veronica

she/her | polish | 20

[pencil-n-pen]

ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

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post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist | ko-fi | next

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

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Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)

EDIT TWO: THE SEQUEL IS UP !! It is linked at the top of this post under “next” :)

[heavenlybodies333]

Morning Love -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader

You were dreaming. A warm bed. Silk sheets. A lazy Sunday. Silence.

That was until something audibly clinked. Somewhere just past your sleep-fuzzed consciousness, a mug hit porcelain. Then a soft rustle, drawers opening, a fucking sunbeam sliding across your shut eyelids like a slap from God himself.

You groaned. “No,” you muttered into Spencer’s expensive pillowcase. “No, no, no—Spence.”

A pause. You heard it—the light shuffle of his socked feet across hardwood. The quiet hum he always carried in the mornings. “Good morning,” he said, chipper.

You cracked one eye open, disoriented and already in a mood. “Do you hate me?”

Spencer’s lips curved into a smirk as he leaned against the doorway, mug in hand, hair still mussed from the night before. “Not at all,” he said, sipping his coffee. “I made you tea. I thought you might want something gentle on your stomach. Chamomile, a little honey. Also—bagel, plain, cream cheese, not toasted. I remember you said you hate when they warm it.”

He was so calm. So sweet. So impossibly… morning. And you were lying there half-naked in one of his MIT shirts, eyes swollen with sleep, still sore from how hard he’d fucked you last night on the couch, then against the wall, then finally—mercifully—in his bed. And now? Now he wanted to wake you up with love?

You groaned again and flopped onto your back, throwing your arm over your face. “You’re gonna have to learn to hate me in the mornings, Reid.”

“You’re cranky,” he mused, like he was fond of it.

You swallowed. “Don’t—Spencer, I swear, I just woke up—”

“You’re so pretty when you’re mean,” he said softly, placing the mug down on the nightstand beside you. “I like when you fight me in the morning.”

“Jesus Christ—” He kissed your forehead. So gentle. So sweet. And then? Then his hand slid beneath the sheets, over your thigh, fingers teasing the hem of your panties.

You hissed. “Spence—no, no—”

“You can whine all you want,” he murmured, dragging his knuckles up between your thighs, just barely grazing you through the cotton. “But you’re already wet.”

Goddamnit you were. “I hate you.” you half moaned.

He grinned, nosing along your jaw. “That’s okay. I love you enough for both of us.”

You pushed at his chest, not because you really wanted him gone, but because the warmth of his hand and the certainty in his voice felt like too much too soon. You’d barely opened your eyes and he was already cooing at you like some benevolent god of domesticity.

“I’m not ready to be loved right now,” you muttered, voice muffled under the crook of your arm.

“You were begging to be loved last night,” he quipped under his breath.

You shot him a glare. “That was night-me. Morning-me is a cruel, unholy bitch who wants nothing to do.”

He only smiled wider. You groaned again, partly because you were tired, mostly because you knew you weren’t going to win. Spencer thrived in the mornings—functioned, flourished, even flirted. It was frankly disturbing how alive he seemed before 8 a.m. Especially when you were the daughter of Aaron Hotchner, who hadn’t smiled before noon in about twenty years.

“Tell me again why I’m here and not in my own bed,” you grumbled.

“Because you whined ‘please, Spence, I wanna stay, I’ll be good,’ at 1:47 a.m. right after I made you come 3, 4 times?”

You yanked the sheets over your head. “I’m going to murder you.”

“You’ll have to get up to do that.”

“Fine. I’ll haunt your stupid morning-loving ass from the comfort of this bed.”

He pulled the covers down with a laugh, revealing your disheveled state—the MIT shirt slipping off your shoulder, the faint marks he’d left between your thighs. Spencer’s fingers brushed your cheek, warm and annoyingly tender.

“You know,” he said, with the kind of softness that used to undo you in seconds, “you can be as bitchy as you want in the mornings. I don’t mind.”

You blinked up at him. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because then I start thinking maybe you do love me.”

He tilted his head. “What if I do?”

You froze, it scared the shit out of you how much you wanted to say it back. Instead, you fell back on your safest vice: sarcasm. “You should consider therapy,” you muttered, rolling over.

He leaned down and whispered at your neck, voice honeyed and dangerous. “I do. Weekly. Thursdays at four.”

You almost laughed. You turned toward him again and searched his face, trying to figure out what the hell he was doing loving someone like you.

“Spence…” you started, but you didn’t know how to finish it.

His gaze softened. “I know.”

You sighed. “You don’t.”

“I know you’re scared.”

You went still.

“I know you don’t wake up easy, or love easy, or trust easy. I know you say bitchy things when you feel vulnerable. I know you hate being taken care of because it reminds you you’re not in control.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Spencer leaned forward, brushing your hair from your face. “I also know,” he murmured, “you let me hold you all night, even when you thought I was asleep.”

Your eyes stung. “That’s low.”

He grinned. “That’s profiling.”

You glared at him, but it cracked around the edges. “You gonna keep being sweet to me?” you whispered.

He nodded. “Yeah. ‘Fraid so.”

“And what happens when I push you too far? When I say something awful? When I throw a mug at your head at 7 a.m. because you made eggs and the smell makes me want to die?”

He raised a brow. “Then I’ll duck and make toast next time.”

You stared at him. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

You let yourself sit up finally, crossing your arms under your chest, still tucked in his shirt. You looked at him, “You’re weird.”

“Mmhm.” He sipped his coffee. “But I make great tea.”

You eyed the mug beside you. You didn’t reach for it.

Instead, you dragged the sheet back over your head, curled fetal again, and whimpered, “I want to die.”

There was a pause. Then the soft creak of the bed behind you. “Not before you eat, you don’t,” he said gently, like you were a child refusing breakfast. His hand slid slowly up your spine, rubbing in lazy circles. You flinched at first—still unused to being touched like this, like you deserved softness. Your father sure as hell never showed this side of himself, and no one else had ever lasted long enough to try.

“I hate how good that feels,” you mumbled.

“I know you do.”

Spencer laid down beside you, spooning you from behind, his warmth folding around you like a second blanket. You hated that he was good at this. You hated more that he seemed to know what you needed before you even opened your mouth.

“How is it you know exactly why I want?”you asked suddenly, suspicious.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, far too smoothly, as his hand found the waistband of your panties again.

You gasped, slapping at his arm. “It is too early!”

He chuckled, mouthing along your bare shoulder. “You sound shocked.”

“I’m sore.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

“You’ll be annoying.”

“That too.”

You turned over sharply, catching his wrist. “Spencer, I’m serious. I’m not used to this,” you whispered, staring at the hollow of his throat.

“I know.” His fingers grazed your elbow, feather-light. “That’s why I’m here.”

You shifted, resting your forehead against his chest. “You’re too nice.”

He laughed softly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is. To me.”

“Because you think kindness is conditional.”

You tensed. Spencer didn’t press—just waited. He always did. After a long, loaded silence, you sighed. “You ever wish I was… easier?”

“Never,” he said without pause. “But I do wish you’d believe me when I tell you I can handle you.”

He tilted your chin, coaxing your gaze up. “Let me take care of you.”

Spencer kissed you—soft and sweet. One of his hands slipped under your shirt to find your breast, his thumb circled your nipple, drawing a breathless moan from your lips.

“You’re still sore,” he whispered, voice wrecked with restraint.

“Yeah,” you said, pulling his hand lower.

“So I’ll be gentle.” he says looking up at you as you rolled your eyes, but then he dipped lower, and your protest dissolved into a moan as his tongue flicked over your nipple, hand kneading the other breast with careful, practiced affection.

He shifted between your thighs, letting his fingers dip beneath your panties, grazing the tender, swollen ache that pulsed just beneath your skin. You gasped, as he lowered his head kissing down your stomach to your inner thighs. His soft lips brushing over your swollen sore clit. He placed a small warm kiss on it before beginning to slowly lap your needy cunt.

You writhed against the sheets, grabbing at his hair, your sleepy huffs melting into broken gasps as he licked slow, deliberate strokes against your clit, sucking just enough to make your hips twitch.

“You taste so good in the morning,” he groaned, the vibrations making you sob.

You’d argue, but then two fingers pressed inside you and curled just right, and all you could do was whine. He worked you like he’d invented the concept of orgasms, coaxing you into one with lazy precision.

“Spence—fuck, Spencer—”

You arched off the mattress, legs trembling as you came with a cry, yanking his curls so hard he moaned into your cunt.

He didn’t stop until you whined again, batting at his shoulders. When he finally rose back up, his lips were slick, his eyes feral.

“Still hate me?” he asked, grinning.

“Yes,” you rasped, breathless. “But it’s deeply confusing.”

He kissed you again, messy and hot. “Then let me confuse you a little more baby.”

Your heart stuttered. God, you hated how much you liked when he called you that. “Spence—please—”

He kissed you again. “Can I fuck you?”

You whimpered. “God, yes.”

He climbed over you slowly, pushing your knees apart, guiding himself against your slick entrance. He stayed there for a beat, just holding—just being—before sinking into you with a groan.

You clawed at his back. “You said gentle.”

“This is gentle,” he rasped. “You feel too good.”

He moved slow, deep—each thrust a careful, devastating drag that had you writhing beneath him in seconds.

“I love you like this,” he whispered. “Fucked out and mean.” You whimpered something unintelligible, thighs shaking.

“I love you when you’re soft,” he continued. “I love you when you’re screaming at me. I love you when you can’t even look me in the eye.”

You tried to protest—you always tried—but then he angled his hips just right, and all that left your mouth was a broken moan.

“Let go,” he whispered as you came, clinging to him, breath stuttering in his ear. “Good girl,” he murmured, when you started to pant. “Just like that.” He followed soon after, pulsing deep inside you with a soft grunt and a kiss to your jaw.

For a long moment, there was only breathing. And then you whispered, voice hoarse, “I think I hate mornings a little less now.”

He laughed, holding you close. “I’ll convert you yet,” he said.

You smirked, resting your cheek against his chest. “We’ll see. You still have to survive me throwing a mug at your head.”

“I told you.” He kissed the top of your hair. “I’ll duck.”

a/n: this fic made me blush I love them

[lokisswiftie]

My beloved ghost and Me (Spencer Reid x Reader)

3.2k words

First time writing for Spencer, please be nice! I’m open for requests :)

Summary: Spencer Reid was your entire world. Until he died, leaving you with nothing but the ghost of him. But Is the ghost of him more present than you expected?

Warnings: Main Character Death (it’s literally the premise of the fanfic), mentions of Guns/Gunshots, loss and grief is a key theme, Reader is probably depressed, BAU!Reader, Heavy Angst, descriptions of violence, Ghost!Spencer, possibly ooc Spencer because I’ve never wrote for him before, written with early seasons Spence in mind. Yes I did make Wuthering Heights the book, who is going to stop me? Tell me if there’s any I missed.

When you first met Spencer Reid, you were both young agents at the Behavioural Analysis Unit. Before he ever became close to you, you’d found yourself slightly intimidated by his vast intellect. Still, you grew close fast, Spencer Reid was a kind person, more than that all his little quirks seemed to make you like him even more. The rest of the team could see you both falling for eachother fast, they could see the way his eyes always found you after he told a fact- searching for your approval. He always got it.

There was reluctance to accept the love between you. Love could hurt, and the two of you had experienced enough hurt to know that. But try as he might, Spencer Reid could not pull his eyes away from you. He could not stop himself from wanting you. The longing between you grew and resistance was futile. So on that quiet night at some hotel the team was staying at, when he had sought you out and your lips had met for the first time, it was a breath of relief after so long pretending.

After that your life was filled with Spencer Reid, and you woke up in the morning when the sun was creeping through your windows and saw him next to you and knew this was were you needed to be. You saw a brightness in him that seemed to pull you towards him, like a moth to a flame. Though, in the time that Spencer Reid was in your life he had only ever hurt you once. The pain of that flame came unexpectedly.

You both knew that with your work, with the job that you both had that there was danger. Part of the reason you both had for being so reluctant to be together was that something happening to one of you in the field was a haunting thought. And it could happen. And though you reassured eachother constantly, promised to be careful and tried to be… it did happen.

You never should have left him. There was a sinking feeling of dread in your gut the moment Spencer even proposed the idea of splitting up, but you had pushed it down. You had given the okay, agreed to him taking the back of the building and pushed down the crawling feeling of nausea in your gut.

Less than a minute. Less than a minute after your beloved had left your sight, the snap of gunshots echoed through the air. Your head had snapped in the direction of the sound, hands flying to your radio to alert Hotch that something had happened. Something had gone badly wrong.

Try as you might since that day, you can’t forget the sight of Spencer on the floor of the building, dark blood pooling around him. His eyes had been wide with almost childlike surprise, looking at the blood on his clothes like he didn’t even realise what it was. You stayed beside him till the EMTs came, and he’d begged you not to go. While you had been holding onto his steadily whitening hand, he remained as calm as he could and promised you everything would be okay.

Spencer died in the hospital. The gunshots- yes, that bastard had shot the love of your life multiple times- had broken inside him. Just like something had broken inside you the moment the doctors told you and the team that Spencer was gone. The rest of your team were doing their best to support you, but loss weighs down heavily. Especially when someone like Spencer is gone.

Since Spencer died life has felt at a stand still. Mandatory leave has resulted in you trapped at your apartment. Surrounded by your shared belongings. In the months after he died, Penelope was a rock for you, and bless her she really did try to keep you steady. She forced you to actually venture outside the apartment. And on the days when she arrived and you couldn’t bring yourself to get out of bed, she stayed with you too.

Nothing could replace him though. And the team couldn’t be there all the time- you understood, of course. But when you were alone, you felt the darkness creeping in. You couldn’t bare to open the curtains so your apartment remained in half darkness most of the time. When you slept, you dreamt of Spencer. And though you knew it wasn’t helping… you were just glad to see his face again. Even if he did fade with the morning light.

Three months after Spencer died, and you think you’ve driven yourself mad with pacing your apartment like this. Your daily routine has turned into getting up, and finding a new area of the house to be flooded with memories of Spencer by. Today you were standing by the bookshelf, swaddled in your pyjamas. Tears wet your cheeks. They always do.

This apartment had originally been Spencer’s, but when you moved into it he had accommodated space for your belongings. Both of you being avid readers, a large chunk of that was books. Your fingers trace over the spines of countless books, eyes flickering to titles. You don’t have an eidetic memory, but you can remember Spencer’s voice reading these stories to you during cold winter days, his arms around you tightly. You pull your hands away when you find a book Spencer had read to you late one night when you were both stressed after a case. Wuthering Heights.

You can feel the tightness in your throat already, and when you close your eyes you can see him again. Your hands hover over the bookshelf while your mind flicks back to that day with Spencer. Your Spencer.

“Are You okay?”

Spencers voice broke you out of the trance you had been in, your head snapping up to look at him in the bathroom mirror. He looked exhausted, already wearing his pyjamas and leaning on the door with tired eyes. He’s been watching you. Watching you staring at your hands, soaking them in the sink for so long they’ve started to prune. The water stopped being filled with blood long ago, but the urge to scrub your hands so hard the skin peels prevails. You wipe your hand on your face, sniffing while you quickly drain the clear water from the sink.

