: if you had the chance to punish a monster and get away with it the same way they did, would you do it? would you feel guilty or maybe even enjoy it?
Pairing: lawyer!reader
Genre: suspense? idk how to categorize this READ A/N
WC: 800!
TW: murder, blood, reader as unsub? torture if u squint, female rage!
A/N: this is placed inside lawyer!reader's mind, she's a morally grey characther and if u're not comfortable with that is okay, this is me verbalizing and taking to the extreme what every woman has ever felt once in their life, SPENCER APPEARS ONLY SLIGHTLY AT THE END, this is fiction and i like to have fun with it and the characther i built. if u want to know more about reader's past you can find out here
please read it while listening to this song!
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You were dreaming. That much was obvious.
The scene and the characters might change depending on your day, but never what happened. Always the same place: the top of a staircase leading down into a humid basement. You never felt fear or hesitation. Sometimes, you even rested your hand on the railing like you enjoyed the sound of someone straining against their restraints.
There was always music playing in the background—something moody and danceable. This time, it was That’s Life by Frank Sinatra. You pulled the chain hanging from the ceiling, lighting the bulb. And just like always, you were faced with a pair of eyes.
Eyes meant to be seen. Eyes meant to be enjoyed—for their fear. If they even felt it.
Sometimes they were black. Sometimes crystal blue. Sometimes green. Most of them dead—not dead like corpses, but dead like something twisted and hollow inside. And you were always glad there were no mirrors in this dream. Seeing those eyes reflected in your own would be the end of you.
Anyway, tonight, the eyes belonged to a man you had prosecuted two weeks ago. He’d walked away from the charges—murder and rape of three children.
He had even winked at you when the judge read the verdict.
All because the only witness you had was an undocumented immigrant—someone who had wished you luck with all the sincerity in the world, but couldn’t afford to help. Not when speaking up could cost her everything.
Something that changed from dream to dream was the weapon.
Sometimes it was a gun—clean, distant, and too quick.
Sometimes a bat, which felt cliché, but you welcomed it anyway.
You’d gone through all of them, really: a hammer, cold and heavy; a tire iron, a kitchen knife. Once, it was a length of barbed wire, wrapped around your wrist like a ribbon.
Another time, a fireplace poker, glowing faintly at the tip.
You’d used a pair of pliers. A crowbar. A wrench. A meat tenderizer. A belt. A broken bottle. A screwdriver. A corkscrew.
You picked the weapon on duty up from the workbench with the casual grace of always. The music swelled again—Sinatra’s voice looping back as if the record were scratched: “That's life, that's what all the people say...”
Do you need more details about what happened during the dream?
Well, if you really want to know—sometimes there was a little dialogue. Conversations not meant to be remembered word for word, but heavy with meaning. About how fascinating it was to test the edges of your own morality. To push until the idea of guilt felt like something distant, almost fictional.
How far could you go without feeling ashamed? Without feeling any guilt at all?
Maybe it was because you knew it was a dream. That’s what kept you from crossing a certain line. Or maybe it was because they were always the same type of man—rapists, abusers, pedophiles, molesters, traffickers, predators, monsters.
Sure, justice with your own hands wasn’t justice at all. But the swing of your arm, the impact against flesh, and the splash of blood on your clothes—it all felt like justice.
The moans of pain and cries for mercy always came. They never stopped you. Sometimes your hands looked like they belonged to your childhood self, small and trembling. Other times, the faces you struck shifted endlessly—replaced over and over by ghosts from your past.
Eventually, you stopped—exhausted, breath ragged, your hands crimson red, some of the blood soaking into your clothes, sometimes more than others. You wiped the thin layer of sweat from your forehead as Sinatra’s voice floated through the room. “Many times I thought of cutting out, but my heart won't buy it”
The man in front of you was nothing but agonizing, bloody, unrecognizable pulp—one blow away from death. With a final swing, just before your weapon connected, you woke up softly.
Spencer shook you gently. “Get up, heavy dreamer. You’re already ten minutes behind.”
He kissed your forehead as you groaned, stretching slowly, waking beside the man who always pulled you back from the edge.
“How did you sleep?” he asked, adjusting his purple tie.
“Good,” you said with a loose smile. You’d never told him about the dream—and doubted you ever would. But every time you dreamed it, it was a good night of sleep.
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Feedback feeds motivation! Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated <3
Summary: Spencer Reid shows love in all the ways he knows how—whether it's making sure his gf eats well or eating her out like it's the most natural way to worship her.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x reader (not necessarily lawyer!reader but yeah it's her)
Genre: smut/NSFW (i know. me? so weird)
WC: 2.1k!
TW: fingering, oral (f receiving), AFTERCARE!!
A/N: im alive :p and this is what happens when me and my gf dont have sex in 2 weeks lol. minors do not interact!
Masterlist (it's not necessary to read the first 4 chapters!)
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You let out a frustrated huff, glaring at the endless stack of case files, briefs, and annotated court decisions scattered across your desk. Legal jargon, precedent, motions—you’d spent the whole afternoon parsing through it all, mentally preparing for the courtroom battles ahead.
It was only Wednesday, and the week already felt endless.
With a sigh, you dropped your head to the desk, forehead meeting wood with a soft thud in your shared apartment’s quiet study. You didn’t even flinch when you heard Spencer’s footsteps behind you.
His hands came to rest gently on your shoulders. “Come on,” he said softly, thumbs beginning to knead the tension in your muscles. “You should take a break… or call it for the day and eat something. You’ve been at this for hours.”
You didn’t lift your head, but you leaned back into his touch with a quiet groan, letting him work the stress from your neck and shoulders.
“I can’t,” you mumbled into the desk. “I have three pre-trial motions, one defense strategy to dismantle, and a prosecutor who thinks citing Latin makes him clever.”
Spencer huffed a small laugh, his fingers expertly working over the tight muscles in your shoulders. “Fiat voluntas tua—let it be your will,” he murmured near your ear, the Latin smooth and affectionate on his tongue.
You barely registered the kiss he pressed to the side of your neck, but you did feel the warmth of his hands as they slipped lower, gently untucking your shirt from the waistband of your slacks with quiet precision. The kind of slow, deliberate movement that said he wasn’t rushing—he was inviting.
“Come on,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “let me help you relax.”
Your breath hitched, and for a moment you hesitated. The weight of the day still lingered in your mind—but his voice, his hands, the warmth of his body close behind yours… it was so easy to melt into it.
He felt your body begin to soften beneath his touch, the tension bleeding away as your shoulders lowered, your breath deepened. He knew he’d convinced you—not with pressure, but with patience.
Spencer gently helped you rise from the chair, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek as his hands found the first button of your blouse. You didn’t stop him. Instead, you let him walk you slowly back toward the bedroom, one step at a time, his fingers working open the buttons with a kind of reverence. He took his time, eyes flicking up to yours between each one.
Your legs bumped the edge of the bed and you sat with a quiet exhale, letting yourself surrender to the moment. He knelt in front of you without a word, a quiet offering of himself, and leaned in to kiss along your stomach as he helped slide the shirt from your shoulders. You moved in tandem, undoing your pants, lifting your hips to slide them off with his help.
He was still in his slacks and dress shirt—no tie, sleeves rolled to the elbows—but he hadn’t made a move to undress. This wasn’t about him. This was about giving you space to breathe. To let go. To be taken care of.
Spencer pressed another kiss to your inner thigh, his hands steady on your hips. “Lie back,” he murmured, voice velvet-soft. “Let me take it from here.”
Spencer reached for a pillow, his touch gentle as he slipped it beneath your hips, easing the familiar ache that often settled in your lower back after long hours at your desk. His fingers hooking into your panties and sliding them down with care, kissing a slow, reverent path along your thighs as he did. Each kiss was soft, warm, almost worshipful—like he was reminding you how deeply he adored every inch of you.
Once you were bare, he moved back up, the heat of his body hovering over yours as he kissed you fully, deeply. His mouth moved with purpose, tongue slipping past your lips to meet yours. There was no rush—just the steady, grounding rhythm of him.
As his mouth explored yours, his fingers found the last item still clinging to your skin—your bra—and he unhooked it with ease, sliding the straps down your arms with a touch so careful it felt like a promise.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze soft but burning with focus, with care, with want. His fingertips brushed down your side “You okay?” he whispered, voice husky but patient.
You nodded. “Yeah,” you said softly, knowing he liked hearing the words. Spencer gave you a small smile before dipping his head, returning to the trail of kisses he’d started earlier. His mouth found the curve of your neck, warm and deliberate, moving slowly down to your chest.
He took one nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking gently over it before sucking, drawing a soft gasp from your lips. His free hand cupped your other breast, thumb and forefinger teasing the nipple with practiced, tender precision. You hummed in response, pleasure curling in your stomach as the steady rhythm of his mouth and hands grounded you.
He gave both of your breasts equal attention, switching between them until they were perfectly perked, glistening faintly in the soft light of the bedroom from his mouth. The sight made something flutter deep inside you—how focused he was, how thoroughly he worshipped every inch of you.
Once satisfied, he kissed his way down your body, slow and deliberate—along your sternum, across your stomach, pausing just above your navel to savor the way your skin trembled under his lips.
He adjusted his position, settling in deeper between your thighs, looping them over his shoulders like it was second nature. His hands gripped your hips just enough to anchor you.
Then he leaned in—his tongue pressing flat against your pussy, collecting the slickness there and spreading it with slow, purposeful strokes. The warmth of him sent a pulse through your core, each pass of his tongue both soothing and electric.
He liked taking his time with you — licking and sucking slowly at your clit, his tongue teasing between your folds with deliberate care. The way your thighs gradually relaxed, your fingers threading softly through his hair, told him everything he needed to know. He felt the weight of your legs draped over his shoulders, the warmth of your skin against his cheeks as he moved with purpose, circling his tongue with gentle precision.
You weren’t the type to moan — not loudly, not for show. Instead, you gasped, breath hitching in your throat, soft huffs slipping out as your fingers combed slowly through his hair. There was something grounding about the way he ate you out — like he wasn’t just chasing your pleasure, but studying it, learning you.
Maybe it was the warmth of his tongue, the way it moved with purpose. Or the wet, open-mouthed kisses he left on the insides of your thighs, patient and steady. Whatever it was, it made your body soften beneath him, made the tight coil of tension you always carried begin to unravel. With him between your legs, everything else quieted.
His mouth closed over your clit, kissing and sucking with slow precision as one hand slid back upward, finding your breast. He cupped it gently, his fingers teasing the hardened nipple beneath his touch, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat.
