alix-alx

Latest Posts by alix-alx

I love Damian so much

The cage is open, you can walk out anytime you want (Why are you still here?),

S2!Post!Hankel Spencer Reid x gn!BAU!reader

Angst (hurt/comfort). Autistic Spencer (you know the drill). Perhaps some traces of fluff if you’re like…. masochistic. Heavily implied happy ending.

— Explorations of Spencer’s (very glossed over) addiction. Love confessions? Half love confessions? Spencer admits it mentally, Reader implies it through actions. What am I saying? They’re sooooooo in love it pains me.

Warnings: *cracks knuckles,* okay…. —heavy depictions of drug addiction, mentions and allusions of suicide, previous mentions of being held hostage (Hankel). PACKED with Greek mythology references (sue me, i study classics as a degree), perhaps some light biblical imagery? Spencer being at rock-bottom. he’s kinda bitchy. he also disses hotlines (they do save lives, don’t listen to Spencer!!! he’s being a dick). mentions of childhood bullying.

w.c: 3.2k

a/n: title so long it’s basically a midwestern emo song.

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There’s intimacy in being fragile. Spencer knows firsthand, has romanticised his Glass delusion. The fear of shattering, fragmenting on impact, like jagged, sliced glass. He thinks of Charles VI, (1380’s King of France), what he felt when he refused touch. When he reinforced himself, shielding behind excess clothing, in the fallacious fear of dismantling.

Spencer does the same, hides behind fabric, shies away from human contact. Because— because being careful is better than being impetuous. If he can make himself so small he no longer takes up space then maybe they’ll be kind to him.

Monachopis. Has he always been this out of place? Has it always felt this way? Will it ever stop?

12 years old. Curling inward to shield himself from the ache of cracked fists. You’re not here, you’re not here, you’re not here. He still feels like that kid, the one bleeding across the school yard, smashed glasses, bust lip, new bruises to hide from mom.

Perhaps he should blame genetics. Find something to point the finger at. Mentally distort the truth, until it’s no longer a paling face he sees, drawing the first needle into his arm, forcing him to take what he never asked for. No longer that, but a bigger issue, a concern that cannot be personified, a larger statistic in the minefield of human psychology.

Those with ASD have a doubled risk of substance use.

He never stood a chance. Did he?

So just like Charles, he covers his arms. Veils the track marks that penetrate skin. Pretend they’re not there, pretend you’re okay. Okay? Okay, nobody has stopped to ask him if he is ‘okay’ since ‘the incident.’ When the shock wore off, and attention strayed, everyone lost interest.

He feels like an outlaw to his own team.

How do you move on from being bound, tied, degraded to something beneath human?

How did everyone else?

He understands now— the pull of addiction. The way it mimics, artificially replicates home. Something soft, in that one, life-ruinously warm moment between the first hit and the inevitable come down.

But just like everything good. It dies. Turns ugly. Disfiguring, decaying. What once was simple, a fleeting temptation, a way to starve off lonely withdrawal, has derailed into desperate, insatiable hunger. To reproduce the first time, to appease the way he palpates in the wake of something tiny—

Call it what it is. Not an analgesic agent, not a semi-synthetic, not a simple narcotic utilised in the medical field. It’s an opioid, two to eight times greater than that of morphine. Given to those dying, to help alleviate Cheyne-stokes breathing, to reduce pain before the end.

It binds to the opioid-receptions in the central nervous system.

He is no superior than those on the street. Begging for loose change to shoot up and placate the cold.

2AM. The phone connection is faint. Do you feel like killing yourself? Is the noose already tied, is the rope choking you? Do you need to breathe? Do you even want to? He wonders what it would be like, to call into those bullshit hotlines, to hear the detached, sharp-bladed sympathy of some stranger.

Instead, when the phone picks up, the blaring beep of a dial dissipating, he hears you instead.

“You know how it’s believed that Artemis killed Orion?” He starts. He cannot begin with hi, I’m scared of the dilaudid burning through my veins. Do you still love me? (Presumptuous of him to believe you loved him in the first place, he certainly wouldn’t.)

He doesn’t let you answer. Maybe he’s scared, or maybe he can try and satiate your concern by fact-dumping so extensively that you automatically revert back to oh yeah, boy genius is talking again. “Well— there’s this other interpretation, that she… y’know didn’t. Instead, they were hunting companions, and it was because of the animals he slaughtered on Crete, that Gaia. Mother ea— yeah, you know who I’m referencing. Okay.”

Even at his worst, he is conveniently a social disaster. They could poke holes in his brain, drag the sharp edge of a blade through the tissue lining of his stomach, and his mouth would still find a way to run:

‘You’re missing major arteries here, c’mon — I know you can push harder than that. Aim for my descending aorta, that will do the job correctly.’

It would be funny if he wasn’t the biggest screw up to ever exist. Social ineptitude has never looked worse.

“Anyway, um… so— disturbed by the blood-bath, and feeling repentant — she summoned this scorpion. Humans are no match for the gods, obviously. So any creation with intent will—“ he sighs, finding new ways to hate himself. “Basically he died. Yeah— dead. To… uh, sum it up?”

“And what?” Oh, there you are. He’s surprised you’re listening, that you didn’t hang up the moment his morbid rambling begun. He’s always surprised, surprised that you listen, that you stay, even when you shouldn’t. It would be romantic, if he wasn’t so flawed in believing you could never want someone like him.

“Well— Artemis gathered up the remnants of Orion and placed them in the sky. Yknow,… hence the constellation.”

There’s shuffling — a moment of uneasy silence. “Spencer—“

He keeps going. Shock-horror. “I’m not sure science would agree with that myth. It certainly counters the Big Bang theory. And the whole schtick regarding— look… it doesn’t,… it doesn’t hold any truth, of course. The gods aren’t real,” (if they are, they must spit at the flawed creation of him), “I just— it was on the forefront of my mind. Made me think of you.”

It’s innocent. If you don’t take into account the stored vials he keeps stashed in his cabinet sink. If you pretend you’re just two people, two old, weary friends, who are insomniac and restless. Then again, where Spencer is concerned, everything is innocent. He’ll bare the weight of existence with no expectation of a return favour. So willing to give give give. Always taken for granted. Tossed to the sidelines. You’ve watched the team ignore his plans, call rain check after rain check, incessant excuses for something so diminutive. Even now, they can’t see what’s right in front of them. The blunt of the truth.

The aftermath of the Hankel case.

“Bad night?” You ask. Like you don’t feel it in your ribs.

He sighs, head spilling back against the wall. Throat bared, it would be so easy for hands to wrap around the unmarred skin, to put him down. “Aren’t they all?”