“I’m fine. Sorry I’ll be right in-“

You freeze in the middle of drying your hands, staring at yourself in the mirror. You can see the haunted look in your own eyes. Somehow the flickering bathroom light isn’t bright enough for you to forget what you saw on that case. Both of you know it. Spencer watches you for a moment, watching how you visibly recoil at the sight of yourself. For a long moment neither of you speak, the room filled with the sound of your ragged breathing.

When Spencer’s arms gently encircle your form, you jump at first before settling into him. Admittedly, you’re shaking.

“It’s Not your fault.”

He whispers by your ear, his voice as soft as the sweater he’s wearing. You’re looking at yourself in the mirror and find your lip trembling. There’s a look of skittish fear in your eyes that’s strange to you. You don’t remember starting to cry.

“I know-“

You try and reassure him, unable to meet the soft brown eyes you know are staring back at you.

“It’s Not your fault,”

He repeats it anyway, saying your name with a firmness. you realise how much you’ve begun to lean on him, and how his hands steady you. You’re filled with a rush of emotions and you turn around in his arms before he can see you fully start sobbing. Spencer pulls you into his chest without hesitation. Your eyes sting so you press your face further into his neck, and he repeats those words over and over again until you can believe it. Until you can’t cry any more, and he’s gently rubbing your back and pulling away.

You know you must look even more of a mess now, skin puffy with broken sobs. But he doesn’t look at you with anything less than adoration. His hand comes up to hold the side of your face and you exhale shakily, the space between you tiny.

“Let’s go to bed baby,”

And so you do, following Spencer into your shared bedroom and slipping under the lavender covers. You look up In confusion when he doesn’t join you, and your eyes land on him as he finally comes to join you with a book in his hands. He smiles when he sees you squint in questioning, and you could melt at the adoration in his eyes at that moment. He slips into bed beside you, beckoning you closer which you eagerly comply with and find your designated place in his arms.

“What’s this?”

You question finally, looking up at the sharp curve of his jawline from where your head rests on his shoulder. His face is focused as he flicks through to the first page of the book.

“Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë.”

He replies, and sensing the scrunch of your nose in confusion he adds with a coy smile.

“I’m going to read to you.”

You’re sure you’re burdening him with your unpleasantness, because once again you find yourself replying in a far more abrasive tone than his.

“I’ll probably fall asleep before you’re even started.”

You grumble, and you’re not sure why you’re fighting off the affection but something within you wrestled with your morals, begging you to be difficult. Maybe to see if he’ll love you anyway.

He turns his head to look at you when you say that in that specific tone, and his eyes have this way of seeing through you.

“That’s the point. Get comfortable, I’m about to start.”

He turns his head back to the book and as promised, begins to tell the story to you like you’re a little kid. You settle down without another word of protest, too exhausted and too content by the sound of his voice to fight it anymore. You find yourself Inhaling deeply while you watch his fingers dart over the page, surrounded by the scent of his cologne and drifting in a sea of his voice.

As promised, you slip into a sleep quickly, one far more restful than would be without his help. And when Spencer tenderly brushes your hair back from your face you lean into his touch. Sometimes you still find yourself leaning, but find nothing left of him to hold you.

A choked gasp leaves your throat at the memory, and then before you can judge the situation better you grab the book tightly by the spine. It’s hurting your hand how hard you’re gripping the ornate cover, clammy hand shaking with rage. The sound of your own crying has become like white noise over the past few months. It's filled so much of your time recently that the sound of silence is more distressing than the wretched sobs.

Your eyes flash and once again your head is filled with images of Spencer. When his eyes appear in your mind, you hurl the book right at your front door. For a moment you choke on your own sobs, before caving into the bookcase and without much grace slump to the floor. With your eyes blurry with tears you can see the book, it’s spine looking cracked. Spencer would have hated that. Spencer would have hated you for doing that.

“God, I’m sorry-“

It’s pathetic, you tell yourself. How often you find yourself apologising to the memory of your partner. The reason why changes every time. There’s so many reasons to beg for his forgiveness now.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry-“

You wail, and you can’t even be bothered to think about your neighbours. The first few times your wailing had disturbed them they had been understanding, and they gave you the same pitying smiles in the corridors that everyone did. Now, you're certain their sympathy has worn off. The bookcase makes a noise while you suddenly slam your head back against it. It aches deep into your skull, and when you find that it somewhat muffled the sound of Spencer’s voice in your head you do it again. And again, and again and again and again and-

“Y/N.”

No. You’d been slamming your head back so hard you were starting to see stars. Surely reprieve from the torment that is his voice should have come by now.

“Y/N.”

No, he sounds clearer this time. You almost scream in frustration. You weakly hit your head again.

“No!-“

Your voice comes out in a scream that silences the voice for a moment. The relief doesn’t even get a chance to fill you, before your chest starts to feel like it’s being crushed. You keep Your eyes screwed tight shut to avoid the sting of your own salty tears, and deep down to avoid his voice. Jesus, you must be past the point of insanity now.

“Y/N!”

Like a crackle of thunder, Spencer Reid’s voice echoes into the air around you. And it is a startling realisation, one that spurs you to blink your eyes open- but you’re certain. You didn’t make that up. He’s here.

Tears blur your vision, and you struggle to make out the room in front of you for a moment before it swims into focus. The sight rips the breath from your lungs all at once. Your eyes travel up, from his shoes which are shiny and polished, to the top of his head where his hair shines like a halo in the warm lighting of your apartment. There, like a mirage in the depth of the desert, is Spencer. Your Spencer. And he looks back at you with soft eyes.

The seconds where you stare up at him like a worshipper to a god seem to stretch into hours. You gape like a fish wrenched from the ocean, silently begging for words. Begging for an explanation for the man you love standing In Front of you, when for the past months all you’ve done is remember him dead.

Finally the silence breaks when you wheeze out a reply, breathing his name like a prayer while tears threaten to cloud your vision again. You frantically wipe them away, lest he disappear from the world again and leave you more broken than ever.

“Spencer?”

He looks back at you, his eyes startlingly alive. So bright, you could almost kid yourself that the young man before you is still alive and well, and not buried with all of his future in the ground with him. The guilt eats like maggots under your skin, a rot you’re certain is polluting the air around you. The way he looks at you with some kind of divine forgiveness in his eyes does not ease this feeling.

“I’m here, it’s me.”

He replies, his voice eerily nostalgic. And then he reaches out a hand to you, and you look at it. You realise how pathetic you must look, on the ground with your lips wobbling while you suck in breath after breath. You can’t seem to care when all you feel is disbelief. You stare at his palm; you don’t trust yourself to grab ahold of it in case he vanishes like mist in front of you.

“How… are you here?”

Your voice cracks and his fingers twitch like the sound pains him. You look up at him and can’t restrain the flood of liquid to your eyes when you say the words out loud.

“You’re dead.”

He looks down at you, his eyes warm with heartbreaking pity, and then he comes closer as he drops to the ground. You watch with stunned half believing eyes as he sits beside you, leaving a distance of approximately five inches between you both as he too comes to lean against the bookshelf.

“I was. I don’t know. I think I still am, I’m not sure I-“

His voice is like a fever dream, every syllable making you shiver with memories. You stare up at his face, and he cuts himself off and looks down at you. That’s when you know this must be real, because he has that look. The one that seems like he’s totally enraptured with you. None of your previous visions of him had given you that mercy, the burn of hatred in his eyes was more common. Spencer looks down at you with sorrow.

“I remember dying. I remember… watching everything that happened after.”

He explains, fixing his eyes on his hands while you stare at him numbly.

“I watched you for so long, Y/N. I tried to talk to you- I think I wasn’t strong enough then, maybe or something like that.”

Your heart, which you didn’t know could still shatter further, somehow does. Spencer. He’s been here, within reach but somehow not. If you could remember how to, you would laugh bitterly at the revelation that the universe has found yet another way to kick you down.

“What changed? How are you here now?- I don’t understand-“

You frantically ask, and he quickly reaches for you. His eyes flash with hurt for a moment when you duck away from his touch before they fill with understanding.

“Y/N, please- I’m here. I don’t know how, I think maybe I’m… stronger? I’ve been trying to get you to notice-“

You listen to him and at this your mind flashes with memories of the various objects that have been falling off of tables. You didn’t care at the time, but the pieces fall into place now. He continues.

“…I saw you hurting yourself and I didn’t think about it, I just spoke. And you heard me.”

There’s a moment of silence where the world seems to settle- it turned on its head when you saw him, and you’re not sure it will ever return to the way it was before. But the world around you settles as you grapple with the knowledge.

You stare at your palms stunned, and you can hear the anxious tapping of Spencer’s fingers against his thigh. It’s a sound you didn’t realise you’d missed. It’s then you realise sluggishly that he’d tried to touch you, and you’d pushed him away. It’s then that your body is filled with overwhelming need for Spencer, and it’s the moment that you realise you can have him again.

He lets out an exclamation when you quickly turn towards him and briefly look at his face. Not bloody, not bruised, not pale and lifeless. You choke on a sob, and launch yourself into his arms again.

“Oh my god, Spencer-“

You sob, and his arms wrap around you without hesitation. He’s just as eager to have you in his arms again, and he doesn’t flinch at the way you squeeze him harshly. He’s real. You reach up and you can feel the softness of his hair under your fingertips. You bury your face in his neck and you can smell his cologne once more. Then his hand moves up to gently cup the back of your head, which you’ve only just realised has started to sting. He cradles you close to him, and you can sense the worry emanating from him.

“Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.”

He whispers, and presses a firm kiss to your forehead. You shudder at the feeling, eyes slipping shut as his breath tickles the hair on your neck.

“I’m here. I’m here.”

[mmmurdockss]

Charlie Cox on set of Daredevil Born Again S2....A REAL DISNEY PRINCE IF YOU ASK ME

[xbluereid]

omfg

[girllblogging777]

THINKING ABOUT bambi spencer reid

the sunlight streamed through the window of your bedroom, casting a soft glow on your boyfriend’s delicate face. or what you could actually discern of it anyway, seeing as he was currently buried deep into your pink floral bedsheets.

you gently combed his hair to wake him up, and when you noticed his eyes peeking from under the covers, you greeted him softly “good morning, bambi”

at first, he just rolled his eyes. he was used to you calling him all kinds of stupid nicknames. but this one definitely fit him.

“i’m serious, you look like a lost fawn in a forest when you wake up” you said, propping yourself up on your elbows to get a proper look at him.

as if to prove your point, spencer’s doe eyes found your own and he retorted “i’m not a deer” he pouted, blinking the remnants of his sleep away.

“nope, you’re a fawn. a sweet little baby fawn”

and he simply groaned, pressing his face into your pillow. your scent was all over him, it was overwhelming.

“you’re the weirdest person i know,” he mumbled, his actions betraying his words as he gently pushed you back into the mattress, pulling you closer so that your head was on his chest.

you giggled in return, not denying it one bit. “and you’re my cute little bambi”

“whatever,” he huffed out, his hand tracing idle shapes on your back. “just be nice and cuddle me”

a/n : reblogs are the only way to boost fics on here, that would be appreciated !!

[girllblogging777]

MY ANTIDOTE 𝜗𝜚

spencer reid x bau!worker reader (dating, angst/fluff)

IN WHICH you end up potentially contaminated with anthrax while your boyfriend can do nothing but watch

it wasn’t supposed to have gone that way.

you’d been careful - all of you. ever since the beginning of the anthrax case, you and your team had taken all the precautions you could possibly imagine. but unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. because if one thing was scarier than facing an unsub, it was fighting an invisible and deadly threat.

and spencer knew that. he could probably recite the statistics about the disease in his sleep, that is if he would actually be able to get any. because truthfully, the memory of that disastrous day in the hospital, where way too many people died at once, affected him more than he’d ever admit.

you’d felt it in the way his body tensed around yours at night, when the quiet of the motel you were staying in surrounded you. you’d felt it in the way he was startled by any sound remotely similar to a heart monitor.

so no, it wasn’t supposed to have gone that way.

he should’ve followed you, and followed the protocol. he shouldn’t have been distracted by a stupid phone call.

and he most definitely shouldn’t have let you out of his sight.

you. his partner in crime. in solving them, actually. and most of all, his partner in life. the only reason why he’d even agreed to visit the scene in the first place, because he couldn’t bear to let you face this alone.

and now, instead of being by his side where you belonged, you were behind that damn glass door, inhaling a substance that could potentially get you killed while he could do nothing but watch.

“spence. spencer, listen to me. do not open that door, okay ?” you spoke as calmly as you could, knowing that a single wrong move could be fatal.

he took a step towards you, his slender fingers reaching for the doorknob and your self control flew out the window.

“NO ! spence, don’t make a single move- baby. i’m begging you. please, i need your brain now.”

the words came out too loud. wrong, even. and he understood, his lips curving downwards and hand freezing mid-air when he realised it was silly to act so carelessly.

“right, protocol. protocol” he recited, as to remind himself that, even if he currently wished he’d have morgan’s skills in door kicking, he couldn’t afford to stop thinking and using that genius brain of his. not right now, and most definitely not when your life was on the line.

“call garcia, tell her we found something at the house,” you spoke, eyes darting down to the broken glass on the floor, and the suspicious white powder all over the room. “if this is anthrax, that means the antidote has gotta be somewhere”

“what ? love, you can’t stay in there ! we gotta get you out, you can’t-“

you turned around in a hurry, unable to meet his gaze. “spence, with the amount of product on the floor, it’s no use and you know it. i better do something anyway” you attempted in a convincing tone as you made your way to the other side of the room.

his eyes followed you, heart breaking as you disappeared from his line of sight, but every second counted. “okay, i’m uh- gonna call penelope now.” he said, taking his phone out of his pocket and gathering all his knowledge to help you the only way he could.

“if the anthrax is in there, he’d put the antidote in something he could easily find. don’t look in the usual places, and- oh, just please come back here” he whimpered out, unable to stay composed, pressing his palm against the glass.

it was only a few seconds before you reappeared, masking a cough with an innocent smile. “spencer, i’m going to be okay.” you promised, mirroring his action until the only thing separating the two of you was the glass.

“look at me, spence, please”

and he did, hoping he would catch the atoms lacking. he often thought about this as a child, since he’d been taught about it in science class. as someone with three PhDs, having such an innocent belief was completely unacceptable. but then again, you always had a way of making him believe in the impossible.

“you know, electrons that exist in every atom of our body push other electrons in every atom of our body… and that repulsion ensures that we never really touch anything,” he quoted from memory, ignoring the tears forming in his eyes.

you tilted your head, biting your lip to choke back an inevitable sob. “-so technically, we’ve never actually touched.”

he nodded as you finished his thought.

