#Spencer Reid x y/n

[nereidprinc3ss]

in infinite universes

in which spencer reid picks up uni!reader from a party. you're drunk, and he's in love with you

fluff:) warnings/tags: established relationship, fem!reader, university!reader x professor!spencer but you're not his student, unspecified age gap, um statistic about deaths from drunk driving, spencer is a nerd a/n: this is accidentally so romantic I'm gonna puke

The night is chilly—a still, dry type of cold that comes before snowfall. It’s quiet, like the world is preparing for that heavy blanket of white. Even the pounding bass from the frat house doesn’t make it very far before falling flat at the end of the yard. By the time Spencer gets you to his car down the block, it’s a thready pulse. 

“Thanks for walking me,” you say, giving him a saccharine smile as he opens the passenger door for you. His scoff is a thick white cloud, crystallizing against cold, shining skin, slightly pinkened from the temperature. Spencer is glowing like a star tonight. You don’t know if it’s the blurriness from the alcohol in your system smudging the edges of him, or if it’s just that incandescent halo that always seems to follow him around.

“You know I wasn’t going to let you walk down frat row by yourself at one in the morning.”

You pout and look up at him, leaning close. 

“So you don’t want me to say thank you?” 

Spencer’s mouth is curved in absent-minded affection as he takes advantage of the opportunity to study you up close with darting eyes, entertaining your girlish flirtation, and you in turn get to admire the starlit flush of his cheeks, the way his hair falls around his face and thick eyelashes frame irises that could melt ice. You’re not entirely conscious of the huge grin that cracks open your face, but you suspect its presence when his own lips part, still smiling, like he’s maybe going to say something sweet. Or teasing. 

“You’re drunk.”

At this absolute and unarguable truth, you frown. He’s grinning now as he adjusts the thick scarf around your neck, shielding your ears and neck further from the chill that the open car door can’t block. 

“No I’m not.”

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and before you can process it he’s leaning down, so of course your eyes are going to flutter shut and of course you’re going to kiss him back. The gentle ferocity of it only has you stumbling in place a little bit, and he steadies you with hands around your waist. It’s over entirely too soon. You blink up at him, your shock and fluster betrayed by the visible huff of air dispelled as soon as he pulls away. He’s smiling even wider now. Vindicated. Eyes sparkling. “Gin? Wow. You are drunk.”

It takes you a moment longer than it usually would to decipher how he figured this out. 

“So you just kissed me to prove your theory right?”

The sparkling satisfaction from his indictment softens around his eyes. 

“I knew you were drunk when you almost fell down the stairs a minute ago. The kiss was purely selfish.”

“It’s icy,” you defend, and your heart flutters as he comes in for another kiss. It’s soft and still shockingly deep for being on the street, where anyone could see—although everyone smart is inside, and anyone else is too drunk to care that his mouth is open against yours and the heat of it is translating deep in your stomach. You’re dizzy by the time he laughs quietly against you. 

“What college student is pounding gin and tonics at a frat party?”

The thick wool of his coat bunches under your searching fingers. 

“Me,” you whisper. “I was classing up the joint.”

The final kiss he presses to your lips is sweeter and half smile. “Drunk.”

The murmured accusation shouldn’t make you feel so giddy. Maybe it’s all the gin. 

“Not.”

Another little chuckle warms the tip of your nose and your lips as he breathes it out.

“So you’re good to drive us home?”

You itch to kiss him again, but instead, you respond, “One person dies every thirty nine minutes in America from drunk driving.”

“Good job. You passed.”

The praise is accompanied by a thumb rubbing at your hip through denim. He probably thought you weren’t listening when he’d spouted that particular statistic a few hours ago. 

“Do I get a gold star?”

He kisses your head. 

“We’ll see. Get in.”

On the way home, that last shot hits you. You slump down in your seat and hide your face in your hands. 

“Oh, Spencer. I’m… I’m drunk.”

You feel him glancing at you before he sets a concerned hand on your thigh. 

“You okay?”

Morosely you nod. 

“Yeah. I took a shot with this… Delta Phi Epsilon guy, right before you got there. I wasn’t gonna, but he was like, no, you have to! And now I realize that was dumb.”

Spencer’s hand finds the back of your head, stroking your hair. 

“Do you know what I’m going to say about frat boys pressuring you to drink?”

“It wasn’t like that. He was really nice.”

“I’m sure he was,” Spencer says dryly. “Lots of men become really nice when they think they might have something to gain.”

“I thought he was gay!” You laugh, uncovering your face. “Sorry, dad. I won’t drink alcohol or talk to boys anymore.”

Spencer makes a face and you know you’ve successfully traded pounds of flesh. 

“If you call me dad again I’m making you take an abnormal psych class.”

You give him a lazy smile which he only takes his eyes off the road for a few seconds to admire. 

“I’d take abnormal psych if you were my professor.”

That perpetual upturn at the corners of his perfect mouth flickers wider. 

“Wow. Does gin make you sexually frustrated?”

“It makes me lazy. The professor-student thing is really low hanging fruit.”

“Yeah, it is. You know I’ll expect better material from you once you’ve sobered up.”

You sigh and let your head loll to the front again, studying the tunneling road through the windshield. A few flakes slash the headlights. Your mind wanders. You don’t bother reeling it in. 

“I’m really glad I’m not your student. I’d have the worst crush on you.”

Spencer casts you another side-long glance before adjusting the rear-view mirror. 

“You don’t have a crush on me now?”

“Of course I do. But you like me back. If I was your student you’d never look at me like that. I would just have to pine after you and fall in deep unrequited love like all your other female students.”

He hums skeptically. 

“I don’t know what I’d do. I can’t imagine not being in love with you.”

“There are universes where you’re not. There are infinite realities where I am your student and you don’t like me back and you’re dating other girls who aren’t me and you’re saying this exact stuff to them.”

“True. There are also infinite realities where I find you and I fall in love with you.” Spencer reaches over again, taking your hand and settling them, joined, in your lap. “For each trillionth of a billionth of a second of the life I’ve lived thus far, there are infinite universes which exist solely so I can fall in love with you in a new way. Over and over again. There’s not a choice I could make in any timeline, or in any universe, that doesn’t lead an infinite number of me’s to an infinite number of you’s.” 

The engine hums. The tires roll. 

Other than that—it’s dead silent. 

Because how could he ever expect anyone to respond to that?

You slink low in your seat and bring his hand to cradle your face, warm against your cheek. 

“I hate you,” you mumble. Spencer strokes your jaw absentmindedly, not at all concerned by your dramatics. 

“You hate me? I just said I love you.”

“No, you did not. You said th—I don’t even wanna call it romantic. Romantic doesn’t—I don’t even know what that was. You can’t just say things like that, Spencer! You can’t just casually say stuff like that to me, and especially not when I’m drunk, because I’m gonna start crying!” 

The last word pitches up and perfectly illustrates your point as tears begin to roll down your cheeks—still nipped by the cold. 

Spencer quickly pulls the car off to the side of the abandoned road. 

He’s all affection as he twists to face you and take your face in his hands properly, thumbing away tears. 

“What? What’s wrong?” 

“You j-just love me so much,” you sob.

“Yes,” Spencer laughs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I do. I love you so much. I didn’t mean to make you cry, sweetheart.”

“You—you don’t even realize, that you said the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to anyone, and you love me more than anyone’s ever loved anyone, and—and—”

You cut yourself off with another hot wave of tears and a shuddering cry. 

“Oh, my girl,” Spencer coos through an adoring little laugh as he pushes hair out of your face. “You are so drunk, baby. Come here.”

You let him undo your buckle and pull you across the console-less seat (thank you, vintage car) into his arms. For a minute or two you can hardly speak, crying into the warmth of his jacket as he holds you. 

Eventually, you manage to raise your head and pull back enough to look at him. Immediately he’s assessing you with those soft eyes, watching how you wipe away whatever tears didn’t soak into his clothing. Under his watchful gaze, you exhale a sniffing laugh. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

It’s so immediate you’re knocked off balance again. “Well—you were just being nice, and I—”

“I do love you more than anyone has ever loved anyone.”

Usually, you dislike being interrupted. 

In this instance, you’ll let it slide. 

It’s simply too earnest, too honest as his eyes dart between yours like he couldn’t contain it. Like you said it and the thought struck him right in the face—an obvious truth he hadn’t considered before. 

“In infinite universes?” You sniffle. 

“In infinite universes,” he agrees. 

Both of you notice the snow has started to come down outside. Over the course of a few silent minutes, it gets heavier and heavier—a soft hail, sheets of whispering white. 

You’ve never been afraid to break the silence with him. 

But maybe if you weren’t drunk you could keep your questions to yourself. 

“How many snowflakes are we looking at?”

Spencer hesitates, drawn from some kind of hypnosis. 

“Hard to be sure. Heavy snowfall like this could easily put us at six inches within the hour. In that case we’ve watched around point two inches fall. Visibility is probably reduced to about a quarter mile… point two inches across a square quarter mile is a hundred and seventeen thousand five hundred square feet of snow, average density of flakes at this temperature being about three kilograms per cubic foot of snow, and a snowflake weighs maybe… point zero zero zero zero zero two kilograms, so, roughly… very roughly… we’re looking at one hundred and forty two million snowflakes. That’s my best guess.”

You look up at him from where you’d been resting your head on his shoulder. 

“You’re the coolest person ever.”

He blushes. 

Tries to reply. 

Looks back out the window and huffs a nervous laugh, like you’ve flustered him. 

“Lots of people could do that. The math isn’t too complicated. It’s also probably wrong.”

A slow smile blossoms on your face. 

“You’re never wrong. So… what percentage of infinity is a hundred and forty two million?”

“Uh… undefined,” he laughs, looking back down at you. “But… in tangible terms, which is inherently contradictory because infinity is completely intangible, and actually pretty meaningless to mathematicians—more of a philosophical concept than a numerical one… it is a very small fraction. It’s nothing.”

“I don’t want philosophical,” you murmur, reaching up to graze your knuckles along his cheekbone. “I want hard numbers.”

He catches your hand and holds the tips of your fingers to his lips as he thinks, watching hundreds of millions of snowflakes falling from the wide black heavens through narrowed eyes. 

“A googol is written as a one followed by a hundred zeros, and a googolplex is a one followed by a googol of zeros. That’s the largest named number we have. It surpasses the estimated number of atoms in the universe. It’s too large to conceptualize. Mathematicians don’t really have any practical use for numbers above one trillion, but the largest number you’ll find in a dictionary and which might be formally accredited is a centillion, which is a one followed by three hundred and three zeros. It’s bigger than a googol but hardly a fraction of a googolplex. But—okay, we’re setting aside the conceptual numbers. What was your question?”

Your head spins as you laugh. 

Too much gin. Too many IQ points. 

“Infinity divided by, uh… the number of snowflakes I can see right now.”

The engine is still on—heat blows steadily, warming your arm through a coat and sweater, and whatever it can’t reach is warmed by Spencer. 

“Right. Okay. Well—to put it into perspective, with snowflakes, you have around one septillion that fall each year. That’s twenty four zeros, so… a lot. Are you with me?”

“No.”

“Great. So, a hundred and forty two million is basically infinity.”

This earns a clumsy, drunken laugh from you, and he smiles like he’d been hoping for that. 

It’s so warm in the cab of his car. It’s so warm under his gaze. 

Outside, the snow continues to fall. 

For each flake, there is a world where you and Spencer fall in love. And in the grand scheme of things, you’re not looking at very many. 

In infinite universes, you’ll find each other. For eternity. 

You’d be happy with just this one. 

[esote-rika]

to talk is to bare | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: hurt/comfort, fluff Summary: three times you've never felt enough for Spencer Reid—and the three times he rectified it immediately Content: insecure reader, written with early s2 Spencer in mind (glasses!Spencer rawr), reader wears makeup, implied bad relationships in the past, Spencer is just a sweetheart Word count: 2.4k A/N: entry for #lovers1kevent (congrats @mggslover muah) - the lyric prompt for this is “And I knew how you took your coffee and your favorite songs by heart, I read all of your (self help) books so you'd think that I was smart” from enough for you by Olivia Rodrigo. This was supposed to just be pure angst but apparently, I can't write this man as anything other than the perfect boyfriend.

“Well, actually, Dostoevsky intended the book to be a critique on certain schools of thoughts and ideologies, namely...”

You stare at your boyfriend, nodding along as he explains the intricacies and historical context of Notes from the Underground to you. His smile is kind and excited when he stops, looking at you expectantly.

“Right.” the smile on your face isn't forced, per se, but neither does it reach your eyes. How many times has it happened this month? It isn’t that you’re keeping count of all the times he’s corrected you—truthfully, you can’t, because you’ve lost count. And that’s the crux of the issue, isn’t it? The fact that you can’t even keep track of his corrections anymore, because he does it all the time. 

You remind yourself he's not doing this to deliberately make you feel stupid, your memory immediately calling forth all the times you've seen him correct other people — his teammates, the cashier at your favorite bookstore, a random person in the park. It's never pointed, nor is the act laced with anything but genuine, loving desire to share his knowledge. He's not like the men you've had to deal with in the past, the ones who jump at every opportunity to show off that they know more than you, that they're correct and you're wrong.

But this is Spencer. Sweet, wholly inexperienced, awkward. Half the time, he doesn't know how he comes across, and you've been dating him long enough to understand that. 

No, his corrections aren’t the crux of the issue. In fact, it isn’t even him. It’s you, and all the treacherous thoughts running through your mind. This damn book you’d read because you saw a dog eared copy in his satchel one day, pushing through pages upon pages of dense material just to catch up and relate with him, only to still come up short and have yourself be corrected.

The sting is still there, lingering and acrid in the back of your tongue. You cannot pinpoint it yet, this But it's Spencer Reid, so you grit your teeth and remind yourself not to take it personally. The words slip out easily. You could almost believe they aren’t lies. “Thank you for letting me know.”

The beam on his face is a reminder that not everyone is as patient, that he's come to expect looks that range from baffled to downright annoyed. Nobody else allows him free reign to talk like this, long winded rambles that get nipped at the bud with a sharp Reid. He smiles, beams at you, and this time the smile on your lips finally reaches your eyes.

“So what did I get wrong?”

“You weren’t wrong,” he’s pulling you in as he answers, lips finding the underside of your jaw and the bitterness dissipates, sweetens into something that makes your toes curl, “Just a little inaccurate.”

Your body melts into him easily. “You don't have to sugarcoat with me.”