You’ve both been trained to pinpoint human behaviour. Discern threat from over exaggeration. You don’t hesitate, he knows you don’t— he’s seen you behind the weight of a gun. Dominant hand curved around the grip, aligning the front and rear sight. Firing pin striking the primer of the cartridge, no recoil— he’s watched you no more than blink when the bullet penetrates.

He always anticipates a flinch that never comes.

Sometimes, he has this dream, where he’s got the same Hornady branded bullet, lodged through his chest. Sometimes he wakes up and still believes he’s bleeding out.

He can hear your keys, the clattering that fades into the grating, confirmative slam of a door. You’re out of the apartment complex, and what? He’s too busy thinking about some warped manifestation of his subconscious?

Will he ever live outside of his mind?

The call doesn’t end (5 dragging minutes of heavy breathing and awkward silence), until you’re standing right here, flesh and bone, in his kitchen.

He’s making himself small again. Sat against cold tile, he shields his face from view. As if that alone will incrimate him. He knows you know. And it’s scary; to be so raw in the face of someone you love.

When you drop to your knees, it feels like tending to a wounded animal.

“You didn’t need to come,” he mutters, obstinate.

“So what?” You brush it off, ever the hero. Spencer thinks they should marbleise you in the Vatican. “I still did.”

You came. You called. Spencer fucking hates that cliche. Except, no.. no he doesn’t. Sometimes, he wants to make himself sicker, just so you have reason to touch him.

Reaching up, he feels your calloused palm, the way it cups his jaw, coaxing his face to lift. He thinks, knows, you’re disturbed by the sight. Red-rimmed eyes, and waxen features. Skinnier, hollow. If he is Leander, then he prays you don’t suffer the same fate as Hero.

‘Geniuses are never happy,’ they told him as a child. Detailing the cyanide found in Viktor Meyer’s stomach, Wallace Carother’s affinity for Potassium Cyanide. Hans Berger, Valero Legasov, Alan Turning. Some things hurt more than can be described.

Is it really so startling that he turned out the same? When that’s all he’s ever known?

Spencer stares. He tries to look through you, but it doesn’t work. Not when you’re warm, and real, and if the come down is configuring you into reality, and you’re not really here, then so be it. He’ll take what he can get. “You’ll find Dilaudid in my bathroom. Left turn from the hallway. I suggest you call 911. Report drug possession. They’ll take it more seriously if you say my name, emphasise the doctor in the title.”

“No.”

“Yes—“ indignantly, he huffs, “Yes. You will. Otherwise you’re guilty by association. The FBI will fire you, take away your credentials. You’ll be ruined.”

“That’s if they find out.”

He can’t comprehend why you’re covering for him. There’s decency, empathy, general human kindness, and then there’s this. “You’re supposed to be an upholder of the law.”

“Pft,” you scoff, brush it off. “Yknow, in Alabama, you can’t play cards on a Sunday. Alaska, no moose on sidewalks. There’s also a ban on wearing masks in Georgia. California has—“

“I get your point.” He cuts off, “Well— no, I actually don’t. Considering they’re dumb laws that waste time. Drug paraphernalia, in contrast, is not.”

“Even high, you’re a stickler. Guess old habits die hard?” you push up, and he chases your touch. “C’mon, golden boy. You’re getting a cold shower and some water. Gonna flush that shit out of you the old fashioned way.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a modern alternative…”

He doesn’t let you see him naked. Partially because, it’s his body. This vessel that feels so alienated from the better part of him. He’s never let someone undress him before, see behind the meticulous layers. But, mostly.. well, he has a firm belief that the first time you take off his clothes, it will be in better circumstances. If that ever transpires.

You’d probably think him deranged: hi, i’m saving myself for you, because any touch that isn’t yours makes me sick.

He’d rather rot alone than string someone along who could never fill the void of you.

The shower is methodical. Skin recoiling from the harsh rivulets of water. 3 minutes spent standing there, staring outwards not in. Complete disregard for the mirror, he’s all soft features and freshly-washed pyjamas when he pads into the bedroom. Corduroy pants, thermal-wear socks, some dumb science print embellished onto the front of his shirt. (‘Never trust an atom, they MAKE UP everything’ — yeah, he hates himself.)

You don’t talk. Not until he’s consumed his body weight in water. He fights off the urge to warn you about the dilution of sodium content in blood. Hyponatremia. Fatal, with a likelihood of seizuring and long-flight comatose. You’d probably just laugh at him, considering it was two glasses, a litre at best.

He’ll use his intellect to hurt. And you’ll counter him with little regard.

Even at his ugliest, you still stay.

“I’m fine,” he protests— hating the way you look at him when he’s so raw.

It’s that gaze. That same sinking, pity-warped gaze he received when he talked about his mom, about the kids at school. Adolescent meat-heads who pushed him into lockers, and beat him between class. Its— suffocating sympathy that he no longer has room for.

“No you aren’t,” this might be the worst you’ve ever seen him.

Would you have known? If he didn’t make the call? Cassandra complex. Disambiguating. A psychological phenomenon where an accurate prediction of a crisis is dismissed. Silent concern, the intuitive awareness that he never recovered, it was only going to lead to this—

Oh fuck it. You knew. The entire team did. You’re just the only one who cared enough to help.

You’re not like the rest of them. Maybe they can blanket suspicion, play pretend, refuse to get their hands dirty. But, there’s a reason you’re better. You don’t sugar-coat reality. You act. You react.

He’ll see your name on a wall one day. An award adorning your efforts.

“You’re exhausted, lie down.”

Spencer fights the urge to scowl. Since when were you in charge? Admittedly, he knows the answer to that: since you spitballed into his apartment, better yet, since you spitballed into his life. So, like the good, propitiated loser he is, he complies. Shock horror…

“What are you gonna do? Tuck me in?”

“You wish.” Instead, you force your way onto the right side of the mattress. “Get comfy, you’ve got your own, free of charge, narcotics anonymous sponsor tonight.”

“You’re not great at the whole ‘tough love’ thing.”

“Then call someone else next time.”

Vulnerability feels like being ripped open at the seams. Like some botched Pygmalion creation — stitched wrong, still breathing. He wants to fall asleep, to just… fade into himself. But— you have this uncanny, accursed ability to make him honest.

You, draped over his bed, does little to appease the sickness in his mind.

“I never asked for this,” he starts, “I didn’t— I didn’t even want it. How is that fair? I never got to decide, I wasn’t even given the anatomy to choose. Now—“

The words rip free like Prometheus’ daily punishment: inevitable, agonizing.