“look, it’s not even that you complete my thoughts,” he replied as you were hit by another cough. “you complete me, my whole being. so please, get out of here before i don’t follow your orders for the first time in my life.”

that definitely did it for you, and you felt the weight of the situation causing your lungs to tighten. was it the anthrax ? was it the end already ? were these your last words to him before… ? no. it couldn’t be.

so you just nodded, ignoring the weakness in your legs and the soreness in your throat. “i’ll be right there, baby. i just need to find it, i need to know i tried to save them.” you justified, which earned you to be cut off by him.

“and,” he whispered. “who’s gonna save you ?”

it’s almost like he was trying to twist the invisible knife into your heart. “you, spence.” you whispered softly. “i know i’m gonna be fine, and you’ll be the reason i get outta here safely. because you always are, right ?”

this was definitely a way for you to convince yourself you weren’t inhaling a deadly poison with every breath you took.

“you’re my antidote, yeah ?” you let out a strained chuckle, and he softened at your attempted humor.

“you mean the cure to every disease and illness you could ever possibly get ? sure, i can try to be that for you. i’ll be anything”

@tateshifts @gf2bellamy @iamgonnagetyouback @reids @xervoxs @kaz-03 @cynbx @sleepysleepnomore @emerkinsella89 @sweetheartspence @g4rvez-r3id @peanutalergy @keirareidss @mortic2n @eternlmoonshine @khaleesibeach @xbluereid

[cricket-reader]

What the Night Took

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

Summary: A year after Foggy’s death, Matt is trying to distance himself from Daredevil, afraid of losing anyone else. One night, he comes home bloody and bruised to you, questioning if he had made the right decision as you patch him up with tears staining your cheeks.

warnings: mugging, wound caretaking, spoilers for DDBA, injury

word count: 2,429

A/N: prompt fill for day 8 for @juneofdoom | Mugged | Concussion

{Read on A03}

Matt’s ribs ached with every breath as he stumbled up the steps to his apartment. His fingers trembled as he fumbled with his keys, sticky with half-dried blood. His head pounded, the sharp sting of a cut above his brow sending slow trickles of warmth down his face.

He could have fought back—should have fought back.

But Daredevil was dead.

Or, at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

Daredevil died along with Foggy Nelson. Daredevil died the day he failed to protect that which he held dear. Daredevil died, overcome with guilt for the precious life which had been taken from this earth far too soon.

He could hear the muggers before they got to him, of course, he could. Too sloppy to be professionals, but too desperate to be harmless. They wanted money that he didn’t carry, and for that, he paid in blood and bruises.

It was safer that way. If he didn’t fight back, if he never gave them reason to suspect he was nothing more than a blind man who happened to wander down the wrong street at the wrong time, he could protect the fragile, normal life he was trying to build.

He could protect you.

As he slid the key into the lock, he heard steady breathing coming from inside his apartment—he blamed the beginnings of a mild concussion for almost missing it. Heart dropping to his stomach, he suddenly regretted giving you a key with the invitation to come over whenever you wanted. There was going to be no escape from your scrutiny, your care. He didn’t deserve it, but he knew you’d be too worried to leave him alone to patch himself up if he’d asked.

He braced himself the best he could as the lock clicked, as the door creaked open and shut behind him. The moment the door shut, he heard your sharp intake of air, the hurried footsteps approaching from the kitchen where you had been getting out some tea.

“Matt! What took you so long? I thought you were going to come home earlie-” Your voice came to an abrupt stop as you, no doubt, took in his battered state.

His heart clenched in his throat as you let out a wounded sound in the back of your throat. You were in front of him in an instant, gentle hands on his arms, fingers brushing over fabric darkened with blood. He wanted to tell you that he was fine. That it probably looked worse than it was. That you didn’t need to worry.

But the words never came.

Because your hands reached up to cup his face, your fingers ghosting over the swollen bruise blooming across his cheekbone.

Because he could taste the tears building up in your eyes—could hear your stuttering breaths as you tried your best not to cry.

Because then your voice broke as you asked, “What happened to you?”

A brick lodged in his throat, words escaped him as your finger brushed against his face again—so gentle, so full of care. Your hands were warm, grounding him even as his body ached under the weight of every bruise, every hit he had allowed them to land.

He could hear your heart pounding—fast, anxious, scared.

He did that.

Matt swallowed hard, lips parting to answer your question, but the words caught in his throat. He didn’t want you to know what had happened to him. Shame coiled in his chest, burning hot as the flames of hell. He couldn’t avoid it, though. His usual “I tripped” or “I ran into a pole” excuses would never hold up under your scrutiny.

“I… got mugged,” he finally said, face heating up in the tell-tale sign of a blush.

“Oh, Matt,” you lamented, sniffling back tears. “I’m so sorry, I wish I could’ve been there, oh god, I could’ve walked you home or-”

He interrupted you by saying your name. “Don’t… you couldn’t have known. You can’t blame yourself.”

“We should get you to the clinic or something—make sure that they didn’t-”

“No, I’m fine,” Matt interrupted you again. He hated hospitals with a burning passion—not to mention he’s had worse. What those muggers did to him could never hold a candle to those he had gone up against in his past life as the devil of Hell’s Kitchen. He could practically sense the disbelief radiating from your body; however, he clearly wanted to press the issue. “Honestly! I just need to patch myself up, and I’ll be good to go. I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Where are you going?” You stubbornly followed him as he stumbled to the bathroom.

“To get the first aid kit. Why don’t you make some tea? I’ll be out when I finish-”

“Matthew Murdock,” you stopped him in his tracks with a hand to his bicep. “Do you actually think I’m going to let you off that easy? Let me help you, okay? Sit on the couch, and I’ll grab the kit. It’s in the closet with the towels, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Matt nodded in assent, voice choked off. He retreated to the couch, thoroughly ashamed. He never wanted you to see him at his lowest. For that, he was glad that Daredevil had died long before Kirsten had dragged you into his life. He was glad that you would never come home to find him beaten bloody in his suit, never have to worry if, each time he left the apartment, that would be the last you saw of him. Now, even without Daredevil meddling in his life, he had done the very thing he promised himself not to do—he worried you—came home bloody and beaten for you to pick up the broken pieces. That part of his life was supposed to be over. It wasn’t supposed to touch you. Maybe he should’ve fought back—if only so that you wouldn’t have to see him so utterly defeated, but no—

He couldn’t let history repeat itself. Matthew Murdock could not be both the lawyer and the vigilante. He could not endanger those he cared about—not again.

You came back with a kit and a damp towel; remnants of the tears he heard you shed in the bathroom remained heavy on your skin. He wished he could make it go away, wished he had never made you cry in the first place. “I’m sorry,” he said as you gently dabbed at the blood on his face, feeling like such a burden.

A strangled sound escaped from your mouth. “You have nothing to apologise for, Matt.”

When you were finished with his face, your hands rubbing in the bruise cream with a sort of gentle care that he never took the time to use himself, you said, “I need to check under your shirt.”

“I’m fine,” he automatically said, pleading to God that you wouldn’t press him on the matter.

A muscle twitched in your jaw. “You’re bleeding through your shirt.”

Which… okay… He couldn’t really argue with that. Well, he could… You just would never relent in your pursuit to help him.

“Please, Matt, just let me help you,” you pleaded, voice so saccharine and sad that he had no choice but to listen to you. He sighed, something unbearably heavy in that single breath. After a moment’s pause, he reached for the buttons holding the white fabric of his shirt together to undo them. His hands were shaking, knowing that the sight underneath was blemished, knowing that it would bring questions and possibly disgust. He held his breath as he slid the material off his shoulders.

And you—

You forgot how to breathe.

It wasn’t just the bruises. It wasn’t just the angry, red knife wounds.

It was everything else.

Scars. So many of them. They crisscrossed over his skin in jagged lines, some thin and faded, others so deep they’d never fade. His chest, abdomen, shoulders, arms—there was barely a place untouched.

Your fingers trembled as you reached up, abandoning the movement as quickly as you started. “Matt…” you breathed, voice barely above a whisper. He’d never heard you sound so pained, so anguished.

“Who–” you swallowed, trying to find your voice. “Who… did this to you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Matt easily brushed off, hoping that you’d just let it go. It couldn’t look that bad, could it? He had run his fingers over his torso multiple times, felt the raised bumps that were left as mementoes from his Daredevil days, but he didn’t think they’d be that bad.

“It doesn’t–” your voice was near hysterical, “It doesn’t matter? What… How could…” You shook your head, tears coming back full force. “Of course, it matters,” you finished, voice firm despite the heartbreak clear in your tone.

You allowed yourself, then, to reach out. Hesitant fingers barely grazing an old scar along his ribs. He didn’t flinch, but you felt the way he forced himself not to react. You wanted to gun down every last person who had hurt your loving, sweet boyfriend—wanted to make them suffer as much as they had made him suffer. So many questions rampaged through your brain, kicking up a giant dust storm of confusion and concern.

You allowed your gaze to settle back on his face. There was something distant in his expression. “What happened? Who did this?” You bulldozed right over him as he opened his mouth. “And don’t tell me that it doesn’t matter or that it’s not a big deal. Because whoever hurt you… They deserve… they should be rotting in hell—they should be… they should-” What had started as a strong argument had quickly devolved into sobs. How could people be so cruel? Matthew was the sweetest, purest, most wonderful man you had ever met. He was kind and patient and never ever pushed you. He was everything you could ask for in a boyfriend. The perfect man. Who could, in their right conscious mind, hurt someone as kind as him? As vulnerable as him?

You startled slightly as his strong, warm arms enveloped you. “I’m supposed to be the one comforting you,” you said in protest, voice trembling over your poorly concealed sobs.

Matthew frowned as he held you closer. “I’m used to it by now,” he said, hoping to assuage your sorrow.

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” you muttered.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said, “I just don’t want you to worry. I’m fine, really. This is nothing.”

“I hate that you can say that.” You pulled out of his embrace. “Who did this to you? Please tell me they’re either in jail or six feet under.”

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” he murmured. He could tell you wanted to keep pushing, could tell you had a million questions swarming in your head, but you knew to let it go—at least, for now.

“Okay,” you sighed, clearly not satisfied with his answer. Whoever hurt your boyfriend must still be out there—they could be walking free, no one any the wiser that they were capable of such evil. “Sit down, let me take care of the cuts.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologised again. “I really could’ve done all this myself.”

“Nonsense. You deserve to be taken care of, Matthew. One of these days, I’m going to make you believe that.”

You finished patching him up in no time at all, your hands careful as they smoothed the last bandage over his bicep. Your fingers hesitated over the older scars, each raised line an untold story of pain and misery. You swallowed hard. Someone had hurt him before. Hurt him really bad. Someone made him believe that his scars meant nothing—that they didn’t matter. Your heart ached for him, fire burned in your chest, hatred swirled violently through your body.

You wanted to ask.

You wanted to press him about the scars—demand to know why there are so many—why they look like the work of malice and hatred instead of accidents. You wanted to ask who hurt him and why.

But you didn’t.

Matt was already guarded enough, his expression carefully blank despite the pain he must’ve been in. He wasn’t ready, and you’d be damned if you didn’t respect that. The last thing you wanted was for him to push you away when he clearly needed you. You wanted to be a safe space for him, wanted him to feel comfortable coming to you when he needed someone, for him to associate you with solace and safety.

“I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk,” you murmured, hands ghosting over a scar on his chest. “I don’t care how long it takes—if you’re never ready to talk about it, that’s okay. I just want you to feel safe with me.”

Matt’s throat bobbed, tears lining his eyes at the sincerity he found in your words—he didn’t even need to listen to your heartbeat to know that you were telling the truth. “I do,” he said, voice choked with emotion. “I do feel safe with you.”

That was a part of the problem. He felt like he could tell you anything—like there was nothing holding him back from sharing all the dark pieces of himself that he’d tried so hard to push down. Like one carefully crafted sentence could send his walls toppling down. It scared him how much he wanted to confide in you—how much he trusted you.

“I want to tell you,” he said, because he did, he really did. “I just…”

He paused, licking his lips as he thought of what to say. Was he really going to lay it all bare for you right now?

“It’s okay,” you spared him from having to further explain. “Don’t tell me right now. You’ve been through a lot and need some rest. Do you want me to read to you?”

Words couldn’t describe how grateful he was to have you in his life. “That sounds wonderful.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you go lie in bed? I should pack up my stuff quick, so I don’t make too much noise when I leave,” you said, giving him a peck on the cheek for good measure.

As you turned to leave, he grabbed your arm. “Stay?”

“Of course,” you said, heart melting at the vulnerability he was allowing you to see. Little by little, Matthew Murdock was tearing down his walls for you, and you were going to be there for him every step of the way.

Taglist: @harleycao @hallecarey1 @filmsbyblair

[heavenlybodies333]

Acting on your worst behavior -S.R part I here

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

You’re late.

You’re shaking.

And you’re pissed off at the world in that way that only heartbreak can make you.

Your bag’s half-zipped, makeup tossed in without care, your outfit borderline inappropriate for the temperature but perfect for the frat house theme party you were headed to. Glitter on your collarbone, a gloss on your lips that wasn’t there fifteen minutes ago.

It’s been three weeks since Hotch forced it to end. Since Spencer stopped answering your texts. Since he started following the rules and you started breaking every single one you could.

Because fuck it, right? If you’re already going to hell, you might as well enjoy the way down.

Your crop top was too tight, your skirt too short, your pupils too blown to be sober. You hadn’t slept more than four hours total this week, and your body was running purely on adrenaline, prescription stimulants, and whatever trauma your daddy issues were metabolizing into fuel.

And speaking of…

You don’t even hear the door open—you’re too focused on digging your keys out of the bottom of your bag when you sense him behind you. You felt the soft pressure of a hand settle against your lower back. Familiar. Intimate. Unwelcome.

You jumped, turning around too fast, heart hammering.

Spencer.

Of course it was Spencer. He stood there, all unreadable intensity, curls still damp from the rain and his FBI windbreaker slung halfway up his forearm like he’d rushed over. Like he’d been worried.

You blinked at him, blood fizzing with panic and stimulants. “What the hell, Spence?” you snapped. “You scared me.”

“I didn’t mean to.” His voice was low, careful. His eyes scanned your face. “You okay?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m fine. I’m just late.”

He frowned, stepping closer. You took a step back.

“I’ve been calling you.”

“I’ve been busy.” You turned away from him, digging harder into your bag for your keys. “Maybe you should call your new academy girlfriend instead.”

There it was. He’d known when he agreed to go out for drinks with Prentiss and JJ that they were trying to get his mind off you and introduced him to an old colleague that she’d gone to training with.

He stiffened. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Yeah I bet.” You finally yanked your keys free, too hard. Something else flew with them—shit—a prescription bottle clattered to the floor between you.

You both froze. You dove for it, but he was faster. He picked it up and turned it over.

“No stop—” you reached, but he was already turning it over in his hand. His sharp eyes scanned the label in a flash, and then slowly, slowly lifted to yours.

His whole expression changed—concern melting into something furious. “Are you serious right now?”

“Give it back.” You reached for it. He held it out of your reach.

“This isn’t even your prescription—”

“Leave me alone.”

“This is Adderall.”