“I'm not, it's literature. You can interpret it however you want, I just thought knowing the rest of the context would help you with your opinion.” he's kissing down your neck, breaths ghosting over your skin as he continues to talk, and you sink into his arms, forgetting why you were even feeling annoyed in the first place.

You’re not sure if you like the color you’ve put to make your cheeks flush. It's always been a point of contention in the past, your exes saying you don't put enough effort in, so this time with Spencer, you try. Even though you're not the best at it, even though you feel a little foolish because it seems a little too bright despite all of your hurried attempts to blend it a little more. But it’s too late to change now. You don’t want to go through the whole deal of reapplying your makeup because that would mean running late, so you ignore it and head to the cafe quickly. 

Spencer isn't there yet. You order your drinks, his black and into which you dump an exorbitant amount of sugar. Memorization is his thing, but you've come to learn a thing or two about him in the time you two are dating.

He's a few minutes late, and when he arrives, Spencer’s eyes lock on you. Or, more specifically, your cheeks.

“That bad?” you tease, standing from your seat and leaning over for a kiss. 

“You don’t have the coloring for that shade of red.”

Your brow knits as you pull away. Attempting to hide the flood of insecurity that swept through your chest, you let out a chuckle. Soft, shaky, and accompanied with a confused, “What?”

“It makes your cheeks look a little inflamed.”

“Oh.” 

Regret fills your chest, settling in your lungs until it’s difficult to breathe. You should have trusted your instincts and scrubbed the makeup off. Shouldn’t have tried something new on the one day the two of you can go out. He’s probably embarrassed by you. How silly, being a full grown woman wearing makeup bordering on clownish. 

He must have caught the hurt in your voice, the way your body deflates because he’s quick to remedy. “Hey, what’s that look for?”

It should embarrass you, the speed at which he picks up on your emotions. But he’s a profiler after all, he’s specifically trained for this, but sometimes you wish he doesn’t use it against you. Gentle hands cup your face. Cold hands, perpetually so until you’ve started keeping them between yours. They tilt your head up. 

“Talk to me.” 

“It’s stupid.”

“Nothing you say is ever stupid.”

You smile, “No, I think we both know that’s a lie.”

He relents. He knows you’re right; there are moments where you don’t make sense. “Not stupid, just…” his eyes roam your face while he searches for the word to use as compromise, as though he’ll find it tucked somewhere in your pretty features, “Lapses in discernment.”

You roll your eyes at his fancy vernacular, the attempt to soothe his mistake. “I think I prefer the layman’s term.” 

Spencer laughs sheepishly, then presses his lips to your forehead, “I’m never using that to describe you.” he murmurs against your skin, and then, “I'm sorry.”

Antarctica could melt from the warmth in your chest.  “You don't even know what you're apologizing for.”

“I upset you. That's reason enough.”

You sigh, pulling him to join you on the plush booth seat you'd managed to secure for your date. “Well, there's nothing to forgive.”

He accepts the coffee you hand him, corners of his mouth curved in a gentle smile. He sips, and you stew in silence, knowing that you shouldn't be leaving him guessing like this. He'd want to know, you can tell by the way he's studying you, the way he wants to examine and turn over your thoughts and reactions like he does with everything else in his life. But he waits, lets you open up if you so wish.

God, he's perfect.

“I was just having second thoughts about my makeup,” you murmur finally, “And you kind of confirmed it. I told you it's stupid.”

“Not stupid at all. I'm sorry,” you wonder if he takes his coffee sweet to match his personality, this asshole, “It was an insensitive comment. And for what it's worth, you look beautiful regardless.”

“Inflamed cheeks and all?” 

He laughs, pulling you to his side, lips firmly planted on your cheek “Inflamed cheeks and all.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have worn the blush after all; you're sure he's making you flush scarlet just by being such a sweetheart.

“Oh Spencer knows her.” the teasing tone in Derek Morgan’s voice normally makes you smile, but something about his tone makes you pause. You stare at the TV, where a new show is running, eyes zeroed in on the blonde actress.

“Spencer knows her?”

“Knew,” your boyfriend supplies, “Very briefly.”

Derek Morgan gives him a knowing smirk that has your stomach churning all the way to the end of the night, when you’re getting ready for bed.

You're in his apartment, in an old pair of his plaid pajamas and a t-shirt that fits you surprisingly well. It always makes you smile, his slight frame, the way you could easily steal his clothes and they wouldn't dwarf you too much. But tonight, Derek's words ring over and over again, bringing forth the image of her—Lila Archer, dazzling, perfectly curvy, an actress on a popular TV series… and apparently, a friend of his. You aren't really sure where this jealousy is coming from. He’s a trustworthy man, and you know he loves you. Still, the image of the beautiful actress persists, even as you climb into bed with him.

He's reading as he usually is, the low lamplight casting shadows over the sharp planes of his face. Without even looking, he shifts the book to his other hand, freeing up an arm to draw you to his body. It's easy, quiet, his heartbeat fluttering beneath your ear as you rest your head on his chest. The exact opposite of your own heartbeat right now.

“What's on your mind?” 

“Nothing.” It should be a sin, the way you keep denying your feelings. But it's just so silly, and you're a grown woman. Jealousy and insecurity shouldn't be consuming you like this, and yet…

“Please don't lie to me,” his fingers are in your hair, tangling deep into the strands and seeking for your scalp. They’re soothing and rhythmic upon contact, lulling your body into a sense of relaxation even though your heart still hammers at your chest.

“Why do you say that?”

“You usually remind me to use the overhead lights when I read.” fingers putting pressure on your scalp, traveling to your temple. He has you in the palm of his hands, “You didn't do that tonight. And your heartbeat's going at an abnormally high rate, even though I'm quite certain you didn't do anything strenuous before coming to bed. What's going on?” 

Damn him and his attention to detail, and the way he’'s learned your little quirks and oddities. He puts down his book and you turn your face to hide into his chest.

You chew on your bottom lip, reminding youself that this is Spencer, he wouldn't judge. “How’d you know her?” your voice is muffled against his shirt, “Lila.”

“We had a case in Los Angeles.” he pauses, as if considering if he should say more. Right. Confidentiality. You nod, accepting his answer.

“Must have been a high profile one then,” you muse, “Or were you just hanging around Hollywood studios with Derek?” It’s an unfair statement, but you can’t help it.

“No, no, it wasn’t like that.” You look back up at him and oh there’s guilt swimming in pools of honey eyes. “I mean, we kissed once, but I swear, nothing beyond that.”

You exhale. A kiss. He's kissed a TV starlet. 

This shouldn’t even be an issue. This is before you were even in the picture after all. It’s not fair to uphold him to some weird standard. You certainly had relationships before him. But none of them had been as stunning as Lila Archer. And if he could have Lila Archer, then what is he doing with you? 

“Hey,” his other hand comes to stroke your cheek, the soft pad of his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles, “Talk to me.”

It's a difficult thing, being mature and communicating when you just want to stew, but god he's so good, you can't punish him for this, for anything. “I thought you said I was your first girlfriend?” you say instead, teasing him.

“You are, but you know, I’ve kissed before, and been on dates—”

“With Lila?”

“No, with JJ.”

Oh.

“JJ?”

JJ? His lovely, warm spring day beauty coworker JJ? He went on a date with her? And kissed Lila Archer. It’s almost ridiculous, thinking about the type of women he's had dalliances with—lithe, blonde, perfect, before he settled with you. 

“Yeah, I took her to a Redskins game,” he says, his hold on your face still light. There's room to move if you want to, space to pull away should you need it and god he's just so perfect.

“You have a type, huh?” it comes out unbidden, sharp but dulled by a bitter laugh.

“What do you mean?”

“With women,” you reply, trying to temper the snappy tone of your voice. It's not fair to lash out at him like this, you know that, yet you can't help it. It's habit at this point, a form of defense that your exes have all been too happy to participate, “I'm the outlier.”

And apparently, he's an outlier too because his voice grows even softer, eyes searching your face with an anxiety that fills you with guilt. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” you sigh, arm draping over his waist and hugging him tight. 

He returns the favor, tangling your legs together until you're a mess of limbs under his sheets. “Then what's wrong?”

“Sometimes I just feel like—like I'm not good enough to be dating you.” there it is, whispered into his chest, striking straight to his heart. “And now, knowing that you could have had all of these — these women who could pass for models—”

“Angel,” the way he says the nickname makes you hide even further into his chest. He closes his arms around you, holding you so tightly it's difficult to breathe, but that's okay. Let him fuse your bodies together, let his breaths be yours too, “That's not true, you know that's not true.”

“Isn't it? You're so — you. Intelligent, well decorated in academia, an an elite FBI unit…”

He laughs, “I’m also an endlessly annoying know it all, I failed my gun license exam more than once, I don't have abs—”

“You don't need abs,” you counter, fingers clutching on his shirt.

“Wouldn't you rather be with a guy with a six pack?”

“I'd rather be with you.”

He gently moves away from you, hands finding your face to make you look at him. “And I'd rather be with you.”

You pout, “You can't use my words against me, ‘s not fair.” 

He laughs again, leaning to capture your lips in the gentlest of kisses, “I want you, I chose you, and I adore you,” he's murmuring between each kiss, hands cradling your face, “And if you have these thoughts again, tell me, so I can keep reminding you just how much I love you.” 

➺ My masterlist | Event masterlist

➺ thank you so much for reading <3

[moonstruckme]

hi Mae could do a reader with Spencer (or any boy u want!) where she's feeling super nauseous and throwing up a lot and trying to hide it from him like may be it's early on and she feels embarassed? I went out to brunch with a friend and idk what happened but I think I got food poisoning I've already thrown up twice and still feel so so sick

Ugh food poisoning is the worst, but I hope you're over it now lovely! Thanks for requesting <3

cw: vomitting, nausea

Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

Part of you thinks you should cancel. You’re not a very good time right now, nauseated and shaking a little from the exertion of walking from your car to the host’s stand. Spencer deserves a date that doesn’t have to scope out bathrooms like escape routes the moment she enters the restaurant. But oh, he’d been so sweet in asking you. All soft eyes and gentle voice, and he’d sent you the menu to make sure you found something you liked before he made the reservation. You know it can’t have been easy to get, at a nice place like this on a Saturday night. Really, at the end of the day, there is simply no world where you cancel on Spencer. 

You paste on a smile for the hostess, wondering if she’d find it odd if you leaned on her stand for support just for a moment. “Hi,” you say. “Um, I’m meeting someone, I think he’s already…” 

A touch at your elbow prompts you to turn. 

“Hi,” Spencer says. 

You go a bit breathless at the sight of him. Spencer in a suit. His hair still messy as if he ran his hands through it after leaving home, the top button of his shirt open like he had it done up all the way and then felt too constricted. He looks handsome and endearing and nice. Your sundress and half sweated-through makeup feel suddenly, hopelessly inadequate. 

“Hi,” you say back. “Sorry, I thought you’d already be sitting down.” 

“I wanted to wait for you,” he replies simply. He turns to the hostess. “For Reid?” 

As she walks you to your table, it dawns on you what an idiot you are. Possibly the only thing you could do to Spencer that would be worse than cancelling on him would be to show up as you are now. Listless and unprepared for conversation. You’re going to have to order either the smallest thing on the menu or nothing at all, and he’s going to think you don’t want to be here with him. And for yourself, you want to experience this—a first date, with Spencer, and quite possibly your only date—with all the appropriate butterflies and nervousness. Instead, you just feel…tired. And sick. 

“This is really nice,” you say as you sit down. 

“Yeah?” Spencer reaches for the carafe in the center of the table, pouring water into your glass and then his own. “I’m glad you think so. I’ve only been here once, but I thought it was good then, so. I hope you like the food.” 

He spills a little bit of water on the tablecloth, missing his glass. Winces as sharply as if he’d shattered it. Oh god; he’s nervous. You’re going to so disappoint him. 

“Sorry I was late.” You take your water, the cool glass against your hand a relief. “I was…” Well, you were vomiting in your bathroom. “I got a bit tied up on my way out.” 

“That’s okay,” he says easily. “You look really beautiful.” 

You wish you could tell yourself he was only a good liar. You feel clammy, and disgusting, and entirely undeserving of sitting across from him, but it’s all earnestness in Spencer’s puppy brown eyes. 

“Thank you.” Your voice has gone soft with sincerity. “You look very handsome, too. I’ve never…I don’t think I’ve seen you in a suit.”

Spencer smiles, bashful. “I should probably wear them more for work. Most of my team does.” 

“I like what you wear,” you say. “It suits you. Very professor-y.” 

Drinking water was a bad idea. You’ve been too greedy for the cool feel of it going down your torn-up throat; your glass is nearly empty already, and already it wants back up. 

“It would probably be more professional if I dressed like the others, though.” He gives a one-shouldered shrug. Adorable. “I am a professor, but I’m also a profiler, so…” Spencer’s smile slips when you swallow against the nausea tightening your throat. “Are you okay?” 

You press your lips into a smile. “Yeah, sorry. I don’t think there’s anything unprofessional about your regular clothes. I like your cardigans.” 

“They’re not…they’re not unprofessional, I guess, but I…” You can see Spencer’s brain working, his eyes moving over your face as you struggle to appear attentive. “Sorry, are you sure you’re okay? You look uncomfortable.” 

You could almost laugh, if you weren’t feeling so awful. Trust Spencer to tell it like it is. 

“I’m okay,” you say. “Sorry, I’m not feeling great, but I’m fine.” 

“You’re not?” Spencer looks troubled. Sad, puppy brown eyes. 

Oh, and there are the nerves you’d been missing. Malicious, evil butterflies turning your stomach into an inhospitable environment. 

You stand, your chair squeaking against the floor. “I’m so sorry,” you say in a rush. “I’ll be right back.” 

You are not, unfortunately, able to keep that promise. You spend the next twenty minutes kneeling in a bathroom stall, trying to convince yourself they probably keep the floors very clean in a nice restaurant like this while your body rejects the water you had and then several phantom meals it suspects you might’ve had while it wasn’t paying attention. When you finally emerge, Spencer is waiting outside the bathroom with a glass of water. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, taking it from him. You’re wary of repeating your mistakes, but you take a small sip to appease him before simply giving in and pressing the cool glass to your temple. 

Spencer assesses you with his gaze. You resign to it, knowing he’ll have you figured out by now whether you make it easy for him or not. 

“How long have you been sick for?” he asks softly. 

“It’s not contagious,” you want him to know. “It’s food poisoning, I’m pretty sure.” 

“That’s not…what I’m worried about.” Spencer sounds almost hurt, but his touch is gentle as he brings his knuckles to your forehead. “You didn’t have to come if you weren’t feeling well.” 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh. You’re too exhausted to pretend at being anything else anymore. “It was stupid. I didn’t want to bail on you, but instead I’m ruining it.” 

