#I wrote this with autistic!spencer in mind

[0o-junebug-o0]

Just To Hear Her Voice

Here's my first Criminal Minds fic!

summary: In the aftermath of Emily's death, Spencer starts calling and texting her number to cope as his life spirals down around him. He has no idea that halfway across the world, Emily is listening.

content: drug addiction, grief/mourning, angst, hurt/comfort, near relapse, angst with a happy ending

word count: 3.2k

Spencer calls Emily for the first time a week after her death. He’s sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest on the floor of his apartment, pressed between a chair and the wall, rocking forward and backward. He holds the phone to his ear and sobs when he hears Emily’s voice.

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

The dial tone sounds. Spencer chokes on a sob and hangs up. He redials the number. 

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

He hangs up before the tone and calls again. 

He only speaks on the sixth call. 

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

The dial tone sounds and Spencer takes a deep, shaky breath. “H-hi, Emily. I, um, I don’t know why I’m calling you. It’s– it’s not like you’re going to answer. You’re dead. I helped carry your coffin. It—” A sob pushes up his throat and cuts him off. “It was so heavy,” he whispers. 

He bows his head and presses his knees against his face, he can feel the tears seeping through the fabric of his slacks. “I just– I really miss you. It doesn’t feel real, none of this feels real. I’m sorry. I—” Spencer cuts himself off with a wet chuckle. “I should go eat something.”

Spencer pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up. He doesn’t push himself off the floor for another three hours and when he does he goes straight to his room.

He calls her again three days later just to hear her voice. He doesn’t speak.

Spencer lays on the floor of a Nashville hotel room four weeks and six days after Emily’s death and dials her number. 

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.” 

He waits for the tone.

“I saw someone that looks like you today,” he says weakly. He breathes deeply and stares at the ceiling, tracing the perimeter of the room with his eyes. “It was uncanny. I, um, I really thought she was you. I was with Rossi, heading back to the Nashville police station, we’re on our first case since—” he pauses unable to finish the sentence. “It was good he was there. I might have called your name if he wasn’t. It feels wrong without you here.” Unable to think of anything else to say, Spencer hangs up. 

He doesn’t know that halfway across the world his voicemails are transferred from one phone to another and Emily Prentiss, newly arrived in Paris, listens to them and cries.

After the case in Nashville, calling Emily becomes a part of Spencer’s routine. Most of the time he doesn’t talk, unable to force himself to speak, and just listens to her voice. On those days he goes over to JJ’s house once he hangs up and cries in her arms. 

Emily receives records of those calls too, the times and dates are sent to her new phone and she stares at them when they arrive, hoping that she’s not the only person Spencer is talking to.

After three months he shifts from leaving messages to texting because it’s easier than talking. He still calls to listen to her voice but always hangs up before the tone. He texts her about his day, about the cases they’re working on without giving away any details, about how much he misses her. He still goes to JJ’s house at least once a week, he feels safer there on bad days.

Five months and thirteen days after her death, Spencer calls Emily’s number and yells.

“You should have told us! We could have helped you! We’re family, Emily! It’s our job to take care of each other.” Spencer's voice cracks and he lets out a screaming sob as he grabs a plate from the sink and throws it to the floor. “And now you’re dead! You’re dead and there’s nothing we can do about it! You’re so fucking stupid, Emily! We– we could have helped you! I hate you! I hate you! Why’d you have to leave?” He falls to the floor and trails off into uncontrollable sobs, not caring that the ceramic shards dig into his knees and the palm of his hand. He leans against the cabinets next to him and sobs, painfully and violently. He knows he’s being loud, loud enough that his neighbors can probably hear him but he can’t bring himself to care, not when he feels like he’s dying. He slams his head against the cabinet and the pain of it combined with the pain of the ceramic stuck in his skin helps ground him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice wet with tears. “I’m sorry, I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you. I’m so sorry. I could never hate you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He repeats those two words until his phone dies in his hand eleven minutes later.

Halfway across the world, Emily Prentiss sits in her Paris apartment, listens to the voicemail, and cries.

Spencer doesn’t call or text for twenty-four days after that. He knows she’s dead. He knows she can’t hear or see what he says to her, but he feels painfully guilty for his last voicemail. The kind of guilt that burrows into his chest and stays there, squeezing tight around his heart and lungs whenever he thinks about it. 

He lays awake in a hotel bed in Sedona, Arizona staring at the ceiling. With a sigh, he rolls onto his side, grabs his phone from the nightstand, and opens his text conversation with Emily. 

“I don’t know why I’m still doing this,” he types. Spencer squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “I know you’re not going to see this, but I want to say I’m sorry again for when I last called. I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you. I was just angry and sad and didn’t know what to do. I don’t know why I still feel so stuck. Obviously, everyone else is still sad but they seem to be moving on while I’m still here.” He sends the message and pauses for a moment. “I’ve been craving again, ever since you died. It’s getting worse the longer it’s been. I don’t know why. I thought it would get easier but it’s just getting harder. I’m scared, Emily.” His finger hovers over the send button before he changes his mind and deletes the message. He’s not going to tell anyone that, not even someone dead. Emily doesn’t deserve that. “I miss you,” he writes. He hits send and puts his phone back on the nightstand, curling into a ball with the comforter pulled up to his chin.

He squeezes his eyes shut and wraps his arms around his chest, trying not to scratch at the crook of his arm and trying not to think about getting high. 

The next two weeks pass in a haze and Spencer can feel himself getting worse. He calls and texts Emily’s number more frequently and visits JJ’s house nearly every other day. Being around Henry is the only thing keeping him from contacting his old dealer. He would never bring that shit into their home, he would never even think of being high around his godson. 

Spencer sits curled in on himself between a chair and the wall of his apartment with his phone pressed to his ear.

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

The tone sounds. “I miss you, Emily,” he says, his voice weak around the lump in his throat. “It’s not getting easier, but I’m alright.” That’s a lie. He doesn’t know why he’s lying. Emily’s dead. She’s not going to hear it anyway. But he just can’t bring himself to say it. He hangs up.

Three days later, Spencer calls JJ to ask if he can come over. She apologizes and tells him that Henry has the flu and passed it on to Will. He tells her it’s okay and hangs up.

Forty-five hours later he calls a number he deleted from his contacts years ago.

Sixteen hours later Spencer is curled up on his couch, staring at the unopened vial of Dilaudid sitting on his coffee table next to a packaged needle. 

He knows he shouldn’t do this. He doesn’t want to. But he needs it.

He feels frozen, his whole body is shaking. He rubs his eyes hard and continues to stare at the vial. He knows he should call someone but he’s scared and ashamed. He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this.

His hand shakes violently as he reaches for his phone and selects Emily’s contact. She’s dead. He can call her. She won’t know and maybe calling will give him the courage to dump it down the drain. 

The first ring startles him and he waits silently, tears streaming down his cheeks as the phone continues to ring.

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

The tone sounds and Spencer speaks.

______

Emily's phone pings as a new voicemail is transferred to her phone. She looks at her phone with surprise. It’s eight am in Paris and two am in DC. It’s much later than Spencer usually calls.

She turns her volume on and selects the voice message.

The first thing she hears is a shaky sob she’s become painfully familiar with.

“Hi, Emily. I don’t know why I’m calling,” Spencer mutters. His voice sounds completely broken and almost dead. “Actually, that’s– that’s not true. I know why I’m calling.” There’s a pause and all she can hear is the shaky sound of Spencer breathing and crying softly. “I can’t call anyone else.” He sighs. “I’m, um, I’m sitting in my living room in– in front of a needle and a vial of Dilaudid.” Emily’s stomach drops and she shoots to her feet. A broken sob plays from her phone. Panic builds rapidly in her chest and she hopes, prays, that Spencer hasn’t taken any yet. She’s pulled from her thoughts when he starts to speak again. “I don’t want to,” he whispers. “I promise I don’t want to. It’s just too much, I—” his voice breaks. “I need it, Em.” Emily raises her hand to cover her mouth as tears stream down her cheeks. This is her fault. This is all her fault. She should’ve told everyone. 

“I’m so sorry, Em. I just– I really miss you. I-I didn’t even get to say goodbye.” 

The playback ends and Emily immediately rushes to the toilet to vomit because that sounded horrifyingly like a suicide note. She coughs violently and spits into the toilet. She doesn’t even take the time to flush it before she clicks on Spencer’s number and her phone is ringing.

Halfway across the world, Spencer sobs as he rolls up his sleeve and wraps his belt around his upper arm. The sterile plastic crinkles as he removes the needle. He holds it and wishes he wasn’t like this. Wishes he was a better, stronger person. He reaches to grab the vial but as the tips of his fingers touch the cool class his phone rings. 

He startles, almost dropping the needle. Too large a part of him is glad he didn’t drop it because that means it’s still clean and he can still use it. He slips the needle back into the plastic packaging and sets it back down on the coffee table but he doesn’t undo the belt around his arm. His hand shakes violently as he picks up his phone.

He stares at the screen for a moment, it’s a number he doesn’t recognize with a Paris area code. He doesn’t know why but he answers it.

“Spencer!” Emily’s voice gasps through his phone. 

Spencer stares wide-eyed at the phone without responding. This isn’t happening, this isn’t real. She’s dead. He must be having a schizophrenic break, he’s the right age for it and he’s hearing the voice of his dead friend.

“Spencer!” the voice says again. He refuses to think of it as Emily’s voice. It’s not her voice, it can’t be because if it is that means she’s alive. That means that she and Hotch and who knows how many other members of his team have been lying to him for months. That means she heard and read all his messages. That means she heard him say that he bought Dilaudid and is about to shoot up. “Please, Spencer! Please answer me. Oh, God.”

“E-Emily?” he asks, his voice breaking. He hates that part of him believes it might actually be her.

“Yes, fuck. Yes, it’s me, Spencer, please tell me you’re okay,” she gasps. Spencer can hear her crying.

“Is–is this real? I’m not having a schizophrenic break?”

“No, I mean yes, I mean this is real!” Emily stutters. “I’m real. I’m alive. I’m so so sorry. But please, Spencer, tell me you haven’t done anything.”

Spencer doesn’t respond, just staring in disbelief at his phone. A moment later his phone beeps and a button appears at the bottom of the screen. Without thinking he presses it and immediately Emily’s face fills his screen. Her face is pale and her hair is all over the place and she looks terrified. She stares at him with wide eyes. In the bottom right corner is himself, and for the first time in sixty-one hours and twenty-three minutes, Spencer looks at himself. His face is red and blotchy and the bags under his eyes look like bruises. His hair is greasy and knotted. His shirt is buttoned incorrectly, his right sleeve is rolled up, and he can see the belt cinched around his arm.

“Spencer?” Emily asks, and her lips move on his phone as she speaks. “Did you—”

He cuts her off with a shake of the head and with a shaking hand, undoes the belt around his arm and lets it fall to the floor. “I was— I was about to,” he admits, his voice weak and wet. “I took out the needle. You called right— right as I grabbed the bottle.”

Spencer can see the panic fade from Emily’s face. “Okay, okay,” she says, her voice breathy with relief. “Thank God. Okay. Spencer, I need you to listen to me, okay?”

He nods and says nothing. 

“I need you to pick up the bottle and dump it.”

Spencer immediately bursts into tears. “I-I can’t, Em. I can’t!” he cries. “I want to but I can’t. You were dead. I helped carry your coffin! I can’t! It was so bad. I need it! I need to not feel!” He knows he’s not making any sense but by the look of her face, he can tell Emily understands.

“I know,” she says softly. “I know. But I need you to do this for me. Please, Spencer.”

He bows his head and sobs ugly and violent sobs. 

“You’re going to be okay, Spencer. I’m right here. I’ll always be right here.”

“But you weren’t!” he screams, the anger in his chest finally boiling over. “You weren’t here! You left! You lied! You let us believe you were dead! You let us mourn you! I hate you, Emily! I fucking hate you!” 

Spencer looks up at the phone when Emily doesn’t respond and freezes when he sees the tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“I–I’m sorry,” he says, panicked. “I don’t know why I said that. I don’t hate you. I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you! Please, Emily, please. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I— fuck!” Spencer drops his phone on the couch and pushes himself to his feet, grabbing the needle and vial of Dilaudid as he stands. 

“Spencer? Spencer!” Emily cries frantically through his phone. He doesn’t respond and practically sprints into his kitchen. Quickly, before he can regret it, he breaks off the tip of the needle and stabs it into a banana to make it safe and throws it and the rest of the needle in the trash. He unscrews the cap of the vial and dumps it down the kitchen sink. He sobs as he watches the liquid flow down the drain. The vial slips from his fingertips and he sinks to the floor. He says there until he’s sure all of the drug is gone before shakily pushing himself up, rinsing out the vial with water, and throwing it in the trash with the broken needle.

He stumbles back into the living room and picks up his phone to see Emily panicking. She opens her mouth to speak but Spencer interrupts her. “I dumped it,” he says weakly.

“Oh thank, God,” Emily sighs with relief. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, Spencer.”

“Who knew?” he demands. 

“What?”

“Who knew you were alive?”

“Just– just Hotch and JJ. But don’t be mad at them, please. I had no choice. Hotch knows because he’s Unit Chief and JJ only knows because she was assigned to making me disappear. It was too much of a risk to tell anyone else.”

Spencer scoffs. “What? You didn’t trust us? You don’t think we can keep a secret as important as this?”

A pained look crosses Emily’s face. “No,” she insists. “No that’s not it at all. I know all of you would have kept this a secret. I trust all of you with my life. But I couldn’t risk you knowing because it would put you in danger. Doyle will do anything to get to me. I wish even JJ and Hotch didn’t know, but I didn’t get a say in that. But I did get one in protecting you. You don’t– you don’t have to forgive me, or– or even be okay with it, but please—” a small sob cuts her off. “Please, I just need you to understand.”

Spencer stares at her for a while before slowly nodding. “I understand,” he whispers. “I hate it and I’m mad and I don’t forgive you yet but I understand.”

“Thank you,” Emily sighs weakly. “That’s all I ask. I just want you to be safe, that’s why I called, even though I have been ordered not to contact any of you. I couldn’t– I couldn’t let you relapse.”

Spencer nods weakly.

“I just need you to be okay,” she sobs softly.

“I’m not okay,” he admits, another sob forces its way up his throat. “I need help, Em. I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m going to call JJ, okay? And she’s going to come pick you up. I'm so proud of you.”

Spencer nods. “I love you, Emily.”

“I love you too, Spence. I’ll stay on the line until she gets here. I’m not leaving you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If anyone wants to be tagged in future fics, just let me know! Also if you have something you'd like me to write, my requests are always open!

[vatelixx]

On the concept of ‘want’,

Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader (written with early-ish seasons Spencer in mind)

SMUT!! (and fluff, and aftercare because im not a total hedonist), allusions to both Spencer and Reader being switches (but he’s mostly just down bad), autistic Spencer (the way it should be), mean reader (to everyone but him), reader has a very very high IQ when it comes to everything but a pretty genius— Spencer just wants that cookie so fucking bad.

Warnings: sub spencer (but also not entirely; he talks about human anatomy as he destroys her), maaaaaybe slight corruption kink (what? who wrote that there???), mentions of prior bullying and insecurity, first time (for Spencer, yess devirgin that hot nerd!!— do you think the BAU will get him a cake after?), brief mentions of past hypersexuality for reader, kinda rlly domestic. Some undertones of degradation but predominantly praise. Begging, crying (pussy so good he cried), etc etc

w.c: 5k (I feed)

a/n: Spencer’s first time getting fucked, my first time writing smut (we’re both going through it here). I’ve been watching too much Criminal Minds recently, so i’ve reverted back to my tumblr roots (im home i’m home). This is a new acc so like…. hi!!!

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Right person, right time. It’s a concept that Spencer Reid is more than aware of. Define luck, at surface level, it’s a made-up hypothesis, idealistic, fantastical. Conjured up to aid the desperate (or the delusional). It’s something he refused to humour, obstinate to the notion, well, that was until you came spitballing into his life, sharp features, sharper tongue. You could cut with your words alone, a weapon to the BAU, jagged and fast-thinking, and so entirely unattainable. Rorschach tests, and an endless sea of profilers, it doesn’t matter— he’s not sure anyone is ever capable of truly pinpointing you.

Rocky start— after you became a permanent member to the team, it took months to coerce you into dropping your guard. A year and 14 days, to be exact.

But, it was possible. Hardened words and blunt comments shifted into something more with time. A gravitational pull, perhaps, that led to evolution— you, softer with him, more tender than you’ve ever showcased before.

Maybe it was that night when he told you about highschool, about what they did to him, boys like him, who were too intellectual for their own good. Different, in every sense of the word. Bullying at such a young, impressionable age can have prominent effects, chronic stress inflicted on an underdeveloped brain, they tied him to goal posts, stripped him naked, endless torment that he still carries with him now. Maybe that’s why you lowered your defenses. Put down the sword.

And sure, he never expected anything, nor asked for anything. He was definite that he wouldn’t get to experience cliche-dating. Longing glances and anticipated moments. It’s not like he was ever the most appealing candidate, too nervous, too neurodivergent. It’s hard to grow out of the mentality that no, everyone isn’t making fun of you, not when it consumed the entirety of his adolescence. That you can walk into a room, and not be seen, targeted, as an outcast. He’s just different. But he’s also human, and the chemicals in his brain do make him want.

You apparently. Because, you looked at him softly once, and he was done. Ruined. Gone for good. Or, in Morgan’s personal opinion, whipped.

And illogically, you wanted him too. That wasn’t ever part of the equation.

But theres a pattern now— dates every weekend. Movies, cafes, museums, an endless onslaught of you. Because somehow, thanks to luck, you reciprocated. He’ll never understand why, you’re too beautiful (it’s a hazard), but he tries. He tries.

──────────────────

December. A haze of christmas markets and blanketing coldness. You kiss him outside and he thinks he might be dying. You make him burn cold. He’s a logical person, so obviously he’s aware that he’s only freezing because your hands are shoved in his pockets, a desperate bid to seek warmth, but regardless, it’s more than he ever expected.

He laughs against your lips, fingers gripping the front of your coat as he draws you backwards so that you’re resting against a wall. “Mm..” he hums, “You should kiss me more often.”

Everyone knows. The entire team is aware of this, an unspoken agreement that your lingering moments and aimless touching are not platonic in the slightest. You work with profilers, secrets are never quite effective. Everyone knows, but it’s taboo, something that needs to be left undisturbed. Do they expect you to break him? Does he? Maybe, maybe it would be worth it— to hurt for you, because it’s always been you. He’ll take anything, he’s not greedy. He’ll live off scraps if he has to, anything to satiate this want that burns solely for you.

“Actually.. you should just always be kissing me,” he suggests, tone soft, “Every day of the week. All the time. And—“ he laughs, “You should also stop stealing body warmth. It’s rude. Hypothermia usually occurs when body temperature dips to around 95F, oh oh but there are so many factors to consider—“

“Is this you trying to imply you’re cold?” you ask.

“Perhaps. Or maybe i’m implying you should be working harder to warm me up.”