You tried to snatch the bottle from his hand. “Wow. What a genius deduction, Dr. Reid. Must be that PhD at work.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Why do you care?”

He stepped in closer. “Because you’re shaking.”

You barked a bitter laugh. “No shit. I’m running late.”

“You’re tweaking. Your pupils are huge and your hands won’t stop moving and you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“Jesus Christ, Spencer.” You yanked the bottle from his hand, shoving it back into your tote like a cornered animal. “Mind your own business.”

“You are my business,” he snapped. “Or did you forget that part when you decided to pop pills from some horny frat boy who probably thinks Cocaine is a cocktail garnish?”

You scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who fucked me in Quantico’s security camera blind spot and then ghosted because my dad told him to.”

Spencer’s mouth opened slightly. “That’s what this is about?”

“This is about everything,” you hissed. “You left me. He punished me. And now you’re back out there playing golden boy while I rot in fucking cold case hell and try to keep up with a double course load while my body’s falling apart—”

He grabbed your wrist.

“Look at me,” he said, voice softer now. “You don’t have to do this.”

Your eyes flashed. “Let go of me.”

“Not until you tell me what the hell’s going on with you. Because you’re not the girl I knew. And if this—” he motioned to the pills “—is how you’re coping, then I’m not letting it go.”

“I’m not yours anymore,” you snapped. “You made that very clear.”

“You’re taking someone else’s amphetamines,” he said flatly. “Do you have any idea—”

“I said drop it.”

His voice was low now. Dangerous. “How long?”

You didn’t answer.

He stepped forward, jaw tight, voice clenched like a fist. “How long have you been using?”

You glared at him. “I don’t owe you anything.”

He scoffed, eyes dark. “Bullshit. You owe me everything. I got thrown into that meeting with Strauss for you. I got suspended. I defended you. I loved you—”

“Oh, spare me,” you snapped. “You loved the idea of me. Until my dad gave the word and you folded like a fucking lawn chair.”

You avoided his eyes. Your heart was beating too fast. Every sound, every light felt sharp.

“How long?” He repeated, stepping closer, voice trembling with fury.

“Stop it, Spencer,” you muttered. “Just stop. You don’t get to care.”

His jaw locked, breath shallow. “Are you high right now?”

“No,” you lied. “I haven’t even taken one today.”

“Jesus Christ.” He raked a hand through his hair, stepping back like he couldn’t look at you without catching fire. “You’re lying to my face.”

“I’m still going to that party,” you say, voice breaking.

Spencer’s face twitched. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” You tilted your head. “Do what I want for once?”

“You’re high, you’re spiraling, and you’re trying to push me away so you don’t have to feel what you’re actually feeling.”

“No.” You stepped up to him, chest brushing his. “I’m trying to get to a fucking party. You remember what it’s like to have friends, don’t you?”

You grab your bag, shove past him, before pressing the elevator button as the doors ding open you say one last thing, “Don’t follow me, Dr. Reid.”

You’d managed to reapply your gloss with shaking hands in the car, snort a line in the driveway, and flirt your way through the front door of Kappa Psi like everything was fine.

But it wasn’t.

You were spiraling.

Even worse, you knew it—and you didn’t care.

Frat lights flickered in and out of focus. Someone shoved a Solo cup in your hand. You couldn’t remember who. You drank it anyway. Another pill got pressed into your palm. It wasn’t the usual blue you trusted. It was pink. Oval. Something you didn’t recognize.

You took it anyway.

Fifteen minutes later you were in an alley behind the frat house, curled into yourself with your back against the cold brick wall and your phone shaking in your hand. Everything was spinning—lights bleeding into your eyes, stomach turning over like it was trying to reject your entire existence.

You tried to dial someone else first—your roommate maybe? You weren’t even sure. You misdialed. Twice.

Then, like muscle memory, your thumb hovered over his name. Spencer Reid.

It rang once. Twice.

He picked up immediately.

“Hello?”

You couldn’t speak. Not at first. You were crying, but you couldn’t feel the tears. Your teeth chattered as you opened your mouth and tried to say his name, but it came out broken.

“Hey—hey, slow down.” Spencer’s voice was tight, urgent. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

You could hear him moving, grabbing keys, door slamming.

“S’cold,” you slurred, chest hiccuping. “I—I think I messed up, Spence—”

“You’re okay,” he said, voice shaking now. “But I need you to tell me what you took. Did you take something new? What was it?”

“I don’t know—somebody gave it to me—said it was fine—I didn’t know, I didn’t—”

You dropped the phone. It clattered onto the pavement as you leaned forward and threw up violently, hands scraping at the rough ground. You coughed, heaved, vision swimming.

He was already in the car, his phone running the trace Garcia had sent to him—last known ping, three blocks behind Sigma Chi, the back side of the fraternity garage cluster that faced the woods.

He didn’t breathe right the whole ride.

Didn’t think—because if he thought, he’d see the worst: you unconscious in a gutter, your pulse weak, a toxicology report that ended careers and broke your father’s soul.

He skidded to a stop when he reached the alley.

His headlights caught the outline of a slumped figure just beyond the garage.

You.

You were collapsed on your side, your dress riding high on your thigh, knees scraped from falling, your arms braced against the concrete as you tried—and failed—to keep yourself from heaving again.

“Jesus,” he whispered, throwing the car into park and sprinting.

“Hey—hey, I’m here,” he said, hand trembling as it swept your hair from your face. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Your head lolled toward the sound of him, tears shining down your cheeks.

“S-Spence,” you croaked, voice raw. “Wasn’t mine. It was… pink. M’stupid. M’sorry—””

“Shh.” His hand cupped your cheek, feeling your skin clammy, your pulse fluttering in your neck like a dying bird. “No apologies. Just breathe for me.”

You gagged again, body trembling with the withdrawal crash—your nervous system overloaded from the Adderall, the Valium trying to slow it, whatever the hell someone slipped into your cup pulling the strings in every wrong direction.

Spencer steadied your shoulders as you retched, rubbing your back with long, slow strokes with one hand while fumbling for his phone with the other.

“I need a bus to west block 3200,” he said into the speaker. “Twenty-two-year-old female. Drug interaction. Unclear substance. Not stable. Yes—I’ll keep her conscious.”

Your fingers clutched his jacket like a lifeline. He swore under his breath as he looked at you—your dilated pupils, your dry lips, your too-quiet whimpers.

“What the hell are you doing to yourself?” he whispered into your hair. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

The ambulance showed up fast, too fast for Spencer to process what it meant—how serious this was, how you could’ve died if he hadn’t picked up, if you hadn’t called him at all. They got you on a stretcher with practiced ease, medics asking rapid-fire questions he barely heard over the roaring in his ears.

What did she take?

How much?

How long ago?

As they lifted you into the back of the ambulance, your hand briefly caught his wrist, weak and cold.

“Don’t leave,” you murmured, barely audible.

“I’m not,” he said, climbing in beside you. “I’ve got you.”

He held your hand the entire ride to Dale City Hospital.

And then, when the doors opened, reality came rushing in—gurney wheels rattling across linoleum, beeping machines, harsh fluorescents. Nurses asking for your name, your ID, your emergency contact.

Spencer swallowed hard.

Hotch.

He stepped into the quietest corner he could find and pulled out his phone. His fingers hovered, then pressed call.

Hotch answered on the second ring.

“Reid?”

Spencer exhaled shakily. “She’s at Dale City General. She was drugged. There was… more going on than I thought. A lot more.”

Reid could hear Hotch taking a deep breath trying to control his temper, “How bad?”

“She’s unconscious. Breathing, stable for now, but she’s—she was high on multiple substances. Some she didn’t even know she took.”

The silence on the other end was brutal. Then: “I’m on my way.”

Spencer didn’t move for a long moment after the call ended. He just stared down at the tiled floor, jaw clenched, hand still faintly shaking.

Within twenty minutes, the team was there. Hotch arrived first, face grim, then Morgan, Prentiss, and JJ trailing behind him. The sight of them hit like a cold wave. Spencer stood when he saw Hotch approach the nurses’ station, asking for your name in a voice tight with rage.

“They’re still pumping her stomach,” Spencer offered quietly. “She was in the alley behind the frat garages. It looked like she took ecstasy, probably some downers, and she’s still detoxing off amphetamines. Maybe benzos too. She’s been… hiding it.”

Hotch’s jaw ticked. “Where are her things?”

Spencer blinked. “They… they brought it in with her.”

Hotch was already walking toward the nurses' station.

JJ reached for his arm. “Aaron—”

He didn’t stop. “I need my daughter’s belongings. Her name’s on the record.”

The nurse looked at him warily, but one look at his badge—SSA Hotchner—was all it took. She returned with a large clear plastic evidence-style bag.

He took it without a word and moved to the side, his team trailing behind. He unzipped it.

Silence.

Inside: a tangle of makeup, loose change, a cracked phone.

And the pills.

Not bottles. Baggies. Not just Adderall. Coke. Valium. A pressed pill that looked like MDMA. Xanax bars. Something in blister packs without a label.

Morgan’s jaw locked. “Jesus.”

Hotch’s fingers closed around the baggies like they might shatter in his grip.

“You’ve gotta stay calm,” Morgan said gently, stepping in. “She’s not going to get better if you lose it now.”

Hotch’s voice was razor-edged. “She’s twenty-two.”

“I know.”

“She could’ve died.”

“I know.”

He turned to Spencer, eyes dark. “Did you know?”

Spencer’s face was raw. “Not like this. I—I found one prescription bottle earlier tonight. I confronted her. She lied. I followed her to the party—she called me crying from an alley and I couldn’t even understand her.”

Hotch stared at him, rage and heartbreak flashing in his eyes. “So you knew. You knew, and you let her walk away.”

“I tried to stop her.”

“You should’ve called me then.”

“I didn’t think she’d—” Spencer caught himself. “I’m sorry.”

Hotch shook his head slowly, mouth set in a grim line. Spencer opened his mouth. Closed it. “I didn’t know it was this bad. I—I knew she was struggling, but I thought it was just the Adderall.”

Hotch’s voice dropped, low and furious. “You thought.”

“She lied to me too, Aaron,” Spencer snapped back. “I found a prescription bottle tonight that wasn’t hers and tried to stop her from going out, but she wouldn’t listen. She ran.”

“She ran because she’s scared,” JJ said gently, stepping between them. “Because everything in her life feels like it’s falling apart. And I know you’re angry, Hotch, but—”

Hotch said nothing more. He sat down in the waiting room chair, your bag of evidence still in his hands, like he couldn’t let go of it until you answered for it.

When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was how dry your throat felt—raw, stripped of moisture. You blinked into harsh hospital light, trying to orient yourself. Your tongue felt thick. Your stomach roiled.

And then, like a curtain pulling back, you saw him.

Your dad.

In the chair beside the bed, elbows on knees, his expression unreadable.

You groaned, immediately dragging the blanket over your head.

“Fuck.”

“Save it,” he said. His voice didn’t rise. That somehow made it worse.

You swallowed hard. Your hands trembled in your lap.

“I don’t remember much,” you rasped.

“That’s the problem.”

Silence.

You peeked at him through your lashes. “Are you mad?”

“No,” Hotch said tightly. “I’m furious.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Where’s my bag?”

He didn’t answer.

That was your answer.

Your stomach dropped like a stone.

“Oh my god.”

He stood and slowly approached the bed, pulling something from the chair behind him.

The clear bag.

The pills.

You turned your face away in shame.

“Do you want to explain this?” he asked, holding it up.

“No.”

“You’re going to,” he said. “You’re going to explain all of it. Why I had to get a call from Reid in the middle of the night saying you were unconscious behind a goddamn frat house. Why I had to watch a nurse hand me a bag full of narcotics with my daughter’s name on it.”

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You didn’t mean to?”

“I didn’t know what it was—”

“But the rest of it? The coke? The benzos? The Adderall that isn’t even prescribed to you?” He held the bag tighter. “You didn’t ‘mean’ that either?”

You bit the inside of your cheek until you tasted blood.

Hotch stepped closer. “You could’ve died.”

“I know.”

“No. I don’t think you do. You have no idea what that would’ve done to me. To Jack. To Spencer.”

He stared down at you, jaw flexing. “You’re going to get help. You don’t have a choice.”

You swallowed hard, blinking back fresh tears. “And if I say no?”

He didn’t blink. “Then you don’t go back to school. You don’t go back to Quantico. You don’t go anywhere but rehab. Understood?”

You didn’t answer.

He dropped the bag back onto the tray with a hard thud and walked to the door.

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

And you lay there, eyes burning, heart hammering against your ribs, alone in the silence of your consequences. And from knowing that maybe this time… you went too far.

a/n: I’m in therapy y’all this is just how I cope plz don’t b alarmed😭

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[farfromstrange]

Teacher’s Pet | Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Pairing: Professor!Matt Murdock x F!Student!Reader

Summary: Professor Murdock shows you how remarkable you are.

Warnings: Smut (18+), professor/student relationship, age gap, religious imagery, use of pet names (sweetheart, baby, good girl), use of honorifics (professor, sir), praise kink, oral f!receiving, soft!dom!Matt, unprotected p in v, hand on neck, basically porn without plot

A/N: I’m not gonna lie, this is heavily inspired by Charlie’s role as Mr. Teacher in Adults. It may have gotten a little bit out of hand, but it was nice to just write again. I haven’t written in past tense in a while, so I may be a little rusty. Is it my best work? Probably not, but I wanted to post it anyway. I hope you enjoy!

WC: 1.9k

Read Me On AO3!

“You wanted to see me?”

The floorboards creaked under your feet as you stepped into his office. It was dark, safe for the last bit of daylight streaming in through the window front. A storm had been rustling the trees on campus all day, and you barely escaped the rain on your way to class. Even now, the afternoon sun was overshadowed by a blanket of grey, sucking the light out of every room you walked into.

It wasn’t like him to ask you over during office hours—it wasn’t safe, he had once told you—but you wouldn’t dare complain. 

He was sitting at his desk, his silhouette only faintly illuminated. When he picked up on your heartbeat, though, he perked up. Your name rolled off his lips effortlessly. “Yes,” he said, rising to his feet, “Please, come in. Close the door.”

You stepped forward, and the closer you came, the clearer you could see him. Round glasses perched upon his nose, strands of brown hair glinting silver, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the first two buttons of his dress shirt undone; he was ever the sinful picture of a man that often starred in your wettest dreams.

His fingers flexed around the edge of his mahogany desk. You paid no attention to the mess of legal essays in front of him, not when he looked like that—like he’d had a rough day, but the moment you walked in, it turned brighter. 

“Everything okay?” you asked. 

You watched as he lifted a familiar stack of paper out of the pile on his desk. “I wanted to talk about your essay,” he said. 

“My essay?”

“Yes.”

Your shoulders slumped. “Is something wrong with it?”

“What?” He tilted his head at the frantic change in your pulse. “No, it’s… It’s remarkable.”

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Oh.”

You were so scared of failure, scared of not being enough, and scared of disappointing him that the thought of positive resonance to your work hadn’t even crossed your mind until he uttered it. 