“You’re not ruining it.” His first knuckle moves almost imperceptibly, a tiny caress. “This isn’t your fault. We can do this another time. Did you drive here?” 

“Yeah,” you say meekly. 

Spencer frowns. “Can I take you home? You’re too hot to be driving yourself.” 

He flushes instantly, though you weren’t going to say anything. 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“I know.” 

“Here.” He guides you to a bench, his hand ever so gentle on your waist. “Wait here, okay? I’ll grab our stuff.” 

You’ve fully given into wretchedness. You have no shame about resting the side of your head against the wall, closing your eyes until Spencer returns with a touch to your shoulder. He’s carrying his jacket and your bag, and the sympathetic look the hostess shoots you says that he’s conveyed you’ll be abandoning your reservation. 

“You don’t have to drive me,” you say as Spencer leads you outside, one hand at your back like he’s afraid you’ll keel over. “I can get home alright. I don’t want to throw up on your nice suit.” 

“I thought you liked my cardigans best.” If you didn’t know better, you’d say he was teasing you. “Anyway, the idea that you could be sick again this soon isn’t consistent with the idea that you could get home alright.”

It’s so him, the way he reasons this out, like he’s outlining an argument you’d never honestly expect to win. It reminds you that you’re on a date with Spencer Reid, and that makes you feel worse. 

You let him shepherd you to his car and sit you in the passenger seat. He buckles his seatbelt, looks over to see that yours is on, and his hand twitches as if it’s going to reach for yours before rerouting to the ignition. 

“Spence…” 

“Hm?” 

“Just, thank you. And I’m sorry, for making us leave.” 

“It’s okay.” He says it so easily, like a given. He does reach for your hand now, his fingers closing over yours to give the gentlest of squeezes. “You don’t have to be sorry. You didn’t ask to be sick.” 

“I’m really sorry I ate that sketchy pasta last night.” 

Spencer laughs. It’s a lovely sound, lovely enough to make you smile despite the roiling of your stomach. 

You say, in a softer voice, “I think it would have been a really nice date.” 

“We’ll find out,” he says surely. “Maybe next week, if you’re not doing anything. We could come back here, or go somewhere if seeing that bathroom again will make you uncomfortable. I know that for some people nausea can be a Pavlovian response. You spent…a long time in there.” 

You stifle a groan, leaning your head against the window and turning your face in humiliation. Spencer’s thumb stroking down the side of your hand makes it all worth it.

[siriuslylantsov]

be my valentine

pairing: spencer reid x reader

description: in which, spencer asks you out after a hearty but incomplete info dump on the history of valentines day.

tags: fluff! idiots inlove, gn!reader, reader is briefly described as shorter than spencer, teasing!spencer, grumpy!reader, penelope is an angel and i love her so much, reader shitting on valentines day and raising some very valid points.

a/n: based on this request, second fic for the event!! i know its still four days till valentines day but! if i didnt get this done now it would've been late. i rewrote this THREE times... but i rlly like how this version came out! happy reading :)

wc: 2.1k

it's your lunch break and you’re glaring at yet another sappy couple that walks by you. grumbling, you take another bite of your blueberry muffin. spencer laughs from his seat in front of you, amused by how your lip curls into an irritated pout. the two of you had walked to a cafe, a brief reprieve away from the frenzied police department you were stationed at for this week's case. 

“motherfuckers,” you seethe, still chewing your food. “i hate valentine's day.”

he laughs again, his tone sarcastic, “really, i never would’ve guessed.”

your glare shifts to him as you cross your arms. his grin is still there, annoyingly persistent, you hate that it doesn't affect him as much as it should. if you told him this, he would’ve told you that it didn't pack much of a punch. 

you roll your eyes and continue with a heavy scoff, “it's just another fake holiday, you know. like mother's day. created by greeting card companies trying to commercialise a day that shouldn't even exist honestly. every day should be dedicated to showing your loved ones how much you care, not just 24 hours in the middle of february.”

he accepts your cynicism with a smirk, completely accustomed to it. he knows you don’t mean it, not entirely, you just like to rant. “you know valentines day actually goes back about 2000 years. i’m sure greeting card companies weren't around back then,” he corrects, biting his lip in suppression.

your eyes narrow into slits, feeling the faint shift in the air of an incoming info dump. you ignore the way you want to hear what he has to say and take a sip of your coffee instead. you stall to torture him a bit, it's funny how he squirms.

“really,” you drag out, stroking your chin in exaggerated contemplation. you stare at him knowingly, he wants to continue but he's waiting for you to give him the green light. you laugh quietly, mood already improved, “go on.”

spencer visibly brightens, sitting up straighter and hands springing into action. “well, valentine's day has a really fascinating and somewhat convoluted history,” he starts, almost giddily. “the earliest accepted theory can be traced back to the roman festival of lupercalia, which was celebrated from february 13th to 15th. it was a fertility festival dedicated to faunus, the roman god of agriculture, and it included a ritual where men would sacrifice a goat and a dog, then use strips of the goat’s hide to whip women-”

“wait, they used goat skin to whip women?” you interject, eyes widening incredulously.

“yes! they willingly lined up for it too, believing it would make them more fertile,” he explains, far too animated considering the context, but it's okay. you like his enthusiasm. 

you grimace, “weird.”

“right. however, the day of love that we now recognise was brought by st. valentine, though which valentine is unclear—there were at least three martyred saints by that name. the most famous story involves a priest in third-century rome who defied emperor claudius ii's orders by secretly performing marriages for young soldiers,” he pauses to take a breath. you use it to bring your coffee back up to your lips, hiding your smile.

“claudius believed single men made better warriors, so he banned them from marrying,” he clarifies to which you nod. “when valentine was caught, he was executed on february 14th, which is why he’s the namesake of the holiday. some versions of the story even say that he sent a letter to his jailer's daughter signed ‘from your valentine’ which could be the origin of the modern tradition.”

“huh,” you pick your lip in thought, spencer hides the way his eyes dart down to them as you do it. “but that’s still an execution, how did it-”

the shrill tone of your ringtone interrupts you. “mhm, okay,” you respond when you pick up the phone. “we’ll be right there.” 

spencer stares at you expectantly, reaching over to grab your bag. he secures it over his shoulder and stands up. 

“it was jj,” you explain, stuffing the last bits of muffin into your mouth. “wi’ness ‘howed up.”

the food-muffled words make him chuckle and hold out a hand for you to get up. you let him pull you up with a dramatic huff, still holding his hand as you dust crumbs from your lap. you realise it a little too late and let go with a start, frown returning when you realise he isn’t going to let you carry your bag.

the walk back only took about five minutes before but this time's slower pace makes it a longer ordeal. comfortable silence brackets the two of you until it doesn’t when spencer speaks up.

“so, there's actually a lot more to the history of valentine's day. for instance, how the day became one of romance instead of, as you said, one that marked a martyrdom. we could, i don't know, discuss this properly over dinner. or drinks? or ice cream, i know that you like ice cream-”

filler words... he’s nervous. amid his rambling, he doesn't realise that you’ve stopped in your tracks. 

“-we can do whatever you want, i don't mind.” when he looks beside him and doesn't find you, he turns around. he can scarcely read the expression on your face, he usually can. this causes a little bout of concern to bubble up, “what is it?”

“are you asking me out?” your question is immediate, blunt, as a confused crease forms between your eyebrows.

well shit, he was. his lips part as he processes what he just said, he looks a little like a deer in headlights the way he stares back at you. was that too much? are you mad? did you want him to ask you out? what if you say no? he should say something. what if he messes everything up? he can’t-

“spencer,” his name rings out softly, pulling him from his spiral. 

his eyes snap to yours, searching, desperate to read between the lines, to piece together what you’re thinking like he always does—except this time, he can’t. he squeezes his eyes shut before opening them again, “yes.”

he swallows hard and adds, “on a date.”

“i got that,” you murmur, stepping closer to him, and closing the distance that he unintentionally left.

his head dips, voice small. “i didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.”

your head tilts slightly, studying him. “you didn’t.”

the reassurance eases him a little but not enough as the anxiety claws at him while he waits for your answer. your phone sounds again from your pocket, this time a text from morgan. you quickly type out a response–got lost, be there in 2. it's a pathetic excuse, if you focused, the station was in your direct eye line. but you needed to say something. 

“okay.”

he can't help the sign of relief that slips out of him, you giggle at the sound. when he looks at you again, he's unmeasurably happy to see your poorly concealed smile, breaking out in his own matching one. 

“yeah?” he asks sheepishly.

you nod, chewing your bottom lip, “yeah.”

your eyes squint at the corners, a side effect of the same grin that those sappy couples had been sporting, the same one that you’d been complaining about a little while ago. it makes you want to kick yourself, so you do the next best thing. you take hold of spencer's hand and drag yourself back to the pd. spencer shuffles somewhat behind you, trying to keep up with your stride. it doesn't take him long with those long legs of his.

his thumb strokes your knuckles gently–deliberately, you feel–but he pretends it's an unconscious action with the way his eyes are trained ahead. it makes you roll your eyes. when you near, you reluctantly let go of each other, the moment being the last time the two of you are alone for the rest of the day.

-

the team ends up solving the case a few hours later, taking the jet home where a valentines day baking spread is set up in the briefing room. all set up by the resident tech savvy. penelope tells you later that it took a whole week of convincing on her part, insisting that it would be quick and she’d clean up, and that everyone would get home to their own valentine's day plans in no time. 

there are a few heart-shaped helium balloons floating in the corners, and pink streamers in easy to reach places. the room is drastically more inviting, maybe the tones of fuschia and bubblegum have something to do with that. a cake and a bowl of suspiciously dyed punch reside on the table, along with pink plates and cups.

“penelope,” you gasp when you see them.

perfectly curated baskets of chocolate and cookies and associated items for everyone. you pick up the one with your name on it and inside you find: a candle, your favourite candy tied together with a little bow and a letter signed ‘happy valentines day, sweetheart. love, penny xx’. 

oh my god, you could kiss her. 

“it's like christmas,” emily muses from the other end of the table. you hear jj mutter something in agreement. you peek over at spencer, it's probably the hundredth time that you've snuck a glance his way. his eyes were already on you every other time, only now they were accompanied by a pair of red heart-shaped glasses, the clear plastic lenses offering a perfect view of his hazel orbs. the picture makes you laugh to yourself, you can barely hear it echoing from his end. 

-

about 30 minutes later, only the stragglers are left. in better words, the single people. the individuals with partners having rushed off to their own respective plans. you're making small talk with another girl who worked around the office when you feel a light hand on your shoulder, spencer nodding his head toward the elevator to signal your leave. you politely wish her goodbye and walk out with him. 

“cute glasses,” you tease, bumping his shoulder with yours, though the height difference makes it so you're nudging his upper arm. 

“yeah? i might get the lenses medicated, switch them out for my regular ones,” he jokes, his elbow nudging yours gently as he pushes the bridge of the glasses up the slope of his nose instinctively. 

“good idea,” you nod.

“you think?”

“mhm.” 

once again, he beats you to your bag, swiping it from your chair and carrying it along with his own. you meekly toy with the hem of your shirt as the two of you walk to the elevator. 

“so, bummer that neither of us have plans today. it’s so early,” you say, being blatantly obvious with what you're suggesting.

spencer only offers you an indifferent “yeah, bummer” in response, walking in when the doors slide open. when you look at him though, he's anything but indifferent, the corner of his lip pulling up in a crooked smile, irritatingly smug. you don't know where he gets off on being so at ease but the expression on his face makes you scowl as you follow him in. 

he is silent the whole ride down. you become increasingly annoyed, only faltering slightly when his hand reaches down to hold yours. his fingers thread between yours and you not-so subtly curl yours over his, ignoring the way he looks down at you. 

you try not to smile at the domestic picture of the two of you walking out hand in hand. thankfully the basement is empty. he pauses between your cars and mutters a quick “see you monday” before loosening his fingers and turning to walk away.

“spencer,” you groan, almost a whine as you squeeze his hand before he can let go.

he responds immediately, without missing a beat, “yes, angel.”

fuck.

you want to melt but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction. “would you like to do something tonight?” you grit out begrudgingly.

“i would love to,” he agrees, pulling you closer with your hand. your gaze darts to the two bag straps on his shoulder and you realise he had no intention of letting you go just like that. so you shove him, a little hard that he stumbles a bit. he huffs a laugh and you shake your head dismissively. 

he slowly, tentatively, dips down to press a soft kiss to your cheek. your eyes flutter shut at the contact. 

“how does thai food sound?” he asks, that same bashfulness creeping into his voice that you love so dearly. 

“sounds perfect.”

you share another sweet smile that would probably make you gag from an outside perspective but now it just makes you feel dizzy. he leads you back to his car, muttering something about how he’ll pick yours up tomorrow morning. you want to argue with him but that same dizzy feeling stops you.

you can't help the dreamy sigh that slips out when he connects your hands again over the centre console. thank god for st. valentine, you think.

reblogs and replies are appreciated :) | m.list

im still taking more requests for the event so send them in!!

divider from @saradika-graphics

[minswriting]

dacryphilia with early seasons spencer?? also I love your work

nsfw | mdni | spencer reid x reader | dacryphilia (taking pleasure from someone crying), sub!spencer, riding

spencer was truly the prettiest person you’d ever laid eyes upon. with his beautifully sculpted face, to his gorgeous lips, to the innocent doe brown eyes, he was the embodiment of beauty. he was even prettier than he cried.

spencer was sat at his desk chair in his room while you were on his lap, riding his cock slowly and teasingly. spencer’s hands were on your hips while your hands rested on his shoulders. your cunt clenched around spencer’s cock so perfectly. you were so tight and wet. spencer felt every movement so vividly. he was so sensitive and he adored how great you felt.

he couldn’t help the welling of tears in his eyes as he relished in the pleasure of your cunt. you just felt so good and he was overly sensitive. “a-ah,” he moaned, his bottom lip jutting out as he teared up.

you frowned for a moment, noticing as a tear escaped spencer’s eye. you stopped your movements, causing spencer to whine in protest. “baby,” you said, bringing a hand to spencer’s cheek and wiping the tear. “what’s wrong?” your voice tender as you spoke, concerned about spencer.

spencer shook his head, trying to move his hips as a signal he wanted to keep going. “i-it feels so good,” he whined, letting out a small sob. “please, please please.”