There was something deeply satisfying about going down on you — not just for the physical reaction, but for what it meant. It wasn’t instinct or biology driving him. There was nothing reproductive about it. Having his mouth buried in your wetness felt intimate, intentional — almost sacred. A quiet act of trust that he didn’t take for granted, not for a second.
He loved sucking on your clit until it was puffy and swollen, flushed red from the attention. Every nerve ending — all 8,000 of them — was his to activate, to light up one by one until pleasure rippled through you like a current he was controlling with care.
“Spence,” you gasped, eyes squeezed shut, voice barely more than breath.
He answered by squeezing your thigh, grounding you, his mouth never leaving you. His tongue circled your entrance with slow, deliberate strokes, and the bridge of his nose brushed your clit with every movement.
Your hands tangled deliciously in his hair, pulling gently as the pleasure built inside you. His hand remained on your breast, teasing your nipple with slow, deliberate strokes that added to the growing heat. The pillow beneath your hips eased the tension in your back, giving him perfect access as he flicked his tongue over and over.
His rhythm was steady and unrelenting, driving your thighs to press instinctively against his head. The sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, almost drowning out your breathy moans, was pure heaven for Spencer. His free hand spread your folds wide, fingers exploring your entrance with tender insistence.
Wet noises and soft, ragged moans filled the bedroom, wrapping around you like a warm, intoxicating cocoon.
“Don’t sto—p,” you moaned, your voice trembling as the knot in your stomach tightened. One of his fingers slid inside you slowly, curling upward toward that spongy spot Spencer knew so well.
He felt your body tense, your legs trembling slightly as he added another finger, moving with steady precision. His tongue flicked pointedly over your clit, circling with deliberate intent.
As you neared the peak of your pleasure, waves crashing through you one after another, both your hands gripped Spencer firmly against your core. His tongue never faltered, keeping its steady rhythm as you rode out your release.
Maybe you started grinding against his face at some point, riding the waves of pleasure washing through your body — that delicious, liberating tension gathered in your stomach and spilling over.
His thumb traced slow circles on your thigh as his tongue continued to taste you softly, flattening against you with tender persistence. His fingers pumped slowly, caressing the sides of your body, steadying you as you rode out your orgasm.
When the waves began to subside, he eased back gently, planting soft kisses along your thighs—slowly moving down, almost reaching your knees as he settled back onto his m, eyes searching your face for the quiet relief and love he saw reflected there.
“Better?” he asked softly, careful not to disturb the quiet stillness that lingered in the room.
You hummed in response, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. Your hand reached for his cheek, brushing it gently. He leaned into the touch, kissing the inside of your palm before slowly rising from the bed.
You reached for his pillow, nuzzling your face into it. His scent—warm, familiar, his shampoo and something uniquely him—wrapped around you like a blanket.
In the distance, you heard the faucet running as he rinsed his hands and mouth, then wet a towel with warm water. A few moments later, his quiet footsteps returned, and you felt the gentle touch of his fingertips on your arm as he opened your hand—the one you’d used to hold him—and wiped it clean with care.
“Can I?” he whispered in your ear, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head.
You nodded without opening your eyes.
His hand moved slowly between your legs, gentle and respectful. He liked taking care of you—not just before or during, but after. Especially after. He knew how much you hated the feeling of being sticky, and this small gesture was one of many ways he showed you he was paying attention.
When he was done, he folded the towel neatly and set it on the nightstand, the silence between you both tender, as you abandoned the pillow to hug him, laying over his chest.
His hand drifted slowly down your spine, fingers tracing each vertebra with quiet intent—S1, L5, L4—counting them silently like a litany. A methodical ritual, grounding him. He continued upward, naming each one in his mind until he reached the delicate curve at the base of your neck—C1.
He paused there, fingertips resting against your pulse point. Your heartbeat thudded gently beneath his touch, still slowing from the high. He counted the beats, calculating your heart rate—just a little elevated, but still within normal post-orgasmic range. Around 92 bpm, he estimated.
Spencer exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing over the nape of your neck, where skin met spine. He wasn’t sure if he was studying you or holding on to you—but maybe they were the same thing.
His mind recorded everything—the rhythm of your breath, the warmth of your skin, the subtle shift of your shoulder blade beneath his palm. At the end of the day, every sound, every word, every scientific detail got etched into his memory like ink on paper. But his skin would always crave yours.
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Feedback feeds motivation! Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated <3
Your spencer reid x lawyer!reader is one of the BEST works I've seen in the fandom, I'm sooo excited to see how it will turn out! I love the way you write all of the characters in such an organic way, it feels like watching an episode of the series. All the dinamics are flawless and I love the interactions between Woody and the others, specially Morgan. You are an excellent writer, we get really absorbed in the scenes with all the feelings and descriptions without it being too much
Really, congratulations. Can't wait to read more of it 🤍
THANK YOU DEAR i really love to imagine how the show would be like if woody was a canon character and i always try to make what i write as close to the original show as possible. maybe that's why every fic i post it's unnecessary long lol.
whatsoever thank you for your words. i am writing more about woody and spencer that i'll lost when it's done 🫶🏻
very alive and with new ideas! i just finished my midterms this past Friday, im pretty tired but i'll start drafting the new ideas for lawyer!reader x spencer reid. thank you for the concern 🫶🏻🫶🏻
Summary: what happens when spencer hears the rumors about your teenage years? what happens when some of those rumors are true?.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x lawyer!reader
Genre: hurt/comfort and fluff at the end!
wc: 5.5k!
TW: burning wounds, bullying, misogyny/patriarchal behavior, violent and impulsive behavior. not proofread yet.
A/N: in the middle of writting this i realized it's very based on "the archer" and "the man" by Taylor Swift
Masterlist! (it's not necessary to read the first 4 chapters!)
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If we're talking about anecdotes from your teenage years, well—there’s not much to tell. Just the totally mundane story of an angry, emotionally volatile teenager with too much brainpower who somehow bulldozed her way into Harvard Law. No big deal.
JJ had great stories about high school—being the captain of her football team, those wholesome, small-town moments straight out of a coming-of-age movie. Emily had the wildest stories—traveling the world, the chaos of never staying in one place, and even the ones that made you feel something, like how badly she just wanted to fit in.
It started with the urgent case the BAU was handed—students linked to an elite Harvard secret society were disappearing, their bodies found staged in ritualistic ways. As the case unfolded, Spencer turned to you, his voice a little more cautious than usual.
“Do you know anything about some Seraphic Circle?”
You didn’t need to think. You’d heard plenty about them. Too much, really. "I’ve heard of them," you said, your tone dripping with disdain and rolling your eyes. “Rich kids with too much money and power. Half of them don’t even deserve to be there, but their families pay for their spot.”
You were reluctant towards accepting going with them to Massachusetts, too much memories and teh constant fear someone might recognize you and call you out for past decisions that maybe weren't the best. Maybe they were worse than you wanted to confess and might even scare Spencer away.
Still, he had asked you to accompany them. “Do you think they will remember you?”
“Nah… i don’t think so, they have tons of law students per year so…” maybe your words were right, but the higher thn usual pitch on your tone gave you away to spencer, that only he was able to detect, of how you weren’t saying all the true
Long story short, that's how you end up where you are right now, walking behind de BAU towards the Dean of Harvard office, with Spencer by your side.
You reach the office just as Hotch shakes the dean’s hand, introducing each member of the team. “SSA Jareau, SSA Morgan, and Dr. Reid,” he says, gesturing to each of them in turn. “We also brought—”
“Woodvale.”
The dean’s voice cuts through the room the moment his eyes land on you, recognition flickering across his face. Not even a hundred years would be enough to erase your name from his memory. He didn't like you back then.
An almost cynical, carefully polite smile curves your lips as you extend your hand. “Dean Langford.”
He grips your hand firmly, his expression unreadable. “Seems like you’ve come a long way from that time your burned one of my students”
The atmosphere in the room shifts instantly, tension crackling like a live wire. But you don’t let it show, ignoring how he didn’t consider you a proper student. Instead, your voice remains cool, measured.
“Those accusations were debunked after no evidence was found,” you say smoothly. “Unlike the very real recordings and witness statements I had of that same student saying—” you pause, tilting your head slightly, your smile sharpening, “women became hysterical when it came to sexual crimes.’”
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Emily and JJ smirking, while Langford’s expression hardens.
The dean's smile barely falters. So, he does remember you. Not surprising—back then, you were even more impulsive than you are now. And that says a lot.
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Don’t ask how, but somehow Garcia had dug up records that gave the team a list of names tied to the so-called “secret society.” Ironically, when the BAU interviewed students about it, everyone seemed to know what it was—just not anything useful.
“They sacrifice animals.”
“A bunch of douchebags with too much money.”
“They run everything. If you’re one of them, you’re untouchable.”
“Do any of the names look familiar?” Rossi asked, sliding the list toward you.
You scanned it, then shook your head. “Only the last names. But that’s not surprising—most of them come from old money.”
Garcia had also uncovered some interesting financial records. One name stood out: Andrew Carrington, former lawyer at his family’s prestigious Massachusetts firm. A-class dickhead.
“He’s got buildings in the city,” Garcia said, displaying files on the computer. “But his family’s the real power—deep pockets, old money. There are even a couple of campus buildings with their name on them.”
Rossi raised a brow. “Legacy admission?”
“More like a blank check.” You leaned back. “Everyone knew he bought his way in.”
“Any possibility he’s involved?” Hotch asked.
You considered it for a moment before shaking your head. “I don’t think so. Back then, this club was his pride. These murders? They only drag its prestige through the mud.”
“So… this Seraphic Circle thing,” Emily said, tilting her head. “Were you ever part of it?”
The police station buzzed around you, a low hum of voices and ringing phones, but your focus was on the files in front of you. Spencer sat beside you, skimming through pages with his usual quiet intensity. Neither of you was big on PDA—no hand-holding, no lingering touches in front of the team—but subtlety was an art you both had mastered. Your elbows brushed as you shifted in your seat, his knee resting against yours, the quiet pressure grounding.
“Not really,” you answered finally. “They claimed you had to have a big name in law, but what they really meant was that you had to be rich—and if you were a man? Even better.”
Morgan flipped through a file. “But you do know this Carrington guy.”
Before you could answer, Spencer’s fingers brushed against the side of your knee—a light touch so subtle no one else would notice. A quiet signal. He’d felt your tension the moment Morgan had mentioned Carrington.