Matt rounded his desk and walked toward you, slowly, as if you were a frightened deer in headlights. “Your stance on the shortcomings of our justice system and its core,” he said, placing a gentle hand over his heart, “I’ve never read anything like it. My first read-through, you actually had me stumped because I… I have never thought about it the way you have, and I’ve been a lawyer for a very long time.”

You brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, blood pulsing in your cheeks. It was wrong, you knew that, craving a man twice your age as if he were the air you breathed. But standing this close to him, all you could think about was how his fingers had felt the last time they were buried deep inside you. 

He cupped your chin. “Hey, look at me,” he said. You did. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m giving you an A.”

Your knees buckled. There was something about the way he towered over you. You could only see your reflection in his glasses, but you knew the brown eyes hiding behind them. How soft they turned and how they crinkled when he smiled. You liked to imagine they were soft now, too, just like his smile. 

“An A?” you breathed. 

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip. “Did you think I was gonna fail you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’d never–”

“I don’t want you giving me special treatment just ‘cause you’re fucking me.”

A breathless chuckle rumbled through him. “Oh, sweetheart,” he cooed. “You have no idea how remarkable you are, do you?”

Your tongue darted out, licking the tip of his thumb. All the while, you were peeking up at him through hooded eyes he did not need to see to drown in. “Show me,” you purred. “Show me how remarkable I am, Professor.”

He nearly fainted. 

A shiver ran from his head down to where his toes curled. You were all over him, smelling of vanilla and something so distinctly you he had long grown addicted to. Matt had been to confession many times since meeting you. He tried to repent for what he was feeling, but how could it possibly be sinful to want you and to have you when it felt so right?

He could pray to God all he wanted; when your body was on his or you were under him, writhing on his cock, or even when he was buried deep between your thighs like a man starved, he felt closer to divinity than he ever had before.

His hand wrapped around your neck, and he pulled you in, finally. He knew every inch of you by heart, yet he kissed you as if it was the first time, and he still had something to prove. 

His free hand slipped around your waist, then lower. He read the fabric of your skirt the same way he would read Braille. He brushed the edge, just barely. “You’re wearing that skirt again,” he groaned. “Y’know what it does to me.”

You moaned. “That’s why I wore it.”

“Oh, you wore it for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Matt inhaled sharply. “What’d you just call me?”

“Sir,” you purred again. 

“Oh.”

It was just one word, sir, but it opened something in him—a part of him that was primal and buried deep. It made his cock throb painfully in his slacks.

He pulled your hips flush to his. You could feel how hard he was, pressing against your soaking cunt through far too many layers of fabric, and your words turned into a breathy moan messily against his lips. 

The leg of his desk trembled when he lifted you on it. His lips slipped from yours, down your neck, and the outline of your breasts as he sank to his knees on the hardwood floor. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t–” do that here, you wanted to say.

He cut you off with a sharp tug to the edge of the table. “Mhm, we shouldn’t,” he agreed, but your legs were already over his shoulders. 

“Matthew.”

He tutted. “Not my name, sweetheart.”

“M’sorry, Professor. Sir…”

“Shh,” he inched closer, “It’s okay. I’m just showing you how remarkable you are. Be a good girl for me and take it, yeah?”

His glasses fell to the floor. Your panties ripped in two. No warning, not a second for you to think—he wrapped his lips around you, and he feasted.

He parted your folds, licked, and sucked, tasted all of you, and drowned in you, completely. The pleasure wrapped a noose around your core, pulling you even closer to the edge. You were sure you would end up with splinters under your nails and crescent imprints of his fingers on your skin, but God, if that meant he was yours and you were his and you could carry that evidence like a tattoo on your body, it was worth it.

You cried out his name. You were right there…

He pulled away. 

You choked on a breath, “No…”

There was no regret in his eyes, though, only desperation in the way he kissed you—devoured you. You could taste yourself on his lips. Every last thought you had dissipated. 

“It’s okay, baby,” he murmured. “I have you.”

And he did. You should never have doubted it. 

He unbuckled his belt, freed himself from the tight confines of his slacks, and then he filled you. One thrust, and his cock, thick and hard and pulsing, filled every inch of you. Like he was made for you, or you were made for him. You breathed gasps into each other’s mouths and sustained each other like oxygen. You became one then.

Matt cupped your face. He didn’t move, didn’t even think, he just stayed buried so deep inside you that you swore you could feel him in your throat. Every prominent ridge and vein of his cock had already left their mark; your pussy was his, entirely, the same way his cock—his body and entire soul—belonged to you. Neither of you needed words when your bodies spoke the same language. 

“Please,” you begged. 

He shushed you again. “M’gonna let you come, I promise. Just…” His voice cracked. 

He didn’t look into your eyes, he couldn’t, but the way he held you felt like he had a direct line to your soul. 

“Just need to be inside you.” He gave a tentative thrust. Your name escaped him, soft, wrecked, broken. “Fuck, you feel so good.” Another. “So good.”

His breathy moans, from high to low to high again, were a symphony conducted solely for your pleasure, you were sure. The way they slipped past his lips into your mouth, or echoed off your sweaty skin when he licked down your neck, tasting your pulse through the skin. No one else got to see him like this. 

Your jaw was slack with the sound of your moans. Matt didn’t hesitate; he pushed two fingers against your tongue, deep enough to fill you—fill you everywhere. You gagged, but you endured.

“Good girl,” he said. 

You moaned around his digits, sucking and licking until the salt of his sweat exploded on your tongue. Though he pulled away far too soon. 

“C’mere.”

He rubbed his wet fingers against your swollen clit, tight little circles that made your entire world spin. The heat engulfed you. The earth shook beneath you. Every drag of his cock made it harder to hold on, to keep the wave from crashing in, but it just kept building. 

He angled his hips just right, and the sound you made was barely human. He tucked you into his shoulder, closer, closer. “Gonna come?” he asked. 

You could only nod. 

The kiss he pressed to your temple almost made you cry. 

“Can I–” you choked on a moan. 

He chuckled, the sound a mere breath against your ear. “Can you come?”

You whimpered, yes. 

His hips stuttered, holding onto the last bit of sanity he had left, breathing, “Yeah, you can, baby. Come for me.”

The wave crashed in. Your orgasm tore through you, throwing your head back into the palm of his hand. Matt was right there, though. He caught you, and he fucked you through it like the gentleman he was.

“That’s it. That’s– fuck!”

The dominos started falling, and with your cunt clenched so tightly around him, he came, too.

In the wake of it, quiet settled in. His heart was pounding against his ribcage, through it and into yours. You felt the way his chest heaved with every labored breath he took, face buried in the crook of his neck so he could feel you, all of you. 

He rode out his orgasm with the softest moans you had ever heard from him, his cock twitching until he was sure he had filled you to the brim. Then, he stilled. 

“Jesus,” Matt’s voice came muffled against your skin. 

You slid the essays under your ass aside. “I, uh, think we ruined those,” you said. 

He kissed you. Softly, at first, with a smile tugging at his lips. “It’s fine. I can’t read the hard copies anyway.”

You wanted to laugh, but before you knew it, he flipped you under him. His desk creaked under the weight of both of you, but he did not care. He didn’t pull out. No, he kissed you, he devoured you, and nothing else mattered but that. 

Smut Tag List: @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @linamarr @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @ravenclaw617 @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-gir1-has-n0-name @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife @trublu2u @zomtart @ethereal-blaze @lucienofthelakes @mochie-is-a-librarian @buckyssugarchick @unclearblur @xoxabs88xox

[day-dreamed-deactivated20250606]

not mad

pairing: spencer reid x f!reader summary: you think spencer is mad at you. spoiler warning: he isn't. tags: slight angst, hurt/comfort, pet names, cuddling word count: 328 author’s note: i fear this would literally be me if i were to ever be in a relationship oops. thanks for reading would love to know what u think!!!!!!!

Spencer must be mad at you.

It’s the only explanation for the way he’s been acting since he got home from work. His greeting was short after he walked through the door. He went straight to sitting on the couch with his nose buried in a book. That’s where he’s been for the past hour, not sparing you a second glance. You’re sitting an arm’s length away from him and trying to blink back the tears stinging your eyes, wondering what you could’ve done to deserve this kind of treatment from him. Your sniffle finally causes him to look up.

“Are you crying?” 

“No,” you mumble. 

He frowns as he sticks a bookmark between the pages. “Yes, you are. I just saw you wipe away a tear.” 

“Spence…” 

“What’s wrong, angel?” he asks softly, scooting closer to you. 

You shake your head. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

His eyebrows pinch together. “You’re not, though. Did something happen?” 

You let out a deep breath, squeezing your eyes shut. “Are you mad at me?” you ask, so quietly that you’re not sure he’s heard you. 

A few moments of silence pass before he finally responds, voice cracking. “You think I’m mad at you?” All you can do is shrug and give him a wobbly smile. “Why would you think that?” 

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “You’ve barely looked at me since you got home from work. I don’t know, I thought maybe I did something. I’m just being stupid, I know.”

“You’re not being stupid. And—and I’m not mad at you.” 

Your breath hitches in your chest. “You’re not?” 

Spencer shakes his head. “No, of course not. Just tired.” 

“Oh,” you say, shoulders slumping in relief. 

“Do—do you want to cuddle?” You sink into his arms in response. He holds you tightly around your waist, resting his cheek on top of your head. “I’m sorry. That I made you think I was mad at you,” he whispers.

“‘S okay.”

[girllblogging777]

thinking about living with spencer reid

spencer, who’d never in his life been able to spend too much time with someone without feeling trapped or uncomfortable.

spencer, who, as much as he loved his job, needed silence and alone time at the end of the day, to “recharge his social battery” as he liked to call it.

spencer, whose entire life had shifted when he started dating you. because you saw him, and never made him feel different or weird. because you loved him.

spencer, who discovered what it felt like to share his space with someone. his books neatly placed next to yours on the shelf. his purple toothbrush next to your pink one above the bathroom sink. it all fit together perfectly.

spencer, who needed a bit of time to adjust. you respected when he needed to be alone, and you understood the moments when he didn’t feel like talking. after all, you knew him better than anyone.

spencer, who did everything to make you understand that despite his behaviour, he loved being the one to see you like this. with tangled hair in the morning and wearing his clothes while chilling around.

spencer, whose questionable diet you tried to fix. instead of his usual granola bars as dinner, you welcomed him with a warm meal every night. and he would eat anything you’d bake or cook, never without thanking you.

spencer, who would force you to stay in my bed “five more minutes” in the morning because now that he got to sleep with you every night, he was going to make the most of it. and his coworkers definitely noticed when he started showing up late at work.

spencer, who would cherish the moments he got to spend with you while he was off. he’d let you sleep in and attempt making pancakes, preparing your coffee just the way you like it.

spencer, who would also show his love for you in the smallest things. he’d stick post-its with cute “this made me think of you” quotes on the mirror before heading to work, and leave you messages on the fridge with the poetry magnets he’d bought when you moved in.

spencer, who did everything to be the best partner for you. doing the dishes, cleaning around and making the bed to relieve you because as comfortable as living with you was, he still felt like a burden sometimes.

spencer, who found himself looking forward to coming back to your shared apartment after a rough case. or anytime, really. because it was more that that. it was home.

[the-shedevil-writes]

Words of Affirmation (Matt Murdock x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: Matt is a very logical man. It's one of your favorite things about your boyfriend. But when you need comfort and he only offers solutions to your problems, it pushes you away. With help from Foggy and Karen, he learns about love languages—and realizes what he really needed to do. WORD COUNT: 2.2k WARNINGS: Miscommunication. Slight arguing.

NOTES: Anyone else feeling the Matt Murdock drought since the show ended? :( Needed to write some for my main man. MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3

Matt and Y/n had been together for a little over a year now, and the honeymoon phase was slowly slipping and being replaced with domesticated bliss. The routine they built together was put together by a foundation of tender love and care they had nested. Such as, her swinging by his office with lunch for him. Or when Matt would ask the florist which flowers were pink so he could fill her kitchen vase with her favorite color. Small things to brighten each other’s day. 

And that aspect of their relationship was perfect. Filled with consideration and a sense of knowing each other… But she had been feeling struck by a horrible mood lately. She was going through a bad streak at work where it felt like she couldn’t do anything right. Her hair was at an awkward length because of a messed up haircut she had gotten recently (thank god, Matt was blind). And she hadn’t had time to go to the gym because of her hectic work schedule lately.

It just felt like everything was wrong. Everything brushed her the wrong way. 

She tried to get the support of her boyfriend, but it was like pulling teeth. Matt was a very logical man, and that was something she loved about him. Whenever she was spiraling with anxiety or overthinking something, he was always there to remind her of the more objective truth.

 ‘Nobody is gonna notice.’ ‘It’s just one mistake, nobody will be mad at you.’ ‘The world isn’t ending because of this.’ 

But sometimes that just isn’t what she wanted to hear. And that strategy blew up in his face one night.

One night, after an already stressful day at work, she and Matt were supposed to go to dinner. But the dress she had really wanted to wear didn’t fit right. It was a beautiful, bright blue silk dress that was supposed to hug her curves just right. She had bought it just for Matt because she knew his heightened senses loved the feeling of the material. It was an expensive buy, but she knew it’d get some use with Matt around.

Yet it didn’t look like it had a few months ago. She tried to take in deep breaths, but they were shaky. She was just a little bloated because of her cycle, and she knew that. But it was more than that. She felt like her skin was overly oily, and her hair wasn’t at its shiny, voluminous peak.  The skin on her legs was dry from the winter cold starting to settle in. The ill-fitting dress was just the cherry on top. 

“Sweetheart, we've got twenty minutes before we have to get in the cab, and you haven’t even started your makeup.” He said, peeking his head in.

She stared at herself in the mirror, unhappy with herself. 

“I don’t wanna go.” She said, and she knew she was being dramatic. But she felt just awful. 

Matt’s brows furrowed, and genuine concern washed over him. “What? Why? You’ve been wanting to go to this restaurant for a while now.” He pointed out, which made her feel worse. Because she was looking forward to this. She had seen all the new desserts online and wanted to try some with him. Yet she just felt so… off that she didn’t want to.

“I don’t feel right. I- I think I’m just really tired or something.” She said softly

“Well, I told you to take a nap earlier.” He said. 

Ding. Another thing that made her feel worse. She didn’t want to take a nap because she wanted to get some extra work done at home before her next shift. But his pointing it out just made her feel like he was rubbing it in.

“I couldn’t. And I just don’t look good today, and this dress isn’t fitting right.” She complained, looking over at him as he leaned against the door. He was already dressed in a nice white dress shirt and pants. He always looked nice- it was easy for him. Even though she was getting annoyed, she did always appreciate how dressed up he was. For work. For dates. For errands. He always looked put together… She didn’t feel put together, much less look it. 

“Then wear another dress.” He stated simply, and he was met with furious silence. 

She huffed and rolled her eyes.