“do you want me to keep going?”

spencer nodded his head enthusiastically, bucking his hips into you.

and so you complied. you began riding spencer again, allowing him to feel his feelings. as you rode him, you kissed his tear-stained cheeks. you clenched around his cock, causing spencer to let out a pathetic sob of pleasure. “so good, so good, so good,” he babbled tearfully.

after that, you thoroughly enjoyed seeing spencer cry during sex.

[reidsmanuscript]

Profiler, profiled.

Summary: When the past creeps up, more vivid and dangerous than ever, at the same time that the attraction becomes undeniable—and so do the mistakes. Pairing: Spencer Reid x lawyer!reader Genre: mutual pinning but painful, angst. wc: 7.3k! TW: Profiler, profiled canons! so Child abuse (implied and discussed), Sexual abuse, Framing/wrongful accusation, Police misconduct, Violence, mentions of traumatic readers' past!, female rage, violent thoughts. not proofread yet A/N: SO EXCITED FOR THIS ONE, this is my take on soulmates, thank u for all the feedback/support btw, really mindblowing <3 part I - part II - part III - part IV

　　　　 　　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Something as routine and comforting as traveling to your hometown for your mom’s birthday can go wrong in an instant—sometimes, all it takes is a single moment of doubt. Unfortunately for Derek Morgan, it was the absence of doubt that could become his sentence.

Hotch was notified, as per FBI protocol, that one of his agents had been arrested as a homicide suspect. Maybe it was the fact that he knew Morgan wasn’t capable of something like that—he had been a prosecutor before joining the Academy, after all. As his boss, he refused to believe it. But as his friend, he knew that the smartest move—the one most people failed to make—was calling a lawyer.

The problem? Morgan didn’t have one.

The Bureau’s legal counsel wouldn’t intervene in a case where one of their own was being charged. It had to be someone who knew him, someone who would believe in him.

There was only one person who fit that description.

A.D.A. Woodvale.

So, after issuing an emergency recall for Reid, Prentiss, Jareau, Garcia, and Rossi—Hotch called you.

　　 　　　       .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

One thing some victims, or their families, do after the person who ruined their lives is convicted is express gratitude. Sometimes immensely, sometimes barely—especially when the verdict isn’t what they had hoped for.

Still, they are grateful for your time and commitment to their pain. That’s why some send gifts like baskets filled with fruit, chocolates, candy, or all three combined. 

You were at your desk, late at night, again, reviewing case files and drafting a legal brief, absorbed in the task at hand. The basket with its chocolates, and cookies remained sitting on a chair near the window, quietly out of place among the legal paperwork without any card or name, maybe they forgot to put it or it fell on the way. 

The phone rings, and you answer immediately, announcing yourself. When the voice on the other end speaks your name, you recognize it instantly.

“I’m gonna need your help.” Agent Hotchner.

You straighten your back. “What is it? A warrant? It’s going to be hard at t—”

He cuts you off. “Morgan is in trouble.” That was enough to tell you this wasn’t just any ordinary favor.

You hesitate, cautious. “What happened?”

“He was arrested as a suspect in a homicide in Chicago.” Morgan? Homicide? For a moment, you’re ready to refuse—this isn’t your field. You put people in jail, not get them out. But then you remember—he saved your life over a year ago. And the weight of that debt settles heavily on your shoulders.

“Hotch, I... What do you want me to do? I don’t have connections there. Maybe I could talk to—”

He interrupts again. “He’s going to need a good lawyer. I know this isn’t what you do, but you know him. You know he’s not capable of something like that.” There’s a brief silence as you weigh your options, considering your next move.

"The jet takes off first thing tomorrow morning," he says, giving you an out—leaving the decision in your hands.

You exhale, and resolve settling in. "Send me the details. I’ll be there."

　　 　　　       .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

As you stepped onto the jet, you spotted Hotch already seated alone. Without hesitation, you slid into the seat across from him, greeting him with a quiet nod, your back turned toward the entrance.

One by one, the rest of the BAU arrived, offering you brief acknowledgments as they settled in. When Reid stepped onto the jet, he barely glanced up—until he caught sight of the back of your head. He hesitated for just a second before moving to a seat diagonal from yours.

Hotch quickly explained that you were joining them to assist Morgan as his defense counsel. The weight of the situation settled over the jet, unspoken but palpable. You noticed it in the way the air felt heavier, in the subtle shifts of the team’s expressions, like how Prentiss shifted in her seat or the way Reid’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Since the Katie Jacobs case, he wouldn’t call it an obsession—that would be an exaggeration, and his mind rejected the idea of something so unscientific, but a fixation? Perhaps. There was something about you that tugged at the edges of his thoughts more often than he liked to admit. His memories of your first meeting were frustratingly blurred, dulled by the lingering fog of withdrawal, but he remembered enough. The way you carried yourself—composed, sharp, unreadable. The precision of your movements, deliberate in a way that suggested control rather than ease. The way your voice stayed measured even when you were angry, like someone who had learned to sharpen their words into weapons rather than waste them on emotion. And your eyes—steady, assessing, like you were always five steps ahead in a game only you could see.

Did you ever place two magnets next to each other and test how close they could be without touching? If they would repel or attract?

Magnets could only get so close before they either locked together or violently repelled each other. If their north poles faced one another—mirrors of the same force—they would push apart, unable to exist in such perfect reflection. But if one turned, aligning its south to the other’s north, the pull would be instant, inevitable.

That was a physicist's way of explaining why, the moment you caught him in the corner of your vision, you noted how his hair was longer than before, tucked behind his ears; how his fingers brushed over the pages of a book, a well-worn paperback pulled from his bag. Crime and Punishment. The same one you had almost mistaken for yours once. North. North.

But now, seeing it again, you wondered—what did he think about Raskolnikov’s theory of extraordinary men? Did he believe true morality could be measured mathematically, the way Raskolnikov tried to justify his crime with cold logic? Or did he see through it, past the numbers, past the equations, past the desperate rationalizations of a man trying to convince himself he was above consequence?

And what would he think about your take on it? That a man was either a fool for failing to control himself or a coward for refusing to own what he had done? Either way you just wanted to know his opinion. North. South.

You were just about to ask him when JJ spoke up. “I don’t understand. Can you even represent Morgan if you’re an A.D.A.? Wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest?”

It was a fair question, one you had asked yourself last night before finding a loophole.

You let out a slow breath, considering. "Technically, I’m not Morgan’s lawyer—he hasn’t called me personally to represent him. And I wouldn’t be joining you as his defense attorney… officially." You glanced at Hotch. "Prosecutors consult on defense cases all the time—off the record. I’m not filing any motions, I’m not putting my name on anything. I’m just… advising."

Prentiss raised an eyebrow. "Advising?"

You exhaled, running a hand through your hair. "I can’t officially defend him, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help. And the police don't need to know every detail about that."

Hotch gave a small nod. "That keeps you in the clear. No official involvement, no risk to your career."

Reid, who had been silent, finally spoke. "But what happens if they’ve already decided Morgan is guilty?"

Your jaw tightened, but Rossi answers first "Then that’s where we come in. We find out who’s setting Morgan up—and we make sure they don’t get away with it."

　　 　　　       .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

As you arrived at the police station, you hung back from the group, not wanting to interfere with the BAU’s process. But when Detective Dennison refused to take Hotch to see Morgan, you decided you wouldn’t stand by quietly anymore.

You stepped forward, standing next to Hotch. “Are you going to take us to see Derek Morgan, or not, Detective?”

He glanced at you as though he didn’t understand the urgency. “Detective Gordinski's in with the suspect now”

“Now is when we need to see him.” you shot back.

“Excuse me?” he started to respond, but Hotch cut him off.

“I have your superintendent's personal cell number,” Hotch said calmly. “And, in the interest of not running roughshod over another police agency, I’ve resisted calling him so far. We need to see Agent Morgan now.”

You couldn’t help but think how Hotch was finally getting some work done.

The detective nodded and, after disappearing into a room, came back with another man. Detective Gordinski, you assumed. It was something you were used to, this unspoken assumption that you were a junior, a minor player in the room, because of your age. It happened often when older men met you—defense attorneys, paralegals, specialists, and even police officers. They assumed you were less than you were. Gordinski was no different. When he approached you, he only offered his hand to Hotch.

“Detective Gordinski, CPD,” he said, as if you weren’t standing right there.

Hotch didn’t seem to notice the slight. “You think an FBI agent, a BAU profiler, committed a homicide?”

Gordinski answered with a level of pride that made your stomach turn. “Actually, three homicides at least, over 15 years.”

You heard JJ and Reid protest, both equally shocked by his ridiculous statement. And the way Gordinski spoke, as though the case was already closed, irritated you. “Has he been charged with anything?”

“I’ve got 72 hours for that,” he replied, clearly still lacking sufficient evidence.

“We’d like to see him,” you said, your tone final. He hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly agreed as Denninson took you and Hotch to see Morgan.

As you entered the interrogation room, you found him in a sort of trance, staring at a photograph in his hands. When he finally looked up, there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“You okay?” you asked, aware of the detective’s overbearing presence in the room.

Morgan exhaled sharply, turning the photo toward you. “This kid—I was with him yesterday.”

“So?” Hotch prompted.

Morgan shook his head, his voice tight. “So, he’s dead. I drove him home, Hotch, and Gordinski’s saying I was the last person seen with him.” His gaze flickered between the two of you, frustration and disbelief written all over his face.

You didn’t need to analyze the detective’s stance to know he had already made up his mind—his persistence was nothing more than a show, an act to reinforce a conclusion he had already reached. But the look in Morgan’s eyes told you everything you needed to know. He cared about that kid.

Turning to the detective, you asked smoothly, “Is there a more private place where I can speak with my client?”

The man hesitated, taken aback. Up until this moment, you hadn’t explicitly stated that you weren’t an agent. His expression tightened. “I’m afraid we don’t have another space for you and the suspect,” he replied with a forced smile.

You returned his look with a cool, unwavering stare. “You do know that any conversation between me and him falls under lawyer-client privilege, right?”

His mouth opened in protest, but you didn’t give him the chance.

“And denying us the proper privacy means that any so-called evidence you think you can get from this interrogation would be inadmissible in court. Not to mention, it’s a direct violation of SSA Morgan’s constitutional rights.” Your tone remained calm, professional—not threatening. Not yet.

The detective narrowed his eyes but gave a short, forced nod, his polite smile not reaching them. “I’ll see what we can do.”

That was code for We’re not doing a damn thing, but we’ll make this as difficult as possible.

Fine. You’d play their game. But first, you needed to find out exactly what they had on Morgan—and fast.

As you step outside, a harsh voice—too raspy and loud for your liking—carries through the room, discussing evidence. You stay quiet, listening. Being on the other side of the law feels strange, but it’s not difficult. If you know how to prosecute, you know the tricks and games cops play. And if you know your opponent's strategy, it’s easier to disarm them and lead them where you want.

The detective asks Rossi if he’s Agent Gideon, and when the detective explains he was the one who sent the profile that led them to Morgan, you curse Gideon internally. First Reid, now Morgan. 

"It also said the way the body was placed gently on a mattress, not just tossed on the ground, indicated someone who was probably consumed with guilt, especially for the first victim. The exact words are—'with a guilt-ridden offender,' the BAU postulates the first victim is the most important and the unsub may still visit the place of the crime or even the victim himself.'"

Gordinski’s voice drips with conviction. "Care to guess who visits my first victim every time he's in town?"

You notice Reid glance at you, but you keep your focus on the detective, listening carefully as he continues. 

"Then yesterday, another kid ends up dead, and the last person he was with was Derek Morgan. In the boy's pocket, we found one of his FBI business cards, his cell number written on the back. In fact, every time Morgan's in town, he hangs out with kids."

JJ calls it a coincidence.

"A hell of a lot of coincidences," Gordinski retorts.

“I prefer the term 'circumstantial'” you say from the back of the room.

Gordinski turns, sizing you up with an incredulous look—too young, maybe too idealistic. "And you are?"

"Derek Morgan’s attorney." There was no reason to hide anymore, you didn't bother offering your hand.

Gordinski barely reacts before flipping open a file. "Did I mention that your client found the body in 1991? Hidden way back in a vacant lot. Now, don’t they teach you that when a body is hard to find, the person who finds it is always a suspect?"

You do the math quickly, Morgan would have been too young.

And you feel like Reid reads your thoughts when he answers. "There are key pieces of the profile that don't fit, Detective. The age—25 to 35—Morgan was 15 at the time."

"Profile Also says that age is the hardest to predict, and I should never exclude someone simply because of a discrepancy with the age." Gordinski is grasping now, trying to force the facts to fit.

Prentiss speaks up. "What about the speculation that since he didn't leave any evidence at the crime scene, he's likely to have a criminal record or law enforcement knowledge?"

"He may not have had knowledge of law enforcement, but Derek Morgan definitely had a criminal record." He tosses a file onto the table. You open it, scanning the contents. Resisting arrest. Vandalism. Aggravated battery. You inhale deeply.

"So he was a troubled kid, not a murderer. What kind of 15-year-old kills another boy, then deliberately stages the body just to make sure he’s the one to 'find' it?" Your voice is sharp, challenging him to walk into your tramp.

Gordinski smirks. "I’m sure you know psychopaths are very smart people, Miss."

Bingo.

You tilt your head. "So, is Morgan a psychopath? A guilt-ridden killer? Or an FBI agent dumb enough to leave his own business card at the crime scene? Because he can’t be all three, and right now you're contradicting yourself, Detective."

The room is silent for a beat. Gordinski clenches his jaw, his grip tightening on the file in his hands. He glares at you like you are his personal enemy.

You don’t give him time to recover. "You're reaching. And I think you know it." you say as you leave the room to look for your client.

And if Reid hadn’t been so mesmerized with the way you had subtly guided Gordinski, he might have given in to the impulse he had to correct him when he addressed you as Miss and not Counselor. 

　　 　　　       .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　

Rossi had sent Prentiss and Reid to Morgan’s house to investigate, while you stayed to ensure none of the Detectives would do something sketchy with the proofs.　　

Maybe it was the PTSD Dr. Fitzgerald diagnosed you with when you were 11, but the moment Carl Buford entered the room, something felt off. It wasn’t obvious, more like a second nature—a survival instinct that had been honed over the years. You weren’t always right, of course. You’d had a few false alarms before, but this time, something in the air shifted. It wasn’t in his appearance or his words; it was in the way he presented himself—as someone kind, someone willing to help, harmless. But it triggered something in you. The sirens in your brain went on, even if they were faint, too faint to be taken seriously but still enough to be annoying.