You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. “Yeah… It was hard not to know someone like him. He’s got that whole ‘king of the school’ vibe, but honestly, he’s not capable of something like this.” You spoke nonchalantly, but your voice betrayed a hint of discomfort.
The team shifted focus to the next lead, moving on to analyze the unsub’s possible personality traits. After a few more exchanges, the decision was made to call Carrington in for questioning tomorrow—there was no use doing it this late. The discussion had settled, but Spencer’s fingers brushed against your knee again, just enough for you to catch it. He was still attuned to your every movement, a silent understanding between the two of you.
After that, Hotch made the call for everyone to get some rest. One by one, the team decided to call it a night, heading out to their respective rooms. You and Spencer lingered behind, both of you wrapping up the last of your thoughts on the case.
Spencer was the one to break the silence. He looked around the station, then at you. His eyes softened for a moment before he spoke. “Enough for tonight. Let’s get some sleep.”
You nodded, thankful for the break. As Spencer found your coat, you dropped the files onto the nearest table. You stood still as he slid the coat onto your shoulders, the fabric brushing against your skin. As he did, you both made the mistake of letting your hands touch—just a fleeting brush—but it sent a warmth through your chest.
The walk to the motel was calm, with the quiet night air wrapping around you both. Spencer felt a strange mixture of calm and anticipation swirling in his chest, emotions he didn’t usually indulge. It wasn’t something he had the vocabulary for, not in his usual clinical sense. For once, there wasn’t a need for facts or equations to understand the feeling that settled inside him.
His fingers, almost absent-mindedly, curled into yours. It was a subtle movement, but the softness of it caught him by surprise. His thumb traced small, slow circles over the back of your hand, a tender rhythm he couldn’t quite explain. For someone who usually lived in the world of patterns and logic, this was unfamiliar territory. But the simple touch, the way your fingers fit together so naturally—it felt right.
In a world where everything was either solvable or predictable, this felt like the exception. There was no analysis needed. No need to question why it felt so much like a moment he wanted to hold onto. Maybe it was the quiet between you two, or the way everything around you seemed to fade as his thumb ran over your hand. All Spencer knew was that in that moment, nothing else mattered.
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The next morning, Hotch had sent Morgan and Prentiss off to speak with students on the campus, while he and Rossi took over the interrogation. The room felt different now, quieter—like the calm before another storm.
Andrew Carrigton settled into the chair like he was sitting at a country club luncheon rather than an interrogation room. His suit was crisp, his cufflinks glinting under the fluorescent lights. If he was rattled by the fact that three of his former society’s members were dead, he didn’t show it.
Hotch sat across from him, his expression unreadable. Morgan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, unimpressed.
“Mr. Carrigton,” Hotch began, “we’re investigating the murders of three students, all of whom were members of the Seraphic Circle. You were one of its founders. We need information.”
Carrigton exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Tragic. Truly. But I haven’t been involved in years. You’d be better off asking one of the new recruits.”
Hotch didn’t budge. “We’re asking you.”
Carrigton smirked, tilting his head. “What do you want me to say? That it’s a secret society? That we have rituals and secret handshakes?” He chuckled. “Come on, Agent. It’s a networking club. A prestigious one, sure, but hardly the Illuminati.”
Rossi let out a sharp breath, unimpressed. “Right. A ‘networking club’ where only the rich and powerful get in, and anyone who doesn’t measure up gets chewed up and spit out.”
Carrigton raised an eyebrow. “That’s life, isn’t it?”
Hotch didn’t rise to the bait. “The night of the first murder, there was an event. Who was in attendance?”
Carrigton hummed, tapping a thoughtful finger against his jaw. “Hard to say. The Circle’s grown since my time. Dozens of faces, most of which I wouldn’t recognize.”
“You’re still connected. You know the leadership.”
Another lazy shrug. “I might know a few names. But as I said, things change. The president rotates out, always some eager young thing desperate to prove themselves. They run the show until the next one takes over.” He smirked. “I imagine the current one is quite overwhelmed.”
“Who’s pulling the strings?” Hotch asked.
Carrigton chuckled. “You give us too much credit, Agent. It’s not some grand conspiracy. It’s a club. People join, people leave. Some do well, some don’t.”
“And the ones who don’t?”
Carrigton waved a dismissive hand. “They drop out. Go on with their lives. Or—” he smiled, sharp, “—they stew in their resentment, blaming others for their own failures.”
Morgan’s jaw tightened. “You think that’s what happened here?”
Carrigton leaned back in his chair, perfectly at ease. “I think it’s always the same story. Someone on the outside looking in, bitter that they weren’t enough. And now they want to take it out on the ones who were.”
Hotch’s voice was cold. “That’s a convenient theory. But it doesn’t answer our questions.”
Carrigton’s smirk widened. “Then maybe you’re asking the wrong ones.”
From the other side of the glass, you watched Carrigton with growing irritation. He was the same smug, arrogant bastard you remembered from college, only now it was worse. His attitude hadn’t changed a bit, and neither had his ability to waste everyone’s time with his deflections.
You couldn’t help but roll your eyes as he ran his mouth, completely ignoring the fact that three people were dead, his precious club possibly involved. He was too busy leaning back in his chair, playing at some sick power game.
You glanced at JJ, your patience already hanging by a thread. “There’s no cameras here, right?”
JJ, clearly thrown off by the sudden question, gave you a puzzled look. “No… why?”
Without answering, you turned your focus back to Carrigton and felt your hands tighten into fists. His polished smirk made your blood boil, his greasy hair gleaming under the lights. Your shoulders squared, the weight of your frustration making your movements sharper. You ignored Spencer’s curious glance, his quiet scrutiny as he watched you.
You didn’t have time for any of this.
You walked to the door and knocked once, the sound sharp in the sterile room. Before anyone could respond, you turned the handle, stepping into the interrogation room.
Carrigton’s eyes locked onto you the second you walked in. His gaze flickered briefly, a subtle but noticeable flash of discomfort before he quickly masked it with that same patronizing grin.
“Well, well,” he sneered, adjusting the collar of his shirt like he was trying to put some distance between himself and the real world. “I didn’t realize the FBI was hiring gutter rats now.”
Spencer tensed from the other side of the glass, his expression hardening as his frustration mounted. He was clearly growing angrier at Carrigton’s smug demeanor, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing you were even a little fazed. You simply smirked and kept your focus on the man sitting in front of you.
Carrigton’s glare never left you as you stepped closer, your tone ice-cold. “This ‘gutter rat’ is about to charge you with obstruction of justice if you don’t start talking, Andrew.”
Carrigton's eyes narrowed, his lips curling in a sneer. “That’s blackmail.”
You didn’t flinch. “And if you keep dragging your feet, that’s another charge—contempt of court. Trust me, I’ve got plenty more where that came from.” You leaned in just enough to make sure he heard you loud and clear. “You want to keep playing games, or you want to start answering questions?”
Carrigton shifted in his seat, the cockiness starting to waver, but he still clung to that arrogance like a shield, gripping it with white-knuckled desperation.
“I want my lawyer,” he said, forcing his voice to stay even.
You scoff, tilting your head as if you were genuinely considering his words before your lips curled into something sharp and ruthless.
"Is that your way of admitting you’re not a good enough lawyer to defend yourself?" Your voice was smooth, razor-edged silk, venom threaded through every syllable. "Start talking."
His nostrils flared, a flicker of something—hesitation, anger, maybe both. It was barely a breath, but you caught it.
"From what I know, the admission process has gone to hell," he sneered, grasping at arrogance like a lifeline. "I spoke with their president last week about it. I'm not throwing my money at that place just for them to start letting in anyone."
Rossi’s eyebrows lifted as he slid the crime scene photos across the table, each image a stark, undeniable truth. “Are these people just ‘anyone’ to you, Andrew?”
For the first time, Carrigton’s arrogance fractured. It was subtle—the flicker of his gaze, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t reach for the photos.
And then you saw it. No matter how high his shirt collar was, it couldn’t quite hide the edges of old scars peeking out—angry, uneven marks trailing up the side of his neck, disappearing beneath expensive fabric.
"We didn’t have anything to do with this," Carrigton muttered, his voice suddenly lacking its earlier bravado. His eyes flickered briefly over the crime scene photos, but his gaze quickly dropped.
"Who’s ‘we’?" Hotch’s voice was cold, demanding, cutting through the silence.
Carrigton didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he shifted in his seat, hands gripping the edges of the table, knuckles turning white. He wasn’t as confident as before.
You could feel it—he was trying to hide the discomfort, but it was there. The truth always made people uncomfortable.
You pushed yourself off the wall, your movement slow and deliberate, your eyes never leaving him as you circled around behind him. He tensed, just slightly at first, but it was enough.
The memory was still fresh, and you knew it. He hadn’t forgotten how you burned him—how the scalding coffee had left that mark on his neck. He was trying not to show it, but it was eating at him, that simmering, seething reminder that you’d done it and he couldn’t touch you for it.
You stopped just behind him, letting your presence loom over him like a shadow. He could feel your gaze, feel the space between you—too close for comfort, too close for someone who hated you as much as he did.
"What’s the matter, Andrew?" You leaned in, your voice low and smooth, but your words sharp as a knife. "Don’t like me standing here?"
"I told him to stop accepting anyone," Carrigton muttered, his voice tightening as he stumbled over the words. "Grayson Locke, that's his name. Legacy admission. But I had nothing to do with this. We even went through some names, cut people off."
You could feel the hesitation in his voice, the way he was trying to distance himself from the mess that was unfolding. His words were almost defensive, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as you. The stammering wasn’t lost on you—it was almost pathetic.
"What names?" Rossi’s voice was firm, but he wasn’t pushing too hard yet. He was letting Carrigton sweat just a little longer, a strategy you were both accustomed to.
Carrigton's jaw tightened, his eyes darting nervously between Morgan and you. "It was a list," he said quickly, almost as though the words were tumbling out before he could stop them. "Just find him. Tell him I told you to give it to you." He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering to the door. "Outside of that, I don’t know anything else."
There it was. The slip. The admission that he was just as tangled in this as the rest of them. But it wasn’t enough. Rossi stepped out of the interrogation room, heading off to search for the list.
“See? Was that so hard?” You taunted, slumping into the chair Rossi had just vacated, your eyes never leaving Carrigton. His smug façade cracked, just enough for you to see the shift. The sense of discomfort that he could no longer hide.
His eyes flicked to you, venom dripping from his words. “You think you’ve won? All you are is a stray dog who’ll burn in hell.” He spat the words, his jaw tight, but beneath the bravado, there was fear creeping in.