He laughs. Cold. Something ugly that doesn’t belong to him. “Now, if I’m not thinking about my next hit, I’m thinking about how you see me. How the team must see me. It’s— it’s the disappointment. I just— I don’t know why you stay.”

It’s all so tentative. The moments before, when you extend your hand, run it across the curvature of his jaw. All it takes is the touch and he’s crashing into you. Like there is no feasible option but to submit to the basic human need of contact. Face pressed into your shoulder, he feels like dead-weight. Something unworthy of labour.

Stop pushing that boulder up the hill, Sisyphus. Let it fall. Let him fall.

His hand knots tighter in the fabric of your top. Like if he lets go, he’ll spiral into Tartarus itself.

Why? Why would you do this—

“You think I’m going to cut and run just because you’re inconvenient? Pft, i’m too stubborn for that. And, well…” there’s a sigh,… “I care about you too much. Alright? So be inconvenient. Fuck, call at 3AM. Call at 5AM. Make me drop everything and come over. I don’t care. I want to carry the burden. I want to carry your burden.”

His touch lingers near your lower back. Drawing soft halos there, faint and uneven. “I hate you,” comes out muttered, something muffled by skin.

“No you don’t.” you counter, immediately.

“No I don’t,” just like that, he breaks. Cease-fire. How could he ever hate you? The statement was deflective, at best. Some way to make you ache the way he aches. At least then it would be a level paying field.

“I hate who I am when I’m like this. I hate— I hate my mind. It’s not… it’s not accurate, the way people romanticise it. I can’t be what they all expect of me.”

You’re doing that thing. The one where you don’t respond. Where you just listen, without interjecting, without cutting through his incessant monologues.

Sometimes, he feels like he dreamed you up. Like you don’t even exist, a stowaway in his brain, something to re-mantle whenever he’s lonely. Real people aren’t this good — this good to him.

“I don’t get to make mistakes. I need to have the answers every single second of the day. I can’t be me. You’re the only one, how are you the only one who notices? I’ve tried so hard, I’ve been so good—“

He’s tangled into you now, tethered like Daedalus’ forgotten son trying to stitch his broken wings back together mid-fall. If he could, he’d crawl into you. Find somewhere warm to safely exist. Without hurt.

“This isn’t just, I’m not like this just because I need you. Please— please remember that. I miss you always, even when I’m sober. Even before— before everything. I’m not in some—“

“What?” you finally (mercifully) interject. “Some drug-infused decline? Where you‘ll lean on anyone that will give you the time of day?”

Spencer flinches — not because you’re wrong, but because you’ve drawn blood from a wound he didn’t know he still had.

He hates that you’ve distinguished him as some mischaracterised energy vampire. Like you could ever be nothing. Like you’re just the closest fix he can find beyond a chemical high. Designer drugs, manufactured in a lab, they say Heroin feels like a hug from God.

Until your body becomes gluttonous for a hit that never appeases.

You— you are not a hollow high. You are slow and real and catastrophic.

Oh, you’re dependable, a want that morphed into all-encompassing devotion over slow dragging time. “Yes, to the former. No— no, definitely no to the latter. You’re not just some emotional crutch to me. You’re, I don’t know, you’re just… everything.”

Spencer swallows, pulls back, feigning composure. “I should be able to do this alone,” he mutters, “Normal people can. I should be—”

“C’mon, Spence. You’re not a machine. You were never built for that.”

Another sharp laugh. It pierces— you can almost taste the blood this time.

“I’m so tired,” he says in defeat. “I’m so tired of trying to be someone worth saving.”

Pressing your forehead to his, you’re kind to not mention the tears. To just let them occur, free fall. “You don’t have to be anything,” you murmur into his hair. “You just have to be. That’s enough. That’s enough for me, and i’ve got you. Okay? I’ve got you. Always.”

“Will you stay with me?” He doesn’t mean tonight, you know that well enough. “Will you stay with me through it all?”

You’re aware of the burden it would imply, the jagged, ugly reality of withdrawal. The toll, sweat-soaked skin and cold fevers. Irrational begging, pleading for god, just one more fix. The way it would change him, change your untainted perspective of him. When you agree, it is not misguided.

You know what you’re signing up for.

“Yeah. I’ll stay. Through it all.”

If this is love, true unvarnished love, reciprocal and real, then he’s sorry he found you at a bad time. Give it, give me, a few months, he thinks, and i’ll spend the rest of my life giving you everything.

▌ ﹙ DAMIAN WAYNE，notes of the void ﹞

₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡ ONE SHOTS !

001. kiss me beneath the milky twilight ! ━━ a movie night, a soft blanket, & damian wayne learning that love can look a lot like pride & prejudice.

₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡ HEADCANONS !

₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡ BLURBS !

₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡ SMAU !

001. you're always on my mind, that's how much i care !

002. you make me feel stupid, but it’s the kind of stupid that i like !

© MINORLYATFAULT | do not steal. my work is not yours to repost, translate, or alter — credit does not equal permission. proceed with care. respect the creator.

you are the only exception, from vi

ᰔ pairing . . . d. wayne !

ᰔ category . . . fluff , one - shot , requested ᰔ requested by . . . @xoxorory !

ᰔ with . . . a wonder!fem!reader !

ᰔ in which . . . you & damian bond quietly over time▰through missions, late-night snacks, & rain-soaked walks. until he realizes you’re not trying to fix him, just choosing to stay.

ᰔ tags . . . 3.9k slowburn(ish). tension. quiet understanding. strangers to teammates to something more. subtle affection. team dynamics. mutual respect. gentle banter. protective!damian. observant!reader. late-night walks. rain scene (classic). reluctant softness. grumpy x calm dynamic. titans tower bonding. canon divergence(?). reader lowkey has mythological trauma. emotional healing. damian wayne character study. teasing under affection. enemies to allies to "maybe." relationship misunderstanding. very ooc. reader is low-key flirty af.

ᰔ look around . . . m. list, d.wayne & detective comics m. list

────── vi whispers . . . ᰔ

001. woah.