Reid had just returned from Morgan’s house when he saw you standing by the board, JJ on the phone and Rossi talking to you. He noticed how you discreetly stifled a yawn, and it hit him—it was nearly evening. The Cheetos packet that probably belonged to JJ and the half-eaten cheese sandwich from Rossi were the only signs of food nearby. It dawned on him that you likely hadn’t eaten all day.

He didn’t want to be the kind of person who overcompensated in an obvious way, but seeing you like this stirred something in him. It reminded him of the last time he saw you at the mall, how you’d instinctively avoided him, as if you couldn’t stand being around him for more than a few seconds. The longest you’d managed to stay in the same spot was 8.12 seconds.

That had been the last time, though. Now, things felt different. You were talking to Rossi when Reid approached and offered coffee to everyone. You could tell he was overcompensating—or at least, that’s what you assumed.

Then again, maybe you were reading too much into the moment when he’d slightly quickened his pace as you all entered the police station, holding the door open for everyone. Or maybe he was just anxious about his friend and eager to get inside quickly.

Or when you were rummaging through your bag for a pen, and he handed you one without hesitation. It could have been just a simple gesture, a convenient moment. But you couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to it—if he was trying to do something, anything, to bridge the gap between you.

You felt stupid for liking his gestures, for craving his attention. That’s why you said yes when he offered the coffee—because you couldn’t help it.

And he was happy to do it. He put special care into preparing your cup, even though he hadn’t asked how you took your coffee. Statistically speaking, most people put about two teaspoons of sugar in their coffee, but he didn’t know what you preferred. Maybe you liked it with even more sugar than that, just like he did. Maybe you didn’t use sugar at all, maybe you used honey.

He caught himself before he poured too much, measuring out what he assumed was the “average” amount, then handed it to you with a small, careful smile. There was a brief moment when your fingers brushed, and maybe his lingered for a second longer than necessary.

But when you took a sip, it hit you. The sweetness of the sugar was overwhelming, and the unexplainable presence of Carl Buford seemed to crawl into your mind, making it worse. It was your fault for not telling him no sugar. Your hand froze for a moment as you fought to swallow, your fingers tightening slightly around the cup.

Reid noticed. He saw how you stiffened, how your grip on the cup tightened, and he assumed he’d gotten it wrong. Maybe you didn’t like sugar in your coffee, or maybe you just didn’t like it at all. He felt a pang of regret, thinking he’d misread the situation. He wasn’t sure why, but for a moment, he wondered if he was always this wrong about you. North. North.

You didn’t want to overreact or be rude, so you quickly excused yourself to the bathroom, needing a moment to splash some water on your face and steady yourself. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, silently telling yourself to calm down.

Maybe you were overreacting to Buford. But that thought was short-lived. The moment Hotch and JJ entered the room and she began speaking, confirming what you had already sensed, everything inside you seemed to crack. Carl Buford—the man who was fervently helping the police catch Morgan, was the same one who had written a letter to clear his record. The contradiction hit you like a punch to the gut, and you couldn’t shake the sound of the sirens growing.

You followed Hotch as he approached the interrogation room, your mind racing with the unsettling sense you couldn’t shake. You didn’t even notice Reid following behind you, keeping a respectful distance. Hotch entered the room, and the questioning began.

"Carl Buford." Morgan’s voice was tight, his shoulders tensing at the name. He stood up from the table where his arms had been resting. "What?"

"Carl Buford. He runs the youth center." Hotch's voice was calm, measured, but you could feel the pressure building behind it. From the other side of the glass, you stood in front of the glass, only for a moment, before Reid joined you at a respectful distance.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Morgan's tone was dismissive, brushing off the mention of Buford like the idea of talking about him was unbearable.

"He's responsible for getting your records expunged." The words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate. Maybe it was the steady presence of Reid beside you that kept you grounded, or maybe it was that something about Buford just didn’t sit right with you. The sirens in your head grew louder.

"I told you to stay the hell out of my business." Morgan’s voice rose, defensive, but not with rage—more like a wounded animal cornered by a predator.

"You said you visit the youth center every time you come here," Hotch pressed, not backing down.

"So what?" Morgan spat out the words like they were poison.

"Buford says he hasn't spoken to you in years. Why don’t you visit the man who made your career possible?"

"Damn you, Hotch." Morgan’s fist slammed onto the table as he stood up, knocking the box over in frustration. That was when you knew. The sirens in your brain were deafening now—loud enough to drown everything else out, and you couldn’t ignore it.

The sickness in your stomach was undeniable. You swallowed it down, fighting the urge to leave, but your instincts were already pushing you forward. You grabbed the door handle, taking one last breath before entering.

"Agent Hotchner, I would like to speak to my client." When Hotch didn’t move, still focused on Morgan, you added, "Now."

With a quiet but firm nod, Hotch left the room, his stoic expression unchanged. You sat down in the chair, your mind racing even faster. If you wanted Morgan to trust you—if you wanted to get through to him—you had to give him something first.

“Aren’t you supposed to be defending me? Looking for a way to get me out of here?” he snapped.

“I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me, Derek.”

“I am being honest. I didn’t kill those kids! He has nothing to do with this!”

“Then why is he so eager to help the police?” you shot back.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything—just glared at you, jaw clenched, shoulders tense. You recognized that look. It was the look of someone who had learned, maybe too many times, that the world didn’t always care about the truth.

"Derek I can't do much if you don't trust me." You say as calmly as you can.

Morgan let out a humorless chuckle. “Trust you?” he said, shaking his head. “I barely know you.”

You leaned back slightly in your chair, eyes flickering over him. That’s fair. Trust wasn’t something that could be commanded, especially not in a place like this.

But you also knew what it was like to sit on the wrong side of an interrogation table. To have someone who was supposed to protect you look at you like you were already guilty. To feel like the walls were closing in, no matter how much truth you were screaming.

You swallowed, forcing the memories down before they could surface. If you wanted Morgan to trust you, you had to give him something first.

“Derek… I’m on your side, whether you believe it or not. Not because I owe you one, but because I can recognize someone whose trust was betrayed by the person who was supposed to protect them.” That made him look at you—really look at you. And you hated it. Hated the way he was seeing straight through you.

Being read, being seen—that wasn’t something you allowed often. But Morgan had spent his life reading people, understanding them, profiling them to find the truth. And you had spent your life sharpening your edges, and weaponizing strategically everything you didn’t like. But right now, you were offering him a piece of yours.

You took a slow, measured breath, and even though the room felt too warm, you forced yourself to keep going.

“My parents… my birth parents ran a meth lab in the kitchen,” you said, voice steady, though your hands curled into fists beneath the table. “When I was four, it exploded. I was sent to the hospital with burns, malnutrition, and withdrawal symptoms I didn’t understand. That was the first time CPS got involved. They put me in the system.”

Morgan’s expression didn’t shift, but you saw something flicker behind his eyes. Recognition.

“And if you know anything about the system, you know it’s broken. It fails. It doesn’t protect the people who need it the most,” you continued, your voice steady, but your chest felt tight. “There are cracks in it, and some people…take advantage of that. They play the part, they act like saviors, they pretend to care.” Your voice caught, just for a second. But you forced yourself to push through it. “I know men like Carl Buford. I grew up with one of them.”

Morgan’s jaw tightened. That name—Buford—hit the air like a hammer. You weren’t just asking for trust. You were offering something real. Something raw.

His fingers curled into fists on the table, and for a second, he looked away, shaking his head like he was trying to push a memory aside. But he didn’t deny it. Didn’t challenge you. Because he knew.

“And what happened?” he asked, voice lower now, controlled but heavy.

You exhaled sharply. “I clawed my way out, just like you did, got adopted when I was 8. And when I had the chance, I became the system—to change it the only way it’s possible, from the inside out.”

Morgan let the silence stretch, studying you, his fingers tapping once against the cold metal table. Finally, he let out a breath, something almost like defeat but not quite. “So what now?”

“Now,” you said, straightening, “We stop playing defense.”

　　 　　　       .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

You stepped out of the room, and though the tremor in your hands had subsided, the warmth lingering on your back remained. Scanning the precinct, your gaze locked onto the person you were looking for—Gordinski.

You strode toward him, your pace sharp, your voice sharper. “Are you going to charge my client with something, or are you just going to keep stalling?”

He smirked, relishing the frustration in your tone. “Miss Woodvale.” The mockery in his voice was deliberate, savoring the way your desperation bled through. “I still have over 40 hours to hold your client as a suspect.”

“Have you found any new evidence? Because all you have is a questionable profile and circumstantial evidence.” You leaned in slightly, wanting to get under his skin. 

“We have motive.” He said it like it was a trophy, something definitive, something final.

You let out a short, dry laugh. “No, you have a grudge. There’s a difference, and if you don’t know it, the jury won’t buy it.” You’d seen stronger cases collapse under weaker arguments.

His jaw tensed as he looked down at you, exhaling through his nose like you were an inconvenience. “Look, we have three dead kids and a family that wants closure. We’re just doing our job.”

You knew it was a low blow. You knew it was too much.

“Oh yeah? I wonder where I’ve heard that before?”

That was exactly why you said it.

Gordinski’s expression twisted as realization struck. One of the other detectives snapped at you, voices rising, the BAU stiffened, and you could already see Hotch preparing to apologize—everything was escalating.

Then— “Hey! What, did we turn him loose?”

The tension shifted. The detectives forgot your words in an instant, all eyes snapping to the officer outside the holding room—where Morgan had been.

Chaos erupted. Gordinski bolted toward the room, Dennison scrambled to dispatch patrols, Prentiss and JJ exchanged alarmed glances.

And that’s when you slipped away. Nobody noticed… Well nobody except Reid. He always had an eye on you, even from a distance.

　　 　　　       .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

The air was cold, and in the rush of the moment, you’d forgotten to grab your coat. But in some strange way, you were grateful for it—the chill seemed to cool the simmering anger that was creeping through your veins as you headed toward the community center.

Morgan walked beside you, leading the way. You kept your head low, ducking behind columns to avoid the patrols that were probably looking for you. The familiar sensation of hiding felt strangely nostalgic—if you closed your eyes, you could almost imagine the cup of coffee in your hand as you walked through the campus at Harvard.

After ten minutes, you spotted a small field with the lights still on. A kid was out there, playing football by himself. Morgan moved closer to him.

“Lookin' good there, kid.”

You stayed a few feet behind, not wanting to interfere.

“I was tryin' to call you.” The kid stopped running and looked at Morgan.

“I’m here now.” Morgan spread his arms, inviting and friendly.

“Who’s that?” The kid glanced at you quickly, signaling toward you with a tilt of his chin. Unable to stay hidden any longer, you stepped onto the field and leaned back against the fencing, crossing your arms.

“Someone I trust. One of mine.” Morgan’s bold words were enough to drop the kid’s defenses.

You stayed silent, as invisible as you could be, observing how the kid tensed and relaxed automatically when Morgan mentioned needing to talk about Buford. You never thought you were good with kids—didn’t know how to act around them without overthinking, constantly looking for signs and flaws.

The more they talked, the more Derek described Buford’s manipulative ways, using his influence to make kids trust him only to exploit that trust, the more the freezing air of Chicago couldn’t keep the heat from rising inside you. Your hands curled into fists, squeezing your sides, wrinkling your shirt.

There were so many sick ways people used to reward or control others. Buford used alcohol and false bonds to make kids feel like adults, while others used toys or candy.

“My oldest brother’s in jail. My sister was paralyzed in a drive-by... She’s eight years old, and I’m all my mom’s got left. I gotta get us outta here.”

No kid should ever carry that kind of weight. No child should feel like enduring abuse is the only way out.

“Carl’s gonna make sure I get into college. Then I can make something of myself.” The gratitude in his voice was painful—the twisted sense of owing someone everything for their attention, their gifts.

You closed your eyes and looked up at the sky, trying to keep yourself from walking into the building alone and finishing whatever it was you had come here to do.

“James, you are something, man. You’re something right here, right now, without Carl Buford.” Morgan’s words hit you hard. He was right. James was someone. He was someone. You were someone, too. Despite everything, you were still breathing, still standing.

A tiny part of yourself felt grateful when you heard James had told Damien about what he was going through, that he had been brave enough to speak up and look for someone who would believe him and would do something about it. Damien knew. Morgan connected the same dots and realized who was staging the whole thing up.

Carl. Motherfucker. Buford.

Derek eventually finished talking to the kid and motioned for you to follow him. You didn’t know what his next move was, but you were backing him up. “Derek?”

He turned to look at you. “Yeah?”

“Whatever you want to do, I have your back.” You knew he saw it in your eyes—an intense, boiling rage that had driven you to places both good and bad. He knew that whatever he was going to do next, you wouldn’t stop him or doubt him.

　　 　　　       .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

He gave you instructions on how to get through the back door of the office. But when you got there, Morgan was already calling him out.

“All these years, I kept my mouth shut. I let you go on being a hero. Carl Buford, my mentor.”

Buford’s back was toward you, and the more he talked, the more the air seemed to thicken with the heat of your rage. Your vision narrowed, blurred at the edges with red. A man. No—a monster. A predator who walked free for far too long, spinning his web of lies, manipulating, violating, ruining.

And he had the audacity to deny it. The smugness in his voice. The complete absence of remorse.

“Whatever lies James told you…” he said so easily, as if that erased the truth. As if that rewrote history.

Your hands clenched so hard they ached. How many lives had he destroyed? How many boys had suffered under his hands? You had seen men like him before—hell, you had been a child under the power of a man like him once. The weight of their hands. The control they wielded. The false kindness that masked something vile.

Your stomach twisted violently as you took in the sight of his office. The trophies. Row after row of gleaming gold, polished plaques. A shrine to his own ego. A testament to the world that this man was trusted, respected, celebrated.

And then you saw it. Dr. Or you think you did

The word burned itself into your mind like a scar. Dr. Calloway. It wasn’t his name, but your hands trembled anyway, your breath coming fast and ragged, and the sirens grew louder and louder. Was it the name? Was it the way the gold glinted under the dim light? Or was it just the overwhelming wrongness of all of this? 

Buford was still talking. Still spewing poison.

“How many lives have I provided? Look at you. You’d probably be dead by now.”

Lives.

Lives he had ruined.

Lives you could still save.

Your fingers curled around the base of a trophy—a heavy one, sharp at the edges. You barely registered the name engraved on it as your grip tightened, your knuckles going white.

For a split second, your mind whispered, Do it. The same one that had accompanied you in moments where you couldn’t move. Moments when your body wouldn’t answer to your orders. The voice of that version of yourself that would unleash violence. Do. It.

But then—Morgan. This wasn’t your moment. This wasn’t your fight.