“What’s wrong? I’m sure you look fine.” He said, confused, and starting to get a little frustrated himself. Even without his super senses, he could tell she was angry. He didn’t need to hear her fast beating heart to understand the frustration building around her. “You know that I don’t care.” He tried to joke, pointing to his eyes… Bad timing.

“You don’t care?” She snapped, “I just- I try so hard to look and feel nice, and you don’t care? I wear the silk and the lotion and the makeup, and-” She stammered. “It’s not working tonight, but have you ever even cared?”

Matt walked further into the room, sensing her spiral. “Hey, hey, sweetie, it’s not that I don’t care. You just know that… I can’t see you. You could be wearing a plastic bag, and all I’d be able to sense is that you’re wearing less.” He tried to explain, reaching to hold her hips.

But it wasn’t really about the looks, and she was too tense and filled with emotion to be able to talk through her feelings directly. “I’m not going.” She said.

He sighed and raised his hands. “Fine. Fine. Whatever you want.” He said, not understanding where all this sudden anger came from. 

“So we didn’t go to dinner. I went home, and she’s barely talked to me since.” Matt said to his friends, looking for advice. 

Foggy and Karen stared at him from across the booth at Josie’s slack-jawed. 

“You’re… you’re joking, right?” Foggy asked after he told them what had happened. 

He furrowed his brows. “No, why would I be joking?” 

Karen scoffed and put her hands on her mouth in disbelief before going, “Jesus, Matt, why would you say… any of that?” 

He looked around confused and leaned in. “Say what? I didn’t say anything. I just told her the truth.”

“So you’re telling me. That your super-hot girlfriend is feeling bad about herself, and you essentially told her that her efforts have been for nothing.” Foggy said.

“On top of telling her multiple times what she should do or should’ve done,” Karen added, “Which is probably the worst part of that.”

“That’s not what I meant! I didn’t mean to do any of that. I was just trying to be honest.” He defended himself, but was definitely starting to understand. 

Karen took a sip of her Long Island iced tea in front of her. “It just sounds like you weren’t really listening to her.”

“Karen, I can’t not listen to anybody.” He said with a huff.

“Matt.” She chided. Her voice was a warning that he needed to actually listen here: “Trying to simply fix everything isn’t listening to her. Do you know what her love language is?”

He took a sip of his beer and shook his head. “No, what’s that?” 

“Matt, you’ve been dating this girl for over a year, and you guys have never talked about this?” Foggy asked, surprised. 

“No. No, I have no idea what you’re even talking about.” He replied, and as much as he wanted the Let’s Shame Matt parade to end, he felt that he needed to feel it.

Karen chimed in again. “It’s like how people give and receive love. There’s like physical touch, gift giving, acts of service-”

“Quality time. Words of affirmation.” Foggy chimed in.

Matt just listened now, wanting to understand this new concept. 

“What does she like? What’s something you do that sends her over the moon?” Foggy asked.

He thought about it. It was hard because it felt like they did everything. He bought her flowers. He was over every weekend. They’d help each other around their respective apartments. It’s not like they were lacking in the physical touch department. 

Then he really thought about it, and a memory popped up. It was from a few months back. She had been studying so hard for a promotion at work. This important test to advance up. And when she came back, revealing that she had gotten the promotion and had received one of the highest scores, he hugged her, of course, then said. “I knew you could do it. My sweet girl is so smart. So so smart.” And that had rendered her speechless. Then she proceeded to practically pounce on him, which he remembered in more vivid detail.

“She… she really likes it when I compliment her.” He said to them.

“Words of affirmation,” Karen said with her hand out, “That’s what I was thinking it was. Because when was the last time you did that?” 

… That test was the last time he remembered. “The time I’m thinking about was a few months back. I’m sure there were other times, but what I’m thinking about was obvious.” He sipped his beer again. “It’s just hard because it’s not like I can see her,” Matt explained why he was so infrequent at this.

Foggy rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen you flirt, bud. You can definitely do it without sight. I’m just surprised you’re so bad at it with your actual girlfriend.” He teased

“Hey.” Matt warned with an expression that told him to cool it, “I’m trying.”

“Tomorrow. Go apologize, and use your words to show her just how much you love her.” Karen interrupted the two.

That’s how Matt ended up at her apartment with a bouquet of lilies in his hand and a slice of her favorite cake in a plastic takeout box. The kind of cake with the strawberries and syrupy glaze she liked. He opened the door using the key she had given him. 

“Sweetheart? It’s me.” He called out, “You home?” 

There was no answer, but it’s not like he didn’t know. He could hear her heartbeat in her room, and it had picked up when he opened the door. 

He walked down the hall to her bedroom and gently opened the door. The smell of her vanilla candle filled his senses. The millionth rewatch of her favorite rom-com, Pretty Woman, played on her TV. She lay strewn across in bed in his old Columbia law T-Shirt, she had had it so long that she had practically forgotten it was originally his, and some velvety pajama shorts. 

“Hi.” She said, a drop in her usual tone, but she didn’t stop him. Her eyes were set on the television. 

“Hi, sweetie.” He said, walking in. “I got you some things.” He said, gently putting the lilies and the cake on her bedside table. 

She looked them over. “Thank you.” Even though she was still mad at him, she didn’t want to seem unappreciative. 

He sat down on the edge of the bed and gently reached out to hold her hand. 

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry about the other night. I- I wasn’t listening to how you felt. And I should’ve been a lot more considerate instead of just trying to fix everything.” He said, “That wasn’t fair to you.”

Wow. He hit the nail on the head. She squinted her eyes at him in disbelief.

“Who’d you talk to?” She asked suspect. As much as she wanted to laugh at that, she didn’t want him to blow it off so easily. So she didn’t change her face.

“Karen and Foggy. Who beat some sense into me.” He said, and he looked over at her for a second before leaning down. “And just reminded me of how beautiful and stunning and clever my girl is.” He said gently before kissing her temple.

He heard her heart leap in speed as her eyes widened. 

He gave another kiss on her cheek. “I’m so lucky. So so smart and driven. Always working so hard.” He said, his voice low, and she looked up at him, nodding. She sat up a little so he didn’t have to lean so far. 

“You know, when we’re out together, I can hear all the heads turning to get a good look at you. I can hear their hearts skipping beats because of how beautiful you are.” He whispered just before her lips and then pressed a gentle kiss. 

“Jesus, Matt. Where’s all this coming from?” She asked breathlessly, now wrapping her arms around his neck, wanting him closer. 

“I just realized I wasn’t properly showing my love and appreciation.” He said, “I have a lot to talk about, and a lot of time not doing it to make up for.” 

She smiled. Practically beamed. “Thank you…” She said feeling much better already. 

His hands gently traced up her legs. “You smell really good. You know I like that cherry shampoo.” He said, and he reached up and felt the material of her shirt along her waist, “And I love when you wear my old shirts. I’m sure you look much better than I ever did wearing them.” He planted a kiss on her neck, “Much prettier.”

“You’re gonna give me a heart attack, Matt,” She said, sighing, relaxed for what felt like the first time in ages. 

“Oh, sweetheart, we can’t have that.” He shook his head, “Your heartbeat is my favorite sound in the world. I love making it speed up like this.” He said before kissing her again. And again. And again. 

[matt-murdockk]

Atonement

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader words: 4.2k summary: Spencer battles his addiction and self-loathing, only to find the possibility of redemption in the unwavering care of someone who refuses to leave. warnings: oh boy, ok so we've got a LOT OF ANGST!!!, Spencer's addiction (!!!), suicidal thoughts, a lot of self-loathing, Spencer is spiralling (rip), mildly descriptive withdrawal process, possibly incorrect etymology facts, a dead fish, the self-loathing really is heavy on this one, I'm serious. a/n: i am holding your hand, i scared myself with this one, BUT the ending is pretty optimistic so it's not all pain :')

Heracles atoned. His crimes were a result of madness— divine madness, not his own. It can be argued that they weren’t even his actions at all. And still, he atoned.

The Oracle of Delphi instructed him to give twelve years of service to the king of Mycenae, and even though Heracles believed Eurystheus to be beneath him in stature, he accepted the 12 labours. Heracles completed the 12 momentous tasks as atonement for the crime of killing Megara and their children, even though it was Hera's vengeance that drove him mad and tricked him into committing the crime in the first place.

If Heracles sought redemption for something that wasn’t truly his fault in the first place, what about the rest of us? What about atonement for crimes not born of divine madness, but of choice? What about the consequences that stem not from insanity inflicted by gods, but from choices made— cold, human, and deliberate? Is that something one can atone for?

Apophenia. A common human tendency to see patterns where there are none. It makes you believe in coincidences. It’s why people find meaning in lottery numbers, in shuffled tarot cards, in the sequence of a roulette wheel. It's what makes Spencer draw parallels between himself and perhaps the mightiest of Greek heroes, only he doesn't see them as equals, but one as a sorry excuse, an imitation, a failed attempt at living up to the other. He sees one as a myth, and the other as a mockery. A hollow echo. A failure.

I feel like a kid again. That's a nice thing, right? Feeling like a kid? Innocent. Loved. Nurtured. Pure. Scared. Wait, scared? Scared. Alone. Vulnerable. Guilty. Crying to sleep every night. Curled up into a ball on the playground, busted eyebrow and broken glasses with stains of blood and dried-up tears. I gotta tell Mom I need new glasses. Again.

Oh. He feels like a kid again.

Do they know? They might know. They must know. They know. He pretends they don't. They pretend they don't. Everybody knows. Was it kindness that kept them quiet? Decency? Look the other way so he wouldn't be ashamed? Not exactly helping, then. Or was it so they could have deniability? We had no idea. Spencer Reid? Our Spencer? They gasp. He wouldn't.

They've definitely noticed. That much he knows. All eyes are on him when he's in a room. Not in the usual Spencer is being his brilliant self again way. In a Spencer is a disgrace to himself, look at his pathetic face way, except no one would look him in the face anymore. Like if they looked at him, it would be painfully obvious in their faces what they really thought of him. Like there was no way to look at him the way you would look at a normal person.

Every day, he comes in to work screaming: Look at me. Do you see me? Do you see what I'm doing to myself? Do you see it? Do you see me? Look at me. Don't look at me. Stop looking at me. Stop. Don't look at me. Please. Stop. Stop. No. Stop. STOP. "Morning," is all they hear.

You look at him. Oh no. Not you. Please. You're... not disgusted? You're not looking at him as if one would an insect. Huh.

Great. You are so pathetic, you're pretending people like you. Do you realize how pathetic that is? Do you realize how pathetic you are, Spencer? You're so deep in delusion that you think someone cares. No one cares. Nobody cares.

His thoughts are loud today. Louder than usual. Not ideal. You're still looking. You're crying. You're crying?

Amazing job! You've made the one person who probably cares about you cry just by existing. Hey, do you know what you should do? Do you know what you should do, Spencer? Kill y—

"Hey, are you okay?" It's his own voice. An act of rebellion against himself. A lifeline.

"Spencer, are you?" you ask, sniffling. That's the first time someone has stopped to ask him that question. He didn't know what to say.

At the depth of my delirium, I think of you. I think we're in love. I think of being in your arms. I think of you holding my hand and telling me you love me. I think of you telling me I'll be fine. I think of you telling me I'll be okay. I'm not fine. I'm not okay. I need you. I'm sorry. Tell me you love me. I'm sorry.

He just stares. You look at him just a second longer than he wants you to, give his hand a little squeeze, and then you're gone.

See? She's gone. You know why she's gone? You know why she didn't stay, Spencer? Wait, actually, think of a reason why someone would stay. Go on, try. That'll be much harder, yeah. Pathetic.

Mirrors don't work anymore. Whenever he looked in one, he used to see himself. He just sees a silhouette now. A hollow void that only moves seconds after he does. Somebody he knows but cannot quite recognize.

You see that? Even your fucking reflection thinks you're pathetic.

They're mocking him. They are taunting him. They don't even have the decency to look back at him. Pretty shitty for a mirror, he thinks.

Hey. Idiot. Yeah, you. What are you looking at? You're feeling sorry for yourself? You're sorry, buddy? You're guilty? You wanna go back? Back to mommy? Back to before all this? Back to how it used to be? Back to... what, exactly? Back to being brilliant and broken and hiding it better? Back to when you still had the energy to fake being whole? Weak.

Spencer doesn't remember what home feels like. It used to be Vegas until he had to leave. It used to his job until he had to hide. It used to be his apartment until he couldn't trust himself to be alone anymore. Sometimes when you look at him, talk to him, touch him, he thinks this could be home. But it's never enough. The more of you he had, the more of you he wanted.

Boy, you never stood a chance, did you?

The first time, he promised himself it would be just this once. It's wrong, yes, but it's for recovery. It's just this once. He can stop whenever he wants to.

Second time, the last time. It's not like he can't stop if he wants to. He's in control. It's fine.

Third, the final time, for sure. It's only for a while. It's not permanent.

He can stop whenever he wants to. He can stop whenever he wants. He doesn't want to stop. He can't stop. The more he had, the more he wanted.

The pull, the calling, the addiction, it's far too evil. It's a siren. It's a mimic. It fools you into thinking it's taking you somewhere beautiful. Some place you need to get to. And every time, it promises you that you're getting closer. That you'll get there soon enough. Just a few more steps. Just a couple more times. Just another leap. But all it does is lie to you and make you feel like you're close. Like you're getting there. Like you will be home in no time. When in reality, you've regressed. You're worse off than you were when you started. Only then do you notice you're all alone.

What a wonderous, massive, cosmic joke. Doctor Spencer Reid. Child Prodigy. Genius. Criminal Profiler. Special Agent with the FBI. Drug Addict. Liar. A threat to himself and the people around him.

The walls are too close tonight.

Everything is itchy. His clothes. His skin. The thoughts under his skin. The thrum in his veins that won’t quiet down.

You don't know who you are when you're not in pain. That's why you keep coming back, Spencer. Not for the high. For the silence. The certainty. God, what a burden it must be. Having to pretend they're not afraid of you. Like they don't flinch whenever you open your mouth.

"Shut up. Just shut up," he yells to his empty apartment.

He rubs his face hard enough to leave marks. Paces the length of the living room five times. Seven. Twelve. He forgets what number he’s on.

He wonders, not for the first time, if this is the moment he finally fractures beyond repair. If this is where the brilliant, broken, bullet-dodging Spencer Reid finally snaps and nobody notices. Maybe they already did notice. Maybe they’re just waiting to see if he self-destructs before they have to say something.

This is pathetic. You are pathetic.

He sits. Then stands. Then sits again. The couch is too soft. The floor is too cold. The apartment smells like nothing and everything. Bleach. Dust. Failure.

You don’t even get to be tragic. You’re just exhausting.

His hands are shaking again. Not just the twitchy, ignorable kind— full tremors, rattling like change in his pockets. He tries to hold them still. Fails.

You’re not going to get better.

He closes his eyes.

You're alone, Spencer.

He opens them.

Nobody's coming for you.

No one cares.

You are all alo—

Three knocks. Someone's here. You're here. You're here? What are you doing here?

"What are you doing here?"