You’ve grown soft, he thinks. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this level of affection. But its okay, you justify, mostly because it’s him. Spencer, and his pretty smile, and strange habits (sitting cross legged on tables, drinking coffee with excessive sugar, endless facts and a plethora of soft yearning glances at you when you’re interrogating— as if you’re not tearing an unsub to pieces). It’s terrifying, constant eggshells, because you can’t hurt him. Not like the others, distant fragments of your past.

You laugh in response to his comment, admiring the sight of him: flushed, with swollen lips and dilated eyes. He deserves to be like this, so thoroughly assured that despite all odds, you’re invested. All cards on the table. “You have a lot of requests, boy genius.”

He smiles boyishly. You’re hard lines, sure, a blade that can draw blood, but somehow, somehow, he’s always left unscathed. “Alright,” he answers, “You want requests? Here’s one, stay the night. Come over, stay over, i’ll cook breakfast and try not to burn it— and, and you can have the good side of the bed.”

“Spence,” you mutter, because of course there’s an underlying intention to ‘staying over’ and you're trying to be good here. To not let this fall into your past mistakes of sex and inevitable self-inflicted disgust. A cyclical cycle that clings to your skin. Everything is so new to him, the intimacy, the affection, and it’s nice being able to witness it— to see his reactions to innocuous touches, always disbelieving that he’s capable of this.

Fresh-eyes, so untainted to the sharpness of modern ‘love’.

You cup his face, god, under the dim shadows of the streetlight he’s beautiful. It’s a little alarming to be honest. More so disheartening really, because despite how much you remind him, he never believes you— obstinately refusing your compliments, as if you’d ever mock him. No, he’s different. He’s tender and disarming, and sometimes it feels unholy to touch him with calloused hands.

But, to Spencer, there is nothing unholy to this; the second you touch him, the entire universe crashes down into a singular moment.

“Just stay the night,” he reaffirms. It’s taken him over a month to get to this point, to be able to voice his wants, to comprehend his wants. Now, his thumb traces its way down the side of your face, tangible, real. “And tomorrow morning, there’ll be coffee and pancakes and—“ he laughs, “And there won’t be any regrets. I promise.”

You’re looking at him, wide-eyed and slightly disbelieving (because he’s somehow stumbled through the minefield of you without any consequences). He leans forward, his forehead resting against yours. “Don’t make me beg. I will beg.”

──────────────────

To confirm, he makes you incautious, irrational, willing to blatantly disregard any sort of control. Of course you end up at his apartment; the moment he mentioned begging, you were already half-way down the street.

Spencer’s place is… well, it’s everything you’d expect of him. Scattered novels adorning the floor, a mess of untidy thoughts, neglected papers on science, endless open textbooks left half-abandoned for other pursuits. It’s so him, clean but discombobulated.

He wants to apologize, make excuses for the lack of order, he probably should. He doesn’t do that though. He only crosses the room, stopping when he’s standing right in front of you, just gazing down. He has no idea what’s to come— for once, there are no patterns, no statistics he can reference.

So, he reaches for you, fingers tugging at the edges of your jacket. “Arms. Up,” he instructs and god, it’s a stupid order, but you follow it without any protest. He folds it over the couch, abandoned. Putting it back on alludes to leaving, and he’s hopeless enough to never want you to leave.

His hands then gravitate back to you and he starts to tug aimlessly at the material of your shirt. It’s been raining, and the fabric is soaked. “Hm,” he hums, “Off. Take it off.”

You laugh at that. Straight to the point. You don’t follow his orders, because one was certainly enough, and you’ve never been the type to obey blindly. Instead, you grip his waist, drive him back towards the nearest surface. An end table, some books go clattering, light damage, they’ll survive. His response is a gasp, a hitch of the breath.

“I was promised the good side of the bed, breakfast, pancakes. But sex? Hm, did you invite me over just to get in my pants? I’m wounded, Reid.” you mutter, pressing a series of soft kisses along the curvature of his jaw.

“No! No,” he retorts, breathless, “I was going to get you some comfortable clothes to change into. Damp clothes breed bacteria. You made this dirty,” Adding, “And not in the way I was concerned about.” under his breath.

You roll your eyes, “Oh, here we go—“ sure, you have the experience he lacks, but you’ve been on your best behavior. Dirty? That’s an insult to the exhausting self-restraint you’ve upheld recently.

“Yes— i’m the dirty one here, clearly.” you scoff, “Just casually corrupting you,” You tug him away from the end-table because you don’t want him bruised in any way, shape or form (it’s actually distressing; when you’re working, you seem hellbent on making sure no one even thinks about laying a hand on him. Unsubs be damned.)

Ego-centric, completely independent, individualistic until he came along.

You push him back against the couch, watching as he stumbles, as he falls. For a minute he just lies there, looking up at you with hazy eyes— pupils dilated and lips parted on a half-pained gasp.

And it’s a sight to see, the brilliant prodigy, the young genius, his normally-composed features now twisted into something stricken. His hands tighten around the material of the couch and he lets out a sound that’s a cross between a whine and a groan.

“Oh—“ that’s just a clear-cut moan, “You can definitely definitely keep corrupting me, in fact I endorse it. Completely.”

“3 PHDS, 2 B.A’s and you’re currently asking me to corrupt you? I don’t know, Doctor Reid, that’s certainly very forward,” you say, moving to sit on his lap, aware that you really should entertain this spot more often, even if you’re at severe risk of deflating.

Deflating. God. When did it come to this?

He laughs, “You’re the only person in this entire world that makes me act without a single coherent thought,” IQ abolished. “So yeah,” he murmurs, fingers tracing mindless patterns across the exposed strip of skin above your waistline. “Defini-definitively corrupt me.”

It’s taken so much to get to this point. So much to unpack, to understand, from Spencer’s perspective. There’s a lifetime of bullying that he has to dismantle, and sometimes he still anticipates the punchline when you kiss him— the biting laughs, not entirely dissimilar to school, when someone would belittle him, fake being his friend just for entertainment value.

So, when you stumble into the bedroom, when you remove his shirt, he knows this is improvement. He’s fighting this internal battle, unsure on how he should act: coy or defiant. Both, really. He wants to cover himself up, to pretend like you don’t disarm him, to fight and fight until you make him bleed. Anything, he’ll take anything from you.

“You are so so pretty,” you mutter when he’s sprawled out across the bed. You’ve never been someone to resort to praise; sex had always been cold and clinical, something to relieve stress, to undermine the burden of work, and the endless weight of sanguinary. But now? If he is the eye of the storm, then you’ll happily commit to the chaos of this.

“Careful, you’ll make me inherit a disorder here.” he mutters. Narcism— he’s the least likely to ever develop such symptoms. “Or cry. I could cry, it’s a potential. Maybe break-down?”

“Or,” he adds, his hands tracing up towards your shoulder blades. “All of the above. The trifecta of issues. It’s very likely.”

He rolls over on top, you’re down to just your lingerie now, pretty lace contrasting against your skin. Removing your clothes had been a whole ordeal, he’s fairly certain he almost died; you’re the epitome of beautiful, and he’s not sure how he ended up with everything when he was so resolute, silently accepting, he would always obtain nothing.

“I want to kiss you, but I don’t know, I feel like my body has lost the ability to function at the moment.” he breathes out.

“You should definitely kiss me,” you confirm, posing it as a choice, one that he has any say over— when in reality, youre already tugging him closer. Lips meeting lips. It’s not sane how the world fades into a nebulous haze the moment your mouths connect; time remains constant, logistically, nothing has changed. But it’s just so much that for a moment you doubt the concept of existence, doubt everything but him.

Genius falling for genius. Only you could laugh when he traces molecules into your skin. Spelling out words with elements: Livermorium, Uranium. LV U, it might not be an exact replica of the three worded phrase, but it certainly gets the point across.

“Spence—“ you bite into his lip, tugging the soft tissue between your teeth.

He groans, whimpers, pulls you closer, eliminating every infinitesimal distance between, slotting his hips against yours. He draws away from your mouth, lips leaving a trail of kisses down your neck as he reaches for your hand, interlocking his fingers with yours and pinning it against the bed. His free one is now wandering, slipping beneath your panties to touch.

“Do you know how much I studied about human anatomy after you first kissed me?”

“Weeks.” he answers when you respond with a muffled groan. Your hands are on his back now, tracing the journey of his spine. He’s in over his head, but there’s so much want, so much he wants to do but never thought he would be capable of. And oh, when he begins to draw circles against your clit, slow experimental halos, those soft touches of yours evolve into grasping, gripping. By the time he’s got a finger slotted inside, he’s fairly certain he’s being scratched. Nail indents and faint white lines, souvenirs.

“I know about every erogenous zone the human body possesses, every single one.” He says, because whilst he might lack in physical experience, he has enough intellect to memorize placement, biology. Plus, he’s a fast learner. His finger bends, and both of you moan.

“Spence— fuck, feels good.” you gasp, tangled hands clutching tighter, tighter again until your knuckles are white and you’re trembling.

The human body is something of a fascination to him; the way it reacts, how each nerve and ligament can respond to even the most tentative of touches. But you aren’t every human, you are you, and he has an insatiable desire to discover and catalog every single response your body gives.

He adds another finger, slowly, eyes fixed on your face, gauging the reaction. When he curls both digits, a sharp exhale is your response. “I’m convinced I’ve discovered new anatomy facts in the last few months, just because of you.”

Maybe it’s not fair that he’s so good. First times are supposed to be fumbling and awkward, a mess of hormones and inexperience. To say you haven’t been touched like this before is a severe understatement. The meaningless sex, the onslaught of bodies doesn’t measure up to him, the way he’s so focused on how you respond, on what your body enjoys— it would be endearing (and it is!), but you're currently too preoccupied to voice such a notion.

“Doing so good, holy shit—“ you mutter, blissed out beyond comprehension. You're making art on his back, only vaguely aware of the pain. Though when you realize you’ve scarred his skin, you're drawing away, moving to tangle your hand in his hair instead. But Spencer doesn’t even care, doesn’t even register the inflictions; he likes the physical marks you leave behind, a tangible remnant of all you do to him.

And sure, he’d laugh, usually, at your responses. But it’s hard to laugh, when his own ability to form any coherent sound has been completely destroyed. He’s a mess, his breathing shaky, and his brain is a constant buzz of fragmented musings consisting of you, you, you.

He draws his fingers out, earning a discernible groan, maybe a fuck you (which he does intend to do). But right now, he’s already slotting his face between your thighs, removing those soaked, ruined, panties of yours. He doesn’t have a single thing to compare it to. But he already knows this is his favorite place to be, and he’s fairly certain he’ll be spending most nights between your thighs, learning and memorizing every reaction and noise, each movement, and the ways to repeat them.

He runs his tongue along your clit, savoring just how wet you are, a mess that he can bury his face into. You’re looking down at him with something akin to shock now, and he can only laugh, blow air against your clit, then drag his tongue back over the sensitive bud, drawing it into his mouth to suck.

His movements are tentative at first, unpractised, but soon gaining confidence. He doesnt need to do this, you're aware— you could take him now. And yet, hes here, between your thighs for no reason other than want. Your reaction is visceral, because it’s always been about efficiency in the past, quick touches to get you there before the other person can derive their own pleasure from the act.

He’s not like that. God, hes not like that at all.

“Oh,” is all you can say, gripping his hair down to the root, instructing each movement until he gains incentive, finding repeat patterns that your body reacts to. Then, you can only arch and moan, noises filtered out into the air. He’s back to opening you up now, two deft fingers pressed inside, working diligently to tear you apart.

“Oh? That’s all you have to say to me? Oh?” he retorts.

“Shut up,” you huff, “Put that mouth of yours to work.”

“Mhm— I plan to. God, you’re so perfect.” he mutters, voice distorted, muffled. “That’s it—“ he fights the urge to explain exactly what’s occurring in your body every time his fingers abuse that spot. Instead, he keeps his mouth busy.

He’s certain he’s memorized most areas of your body from years of pining, and that’s what brings him an unrepentant sense of satisfaction. Because he was memorizing your body, you, long before he even got the chance to touch or taste you.

“Wanna stay here,” he says, and he’s being petulant now, because there’s something so good about being reduced to movements. To follow the pattern, to take care of your body, mindless to anything else but you. Pussy-drunk, to put it less eloquently.

“Shit,” you buck up against his mouth, watching as he buries his face entirely into you, as he replaces his fingers with his tongue, nose bumping bumping your clit, consuming his senses entirely.

“Use my face, yeah. ‘M all yours anyway.”

“Fuck, fuck fuck— Spence. Gonna cum—“

When you fall apart, inevitable, he doesn’t stop— not until you’re boneless and spent beneath him. Back arching, stars burning through closed eyes. Pretty constellations that have you blissed out beyond belief. The pleasure is white-hot, feverish in intensity.

And then he’s moving, shifting his body back over you. He’s all soft touches and languid kisses against your mouth, not bothering to break contact as he settles himself fully over you, the weight of his hips pressing into yours. He’s hard, dick pushing up against his boxers, his sexual libido had always been low until you came into his life. Now, his wants seem to fight for release constantly.

“My turn, I believe.” he grins, pressing a kiss to your jaw, “Not that you have to, of course. It’s not an obligation, uh— more so a beg?”

“Of course it’s an obligation,” he goes to protest, to say you don’t owe him anything, so you sigh. “A thankyou, maybe?”

Fumbling hands, still shaky from pleasure, undo buttons. Unclasping his belt, removing loose fabric until he's bare before you. There’s something nervous to his gaze, something unspoken, lingering in the air. “Hey, hey. I’ve got you, yeah? You’re okay,” you promise, before your eyes shamelessly look down. He’s straining, pre-cum lingering at his tip, dick pressed up against his stomach now. “Fuck, okay— yeah. Good. Great even.” first time you've ever stumbled over a sentence in your life.

There’s so much to be concerned about. The fact he’s naked, that you could destroy everything with a few serrated words, years and years of rebuilding, reconstructing. But you don’t— and he can’t help but laugh nervously. “Glad to be up to your standards. I’d uh, hate to disappoint.”

“Always the over-achiever,” you respond, shifting away from him— there’s amusement to your expression when he groans, pitifully, when he rolls onto his back, draping an arm over his face.

Predictable. Condoms in his bedside table. At least he's prepared. You open the wrapper with your teeth, discarding it somewhere amongst the tangle of limbs and sheets, too hellbent on finding him again.

Oh, in this position, you have full, unrestricted view of his body. Endless planes of skin, begging to be marked, sentenced indefinitely to your touch. By the time you straddle his hips, hes a flushed mess beneath you. “I— um, you look really really pretty right now.” he stumbles, idiot.

His dilated eyes take you in. Every contour and curve, the way your hair hangs over your face, eyes up eyes up eyes up. He fails when you run your hand across his dick, thumb brushing against the tip. By the time you’ve slipped the condom over him, hes gone. Bucking and moaning, and so so much better than his hand could ever be.

He wants to be inside of you, but it’s hard to think right now, let alone vocalize the words. I want, he thinks, I want everything, with you.

Your name is on his tongue, muttered and repeated, a reverent prayer of sorts. He needs to gain back his control here, to return to equal footing.

“Yeah—“ he breathes out, “So much of an overachiever, considering I had you making all of those noises—“ his words falter, die out, when you sink down. When you take him. Wrapped around, tight. Warm heat that sets alight every nerve in his overstimulated body. He has half the mind to apologize for his comment because you’re about to ruin him, he knows.

“I thought you wanted me to corrupt you, hm?” you retort. The pace is slow, mostly for his own sanity. Though, the feel of him, the way he slots into you, warm skin pressed against warm skin is intoxicating, and it’s a battle to keep your composure. To not just fall apart under the weight of him.

“What’s that, pretty boy? Struggling? Because you were so egotistical a few seconds ago? Where’s all that ego gone? Straight between your legs, I think.”

A whimper. It’s a whimper, a pained thing ripped straight from his throat. He’s making indiscernible noises now, messy sounds pooling from his swollen lips. The praise, the strained undertones of degradation? It’s too much. But god does he love you for it, because that’s you through and through. Sharp, and brittle to everyone but him, he wants to look, he does, albeit he has to turn his head to the side, bury half of his face in a pillow because he’s gone. At this point, he can only take it.

“I— um, mhm. Yeah,” he slurs. He’s almost incoherent at this point; he’s been reduced to nothing, just a mass of skin, bone, and flesh at your disposal, to own and use and he can’t find it in himself to feel humiliated about it, not when it’s you.

“Can’t— um, I was wrong, you’re— oh god,” the sounds of your body hitting his, back arching as your pace picks up. “Oh, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry —baby, can’t, can’t take it. That’s…”

It’s a lot for his first time, that’s for certain.

“Yes, you you can. I know you can, Spence.” you mutter, interlocking your fingers, letting them hang near your hips. “You feel so good— so so fucking good. Look at you, so brain dead for me. Taking it all so well, love.”

Love?— oh he wants to be buried with that one. He’s a mindless disaster, impenetrably devoted to you alone.

He doesn’t even know how he’s saying words at this point, it’s as if his brain-to-mouth connection has been severed by your very presence itself. It’s not possible to form a coherent thought when you’re riding him like this, taking him so deep that he’s seeing stars. There’s tears pooling in his eyes, he looks pretty when he cries. Especially when it’s derived from pleasure, when he can let go of the burdens, everything he’s endured, when it’s just sensation. Nothing more, no more thoughts.

There’s safety here, an element of home, home home bliss, that has him keening. He wants to stay buried here forever, where nothing can ever hurt him again. When it’s just you, and your pretty words, and your exploitative power to destroy him. You never do, anyway. Even when you could, you restrain.

“Can’t, ’m gonna…, Please, please, don’t stop.” he whines, “Pleasepleaseplease— oh, can’t— I can’t.”

He grips you tight, rolls you over, mostly so he can feel you closer. The sight of you riding him was excruciating, but this is worse because now there’s no gap separating you. Now, he can bury his face into the crook of your neck, burn himself in the warmth of your touch.

“Spence..” you mutter.

“I know. I know—“ hes ruined, sloppy thrusts, whimpers catching against the stifling air. “Feels s’good.”

He doesn’t know what to do, how to breathe, so he just runs his thumb over your clit, watching your prominent reaction, watching as you gasp, moan— oh, and then you’re clenching around him, tightening the pleasure, and yesyesyes.

You’re too gone, moving still, and he can only cant his hips forwards, buck and squirm until he’s sobbing under the weight of your ministrations, releasing so hard that he can barely remember his name, no cognitive function, in the haze of his orgasm.

“There’s my boy— so pretty for me.” he can vaguely hear you saying, and if you’re talking him through it, he can only hear snippets of praise now anyway.

“Mhm— mhm. Yours, yeah.” he mumbles, body sinking against the sheets, a few little whimpers escaping his lips as you milk the rest of his pleasure from him.

Tangled limbs and sweat-stained skin. “You okay?” you ask in the aftermath.

“So okay,” he agrees, shifting closer, back pressed against your torso— sue him for being little spoon.