But if he wanted to tear this office apart, you would hand him every single thing worth breaking. You would burn it to the ground and stand there, just to watch Buford scream as the flames took him.

Morgan’s voice cut through the storm inside your head.

“Actually, I’m saying you have everything to do with making me who I am.”

And so did you. Because this rage—this blistering, all-consuming, blood-boiling rage—was just another scar left by men like him. Men who stole, who twisted, who took and took and took until all that was left was ruin.

The sirens in your mind screamed. The voices clawed at your skull, howling for justice, for vengeance, for something more than just words, more than just silence.

Just like the ghosts of the past. Just like the hands of the past. Just like Calloway in the past. In the present.

Calloway. Buford.

"I never hurt you. You could have said no.”

Your grip on the trophy tightened, the sharp edges digging into your palm, but you barely felt the sting. All you saw was red. All you felt was fire.

"You're under arrest, Carl." The words cut through the haze, sharp and final.

Buford barely had time to react before the officers stepped in, twisting his arms behind his back, snapping cold metal around his wrists. He said something—denial, excuses, more of the same filth that men like him always spewed—but it didn’t matter.

It was over.

The red began to fade. The fire inside you simmered, but the embers still burned low, smoldering beneath your ribs. Your breath came in sharp, uneven pulls as you unclenched your fist. The trophy slipped from your fingers, clattering against the floor with a hollow, metallic thud.

Morgan was still staring at Buford, his jaw tight, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

For a moment, you wondered if he felt it too—that same bone-deep ache, the need to destroy, to make it right in ways the law never could. But then he inhaled, long and slow, and you forced yourself to do the same.

He saw the trophy in your hand, and you expected to find judgmental eyes—eyes that would look at you like you were dangerous, like you had lost control, like you were no better than the man they were dragging away in cuffs.

But there was no judgment in Morgan’s gaze. Just understanding. Maybe even something closer to recognition.

Your fingers trembled around the trophy, your pulse still hammering in your ears, but you couldn’t let go. Not yet. The weight of it felt good in your grip, solid and real. It would’ve been so easy—so easy—to swing, to carve your fury into something tangible.

He must’ve seen it in you. The way your shoulders still heaved, the way your jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

Morgan reached out, slow, steady. Not to stop you. Not to take it away. Just there.

A lifeline, if you wanted it.

You exhaled shakily, then forced your fingers to unclench. The trophy slipped from your grasp, landing with a dull thud against the floor.

Your hands were empty now. But the fire still burned.

　　 　　　       .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

Resting against the wall, breathing heavily, you watched as they took Buford away under your intense gaze. Gordinski approached you.

“Your actions could be taken as obstruction of justice, Counselor,” he said, the sarcasm in your title not going unnoticed.

An old man threatening you, just to scare you and gloat himself, a pathetic move, especially now when there were still remains of the fire, not ashes yet. You sighed, as if too tired to deal with him, not even bothering to look his way. “And what are you going to do? Arrest me?” You finally glanced at him. “I have the General Attorney one phone call away, and I could charge you with misconduct and Sixth Amendment violation, which could dismiss the case you have been working for so long.”

You let the words sink in for a second while he remained serious. “You got your guy Detective. Walk away while you can.” 

Like in chess, any smart player knows when to retreat. He glared at you but ultimately backed off.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Reid watching. For a moment, you couldn’t help but return his stare. But then, lifting your chin, you towards the SUV, ignoring the strange sting of shame, the kind of shame you feel when you want to show the best version of yourself to someone, only to show the worst. It wasn’t the first time you had talked your way out of a charge, but it was the first time you felt ashamed of doing it.

　　 　　　       .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

You and Morgan were the last to board the jet. After last night, you'd talked—just not about the… incident. He'd invited you to the grave of the unidentified child with him and his family, and, for some strange reason, it had brought you a sense of peace. Afterward, you joined the rest of the team on the way home.

You spotted Reid sitting by the window, absorbed in his book. North. South. You weren’t one to judge anyone’s demons, especially when you couldn’t even control your own. Maybe that’s why you sat in front of him. Maybe you were tired of pretending you didn’t want to know what was going on in his head.

When he noticed you, his eyes widened slightly, and his fingers nervously traced the edge of the page. Was this it? Would you confront him? Would he finally have the chance to explain himself?

"Do you think Raskolnikov ever believed he deserved the punishment?" you asked, your voice quiet but firm, meeting his gaze. "Or did he just convince himself he was too special to face it?"

Reid blinked, clearly caught off guard, but after a beat, he answered. "I think Raskolnikov believed he was above it all. That his intelligence and theories made him different. But that’s the tragedy—he never understood that punishment isn’t just about what you deserve. It’s about confronting what you’ve done. The guilt you carry. Sometimes, it’s about having someone who believes in you, even when you can’t believe in yourself." His voice softened with the words, as if careful not to scare you off.

You didn’t break eye contact, letting the weight of his words settle. After a pause, you glanced back down at the book. "Someone like Sonia?"

Reid’s gaze flickered, sensing the shift in the conversation. You weren’t just talking about Raskolnikov anymore. Maybe it was about him. Maybe about you. "Someone like Sonia," he said quietly. "She believed in him, not because he was special, but because she saw his humanity. Sometimes, it’s not about whether someone deserves forgiveness—it’s whether someone else is willing to help them find it."

A quiet tension lifted from your shoulders, and your expression softened, the unspoken understanding between you both almost palpable in the air. North. South.

　　 　　　       .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

By lunchtime the next day, the events of the prior day still gnawed at you. The feeling only worsened when your eyes landed on the basket sitting in the corner of your office—filled with chocolates and candy.

Taking a deep breath, you picked it up and turned to your temporary assistant, a guy covering for Molly while she was on maternity leave. “I’m stepping out for twenty minutes,” you told him.

Basket in hand, your thoughts blurred together as you walked toward the park. It was a familiar refuge, a place where kids and elderly chess players gathered, lost in their games. A little distraction wouldn’t hurt. It would be good for you to clear your mind—and they always appreciated it when you brought baskets like these or treats from your mom’s bakery.

　　　　 　　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　　　 　　 　　 　

So we finally see more of reader's past! been waiting for this since i started drafting the story in my mind. You'll know more the next chapter!　 　　　 Feedback feeds motivation! Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated <3 Tag list: @arialikestea @hellsingalucard18 @pleasantwitchgarden @torturedpoetspsychward @cultish-corner<3

[velvetwilde]

n/a: this is my first time trying to write something and actually posting it, I'm nervous. 

Ps: english is not my first language so bear with me. 

cw- 1187

tw- explicit language

----------- • ୨ ✦ ୧‎ • -----------

Other ways

where spencer is mad at you for ruining one of his favorite books and doesn't want to fuck you.

I was begging him to fuck me. I thought it was silly to have to beg him to take pity on my sweet, needy pussy, I could display myself naked and wet before him and it just wouldn't affect him in the slightest. It was a little humiliating, although I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me hornier. 

He was upset with me, maybe I deserved to be ignored, but come on, it was just a stupid book, I told him I'd buy him another one. He couldn't overdo it and punish me by not fucking me, I needed it.

''You know you can always punish me in other ways, Spencer,'' I whispered in his ear from behind the couch, pressing my tits against his shoulder so he could feel my hard nipples through my shirt. I nearly moaned when I stood in front of him and saw his hard erection inside his pants.

It was unfair that he was still mad at me, he was already hard - my folds were wet, ready for him to fuck me hard, deep and fast. I squeezed my legs tightly, trying to relieve the heat and throbbing of my pussy with the friction, I was so wet I wanted to cry.

I could just push him down onto the couch and sit on top of him. I'd unbutton his pants, gently pull his cock out as I watched his pretty face contort as he tried not to moan from my touch, then I'd fuck myself with his cock, him feeling my tight walls squeezing him deliciously with each deep thrust.

''Spencer, please, I need you'' I begged him. If he asked me to get on my knees and beg him to fuck me I would do it.

 I would pray to God for Spencer to fuck me.

''You’re a little brat always in need of my cock, aren’t you? You can't wait until I stop being upset to ask me to fuck you?" he spat in annoyance. I could see behind his masquerade how he began to give in, how he stretched his legs trying to hide his erection from me, as if he knew that if I saw him give in it was done for him.

''I’ll be good, I’ll buy you a new book… please, there’s no need to keep me in abstinence for a ridiculous book. You know I didn't see you for a whole week'' I begged him, I carefully sat on his lap - I moaned when his hard cock rubbed my wet pussy against my pantie ''come on, you're already hard, I can feel you'' I told him, grinding my hips on his erection, I moaned feeling his hardness rubbing against my sticky pantie ''I need you.''

''You’re really wet'' he said brushing his fingers against my folds, I moaned sighing as his digits pressed hard against my sweet center. ''What am I going to do with you?'' he whispered looking into my eyes

''Stop making me beg for what's mine'' I ground my hips hard on him, I smiled wickedly when I saw him twitch

''You know, you're right- there are other ways to punish you.'' He looked deep into my eyes with a dominant look that I had never seen in him before.

I gasped in shock as I felt his strong hands grab me by the hips and press my face against the couch.

''You know, maybe it's not so bad to give in,'' I heard him say, standing up.

My heart was pounding against my ears, my hips were rocking back and forth, rubbing my pussy against the couch, it felt good. Spencer would finally end my torture and fuck me, I tried to lift my ass in the air but I never saw the strong spank coming that hit my left cheek.

''Oh God!," I moaned in pain, ''Spencer, what are you…'' Another spank, I moaned, but this time I found myself enjoying it.

Spencer noticed it, he leaned over me and said in a deep raspy voice, "You're enjoying it, like a needy little slut." I pressed my ass against his erection, "Walking around in nothing but a t-shirt and panties... begging for my cock, so sweet''

"Come on, I need you" I said breathless

 I heard him unbutton his pants, he grabbed me tightly by the waist and roughly and quickly pulled down my panties, and without any warning he thrusts his whole cock in, making me scream. Spencer didn't even give me time to react when with a powerful push, his tip smashed against my walls so hard that for a moment my vision get blurred.

''Fuck, you're still so tight'' he growled.

''Please…'' I knew he was smiling as he continued to thrust his cock between my folds with deep languid strokes, showing his ability to leave me speechless as I tried to remember what I was going to say.

He continued his assault on my pussy for several more thrusts, making me bite down hard on the sofa cushion. His balls slapped hard against my ass, I could hear the wetness of my fluids and his mixed with the slaps with each thrust.

Spencer stopped moaning and leaned down close to my face, he could hear me gasping for air. I saw him smile powerfully at my weakness. Without stopping fucking me, he turned me around, leaving me exposed to him, he put one of my legs on his shoulder, the new angle made me moan louder, full of pleasure. With the new sensation on my G-spot I began to feel my walls squeezing his cock, making him moan.

I loved watching him fuck me, his abs clenching beneath his shirt with every thrust, his head falling back, making me drool at the sight of his delicious neck. I tried to keep my eyes open, but the second I closed them I felt one of his huge hands wrapping around my neck, forcing me to keep looking at him. It didn't bother me at all.

''Keep looking at me or I'll stop. Do you understand?''

I kept my eyes locked on his, he didn't stop for a moment, in fact, he thrust into me harder, making me scream. After several thrusts against my sweet spot, I screamed his name, tearing my throat out as I felt my walls tighten around his cock; I was about to cum.

Spencer let out a sinful moan that only made me beg for more, just as I felt myself tense up ready to cum, I bit my arm to silence my loud slutty whimpers. 

I felt him tense up and cum hard inside me, I moaned loudly as I felt his cum filling me and dropping over my folds and onto my legs.

I was about to cum too when I felt him completely withdraw his cock from my sensitive and needy pussy, for a moment I thought he would change the position to make me cum harder, but again he surprised me by grabbing me by the neck.

''Yes, there are definitely other ways to punish you,'' he said with a sideways smile, trying not to laugh.

[sweetbuckybarnes]

Crossword Masters

Summary: On their way back from closing a case, Spencer realises he had finished his crossword book. Only to look over the shoulder of BAU member Y/N, and see her playing a crossword game.

809 words

After finally closing a case that took a week in Washington, the BAU were finally on the jet and were making their way back to Quantico.

Hotch was looking over his paperwork, Rossi was reading a book, Morgan had challenged Alex to a game of Poker (with gummy worms being their currency) the pair had encouraged JJ to join. Spencer was finishing his crossword, as Y/N fiddled with her phone.

Y/N had joined the team three months after the sudden death of Spencer's girlfriend Maeve, she was used to Spencer being a little bit standoffish (Alex mentioned it was something to do with her hair or some kind of facial feature she inherited from her parents).

Spencer flipped the page after he finished yet another crossword (it was something he had picked up in the past month in order to quieten his mind).

Instead of being greeted by another crossword, he met the end page and back cover of his book. Damn, it had taken him just under a week to finish this book.

He put the book down on the table and looked over at what the rest of the team was doing. Which is when he noticed the game Y/N was playing.

A crossword game.

He kept watching her as she set letters on a board, Spencer couldn't help but watch her game as points were added and deducted from her final score. How her 'opponent' must be some kind of artificial intelligence, as she completed her game with a score of 120 points to the 'opponent's 66. Spencer watched as she moved onto the next crossword she had to complete in order to unveil some kind of picture that was locked away.

Spencer looked at the crossword over her shoulder, seeing words form in front of him. Much like everything, he couldn't keep a hold of his tongue. "Sues."

Alex glanced over her shoulder at Spencer. She was getting used to Spencer. Y/N looked over at him, raising a single eyebrow and taking an earbud out of her ear. The sound of a pop hit could faintly be heard. "I'm sorry?"

That was one thing about Y/N. She was unbelievably polite. In some aspects, she could put both the British and the Canadians to shame!

Spencer points at her screen. "Indicts. Four letters, it's sues."

Y/N looked down at her phone, which showed she currently has two As, a D, a S, and a C. "Thank you, Reid."

As Y/N progressed through the game, Spencer would sometimes blurt out words for her crossword. "Netting," was one, and "amass," was another.

The two letter word in the bottom corner was bugging him. Good night. How could there be a two letter word for good night.

There is one if you were a late teenager in the early 2000s. "GN, what does that mean?"

"It's text speak. Every teenager and young adult was texting like that in the 90s and early 2000s. You're looking at one of them," Y/N held her hands up in defence.

"I wasn't."

"That's because you're an old grandpa."

Spencer was only three years older than Y/N, but she would always call him a grandpa, especially when he had a full-fledged job and his second PhD underway when she was halfway through college.

Spencer rolls his eyes at Y/N. "There is no way anyone texted like that 10 years ago."