002. i acc made this in my mom's office lmfao😭😭

003. not proofread obvi

004. "damian is a vege —" in other storylines,, he eats meat btw ! i js forgot which comic essit

the first time you got to meet damian wayne wasn't anything compared to the rest. at least, not the rest who were also members of the teen titans.

the first new recruit to enter was always eyed with suspicion. the team was a machine, & each new piece of machinery had to fit exactly, or it would break down. but when damian wayne arrived at the titans, it was as though a storm entered the room. the rest of them did have their misgivings▰some put theirs more squarely than others. some rolled eyes at his brashness, his refusal to work with. others, like gar, tormented him pitilessly, but you knew better. you saw a guy who'd been toughened up by an existence he never solicited, a life that had been too grim to shatter.

you could see that.

whereas the others were, you weren't all smiles and forced smiles. your calmness, your unobtrusive confidence, didn't stem from naivety. it stemmed from knowing the depths at which people could reach when life didn't give them a moment to be children. and, in spite of everything, you recognized that damian was a child, although he refused to acknowledge that.

it wasn't that you were naturally great at relating to people▰it was that you were simply more aware of the fact that everyone had his or her own silent wars. yours just happened to have been against the gods.

but the first time that you spoke with him? you could almost sense the electric shock in the air. as if zeus striked you for no reason. damian wasn't a big talker▰he never was, unless he was compelled to drop some biting comment. the others were,, well, acclimating to him, but there were still missteps. still moments when the words didn't align with the intention. but you? you'd been taught by someone who could step into a room, & the entire room would sense the presence. you weren't intimidated by damian's intensity; you saw it.

it began as a mission, something straightforward. stopping a gang who'd somehow fallen under the influence of an ancient magic. it was meant to be simple, a routine patrol for the team. but things had gotten out of hand fast, & there was damian, barking orders sharply while gar attempted to make jokes. it was your responsibility to maintain the peace in times like those.

"damian," you said, your voice cutting through the mess of noise around you. "focus."

he scowled but didn’t look away. "i’m always focused."

"clearly." you raised an eyebrow at him, then shifted your attention back to the enemy. “just. don’t get yourself killed, okay?”

there was a beat of silence before he scoffed under his breath. “i don’t need you to babysit me.”

you laughed, your tone gentle but distinct. "nobody needs to babysit anyone here, damian. but one of our duties is to be a team. which means cooperation is a must.. you don't go off by yourself unless you're willing to face the consequences."

& it was there, in that shirt conversation. where the tension lessened with unspoken reality▰that something moved. the ire in damian's eyes grew a little softer. you weren't attempting to gain control. you were attempting to keep him alive. & for some unknown reason, that mattered.

it wasn't friendship in the beginning, no. but there was mutual understanding that grew with time. you weren't like the rest. you didn't view him as some lone wolf to be controlled or combated. you viewed him as someone who merely needed a bit of space, a bit of trust.

then, after that mission, when the team met back at the tower, it was not hard to tell how much stress had still accumulated between him & the rest of them. but you weren't going to be swayed. you approached him, standing a bit taller than normal, but not quite invading his space.

"you good?" you asked flatly.

damian raised an eyebrow. "i'm fine."

"you don't look fine."

"i said i'm fine."

you shrugged. "alright, then."

it was the little things that warmed him up to you in the end. the gentle side glances, the times when you both slipped into the same rhythm without words. small things, such as when you'd grab the last piece of pizza, & he didn't complain, didn't snatch it away. & you would catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye, like he was still unsure, but maybe▰just maybe▰he didn’t mind your presence. you didn’t force the conversation. you just were there.

it was a few years on, after one particularly draining mission, when you and damian ended up walking the city streets at midnight, out of costume, just a couple of weary titans hoping to recharge.

the mission had drained everyone, but when the team went back to the tower you could tell that damian was. well, not exactly in the best mood.

"damian," you started, casting him a sideways glance from the corner of your eye, "i don't know about you, but i'm famished."

he shot you a sideways look. "i'm not hungry. i have better things to do."

you rolled your eyes. "come on, just one kebab. i'm not going to accept no for an answer."

he scowled but didn't argue further. that was the thing with damian▰you didn't push too hard. if you made it seem like you weren't desperate for his company, he'd eventually give in. you didn't need to ask twice.

& so, there you were, sitting on a street corner, having a midnight snack of kebabs like you didn't have anywhere to be. the quiet between you wasn't uncomfortable. it was relaxed, organic. like you have done this multiple times.

but you noticed something as you sat there, working on your food: damian wasn't generally like this. he wasn't this at ease. the tension in his shoulders had relaxed, the sharpness around his eyes eased, & there he was, simply. eating.

you couldn't help but stifle a laugh. the look of him▰this tough, near-royalty hitman who was now sitting on the curb, attempting to eat a kebab without vomiting from sheer contempt was truly priceless.

damian gave you a bewildered stare, furrowed brows as he chewed. "what?"

you couldn't help it. you bursted into laughter.

"nothing," you said between giggles. "you just… look different."

damian's scowl intensified. "i look fine."

you brushed a tear from your eye, still smiling. "i know, i know. but it's just. you never drop your guard, not even for food."

he growled something under his breath, something that might have been an oath, but you didn't hear it. the tension crept back into his voice, but the warmth remained. he was embarrassed, yes, but for once, he didn't hide it.

the evening dragged on, & as the two of you walked back to the tower, the rain started falling.

"great," damian grumbled, his face darkening further. "now i'm going to get soaked."

you didn't let him get away with it. you were already wading into the downpour, a smile fixed on your face. "oh, come on, it's just rain!"

he huffed, standing there & watching you spin about in the rain, dancing as if you didn't have a single worry in your head.

"you are insane." he grumbled, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"that's the point!" you shouted back, still turning, relishing the cold, the wet, and the sense of freedom. "you should give it a go!"

& to your surprise▰after a moment of silence, damian trailed behind. he wasn't smiling, not even slightly. but there was something in the fact that he observed you that tempered his irritation with something a little less bitter, a little more. affectionate.

as you moved, you couldn't help but blurt out a random fact, something that just felt appropriate in the moment. "did you know the greeks used to think rain was the gods' tears? maybe it's aphrodite weeping for us. or zeus, having a tantrum again."

damian gave you a look, his face half-obscured by the rain, but you could see the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"you are strange."

"yeah, but i'm your strange," you teased, grinning even wider as you drew him deeper into the downpour.

by the time the two of you stumbled back into the tower, soaked but happier than you'd been in days, you discovered the other titans waiting for you inside, giggling at your dripping condition.

but before you even got the chance to tell them what happened, damian sent a glare their way & glared. "she pulled me out there."

the rest of the team laughed, but you & damian both knew there was something more than just the rain between you now.

the doors of the elevator slid open softly with a dinging sound, & you walked out first, your shoes making squelching sounds on the wet floor. damian followed you, his face unreadable but his body tense. the rain had penetrated through both of you, although it didn't seem to affect you as much. he, however, was obviously upset, though you could glimpse the tiny flashes of something more in his eyes. was it. affection? perhaps, just barely?