You straightened in the chair, completely unbothered by his outburst. “And you’ll be right there with me. I guess you know a thing or two about burning, don’t you?” Your smirk was sharp, a silent jab at the scars on his neck, the ones you’d left there.
His expression faltered, just for a second, but it was enough to make your blood run colder. Without warning, he shot to his feet, slamming his palms down on the table with a force that made it rattle. His face was inches from yours now, his breath stinking of rage and something darker—panic.
“Fuck you, you deranged bitch,” he hissed, his voice barely contained. “You’ll always be the daughter of some filthy addicts. You’ll never belong to this world. My world.”
You didn’t move, didn’t even blink. The words hit, but they didn’t land. “Did I strike a nerve?” You leaned forward slightly, your tone dropping to a razor-sharp whisper. “Or should I say... burn a nerve?”
Carrigton’s entire body stiffened, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles went white, veins bulging from his hands. His chest heaved with the kind of raw anger that radiated off him like a furnace. “You’re still the same psycho bitch I met years ago.”
You didn’t flinch, didn’t let his venomous words land, only smirked. “Have you learned how to make women come, Carrigton? Or are you still calling them hysterical? Is that why your wife is filing for divorce?”
It wasn’t just the words, but the sharpness of your tone, the deliberate push of your venom that made it sting even more. Garcia had provided all the dirt, the skeletons hidden deep in his closet. You weren’t above having a little fun with it, using it to your advantage. Carrigton, though, was losing his composure with every word you threw at him.
You opened your mouth to retort, but Hotch beat you to it, rising from his seat. "Enough. We appreciate your time, Mr. Carrington. We'll contact you if we need further information," he said, his voice calm but firm.
Andrew huffed dismissively, rising to leave. As he reached the door, he paused, casting one last venomous glance in your direction. "You think you’ve got a place in this world? Trust me, you don’t. People like you? They end up alone, scrambling to hold onto the little sanity they have left before it all slips away."
He didn’t wait for a response, Spencer’s gaze locked with yours the moment Andrew was out of the room. His eyes were filled with concern, but you chose not to address it. Now wasn’t the time.
Instead, you stayed silent, the words echoing in your head. Something about them stuck, gnawing at you. Maybe it was the way he spoke—like he knew something about you that you hadn’t even fully admitted to yourself. Scrambling. It was true, wasn’t it? You were constantly on edge, barely holding it together, pretending that you didn’t feel like you were one step away from losing it. Maybe it would be easier to just give in, let go, and fulfill everyone’s expectations of you. Be the damaged, angry, broken thing they wanted you to be.
For a moment, you almost believed his words.
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If murdered students weren’t enough to set the rumor mill on fire, your presence definitely did. The thing about rumors is that they spread like wildfire.
“Sooo… guess what we’ve heard?” Emily’s voice broke through the room as she and the others approached, grinning like they had just uncovered the juiciest piece of gossip on campus.
“Anything useful?” you asked without looking up from the file you were flipping through. “Or is this about the librarian hooking up with students in the archives? Because if it is—old news.”
Morgan smirked, shaking his head. “Nah, actually, we heard about some girl who once got a professor fired.”
“And,” Prentiss added, leaning in with a knowing smile, “was banned from mock trial as a freshman after making another student indirectly confess he bought the answers to his exams.”
Your fingers froze for just a split second—the briefest pause, barely perceptible to anyone but Spencer, who noticed it right away.
You shrugged, trying to keep your voice steady. “People get weirdly creative when it comes to making up rumors.”
Emily raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “So you’re telling me,” she pressed, “that you’ve never heard of the girl who burned some rich kid’s manuscript because he plagiarized her?”
You sighed, closing the file with exaggerated nonchalance. “Sounds like a legend. And legends aren’t real.”
Emily snorted, clearly enjoying this. “Or when she threw a chair at a debate judge for interrupting her?”
Morgan gasped dramatically. “And don’t forget when she flipped a Monopoly board at a networking event after some trust fund brat said she didn’t have the ‘pedigree’ for law.”
Emily smirked. “I heard she broke his nose.”
You shrug it off. “Monopoly makes people violent. Everyone knows that.”
You knew they weren’t trying to be mean, but you’d rather die than show any hint of regret. You had made some questionable choices in the past, but those didn’t define who you were now. Right?
Morgan chuckled, crossing his arms. “Right, right. So I guess the whole thing about you making a guy cry so hard during a mock trial that he dropped out of law school is fake too?”
You were forced to pretend not being able to stop the small smirk tugged at your lips, “Okay, in my defense, that guy was pretentious and thought using big words would make him win.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow, “Some student mentioned you, uh, burning people when they pissed you off.” He exchanged a glance with Prentiss, both of them catching on to your lack of eye contact. “Is that what the Dean was referring to?”
You couldn’t help but feel a slight heat creep up your neck, but you managed to keep your gaze on the desk, avoiding their eyes. You didn’t need to give them the satisfaction of seeing how much it bothered you. “People talk,” you muttered. “But if you believe everything they say, you’re as crazy as they are.”
You could’ve fooled anyone in that room full of profilers, because hiding behind your indifference mask was something you were well-practiced at. That was, of course, if they didn’t know you deeply. If they didn’t spend weekends with you, cooking together, exchanging quiet conversations and inside jokes. If they weren’t Spencer Reid—the only one in the room who could read beneath the surface.
He noticed the way you winced when you shifted your neck, the subtle way you massaged the sore muscles with your hand, avoiding eye contact with everyone. To anyone else, it might have seemed like nothing, but to him, it was a clear sign that something was off. You weren’t as fine as you were pretending to be.
"Anyone want anything? I’m doing a coffee run." You don’t wait for an answer, already making your way toward the break room. But the laughter behind you lingers—harmless, good-natured, but still too close to the laughter of your ex-classmates. It curls around your ribs like a memory you don’t want.
You don’t notice Spencer saying he’ll come with you, but you realize he’s there when you hear his footsteps—loud enough for you to hear him, deliberate so he doesn’t startle you.
At the coffee machine, you take a breath, ignoring him. You press the buttons and try to shake the feeling off, but when you glance at him, just for a second, all he sees in your eyes is guilt. Shame.
"What?" Your voice comes out sharper than you mean. "You also think I’m a menace to society? They’re lucky I turned out halfway functional. Statistically, I shouldn’t have.”
Spencer stays a few feet away—close enough, but not crowding you. The perfect arms-length distance. It was something he understood about you, something you never had to say out loud. Letting you decide if you needed space or needed closeness. Giving you control, even in something as simple as this.
"None of them think that," he says quietly. "I don’t think that."
It takes effort to look at him, but when you do, the tightness in your chest gets worse. You hate it. You hate the way it feels when you take a step closer, resting your forehead against his shoulder. And you hate how naturally his hand finds the back of your head, his fingers brushing through your hair in a slow, soothing motion, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
"I didn’t mean to—God, have you seen the scars on his neck?" Your voice cracks, barely above a whisper. "What kind of… monster does that?"
His hand stills against you for a second.
It breaks his heart every time you talk about yourself like this—like you’re one of the people he spends his life trying to stop.
"Technically, the probability of someone from your background reaching your level of success is less than three percent. And even among that group, only a fraction manage to sustain high-pressure careers."
You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Yeah? And what’s the probability of me snapping one day and proving everyone right?"
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. "That’s not the point."
"Then what is?"
He exhales, steady and patient. "The point is that I could pull up hard data showing how statistically, you shouldn’t have graduated at fifteen. Or made it through law school on a full ride. Or become one of the best prosecutors in D.C. The odds of that happening were lower than one percent. But you did it. So if we're playing by numbers, then statistically… you're exceptional."
He pauses, watching you carefully. Then, softer "And not in the way you seem to think."
Your fingers curl into the edge on themselves, nails pressing into your palms as you process his words. You hate how much they settle into your chest, how they make something raw and aching twist inside you. You exhale, forcing out a scoff, trying to grasp onto the sarcasm that usually keeps you afloat.
"You make it sound like I'm some kind of miracle,"
"You might as well be the proof that God exists to me," Spencer says simply, like it’s the most obvious fact in the world.
Your throat tightens. You shake your head, swallowing past the lump forming there. "I hate how you do that," you murmur.
"Do what?"
"Make me feel like maybe I’m not beyond saving."
His hand stills for a moment before he squeezes the nape of your neck, grounding. "Then I guess I’ll just have to keep doing it until you believe it."
And for once, you don’t have the energy to argue.
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The case wrapped up when the team uncovered that one of the students they had interviewed had been fixated on getting into the Seraphic Circle. After his rejection, it became his breaking point, driving him to kill the members in a vengeful spree.
You would have laughed in Andrew Carrington’s face and shown him just how much that exclusive little club had spiraled into something violent and twisted, you would’ve. But, of course, that would’ve been disrespectful to the victims, so you didn’t. You wouldn’t let yourself sink into that bitterness.
But, it didn’t matter in the end. When you landed back in Washington—home, dear home—it didn’t matter. The case was closed, and, for the first time in a long while, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders. Your past mistakes no longer haunted you, and as you stepped into the familiar rhythm of your life, you realized that, just for this moment, you could breathe.
To be honest, you weren’t the same person you were back then. The young teen you once were would have never believed, or even considered, that she could be in a loving relationship with a man who would love her unconditionally, no matter what. She never would have believed that someone like Spencer could ever like someone like you.
"Are you hungry?" Spencer asked, his voice soft as he dropped the go-bag by the entrance of the apartment. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead "I saw this new recipe for homemade lasagna," he added, his eyes lighting up in that way they always did when he was excited about something. "It has layers of ricotta, mozzarella, and this really rich, savory meat sauce that I think we could definitely pull off. I thought we could make it together—maybe add a little twist of our own, like some fresh basil?"
You smiled at his enthusiasm, noticing how his fingers brushed through his hair absentmindedly as he spoke. It was always endearing to watch him get excited over the little things. "Homemade lasagna? That sounds amazing," you replied, already picturing the cozy evening ahead.
His grin widened, and he pulled his phone from his pocket, swiping through the recipe. "It’s supposed to take a bit of time, but it’s not complicated...just a lot of love and patience—so, you know, I think we can manage. Plus, it’ll give us time to talk...and eat a lot of cheese."
You laughed, the sound light and full of affection. "I think I’m sold. Lasagna and cheese? Definitely the kind of night I need."
He gave a small nod, as if he were confirming his excitement to himself. "Okay, I’ll grab the ingredients. You’re in charge of setting up the music. Deal?"