──────────────────

The next morning, you wake to an absence of Spencer. It’s unsettling, to say the least. So, you're quick to fumble over the buttons of one of his shirts, fabric creased, matching the tousled nature of your hair, disheveled, remnants of the ruination of last night.

For a moment, you consider that he might’ve left — but there he is, in the kitchen, attempting to make breakfast.

“Hey,” you mutter, leaning against the counter to watch.

Scratches adorn his back, indent marks from your nails, crescent reminders, stain his waist, and he’s content to wear them. If anything, he can’t wait to add to the budding collection.

Pancakes. The good side of the bed. Coffee. All of his promises from last night are being thoroughly met, even if he’s burning the food, and shit, he didn’t realize the coffee would be finished so soon. For all his calculations, he’s fairly off-center today.

And then, you come padding across his kitchen, embellished in only his shirt, unbuttoned near the top to expose your collarbone, and he’s fairly certain the last remainders of his IQ disappear.

“Hi! Hi,” he says, wide-eyed, “Um, making.. breakfast. You look, wow yeah.”

Breakfast lays forgotten.

[pinkolve]

A Spencer Reid Fic- The One Where He Reads Her Diary

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Summary: Spencer Reid gets pressured into reading your diary. How will things end after you find out...

Genre: Fluff, and a little angst

CW: Autistic coded!Fem!Reader, use of Y/N, a bit of dramatic? reader, sad Spencer :(, steamy kisses, slight artist!reader.

Word Count: 2,227

A/N: I'm not the best at writing in a reader's perspective!! I always write my fics with myself in mind, so y/n is usually very similar to myself. I hope you still enjoy this anyways, and let me know if you have any tips for writing x reader fics!! Thank you! <33

Y/N’s always been an honest person, she always tells people exactly what she thinks. She’s blunt, but still kind. Y/N believes that everyone deserves to know the truth, especially when specifically asking for it. But, she also has millions of secrets piled up. Some of them, people know. The others…No one knows, except her diary. 

Y/N had just turned twenty-two a few months ago. Some would argue she’s much too old for a diary, while others would say how beneficial it is for the mind. Like Spencer Reid, for example. He himself had a journal, he just hadn’t used it nearly as much as she did.

He used his journal to talk about important events or changes in his life, while Y/N used it for everything. She wrote everything she ever thought, and drew whatever came to mind. 

The one mistake she had made from the start was keeping her diary in her work bag…That she always left on her desk when she left for the bathroom. 

***

“Reid, man, come on. You need to tell her eventually.” Morgan bantered, standing right next to Spencer’s desk. 

“I’d rather not look like an idiot, Morgan.” Spencer slightly rolled his eyes, still focused on his paperwork. 

“You already do?” Morgan said, confused. Spencer looked up with a scowl. “I’m just messin’ with you Pretty Boy! Just ask her out for coffee, nothing wrong with coffee.” He shrugged. Spencer simply shook his head, staring back down at his files. Morgan shook his own head in disapproval before walking back to his own desk, passing Y/N’s in the process. 

As he passed by, his hip bumped the half-open bag on her desk, knocking it to the floor. Morgan immediately turned around and swore. He set his mug down on the desk and bent down to grab her bag. He took notice of a surprisingly thick notebook. He picked it up and reveled at how heavy it was. Morgan looked at the cover to read ‘Diary.’ His eyes immediately widened. 

A smirk took over his face as he placed the bag back on her desk and carried the journal back over to Reid’s desk. Once he was close enough, he threw the journal on the desk with a particularly loud ‘thud.’ Lucky for the two of them, the office was mostly empty so they were able to pull more shenanigans than usual. 

Spencer looked over at the cover and looked up at his friend with furrowed brows. 

“What is this?” 

“Y/L/N’s diary. Fell out of her bag.” He gestured behind him. Spencer’s face went white, his jaw dropping, and eyes almost bursting out of his head. 

“You cannot be serious! Put this back!” He jumped up from his desk, journal in hand, ready to bring it back to its rightful home. 

“Woah there, Pretty Boy!” Morgan put his palms against Reid’s chest, pushing him back in his desk chair. “You have a major advantage here. You read that, and you’ll probably know everything Y/N’s ever thought about you.” He wiggled his eyebrows. Spencer’s face was angry. “Look Reid, if Y/N finds out I’ll take all the blame. I’ll tell her I read it to you and you didn’t want anything to do with it.” Spencer looked down at the book in his hands, contemplating. 

“I can’t believe I’m letting you convince me into doing this.” Spencer sighed, shaking his head to himself. He hated the idea of invading his best friend’s privacy but he was also still a man. A man with a terrible crush on said best friend. How could he hold her very diary in his own two hands and not read a single word? “One page, that’s it!” Spencer groaned while Morgan ‘woo-hooed.’

Spencer took notice of just how thick the journal was before opening to the newest page. He held the book open gently, praying he wouldn’t break it since it was falling apart already. He looked at the left page, two messy sketches were drawn there in pen. They both were of him, the specific view Y/N had of him from her own desk. These are actually pretty good…He thought to himself. 

“Holy shit, Reid. Is that you?” Morgan practically gasped. 

“Yeah.” He whispered, too entranced by the book. The right page had an entry. 

11/10/24 Sunday, 6:22 pm

Dear Diary, 

Today hasn’t been very eventful. I came into work to try and finish some of my paperwork. Morgan and Spencer apparently had the same idea. I’ve been feeling so weird around Spencer lately. I can’t quite put my finger on why. Usually I feel fine around him, he is my best friend after all. I think it may have something to do with the wet dream I had about him last night…I can’t quite shake it from-

“Okay! That’s enough!” Spencer shut the book harshly, his face beet red. Morgan looked at him with a wide grin. 

“Why wouldn’t you keep reading? It was just gettin’ good!” He chuckled. Spencer glared at him. “Well, now we know she likes you.” Morgan smirked. 

“This doesn’t prove anything! People have wet dreams about other people when they don’t even like them, all the time!” Spencer almost screamed. Just then, Y/N came in through the large glass doors, letting out a loud sigh and stretching. She took one look at her desk and groaned. 

“Derek Morgan, I told you to stop leaving your coffee on my desk!” She complained, grabbing it angrily. She looked over at the two, their faces covered in guilt. “What happened to you guys?” She questioned. 

“Nothing. Nothing at all!” Spencer yelled, awkwardly covering the journal with both his arms. Y/N walked towards them while chuckling. 

“Come on guys, you look totally guilty. What’d you do?” She smiles at Morgan then looks over at Spencer, taking notice of the large lump under his arms. “What’s that? Did you accidentally buy erotica again?” She shook her head. She reached over to pry his arms away from the object. “I told you to stop-” Y/N cut herself off, staring at her own journal. Her face drained of any color and every feature on her face practically melted. 

“Y/N/N, I’m so-” Spencer started.

“Shut up.” She spit out. She tore her journal from him and slammed Morgan’s coffee on his desk, causing it to spill everywhere. She practically ran back to her own desk and packed her things. 

“Y/L/N, it wasn’t his fault. I’m the one who-” Morgan tried to reason. 

“I said shut the fuck up!” She screeched, her face red with anger and embarrassment. “I never thought you would do something like this to me. I trusted you with everything I had and you broke it like it was nothing.” She was crying now, looking between the two men. But all of them knew she was only really talking to Spencer. 

“Y/N, please-” 

“Don’t ever talk to me again you fucking asshole!” She sobbed out before running to the elevator and making a fast exit. Morgan looked over at Spencer and his heart nearly broke. Spencer looked like a wounded puppy, his eyes were wide and filled with unshed tears. He looked frozen in place, he couldn’t move a single inch. He begged any and every deity he could think of to make Y/N come back so he could explain. They hadn’t listened to any of his pleas. 

***

Y/N lay in her living room on her large corner sofa. The TV was on, playing ‘Gilmore Girls’ very loudly. She hoped to drown out any thought she had with the noise. So far, it wasn’t working. 

She hadn’t been to work in nearly a week, it was currently Saturday and no one had heard from her. She only called Hotch to tell him she wouldn’t be in for a while, sick with the flu. She sure as hell couldn’t admit that the real reason was because her crush read her diary. It felt stupid enough in middle school, she wasn’t about to say it aloud to her own boss. 

Everyone on the team was very worried, getting barely any information and zero replies from Y/N. Penny, Emily, Morgan and J.J had all come to her apartment on different occasions, begging to see her. She never let them in. The only thing she cared about was seeing Spencer, but at the same time, she never wanted to see him again. Funnily enough, Spencer was the only one who hadn’t come over. Y/N was partially glad for this because she knew if he was at her door, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from opening it. 

Spencer had of course sent about fifty-three text messages and made twenty-four phone calls to her. Once again, all of them were ignored. Spencer was the kind of person who liked to talk in person, apologize in person. All his text messages were him begging to talk to Y/N, to let him explain. None of them actually contained any excuses or apologies. She was clearly clueless on any reasoning he had, or how much he had read, because he didn’t want to say any of it in a meaningless text. He had been waiting since Wednesday for the weekend to come rolling around. He planned to show up and explain everything, but he needed to make sure they had plenty of time to talk, hence the weekend. 

Everyone on the team knew of his plan so they all refrained from going over themselves. They just hoped the two would figure everything out. 

*** 

Y/N had just gotten out of the shower when she heard a knock on her door. She rolled her eyes to herself and sighed, looking at the time. 

“Which one of them has the brilliant idea to come over at eight in the morning?!” She yelled to herself. She softly and slowly walked against the hardwood floor, careful not to make a single noise and alert whoever was behind the door. She wouldn’t answer it but she at least wanted to know who it was this time. 

“Y/N…It’s me.” Spencer’s voice rang out and she froze. “I know you’re angry but I really need to talk to you. Please let me in.” His voice was pathetic and sad, cracking occasionally. Within seconds the door opened in front of him. There stood the girl he’s been dreaming of seeing all week. Her hair was soaking wet and so were her shoulders and arms. A towel was wrapped around her body tightly, showing off her figure. Spencer watched a single droplet of water pass down between the valley of her breasts. 

“H-Hey.” Spencer choked out. 

“Hi.” Y/N greeted shyly. 

“I need to talk to you.”

“So I heard.” She nodded a little. “What about?” 

“You know what about…” 

“Okay, fine. What specific part of that interaction would you like to discuss? What, did you just come over to make fun of me? To ridicule me for the way I feel? Did you come over here just to humiliate me even more?!” Y/N’s voice raised the more she spoke. 

“No!” Spencer yelled, cutting her off. “I don’t want to do any of that!” He sighed to himself. “I…I never should have read your diary. Morgan convinced me, and I know I should have reacted better, and not listened to him. He just kept telling me how…Convinient it would be. I’ve been scared to tell you how I really feel for the last two years. He told me that reading your diary would be the perfect way to see how you feel about me before I confessed and made an idiot of myself. I just…I had a weak moment and I hate that I hurt you in the process.” A couple tears fell from the corners of his eyes. “I’m so…So sorry, Y/N/N.” 

She looked up at him with an expressionless face. Spencer looked back into her eyes with the saddest look on his face. He was about to ask her what she was thinking when she told him instead. 

“Do you like me? Romantically?” She asked, voice monotone. 

“Of course I do. I genuinely thought it was obvious, I can never stop how flustered I get around you. All I’ve dreamed about since we became friends is spending my life with you. Whether we spend it as best friends or more, I couldn’t care less. I just want you with me every step of the way” Spencer spoke honestly. 

“Kiss me.” Y/N blurted out. Spencer’s eyes went wide. 

“W-What?” He stuttered. 

“Please.” She breathed out. “Kiss me.” Her eyes were heavy and clouded. Spencer was quick to reach down and grab the sides of her face in his hands, pushing their lips together roughly. Y/N whimpered the minute his lips touched her own. Just as fast as the kiss happened it turned sloppy. Spencer’s hands travelled down to her waist, gripping tightly. She had wrapped her arms around his neck, her breasts pushing up against his chest. Their tongues collided and twirled against each other. 

“I love you, Spencer.” She whispered against his lips. 

“I love you more, Y/N.” He sighed.

[physalian]

Yet another 5 Character Types The World Needs More Of

Continuing on the list of “tropes the world needs more of”

1. The optimist in denial

This is a character who probably didn’t have the best life growing up, so determined to look on the bright side to escape their objectively crap situation that they’re in denial, not just being annoyingly optimistic. They’re frustrating cases to all the people who care about them because they won’t admit anything is wrong, holding onto a life or reality that doesn’t exist, or perhaps never did, as it’s all they have left.

Example: Todoroki Fuyumi

2. The “peaceful” pacifist

As opposed to harmless, the distinction is important. Demons run when a good man goes to war. This is a character who took themselves off the game board because they know they’d win in a landslide. This is a warrior who left the battlefield because they are the weapon of mass destruction. This is also the character who is determined to be good, even if it gets them killed. I don’t care if there’s already plenty of them, this is good shit and I want more.

Example: Too many and yet not enough

3. The likable autistic

Neurodivergence in media is often the butt of the joke. You like these characters in spite of their “quirks” or you find them incredibly annoying because their “quirks” are their entire personality. Usual representations are arrogant and anti-social narcissists who lack compassion. Shockingly, autism is a spectrum, and a very far cry from sociopathy. No one trait should define an entire character, and that includes neurodivergence.

Nothing specific to do this time, more what not to do. Make them people first, yeah? A person with autism. Not autistic person. There’s a difference.

Example: Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds)

4. Husbands who love their wives

Wow this feels like a low bar. These men who adore their wives, who wouldn’t dare think the phrase “ball and chain”. If he likes his wife, he’s probably a good man altogether. I feel like media is stepping away from the misogynistic kinds of protagonists (assuming their wives weren’t fridged) but I’m talking men who are their wives fiercest defender (socially) and biggest cheerleader.

Example: Gomez Adams, Maes Hughes

5. Unmanicured Female Heroes and Love Interests

Slapping barbie dolls who look gorgeous and can do no wrong aren’t anyone’s favorite character. Let her hair be a little frizzy, let her not wear makeup, give her jeans and a t-shirt and flat. Let her be a little lazy and self-indulgent. A little cluttered and messy without joking about how she’s “letting herself go”.

Let her have some biases, some arbitrary hills to die on. Not every female character but usually characters like this are the jealous villains or the girl who gets dumped for someone prettier.

Example: Toph Beifong, Princess Fiona

—

Oh look I wrote some of these in ENNS haha what a coincidence

Check it out if you'd like~

[whitedovebby]

Sorry but there's going to be a rant under the cut

Sorry for the language, but to all the hateful anons in the Spencer Reid tag/fandom, please shut the fuck up berating and belittling our writers. Okay? They do this because they want to, they enjoy writing for their beloved character. Don't fuck that up for them and make it something they're afraid of sharing.

Spencer is a fictional character, and despite what some of you anons seem to think, he has a lot more depth than what we see on screen. Yes, he has traits that could be seen as autistic, but it has never been said in canon that he is autistic. As an autistic person myself, I feel I have some degree of right to point this out.

Being a fic writer for him means that we get to explore his character in scenarios and settings outside of what we see on screen. He's so complex that he can be interpreted in several different ways. Does that mean that every writer that writes him differently/not how you would write him is wrong? No. No, it doesn't. Writing is a form of expression, each person has a different way of expressing. Don't piss all over someone's bonfire just because you didn't like what they wrote. Keep your opinion to yourselves, scroll on, block, whatever.

If you want Spencer written a certain way, do it yourself. I'm tired of seeing my favourite writers getting unsolicited accusations, hate, and slander in their inboxes from anons who are too afraid to come off and speak their mind without a mask on.

This is supposed to be a community and safe space, not a pit of hate.

[ao3feed-destiel-02]

Three in the Morning Nonsense

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/BFbQ8Jj by AtticusAreola I honestly don't have an explanation for this, Sertraline gives you the craziest dreams, so here we are. This is a multifandom collection of one-shots that I wrote at three am, I probably won't do more with them but I needed them out of my head. Words: 17355, Chapters: 7/?, Language: English Fandoms: Supernatural (TV 2005), Once Upon a Time (TV), Hellsing, The Witcher (TV), Criminal Minds (US TV), Call of Duty (Video Games), Five Nights at Freddy's, Avatar (Cameron Movies) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Categories: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Original Children of Bobby Singer and Karen Singer, Castiel (Supernatural), Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan, Jake Sully, Original Female Character(s), Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Emma Swan, Henry Mills (Once Upon a Time), Evil Queen | Regina Mills, Alucard (Hellsing), Integra Hellsing, Seras Victoria, Father Anderson, Eskel (The Witcher), Lambert (The Witcher), Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Simon "Ghost" Riley, John Price (Call of Duty), John "Soap" MacTavish, Gary "Roach" Sanderson, Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan (Criminal Minds), Aaron Hotchner, Henry Emily Relationships: Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Castiel/Dean Winchester, Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan/Original Female Character(s), Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Original Character(s), Alucard (Hellsing)/Original Character(s), Alucard/Integra Hellsing, Eskel & Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel (The Witcher)/Original Female Character(s), Spencer Reid/Original Female Character(s), Simon "Ghost" Riley/Original Female Character(s), Michael Afton/Original Female Character(s) Additional Tags: What Have I Done, The Author Regrets Everything, One Shot, Random & Short, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Quote: I Have A Bad Feeling About This (Star Wars), References to Game: FNAF World (Five Nights at Freddy's 2016), Witchers Need Hugs (The Witcher), Autistic Spencer Reid, Soft Simon "Ghost" Riley, Lieutenant John "Soap" MacTavish, Game: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare II (2022), Author Has Played Call of Duty, Vampires, Mommy Issues, Daddy Issues, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, One Shot Collection, Fluff and Angst, Eventual Smut, Mild Sexual Content, Alien Culture, Religious Content, Na'vi Culture (Avatar - Cameron), It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Supernatural Elements, Canon-Typical Violence, Not Beta Read, Inspired by Swan Princess (1994) read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/BFbQ8Jj

[themetaphorgirl]

i feel like i’m sending you so many messages and i feel bad so i’m sorry this is the last one i swear but imagine spencer having a bad day and then something pushes him over the edge and he just starts crying for hotch or alex to make it better :( they’re so parental towards him it makes my heart happy - 🧃

just for you, my sweet lil juicebox angel!!! I hope it helps you feel better!! <3 <3 <3

----------

It was a bad day.

Typically he did his best think logically. Things happened for specific reasons, and if something didn’t go the way he intended, surely there was a way to fix it.

But he didn’t sleep well (again, really, he ought to be used to it by then, but still) and he woke up groggy and cranky, and Derek was in his way, and he just wanted to go back to bed but it wasn’t an option.

And his well-worn backpack popped the zipper again, dumping his things in a puddle on his way to breakfast, and it took him so long to gather everything up that he didn’t have time to eat.

And his homework was wet, and his math teacher wouldn’t accept it.

And he stayed late to redo his work, and he was so late for lunch he didn’t even bother to go.

And Neal and Dallas surrounded him during history class, stealing his pencils when he wasn’t paying attention to them, and when he paid attention they were the perfect students, and the second he let his guard down they were kicking his desk and flicking spitballs at him.