Y/N took that as a challenge, opening her text messages and starting an empty thread (so she doesn't send a random text to someone in her contacts).

Lol, omg wuz gr8 2 c u but gtg ttyl!!!

She turned her screen to face Spencer, and it looked like his brain just broke, simply looking at it. "What is that? Is that even English?"

Y/N burst out laughing. "JJ, can you explain this to Reid?"

JJ took Y/N's phone. Not even a second later. "Laugh out loud, oh my God, great to see you, but go to go, talk to you later," she quickly receited and passed the phone back to Y/N.

"What did he mean by that?"

"Texting was in its early stages in the 90s and early 2000s, so we found a way to adapt. You could only have 160 characters, so you got creative," Y/N tells Spencer. "I once had an ex-boyfriend when I was on Spring Break from College text me J4F and a question mark," Spencer's face was still confused. "Just for fun."

"Essentially, he was asking if I was up..." Y/N trailed off. Spencer blinked. "Sex, he asked if I was awake for sex."

Spencer's eyebrows raised. "That was dating?"

"That was just for hooking up. Dating was a disaster in the 2000s. And it still is now when I think about it..."

[miedei]

sick day

roommate!spencer is sick (and lovely)

a/n: wrote this in a fugue state i think, just couldn't get the thought of being spencer's roommate out of my head

cw: best friends who definitely don't love each other noooo why would you say that, spencer is sick and annoying but also the best

wc: 2k

mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

Living with Spencer Reid is usually wonderful. He’s relatively neat, but messy enough that you don’t have to walk on eggshells around him. He’s always willing to recommend you a new read, he doesn’t judge you when you spend an entire day slumped on the couch, and is always up to help you stress bake. 

It’s decidedly wonderful, until it’s not. A week into your living together, you’d realised what a workaholic he was. After the first time you’d caught him asleep on top of paperwork in the living room, you’d understood how much of a pain Spencer Reid really can be. 

Unfortunately, today is one of those days. Spencer returned from a case last night, and the moment you’d seen the slump in his shoulders, you knew you were going to have to work from home today. 

“You really don’t have to stay home. I don’t even have to stay home! I’m seriously not sick, I swear!” His voice is low, as if attempting to mask the rasp in it. It doesn’t work.

His rambling doesn’t cease, not the entire time you steer him away from the front door and into the living room. 

“Yeah? Spence, do you even remember the last time you got sick? I came home to find you lying on the dining table! I’m not going to leave and come back to you trying to climb out of the window or something.” You deadpan, watching him cross his arm and grumble something about ‘elevating the upper body’, and ‘actually very good for the immune system’. 

Having shoved him not-too-lightly onto the couch, you stand with your arms crossed, eyes narrowed on him.

“I can’t believe you were going to go to work! Living with you is like living with a child sometimes, god. You know you would have been sent home straight away, look at you.” You gesture wildly at him. 

He’s a pathetic sight, curled up on the couch looking distinctly sorry for himself. His hair is limp, flat against his scalp, his weak limbs shoved haphazardly in a button down and slacks. He hasn’t even knotted his tie, leaving it hanging loosely around his neck. 

Grabbing his phone out of his bag, you thrust it towards him. 

“Call your boss and tell him you need a sick day. You said it yourself, it’s just paperwork today, right? You can take a day off once in a while, Spence, it won’t kill you.” Once finished, you stomp out of the room, heading to his bedroom to grab him some clothes. Surveying his closet, you grab one of his Caltech hoodies and a pair of sweatpants, grinning to yourself when you hear his hoarse voice on the phone. 

As you walk back into the living room, he’s settled in, clearly resigned to his fate. 

“Yeah, Hotch, I need the day off. I’m sorry, I’m just- Oh. It’s okay? You’re sure? Um, okay. Thanks Hotch.” He hangs up, his eyebrows pinched as if he’s loath to admit you were right. 

You can’t help it, snickering as you dump the sweats and hoodie on his chest. 

“I told you so.”

“You’re so mean to me.” 

It’s nice, spending a day with Spencer like this, even with how whiny he is. Sitting at the desk in the living room, you’re not being incredibly productive, but Spencer’s fever-induced rambles more than make up for it. 

“So, some moron made a blog called ‘What Would Carl Sagan Do?’, and Garcia - remember her, my coworker? She showed it to me, and oh my god, it’s so ridiculous! I mean, to start, all the entries were lifted from different sci-fi movies and books, and they were all so inaccurate, like, ‘The Martian Chronicles’ were good, but it’s been debunked so many times! Carl Sagan debunked it!”

He’s laying on his back on the couch, slender fingers waving in the air above him, eyes lidded as he speaks animatedly. 

“Yeah? What was wrong about it?” You rise from the desk chair, heading into the kitchen. “Also, do you want tea?”

His voice softens, speaking slower as he answers your question. “Yeah, that black tea you brought home last week, please.”

You can hear the moment he slips back into his rant, words growing more and more spirited as he continues to rail against whatever that blog was. Puttering around the cramped kitchen, you let his words roll over you, balancing two mugs and a plate in your hands. 

He doesn’t stop speaking, but flashes you a grateful smile as he takes a mug from you, swiping a cookie from the plate before delving back into the topic at hand.

“So, Bradbury, and a lot of the other sci-fi writers of the time, believed that colonisation of Mars would be possible within the 20th century. And then, in 1960, Carl Sagan, along with a bunch of other astronomers, discovered that Mars doesn’t have an atmosphere, so humans living there long term is virtually impossible without a huge improvement in technology, which probably won't happen until the latter half of the 21st century. And this moron with a blog is pretending like Sagan wouldn’t care, and that he would advocate for irresponsible space travel and I hate him.” 

He finishes with a huff, taking a large gulp of tea and sitting up against the couch. His eyes are hazy with exhaustion, eyelids drooping as he looks at you. You can’t help but giggle. He looks adorably dishevelled, and his eyebrows pinching together at your laughter only intensifies it.

“What? Why are you laughing?”

“I’m- I’m sorry Spence, you just look really cute right now, like you’re going to fall asleep.” You can barely get it out, body shaking with mirth. His eyebrows furrow further, a slight pout forming on his lips. 

His attempts to get you to stop laughing go unanswered, and he huffs once more, crossing his arms and settling against the couch cushions. 

It’s the late afternoon when a knock on the door stirs you from your reverie. Spencer is sitting next to you, your legs slung over his lap as he leans back, eyes trained on The Fellowship of the Ring on the television as his hands tap out something on your calves. 

“Are you expecting anyone?” He shakes his head no, not averting his gaze from the screen. 

You sigh, jostling his shoulder. 

“Spence. Spence, can you go get the door? It’s probably a salesman or something.” 

He hums, shaking his head once more. 

“Can’t. Too sick.”

You groan, tipping your head back in frustration before hauling yourself off the couch, flicking his shoulder as you walk past.

“You’re infuriating, you know that?” His only response is a grin, before he turns back to the movie. 

Grumbling under your breath, you trudge through the room to the front door, frowning when you look through the peephole to see two figures. 

One is shorter than the other, a woman wearing a hot pink and orange dress that should be garish, but looks completely natural on her. The man next to her is grinning, holding several plastic bags in one hand, the other arm linked with the woman’s. 

Not salesmen. 

Concluding that they’re probably not a threat, you swing the door open, causing their heads to pop up. 

���Hey, Reid- Oh.” The man speaks immediately, but pauses when he sees you. 

“You’re not Reid.” The woman concludes. 

You tilt your head to the side, confused. 

“Yeah, I’m not. Um, how do you know Spencer?” 

They share a confused look.

“We’re his coworkers. Derek and Penelope. Sorry, who are you? Do we have the wrong apartment?” 

You brighten, recognising the names from Spencer’s many stories about work. 

“Oh, that’s who you are! No, you’ve got the right apartment, of course. Come in.” You turn to the side, allowing them to walk in, although their expressions remain bewildered. “I’m Spence’s roommate, Y/N. He’s in the living room.”

“Roommate?” Derek exclaims before setting his sights on Spencer, striding over to him. 

“Hey, pretty boy.” Spencer jolts, the haze of sickness having made sure that he didn’t notice them till now. His voice is higher than normal, squeaky. 

“Morgan! What are you- Garcia? Why- why are you here?” Penelope smiles mischievously, plopping down on the couch next to Spencer. 

“Well, we obviously wanted to check up on you, Boy Wonder. This is the first sick day you’ve taken in the last two years - don’t try to lie to me, I checked - and now, we’re very interested in your friend here.” Her smile loses its teasing edge when she turns to you. 

A grin spreads over your face, recognising the same teasing affection you feel towards him in the two newcomers. Retaking your seat on Spencer’s other side, you pull your feet up on the couch, tucking them under Spencer’s thigh. 

Penelope squeaks quietly, but averts her gaze when you look up at her questioningly. 

“So, you guys have worked with Spence for a while, huh?”

Derek sits in the armchair across from you, chuckling under his breath.

“Since he was 22. Back when he straightened his hair and wore those sweater vests that were three sizes too big.” Spencer lets out a strangled noise of protest next to you, but you both ignore him in favour of continuing your conversation. 

“Seriously? I’ve seen one photo of him back then, but then he started hiding them all from me. You got any?” 

Penelope perks up, pulling out a tablet from her work bag. 

“Yes! Oh my goodness, sweetheart, I have so many. Did you know, he used to do this thing where he would gel his hair back, said it made him look older but it was honestly just really cute, hold on…”

She shifts and moves to sit on your other side, huddling over the tablet with you and Derek. 

Spencer is suddenly left in the lurch, stuck observing the three of you from the other end of the couch. He feels like he should be irritated, angry even, but he can’t do anything but watch, eyes softening. 

“Oh my god, Spencer, you were so cute, what happened?” Never mind, he’s feeling a bit irritated now.

It’s not endearing, no. No matter how lovely you look, your face flushed with excitement. No matter how easily you fit in with some of his favourite people in the world.

It’s not captivating, not at all.

[imreidswifey]

𝐔𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐝 -S.R mini story-

After an exhausting day filled with long meetings, endless paperwork, and a relentless headache, Dr. Spencer Reid returns home drained and tense. But in the quiet sanctuary of the water and your love, he finds something he rarely allows himself—peace.

Story Type: This is a romantic, comforting, and intimate slice-of-life story with fluff, hurt/comfort, and relaxation themes.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The moment Dr. Spencer Reid steps into the quiet sanctuary of his apartment, the weight of the day crashes over him like an unrelenting wave. His limbs feel heavy, his mind sluggish despite the constant hum of thoughts he can never quite turn off. The day had been long—too many meetings, too many crime scene photos, too many hours spent dissecting the darkest corners of the human psyche. His head pounds with a dull, persistent ache, a tension headache clawing at his temples from the sheer effort of staying alert.

He barely registers the sound of soft footsteps approaching until he feels a familiar touch—gentle fingers grazing his wrist, grounding him in the present. Lifting his tired eyes, he finds you standing before him, your gaze soft but knowing, as if you can see right through the carefully constructed walls he’s too exhausted to hold up. You don’t ask him what’s wrong. You don’t have to. The answer is written in the exhausted slump of his shoulders, the way his fingers tremble slightly as they fumble with the knot of his tie.

Without a word, you take his hand, lacing your fingers through his as you lead him down the dimly lit hallway. The scent of lavender and vanilla greets him before he even sees the warm glow flickering from the bathroom. Steam curls in the air, thick and comforting, and the soft glow of candles casts golden light against the tiled walls. The sight alone makes Spencer’s breath hitch in his throat.

“You did this for me?” His voice is hoarse, laced with something fragile—disbelief, maybe. Gratitude. Love.

You smile, squeezing his hand gently. “You need this.”

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t tell you he’s fine, doesn’t insist that he can handle it, because the moment he feels your hands at his tie, loosening it with patient, practiced fingers, he realizes how much he craves this—how much he needs you.

You take your time undressing him, moving with a tenderness that makes his chest ache in the best way. His sweater vest, his button-down, each layer slipping away until he stands before you, bare and vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with nudity. When you step into the tub first, sinking into the warm, soapy water, you open your arms in invitation, and Spencer doesn’t hesitate.

The heat envelops him as he eases in, but it’s your touch that truly soothes him. He settles between your legs, his back pressed against your chest, and the moment your arms wrap around him, he exhales—deep and heavy, as if he’s been holding his breath all day. His head finds the crook of your neck, and he melts, surrendering to the gentle rhythm of your hands massaging slow circles into his tense shoulders.

Neither of you speak. There’s no need for words. The only sounds are the soft drip of water, the occasional flicker of a candle’s flame, and the quiet hum of a melody escaping your lips. It’s familiar, something you’ve sung absentmindedly before, and the sound vibrates against his skin, soothing him in a way nothing else could.

His fingers trail along your arm, a lazy, affectionate caress, as if to remind himself that you’re real, that this moment is real. His body, usually taut with nervous energy, feels weightless in your embrace. It’s a feeling he’s rarely allowed himself—to let go, to be taken care of. But with you, it’s easy. With you, he’s safe.

Spencer tilts his head slightly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, a silent thank-you whispered against damp skin. You respond by brushing your fingers through his curls, the slow, rhythmic touch lulling him further into bliss.

He sighs, his voice barely above a whisper. “I love you.”

Your arms tighten around him, your lips ghosting over the side of his face as you murmur, “I love you too.”

And in that moment, with the warmth of the water, the scent of lavender in the air, and the steady beat of your heart against his back, Spencer allows himself something rare—peace.

[gold-onthe-inside]

pair programming - part ii

navigator

who? spencer reid (s3) x analyst!reader summary: what happens after your roommate and better half is shot on the doorstep of your building by her date. turns out, you're support network seems to have more nodes that you'd thought. content warnings: reference to guns + gunshot injury, surgery, blood word count: 2.1k a/n: realised after writing this that reader has more interactions with everyone on the team than she does with penelope oops

Spencer handed you a cup of tea, sitting down beside you in the hospital waiting room, the rest of the team milling around, waiting for news on Penelope’s surgery. You hadn’t said a word about what happened, the team relying on a police officer and a paramedic’s account while you sat there in catatonic shock, blood staining your white shirt, your hoodie doing more work in hiding it. You could still feel the blood on your hands, stained from pressing down on Penelope’s gunshot wound.

Spencer didn’t know what to do or say, just pressing the warm beverage into your hands, Emily and JJ murmuring in the corner.

“Has anyone told Morgan yet?”

“He isn’t answering the phone.”

“Is she?”

“Still in shock. Hasn’t said a word.”

“And Penelope?”