"Deal," you said, already feeling that comforting sense of peace that only came from spending time like this—together, in your little shared world, filled with small moments that meant everything.
Who would’ve thought you’d be cooking lasagna with the soft crackle of a vinyl player spinning Billy Joel and Elvis Presley in the background
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Feedback feeds motivation! Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated <3
Summary: what happens when spencer hears the rumors about your teenage years? what happens when some of those rumors are true?.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x lawyer!reader
Genre: hurt/comfort and fluff at the end!
wc: 5.5k!
TW: burning wounds, bullying, misogyny/patriarchal behavior, violent and impulsive behavior. not proofread yet.
A/N: in the middle of writting this i realized it's very based on "the archer" and "the man" by Taylor Swift
Masterlist! (it's not necessary to read the first 4 chapters!)
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If we're talking about anecdotes from your teenage years, well—there’s not much to tell. Just the totally mundane story of an angry, emotionally volatile teenager with too much brainpower who somehow bulldozed her way into Harvard Law. No big deal.
JJ had great stories about high school—being the captain of her football team, those wholesome, small-town moments straight out of a coming-of-age movie. Emily had the wildest stories—traveling the world, the chaos of never staying in one place, and even the ones that made you feel something, like how badly she just wanted to fit in.
It started with the urgent case the BAU was handed—students linked to an elite Harvard secret society were disappearing, their bodies found staged in ritualistic ways. As the case unfolded, Spencer turned to you, his voice a little more cautious than usual.
“Do you know anything about some Seraphic Circle?”
You didn’t need to think. You’d heard plenty about them. Too much, really. "I’ve heard of them," you said, your tone dripping with disdain and rolling your eyes. “Rich kids with too much money and power. Half of them don’t even deserve to be there, but their families pay for their spot.”
You were reluctant towards accepting going with them to Massachusetts, too much memories and teh constant fear someone might recognize you and call you out for past decisions that maybe weren't the best. Maybe they were worse than you wanted to confess and might even scare Spencer away.
Still, he had asked you to accompany them. “Do you think they will remember you?”
“Nah… i don’t think so, they have tons of law students per year so…” maybe your words were right, but the higher thn usual pitch on your tone gave you away to spencer, that only he was able to detect, of how you weren’t saying all the true
Long story short, that's how you end up where you are right now, walking behind de BAU towards the Dean of Harvard office, with Spencer by your side.
You reach the office just as Hotch shakes the dean’s hand, introducing each member of the team. “SSA Jareau, SSA Morgan, and Dr. Reid,” he says, gesturing to each of them in turn. “We also brought—”
“Woodvale.”
The dean’s voice cuts through the room the moment his eyes land on you, recognition flickering across his face. Not even a hundred years would be enough to erase your name from his memory. He didn't like you back then.
An almost cynical, carefully polite smile curves your lips as you extend your hand. “Dean Langford.”
He grips your hand firmly, his expression unreadable. “Seems like you’ve come a long way from that time your burned one of my students”
The atmosphere in the room shifts instantly, tension crackling like a live wire. But you don’t let it show, ignoring how he didn’t consider you a proper student. Instead, your voice remains cool, measured.
“Those accusations were debunked after no evidence was found,” you say smoothly. “Unlike the very real recordings and witness statements I had of that same student saying—” you pause, tilting your head slightly, your smile sharpening, “women became hysterical when it came to sexual crimes.’”
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Emily and JJ smirking, while Langford’s expression hardens.
The dean's smile barely falters. So, he does remember you. Not surprising—back then, you were even more impulsive than you are now. And that says a lot.
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Don’t ask how, but somehow Garcia had dug up records that gave the team a list of names tied to the so-called “secret society.” Ironically, when the BAU interviewed students about it, everyone seemed to know what it was—just not anything useful.
“They sacrifice animals.”
“A bunch of douchebags with too much money.”
“They run everything. If you’re one of them, you’re untouchable.”
“Do any of the names look familiar?” Rossi asked, sliding the list toward you.
You scanned it, then shook your head. “Only the last names. But that’s not surprising—most of them come from old money.”
Garcia had also uncovered some interesting financial records. One name stood out: Andrew Carrington, former lawyer at his family’s prestigious Massachusetts firm. A-class dickhead.
“He’s got buildings in the city,” Garcia said, displaying files on the computer. “But his family’s the real power—deep pockets, old money. There are even a couple of campus buildings with their name on them.”
Rossi raised a brow. “Legacy admission?”
“More like a blank check.” You leaned back. “Everyone knew he bought his way in.”
“Any possibility he’s involved?” Hotch asked.
You considered it for a moment before shaking your head. “I don’t think so. Back then, this club was his pride. These murders? They only drag its prestige through the mud.”
“So… this Seraphic Circle thing,” Emily said, tilting her head. “Were you ever part of it?”
The police station buzzed around you, a low hum of voices and ringing phones, but your focus was on the files in front of you. Spencer sat beside you, skimming through pages with his usual quiet intensity. Neither of you was big on PDA—no hand-holding, no lingering touches in front of the team—but subtlety was an art you both had mastered. Your elbows brushed as you shifted in your seat, his knee resting against yours, the quiet pressure grounding.
“Not really,” you answered finally. “They claimed you had to have a big name in law, but what they really meant was that you had to be rich—and if you were a man? Even better.”
Morgan flipped through a file. “But you do know this Carrington guy.”
Before you could answer, Spencer’s fingers brushed against the side of your knee—a light touch so subtle no one else would notice. A quiet signal. He’d felt your tension the moment Morgan had mentioned Carrington.
You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. “Yeah… It was hard not to know someone like him. He’s got that whole ‘king of the school’ vibe, but honestly, he’s not capable of something like this.” You spoke nonchalantly, but your voice betrayed a hint of discomfort.
The team shifted focus to the next lead, moving on to analyze the unsub’s possible personality traits. After a few more exchanges, the decision was made to call Carrington in for questioning tomorrow—there was no use doing it this late. The discussion had settled, but Spencer’s fingers brushed against your knee again, just enough for you to catch it. He was still attuned to your every movement, a silent understanding between the two of you.
After that, Hotch made the call for everyone to get some rest. One by one, the team decided to call it a night, heading out to their respective rooms. You and Spencer lingered behind, both of you wrapping up the last of your thoughts on the case.
Spencer was the one to break the silence. He looked around the station, then at you. His eyes softened for a moment before he spoke. “Enough for tonight. Let’s get some sleep.”
You nodded, thankful for the break. As Spencer found your coat, you dropped the files onto the nearest table. You stood still as he slid the coat onto your shoulders, the fabric brushing against your skin. As he did, you both made the mistake of letting your hands touch—just a fleeting brush—but it sent a warmth through your chest.
The walk to the motel was calm, with the quiet night air wrapping around you both. Spencer felt a strange mixture of calm and anticipation swirling in his chest, emotions he didn’t usually indulge. It wasn’t something he had the vocabulary for, not in his usual clinical sense. For once, there wasn’t a need for facts or equations to understand the feeling that settled inside him.
His fingers, almost absent-mindedly, curled into yours. It was a subtle movement, but the softness of it caught him by surprise. His thumb traced small, slow circles over the back of your hand, a tender rhythm he couldn’t quite explain. For someone who usually lived in the world of patterns and logic, this was unfamiliar territory. But the simple touch, the way your fingers fit together so naturally—it felt right.
In a world where everything was either solvable or predictable, this felt like the exception. There was no analysis needed. No need to question why it felt so much like a moment he wanted to hold onto. Maybe it was the quiet between you two, or the way everything around you seemed to fade as his thumb ran over your hand. All Spencer knew was that in that moment, nothing else mattered.
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The next morning, Hotch had sent Morgan and Prentiss off to speak with students on the campus, while he and Rossi took over the interrogation. The room felt different now, quieter—like the calm before another storm.
Andrew Carrigton settled into the chair like he was sitting at a country club luncheon rather than an interrogation room. His suit was crisp, his cufflinks glinting under the fluorescent lights. If he was rattled by the fact that three of his former society’s members were dead, he didn’t show it.
Hotch sat across from him, his expression unreadable. Morgan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, unimpressed.
“Mr. Carrigton,” Hotch began, “we’re investigating the murders of three students, all of whom were members of the Seraphic Circle. You were one of its founders. We need information.”
Carrigton exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Tragic. Truly. But I haven’t been involved in years. You’d be better off asking one of the new recruits.”
Hotch didn’t budge. “We’re asking you.”
Carrigton smirked, tilting his head. “What do you want me to say? That it’s a secret society? That we have rituals and secret handshakes?” He chuckled. “Come on, Agent. It’s a networking club. A prestigious one, sure, but hardly the Illuminati.”
Rossi let out a sharp breath, unimpressed. “Right. A ‘networking club’ where only the rich and powerful get in, and anyone who doesn’t measure up gets chewed up and spit out.”
Carrigton raised an eyebrow. “That’s life, isn’t it?”
Hotch didn’t rise to the bait. “The night of the first murder, there was an event. Who was in attendance?”
Carrigton hummed, tapping a thoughtful finger against his jaw. “Hard to say. The Circle’s grown since my time. Dozens of faces, most of which I wouldn’t recognize.”
“You’re still connected. You know the leadership.”
Another lazy shrug. “I might know a few names. But as I said, things change. The president rotates out, always some eager young thing desperate to prove themselves. They run the show until the next one takes over.” He smirked. “I imagine the current one is quite overwhelmed.”
“Who’s pulling the strings?” Hotch asked.
Carrigton chuckled. “You give us too much credit, Agent. It’s not some grand conspiracy. It’s a club. People join, people leave. Some do well, some don’t.”
“And the ones who don’t?”
Carrigton waved a dismissive hand. “They drop out. Go on with their lives. Or—” he smiled, sharp, “—they stew in their resentment, blaming others for their own failures.”
Morgan’s jaw tightened. “You think that’s what happened here?”
Carrigton leaned back in his chair, perfectly at ease. “I think it’s always the same story. Someone on the outside looking in, bitter that they weren’t enough. And now they want to take it out on the ones who were.”
Hotch’s voice was cold. “That’s a convenient theory. But it doesn’t answer our questions.”
Carrigton’s smirk widened. “Then maybe you’re asking the wrong ones.”
From the other side of the glass, you watched Carrigton with growing irritation. He was the same smug, arrogant bastard you remembered from college, only now it was worse. His attitude hadn’t changed a bit, and neither had his ability to waste everyone’s time with his deflections.