And he was a genius, everyone told him so, but that didn’t mean that everything came easily, and he got a high C on his English essay because sometimes the thoughts in his head didn’t always translate to paper, sometimes they spilled out tangled because he was ten years old and his brain wasn’t fully formed, less fully formed than the fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds who got the same grade on the same work.

He didn’t even feel like going to the library, he didn’t feel like reading. And he shouldn’t feel that way, bad days didn’t actually exist, he just needed to suck it up and be mature. He thought that maybe he could sneak into the amphitheater and study quietly on his own, but the second he got comfortably the skies opened, pouring rain on him, and by the time he made it back to Lincoln House he was drenched and cold, his hair plastered to his forehead and his uniform dripping dark puddles on the floor.

He trudged up the stairs to the seventh floor, gritting his teeth. There was no reason to get upset. He was mature. He was responsible. He fit in here. He just needed to keep it together.

The younger half of the group piled around the common room; Emily was painting her nails and the scent of the polish twisted into an irritated headache. He had to sidestep Penelope’s laptop left abandoned on the floor, and Derek’s heap of sports equipment, and the two of them were playing a bright colored videon game with JJ, shouting at each other, the piercing cheerful audio dialed up too loud and digging into his ears. 

“Oh, Spencer, there you are,” Emily said. “You mind taking a look at my trig homework? After what happened in class today I can’t afford to fuck up.”

His backpack fell to the floor with a wet splat. Emily didn’t look up from her nails. “It shouldn’t take too long,” she said. “I mean, shit, for you it’ll take about ten minutes.”

“And when you’re done, you can play on JJ’s team, she’s losing bad,” Derek laughed.

He didn’t want to look at her stupid trig homework. He didn’t want to play stupid video games. He was wet, and cold, and hungry, and his head hurt, and-

“I don’t want to!” he said, and he burst into tears.

The video game went silent instantly. Emily capped her nail polish and got up quickly from the table. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” she said. “What happened?”

“I had a bad day!” he sobbed. “And...and I want Alex!”

He buried his face in his hands and bawled. Any attempt at holding onto his composure was gone. He wasn’t a mature-for-his-age prodigy who could handle any unexpected stress thrown at him, he was only ten years old and he was over it.

Emily knelt down and gripped his elbows. “Okay, kiddo, take a breath,” she said. “You’re gonna make yourself sick.” He cried harder, his fingers beginning to pull at his hair, and he couldn’t stop. “JJ is calling Alex, she’s at the library, she’ll be here in a second, okay?”

He couldn’t stop crying, the dam had burst and he couldn’t stop crying. “Come here, munchkin,” Emily said, softer than he had ever heard her speak before, and he shoved her away and ran. He ran down the hall to his room and slammed the door, and he dropped on the floor without bothering to turn on the lights.

He didn’t want to be here anymore. His dad was right, he should have stayed in his own grade with other kids his age, he should have stayed home in Las Vegas...but his father was gone and his mother was gone and there wasn’t a home to go to anymore.

He could hear the other kids in the hallway, their voices too loud even though they tried to whisper.

“I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Is he okay? Should we be worried? I feel like we should worry.”

“Fuck if I know. I’ve never heard him ask specifically for anybody before.”

That was true. He’d never called for Alex before, or Hotch, or anybody. He couldn’t even remember calling out for his parents after a bad dream or getting sick in the middle of the night. But his exhausted little body was screaming someone come fix this, and Alex had never failed him before.

“Should we go in and check on him?”

“No way. Wait for Alex. Or Hotch. Do you know where he is?”

“RA meeting.”

“Shit.”

Spencer curled into a little ball and sobbed into the carpet, his wet clothes clawing at his skin, and the feeling overwhelmed him, twisting him tighter and tighter like a watch wound too tight, and crying didn’t make him feel any better.

The door creaked open. “Go away,” he sobbed. “Go away!”

Someone sat down beside him and touched the back of his head gently. “Spence, it’s me,” Alex said softly. 

He sat up, tears wet on his cheeks, his nose running, and he flung himself into her arms. She gathered him onto her lap, pressing his head to rest against her shoulder, and she let him cry.

He cried until his eyes were dry, almost painfully dry, and his throat ached. Alex rocked him a little, her arms secure and safe around him, and his breath caught in a shuddering sob without tears. 

The world began to settle back into place, like glitter in a snowglobe sifting back to the ground. He felt a little foolish now, the embarrassment of his temper tantrum sinking into his bones as his tossed thoughts began to fit together like puzzle pieces. But he couldn’t remember the last time that someone held him like this, letting him feel small and safe.

“Bad day?” she asked gently. He nodded. “That’s okay. Bad days happen. To everybody.”

He rubbed his cheek against her shoulder; the fabric of her blazer smelled like the library’s old books and the faint scent of her violet perfume. “I’m sorry I cried,” he whispered.

“Don’t be sorry,” she said. “You’re allowed to cry.” She kissed the top of his head, and he couldn’t remember the last time someone kissed him. “Do you feel better?” 

He sighed, shaky and tear-wet. “Uh-huh.”

“What else will help?” she asked. “What can I do to help?” He shrugged. “No, don’t do that. Don’t shut back down on me. Pick one thing. Tell me one thing I can do to help.”

He picked at the raw skin around his thumbnail. “I’m wet,” he said at last. “I got stuck in the rain.”

“You want to dry off and change your clothes?” she asked. He nodded. “Okay. We can do that.”

She lifted him gently off her lap and set him on the floor. He began to pull at his shoelace as she turned on the lights and rummaged through his dresser drawers.

The dry clothes helped; he was warmer now, and she’d picked out a soft tee shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants, both with the labels cut out to keep from scratching at his skin. She smoothed out his wet hair, fixing the worst of the tangles. “Is that better?” she asked. He nodded. “What else can I do to help?”

“I’m hungry,” he said, and this time it was easier to say what he needed. 

Alex smiled. “We can do that,” she said, and he trusted her.

[glowingspence]

I am just gonna leave some moreid headcanons related to clothes here:

Spencer steals Morgan's clothes and includes them into his style until Hotch gives in and tells him that it is not acceptable anymore and that he can not wear sweatpants with a sweater vest and a tie to work nor that he can wear a hoddie over his dress shirts.

Morgan is forced to wear mismatched socks now too because Spencer keeps steeling one sock to mismatch it with his own. One day Morgan comes into work with one sock with dinosaurs on them and the other in purple with blue stripes. He hides his socks but Spencer somehow always finds them.

Spencer steals one of Derek's gray dress shirts, it has a nice fabric so Derek knows it's lost forever and has a hard time getting Spencer to wash it or even to take it off. (He is afraid it feel different after.)

Derek changes his washing powder once, Spencer starts crying so badly because Derek doesn't smell like Derek anymore he never changes it again. (Spencer later feels bad that he reacted like this but Derek assures him it's okay and encouraging to recall the things he read about the connection between emotions and scent. He still feels guilty after but not as bad anymore)

They have a hate love relationship with going shopping. Derek isn't that bothered by it itself, Spencer neither but they can only go when they have all day because Spencer walks through every isle and touches everything that looks like it will feel good to touch. Derek then has to deal with the outcome of him realizing how many germs he probably collected. He also doesn't always have the patience to wait for him to look at everything. (He still waits on Spencer knowing that he has a plan on how he wants to walk through the store the minute he enters it and can't change that then again.)

Spencer always thought that when Derek wears a suit that will be his favorite outfit on him. It isn't. He prefers Derek in only sweatpants walking around the house.

Spencer steals Derek's jacket in the winter because he is cold and then complains that Derek isn't wearing a jacket and that that is irresponsible.

I would love to hear yours. <3

[bi-and-bewildered]

Another headcanon:

(But only after wishing you success and all the strength you will need for your new "school" year)

Spencer is often scared he doesn't show his friends how much he loves and appreciates them. He doesn't like physical contact, he don't use nicknames and it doesn't feel right to him to just say the words "love you"

He doesn't know that the team already knows because he shows his love in other ways without even noticing.

Researching things the others mentioned once, inviting them to go to the movies with him or to his apartment when he notices they have a hard time and they are seeing that Spencer's rambles, even sometimes about things that aren't their interests is his way of communicating with them and telling them how much they mean to him by letting them be part of what makes him happy.

-🦖

this is absolutely so cute!

Spencer has trouble explicitly telling someone how much they mean to him, that’s never really been his kind of thing.

Instead he goes out of his way to include them or if their sad he’s not good at reassuring words but he always has a distraction prepared. He comforts and helps in his own way and everyone knows that.

[venusianelf]

The Living Weighted Blanket

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Autistic! Reader

Genre: Fluff, Only One Bed Trope

Summary: You’ve had a crush on Spencer for the longest time but have managed to keep it fairly hidden. What happens when you have to room with him for the night? Cuddles and fluff, that’s what!

Warnings: Reader isn’t written with any gender in mind, mentions of anxiety, some coercion of Penelope making the reader tell her who they has a crush on, reader is shy and a little awkward, some embarrassment when the team finds out, some swearing, a few uses of Y/n

Word Count: ~1,700

A/N: Spencer and the reader are established friends. I’m on season 6 so this is that version of the team. I tried to write more of the team into this one since the first one didn’t mention most of them. So I hope it’s fairly accurate to their characters. I’m also not super used to writing for Spencer either so hopefully it’s alright. I have no idea how I wrote another 1,000+ word fic but hell yea! Also, not my gif but I found it off Pinterest so :/

You had been working at the BAU for a year now and had a major crush on one Spencer Reid. The problem is there was no way in hell you were ever going to tell him. While you hated lying (and were pretty bad at it), you had to try your best because you couldn’t under any circumstances embarrass yourself. Although because the team knew of your autism and social anxiety it made it a little easier to hide. Avoiding eye contact? You were overwhelmed today. Blushing when he brought you coffee? You were shy anyways.

It worked out pretty well until it didn’t. That would be the day that your best friend Penny caught you daydreaming once again. “So sugar, what’s got you in wonderland today?” She smirked as you got pulled out of your thoughts. “Huh? Oh, nothing Pen.” “C’mon I know you better than that. You were obviously thinking about something. Ooh! Wait, lemme guess, were you daydreaming about Mister three PHDs? You two have been getting closer recently.” “What?! No, he’s just a friend!” You shrieked as you started picking at your nails. “Oh. My. God. You like him!” She squealed as she danced around her room. “Penny, I swear if you say anything to anyone on the team I will steal your glasses and hide them where you’ll never find them.” “Geez, that's harsh Y/n, but I promise these lips are sealed.” She said, motioning a zipper across her mouth. “Although I make no promise not to tell Kevin.” She giggled. “Fine but only him, if you tell Morgan or anyone else on our team your glasses will be gone.” I sighed, hoping she would be able to contain her excitement for new gossip.  “You got it, babe. Now tell me everything about your little crush.” She smiled as she sat back down next to me. 

Today we had a case in a small town in Oklahoma, which unfortunately meant social interaction with those outside of the team. Once we landed Hotch immediately sent Spencer and me to the station to set up shop. When we got there I realized we wouldn’t have our own office. I unconsciously started scratching myself at this realization. To which Spencer picked up quickly, “Hey, it’s going to be alright. You brought your ear defenders right?” He asked in a soft comforting tone. “I- Yeah, I brought them. I just don’t like being around all these people.” I replied as I tried to switch to rocking instead of scratching. “I know but it’ll be better tonight when we can have our own rooms at the hotel.” He said, calming my worries. 

As we settled in I got a few odd stares from my odd behavior but I did my best to ignore it. Spencer started on his geographical profiling and I started on going through the letters left by the unsub. Over a few hours, the team slowly tricked into the station with Hotch arriving last. “Guys, I have some bad news. They only had four open rooms at the hotel, so we’ll be two to a room.” Everyone groaned at Hotch’s proclamation but internally I started freaking out about who I would even room with. The girls were nice of course but other than Penelope I wasn’t close to them. “Hey, Y/n I can tell you’re panicking. If it helps you can room with me and I’ll take the couch.” Spencer said drawing me out of my worries. “Uhm, yeah that would help. Thank you, Spence.” “No Problem.” He replied, smiling warmly at me.

While I was somewhat flustered at the idea of sharing the room with my crush, it was still better than the anxiety of sharing with someone I wasn’t close to. As we got to our room Spencer went first to clean in the bathroom as I unpacked my things. I got out my book and headphones while I waited for him to finish. “What’re you reading?” He asked as he got out of the bathroom. “Hm? Oh, it’s American Gods by Neil Gaiman. Sorry, I didn’t hear you get out of the shower.” I replied, taking off my headphones and marking my place. “Well I would think with headphones on that it would be hard to hear that. Anyways, what’s it about?” He asked knowing that asking me about my interests helped me unwind. “Oh! It’s about this guy who gets out of prison early after his wife dies and then starts working for a mysterious guy who insists he’s a god. It’s kind of dark but it’s really good!” I rambled excitedly. “Hm, I don’t read fiction very much but if you say it’s good then I’ll have to check it out sometime.” He said as he started unpacking his things. “If you want you can borrow my copy when I’m done.” You offered as you started gathering your things to take a shower and get ready for bed. “I’ll take you up on that.” He smiled as he got comfy on the couch.

Once I was done with my shower and headed back out I noticed that Spencer seemed to be quite cramped as he tried to relax on the couch. I contemplated offering to share the bed with him before I decided fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen. “Hey Spence, if you’re uncomfortable on the couch you’re welcome to share the bed with me,” I said sheepishly as I put away my clothes from earlier today. “Are you sure? I know you aren’t too fond of people being too close.” He asked as he sat up. “Yeah, I’m sure. I don’t mind being close to you since we’re good friends.” I replied, getting in bed and patting the empty place next to me. “Alright, but let me know if you get uncomfortable.” He conceded as he climbed into bed next to me. 

After continuing to read for about an hour Spencer and I decided it was time to get some shut-eye. “Spence?” “Yeah Y/n?” “Um, could we cuddle if you’re okay with it? I always leave my weighted blanket at home since it’s so heavy but it makes me sleep worse without it.” I asked timidly. “Haha, yeah I’m okay being your weighted blanket.” He laughed as he put his arm around my waist and pulled me towards him. “You’re not just my weighted blanket.” I pouted. “Okay well, either way, I’m good with cuddling you if it means it’ll help you sleep.” He laughed as I could feel the reverberations in my body. It was oddly comforting. “Thank you,” I said softly before I shut my eyes. “Not a problem,” I vaguely heard him say as I felt him press a soft kiss to my head before I fell asleep.

When I woke the next morning I was surprised to find Spencer still asleep. Turning around in his grasp I mentally traced the features of his face. He looked so peaceful while he was asleep. Although slowly I felt him wake from my movements. As his eyes flickered open I hid my face in his chest. “Good morning,” He said as he brought his arm from my waist to my back as he drew circles. “Good morning,” I responded. “Is there a reason you’re hiding?” He asked, clearly amused. “Um, no reason.” I squeaked out as I hid further. He laughed as he moved his hand under my chin and pointed my face up towards his. “Hi,” I said shyly as I focused my gaze on his hair. “Hi there,” he responded, smiling playfully. He moved a strand of my hair behind my ear as he mapped my features.  “Y/n, I like you.” He breathed out, gazing into your eyes. Your eyes widened as you took in what he said. “I- Um, I like you too Spence.” You responded in kind as you went to hide in his shirt again. “Uh-uh, come back here,” He laughed as he cupped your cheek. “May I kiss you?” He asked as you shyly nodded. 

You felt his hot breath ghost over your lips before you felt the impact. His lips were way softer than you imagined they would be. The kiss was gentle and loving as if he was trying to convey his feelings to you through touch rather than words. As you two separated you hid back in his shirt. “Back into hiding, are you?” He laughed. “Mhm,” you nodded. “Alright well, pumpkin we need to get up now. I’d love to take you on a real date when we finish this case though.” He said running his fingers through your hair. “I’d love that,” You responded as he helped you out of bed.

When you met back up with the team for breakfast, you and Spencer were holding hands. “I told you! Oh my god, I need to call Penny!” Morgan laughed as he pulled out his phone. “Knock it off Derek, you’re gonna embarrass them,” Emily laughed as she turned to smile apologetically at you. “What? What are you guys talking about?” Spencer asked as you blushed and tried to distract yourself with your phone. “We all knew you two liked each other, and we had a bet going on whether or not sharing a room would force a confession. Plus we’re profilers, what did you expect?” Derek laughed as he got handed ten bucks from Rossi and five bucks from Emily. “That and Pen may have told us about your little secret,” JJ added apologetically, smiling at you. “I swear to the gods! I told her if she told anyone I’d hide her glasses!!” You shrieked as the crowd laughed. “Well that’s gonna be a sight to see,” Morgan laughed. “Either way, good for you kids,” Rossi smiled as he went back to his newspaper. “Agreed, just keep it professional when we need you two to be,” Hotch added, smiling at you two. “Of course,” You responded. As you looked over at Spencer he seemed to be more flustered by the situation than you were. You squeezed his hand and smiled as heartwarmingly as you could when he looked over to provide some semblance of comfort to his embarrassment.

[spencer-reids-adventures]

✨ 2022 Writing Year In Review ✨

Thanks to @feeisamarshmallow​ for tagging me!

1. Number of stories posted to AO3: 12

2. Word count posted for the year: 299,454

3. Fandoms I wrote for: Criminal Minds

4. Pairings: Luke Alvez/Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid, lots of friendship stuff between the team

5. Story with the most:

Kudos: A Collection of Blurbs Featuring Autistic Spencer Reid with 844

Bookmarks: Also A Collection of Blurbs Featuring Autistic Spencer Reid with 242

Comments: bau super seven loving-reid-a-thon with 159 comment threads

6. Work I’m most proud of (and why):

to seek and to find the narrow way. it's so personal and i was so nervous to post it because of the religious themes but i'm really pleased with how it turned out and i've gotten some amazing feedback <3

7. Work I’m least proud of (and why):

secret storm. i'm not not proud of it! but i wrote it for a challenge and i think i rushed it a little and could've done a lot more with it if i'd given it the time it deserved.

8. Share or describe a favorite review you received:

there's one person who's been reading you don't have to be sorry for doing it on your own and leaving long, detailed comments on every single chapter. i love this person so much. every comment from them makes me cry, they quote my work and talk about what they liked and what they're looking forward to. it's a writer's dream.

9. A time when writing was really, really hard:

writing the little scenes that i have to get through to get to what i really want to be writing. it's so hard to slog through sometimes, but it's always worth it once i make it to the good part and it gets easy again.

10. A scene or character you wrote that surprised you: 

an upcoming chapter of you don't have to be sorry for doing it on your own has a nightmare aftermath scene that i wasn't planning at all but i'm really into it now that i'm writing it and i'm excited to see how it affects the story as a whole. it literally came out of nowhere but i love it so, so much. also, that fic as a whole has surprised me - it started as a really long oneshot and now i'm at about 75k and only halfway done.

11. A favorite excerpt of your writing:

“Oh. Sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Morgan asks. 

“Keeping you here. Falling asleep on you. Trauma dumping on you.”

“You didn’t trauma dump on me. I asked questions and you answered. And I don’t mind that you fell asleep on me. You clearly needed the rest.”