“All we know is a gunshot wound to the chest, and that they’re operating now.”

Spencer’s eyes are still on you, a shell of yourself, unable to reconcile the person he sees with the person he knows. He knows you deal with threats far greater than the ones they do — they’ve just come back from arresting a cannibal, you prevent military secrets getting out and uncover espionage attempts. But it’s from the safety of a digital interface, the day to day of it so mundane that it makes him want to pull his eyeballs out. Your job doesn’t get you shot. Technically, Penelope’s job shouldn’t have gotten her shot either.

No-one was paying attention to him, or to you, which is why he’s on his knees in front of you, aligning his gaze with yours, and does one of the few things he knows how to do; explaining. He put the tea down on the floor, taking hold of your hands, your eyes distant, your fingers cold. If he couldn’t do anything for Penelope, maybe there was something he could do for you.

“When the brain experiences trauma it has an affect on the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous system.” He said the words quietly, a distraction technique to bring your focus to something, even if it was nothing. “The physiological response is a fight or flight response. When your brain is unable to process the situation, it freezes in an effort to protect your mind and body. You might feel numb, or cry, or rage. You might just sit there, emotionally unable to move. You might dissociate, and feel like nothing around you is real, or that it‘s actually happening to someone else.” He squeezed your hands, hoping for a response. It felt like you weren’t even there.

“I can’t imagine how scared you must be, and I’m not going to try and tell you that everything will be okay, because it may not-,” and he hated saying the words, they felt like a lie in his mouth, but it was the truth “-but whatever happens next, I am here. I won’t leave, not unless you ask me to.”

“I can’t lose her,” you whispered. Thank god, Spencer thought as he looked at you again, and while he knew there wasn’t anything he could say that would make it all better, he also knew that the fact that you were finally verbal was probably a positive. You hadn’t said a word in hours.

“I know,” he said quietly. The team still milled around, waiting, the hospital buzzing with activity, but he felt like the words were just his and yours, the intimacy of the two of you cocooned away from the world.

"I don't..." You struggled to get the words out. "She's all I have." He watched as the tears welled in your eyes, watched as they fell down your cheeks. He wanted to reach out, to brush them away, and he hesitated, wondering what he possibly could do to comfort you.

Instead he pulled you towards him, wrapping you in his arms, a hug, and hoped that he wasn’t being too forward, and you crushed yourself against his chest, hugging him back. He ran a hand up and down your back as he held you to him, his cheek against the side of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and he didn’t know if he was apologising for Penelope’s injuries, or the fact that he couldn’t save her, or that he hadn’t been there, or because there was nothing he could do to make it better. He was just sorry.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to background check this guy?” you asked, offering Penelope your eyeliner as she finished curling her hair and she rolled her eyes.

“God, you sound like Derek,” she retorted spitefully and you frowned. It was unlike her to be say his name with such anger, when it was usually said with love, fondness, occasional lust, and just in an overall dreamy fashion. A part of you had always wondered if there was more to their relationship than just platonic friendship.

“Alright,” you replied, letting it go. Penelope was a grown woman, she could make her own decisions… and was also equally capable of running a background check as, if not more, thorough as you would have. You tried not to look at the mess that your shared bathroom had turned into, make-up supplied and jewellery scattered over the counter, leaving her to do her thing. “And I better not get a text saying you’re bringing him upstairs,” you called out as you leave.

“This is just wrong,” you murmured, looking at Penelope’s pale, all but lifeless body, tubes running from her nose and arms, wires strapped to her chest, the suite silent but for the steady beep of the heart monitor. You still hadn’t moved from the foot of the bed, willing yourself not to cry. You were not going to be one of those family members who couldn’t get a grip of themselves. You especially refused to become a blubbering mess in front of her co-workers.

“I know,” Spencer said softly, wanting to take your hand again, but holding himself back. He still never knew where he stood with you. Hell, he didn’t know how to process what was going on for him — the only thing he knew he had to do was stabilise you, never mind himself.

You finally manage to put one step in front of the other, going towards Penelope and Spencer could see your hand shaking as you gingerly took hers, the way you blinked back tears, almost refusing to breathe because you were convinced the only thing that would come out would be a sob. Spencer swallowed, moving to draw the curtains over the windows, closing the doors so it was only the three of you in the room, and kept his back turned as you finally gave in to the squeezing grip your lungs had on your heart, sinking into the chair as you cried, gripping the hand that wouldn’t squeeze back.

You started awake when you felt a large hand on your shoulder, shaking you gently, and it’s Aaron standing over you. “Sorry,” you mustered, wiping away dried tear tracks and he simply pulled up a chair beside you.

“I know it’s been a long night,” he said softly, leaning on his knees, looking at you kindly. “But we need your help.” He watches you nod, taking in a deep breath.

“Anything,” you said, a lot calmer now.

“We need to get some kind of identification on this guy,” Aaron told you, his voice measured and even and a part of you was jealous you couldn’t be as calm as he was, and partly angry that he could be this calm with Penelope this way.

“She said his name was Colby,” you said, remembering the joke you had made when she told you.

“Like the cheese?” you asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically and she scoffed.

“Do not ruin this for me,” she retorted, pointing her laptop charger at you like a wand. “He’s cute and he actually likes me. Do you even remember the last time I’ve been asked out?”

“That doesn’t mean you should go out with anyone who asks,” you replied. “I mean, what kind of person doesn’t turn on auto-save?” It earns you a glare from her and you quieten, turning back to your book.

You shook your head, trying to focus on your screen, set up right beside Penelope, refusing to leave her side even as she slept, and neither did Derek or Spencer, the former practically breathing down your neck. You glanced up at Spencer, a plea in your eyes to get him off your back, and he makes a pitiful attempt of asking Derek if he wants to go get a coffee with him, which he denies and so Spencer shrugged, so you let out a breath, focusing on what you were doing.

“There’s nothing on a James Colby Baylor,” you said, sounding tired, running a hand through your hair, then settling it back on your keyboard.

“If he knew Penelope was FBI, then maybe he used a pseudonym,” Spencer offered, his hands in his pockets, standing across from you. “Try using the same combination of letters, JCB.”

“I’m gonna need more parameters than just three letters,” you retorted, looking up at him.

“Check anyone who rented a white sedan in the last 24 hours,” Derek said, still leaning over you and you desperately wanted to hit the both of them. Repeatedly. Instead, you check car rentals across the city matching the description, matching the restaurant that they had gone to, adding your facial recognition program to look for blonde men with blue eyes. “Plus some kind of job in the justice department. Try law enforcement, former military, stuff like that,” Derek added. “He knew enough to use legal terms, but not enough to know city attorneys don’t try criminal cases. Law school dropout, failed the bar exam—”

“Jason Clark Battle,” you told him, pulling up the picture of him and you swallowed. That was him. The guy you’d seen run away from the front of your building after you heard the gunshot. Your hands curled into fists, oblivious to Derek calling Aaron about it, charging out the door. Spencer didn’t particularly want to leave either of you, but he muttered a quick, ‘Be right back’ before disappearing.

You handed Derek a mug of coffee while Penelope slept in her own bed, the door left open in case she needed either of them. He’s set up on your couch, a blanket and pillows, his gun set on the coffee table, a single light left on so he can read the file. “Can’t sleep either, huh?” he asked you and you shrugged, taking a seat on the corner of the coffee table.

“He shot her on the doorstep, Morgan,” you said quietly. “If I hadn’t been at home…”

Morgan placed his hand on your knee, warm and comforting, and even though you had made fun of him being here, calling him Penelope’s ‘guard dog’, deep down, you were glad he was here. “There’s a lot that went wrong that night,” he said smoothly, his voice low. “Don’t eat at yourself worrying about how it could have been worse.”

You huffed a little. “You mean like you’ve been doing?” you asked, looking at him pointedly and he narrowed his eyes at you.

“You sure you aren’t a profiler?” he asked, noticing the slight hint of a smile on your face as you shrug.

“I guess we’re both wired the same way,” you said, instead of the retort you had lined up in your head. “Protecting the people we care about, blaming ourselves when they get hurt.” You glanced at Penelope’s room, her open door. “She’s all I have, Morgan.” And maybe it’s the late night, the anxiety coursing through your body, the thing that makes it impossible to sleep, that starts in your head and works its way to your chest, but you can’t seem to stop yourself. “She’s everything. My emergency contact, my medical proxy… Hell, if I died tomorrow, everything I own goes to her. She’s my family. If I lose her, I have no-one.”

Derek lets a beat pass, watching you, and you can tell he knows something you don’t, because he said, “You have people. Even if you can’t see them.” You frowned a little as he went back to his file, clearly unwilling to say more, and you’ve never been one to push into personal space. Instead, you go back to your room, left with his cryptic words.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

i see u do a lot of stuff with autistic!reader having meltdowns. would u be able to write something with spencer having a meltdown, and reader helping him?

a/n: of course!

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist

“Morgan, shut up!” you snapped through your coworker’s unintentionally triggering blabbering behind the wheel after he’d shifted the car into park. 

Casting your glace once again to the hyperventilating doctor beside you, the agents up front finally grew quiet. Briefly, you caught the eye of Emily before she and Derek carefully exited the vehicle, leaving just you and Spencer in the back.

“…Reid?” you stared at him warily as his eyes only screwed shut tighter and his chest continued to rise and fall jaggedly beneath his blazer, “what do you need?” you swiftly tried in a quiet tone. 

As you leaned in closer, Spencer’s bloodshot eyes squinted open just enough for him to spot your proximity in his periphery. Keeping his head bowed, his hand then shakily reached for your own before he squeezed his eyes shut once again. 

For a breath, you just blinked down at his hand, cold and trembling, weakly clutching your own, before you slowly slid your other palm over it as well to create a cocoon around his fingers. 

“It’s gonna be okay, alright?” you gently assured, “Morgan and Prentiss will kick off the interviews on their own and then we can go join them whenever you’re ready,” you swept a thumb soothingly over his skin, “or I can drive you back to the station, or the hotel.” 

“I’m sorry,” Spencer whispered, his words wobbly from the threat of tears, “you should just go in, they need you, I’ll be fine.”

“That may be, but I’m not going anywhere,” you squeezed his palm tighter, “you hear me? We can stay right here for as long as you need.”

© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[dawajlanek]

What’s up Marry Poppins?

[flow33didontsmoke]

please guys i’m begging you send me (comment) your fav and most heart wrenching and horniest fics because now those tags bore me i feel like it’s just the same at the end but i love those characters too much and you know what send me long fics, i love dark ones and sugar mommy/daddy, age difference even idk my only boundary is that i hate bad endings (and i don’t like dom!reader and male!reader too)

(and please for the wanda and nat tags don’t send the boring porn without plot fics we keep seeing otherwise i wouldn’t ask)

edit : please avoid step-parent and stepcest too it makes me uncomfortable, i didn’t know how to express it but i was talking about smut-based plots and series when i talked about « porn without plot fics »

[hanaridulsetcheese]

unspoken agreements ~ spencer reid

The sky outside the BAU's windows was a dull, oppressive gray, matching the tension lingering between Spencer and Y/N. The case had been brutal, unraveling the worst of human nature. And yet, that wasn't what had Y/N pacing the hallway near his desk, heart racing with every step.

Spencer stood nearby, his brow furrowed, tapping a pen against his palm. He was always a little awkward, a little too brilliant for the world, and Y/N had always loved that about him — not that they were supposed to use that word.

Love.

They had made a pact when this whole mess started. Keep it simple. Keep it casual. No messy feelings. But Y/N knew that pact had shattered long ago. The pieces cut deeper with each stolen glance and lingering touch.

"You've been quiet," Spencer finally said, breaking the silence.

"So have you," Y/N shot back, folding their arms. "Everything okay?"

He hesitated, eyes flickering to the floor. "Not really."

Y/N's breath hitched. "Spence—"

"I almost lost you today," he interrupted, voice strained. "Do you know what that would have done to me?"

Y/N's throat went dry. "We agreed not to talk about this," they whispered.

"Why? Because it's easier to pretend?" Spencer's voice wavered. "Because it's safer?"

Y/N felt the walls they'd built crumbling under the weight of his words. "It was supposed to be simple. No strings, remember?"

Spencer stepped closer, his eyes dark with intensity. "I can't do this anymore — pretending I don't care when I do. I love you."

Y/N's heart stopped. "You love me?"

Spencer nodded, the vulnerability in his expression breaking down every defense Y/N had left.

"I thought we agreed to not fall in love," Y/N said weakly, clinging to the last shred of their resolve.

"Yeah," Spencer whispered, "but I'm a genius who makes bad decisions sometimes."

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, tears stinging their eyes. "You're impossible."

"And you're everything I can't lose," he murmured.

Y/N closed the distance between them, hands trembling as they cupped Spencer's face. "I guess we're both breaking the rules, huh?"

His lips curved into a faint smile. "Guess so."

They stood there, tangled in each other, the world falling away as they rewrote every rule they had made.

~•~•~•~•~

specer reid playlist

[minswriting]

can you give me a fic/headcanon/whatever where spencer comes home from a case in another city that took him an eternity to close and he gets home just to find you sleeping. he’s so frustrated all he does is get into bed WITH

his clothes ON barely takes his time to literally take his dick out of his work pants just to fuck you on your side, from behind in a way that both of your legs are against your chest because he just happens to need you and miss you real bad?

im sorry. im very slutty for him and this is how i want to be fucked by him. don’t mind me.

nsfw | mdni | spencer reid x reader | somnophilia

i love thinking about desperate and needy spencer. he’d come home so exhausted but so sexually frustrated. before he had left for the case, you guys were in the middle of having sex when hotch had called, telling spencer where was a case. so you guys weren’t able to finish. and spencer was PENT UP as it had been a week since that happened.

and when he comes home and sees you sleeping on the bed, on your side, spencer almost cried in frustration. that was until he noticed that you were naked. so ofc he takes that as an invitation because you guys have already discussed waking each other up with sex. so he drops his things and unzips his pants just enough to free his cock before lying down next to you. he kisses along your spine, moving up towards your neck while guiding his cock to your cunt.

and when you begin stirring, spencer doesn’t hesitate to just insert his cock, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as you whine from the intrusion. he’s thrusting into you in a desperate sort of way while you’re whining and moaning, reaching behind you to grab one of spencer’s hands and intertwine your fingers. the pace begins to get frantic as spencer uses your cunt to relieve himself of the pressure built over the past week.

when he’s close, he’s whining hotly into your ear, telling you how much he craved and needed this before burying himself so deeply inside of you and releasing his cum into you with a loud groan.

i love desperate spencer so much