You couldn’t help but roll your eyes as he ran his mouth, completely ignoring the fact that three people were dead, his precious club possibly involved. He was too busy leaning back in his chair, playing at some sick power game.
You glanced at JJ, your patience already hanging by a thread. “There’s no cameras here, right?”
JJ, clearly thrown off by the sudden question, gave you a puzzled look. “No… why?”
Without answering, you turned your focus back to Carrigton and felt your hands tighten into fists. His polished smirk made your blood boil, his greasy hair gleaming under the lights. Your shoulders squared, the weight of your frustration making your movements sharper. You ignored Spencer’s curious glance, his quiet scrutiny as he watched you.
You didn’t have time for any of this.
You walked to the door and knocked once, the sound sharp in the sterile room. Before anyone could respond, you turned the handle, stepping into the interrogation room.
Carrigton’s eyes locked onto you the second you walked in. His gaze flickered briefly, a subtle but noticeable flash of discomfort before he quickly masked it with that same patronizing grin.
“Well, well,” he sneered, adjusting the collar of his shirt like he was trying to put some distance between himself and the real world. “I didn’t realize the FBI was hiring gutter rats now.”
Spencer tensed from the other side of the glass, his expression hardening as his frustration mounted. He was clearly growing angrier at Carrigton’s smug demeanor, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing you were even a little fazed. You simply smirked and kept your focus on the man sitting in front of you.
Carrigton’s glare never left you as you stepped closer, your tone ice-cold. “This ‘gutter rat’ is about to charge you with obstruction of justice if you don’t start talking, Andrew.”
Carrigton's eyes narrowed, his lips curling in a sneer. “That’s blackmail.”
You didn’t flinch. “And if you keep dragging your feet, that’s another charge—contempt of court. Trust me, I’ve got plenty more where that came from.” You leaned in just enough to make sure he heard you loud and clear. “You want to keep playing games, or you want to start answering questions?”
Carrigton shifted in his seat, the cockiness starting to waver, but he still clung to that arrogance like a shield, gripping it with white-knuckled desperation.
“I want my lawyer,” he said, forcing his voice to stay even.
You scoff, tilting your head as if you were genuinely considering his words before your lips curled into something sharp and ruthless.
"Is that your way of admitting you’re not a good enough lawyer to defend yourself?" Your voice was smooth, razor-edged silk, venom threaded through every syllable. "Start talking."
His nostrils flared, a flicker of something—hesitation, anger, maybe both. It was barely a breath, but you caught it.
"From what I know, the admission process has gone to hell," he sneered, grasping at arrogance like a lifeline. "I spoke with their president last week about it. I'm not throwing my money at that place just for them to start letting in anyone."
Rossi’s eyebrows lifted as he slid the crime scene photos across the table, each image a stark, undeniable truth. “Are these people just ‘anyone’ to you, Andrew?”
For the first time, Carrigton’s arrogance fractured. It was subtle—the flicker of his gaze, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t reach for the photos.
And then you saw it. No matter how high his shirt collar was, it couldn’t quite hide the edges of old scars peeking out—angry, uneven marks trailing up the side of his neck, disappearing beneath expensive fabric.
"We didn’t have anything to do with this," Carrigton muttered, his voice suddenly lacking its earlier bravado. His eyes flickered briefly over the crime scene photos, but his gaze quickly dropped.
"Who’s ‘we’?" Hotch’s voice was cold, demanding, cutting through the silence.
Carrigton didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he shifted in his seat, hands gripping the edges of the table, knuckles turning white. He wasn’t as confident as before.
You could feel it—he was trying to hide the discomfort, but it was there. The truth always made people uncomfortable.
You pushed yourself off the wall, your movement slow and deliberate, your eyes never leaving him as you circled around behind him. He tensed, just slightly at first, but it was enough.
The memory was still fresh, and you knew it. He hadn’t forgotten how you burned him—how the scalding coffee had left that mark on his neck. He was trying not to show it, but it was eating at him, that simmering, seething reminder that you’d done it and he couldn’t touch you for it.
You stopped just behind him, letting your presence loom over him like a shadow. He could feel your gaze, feel the space between you—too close for comfort, too close for someone who hated you as much as he did.
"What’s the matter, Andrew?" You leaned in, your voice low and smooth, but your words sharp as a knife. "Don’t like me standing here?"
"I told him to stop accepting anyone," Carrigton muttered, his voice tightening as he stumbled over the words. "Grayson Locke, that's his name. Legacy admission. But I had nothing to do with this. We even went through some names, cut people off."
You could feel the hesitation in his voice, the way he was trying to distance himself from the mess that was unfolding. His words were almost defensive, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as you. The stammering wasn’t lost on you—it was almost pathetic.
"What names?" Rossi’s voice was firm, but he wasn’t pushing too hard yet. He was letting Carrigton sweat just a little longer, a strategy you were both accustomed to.
Carrigton's jaw tightened, his eyes darting nervously between Morgan and you. "It was a list," he said quickly, almost as though the words were tumbling out before he could stop them. "Just find him. Tell him I told you to give it to you." He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering to the door. "Outside of that, I don’t know anything else."
There it was. The slip. The admission that he was just as tangled in this as the rest of them. But it wasn’t enough. Rossi stepped out of the interrogation room, heading off to search for the list.
“See? Was that so hard?” You taunted, slumping into the chair Rossi had just vacated, your eyes never leaving Carrigton. His smug façade cracked, just enough for you to see the shift. The sense of discomfort that he could no longer hide.
His eyes flicked to you, venom dripping from his words. “You think you’ve won? All you are is a stray dog who’ll burn in hell.” He spat the words, his jaw tight, but beneath the bravado, there was fear creeping in.
You straightened in the chair, completely unbothered by his outburst. “And you’ll be right there with me. I guess you know a thing or two about burning, don’t you?” Your smirk was sharp, a silent jab at the scars on his neck, the ones you’d left there.
His expression faltered, just for a second, but it was enough to make your blood run colder. Without warning, he shot to his feet, slamming his palms down on the table with a force that made it rattle. His face was inches from yours now, his breath stinking of rage and something darker—panic.
“Fuck you, you deranged bitch,” he hissed, his voice barely contained. “You’ll always be the daughter of some filthy addicts. You’ll never belong to this world. My world.”
You didn’t move, didn’t even blink. The words hit, but they didn’t land. “Did I strike a nerve?” You leaned forward slightly, your tone dropping to a razor-sharp whisper. “Or should I say... burn a nerve?”
Carrigton’s entire body stiffened, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles went white, veins bulging from his hands. His chest heaved with the kind of raw anger that radiated off him like a furnace. “You’re still the same bitch I met years ago.”
You didn’t flinch, didn’t let his venomous words land, only smirked. “Have you learned how to make women come, Carrigton? Or are you still calling them hysterical? Is that why your wife is filing for divorce?”
It wasn’t just the words, but the sharpness of your tone, the deliberate push of your venom that made it sting even more. Garcia had provided all the dirt, the skeletons hidden deep in his closet. You weren’t above having a little fun with it, using it to your advantage. Carrigton, though, was losing his composure with every word you threw at him.
He opened his mouth to retort, but Hotch beat him to it, rising from his seat. "Enough. We appreciate your time, Mr. Carrington. We'll contact you if we need further information," he said, his voice calm but firm.
Andrew huffed dismissively, rising to leave. As he reached the door, he paused, casting one last venomous glance in your direction. "You think you’ve got a place in this world? Trust me, you don’t. People like you? They end up alone, scrambling to hold onto the little sanity they have left before it all slips away."
He didn’t wait for a response, Spencer’s gaze locked with yours the moment Andrew was out of the room. His eyes were filled with concern, but you chose not to address it. Now wasn’t the time.
Instead, you stayed silent, the words echoing in your head. Something about them stuck, gnawing at you. Maybe it was the way he spoke—like he knew something about you that you hadn’t even fully admitted to yourself. Scrambling. It was true, wasn’t it? You were constantly on edge, barely holding it together, pretending that you didn’t feel like you were one step away from losing it. Maybe it would be easier to just give in, let go, and fulfill everyone’s expectations of you. Be the damaged, angry, broken thing they wanted you to be.
For a moment, you almost believed his words.
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If murdered students weren’t enough to set the rumor mill on fire, your presence definitely did. The thing about rumors is that they spread like wildfire.
“Sooo… guess what we’ve heard?” Emily’s voice broke through the room as she and the others approached, grinning like they had just uncovered the juiciest piece of gossip on campus.
“Anything useful?” you asked without looking up from the file you were flipping through. “Or is this about the librarian hooking up with students in the archives? Because if it is—old news.”
Morgan smirked, shaking his head. “Nah, actually, we heard about some girl who once got a professor fired.”
“And,” Prentiss added, leaning in with a knowing smile, “was banned from mock trial as a freshman after making another student indirectly confess he bought the answers to his exams.”
Your fingers froze for just a split second—the briefest pause, barely perceptible to anyone but Spencer, who noticed it right away.
You shrugged, trying to keep your voice steady. “People get weirdly creative when it comes to making up rumors.”
Emily raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “So you’re telling me,” she pressed, “that you’ve never heard of the girl who burned some rich kid’s manuscript because he plagiarized her?”
You sighed, closing the file with exaggerated nonchalance. “Sounds like a legend. And legends aren’t real.”
Emily snorted, clearly enjoying this. “Or when she threw a chair at a debate judge for interrupting her?”
Morgan gasped dramatically. “And don’t forget when she flipped a Monopoly board at a networking event after some trust fund brat said she didn’t have the ‘pedigree’ for law.”
Emily smirked. “I heard she broke his nose.”
You shrug it off. “Monopoly makes people violent. Everyone knows that.”
You knew they weren’t trying to be mean, but you’d rather die than show any hint of regret. You had made some questionable choices in the past, but those didn’t define who you were now. Right?
Morgan chuckled, crossing his arms. “Right, right. So I guess the whole thing about you making a guy cry so hard during a mock trial that he dropped out of law school is fake too?”
You were forced to pretend not being able to stop the small smirk tugged at your lips, “Okay, in my defense, that guy was pretentious and thought using big words would make him win.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow, “Some student mentioned you, uh, burning people when they pissed you off.” He exchanged a glance with Prentiss, both of them catching on to your lack of eye contact. “Is that what the Dean was referring to?”
You couldn’t help but feel a slight heat creep up your neck, but you managed to keep your gaze on the desk, avoiding their eyes. You didn’t need to give them the satisfaction of seeing how much it bothered you. “People talk,” you muttered. “But if you believe everything they say, you’re as crazy as they are.”