Spencer buries his face in his hands. “I don’t usually talk about these things.” 

“I know, kid.”

“I don’t like talking about these things.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want this to change our friendship,” Spencer sighs. “I don’t want things to be weird from now on. I don’t want you to treat me differently.”

“It won’t change anything,” Morgan promises. “I won’t treat you differently.”

“I don’t want you to be worried about me all the time now.”

“Reid. I was already worried about you all the time.”

from you've got a friend

12. How did you grow as a writer this year: 

i wrote a lot this year! i did a lot of sprints, and that made me really productive, and i forced myself to write even when i didn't want to. and i think that was good for me. i also have been making a conscious effort to write what i want to write and not what other people necessarily want to read, and not getting hung up on hits or kudos or comments. if i start worrying too much about what people are going to think about what i'm writing, i stop and regroup and go back to writing what i want, even if that means deleting a whole bunch of stuff.

13. How do you hope to grow next year:

i want to better balance my writing time with the rest of my life. i'm not always good at determining how much writing is enough and how much is too much, and i neglect other aspects of my life in favor of writing which isn't always healthy. i do want to continue to write for me, though. and i've started a trend of writing a chapter ahead in chapter fics so i don't get overwhelmed, and i want to keep that up because it's working really well. i also want to put more effort into brainstorming for the discord fic because i love that one and i feel like i've neglected it a little lately.

14. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc): 

chris (@domestikhighway58) and maze (@tobias-hankel) have been so supportive and encouraging and spent so much time sprinting with me and chatting with me and reading my little snippets and keeping me motivated to keep writing. they also both write amazing fics that inspire me to write, period. i am endlessly grateful to both of them.

15. Anything from your real life show up in your writing this year:

i mean, i write fanfiction to process my emotions and issues, so yes, a lot of my real life shows up in my writing. spencer's coping mechanisms are my coping mechanisms. his stims are my stims. his autistic traits are my autistic traits. i have dozens of unfinished fics in my google drive that i've used to process issues in my marriage. also, spencer's therapist in one fic is an exact copy of my favorite former therapist, all the way down to her first name.

16. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers:

write what you want to write and don't worry about what anyone else is going to think. if there's something you're dying to read and no one's written yet - write it! if you have an idea that won't leave you alone - write it! don't worry about if it's good or if other people are going to like it. you are the most important audience. just do the thing!

17. Any projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year:

i'm really enjoying writing you don't have to be sorry for doing it on your own and now that i have an idea of where it's going to end up, i can't wait to get there. we're only about halfway through, so there's still a lot yet to come, and i can't wait to find out what that is, haha. Besides that, i guess we'll just see what happens. i've spontaneously written a couple of oneshots in the past few weeks and i'd like to do more of those in the future instead of always getting stuck in my long fics.

18. Tag some writers whose answers you’d like to read.

@eldrai @masterwords @tobias-hankel @domestikhighway58

[thewistlingbadger]

Some ralvez headcanons to end the day:

Spencer has a tv at his house but you can only watch VHS and CDs on it. So the first time he stays the night at Luke's, he's like "oh you have cable." Luke wakes up alone in bed. He walks into the living room to find Spencer sitting on the floor watching blue's clues (the old school one with Steve) or some other kid cartoon.

Luke can't pick a love language. He loves to hug and compliment Spencer. He loves to make him smile, whether it's a small grin or a wide open mouth smile. He loves paying attention to everything he does. And don't get me started on gifts! Chocolate, flowers, etc is what he gives him in the beginning. It overwhelms him at first. No one's ever been that way with Spencer. But then Luke gives him a stuffed animal and he loves it. Bows their bed is literally covered with stuffed animals bc he refuses to leave them all on the ground where they're at the mercy of Roxy.

And these stuffed animals are very much well thought of. Around Halloween they're Halloween themed. At Valentine's Day they're Valentine's Day themed. But in the summer, that's where he gets the ones he finds most interesting. He's gotten one of a toad, a chicken, a cow, a horse, you name it he probably has it.

Every Christmas they go to the Bronx to visit Luke's mom. Spencer never really has "been" to new york. Sure, they go every year for a case or two but he's never really been there as a tourist. Luke shows him all his favorite spots, they play in the snow, etc. Spencer's really proud at the Spanish he's able to speak, so is Luke. His mom can actually understand what he's trying to say. They stay at her apartment bc hotels in New York are expensive and when it starts snowing you cant go anywhere basically. They stay in Luke's old room and ofc there's banter about it. They drink coquito and Luke's mom tells Spencer stories about Luke's childhood and about her life. They pass down family traditions.

Luke doesn't like his other family too much so he tries his best to avoid him whenever he comes to town. They're really judgemental and he really doesn't want to hear about what they have to say on his autistic boyfriend.

If they get snowed in or they don't go to the Bronx for Christmas they stay inside all day with their fuzzy sweaters that Garcia knit them. They spend the whole day baking cookies and watching Christmas movies.

They also make sure to get Christmas pictures. I mean like, professional Christmas pictures. Ones where Roxy wears red bows in :)

Spencer gets a shit ton of gifts for Christmas it almost makes him uncomfortable. He gets books, puzzles, new clothes, fidget toys, new candles, new chess boards, and of course, stuffed animals. Spencer finds Luke incredibly hard to shop for but Luke doesn't mind and Spencer tries his best.

Luke has the gift of thinking that he's being super subtle when in reality he's being super obvious. He was like "hm. How do I hint to him that I want to move in together?" And then he just started stealing his shit. "Hey babe have you seen my toothbrush?" "TOOTHBRUSH? HMM IDK SPENCE. MAYBE WE SHOULD CHECK MY PLACE." "your place? Why tf would it be there?" "OH IDK-"

Luke loves Spencer's apartment tho. If they allowed dogs he probably would have moved in with him. He finds Spencer's apartment incredibly soothing. On their day off Luke asked him to hang out and he was like "yes! I'm finally gonna be in his apartment!! Victory for Luke Alvez!!" And then the second he walked in there he was like "whoa what is this book about?" And he spent the whole day just listening to Spencer explain all his things.

Spencer writes essay's on his spare time. Some of them he submits to colleges and research centers, some are for his own personal reasons, but he's wrote some just for fun. He notices how much Luke loves to hear him talk so he thinks "oh wow he must really like to learn!" So he prints out every analysis of every animation movie he's ever seen and gives it to Luke. Luke is amazed at this for many reasons and reads every last one of them.

When being with Derek, it was mainly the sports channel that kept him up. Derek was always trying to watch the games that he missed while on cases and he often got so sucked into them that he forgot Spencer was trying to sleep late at night. With Luke, it wasn't sports it was video games. It wasn't really that Luke was allowed during video games, it was often that everything else in the apartment was quiet and the tv being on 10 bothered him. But he'd often just grab his blanket and come to couch so he could watch Luke play.

If it's not video games, it the weekly novela. White people, they have book clubs. Spanish people? We have our telenovelas. Luke keeps up every week no matter what the case because he KNOWS that his mother is gonna call him and ask him about the show and if he says that he didn't watch it she'll be all dramatic. "¿Qué? ya no amas a tu madre?" "Mamá por favor, cálmate-" watching the telenovelas with Luke helped Spencer learn a lot of Spanish. Spencer has always secretly had a flair for dramatics (he only let this side of himself out with Emily) but he let it out with Luke while watching their shows. "Ay no Luke. ¡Ella NO solo se acostaba con su primo! tienes que estar bromeando, ¿qué pasa cuando se entera?"

Luke naturally is a goofball, he just didn't expect for Spencer to be such a goofball too. Spencer only really let that out when he was around Derek but it felt nice to let it out around Luke. Every weekend they would do something silly. Build a pillow fort and pretend that aliens where invading, try to bake things they've never made before without a recipe, sing with different accents as they slide across the hard wood floor in their socks, etc.

What Spencer loved to most about Luke was that he was a dreamer. He liked to dream about things that were impossible, dreaming about things he knew he'd never do. It was as if his mind was filled with wonder in the determination despite the fact that he had seen all that he seen in the world. They could literally stay up all night just because Luke kept asking him question after question like "what's the difference between hand soap and body?"

Luke sure did steal a bit of Spencer's personality. The more time he spent with him he started researching little questions that popped into his head. He started memorizing statistics of his own (yeah it was mainly to impress Spencer but he found it fun too.) He'd also start unconsciously copying the way Spencer talk and certain facial movements. The team comments on how he's starting to become more like him and Luke responds "you say that like it's a bad thing. I feel my brain expanding everyday i spend with him. I'm getting smarter :)"

Luke has a tendency for having no filter and being very with people he's close to. (Yes I'm saying neurodivergent luke alvez rights) he doesn't often realize that Spencer gets super tired at night. There's been many times where he's asked questions at the wrong time. Like when he layer upside down on their bed and asked Spencer if he wanted kids. Naturally, he got the reply of "it's 4:42 am go to bed Luke"

Luke's very open to trying new things. He's the first person who gets invited to Reid's and Penelope's "every Saturday hangout" (if you've seen my post on garceid headcanons you'd know what this is). It's a nice change of pace for Penelope and Spencer. They usually focus on each other but now they're like "how many things will Luke let us do?" Luke left Penelope's apartment that Saturday with black nails a skirt and lavender glitter eyeshadow.

They love to clean and bake together. Spencer loves healthy relationship feels like a fair trade-off. Spencer teaches Luke how to do some things and Luke teaches him how to do some things! (He taught Luke how to play chess. He's not very good at it.)

They get a house together eventually. They spend a shit ton of time on the landscaping bc Spencer wanted the outside of the house look a very particular sort of way. And Luke's not gonna deny his boyfriend that. Besides, he enjoyed seeing his scrawny boyfriend put his back into the yard work. There's probably a bench swing on the porch too.

I don't think either of them are opposed to being married but I can also see them just living their days out as being boyfriends forever.

Luke is super not judgemental and this makes it super easy for Spencer to open up to him. He probably tells him more secrets than he's told anyone on the team ever. He's very honest about how he used to be in love with Morgan and Luke doesn't judge him nor is he jealous.

When Luke sees Spencer with glasses for the first time he fuckin dies. He can't handle it. You will never meet someone as soft as Luke alvez.

Luke respects boundaries like crazy man. He has never not even ONCE joined Spencer for a shower bc Spencer didn't ask him to. It relieves Spencer a lot because in the past majority of his partners just did stuff without asking him about it first and he just had to pretend that he was okay with it. Like moving his shit around, or not putting the dirty dishes where they're supposed to be, for example.

They have inside jokes as well. The team has no idea what they're about but it just makes them smile.

[vatelixx]

You are the knife (I turn inside myself),

S2!Post-addiction!Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT!! (and copious amounts of angst, and like a small amount of fluff to just… balance it out), Workplace rivals, aka, enemies to lovers (who are still enemies and would rather die than tell each other they’re in love).

──── autistic spencer (as per usual), evil evil reader (im being dramatic, kinda), they hate each other so much that they have to find a new way to crawl into each others skin.

Warnings: sub spencer, brat!spencer (a man gets glasses and suddenly thinks he can be defiant) brat!tamer!reader, HUGE corruption kink (someone keeps putting that in there???? it’s not me, i swear), first time for Spencer (i love a virginal nerd), restraints (someone has to pin him down), crying— like lots of crying, degradation (and a little praise because they work hand in hand), Spencer eats reader out like rent is due, reader says thankyou by destroying him, they argue mid-sex. They actually just argue constantly.

— warning: mentions of past drug addiction.

w.c: 9k (mostly smut, holy shit how is it 9k??? their arguments hiked up my word count im positive)

a/n: i know tumblr hates to see me coming with my Spencer Reid one shots. I wrote this at 3am when I was supposed to be studying for my latin exam, it’s okay. Uni will understand I had greater things to do. I promise i’ll get around to my requests this week, i just got possessed by the holy ghost and wrote this.

────────────

Something, something, mindless torture. Spencer holds his brain, his intellect, in high regard. Proverbial accomplishments, Stanford Binet approved genius, he’s an outlier to most. And yet, the moment you start speaking, he has no thoughts beyond the domineering urge to throw himself off a cliff.

You’re late today. Chicago, you’ve both been sentenced, discarded to create a profile from the minimal information present. Forced proximity, the team have been trying to stifle this animosity shared between you for over a year now. It doesn’t work.

Here’s the thing, each member of the BAU has their own specialised feat: Penelope could be a cybercriminal, if she so wished, a tech-genius that has no qualms in tearing down firewalls. Morgan, adroit, an expert on the field, stereotypically strong, all running lines of muscle. Who wouldn’t want to be princess-carried away from danger by him? He’s also remarkably good at kicking down doors. Gideon has incalculable years of experience, a mentor.

The list stretches on.

But you and Spencer can’t both be the brains of the team. It’s unbalanced, skewed. A clash of intellect. Scales tipped in one direction, why does he always come up short? Why can’t he just—

Why, repeats as you push through the bureau, blanking the predictable, formulaic stares of various officers, trained officials, the usual mess. Why— why profiling? Why did you voluntarily choose to suffer your way through ceaseless cases of sanguinary?There has to be an element of masochism to your career; no one with a sane mind voluntarily decides to walk into an onslaught of serial killers and death.

The early mornings are always the worst; stumbling out of bed, deriving no sleep from the night, tangled sheets and restless limbs. “Don’t,” you push, padding into the office, met with Spencer’s hardened gaze. “Late night.”

“We haven’t been here for 48 hours yet, 36 and 22 minutes to be precise, and you’ve already—“

“Get your mind out of the gutter, boy genius. Late night as in I stared at the casefiles until my mind went numb.”

“Did you take a break?” he asks, and you both know it’s not born from care. “Maybe a self-reflection period to realise that torturing yourself isn’t the most effective form of work. Your reactive skills will be delayed now, let’s hope we don’t find the unsub today. In fact, maybe I should warn Hotch—“

“Have I ever warned Hotch about your breakdowns?” that shuts him up. It also makes him spiral, because you can’t know, it’s not statistically possible that you’d be aware of Hankel’s lasting impact on his body, dilaudid, hydromorphine, and not tell someone. He assumes you’d be desperate to eliminate him from the team, to claim your win.

“Right, um— the case,” he shifts in his seat. Professionalism, tolerance, it’s all a little too much work when it comes to the subject of you.

“The case.” you agree.

You’re attuned to each other, a psychological curse he’s forced to stomach. Offices and crime scenes, analysing, competing, hellbent on one upping the other. “Look at these markings—“ his hands rifle through the files that adorn the table, searching searching until they produce an autopsy report.

The markings on the body are intricate, latin symbols prominent against the victims pale skin. You lean further forward, following the path of his index finger as it traces the outline. Perhaps there’s an element of telepathy to your dynamic; you don’t need to state the obvious, too aware that his brain has already processed the information, that he’s moved onto the nuances now.

Human sacrifice, it’s not the first time you’ve caught yourselves in the midst of cult worship and indoctrination. But it’s certainly the first time of its kind.

“Traces of wine in her bloodstream. Found in a forest. Sounds like a bacchanal.” you state, shifting to pull yourself up on the desk.

Spencer looks. At your long, slender legs extending out from a pencil skirt. Effortless, natural, situating yourself on the oakwood, hair half covering your face, with loose strands pooling over your eyes to obstruct your sight.

It’s a strange analogy, the two of you; Spencer with his tired eyes, haphazard clothes and messy desk, and you, just as dishevelled in the morning light.

Metaphorically and literally you’re higher than him right now. He fixes his askew glasses. Clears his throat. “Regina Horthorne,” the victim, “Straight A student. Honour role. What are the chances she willing went to said… bacchanal?”

“Hm. I don’t know, maybe she’s like Laura Palmer. Double life. 4.0 cheerleader by day, crazed bacchante by night.” you retort.

Shamelessly, you take a moment to observe him, just as he did you. Shirt sleeves bunched up at his elbows, hair tousled, large hazel eyes, interminably darting across your face. You wonder for a moment if he’s analysed you the way you’ve analysed him. It’s a futile question, of course he has.

Anything to gain the upper hand.

You continue, “Maybe they’re sacrificing virgins. You could go undercover as a potential victim. Certainly fit the part.”

“I’m already too old to be counted as an appropriate victim. There’s a high probability ‘they’, the dominant unsub, wouldn’t even look at me, and—“ he pauses, pretty face marred by creased features, brows furrowed, a slight pout to his lips.

“There’s a homicidal cult preforming human sacrifice, and you’re wasting time by insulting me?” Spencer is….. a perpetual scholar, a social disaster, wearing his intellect like an ill-concealed secret, outcasted for the weight of his own brilliance. “The BAU clearly made a well-informed decision when they hired you.”

“Oh, you wound me boy genius.” you respond, pressing your hand against your heart.

Endless cases. The impenetrable presence of fall. It feels like you shift through cycles, bleary-eyed and tainted from the job, damaged goods— do you struggle to sleep like I do?

You lean forward, hands, adorned with cluttered rings, braced against the table, bodies closer now. There’s a burn, something fervent that lingers between you, rivalry, opposition. Some days you feel as hedonistic as the unsubs you track and chase.

Continuing, you let out a sharp laugh. “Are you still bitter because I realised it was a bacchanal before you? Don’t worry, i’ll let you take the credit for it. I’m sure Gideon will be so impressed.”

Gideon sees everything in him, and nothing in you. Predictable.

The distance between you has become almost null. It’s intimate, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. “I’m not bitter. And I don’t care about the credit.” A lie. “Unlike you, I don’t need to prove my worth to him.”

────────────

Spilt blood. Your hands are calloused from holding a gun. From firing a bullet straight through skull. The case closes, locked behind that inviolable wall, the one that’s installed into your mind the moment you’re employed, the moment you sign your fate over to the BAU. You’re not sure why anyone stays, overworked and undervalued, there’s no heroes in real life. Maybe it’s the sense of family, or maybe it’s just what everyone subconsciously fell into.

You can’t understand why you’re so angry at Spencer, why it extends to the next case, South Dakota— deaths of locals, but these days, all of the illogical, petty reasons just blur together. Create this tangled mess of overcompensation. ’I assumed you two would get along,’ Prentiss had stated— but what does she know? She’s been an active member of the BAU for a whole 10 minutes.

The hostility has mounted to new levels now.

It’s hard work, long hours, no gratitude and a pay cheque that can’t even begin to cover the trauma that comes with the job. The BAU is like self-sabotage: a long list of reasons to leave, and no real reasons to stay. But still you’re both stuck in this loop.

South Dakota, of course it’s South Dakota. Cold, desolate South Dakota where the wind and snow will not let up, and the team are forced to remain cooped up in a cheap motel, desperate for any sort of entertainment.

Here he is, coerced into your room to work on the case, overtime, his eyes are rimmed crimson.

You’re sprawled out across the bed while he sits at the other end, slender legs crossed. Spencer is tired with a weariness that seems to go soul-deep, shoulders slumped forward, glasses oblique.

The tension is near-palpable, stifling. “I can do this myself. No offence,” full offence, “but you’re unneeded right now. In general, really.”