"well," you said, attempting to shake off some of the wetness, "this is where you're supposed to tell me to go get dry. go take care of yourself."

damian glanced at you, squinting slightly. "you're the one who got me into this," he stated sharply, but there wasn't actually any venom in the tone. he was still dripping, & his characteristic scowl was lessened, as if he wasn't sure what to do with the moment.

"i didn't drag you. you volunteered." you smiled, jabbing him in the ribs with your elbow.

he didn't respond initially, his jaw clenching. then, to your surprise, he put a hand on your shoulder. "come on, i'll escort you to your room."

you blinked, slightly taken aback by the offer. "uh, damian, i can make it myself."

"it's the least i can do after you pulled me into the rain," he insisted, voice low and steady. his eyes flashed to you once more, his softening just slightly, something you were still growing accustomed to seeing. "besides, you're still wet. it's… not safe for you to be out like this."

if you told your younger self that the damian wayne just placed an arm in your shoulder, she would've laughed at your face.

you laughed softly, although his seriousness tickled you. "i think i can do it, damian. i'm tougher than i appear."

he didn't release your shoulder. "not this time."

you rolled your eyes, entertained by his persistence but thankful for the effort. you'd been through a lot as titans & as teammates who had to learn to trust one another. after a moment, you released a gentle sigh and nodded, your lips curving into a smile. "okay, lead the way then."

the jwalk to your room was silent, save for the dripping of your clothes. you couldn't help but look over at damian, still attempting to understand this iteration of him. he was no longer the prickly, withdrawn young man who had originally joined the team. there was a serenity to him now, a quiet concern that he kept masked beneath his stern expression. it was odd how much he'd changed since the time you'd known him, & it made you notice just how much you'd changed as well.

you paused at the entrance to your room, turning to him as you inhaled deeply. "appreciate you for walking me to my room, damian. i really appreciate it."

he looked down at you, his mouth set in a thin line. "it's no trouble."

it wasn't a rejection, but it wasn't exactly a compliment either. typical damian. but you didn't mind. the fact that he'd even suggested doing this in the first place was a small win.

"well, you can go now," you said, pushing him gently towards the door.

damian didn't budge right away, his dark eyes examining you with interest. it was sometimes difficult to read him, but something in the way he regarded you now, a spark in his eyes, caused your heart to beat just that little bit faster. you swallowed hard, full of conflicting feelings, but before you could get a word out, his voice stopped you.

"if you need anything," he said softly, "don't hesitate to ask."

your eyes went soft as you nodded. "i won't."

there was a moment of silence. then, to your shock, you moved closer to him, tilting your head up slightly. you reached up & kissed him on the cheek, the gentle touch of your lips on his skin a moment that seemed to catch him off guard.

damian froze, his whole body rigid as if he didn't know what to do with himself. his breath caught, & you couldn't help but smirk silently at the sight. the angry scowl came back onto his face as he sharply turned his head away, although there was something there, something more.

"damian?" you said teasingly, your voice gentle, your lips still retaining the remnants of a smile.

he didn't respond immediately, & you could see the blush rising up his neck, hardly perceptible but enough to make you laugh.

"well," you said, taking a step back, "thanks again for the escort, & for the rain dance. i'll see you around."

before he could respond further, you hastily turned & glided into your room, closing the door softly behind you. you stood leaning on the door for a moment, your heart racing. you hadn't anticipated the kiss to be like that. & you certainly hadn't anticipated damian's reaction. you really wanted to go back out there and taunt him some more, but the thought of leaving him in such a state was too hilarious to let pass.

you smiled to yourself, removing your shoes & gazing at your image in the mirror. this had been a night you wouldn't soon forget.

in the meantime, beyond your doorstep, damian was frozen, his hand still suspended in mid-air as if to knock but was unable to muster the courage. his head was spinning from the kiss, & he couldn't even determine how he felt. that odd sense of heat rising in his chest had caught him totally off guard.

the silent corridors of the tower were suddenly too noisy, and damian couldn't help but notice the odd feeling of exposure he had. he grumbled to himself, irritated by the entire episode but unable to dispel the way his heart was pounding. why did she have to do that?

it wasn't as if he hadn't enjoyed it. far from it. but that she had kissed him. it changed something within him. he despised how quickly it had impacted him. this was not something that was to happen.

as he finally turned away from her, he couldn't help but relive the moment in his head. he couldn't help but think of her smile, the laughter she brought forth, the way she always lightened the load. she's impossible, he could think, though there was a small smile that danced at the corners of his mouth. totally impossible.

but somehow, he couldn't even be mad about it.

it had been two days since that kiss.

damian was behaving… differently. to say he was behaving out of character was a gross understatement. he was still damian, naturally. the perpetually serious, overly-disciplined, stubborn & almost insufferable young man▰but there was something off. new. extra. he was softer, his normally sharp edges a little less rough around the edges when it came to you.

you didn't resent it. in fact, it felt pleasant. his body language, while still damian▰infrequent, was a bit more considerate. the manner in which his eyes lingered on you when you spoke, or the way he'd make an effort to include you in all plans. he'd even begun to be a bit. protective? it was weird, but you assumed maybe it was only his way of demonstrating that he was growing more trustful. you didn't really give it much thought. at least, not at first.

you had taken, at least, for granted that the two of you had progressed to a new, greater depth of friendship. that he had let you in his palace. there wasn't an outright point where you & damian had professed anything to one another. you hadn't even assumed there was a need for one. the kiss had come as naturally, but perhaps it wasn't something substantial. perhaps it was simply an expression of warmth between friends. perhaps he was trying to ignore it. perhaps he wished you didn't lean in & kissed his cheek.

of course, the rest of the titans were paying attention. you'd been with them long enough to recognize when they were baffled▰hell, when they were flat-out stunned. they were used to observing you & damian bickering at each other. to them, your dynamic was as much about reciprocal frustration as romance. but now? something had changed, & they were not overlooking it.

you, on the other hand, were happily oblivious to their speculation. your attention was primarily on damian, who had become accustomed to lingering around you more than ever before, his subtle displays of concern a tad too overt to be overlooked. his little touches on your arm when he gave you something, his eyes tracking you as you moved across the room, the way he'd insist on walking you to places with that added tinge of insistence. you just assumed it was damian being. well, damian.