You could’ve fooled anyone in that room full of profilers, because hiding behind your indifference mask was something you were well-practiced at. That was, of course, if they didn’t know you deeply. If they didn’t spend weekends with you, cooking together, exchanging quiet conversations and inside jokes. If they weren’t Spencer Reid—the only one in the room who could read beneath the surface.
He noticed the way you winced when you shifted your neck, the subtle way you massaged the sore muscles with your hand, avoiding eye contact with everyone. To anyone else, it might have seemed like nothing, but to him, it was a clear sign that something was off. You weren’t as fine as you were pretending to be.
"Anyone want anything? I’m doing a coffee run." You don’t wait for an answer, already making your way toward the break room. But the laughter behind you lingers—harmless, good-natured, but still too close to the laughter of your ex-classmates. It curls around your ribs like a memory you don’t want.
You don’t notice Spencer saying he’ll come with you, but you realize he’s there when you hear his footsteps—loud enough for you to hear him, deliberate so he doesn’t startle you.
At the coffee machine, you take a breath, ignoring him. You press the buttons and try to shake the feeling off, but when you glance at him, just for a second, all he sees in your eyes is guilt. Shame.
"What?" Your voice comes out sharper than you mean. "You also think I’m a menace to society? They’re lucky I turned out halfway functional. Statistically, I shouldn’t have.”
Spencer stays a few feet away—close enough, but not crowding you. The perfect arms-length distance. It was something he understood about you, something you never had to say out loud. Letting you decide if you needed space or needed closeness. Giving you control, even in something as simple as this.
"None of them think that," he says quietly. "I don’t think that."
It takes effort to look at him, but when you do, the tightness in your chest gets worse. You hate it. You hate the way it feels when you take a step closer, resting your forehead against his shoulder. And you hate how naturally his hand finds the back of your head, his fingers brushing through your hair in a slow, soothing motion, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
"I didn’t mean to—God, have you seen the scars on his neck?" Your voice cracks, barely above a whisper. "What kind of… monster does that?"
His hand stills against you for a second.
It breaks his heart every time you talk about yourself like this—like you’re one of the people he spends his life trying to stop.
"Technically, the probability of someone from your background reaching your level of success is less than three percent. And even among that group, only a fraction manage to sustain high-pressure careers."
You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Yeah? And what’s the probability of me snapping one day and proving everyone right?"
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. "That’s not the point."
"Then what is?"
He exhales, steady and patient. "The point is that I could pull up hard data showing how statistically, you shouldn’t have graduated at fifteen. Or made it through law school on a full ride. Or become one of the best prosecutors in D.C. The odds of that happening were lower than one percent. But you did it. So if we're playing by numbers, then statistically… you're exceptional."
He pauses, watching you carefully. Then, softer "And not in the way you seem to think."
Your fingers curl into the edge on themselves, nails pressing into your palms as you process his words. You hate how much they settle into your chest, how they make something raw and aching twist inside you. You exhale, forcing out a scoff, trying to grasp onto the sarcasm that usually keeps you afloat.
"You make it sound like I'm some kind of miracle,"
"You might as well be the proof that God exists to me," Spencer says simply, like it’s the most obvious fact in the world.
Your throat tightens. You shake your head, swallowing past the lump forming there. "I hate how you do that," you murmur.
"Do what?"
"Make me feel like maybe I’m not beyond saving."
His hand stills for a moment before he squeezes the nape of your neck, grounding. "Then I guess I’ll just have to keep doing it until you believe it."
And for once, you don’t have the energy to argue.
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The case wrapped up when the team uncovered that one of the students they had interviewed had been fixated on getting into the Seraphic Circle. After his rejection, it became his breaking point, driving him to kill the members in a vengeful spree.
You would have laughed in Andrew Carrington’s face and shown him just how much that exclusive little club had spiraled into something violent and twisted, you would’ve. But, of course, that would’ve been disrespectful to the victims, so you didn’t. You wouldn’t let yourself sink into that bitterness.
But, it didn’t matter in the end. When you landed back in Washington—home, dear home—it didn’t matter. The case was closed, and, for the first time in a long while, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders. Your past mistakes no longer haunted you, and as you stepped into the familiar rhythm of your life, you realized that, just for this moment, you could breathe.
To be honest, you weren’t the same person you were back then. The young teen you once were would have never believed, or even considered, that she could be in a loving relationship with a man who would love her unconditionally, no matter what. She never would have believed that someone like Spencer could ever like someone like you.
"Are you hungry?" Spencer asked, his voice soft as he dropped the go-bag by the entrance of the apartment. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead "I saw this new recipe for homemade lasagna," he added, his eyes lighting up in that way they always did when he was excited about something. "It has layers of ricotta, mozzarella, and this really rich, savory meat sauce that I think we could definitely pull off. I thought we could make it together—maybe add a little twist of our own, like some fresh basil?"
You smiled at his enthusiasm, noticing how his fingers brushed through his hair absentmindedly as he spoke. It was always endearing to watch him get excited over the little things. "Homemade lasagna? That sounds amazing," you replied, already picturing the cozy evening ahead.
His grin widened, and he pulled his phone from his pocket, swiping through the recipe. "It’s supposed to take a bit of time, but it’s not complicated...just a lot of love and patience—so, you know, I think we can manage. Plus, it’ll give us time to talk...and eat a lot of cheese."
You laughed, the sound light and full of affection. "I think I’m sold. Lasagna and cheese? Definitely the kind of night I need."
He gave a small nod, as if he were confirming his excitement to himself. "Okay, I’ll grab the ingredients. You’re in charge of setting up the music. Deal?"
"Deal," you said, already feeling that comforting sense of peace that only came from spending time like this—together, in your little shared world, filled with small moments that meant everything.
Who would’ve thought you’d be cooking lasagna with the soft crackle of a vinyl player spinning Billy Joel and Elvis Presley in the background
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Feedback feeds motivation! Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated <3
Summary: Full of fear, full of love and wrapped in the feeling of safety and home, they say those three words for the first time.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x lawyer!reader
Genre: FLUFF! FINALLY
wc: 3.2k!
TW: reader does boxing and overthinks way too much
A/N: it's inspired on "You are in love" by Taylor Swift,
Mastelist! (it's not necessary to read the first 4 chapters!)
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The sky was turning orange, announcing the sunset. The sight of it excited you—maybe today wouldn’t bring rain after all. Maybe tonight, the date you had with Spencer would end under a clear spring sky.
Finishing the last motion of the day, you glanced up at the clock and realized you could leave in five minutes. You began arranging your documents, eager to get home and get ready, when your phone rang with Spencer’s assigned tone.
You had a rule with him—well, actually, a series of very clear rules both of you had established after a period of back-and-forth. They included "Do not lie to me" and "No calls during work unless it's absolutely necessary or an emergency." That rule had been established after he called you in the middle of a trial for, ‘What do you want for dinner?’ Everything else that wasn’t an emergency could be communicated through messages—something Spencer had gotten used to.
You let out a tired sigh, trying to keep your voice as neutral as possible when you answer the phone. “Hey.”
The sigh on the other end is familiar, the same one you let out earlier. “Hey, it’s me... We just had a case come up, I have to fly to Wyoming. I’m really sorry.”
Your suspicions are confirmed, and you press your lips together, trying to keep the disappointment out of your tone. “It’s okay, really. I’ll call the restaurant and let them know. Maybe we can reschedule within two weeks?”
“Yeah, that sounds good. Again, I’m sorry,” he says, and you can almost hear the pout in his voice. The sincerity behind his words makes your heart soften.
“It comes with the job, really,” you reassure him, offering him some comfort. “Just let me know when you land, okay?”
“I will. Talk soon,” he says, the relief in his voice a little evident.
You can’t help but smile a little, even if the evening you had hoped for is slipping away. “Talk soon, Spence.”
He hangs up, and you allow yourself a moment to feel the sadness of the cancellation. You know it’s completely out of your control, but that doesn’t erase the bitter taste it leaves behind. You had planned a nice dinner with him—one where you might finally say the three words that have been sitting in the back of your mind, the ones that still scare you more than anything.
You had been dating for a while now, and it was so unexpectedly calm in contrast how you two had met. Things between you were nice and loving, but you wouldn’t call it sweet. Not because it wasn’t objectively sweet, but because sweetness wasn’t something you associated with good. Still, you knew that anyone looking from the outside would call you both sweet. Maybe even him would call it like that.
For you it was more like… peaceful. Calming. Yeah, that was the word. Like cooling, but not in a cold way—more like refreshing. Like taking a sip of water in the middle of the night from a bottle that’s been sitting there for way too long, yet it’s somehow the perfect temperature.
God, you sucked at this. Love was not your strongest field, truly. You could argue in court, you could come up with ways to convince people and even threaten officers and criminals with charges. But when it came to expressing your feelings with order and clarity you were… well dumb.
Words got mixed up, emotions tangled into knots, and when he looked at you with those love-filled eyes, you wanted to grab him—hold him so tightly, so fiercely, that maybe then he’d understand everything you felt.
Because one of your biggest fears was that you seemed too cold, too indifferent—maybe even to him.
I mean, the man had just called to cancel a date, and you brushed it off, made it seem like it didn’t matter, just so he wouldn’t feel bad. But what if he thought you didn’t care? You did care. You wouldn’t have spent nearly two hours agonizing over what to wear, rehearsing things you wanted to say to him over dinner if you didn't.
Sometimes, you felt so much that you were afraid of how it might come out—afraid that if you tried to express it, it would explode in the worst way possible. So instead, you held it back. Smoothed it over. Hid it.
But you did love him.
Because in a room full of people, the one look he gave was always just for you. Because sometimes, when your shoulders brushed in passing, that single touch was enough.
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Spencer was more than happy with the way things were between you two. He never felt unloved—not even for a second—because he knew you. He knew how you were when you were mad, how cold and detached you could be to people who didn’t matter. And with him? You were anything but uncaring or uninterested.
You let him ramble about whatever hyperfixation had captured his mind at the moment, listening not just with patience but with genuine attention. And sometimes, you asked hypothetical questions that completely blew his mind—because while he was good at following the book, tracing theories and established patterns, you were good at thinking of all the possible alternatives, the what-ifs no one had considered.
He would talk about, say, the fall of the Roman Empire, meticulously outlining every economic, political, and social factor that led to its collapse. And you—never content with the obvious—would tilt your head and ask, "But what if the Antonine Plague had never happened? Do you think Rome would have still fallen, or would it have held on for a few more centuries?"