"Hello to you, too, Spencer. Care to let me in?"

~

You're leaning against his counter. He's stood on the other side, facing you, but not quite meeting your eyes.

Can't even look her in the face. Loser.

"Spencer?" He responds with a hum that sounds like it is meant for him as much as it is meant for you.

"I've been here for fifteen minutes and you haven't said a word."

"Right. Ah, there you go. That's a word. That good enough for you?"

That's right. Push her away. Antagonize her. Make her hate you. That'll show her for caring about you.

"Spencer, don't be like that, come on."

"Don't be like what? Like a junkie? Like an addict? Is that what you mean? Jesus, you can't even say it." I am not trying to push you away. I cannot help it. I am so sorry. Please still like me.

"I meant, don't be distant with me. I meant, don't be a jerk, you jerk," you say, your voice more reprimanding than angry. That shuts him up.

"Spencer, I am not going to walk around eggshells with you. I don't want to. You have a problem. You need help. You know that. I cannot sit still at work, pretend everything's fine, nod my head and hope you'll be okay and forget everything when I go home. I cannot be like that."

Spencer looks at you like you're hanging stars in his sky. You continue.

"I am so sorry that it took me this long to figure it out and come help you. I had to be sure we're doing it right."

"Doing what right? What are you talking about?"

"Getting you sobered up. I don't really know much about it, and I didn't want to go somewhere that would leave a paper trail. You could lose your job. I did some research, pulled some strings, and well, I was able to get some supplies and over-the-counter meds and worst case scenario, if something does go wrong, which I'm really not counting on, I know some people who would be willing to help off the record."

He stares at you like you're some kind of hallucination. Some fever dream conjured by withdrawal and regret and too many sleepless nights. For him? Why would you do this?

“Why would you do this?” he says aloud, voice flat. Hollow. “What is wrong with you? You could get fired for this. Do you understand that?”

Please don’t stop. Please don’t take it back. Please don't leave me alone. Please don’t say this was a mistake.

You cross your arms, unfazed. “Yeah, I know. Thanks for the concern, by the way.” You look at him and see his face contort in confusion.

"Honey, no offence, I say this with lots of love in my heart," you put your hand over his and continue, "but you're a self sabotaging moron who thinks he doesn't deserve good things. You are very wrong, for the record, and I deeply care about you in spite of that."

Exactly. Why?

“Exactly. Why?” he says. The words are louder this time. Angrier. Desperate. “You don’t owe me anything. I’ve treated you like crap. I’ve lied to you. Pushed you away. I'm a mess. A tragic self-fulfilling prophecy. I’m not— I’m not someone you should still give a damn about.”

And there it is. That trembling, cracked little part of him. The kid who got beat up on playgrounds and cried about it alone. The man who thought he had to earn affection with perfection.

You take a breath. You move your hand, which was on top of his, to hold it now.

“I don’t need reasons or incentive to care about you, Spencer. You don't have to deserve or earn anything from me. Or anyone, for that matter. You are a good person. You deserve to have joy in life. You were not this self-loathing, withdrawn, quiet person, not when we first met. I love listening to you. I love when you get excited about something. I know you're still in there. You’re still my friend. A huge part of my life, whether you like it or not. I love you.”

I love you too. Oh god, I love you too.

"I miss you when you’re not around,” you continue. “And I’m done missing you even when you are. So pony up. We’re getting you sober.”

"Did you know that the word sober originates from Latin? Yeah, se meaning without, and ebrius meaning drunk. The word sobrius which is where sobriety is believed to have come from, literally means without wine."

"There he is."

~

"Alright, so it's nothing you don't already know, but I'm telling you anyway so you know the drill. It's going to be painful. You'll have cold fevers, nausea, you'll sweat a lot, your body will hurt, you may have episodes, and you will feel awful. And that's all before it gets to the hard part."

"You know, you don't have to do this. You don't need to— I don't—"

"Spencer, Spence, hey," you hold both his hands in yours and continue, "Look at me. It's okay. I know what I'm getting into. We can do this. I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

I hope I hold on long enough for you to see me when I'm not like this. When I'm okay. Like I used to be. Like I was when I first saw you. But God forbid, if I let go, I hope it's in your arms.

"Okay."

It comes in waves. The chills start first— sharp, stabbing needles running down his spine, crawling beneath his skin like he’s being flayed alive from the inside out. Then the nausea, rising like a tide, acidic and angry. His body betrays him over and over again. Sweat clings to him, drenching the sheets, pooling under his neck. Every movement feels like a punishment. Every breath feels borrowed.

And she’s still here. Still here. God.

He can’t look at her when it’s bad. When he’s shaking so hard his teeth chatter. When his limbs lock up and his sobs catch in his throat like barbed wire. He hates that she sees him like this. Hates that he can’t hide the worst parts of himself.

Why are you still here? Leave.

Every time he opens his eyes and finds her still at his side— cool rag in hand, whispering his name, smoothing the hair back from his forehead, holding his head up when he vomits— it shatters something in him. A tenderness he’s not strong enough to hold.

You shouldn’t have to see this. You don’t deserve to.

He tries to apologize. For the sweating. For the smell. For the vomiting. For the crying. For the memories he’ll never let himself say aloud. For existing like this in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and cracking.

“You don’t have to be, you have nothing to be sorry for,” she says every time.

But he is. So, so sorry.

You could’ve loved a hundred better men. Men who would’ve taken care of you, who wouldn’t need saving, who would know how to say thank you instead of I’m sorry.

And still, she stays.

Maybe I’m being made new. Maybe this is what it means to be reborn, to be stripped down to nothing, to be known in every terrible inch, and still not be sent away.

He doesn't believe in God. Never really has. But if he did, if he ever were to believe in something divine, it would be this. Her. Here. Now. In all her human mess and radiant grace, holding the pieces of him steady like they're sacred.

If I make it out of this… If I make it to the other side… it’ll be because she walked with me through the fire and didn't once let go.

And if he doesn’t—

Let it be here. Let it be now. Let it be in her arms.

He shakes his head, eyes glassy and wild, muscles locking in protest. “I don’t think I can do this. I don’t— I can’t—”

His voice is barely human anymore. It's all pain and fear and shame twisted into syllables that sound like defeat.

You kneel beside him, one hand on his shoulder, the other brushing damp curls from his forehead. “Yes, you can. You’re doing great. You’re doing so good, Spencer. We’re almost there. You’re so close. You’re doing great.”

He wants to believe you. God, he wants to. But everything hurts. Everything burns. His bones feel like they’re breaking and reforming all at once. His mind is louder than ever, telling him he’s weak, that he’s wasting your time, that you’ll hate him after this.

But your voice cuts through the noise like light through smoke.

You’re still here.

You’re still here.

You’re still here.

When the worst of it passes, you're both tired. Him, more so than you, of course, but you're exhausted regardless. His world is still spinning, but not violently anymore. Just slow, dizzy loops. You're sitting beside him on the floor, hair messily tied back, sleeves rolled up, skin warm where it brushes his.

“Hey,” you say gently, pushing a water bottle toward him. “When was the last time you ate?”

He blinks. “I… don’t remember.”

You nod like that’s what you expected. “Okay. No worries. I’ll look around your kitchen, see what I can make work.”

God, you’re so… gentle. It’s devastating.

You're holding a knife in your hand, looking at his fridge, hoping to find some vegetables, fruits, anything. You don't. You absentmindedly hold the knife as you ransack his kitchen as politely as possible.

He watches you shuffle toward the cabinets. He should offer to help. He should stand. He should do something. But all he can do is sit there on the counter, hunched, wrapped in the too-big hoodie you made him change into, staring at the way you move around his space like it’s your own. Like you're allowed to be here.

And if you could just twist that knife into my heart, stab me lightly, yeah, that would be great.

You start opening drawers and cabinets and make a little sound of horror. “Spencer, honey. You live like a caveman. Where’s all the food? Have you been eating at all?”

He shrugs. Tries to play it off. “I’ve… had protein bars. Mostly.”

“Mmm.” The noncommittal hum you make isn’t exactly believing. But you don’t push. “That’s okay. We’ll do takeout tonight. Figure out the rest tomorrow.”

He nods, too tired to argue. Too in awe of you to try.

“Go relax, okay?” you say as you pick up your phone. “I’ll order something. Just rest until it gets here.”

You wait until he’s curled under a blanket on the couch— he didn’t want the bed— and that’s when you really look around.

It’s chaos. The kind that builds slowly, quietly, until it drowns a person.

Books are scattered everywhere. His meticulously labeled files are out of order. His fish tank light is flickering and dim. The automatic feeder has maybe a day’s worth of food left. And worst of all, one of the tiny fish is floating belly-up, pale and still.

You cover your mouth and breathe through your nose. He hadn’t noticed. He didn’t even see it. That’s what breaks your heart. You step into the hallway and call Garcia.

“Penelope. I need you to do me a favor. No questions asked. I’ll owe you forever.”

You hear the shift in her tone instantly. “Tell me what you need.”

“I’m sending you a picture. I need a fish. Exactly like the one in the photo. Same kind, same size. I need it tonight. As soon as you can.”

There’s a beat. “On it.”

By the time the takeout arrives, you’ve got the new fish hidden in a thermos packed with water, and you’re swapping it into the tank just as Spencer wanders into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and asking if he should grab plates.

“Yeah,” you say, forcing a smile. “Grab whatever you’ve got.”

He disappears into a cabinet, and you finish the switch in record time, flushing the old one without blinking. He doesn’t notice.

He just sits down beside you a minute later and says, “Thanks for staying.”

You hand him his plate.

“Always.”

He smiles at that— tired, but genuine. You both eat in silence for a few minutes, the clinking of forks against ceramic the only sound between you. You keep glancing over, watching for signs of nausea, ready to intervene. But he seems okay. Exhausted, but okay.

After a while, he leans back, running a hand through his hair.

“I think I need to lie down.”

“You shouldn’t lie down just yet,” you say gently as he settles onto the couch.

Spencer looks up at you, eyebrows furrowed. “Why not?”

“If you end up throwing up again while you’re asleep, you could choke on it. Just for tonight— until it’s fully out of your system— it’s safer to stay upright. By morning, it should pass.”

“Oh,” he says quietly, like he hadn’t thought of that. Of course, he hadn’t. He’s not used to someone else worrying about the aftermath. He's not so used to someone else worrying about him, period.

I love you.

You sit down beside him, not too close, but close enough that he could lean if he wanted to. “You can rest here. Sit with me. Like you do on the jet.”

He turns to you slowly. “You’re… not going home?”

You shake your head once. “I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re okay.”

There’s a sharp sting in his throat, and for once it has nothing to do with withdrawal. Have I mentioned that I love you? In case I haven't, I love you. I'm sorry. I love you.

You open your arms a little, wordlessly offering, and after a moment’s hesitation, he lowers his head to your shoulder. He doesn’t even realize how tightly he’s holding onto you until your fingers slide through his hair.

"You're fine. You're going to be okay."

The next morning, he wakes up before you do.

The light’s different today. The early sun filters through the blinds in soft, dappled gold. For the first time in what feels like ages, it doesn’t feel too harsh or blinding. For the first time in longer than he can remember, the sun doesn’t scream. It just… glows. Gentle. Warm. Alive.

You’re still asleep, head tilted, mouth barely parted. Your brow’s furrowed even now— worried in your dreams, probably about him. Always about him.

He watches you in silence. Not like a man haunted. Not like someone waiting for the sky to fall. Just grateful. Reverent.

You saved my life.

If there's anything the BA in Philosophy has helped him understand, it's this. Existentialists argue that life has no inherent meaning, and individuals must create their own meaning through their choices and actions. By that logic, his choices and actions, having subconsciously led him to you, must mean that you are the true meaning of life. Not an existentialist? Not a problem.

Plato believed that the meaning of life lies in attaining the highest form of knowledge, which is the Idea of the Good, from which all good and just things derive utility and value. Considering how Spencer's pursuit of this exact idea is what led him to you in the first place, this must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that you were the true meaning of life. At least to him.

Nihilism suggests that life is ultimately meaningless and that there is no objective value or purpose. Nihilists must have never encountered you, he concludes.

This could be home. You could be home. It could be enough.

a/n: it could count as fluff towards the end but like only if you're mildly fucked in the head like I am

[girllblogging777]

ALWAYS YOU 𝜗𝜚

IN WHICH spencer braids your hair

ethereal. gorgeous. dashingly handsome.

you might’ve not been as eloquent as the genius with whom you shared your life, but you sure knew that no word in the english dictionary would ever be enough to describe spencer reid.

the frustration you’d been feeling while trying (and failing) to properly tame your hair tonight was not abnormal. you were tired from a long day, and simply wanted to sink into your bed and sleep. but apparently, that long and thick hair of yours had other plans, and wasn’t about to cooperate anytime soon.

so, with a sigh and a silent admission of defeat, you came into the bedroom. and there he was, propped against the headboard, surrounded by the numerous fluffy pillows you always claimed were very much needed in the bed at all times.

spencer looked up at you, doe eyes finding yours through the lenses of the glasses he was wearing, “hey, what’s wrong ?”

you let out a tired breath and took a couple of steps into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed. of course, he didn’t even need glasses to be able to read you like an open book.

“my hair. it has a mind of its own, i swear !”

he chuckled, amused by your way of always making things much more dramatic than they were.

“oh yes, laugh at me now. just what i need. you wouldn’t know anyways, you’ve never touched a hairbrush in your whole entire existence.”

“mean !” he replied, brows furrowing. “i’ll have you know my hair is very well groomed”

it took a couple of seconds of silence for spencer to realise how unfamiliar of you it was not to answer him with sass. so he closed his book and patted the spot next to him on the mattress, gesturing you to come closer, which you immediately did.

“let me help” he said, taking the hairbrush from you and tugging you closer with a hand on your hip.

his touch was delicate as he worked though the knots in your hair, like a simple mistake from his part could make you break under his touch.

“i’m not a doll, yknow” you said, more amused than anything.

he smiled, answering “you let me play with your hair and you look the most perfect anyone in the whole world ever has. that’s as close to a doll as it gets”

and even though your back was facing him, he could tell you were smiling.

it wasn’t exactly a habit for him to do your hair, but sometimes, indeed, he helped. and if his braiding skills were absolutely terrible in the early stages of your relationship, they had definitely gotten better over time. you couldn’t help but point it out.

“have you been practising ?”

“practising ?” he echoed, his fingers momentarily interrupting their action.

“i meant, have you been braiding hair lately, dr reid ?

the unsaid question in your mind made him roll his eyes. you could be so stubborn sometimes, and so, so, so ignorant. he silently finished the braid and tied it with the hair tie he always kept around his wrist for this exact purpose, before letting it fall against your back.

“no, love. i’ve never braided anyone else’s hair ever. it’s you, just you. and maybe mine when it used to be long but it turned out disastrous. so it’s really just you.”

a smile creeped up your face and you turned around to finally meet his gaze. “you sure ? you definitely made progress”

he leaned in, breath fanning across your cheek before he pressed his lips against your temple once, then twice. “i’m sure, love.” he said in between kisses, moving to your forehead now to give it the same gentle treatment. “it’s always been just you”

you didn’t need more explanation, already completely satisfied by the feel of his lips on your skin. but he added, in a more hushed tone.