You make him cruel. Or no, maybe this job does? He can’t remember himself unscathed now, fresh-faced to the BAU, unaware of what he’d endure. It’s still early days in recovery, two months since he was entirely, indomitably reliant on Dilaudid.

“No you can’t,” you retort. Maybe it’s unprofessional, disreputable to waste so much breath on insults, to dedicate specific moments to hostility— people are dead, people will keep dying. And yet, perhaps there’s justification for this; your mutual animosity is the only semblance of routine to this job, the only way either of you can seek control.

Control. All you do is reach for the blade.

“You’re just bitter that I know what I’m doing. You’re not infallible, Boy Wonder. You need my help, so shut up and read that autopsy report. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go back to my apartment and forget you exist.”

Well that’s certainly unlikely.

“I think,” he says, and he knows this is going to be bad. He can feel the serrated edge to his forming words, his half-baked analysis too focused, too distracted, by his need to hurt. But he’s exhausted, and these days, he runs on a detrimentally short fuse. Maybe he finds a release in your dynamic, or maybe it makes everything worse. How can something be everything and nothing at the same time?

“I think you’re insecure” he continues, “because you know Gideon values me more. That, to him, you’re replaceable. It’s why you’re so fixated on one upping me. Why you feel the need to prove yourself superior. Textbook insecurity. You can’t stand the fact that he chooses me over you, that he thinks I’m better than you. That my input is more wanted, more necessary.”

This is uncharted territory now. It’s never been pushed to this extent. It’s never gotten so morbidly cruel that his words actually pierce. You’d consider yourself to be thick-skinned, bullet-proof, a mess of hardened edges and calloused flesh. But he regards you with such insignificance, in a way that’s different from your own personal view of him.

Obstinate, petty, a smart kid yet to meet his match. But never insignificant.

There’s silence, and then he’s dragging you down with him, forcing you to dig deeper, to smother wounds with salt. “Did he really choose you, though? No one on the team noticed. Not one person. After the Hankel case? When you came back different?”

Spencer falters.

It’s a vulnerable, raw spot, a laceration that never seems to heal; the worst part is that you’re right. He’d been in a spiralling decline for months, in plain sight, but everyone had been so absorbed in their own issues and god he needed a release. No one noticed. No one ever notices.

That he has no life, no prospects outside of the BAU. That his existence has been one comicotragic mess of inexperience, missing the mark, missing the joke, the punchline, the fact that everyone was always laughing at him, behind his back, to his face, present or gone. It didn’t matter? Why would it ever matter to a bunch of washed-out teenagers?

He was robbed of his adolescence. And these days, he barely gets by.

Spencer’s eyes drift back to the files, avoiding your perusing gaze, if only you had enough decency to soften your eyes. Just once.

“You don’t get to bring that into this.” He murmurs. “Shut up.”

“You started this—“

“Are you 5?” he bites back, “I was making an observation.”

When he abruptly stands up, files clattering to the floor, discarded despite the prevalent case, you’re quick to follow after him, to chase him into the cheap motel corridor. Because no, he doesn’t get to walk away from this. Not when he laid the first blow, when the first cut was drawn from his blade. Perhaps it’s perverse, to chase the hurt that comes from being around him. Maybe it’s all just an elaborate way to self-harm, to find release in the distorted relationship you both share.

“Where are you going? You can’t walk away from this one.” you state, gripping his arm. Nails pressing into skin, crescent marks that’ll stain and remind and then ache— it’s repetitive now.

“I covered for your ass.” you knew about the addiction, you knew, and even though omitting such information to the BAU could’ve lost your license, you still. Didn’t. Say. Anything.

It’s not like it took much effort to discern the truth.

“I also signed your email up to about 100 rehab centres and self-help blogs.” you’re not sure if you did that out of malice, or if it was your own, interpersonal way of minimising the damage, despite the circumstances.

You noticed. The rest of the BAU, who pressed false promises of friendship, loyalty into his shaking palms didn’t notice. Didn’t even think to humour what he became at his worst. But you did.

Furthermore, to add onto that jarring conclusion, you helped him. Admittedly in your own insufferable, (downright mocking) way. But it was help, and that’s more than he’s ever received before.

All he knows right now is that he hates you, hates the person he is, the person this job, and the intransigent presence of you, forced him into becoming.

All he knows is that he’s stumbling forward, cupping your face (taking your grip along with it), and kissing you. Kissing you hard. Like he’s Icarus and you’re the sun, worth the inevitable burn, even if the touch is only momentary, even if it’ll seal his fate as foolish.

It’s a mess of harsh, rough skin, tousled hair and sharp teeth against soft lips. It’s like trying to grasp at stardust, his hands fumbling for purchase along your body, trying to push you closer, as if the chasm of space between you is unbearable, a distance that’s impossible to endure.

He laughs when you respond instinctively, a sharp excuse of a noise, muffled by your swollen lips, and he’s just kissing you through it because he hates you, he hates you— he hates you so much that sometimes he can’t breathe when you’re around.

You crawled under his skin a long time ago, made yourself a home there.

“I think I’d rather be held hostage for a second time than kiss you again.” he says, and he might’ve elaborated further, but his lips abandon such a notion to chase your own.

The kiss becomes more languid, more desperate, like he’s trying to find an answer in response to it. There’s a brief, agonising break, foreheads pressed together, a harsh gasp of air, before the moment restarts.

God you taste good. Feel good, he thinks. He’s never been this intimate, not beyond Lila, that fleeting mess in the pool. The two events incomparable, he felt something then, small and minuscule, not enough to pursue. But right now? Oh, In contrast, he feels everything now.

“I wish you were being held hostage. It’d be quieter,” you retort. It’s muffled, and you’re moving, bodies stumbling into obstacles as you relocate, when did you get to your room? It feels like natural progression, evolution, diminutive changes that you don’t even realise are occurring.

You bite his bottom lip, draw it between your teeth, ruin him for anyone else. Because isn’t that what you’ve been doing for years now? Hurting each other so profoundly that only you can bare the scarred aftermath?

It’s sick. It’s sick, and you wonder how petty comments, trivial work-place rivalry distorted into this? How you’ve just ended up sick because of each other, and admittedly, for each other.

What is sickness without pleasure?

He whimpers. The noise almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and it’s pathetic, an unbecoming thing caught somewhere between a gasp and needy whine. He’s backed against the wall now, and he can’t find it in him to complain.

“Of course it would be you,” he says breathlessly. For all the knowledge he lacks here (physically; he’s well-versed in the hypotheticals of anatomy), he doesn’t feel pure.

People like him don’t get that.

He should feel guilty. He should recoil at the touch, at the knowledge you bear, at the reality of this. Except, for some unknown reason, he relishes in the idea of someone having him, even if the cost is his pride, his dignity, even if the cost is you.

He whimpers again as your teeth rake along the slope of his neck, shuddering at the sharp sensation, and he’s almost begging, words on the verge of being uttered.

But he can’t. Because that isn’t him when he’s with you. “Are you going to punish me? For uh, everything I said tonight? Because ah, god, I’d like to see you try.”

Admittedly, it’s not hard to break his resolve. A few more soul-crushing kisses and your wandering hand, dipping beneath his trousers, hard. Obscenely hard. Yes, he’s muttering as you unclasp buttons, as you loosen his trousers to the extent that you can palm him through his boxers. Half-choked gasps escape his bruised lips with every touch, and he’s crying now. Pretty tears streaming down his face, accentuating those doe-wide eyes of his, now glossy and warped.

“Only person who’s ever touched you, huh?” you state, and maybe you derive pleasure from that concept. That only your hands, drenched thick with staining blood, have ever scrutinised the warmth of his skin. The areas where his form curves, and the areas that make him come apart, undone at the seams. Grasping you, relying entirely on the wall, just to remain upright and somewhat conscious.

He makes another noise, another guttural, pathetic sound. Because, yeah, it’s just you. It’s only you, and the thought should be unbearable, but the pleasure of having, being touched is too much.

He has to grasp the back of your shirt, nails digging into fabric, as a distraction, a way to centre himself, while the rest of the world falls apart. His words are scattered, broken and messy, and he finds himself saying things he’ll inevitably regret. “Please, I can’t-“

He’s supposed to hate this, hate you.

“Cant— can’t take it. Oh,” he wants to bury his face into the crook of your neck, but you’re gripping his jaw, forcing him to look directly at you. Glasses discarded, the view was blurry without the added layers of tears.

“Eyes on me, boy genius.”

He complies. Gaze locked, unable to look away, entranced by the way your pupils dilate, staring at you, like you’re artwork, something to be studied and broken down and torn apart, only to be rebuilt again once he’s had his fill.

“Let’s look at you. Hm?” you state, removing his sweater, then his shirt, and there’s so many layers, and he’s acting coy now, as if he wasn’t whimpering moments prior.

Instinctively, by reflex, he tries to cover himself up. To hide planes of untouched skin from your gluttonous palms. You grip his wrists, pin them above his head, and oh isn’t this a sight: Spencer Reid, entirely bare, bound by you alone, tear track marks and swollen lips.

He always wanted to be seen.

He just didn’t expect, anticipate, being seen to this extent. He can’t fight your trailing gaze, and he doesn’t want to; it might make him flushed, a few irrational movements away from a cardiac arrest, but this it— raw uncut intimacy.

You’re softer now, as you run your hand along his dick, earning a variety of muffled noises, as your thumb brushes over his tip, taking care to touch every part of him. Everywhere he needs it. When you finally wrap your fingers around him, everything burns, fervent and collapsing, and he supposes this is what it felt like the moment Troy collapsed.

“Mhh,” he moans, hips bucking in time with your palm, steady movements.

He’s already so messy, and it should be embarrassing, but all he feels is the blunted edges of pleasure, the jagged cut of humiliation, warring against each other.

“You’re— oh.. you’re enjoying this far too much,” he manages, and it takes so much energy to get it out, his words slurring, interrupted by debauched gasps.

It feels good, so good that he can’t process the shame that’s bound to follow. He hates you, and he might be a little in love with you, and it’s not fair to process feelings, chemicals, he was never supposed to obtain.

“That it’s. There you go. That’s my good boy.”

Spencer sobs.

“Shh, shh, I know, I know, it’s a lot.” there’s always an element of condescension to your words. An undertone that rips through his defences. Destroys him in the process.

His body is receptive, ruined, because of the praise. He’s not sure how you can look at him, clearly, consciously, and dictate that he’s good. Most days he feels impure, debased. Burnt-out and wasted, the great always fall.

The same skin he pierced with needles is now reverently on show, and you should be cruel, it’s what you’re both good at, the only viable way to communicate, an undisclosed secret language. But you’re not. That confuses him to no extent.

“I can’t— cant, ‘m so close.” his arms are still bound above his head, and despite the ache, he keeps them there. It’s not the most conventional ‘first time’, but he takes it regardless.

“Yeah?” you mutter, pace picking up. The sound is obscene, his excessive pre-cum smeared across his length, wet noises with every stroke. “You wanna cum for me, hm?”

“Oh god,” he breaks, “Yes— yes, please—“

You have no interest in denying him, not when he’s this destroyed from a mere hand-job. “Go on then. Just because you asked so nicely.”

He falls apart. Dewy-eyed and blissed out, you force him to look at you as he reaches his orgasm. To keep looking as he squirms and writhes. So he does, because apparently his cognitive function has evaporated now.

Your tongue meets your palm, tasting him, pressing the excess into his mouth with an indecent kiss. Is this what sex entails? Complete submission, vulnerabilities bared wide? Dirty in that primal sense, the same one he always shied away from?

Finally, finally in the aftermath, he breaks his stare. His head falls back against the wall, eyes closed, neck exposed. Stifled gasps, it’s quiet, as if you’re both aware of your actions, the consequences of them.

“This is, uh— yeah.” he mumbles, reaching for his clothes; now the ecstasy has worn off, the shame overpowers. The sin of man, he’s starting to think you’re the personification of the serpent.

Or maybe it’s the other way around. He doesn’t hold his own body to such pure standards. He’s not sure any benevolence would look at him with acceptance. Not after everything he’s done to it.

“Hey wait,” you’re not good at this whole ‘nice’ thing, not when it comes to him. But there have been moments, in the past, small, fleeting seconds of…. you’re not entirely sure what to call them. Late hours spent scrutinising cases, your back-up points to his statements, mindless information dumps that the team can’t quite understand.

“Don’t make me chase you a second time, jesus.” You can’t just leave—“ you exhale, breathe, in and out, “Are you okay?”

He stops. He stops because you’ve never asked that question, never cared to ask that question, and maybe that hurts more than not being asked at all.

A part of him, the small part of him that’s not functional, wants to stay, wants to just stay in this bliss and pretend that it doesn’t matter, that the inevitable fallout won’t occur. But the larger, prominent part, reminds him that this isn’t right, that he needs to leave and collect his wits.

“I don’t know, im confused—“ he sighs, drags a shaky hand through his hair. “Yeah, im uh… i’m fine. “I just need to leave, I have to-“ he swallows. “I can’t. Not right now, I need to do— anything but this.”

He walks out on you and it’s fine.

────────────

Everything is fine, reality can return, and you can forget that you had his arms bound against the wall, that he fell apart from the weight of your dragging palm. You can pretend you never saw him naked, bare in every form of the word. Stripped raw, his lips burning against yours, skin on skin. It’s. Fine.

Life continues. Your dynamic remains the same, unrelenting, your biting words, just short of callous, his scathing remarks. Modus Operandi. You wonder how you’ve turned the most tender person into something sharp, and you wonder if it’s ever going to be reversible.

When the case closes, the BAU, in predictable, systematic fashion, celebrate (ease the weight) over drinks. You’re adorned in lace, a black dress that just catches your thighs. It’s late now, and by the time you arrive at the dive-bar, the majority of the team are intoxicated (you couldn’t go straight from work, there was still blood clinging to your skin).

Everything is fine. To reiterate.

It’s not.. It’s not. Because oh, Spencer finds himself staring. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t have any lingering interest. But then again, why is he fixated on the way fabric clings to your ruinous figure, the way your hair sits, slightly dishevelled, pooled over one shoulder? It’s exasperating and inebriating all at once. You shouldn’t be able to affect him to such an extent, and yet here he is, mindlessly staring at you with starry-eyes. He should look away. Leave even?

Of course, he fails. You end up squeezing in next to him, all leather seats and too little space.

And, okay, he knows he should feel guilty.

In reality, he’s not. Because, sure, he’s sat too close, and sure, he can just make out the scent of your perfume, faintly floral. But he’s intoxicated, just as everybody else is, and it’s making logic and reason seem far off, too distant to process. He looks at you once, then twice, like he can’t quite believe you’re tangible.

“You look nice, I guess,” he murmurs bluntly, looking away, feigning disinterest.

As if the ‘incident’ (as he’s taken to calling it) didn’t tilt his world on its axis.

“You also look nice, I guess.” you retort, and it’s the best you’re going to get out of each other. At least in this state (the surplus of praise that left your bruised, possessed lips cannot be justified, or repeated ever. again.)

You lean forward, watch as his face creases at the proximity. Are you thinking about the kisses? Plural, fuck, plural. Open-mouthed, desperate movements?You’re. not. Instead, you steal his glasses, slip them on. The prescription is strong, thick lenses that distort your perception.

“What do you think?” you ask, “I might go as you for halloween, it’ll definitely scare the kids.”

“They make you look intelligent. Considering you need all the help you can get, I’d take that as a compliment,”

It’s a domestic action, to put on his glasses. And the thoughts that burn through his mind stem from HR prohibited to domestic, which he argues is far worse. You, tangled in sheets, sporting nothing but his glasses. Resting against the tip of your nose, askew, as you ride him. As you tilt your head back, exposing— no.

He wants to say something about how ridiculous you look— but it’s hard to focus, you’re taking up all of his sanity, like a computer running multiple programs at once. You’re malware actually, destined to corrupt him (which you’ve already done to a painful extent).

“You can’t just touch my stuff.” he settles on, sounding more petulant than anticipated.

“Oh chill out, boy wonder. It’s a pair of glasses,” you mutter, removing them to blink blink blink, and there he is, the centre focus of your vision, now fully detailed again. It takes you a moment to render in his appearance: shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms exposed, long, deft fingers. There’s heavy bags gathering beneath his eyes, dragging down those big, blown-out irises of his, wide and completely dirty (how is it that his natural resting face is so obscene?).

Focus.

You push the glasses back onto his face. Better, it’s a sight you’ve come to anticipate after he ran out of contact lenses. “There. Oh, were you just upset because you couldn’t see me properly? That’s sweet, Spence. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

He can see everything.

Every small detail of your face; strands of hair falling loose, dilated pupils, accentuated by heavy liner, obsidian that contrasts against your incisive eyes. Your lips, oh your lips, he could write a thesis on them. Stained crimson, if he were to kiss you right now, residue would catch against his own mouth, incriminate him.

He gets up. Excuses himself. Sometimes he wishes he could vanish.

But it’s not good enough.

“You,” he says between messy kisses, “Need to keep your hands to yourself.” — okay, he’s not sure how this happened. He left for the bathroom (to splash water on his face, gather his dignity, perhaps drown himself?) and you to humour the locals outside, gathering around with half-smoked cigarettes and slurring conversations.

But then, on his way back, padding through the long corridor (why is it always a corridor?), you were there, and yeah. He was screwed. Fatefully wrecked.

He had tried, in the moments leading up to his demise, to resist, but he was a man of logic and science and the science, when he was around you, simply did not apply. You’re bad for him, in every sense, he should avoid you, he should stay away.

But now, there’s no space between your bodies, no space for rationality or reasoning (god he’s tired of the thinking part. He just wants to feel).

The kiss is rough, sloppy, a desperate, messy thing. “This can’t keep happening,” he mumbles against your smeared lips.

“Do you remember last time?” you question. It’s taboo, to bring it up, to disclose the buried. But you’re fairly certain this compromising position wouldn’t exist without the lethal effects of that one night. The cheap motel and his body arching into your touch.

Rationality appears to be nonexistent now. A discarded concept.

Like last time, you guide him back against the wall, pin his hands above his head. Mirroring your actions. Well, to some ���dignified’ extent. “Had you just like this,” you lean forward to press a series of kisses along the curvature of his jaw. “I bet you’d let me take you like this again, hm? Right here? In the middle of this shitty dive bar?”

And if he weren’t so far gone, he’d protest, he’d tell you that no, this is wrong, because you’re so wrong for him. He knows that if one good man has to fall, it shouldn’t be him.

But you don’t let good men rise, and there’s something so enticing about the depths of hell. He’s not sure he’s good anyway. It’s a complex situation. “You’re a sadist,” he murmurs, breathless, “I wouldn’t.”

Your grip instinctively tightens against his wrist, and he squirms. He’s nervous, “Could we, like… at least find a bathroom? I’d take a bathroom, even though there’s endless strains of bacteria there. Or, or split a cab. No, i’ll just pay— Anything. I’ll do anything. Just not here. This is a public space, and technically, public indecency, and—“

“Fuck,” he’s never been the type to swear, “I’ll do anything.” this time, he says it in self-defeat. Acknowledgment.