Or he’d be deep in a discussion about the Voynich manuscript, running through linguistic theories and cryptographic possibilities, and you’d counter with, "But what if it’s not a cipher at all? What if it was written by someone whose brain just didn’t work like ours, someone who saw language in an entirely different way?"
And that was the thing—Spencer knew a lot, but you thought in a way that challenged everything he thought he knew. Like sometimes you would open doors to worlds he hadn't thought about. You didn’t just listen; you engaged, pulling him into debates that left his mind racing long after the conversation had ended.
It was exhilarating. And maybe, just maybe, it was one of the many reasons he had fallen in love with you.
So that’s why he was so sad when he had to call off the date.
It was hard enough being away from you for long stretches when he was working, constantly moving from case to case, city to city. That’s why he kept the photo you two had taken in a photobooth on your third date tucked safely in his wallet—the small strip of pictures worn at the edges from how often he pulled it out. A reminder. A comfort.
And that’s why, sometimes, when an unsub’s victim profile was too similar to you—too close to home—he felt even more driven to catch them as quickly as possible.
You could be in D.C., nearly 1,700 miles away from the crime scene he was standing in, and yet he still felt like you were in danger. Like he had to protect you, even from across the country. It was irrational, he knew that. Statistically, logically, there was no reason for the cases to feel so personal.
But they did. Because it was you. And when it came to you, Spencer had never been good at thinking rationally.
That’s why, when the approximately 3-hour flight came to an end, he needed to see you—personally, physically—to reassure his suddenly illogical mind that you were safe and sound.
He knew you weren’t working—it was 7 p.m. on a Wednesday, a day you started to set aside to exercise, claiming that by the middle of the week, you were already stressed enough. It was part of your new routine, something predictable in a life that often wasn’t, and Spencer knew you’d appreciate him remembering.
He told himself he was being ridiculous, that you were fine, that nothing had happened. But still, his fingers hovered over his phone, waiting—because knowing you were safe wasn’t the same as seeing it.
Because that’s what love does to a man like Spencer—smashes his brain into a puddle and makes his IQ feel like a useless number, proving his own disbelief in quantifiable intelligence.
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You saw him standing outside the gym, hands tucked into his pockets, and immediately walked out to meet him. A part of you felt gross—sweaty and disheveled from your workout—but the excitement of seeing him, of having him just a few feet away, overshadowed everything else.
“Hey, I’m really sweaty, so it’s oka—” you started, already thinking about his germophobia.
Before you could finish, he cut you off by hugging you tightly. The sudden warmth of him caught you off guard, but only for a second before you melted into it, sliding your arms around him and rubbing your hand along his back.
When he pulled away slightly, his expression was unreadable, almost hesitant. “Sorry, I—uh—”
You shook your head before he could finish.
“I really missed you,” he whispered.
Your breath hitched, and your hold on him instinctively tightened. “I missed you too.”
He smiled then, and for a moment, you swore you might die.
It wasn’t just the way he held you—like you were something precious. It was the way he clung to you, as if you were some kind of beacon in the middle of a storm.
The strap of your gym bag started slipping off your shoulder, and as you adjusted it, his gaze drifted downward. His expression shifted the moment he caught sight of your hand, brows furrowing at the faint bruises on your knuckles.
Without hesitation, he reached for your hand, turning it over gently. The contrast between his careful touch and the roughness of your skin made heat rise to your face—flustered, yet slightly embarrassed.
"You've been boxing," he finally said. Not a question, just an observation.
You smirked, tilting your head. "Yeah, Morgan recommended it. And I still haven't forgiven Austin for his attempted murder when I joined his Pilates class." You shrugged, trying to downplay the concern in his eyes. "It's really good, you know? Who would've thought that throwing punches actually calms angry people?"
His lips twitched, but he didn’t quite smile. "Statistically speaking, if you just started, your form probably still needs work. Which means you're likely—" he paused, his thumb ghosting over your knuckles, "—hitting too hard without proper wrist alignment. You should wrap your hands before training."
His worry was endearing, and something in your chest warmed at the way he studied you so intently, like your well-being was something that mattered.
“I do wrap them,” you admitted, then gave him a sheepish look. “Maybe… not in the right way.”
His gaze flickered up to yours, unimpressed yet undeniably fond. “That’s not exactly reassuring,” he murmured, still holding your hand like it was something fragile—something that deserved care, even if you didn’t always give it to yourself.
You huffed a small laugh. “Well, it’s a work in progress. Kind of like me.”
He didn’t let go. Instead, he ran his thumb lightly over your knuckles, his touch featherlight. His voice was quieter when he spoke again.
“I could show you.”
Because that was what Spencer Reid did for you—he didn’t try to convince you to quit if you said something was good for you. He didn’t attempt to control your anger or emotions in the way he thought would be most convenient.
If you decided you were going to throw punches at a punching bag, then he was going to make sure you did it as safely as possible.
There had been times in your life when you felt like a caged animal, constantly surrounded by people who only wanted to tame you. But he was the exception—the one who met you in the wildness of your own mind with nothing but patience and understanding.
It was terrifying.
“Maybe later,” you say, intertwining your fingers and lowering your hands out of his view. “I’m sure you’re really tired and hungry.”
He sighs, clearly recognizing your attempt to change the subject, but lets it slide. “A little,” he admits. “Do you want to go to dinner?”
The possibility of finally having your date—at a moment when you were anything but put together, still sweaty and dressed in gym clothes—made you glance down at yourself.
“I-uh, could we make a quick stop at my place first? I don’t think you want to take me out when I look like this.”
It was a joke, obviously, and he laughed softly. But all he could think about was how, to him, you were beautiful in any state, in any clothes. Still, knowing you weren’t comfortable, he considered an alternative.
“Why don’t we pick up some food and go to your place instead?”
You pause, looking up at him, and something in your chest tugs at the idea. You couldn’t ask for a more perfect moment to tell him you loved him—your apartment, your own world, with him existing in it.
You smile and nod, and he begins walking toward his favorite Indian food place, still holding your hand. His fingers trace the bruises gently, as though he's reading them like braille, trying to understand the thoughts that linger in your mind. The careful, deliberate way he does it makes your chest ache in the best possible way, a warm ache that settles deep and soft inside you.
.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳.
You were sitting on your couch, legs draped over his—not exactly in his lap, but close enough. His hand absentmindedly traced over them as you finished the last bite of your meal before setting the empty container on the coffee table.
He got up, murmuring something about the bathroom, but when he returned, he had the first aid kit in hand—the same one he had bought for you after knowing you didn’t have one.
You had already forgotten about the bruises.
Of course, he hadn’t.
He flipped it open, retrieving an antiseptic wipe before reaching for your hand again. “Just in case,” he murmured.
You rolled your eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. “They’re fine.”
He shot you a look that told you he didn’t believe that for a second. “Humor me.”
With a sigh, you let him clean the bruised skin, the antiseptic stinging slightly as he swiped it across your knuckles with delicate precision. He was so gentle with you, more than you probably deserved.
“Does it hurt?” he asked after a moment, voice softer now.
“No,” you admitted. “Not when you’re doing it.”
His movements faltered just slightly, and you watched as his ears turned pink.
Yeah. You were definitely dying.
He cleared his throat, recovering quickly, and reached for the roll of gauze in his kit. “Alright. Hands out.”
You obeyed, letting him take your hand as he began wrapping your knuckles with precise, deliberate movements. His touch was careful but assured, his focus entirely on the task as he spoke—low, measured, like he was reading from a well-researched textbook.
“The wrap needs to be snug but not constrictive,” he murmured, looping the bandage around your wrist first. “If it’s too loose, it won’t absorb impact properly. Too tight, and you risk compromising circulation, which can lead to numbness, tingling, or even long-term nerve compression.”
His fingers ghosted over your skin as he threaded the wrap between yours, securing it with mathematical precision.
“You’re not just protecting your knuckles; the metacarpals, tendons, and small intrinsic muscles of the hand all absorb force during a punch,” he continued, his voice steady. “Improper wrapping shifts that force to weaker areas, increasing the likelihood of a boxer's fracture—typically in the fourth and fifth metacarpal bones.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “Only you would make first aid sound like a dissertation, Doctor Reid.”
His lips quirked, but his concentration didn’t waver. “I just think if you’re going to be using your hands as blunt-force weapons, you should at least minimize the risk of long-term structural damage.”
His voice was calm, steady—each word carefully measured, as if he knew exactly how to keep you grounded without even trying. You let yourself sink into it, resting your head against his shoulder, the warmth of him seeping into you.
He finished the last loop, pressing his fingertips gently against the bandage to test the tension. “That should hold,” he murmured.
You flexed your fingers experimentally, then glanced up at him. “Didn’t know you were an expert at this,” you teased.
He let out a small chuckle. “Not exactly. But I do know a thing or two about anatomy and injury prevention. And I may have… read a few sports medicine journals.”
Of course he had.
His fingers lingered—light against yours, tracing the edges of the bandage as if mapping out every careful turn he had just made. He didn’t look up right away, and neither did you.
The most comforting yet loud silence set between you, not loud in a troubled way, more in a full of emotions type of loud, the same feeling you heard on the way home.
You took the chance and intertwined your fingers with his, bringing his hand to your lips and pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. The sensation caused his stomach to flutter, the tingling warmth spreading across his skin.
“Thank you, Spence,” you said, your voice genuine, filled with all the gratitude you felt.
“It’s nothing,” he murmured, his hand drifting lazily over your leg, his thumb tracing soft patterns against your skin.
Remember that feeling of too much? The one where you were scared of exploding because everything inside you was just too overwhelming? Right now, your chest was filled to the brim, threatening to burst if you didn’t release it somehow.
“I love you.”
Your confession caused him to turn his head toward you. There was no disbelief in his eyes—only the quiet, profound gratitude of being the one you chose to share that with.
He had read about love in thousands of books, from poetry to neurological studies. He knew the chemical process behind it, the science of affection and attachment. But in this moment, he finally understood why some people lost themselves in love, why others fought wars over it, why people spent entire lifetimes trying to put it into words. For the first time, he realized there was no way to describe the depth of what he felt for you—not in any language, not through any scientific explanation. Some feelings simply defied words.
“I love you too,” he whispered, but even those words felt insufficient as they left his lips.
And that’s why his hand, still resting on your leg, moved up to your cheek, pulling you closer as his lips found yours. As if Dostoevsky was almost right when said ‘The darker the night, the brighter the stars. The deeper the grief love, the closer is God.’
.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳.
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