“also, i kinda read about it.” he admitted, knowing you were about to laugh. but he still said the words. “and… maybe i looked it up too…”

a/n : pleaseeee reblog if you enjoyed it and leave a comment, love you all !!!

[1batch2batchpennydime]

HELLO?!?!?!? 😭

he's so sassy!!! (....i know what you are)

[liaissante]

i knew it, i know you ❀ s. reid x reader

in which your boyfriend comes to find you amidst radio silence, and you finally let out all your frustrations and insecurities. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst tags: ambiguous ending. certified overthinker reader. effie trinket would hate you for what you do to mahogany. argument. they yell at each other. everyone is angry n mean. :(. word count: 3k a/n: me when fine shyt starts flirting but i've already convinced myself everything he says is a genius manipulation technique that i need to outsmart before he adds me to his list of gullible weak victims. this was a vent piece from like 3 weeks ago. still relevant. love u.

You'd be a very successful magician. Vendors and patrons would move Earth just to see your disappearing act in person, to see if it's as brilliant and mind boggling as people say it is. If you were as talented as rumours say.

You'd say so.

A flickering lamp illuminates mahogany. Mahogany you hadn't cleaned in weeks. Mahogany you hadn't sat at in weeks. A thin layer of dust tells the story of how it sat untouched. Neglected. It's wondering of when you were coming home. If you were. If you'd ever swipe a rag over it again, lay down a tablecloth, set it with silverware you only have one set of. 

You would. You would. You promised you would. You placed a hand on it when you left that odd Thursday and whispered you'd return eventually. A silent deal with yourself you'd never get rid of it. Spoken aloud when you inherited it from grandparents now deceased. Then, swept up in an ill fated fairytale that kept you from coming back to it. Another table, not quite as nice, not nearly as expensive, discovered the lines of your palms amidst debate. The edge of your elbows to hold up forkfuls of food. Your thighs, pressed up against the sides. Attention given to something cheaper, and the dust sprites atop this table taunt you for it. 

You're not staring at it, though. Transfixed, instead, on how the lamp barely provides light for the rest of the apartment. Cautioning on the side of blowing any second now. You'd be thrust into darkness so fast you wouldn't know how to react. Maybe you'd stumble around a bit; try to find your phone for a light. Maybe you'd sit in the black. Let the air still, seeping into your bones until you are as good as air that does nothing. Perhaps you already are. 

You don't get the chance. 

Somebody's fist raps against your front door. You know who. It's politely quiet, but eagerly fast. Seeking you out quickly after seven damp days of radio silence, to find if you've died or not. 

You should be hastier. A soon to follow knock announces that for you. Yet, you're a soul on the ceiling, watching an uninhabited sack of skin walk towards the banging fist, turn the door handle, and let an uncomfortable flood of light into the apartment. 

He must recognise the hollowness in your eyes, because he doesn't say anything as he enters your apartment. A quip about how you didn't invite him in manifests on your tongue, but then you remember he doesn't know there's a problem between you two. 

"What a joyous apartment you have," he says, flicking the light switch to light up the rest of your neglected apartment. The last book you were reading found on the edge of your couch, face down and open, the spine creased beyond repair. A glass once full of water now sits empty — evaporated — on the kitchen counter. A duffel bag of two people's mixed clothes and travel sized shower products on the floor next to your feet. 

"What're you doing here?" you ask him, feet firmly planted in the entryway. You couldn't move even if you wanted to. 

He does, though. He freely moves around and it's as if no time has passed. He is more at home in your apartment than you have been all week. Guiltily, you feel resent well in your stomach. How dare he come in and act as though nothing has happened?

He doesn't know. He doesn't know. You repeat the mantra until he speaks again, for it is not his fault you are upset over something you made up in your head. A narrative only the worst parts of your brain can entertain. 

"Well, you disappeared for a week," he states, palms pressed against your kitchen bench as he leans against it. "I got worried."

"Why?"

What a stupid, stupid question to ask him. 

"Because you disappeared for a week," his words come out tantalisingly slowly, as if he's trying to explain to a toddler. Perhaps he is. As old as you are, you seem to feel like the five year old who resides inside you more often than not. Pathetic sentiment. 

"Forgive me for not being a constant presence in your life," you say. It isn't meant to bite, but your tone of voice comes out too sharp for it to not, and he is all too quick to catch it. 

"Sorry?" 

You freeze. Time stands as still as it has all week. The light bulb of your desired lamp blows, and you distantly hear it pop. It no longer matters; your overhead lights are on, courtesy of the man standing before you. You feel plunged into the dark anyways. 

"I didn't mean that. Sorry," you deflect, and a smile that doesn't reach your eyes is sent his way. Not that you look at him. Too afraid of what his eyes will say to yours if you lock them together, you keep your gaze on your couch. 

"Yes you did."

Well, fuck, Spencer. Guess you know everything there is to know about everything. 

You accept the defeat. "Yes I did."

"Explain, please?"

Wordlessly, you shake your head, and the inside of your cheek finds its way between teeth. "It's mean."

"Then be mean."

"No. I—I can't," you shake your head. "It doesn't really matter."

His lips press together, and you can feel the nausea in your stomach churn. "It doesn't matter?"

Your head shakes again, "Mm-mm."

"Well, great. You've got an issue with me that causes you to disappear for a week, but it's all good because it doesn't matter?"

Oh.

"I don't have an issue with you," you lie, but God forbid you do such a thing in front of a profiler. 

"You do. Clearly, or else you wouldn't be this hostile with me. What have I done?" he's gotten off the kitchen bench. He's closer to you. Or, maybe, he's just risen his voice, and he hasn't moved an inch. 

You're entirely not present enough to figure out which it is. 

"Spencer, you haven't done anything. It's all stuff inside my head," you shake your head, again, and it's done so violently you can feel the contents of your brain shake within your skull.

No you can't. No you can't. You're imagining that to worsen your own feelings. Nobody can feel that. Everything inside of it is so loud, and Spencer is no longer Spencer. Rather, a lifeless, faceless entity occupying your apartment. You don't even recognise him. 

"Then tell me what's inside your head, honey, please—"

He doesn't even sound like Spencer anymore. 

"—It's so mean. I can't."

You don't sound like you.

"Then be mean!"

"You're exhausting to be around!" 

You snap, and he falls silent. For once, he doesn't have something to respond with. You're grateful, somewhere inside of you. The same place the urge to backtrack and try to make things alright again comes from. You're usually ruled by that place. 

Today, you are not. 

"You are so exhausting to know. I am so fucking exhausted. I spend my life jumping through hoops to get you to talk to me, to notice me. I mean, you only care when I'm doing exactly what you want. Naked. You only care when it's convenient. When there is nobody else there to satisfy you, nobody you actually want, you will call for me. Right? You have to fill the hole in your heart somehow. Your stupid, incessant need to have somebody there at all times. Why can't you sit with yourself? Alone? You grew up alone, right?" 

It's such a mean thing to say. For a second, you're outside your ablaze mind, and instead watching you say all these awful things to the man you claim to love. Love. How could you possibly love anyone you speak to like this? "You've been alone before. You can't be alone some more?" he's taken steps towards you, and gentle hands on your waist have you inhabiting your body once again. You're crying. Warm, fat tears falling down your face, but he doesn't try to wipe them away. "Why am I just a piece in a—in a fucking chess game? Does that analogy make it make sense for you now, Spencer? You are playing me like chess. How fucking dare you!"

So much of your energy is exerted into pounding your fists against his chest, and he just lets you. Every word you spoke corresponding with another hit. He doesn't do anything until you exhaust yourself, and your hands fall limply by your sides again.

Then, he speaks, in a voice so calm you think you imagined your outburst. "What have you found?"

"What?"

"What have you found?" 

"Nothing," panic rises in your chest. "I—I don't understand why I had to have found something—"

"—This isn't coming from nowhere," he observes. Then, it clicks. His understanding of your brain coming to the forefront of his mind. "Unless it is. All this talk about my inability to be alone, did I leave you alone for too long? Is that where this is coming from? Are you spiralling and making up a narrative about me and then, evidently, taking out your frustrations at a made up problem on me?"

"No," your voice strains. "I mean, I did find something, but it's stupid now."

"It's stupid now," he parrots, condescendingly. "Stupid as in, you think you're going to be ridiculed for being upset about something valid, or stupid because it is not valid at all?"

"That's—you're being mean," you stammer, but even as you say them, the words sound unjust. 

He must laugh mockingly, or maybe he's belittling you with it. Unkind words being thrown, and now you're trying to make him the bad guy. What a breathtaking reveal of your expert victimisation.

"I'm being mean?" his tone is incredulous. "Me? Coming from the girl who said I'm, what, exhausting to be around? To know? I'm the mean one?" 

Yeah, okay, you deserve that.

"You're invalidating what I'm saying—"

"—I'm regurgitating your own words back at you!" he snaps. "You said it was stupid. You. Not me."

Let me speak. "Spencer—"

"—The latter, then. You're embarrassed to admit that."

Let me speak. "Spencer—"

"—Whatever it is you found, I don't care. I can't imagine you've found anything."

You stare at him, waiting. Waiting for him to continue, to berate you some more, to offend you so deeply you can find a real reason to be upset with him. Right now, there is nothing but overthinking his gestures, and blowing things out of proportion. 

"It's little things."

"Little things," he clarifies. 

"Yeah."

You hear him sigh. He's exasperated. "I'm gonna need more than that."

"Like—like..." you're stammering again, your brain folding over itself to find something you can bring up to him that doesn't sound utterly insane. You aren't insane. 

Right?

"Like when I left early the morning after sex for work?" he cuts in, and your chest tightens. Not because his words are mean — though, they are — but because they are true. "Did you think I didn't want you anymore? Or when I didn't call you back for two days because I was on a case? Those little things?"

"I guess."

"Right," he nods. "So, again, did I leave you alone for too long you spiralled into making up narratives about me?"

"They're not narratives—"

"—You've wholly convinced yourself I am a bad person!" you flinch at how loud his voice is, and for a moment, he pauses. He softens, his tensed arms relaxing, and he's sure to take a comforting step back from you. "You're so sure of this idea that I am using you for sex, and I don't want you for anything else, and only when I am bored, or lonely," still silent, he studies your face for a reaction. Whatever he finds mustn't satisfy him, because he continues. "I don't text you constantly because I don't want to be overbearing. I don't hierarch my friendships by how often I talk to someone. Rather, by what I spend my time with them doing. Being with you is so easy. I love being with you. Yes, I like having sex with you too, because I am attracted to you, and that's something we've established. If that has changed, and this is a long, winding way to tell me that, then please—"

"—It hasn't changed," you're quick to correct him.

"Okay," he nods again, firmer this time. "Then, I don't understand why you can't just talk to me. Why can't you just talk to me? Why do I have to be insulted before you communicate with me? It feels almost unfair."

It is unfair. You know that. The thought appears in your brain every single time an insult flies out of your mouth. 

Yet, you can't stop. 

"You're ridiculing me right now. Why do you think I can't communicate with you? You make me feel small. Like—like my feelings aren't valid, and I'm crazy! Am I crazy? Do you think I'm crazy, Spencer? Do you hear me say all these things I think about you and go, fuck, this girl is a psycho? You must. Or else you wouldn't be here," there's a look of recognition behind your eyes that scares him. Your lips twitching, a sardonic laugh leaving them. "You find it fascinating, don't you? Figuring out my brain. Why I do the things I do, why I feel the way I feel. I have a brain you can psychoanalyse for your sick pleasure, so of course you don't leave!"

"No. That's not why I'm here," he speaks so calmly, and you know you've touched a nerve. You feel bad, somewhere. Outside of this untouchable blackout, you're apologising to him. Over, and over, and over. 

"I'm here because I like you," when you open your mouth to mock him, he cuts you off, "did you know I think about you constantly? Everything I do I think of you. I find books I've read in stores, and think of you, and how you'd love them. I see posters for movies I have no desire to watch, but consider asking you to go see them because you mentioned liking the lead actor in passing. Every case, I am picking up the phone on the first ring in case it's you asking how it's going. I care so deeply for you, and this is confusing me a lot, hurting me a lot, because I didn't realise you weren't aware of that. But I can't reassure you every week that I do like you."

You stare at him. "Then you don't really know me. I said really early on that I'm insecure."

"I didn't think it would be this bad."

This bad. 

"It's not my fault you can't step outside yourself."

This bad.

Your chest aches, and you can feel every single familiar feeling in your body dissipate. Once again, just a sack of skin standing in the centre of your apartment, looking at a boy who has so much distaste for you in this moment, his anger is silent. 

Quietly you murmur, "Then I can't do this."

"Yeah," he breathes. "Me neither. You're exhausting too."

And then he's gone. 

Silence. 

There is so much silence when you are alone like this. His final words echoing in your brain, following your conscience down to the depths of it. Ruminating beneath years — decades — of mistreatment, insults. Every single layered brick that built the person you are today rotting in the pit of your brain, with the last thing Spencer Reid ever said to you, fresh; hot. 

He left, and you're stuck with the silence of your apartment. The door that fell shut taunting you, for it was the last thing you possess to feel the touch of his hands. Gentle hands that used to hold you as you cried like this, letting you soak his skin with tears and then taking you out to the rooftop to watch the stars. Loving hands that used to push buttons you never knew to exist until he pushed them, emitting sounds you didn't know you could make until he emitted them. Kind hands, that would hold your waist when in a crowd of people; your face as he kissed you. 

You pick yourself up off a floor you don't remember falling to, stumbling over feet too fast for your brain, trying to get away from here. Here, where he yelled at you, and you; him. Here, where he told you your brain is too bad for him to deal with. Here, where he left you. 

You find your bathroom.

Uncomfortable, fluorescent lighting blinds you as you find solace in the cold tiling; the chipping painted cabinetry. Trembling hands fish your phone out of your pocket, and you stare at the black screen on the device for so long you must go insane. Burning the barely there image of your teary face into your mind, going over every single thing he said to you tonight. Every single cruel thing you said. 

Guilt creeps up on you, twisting its way through your gut and up to your throat. Choking you, until you're gasping for air, eyes wide. 

"No," you stutter, the word leaving your lips too many times, your head spinning. Fingers burying into your hair, phone clattering to the floor. "No."

At some point, sobs calm down, and tears dissipate. You find your footing within yourself again, furniture becomes furniture again, objects are objects. Your brain is no longer closing in on itself. 

You unlock your phone and find his contact. 

It rings for minutes. Probably only seconds. So loud in the silence of your apartment, and every ring inches open the door of regret. 

The line clicks. Quiet follows.

Quiet, not silence. Though you are breathing heavily to yourself, you are not alone with your thoughts, and it is not the only sound you can hear. 

There, through the phone, you can hear him breathing too. 

[xbluereid]

studying and thinking about how matt would motivate you to study