────────────

French exit. His wandering hands in the cab, and the electric pulse that burnt through his body as he kept a low profile, stumbling out of the bar, muttering thinly-veiled excuses for his abrupt departure.

The second you’re both inside your apartment, you’re clattering into things. “I love your eyes,” you state bluntly, forthcoming in every sense of the word, “Love it when you cry for me.”

You think of every harsh word that has ever escaped your lips, You think of the consequences they might’ve had. Did he ever cry over them? You know, in contrast, you never did over his. Though there was that sharp, sinking pain that felt like the embodiment of slow death. Something terminal, fated to linger, to eat and eat until nothing remained.

No big deal!

“It’s an involuntary bodily response. You’re a dacryphiliac.” he responds.

There’s not a lot he can compute right now, his brain too preoccupied with processing your touch alone. Which is so prominent, so harrowingly good that not even his genius mind can comprehend it.

He’s reasonable to believe he would kill whoever had the pleasure of experiencing you like this.

“It’s not a fetish if I only feel it for you—“

Spencer breaks.

“No-no-no,” he says, too loudly, “You can’t just- say those things. You can’t tell me you love when I cry, just because- I should be scared, of you. You’re volatile. Destructive,” he murmurs, head leaning against the crook of your shoulder. Against better judgement. But all reason has left him now. You’ve stolen it, taken it as a personal trophy to parade and boast about.

“Why am… Why am I not scared?” he asks, “It’s not like I make you cry…”

“Because there’s no reason to be scared.” you answer simply. And at surface level, it’s true. In spite of the hostility, the years of white-knuckled rivalry, you’ve always trusted him. It’s a coveted admission, considering you’re circumspect by nature.

You unbutton his shirt, let it fall to the floor, exposing his skin in the middle of your apartment. He’s standing there, and you’re not sure what to do with all of this want that perhaps you’ve misplaced as enmity for so long.

“You could make me cry,” you state, because if there’s one person out there capable of cracking you open, leaning behind fragmented pieces, it’s him. It’s always going to be him.

It’s a startling realisation. That he, Spencer Reid, of all people, can reach the centre of you in ways nobody has ever done before.

“Why would I want you to cry? That’s— i’m not even sure how I would go about it.”

You grip his hips, walk yourself backwards until you’re hitting a wall, there your body instinctively curves forward to meet his. “It doesn’t always have to be bad.” you explain, because he’s looking at it from a simplistic, textbook perspective. “Last time,” those words still feel like poison, “When I made you cry, there was no pain, right? You cried because it felt good.”

He’s staring at you clueless. Though, he might just be distracted. Either works.

Your hand catches his wrist, and then you’re hiking up your dress, guiding his touch beneath fabric. The lace panties that cover skin. He’s tentative, experimental, dragging his thumb over your clit, causing your hips to cant towards him. “Make me cry, boy genius.”

You act like this is the most indecent thing he’s capable of doing. From an unbiased standpoint, it’s up there on his list, but admittedly he hasn’t really done enough to constitute a list in the first place.

Spencer, in response, simply drops to his knees. Your panties are pulled down your legs in a disconcerting haze, and then he’s just groaning, cursing Gods he doesn’t believe in, spiting them with blasphemy, whilst also simultaneously thanking them, humouring false promises he won’t commit to.

It’s blasphemous, a prodigy on his knees, in front of you, for you. As if he’s worshiping something he can’t even comprehend, something beyond the expanse of his knowledge. And you just pull strands of his hair, pull at the strings of him.

His hands find the inside of your thighs, caressing the soft skin there and you make another noise, a noise that has him devouring you.

Face buried between your legs, he flattens his tongue against your clit, drags it upwards to catch wetness, to affirm that you’re just as affected as he. That since you touched him, all thoughts have consisted solely of you.

He doesn't think he's doing this correctly- but you're making noises, gasps that he didn’t even know you were capable of, and that's the thing about science or anatomy, whatever it may be, the brain is incredibly subjective, and the more knowledge you acquire, the less you really know.

And there's knowledge here, but it’s not utilised; no coordination, even when there should be, even when he’s got the human body memorised to perfection. Still, you seem to like him messy, desperate, drawing your clit into his mouth to pull, to tug, before shifting back to blow cold air against you.

The task was simple, at surface level: make you cry. And whilst, if you pick it apart, it becomes more complex, he seems to be efficient in following orders because right now, you’re ruined. It might not be the most meticulous head you’ve received (though you’re sure, under different circumstances he could probably surpass that standard), but it’s wanting, in a way that makes you ache.

“Oh oh, fuck— fuckfuckfuck.”

You grip his hair, twisting and pulling and using, and he lets you, he’d do anything, do this forever if he had to. His fingers, still gripping your thighs, dig into soft flesh, leaving visible marks. And he wants to see those marks, in the morning, an irrefutable fact that would force him to accept this as real.

But he can’t focus, can’t think about anything when you’re reacting like this, so undone. How can there be anything, at all, beyond this?

He lets you drape a leg over his shoulder, let’s you get off against his face, fingers sliding inside, one digit at a time, to feel warmth wrapped around him. To feel the way you clench when he curves them, when he grazes spots that he could explain to factual detail.

Your body shudders, and you’re making noises he hasn’t heard before, sounds that could only be described as obscene— and his name, you’re moaning his name, and god, he’s certain he would follow you to the ends of the earth right now. Without question.

It’s when he stops, when he leans back enough that he can breathe. That he can look at you, really look at you.

You’re messy, undone. The sight could be considered humiliating from an outside perspective, but you’re gorgeous, and he’d do this a thousand times over if it resulted in this exact reaction. A reaction that he’s given you. No one else.

“I love your face.” He says, a little bluntly. But it’s true, he does.

So he returns to the task. Practically situating you on his face now to suffocate him, to let him become some sort of extension to your pleasure. And inevitably when you fall apart, tears and writhing, boundless pleasure, he can only push you through it. Allow his existence to crumble, for the second time,

And as he draws back, face covered in you, he can only stare.

His knees are bruised. That’s the first thing you notice when you stumble to the bedroom, when you’ve taken a moment to wipe away evidence of the tears, to regather and compose yourself. It’s not in your nature to be soft, no to him, but you still find yourself kissing the mauve blemishes, working your way up his body after you’ve oh so unceremoniously undressed him. Reduced to his boxers, he’s an incriminating sight.

“Losing your virginity to me is like the biggest irony ever.” you say, kissing along his stomach, watching as his body reacts, arches, contorts in search of more pleasure. It’s a hypnotising sight, to see every nerve tuned to you solely.

“Ironic, demeaning, enough to send past versions of myself into an early grave. Yes, I get your point.” he mutters.

Your hands find their way to the waistband of his boxers, and he’s lifting his hips, because he wants you to undress him, because he’d let you do anything right now, but he also feels embarrassed, exposed. Vulnerable in a way he’s never felt before. You’re seeing him, seeing things he doesn’t even know himself. But there’s nowhere to hide, not while you’re slowly pulling off his underwear, with a care that he’s unaccustomed to.

“I won’t go easy on you,” you assure. Even though that’s technically a straight-faced lie. Of course it’ll be more tender than anything else you’ve endured; he has this devastating habit of softening those around him. It’s only taken this long to affect you out of pure, unbridled spite.

Oh, he wants. The evidence is his body alone. Laid out before you, like an offering, a hedonistic one. Dick hardened, dripping pre-cum onto his stomach.

“Hands above your head,” you watch as he blindly obeys, any defiance now crushed. Well, for the most part: at least in his actions. “That’s good— good boy. Tell me if they’re too tight,” you say, binding them with his discarded tie.

You stare, and it’s like you want to eat him alive, and against better judgement, he’d let you. Serve himself up, passive as you tear him limb for limb, taste all the bad parts of his existence, the ones he keeps hidden shamefully away.

“Too tight? I’ve been held hostage, I think I can handle a little bit of fabric.” he retorts before tugging at the restraints, “Tighter.”

“Didn’t realise you were so into this—“

“Neither did I,” he scoffs, “I’ve never done it before, obviously.”

“Now you have. Congrats, i’ll give you a sticker once we’re done. Gold star, huh?” and just for good measure, you tighten the restraints further. Just a few more pulls until you’re knotting it in place. Until he’s entirely defenceless, but realistically, what would you do? It’s hard to find fear when you’ve covered him on the field for over a year (he’s prone to being targeted, an unsubs wet dream).

“Yes, thank you. I’ll put the sticker on the wall next to my PhDs.” right now, right in this moment, countless people are getting what they want.

And Spencer is being manhandled by his pretty coworker.

Ironically, that’s exactly what he wants.

You’re the perfect dichotomy. Cruel, and caring. Harsh words to juxtapose gentle hands. Soft touches, but scathing remarks that linger, leaving behind a trail of scars, the ubiquity of your cruelty.

You’re lethal, and he’s smart enough to comprehend the danger. Except he’s never been smart when it comes to people.

Your hands are acquisitive, roaming, searching, blunt nails that scrape skin as you rake them down, down towards his abdomen. He shivers, bite into that pretty bottom lip of his until he’s spilling blood, and it’s a sight. Something sick that you both want to such an offensive extent.

“Sensitive.” you murmur, like the idea of him so reactive pleases you, in a way you’ve never considered before. Because the way his body strains, bucking forward to deepen the contact is maddening.

“Are you always like this?” you wonder aloud, leaning down to run a hand along the length of his inner thigh. “Poor baby, so touch-starved.”

“I don’t know if I’d use the word sensitive.” he replies, “More susceptible to the fact that you’re touching me, and that I haven’t felt another person touch me in a long time. And of course when people touch me, it’s usually professionals poking me with needles or stitching this weeks new wound.”

Touch-starved? He has sensory issues. The lightest graze can provoke, cause his skin to crawl. Of course he would like your touch, of course the universe would torture him by finding relief in the one person who nobody should stumble upon for relief.

“Oh you’re a soldier, you suffer so much.“ you state, and it’s condescending (naturally), but there is some truth to the serrated comment. You, the team, are all bruised, mentally and physically distorted from the consequences of the job. Only he could react so reverently to your calloused hands, blissed out to the extent that it looks like you’re witnessing ascension.

It’s pretty. Pretty, in a soft, domestic way. One that demeans his bound wrists and your sharp words.

You press a few tender kisses to his thighs, the inner sections, where you’re certain, assured, no one has ever touched before. Maybe there’s something possessive to that thought, the want to own, to know that no one will ever have him the way you have him.

Your touch is like a brand. He wants it, even if it’s bad, even if it’s cruel. Because the alternative to this is nothing. A lonely existence. A life of work, of chasing shadows, knowing he had so much to give, and no one to give to.

“Stop mocking me.” he replies, it’s through laboured breath. “Just because I don’t have your proclivity for taking hits doesn’t mean I don’t suffer.”

No one’s ever touched him like this. No one’s ever cared to try. You’re his first.

“I know you suffer,” you retort, are you arguing? Is this foreplay? If it is, then you have some serious self-reflecting to do on every single past conversation. Because maybe you should’ve taken him to your bed earlier, in that case.

Oh god was your hatred of each other built solely on sexual tension?

Finally, you move. Just like the first time, your hand runs across his length, taking him slowly, easing him into it, coercing him through the pleasure. It’s not similar to before: it won’t end after he’s found his release, and it’s not frenzied and ardent. Spurred on by shame.

“And you know i’m always going to take the hits for you, regardless.” he whines when you remove your hand, and whines again, for contrasting reasons, as you spit on your palm, generate lubricant to support each stroke.

“Oh—“ he breathes out. He’s fairly certain he’s supposed to be more contained. A huff escapes his lips and then he’s retorting, “You could try a tactic other than reckless self-sacrifice every once in a while.”

He’s overwhelmed, with you. All of you. The way you look, the way you talk, all the harsh lines and scathing remarks. The way you take the hits for him, an altruistic custodian, but he isn’t worthy of being saved. Isn’t worth the effort.

“Shut the fuck up, Spencer.” you say, promptly ending this discussion; you grip his dick tighter, tilting your movements to catch him at a better angle.

“Shit— okay, okay,” he moans because that feels really really good, and he wishes he could articulate it in a better way. Something complex and poetic, but it’s just so good.

He’s always been a little masochistic. Too smart for his own good, too analytical. He wants you to take him apart, piece by piece, and see the inner workings of his body laid out before you, raw and vulnerable. Because only you can see him like this.

He doesn’t even really touch himself. There’s been nights, body flushed and wanton, bucking up against sheets, muffled noises pressed into his pillow. But they’re rare, and they usually lead to an aftermath of ignominy.

He’s a prodigy, a genius in the field of criminal psychology. So why does it feel so good like this? To be humbled, to be demoted. As if all his degrees, his awards, his intellect, mean absolutely nothing.

He’s never felt so loved. Which is ironic. Because he’d always hoped love would be slow, gentle. Soft, like a caress. The kind of love you share over meals and pillow-talk.

He realises, with a jolt to his system, that if this is love to you, he’d accept it, in its most primal form.

“You get off on this,” he analyses as you draw back, mostly to stifle the begs that nearly escape his mouth. Come back, need you here.

“Well I’d be pretty concerned if I wasn’t getting off on this right now—“

“No,” he pushes, “You like that i’m, that yeah. I have no experience. You want to corrupt me, huh?” he looks up at you with pretty, innocent eyes. Holy shit. “Ruin me for anyone else? Go on, let me have it. I’ll only come back, i’ve already done it once. Statistically, it’s going to happen again. And again. Pavlovian responses, condition me. Make my body react to no one else.”

When you kiss him again, he can only take it. Can only moan, whimper, plead against your mouth until you’re lining him up, until you’re sitting on his dick, and everything is okay.

“You’re so—“ bottomed out, wrapped around him entirely, you sigh. “Fuck, Spence, who taught you to be so fucking dirty?”

“You.” he mutters, playing coy. “But you’re a bad teacher, I think I could do with a few more lessons..”

“I think you could do with learning to shut your mouth more often.”

“It is better suited for other purposes, I suppose..”

He gags when you slot two fingers, index and middle, into his mouth. No warning, no predetermined acknowledgment. They hit the back of his throat, and he can only suck, muffling protests around the digits until he goes blissfully silent.

“Better,” you retort. Drawing them out, you press your thumb against his bottom lip, keeping it parted so that you can lean forward, spit into his open mouth. When you first met, he promptly refused to shake your hand, too conscious of the dissemination of germs, now? He’s swallowing your saliva, unprompted, with little resistance.

You know him. The way you touch is like you’re searching for something. Anything about him. It’s like you’re a bloodhound, trying to unearth every single vulnerability. And you must’ve found them, because you’re suddenly here, bearing all your weight on him, moving, and it’s all his body can do to take it. All of it. All of you.

He tugs at his restraints, because he won’t go down without a susceptible fight. Even if he knows it’s fated that he will inevitably fall. “Please—please untie me, just wanna hold your hand.”

And, oh that shatters you. Like, mentally, physically, spiritually dismantles you until you’re breathless, staring at him with widened eyes and a loss of composure. It’s such a tender request, something domestic and raw, and mindlessly you’re fumbling with the knots of his tie. Freeing them to take one in yours.

It’s against your nature, but you can’t help, can’t refrain yourself from pressing a kiss against his knuckles. “You’re doing so good f’me. Such a good boy,”

Your free hand runs across his torso now, grazing skin, admiring the sight of him, flushed, debauched, sprawled out beneath you.

He grips your hip. That’s the first thing he does once he’s sufficiently sane, well… partially, the praise did knock him entirely off balance. Tip the scales, send him over the inexorable edge.

He watches as you take the incentive to slip off his body, and the loss of friction is okay, tolerable because he’s sitting up against the headboard, drawing you closer, whining for you until you’re on his lap, until you’re sat in your rightful place.

Here, he can kiss you. Which he admits has become a very vital aspect to his existence.

The kiss is like a bruise. Not rough, he’d never be rough with you, he’s all long, languid strokes and soft movements. But it’s overwhelming, and leaves discernible, lasting imprints.

And yeah, sure, kissing you is the closest thing to worship he has ever known. Something he would like to commit to memory, every single time your lips touch, it’s like he’s seeing god in the shape of your cupid’s bow.

“Please, I need—“ he stutters over his words, “If you don’t move, I swear—“ he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder— “I swear, I’m gonna die, this has to be against the Geneva Convention, you can’t leave me like this, please—”

“The Geneva convention? Really? Is this your form of dirty talk?” you retort, unable to muffle your laugh.

“No. I’m stating my rights,” he says, “Torture is prohibited.”

“I’m not torturing you—“

You tangle your hand through his hair, tug tug tug, and then pull, drawing his head back by tousled strands, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Ohmyfuckinggod, yes. You are.” he whimpers.

It’s indefensible how good he feels, how he sinks into you, hitting crevices you’re certain no one else has ever grazed before. Feeling full, whole, it’s new. It’s your own first, and you can’t even begin to articulate how defenceless you are to the way it makes you disintegrate, fragment to pieces of pleasure. Spencer is warm, and soft, and it makes you want to cry. To just fall, give in, transcendence of self, Burke said, and right now, you feel that entirely.

His moan is unapologetic, unfiltered as you move. At this point, you could slice him open, leave him bleeding in your bed, and he’d thank you for it.

You hold his hand, and yet, simultaneously destroy him.

“Please,” he whimpers again— he’s too pretty to be asking so nicely. “I just— I want you closer. As close as possible, I want you so close to me that I’m not even sure if my body can handle it.”

It’s not dirty talk, it’s more like he’s begging you, tears staining his skin, pitiful eyes, wide and glassy, staring at you with some form of desperation. Brows furrowed, gaze soft.

And his gaze only grows worse when you do give him what he wants, when your pace fastens.

It’s a religious experience, like he’s about to be crucified, a martyr to his pleasure. He’s almost afraid to touch you— to stain something divine, like you’re too much for him. But you’re not.

“I like this. Like you. Like you here. You’re so good for me,” he murmurs, and it’s untruthful, but right now, he sincerely believes it. “so good, so perfect, all I need, please—”

“Stop it.” you bite, preferring him defiant over this— because this opens up wounds you weren’t even aware existed. “Oh fuck, stop it.”

“So good. You’re so good,” he cups your face, presses his forehead against yours, and you might as well just die right here.

“Says you.”

“Says me.”

You fuck him harder.

“Oh,” is all he can pronounce, little oh’s every time you rock against him, and he has to grip you hips, deepen the movements until you’re bouncing against him, up down up down, exploiting his sensitivity with a torturous pace.

And it’s not fair, he needs to balance the scales, so he runs his thumb over your clit, firm halos that have you keening. “If being nice got me this, I’d be so nice to you for the rest of my life—“

Another lie. But it’s worth it. If only for the way you kiss him. The way you silence his cutting words, forcing your way into his mouth, forcing him to just squirm and sob, until you’re clenching around him, and he’s there with you. Falling apart, bodies shifting until movement ceases, and there’s nothing but bliss.

“I hate you so much,” you say in the aftermath, and it’s closest you’ve ever gotten to a confession of love.

He laughs, wipes away tears, “Hate you more.”