& then, at last, it all boiled over.

it was a relaxed scene in the common room, nothing unusual. the titans were lounging about in different locations. cyborg fiddling with devices, raven reading, gar cracking awful jokes, and you & damian observing. the rest of the team were generally occupied with their own activities, but there was an underlying tension that you couldn't pinpoint.

damian had only just given you a drink, & you grumbled your thanks, taking a sip as you settled back into the couch. your gaze wandered over to him, where he was standing at the window, arms folded, gazing out at night. there was a gentle sort of sadness in his stance, or was it concern? something that caused you to feel you should go & ask what was on his mind in that clever brain of his.

but then it happened.

damian, as if out of nowhere, whirled on you & exclaimed, "beloved, i would rather that you stayed away from there so late."

you stopped mid-sip. "what?"

damian, oblivious to your shock, kept going with a scowl. "you know it's not safe for you to go out by yourself at night. i'm not requesting your safety. i'm commanding it."

you blinked. beloved? did he just refer to you as beloved? be.lov.ed? is aphrodite playing games?

the room fell silent. raven's gaze narrowed suspiciously from the other side of the room. gar stopped in mid-chew of whatever food he was eating, his mouth agape with shock. cyborg, who had been fiddling with his arm, looked up at once. they were all gazing at you & damian, their faces screaming, you're dating!?

you, however, were blinking frantically, still trying to process the word beloved that had so readily fallen from damian's mouth. you turned to look at the rest of the titans, who were obviously waiting for some kind of explanation.

"we're… dating?" you said, finally able to get the words out, your voice full of confusion.

the rest of the team looked at you like you had just uttered something in another language.

"what?" raven asked in her deadpan tone, looking clearly confused. "wait… you're dating?"

gar leapt to his feet. "hold on, hold on! you & damian are a thing now??”

"the lone wolf & twilight sparkle?" cyborg questioned, obviously having trouble understanding what he was being told. he swiveled around towards damian, who had stiffened slightly at the focus. "seriously?"

you spun around towards damian now, waiting for an explanation. he lingered there for a second, as though he was going to speak, but then closed his mouth, blinking as though the truth was only registering on him as much as it was registering on you.

damian had opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it again, his eyes flashing to the others in the room, his jaw clenching. "i▰ i thought we were▰i thought the kiss▰"

“kiss!?”

"the kiss?" you asked, a flush rising to your cheeks as you recalled that night. "that kiss was just▰just… a kiss! it wasn't like▰"

damian let out a deep sigh, massaging the back of his neck. "i thought.., after the kiss & everything that happened afterward▰ i assumed… i'm not good at this." his voice caught for a second before he appeared to pull himself together. "i'm not accustomed to such things, but i thought▰ we were... & you leaned in."

you blinked in shock, now totally confused. "wait, wait. you thought we were dating because of a kiss?"

damian's stance improved. "it was not the kiss alone. the way you. behaved afterward. it was the way you remained with me. the way you▰”

"wait, wait, no," you broke in, shaking your head, finally beginning to put the pieces together. "you thought we were dating just because of,, that kiss?"

he scowled, clearly frustrated by the misunderstanding. “yes. i thought you knew.”

you stared at him for a moment, then shook your head, biting back a laugh. this was damian wayne, the same guy who could go toe-to-toe with the best of them, & yet, here he was, utterly flustered & confused over a kiss. you couldn’t help but giggle at the thought. "damian," you started, attempting to suppress your giggles, "we never really discussed it. i didn't know you were. i didn't know you thought we were going out."

"i didn't know you didn't know," he retaliated, obviously irritated. he touched his wayward hair, his expression nearly agonized. "this is. complicated. i▰"

you put your hand on his arm, halting his tirade. "you don't need to apologize, damian. this is… this is just you, & i understand. we'll sort this out, okay?" you smiled at him softly. "& perhaps we should discuss this properly. not in front of the entire team."

damian seemed to relax a little, but his expression remained intense, like he was still processing the whole situation. the titans, however, were still whispering in disbelief, with gar having the audacity to go “this is so cute, bro!” from across the room.

"fine," damian grunted. "we'll discuss this later. but it is complicated." his gaze softened as you met his eyes, & for the first time in a very long time, there was actual warmth there.

after a few seconds, you laughed again, more due to how damian was behaving than the actual situation. "alright," you said, taking a step forward. "let's say. dating, then. for now."

damian arched an eyebrow, as though expecting some validation. you touched out, cupping his cheek & drawing him down for a kiss▰a soft, fleeting kiss on his lips, which left him more than a little taken aback. you drew back hastily, your heart pounding at the contact.

"that's official enough for me," you said, smiling up at him. "now, we can work out the details later, okay?"

damian looked at you for a very long time, his breath caught in his throat. his scowl was still there, but now it was accompanied by a new softness, a reluctant warmth.

"alright," he said, voice softer now.

expect the team( mostly gar & cyborg ) teasing you for months, though.

© MINORLYATFAULT

cvnty goge birds

you always knew your boyfriend was good-looking. that was never the problem. it’s just… sometimes, sitting across from JASON in public, it starts to feel feel like a cosmic mix-up, like you’ve wandered into a life meant for someone else. the girls sitting two booths over doesn’t help either. they’re giggling behind french-tipped hands, three pairs of eyes glued to jason as if he’s something decadent on the menu—something they’re hoping gets delivered to their table instead.

“he’s so hot,” one of them says, not even trying to be subtle. “oh my god, look at those biceps.” of course they’re looking at him. he’s beautiful. jason’s got the kind of face that makes everyone go stupid, and a body to match. throat dry, you drop your gaze to see that the ice in your drink have long melted, the straw squeaking against the bottom as you sip at nothing. the sound is thin and papery, an admission of your own awkwardness. jason stands, reaching for his jacket.

“you good?”

“yeah. just a bit tired, is all.” the skeptical look on his face tells you that he doesn’t believe a word of it. but instead of calling you out, he drapes the heavy leather over your shoulders.

you hadn’t even noticed the chill until it was gone.

outside, jason walks beside you, close enough that your arms might touch, but they don’t. usually, you don’t mind the space. it isn’t until you’ve made it halfway down the block that he finally says, “you’re doing that thing again.” there’s no rom-com script to fall back on. so instead of a coy what thing? you reply, “i’m fine. just…” your eyes drift to an oddly shaped crack on the pavement. “sometimes i think you could do better. that’s all.”

his frown deepens—not in irritation, not even exasperation. just tired. it pains him to hear it, because it’s not the first time you’ve said something like this. “unless you think i’ve got bad taste,” he deadpans, “i’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk shit about someone i care about.” then, his arms are around you—bridging that small but seemingly infinite space. one hand settles at the small of your back, the other gently cups the back of your head. a gesture he’s done a hundred times, but still means it every time.“i’m yours,” he murmurs into your hair. “you get that or no?”

and just like that, your chest doesn’t ache the same way it did.

꣑ৎ ‎ :‎ masterlist﹒꒱ requested by the lovely @soulsforsales

masterlist

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

spencer reid

carry the weight of you

good night moon

two millimeters

all yours if you want me (18+)

hard to love (easy to be loved)

wine or wine not (18+)

fingers crossed (18+)

if you keep asking

close to home

like i would (18+)

the many names

hit me baby one more time (18+)

porcelain doll (18+)

take a seat (18+)

hair tie (18+)

the prophecy part 1 part 2 part 3

surprise songs

castling

you say ‘what a mind’

you've got a 9 to 5

how you talk so sweet 18+

one of me is cute, but two though? 18+

how dare you think it’s romantic

stargazing

undone lace (18+)

exile

under the mistletoe (18+)

bright lights

santa doesn’t know you like i do

glory of the snow {18+)

hypothalamus (18+)

i can do a lot with 15 minutes (18+)

void

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist | ko-fi | next

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

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

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

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

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

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

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

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

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

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

He was also really, really, really hot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

The case is going terribly.

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

And now she won’t stop calling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t want to see her.”

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

It is a fact.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

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

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

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

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

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

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

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

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

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

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

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

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

“I just thought—“

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

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

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

That… doesn’t make any sense.

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

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

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

You blink. “Oh.”

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

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

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

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

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

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

“About?”

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

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

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

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

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

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

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

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You never joke.” JJ says.

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

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

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

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

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

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

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

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

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

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown. “What are you saying?”

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

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

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

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

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

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

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

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

“Drink it anyway.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

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

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

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

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

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

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

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

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

“We’re both profilers.”

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

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

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

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

“Who said anything about dragging?”

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

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

“They keep staring at me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

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

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

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

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

—

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

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

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

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

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

You slept the entire day away.

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

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

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

“Hotch?”

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

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

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

“He bet against me?”

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

“How long did you bet for?”

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

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

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

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. Keep it.”

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

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

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

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

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

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

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

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

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

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

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

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

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

—

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

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

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

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

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

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

He blinks. “For?”

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

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

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

“Do you know why I chose you?”

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

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

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

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

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

“Maybe I am.”

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

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

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

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

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You leave the mug there.

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing here?”

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

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

“But… the paperwork.”

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

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

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

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How about Spencer?”

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

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

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

“You know dis comes from—“

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

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

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

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

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

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

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

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

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

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

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

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

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

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

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

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

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

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fi—“

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

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

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

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

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

“Let’s go home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please let me do this for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You really do tear up then.

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

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

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The muscles in his jaw work.

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

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

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

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

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

“Crying and sad?”

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

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

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

“Just?”

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

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

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

“But mostly this.”

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

“Really?”

“Really.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

જ⁀➴

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

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

LIVE BAU REACTION:

SYNCHRONICITY

the simultaneous occurrence of causally unrelated events and the belief that the simultaneity has meaning beyond mere coincidence.

summary: after months of inexplicable coincidences, spencer reid realizes the universe is screaming at him to confess his love for his best friend.

content warnings: best friends who are in love with each other , sort of bubbly!reader , no use of y/n , a/n: this idea came to me when i was rewatching season 11 and spencer was talking to tara about synchronicity !! and i loved the idea of it so much i decided to write this small series <3 it's also a big THANK YOU for 2k !! i couldn't be more grateful to all of you <3 also please keep in mind that i'm just a silly teenage girl writing fanficiton so i'm no scientist - this is literally just a series based on a youtube video i watched and a bunch of wikipedia pages i read </3 i hope you like it !! <3

part one: alert synchronicity

part two: confirmation synchronicity

part three: prophetic synchronicity

part four: manifestation synchronicity

part five: opportunity synchronicity

Me looking for fan fictions but instead I get flashed by sex bot ads under the same tag

Me at 3am clicking “keep reading” on the most jaw dropping, earth shattering, pantie dropping, smutty fic when I have to be up in 3 hours

part one: alert synchronicity

— ★ spencer spends a day surrounded by small reminders of you—and finally understands that he's already lost his heart to you.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing!

Something shifted.

It wasn’t just a minor change, a fleeting blip in the rhythm of his day—no, this was something bigger. It was subtle, almost imperceptible.

Whether it was a trick of the mind or a deeper instinct trying to get Spencer's attention, he didn’t know.

He woke that morning with an odd heaviness in his limbs, the kind that made the simple act of opening his eyes feel like a monumental effort.

The space beside him was empty. Cold.

And for a long, disorienting moment, he stared at the undisturbed sheets, his mind caught between sleep and wakefulness, reality and the lingering traces of a dream he couldn’t quite recall.

You weren’t there.

Of course you weren’t. You had left hours ago, after the movie credits rolled and the apartment had settled into silence.

You had laughed at something he said, before gathering your things and slipping out with a quiet "Bye Spencer."

That had been the plan. That’s how it always went.

Yet, for twenty minutes, he lay there, motionless, his gaze fixed on the vacant space beside him as if expecting it to offer answers. His mind was a paradox—simultaneously blank and overcrowded, thoughts swirling like leaves caught in a gust of wind, too fast to grasp, too numerous to ignore. It was as though a hundred thoughts were scrambling for attention at once, but none of them quite made it to the surface. He couldn’t grab onto anything.

All he knew was that something didn’t sit right.

Was it just exhaustion? The residual effects of too many late nights and too many cases blurring together?

Because the truth was, he had felt it before. That eerie, inexplicable tug of fate, the universe nudging him toward something he couldn’t yet name. And today, it was stronger.

Today, it refused to be ignored.

The sensation clung to him like static, prickling beneath his skin even as he dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror looked tired—more than usual.

His eyes landed on the toothbrush—the one that wasn’t technically yours, but might as well have been. A soft pink handle, sitting next to his own.

He’d bought it months ago, after the third time you’d stayed over and sheepishly admitted you’d forgotten yours. It had been a practical decision at the time—a small, logical accommodation for someone who kept ending up in his space, in his life, for longer and longer stretches.

His fingers hovered near it, not quite touching, as if it might burn him. A strange warmth spread through his chest, fluttering and restless, but beneath it was something hollow, something aching.

He didn’t understand it. Didn’t want to understand it.

Shaking his head slightly, Spencer wandered into the kitchen. The fridge door groaned as he pulled it open, half-hoping for inspiration, half-hoping to distract himself.

He frowned at the nearly empty shelves. A few containers. Half a bottle of almond milk. Some leftover takeout he wasn’t entirely sure was still safe.

He pouted, just a little. That soft, childlike disappointment that slipped out before he could mask it.