“Don’t leave this time.” he just nods, bordering on nonverbal now. It takes you hours to coax actual words out of him, and by then, you’re both tangled in a foreign mess of warm limbs.

“Oh i’m going to be so mean tomorrow.” you mutter, playing loosely with his hair.

He can only sigh, stare at you dreamily. “God, is that a promise?”

[drreidsconverse]

Drreidsconverse’s master list!:

updated 8 april 2023

i havent published most of these yet they are chilling in my drafts waiting to be proofread

Personal shit!

—

Ivy speaks😗

#2

#3

#4

#5

—

^ - angst

! - fluff

* - authors choice

Criminal minds

Spencer Reid x reader

Fics

She’s gone?:(^*) Spencer x fem! Reader

Sneak peek

Summary: spencer and the reader relationship has been a good one up until this point.they never had a problem they only had minor fights that were stupid and irrelevant, they were soulmates. but things changed when the new girl showed up, when she spoke to hotch that morning, and when she took down unsub herself. they changed the most when everyone showed up even the new girl on her day off, but she and morgan didn’t.

Imagines

Love song: (!)- song fic (based on love song by sara bareilles) « Spencer x gn! Reader »

Summary: reader accidentally lets her secret hobby slip out, now spencer wants the reader to write him a love song.

Cue the rain:(*) - song fic « autistic! Gn!Reader », for:

Summary- reader and Spencer and reader try to navigate the weather and their budding relationship

Legally blonde:(^/!)- song fic « fem reader »

Summary- reader looks like nothing more than a pretty face, she modeled in high school, was prom queen and homecoming queen, a near perfect beauty queen, who’s an a student at Harvard? Spencer tries to talk the reader out of leaving her dream school because of one stupid teacher.

2847221 (^) « gn! Reader »

summary- I don’t even know how to describe what I wrote honestly. Spencer and jj break your head but you’ll be okay, I think..

Aaron Hotchner x reader:

Fics:

Underground:(^) 6 underground x cm « fem reader »

Summary- (y/n) left the bau a little over a year ago with an offer from the cia to be apart of an elite team ,the horsemen, but she’d have to ‘die’ to do it. And what she has with Aaron can’t leave his office, not with him still being married. (Y/n)’s dead now but why is she on Emily’s doorstep, alive and well?

Imagines

Partner?: (!pure fluff!)« gn! reader »

Summary- hotch had a partner, it was obvious, the man who never smiled had been smiling much more than normal, and Garcia was determined to get it out of him as soon as possible.

Elle Greenaway x reader:

Imagines

Intimidating(!)- elle x plus size! fem! reader,

Intimidating v2(!)- elle x fem! reader

Intimidating v3(!)- elle x male! reader

Summary- reader finds Elle beautiful yet intimidating, and has no clue how to approach her.

Speak now: (^angsty fluff!)- elle x fem! Reader,

Summary- elle isn’t the type of girl to rudely barge in on a white veil occasion, but the priest said “speak now.”

Heaven in hiding- (elle x fem! reader) 

summary: Elle and (y/n) have been seeing each other in secret not wanting people to know about their relationship, at least not yet. (y/n)’s ready to tell people about her girlfriend, so is elle. But a homophobic unsub may change those plans.

Elle Greenaway x reader x Spencer Reid

Fics:

Plane rides home: (^/!) elle x gn! reader x spencer

Summary: the plane ride home was a good way for the team to get to know the newest member of the team, (y/n), elle and Spencer both take an immediate liking to the reader but does she need to choose one of them? Or should they just sleep on the plane rides home?

Penelope Garcia x reader

Head canons:

(Csi miami x criminal minds) Dating Penelope and working a case together: penny x fem! Reader

Part 1, part 2, part 3

Summary: you’re a csi in Miami and penny works at quantico, so you don’t see each other much nor do your co workers know about your relationship, until you have to work a case together.

Derek Morgan x reader

Nothing yet!

David Rossi x reader

Nothing yet!

Jennifer “jj” jareau x reader

Nothing yet!

Luke Alvez x reader

Imagines:

Burnt cookies and Batman: (!pure fluff) « gn! reader »

Summary: Luke rarely gets a day off, so when he does they bake cookies and watch Batman

George Foyet x reader

I know I know dont judge me

Imagines:

Like a dream: (fluff/smut i think?) « fem! reader »

summary: You were a rare commodity at the hotchner house as you were away for college, but when you were there was and foyet happy to see you. You were a new face, something different, like a breath of fresh air for the reaper. His only problem with making you his, Aaron Hotchner. But he would have his something different, his breath of fresh air. You were like a dream, his own personal dream.

Matt Simmions x reader

Nothing yet!

Bau x reader:

Most of these fics could be an !x character!, it could also be a standalone fic! Ex) she’s gone will have separate character chapters and may hold alternative endings

Fics:

Now you see me:(^) (derek x fem! reader)

Summary: (y/n) resigned after 8 years at the bau, exactly six months after her brothers murder. it was a surprise to everyone when the showed up on Monday to an empty desk with handwritten notes for each of them. However derek was surprised the most, his girlfriend of three years just left them and didn’t even bother to run it by him. She dropped off the grid too, sending occasional letters and gifts to the team. Sure the murder had changed her it’d change anyone, they just didn’t know it’d change her enough to become 1 of 3 unsubs with identical killing patterns.

She’s gone?: (Spencer x fem reader):

she’s gone will have separate character chapters (detailing friendships, daily life, their side of the story, what if’s, and police reports) and may hold alternative endings ( how it ends for said character/ what changes)

Summary: spencer and the reader relationship has been a good one up until this point.they never had a problem they only had minor fights that were stupid and irrelevant, they were soulmates. but things changed when the new girl showed up, when she spoke to hotch that morning, and when she took down unsub herself. they changed the most when everyone showed up even the new girl on her day off, but she and morgan didn’t.

Imagines:

Sherwood, Ohio in North mammon « gn! reader »: (*) (takes place in 2x7)

Summary: when (y/n) and two friends were juniors in high schools they were kidnapped, held in a cellar for nearly a week, starved, and forced to off one of their best friends. (Y/n) never mentioned it, and no one but Gideon and Hotch knew of the gruesome events. (Y/n) had blocked the events from memory as they were to traumatic for the brain to process. But now the team is working a case that feels as if (y/n) is reliving the situation.

These are alternative endings for: Sherwood, OH in north mammon

Sherwood, OH in north mammon « derek x reader »

Sherwood, OH in north mammon « jj x reader »

Sherwood, OH in north mammon « hotch x reader »

Headcanons

Family dinner at Rossi’s: « gn! reader »

Summary- as the title suggests

Garcia and the wap song: « gn! reader »

Summary: Garcia calls morgan, morgan puts the phone on speaker and doesn’t tell penny, penny starts reciting the lyrics to wap by Megan these stallion and cardi b.

Marvel

imagines:

Star crossed: dark! druig x reader

Scream

imagines

head cannons

dating billy and stu

miscellaneous

ben hardy x fem!reader

manhattan

summary: he can have Manhattan, cause she can't have him.

(A/N): want to be added to my tag list? Just send me a message or reply or who or what fic!

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Hi! You often give alot of insight into anons like this and your my fave CM blog so that's why I'm here! So I'm finishing up the last seasons (and lord it is hard to get through) and they just introduced Max and I cannot stand her. She was just so rude and it felt like she had 2 different personalities the entire time she was on screen. And I worried that this meant I was like hating women because I don't like other female characters like Maeve, JJ, Hailey, and Seaver. But then I started thinking and I honestly think it's cause these Characters are women poorly written by men. But then I wondered how they created likeable Characters like Emily, Kristy, Blake, Tara, and Penelope (leaving out others like Savannah because they're under developed in my opinion) I don't know what's the difference in the writing for these Characters or of there isn't any at all and I'm just being hateful in a way. What are your thoughts?

Ah, I think about this a lot. Thank you for thinking I’m interesting enough to answer this, also!

I think you’ve really hit the nail on the head with the writers doing a poor job at most of their female characters. However, I think it’s possible (and very common in this fandom) for people to dislike any character Spencer showed an interest in, which is also problematic and rooted in internalized misogyny. To me, it all comes down to why you dislike the characters.

(A LOT More Below - Bit of a Rant)

The first step I took when reflecting to see if this was my problem was rewatching and seeing which female characters I loved. Along with the ones you listed, I also found a number of side characters I greatly enjoyed, including Lila, Austin, Dr. Linda Kamura (from Amplification, the anthrax episode), Einstein, Megan Kane, and a few other random case characters. So, right off the bat I found multiple characters who Spencer showed an affinity for. I also greatly enjoyed Cat’s character, although I found her to be underdeveloped in canon (Fanon has done a good job, IMO) and often contradictory in her character design.

If you didn’t like any of these women, and your reason is related purely to Spencer’s reactions to them, chances are you might be suffering from a bit of jealousy rather than improper character design - not that you need to like them all (or the ones that I like), but because they are all very different. You should, theoretically, find something to enjoy about at least one of them.

But the CM Writers have a TERRIBLE habit of writing women that are easy to hate.

There’s a bunch of controversy I see over Haley Hotchner, but the truth is that they wrote her to be hated. That was her sole purpose. Her character’s decisions were poorly thought out and she was shown to be malicious 80% of the time. This was intentional. She was written to personify the trope of the nagging housewife. If you dislike her, you have done nothing but follow the narrative.

That being said, you should also criticize why they wrote her this way. Because it didn’t make any sense. She married a prosecutor - a dangerous, time consuming job. She had Jack when she knew he was with the BAU. Why did she randomly change her tune? Why did she suddenly demand he gives up on his dreams that she was fully aware of for years? I’d argue they wrote it like this to further the narrative of “the wife who traps you with a child to force you to do what she wants” which is garbage writing. I wish people could look at the potential she had if they hadn’t written her like... that.

Maeve, I find, is problematic on multiple aspects and I’ve talked about it before. Her narrative was poorly thought out because as soon as they pitched the idea of a long-term love interest for Spencer, everyone (most notably Gubler) rejected it. They didn’t think it was necessary for his character, who already had a lot going on with the ignored plot lines of his drug addiction and mother.

There were multiple problems associated with her character that were never addressed. The fact she essentially just took advantage of a patient because she was bored, she seemed to “correct” his interests and show annoyance when he disagreed with her, she lied about having a fiance, she was shown to be considering breaking up with him... there’s a lot.

Her character is poorly written. It had a lot of potential, but they just kind of stopped caring once they decided to kill her off. She had more faults shown on screen than redeeming qualities. For many, they liked her because they see there was a potential that we’ll never see (fair). But for people like me, we interpret it as a idealized fantasy of what could have (but probably wouldn’t have) been, which is not healthy for Spencer.

JJ is an interesting character because you can feel the constant struggle between AJ Cook and the writers. They really sabotaged JJ at every step of the way. I’ll be honest and say that I think there are some reasons to hate JJ, but they aren’t the reasons I see most often. Almost all of the JJ hate I see is surrounding the idea that JJ is an evil, manipulative, jealous bitch. But.. she’s not. Even in Truth or Dare, when she pulls that asshole move that was wildly OOC for JJ (in my opinion), she isn’t shown to be jealous or cruel about it.

I think she’s the most likely target for people who’s hatred is driven from jealousy or disliking conventionally attractive women and assuming them to be bitchy by nature of looking “beautiful.” I think Lila Archer* also falls into this category.

But as I said, JJ was also written with a lot of flaws. I think it’s fair if you don’t like her character or the way she treats Spencer, but I also hope that you similarly criticize the whole team in the same way, and don’t just pity Spencer because he is smol uwu babie who needs protection.

(* Yet another reminder that I ask everyone to not message me about J Depp or Amber Heard. Reactive Abuse is an extreme trigger for me and I will block you if you try to get me to talk about it)

Seaver got a lot of hate based off one line of dialogue. I think it was a bad line. If they had left it out, there would be essentially no reason in my mind to dislike Seaver. I used to dislike her a lot, but the more I rewatch the show, the less she bothers me. She was just a young student who wanted to learn about her father/herself. She was MASSIVELY underdeveloped because they kicked her off just as quickly as they invited her in.

NO character was developed that quickly. Her scenes were a bit cringey and the plotlines were bad, and her character was mediocre. I don’t think she deserves the hate she gets. She is a lukewarm character.

I hate everything Max’s character represents. She was introduced to show that Spencer could be trained to be “normal” and it’s anti-autistic bullshit. She had no personality besides “I hate my low-brow job as a teacher and couldn’t be fucked to change it until a man told me I was smart.” She was cracking high-school-clique jokes while her family was about to be murdered. She immediately abandoned said family to make out with her boyfriend who just admitted to enjoying kissing the woman who tried to murder her family.

Her character makes absolutely zero sense. I do not understand how she is so liked. I really don’t (other than the fact that RLC is absolutely wonderful).

If they had left her character out, I think we would have been better off for it. We could have seen Spencer wrestle with defining himself by the women in his life and learning to love himself (without just replacing those women with... another... woman...)

That being said, those who cling to Max for hope of a happy ending for Spencer... I felt that. Fanon and fanfic can solve all character deficiencies. I believe in you.

So, yeah. I’d say if you’re worried about why you dislike women characters, you’re probably on the right path. I’d just reflect on why you dislike the characters you do and whether they are written as misogynistic stereotypes. It makes complete sense to reject characters written for the purpose of making you hate them, but we should all pour one out for the brilliant actresses that had characters with so much potential if not for men ruining it.

[makaylajadewrites]

Another Aspect

Hi all! I wrote this work for @endingsbeginnings​ - I hope you all enjoy!

Pairing: Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid

Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Autism, Autistic Spencer Reid, Established Relationship

Summary: Spencer has a meltdown on the job, but Derek is there to help him through it.

Word count: 1173

Read on AO3 here

It was a bad one. No amount of blood or gore fazed Spencer, but something about kids always seemed to get to all of them. Not just any kids - autistic kids, and other special needs children who were snatched on their ways to and from school, only for their bodies to be found nearly twenty-four hours later. Evidence of sexual assault was left on every body, most of which were male, but this unsub did not discriminate against gender. It seemed he was not preferential, and most of them hypothesized that choosing special needs kids made the abductions easier, and Spencer was so incredibly disgusted by the mere thought. How could anyone do those things to a defenseless child?

He was reaching his breaking point. The overwhelming urge to stim was encroaching on him, and he could tell that he was on the verge of a complete and total meltdown because the details of this case were harrowing and he felt so helpless, since all of the leads they had followed thus far ended up going nowhere. Already, a child had died while they were on the case. Seeing his distressed parents crumble against each other as JJ delivered the unfortunate news, through the glass windows of the conference room was heartbreaking. His hands were trembling already. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know.

But then there was Morgan… Derek Morgan, his partner, whom he absolutely adored. Fortunately for Reid, the feelings were very mutual; they had been dating for about ten months now, naturally gravitating towards each other after Tobias Hankle. There was just something they saw in each other, a sense of belonging, of home, that made it work, even though most would look at them and see polar opposites. But they were happy together, and Spencer had never before been in a relationship where his partner was so understanding of his autistic traits - it was like Morgan didn’t even consider it a problem like most did, but rather, he accepted it as another unique aspect of Spencer.

He and Prentiss had just returned from their canvas of the latest crime scene. Prentiss went off to join Rossi in his endeavor through the old case files, and Morgan rejoined with him at their space in the middle of the police department. Spencer had been sitting in that exact spot for at least ten minutes, although he wasn’t entirely sure since he lost track of time when he was in his own head, attempting to escape from the chaos of sensory hell all around him. There were so many people, all around him, so u

“You got anything, Reid?” Derek asked, sounding a bit exacerbated, most likely because nothing had turned up from their investigation at the crime scene. Reid couldn’t find it in himself to respond right away, but when his lips parted, the most horrific thing occurred;

“You got anything, Reid?” He responded effortlessly, his eyes widening in realization at what he had done. He was immediately overcome with embarrassment, his hands balling into fists over his legs. His lower lip began to tremble.

“Okay, it’s okay, baby… Why don’t we go somewhere quiet, okay?” Morgan said, reaching a hand out to allow Spencer to initiate contact himself. Spencer looked up at him, biting his lips to prevent himself from talking, because he knew very well that he would only repeat what Morgan was saying to him. He couldn’t help it - sometimes his brain just overused itself so much that finding words of his own was too difficult, and instead found comfort in repeating what he heard. His hands fidgeted in his lap still, and he stared at the extended hand with an expression somewhere between fear and trepidation. He slowly took it though, standing up with Morgan’s help. As soon as he was standing though, he recoiled rather violently, and instead chose to follow Morgan away from the bustling center of the police department and into an unused office that was dark and empty.

Once inside, Morgan closed the door behind them, pulled the blinds and, without touching the younger man, guided Spencer to sit down on the small sofa inside. Spencer did so, wordlessly, pressing his ever-twitching hands in between his thighs.

“You’re okay, Spencer,” Morgan said to him, crouching down in front of him and opening up his messenger bag, digging around for a stim toy.

“You’re okay, Spencer,” Reid repeated immediately, raising a hand up since he was unable to resist the urge to chew on his finger, nibbling lightly and reveling in the slight discomfort it gave him. Derek glanced up from the bag, a chewable necklace in his hand, the rubber piece blue and shaped like a crystal.

“Hey, hey, don’t hurt yourself, use this instead,” Derek said, holding the necklace up to him but refraining from touching him still - Spencer couldn’t be more grateful. He took the necklace instantly and pressed the chewable toy into his mouth, biting down on it in a constant rhythm, humming quietly in the back of his throat. His hands reached for Derek’s, and even as surprised as he was, Derek held his hands up slowly. Spencer laced their fingers together, squeezing his hands in a pattern mirroring his biting. Squeeze, relax; bite, relax…

About seven minutes later, Spencer’s mind had calmed down, his hands slightly shaking in Derek’s before he lifted one, taking the chewable out of his mouth and slipping it into a baggy in his messenger bag. He would have to wash it later, when they got to the hotel… But that was the least of his concerns. He met Derek’s gaze, and he smiled slightly, Derek squeezing their hands that were still joined.

“How are you feeling?” He asked him, his voice low and calming, and Spencer licked his lips before reaching a hand up to brush his hair away from his face.

“Better…” he said, matching Morgan’s quiet volume. Derek smiled, and as he began to pull his hand away, Spencer immediately pulled it up towards his face, resting his cheek against Derek’s knuckles.

“D-Derek, I…” Spencer started, looking down briefly before raising his gaze to meet Derek’s dark, gentle eyes once more, Thank you.”

“No need to thank me,” Derek said simply, brushing his knuckles over Spencer’s cheekbone, “If you need some more time, no one will think any different. But if not, let’s get this son of a bitch.”

Spencer nodded and with a new sense of determination, followed Derek out of the empty office. God, I love that man, he thought with a content smile, and when they rejoined the team in the department, Spencer approached the map with a new thought in mind, and within ten seconds, he was spouting off a new theory to their team, and he could have sworn he saw a proud smile twitching at the corner of Derek’s lips.

Needless to say, Spencer’s insight led them straight to the unsub, and they boarded the jet that night, arriving home the next morning.