And then, out of nowhere, a thought sparked:

Your cookies. The chocolate chip ones.

The kind you never used to bake until you learned he liked them more than your usual vanilla batches .

The first ones you made had been slightly burnt on the edges, the chips off balance, but you kept trying. Adjusting the recipe, tweaking it each time like it was a science experiment. The way you’d squint at the oven timer and mutter about ratios—it made him smile more than he ever let on.

Over time, they’d gotten better. Perfect, even. To the point where Spencer had started associating the smell of melted chocolate and brown sugar with you—with the way your nose scrunched when you laughed, with the flour dusting your sleeves, with the way you’d always leave a few extra in his freezer "just in case."

Now, the absence of them felt like a physical thing.

He closed the fridge door slowly and let out a long sigh, his back pressing against the cool metal as he leaned there for a moment.

But then his eyes caught something on the counter and his breath caught.

There, on the counter—your box of cookies. The very ones he’d just been craving.

The universe had a cruel sense of humor sometimes, dangling the answer to a thought he hadn’t even fully formed. A coincidence? Maybe. But the way his pulse jumped at the sight made it feel like something more.

A slow, disbelieving smile tugged at his lips as he reached for the box, his fingers brushing over the familiar creases in the cardboard—the same way you always folded the edges to keep them fresh.

On top, a note in your unmistakable handwriting:

“For my favorite genius. I know you probably don’t have anything to eat for breakfast. And you need to stop living off coffee.”

Next to it, a lopsided smiley face, the kind you always drew when you were teasing him.

And beneath it, another slip of paper—this one with a quote:

“I hate people who are not serious about meals. It is so shallow of them.” —The Importance of Being Earnest.

His book. The one he’d lent you months ago, dog-eared and annotated in the margins with his cramped scribbles. You’d not only read it, you’d remembered it. Enough to pluck this line, this line, the one he’d laughed at when he reread it next to you.

Something warm and unnameable curled in his chest.

He gently traced the smiley face with his index finger before carefully peeling the note off the box and walking to the fridge. He smoothed the edges against the metal and stuck it there. Right in the center, right beside the magnet he never used. The quote followed, aligned just so.

Two little pieces of you.

He fully enjoyed the cookies—more than he wanted to admit. One turned into two, two into five, and before he knew it, he was staring at the bottom of the box, only two left. He hesitated, tempted to finish them off, but something made him stop. Maybe he wanted to save them. Maybe it felt symbolic somehow—leaving just a little behind.

He set the box aside with a quiet sigh, realizing it was probably time to face reality. If his breakfast consisted of cookies and the last splash of coffee from yesterday’s pot, then yeah—he needed groceries.

The thought alone was exhausting.

Reluctantly, Spencer went to get dressed. As he rummaged through his dresser for a sweater, his fingers brushed against something soft in the corner of the drawer. He paused, then slowly pulled it out.

The scarf.

The one you’d given him last winter, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, a little handwritten tag that simply said “For when the cold gets into your bones.”

He hadn’t worn it much. Not because he didn’t love it. He did. Too much, maybe. He was worried he’d ruin it, spill something on it, or catch it on a subway door or lose it in a moment of distraction.

So instead, it became a part of his quiet morning rituals—he’d look at it while choosing what to wear, smile to himself, then fold it back gently, like preserving something sacred.

It became a small, secret reminder of you that never failed to make his lips twitch upward.

But today, something tugged at him. Wear it.

He paused, hesitating. There was no case today. No flights, no crime scenes, no risk of ruining it in some chaotic whirlwind of work. It was just grocery shopping. A quick errand. No danger. No reason not to.

Before he could overthink it, he looped the scarf around his neck. The wool was warmer than he expected, carrying the faintest trace of cedar and vanilla—your perfume, maybe, or just the ghost of memory.

He slipped on his shoes, grabbed his coat, and stepped outside into the crisp morning air. The cold hit him immediately —but the scarf helped.

You helped.

And for once, Spencer didn’t feel quite so alone.

The drive to the grocery store should have been routine—just another mundane task.

Spencer flipped on the radio out of habit, his fingers automatically tuning to his usual station: the one that dissected quantum physics and debated the ethics of emerging technologies in monotone, academic voices. It was comforting, familiar. He usually looked forward to it. Even if he already knew most of the facts being discussed, there was something soothing about hearing others speak his language.

There was comfort in the predictability of it.

But today, the voices grated.

He listened for maybe a minute, maybe less. The words blurred together, sounding hollow in a way they usually didn’t.

He stared ahead at the red light, fingers tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel. Restless. Unsettled.

His gaze drifted to the radio display. Without really thinking, he pressed the button to change the station.

Click. Static. Then a beat.

And then—your favorite song.

It took him a second to register it, but once he did, his breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t a popular song, not one that played often. In fact, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard it on the radio.

But here it was. Blasting softly through his speakers like the universe had handpicked the moment.

The same song you’d hum under your breath while baking, the one you’d insisted on playing three times in a row that one rainy afternoon when he’d pretended to complain but secretly memorized every lyric.

His breath hitched.

For a heartbeat, he just stared, as if the universe had reached into his chest and plucked out a thought he hadn’t even fully formed. Behind him, a horn blared—sharp, impatient—jolting him back to reality.

“Oh. Sorry,” he muttered, flushing as he hit the gas, the car lurching forward a second too late.

He didn’t change the station.

The rest of the drive passed in a haze, the music wrapping around him like an echo of your voice.

By the time he pulled into the grocery store parking lot, the song had faded into something else, but the melody lingered, tangled up in the wool of your scarf and the ghost of flour on your hands.

Once he stepped out of the car, Spencer paused and looked up at the sky. Heavy clouds loomed overhead, dark and swollen with the promise of rain.

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and muttered to himself, “Alright. Just in and out. Quick.”

October weather was unpredictable. He quickened his pace toward the store, shoulders hunched against the cold. The last thing he needed was to get caught in another downpour.

Like last night.

The memory surfaced unbidden: you, standing in his doorway, drenched and shivering, your hair plastered to your forehead while rainwater pooled at your feet. He’d panicked—of course he had—fussing over the cold you’d surely catch, the inconvenience, the unnecessary risk you’d taken just to watch some movie with him.

And then you’d grinned, wide and unrepentant, before launching yourself at him.

The hug was instantaneous, your arms locking around him, soaking his shirt through in seconds. He’d stiffened—“You’re getting me all wet!”—but you’d just buried your face in his shoulder and mumbled, “We’ll be sick together, Spencer.”

He hadn’t stood a chance.

You’d spent the rest of the evening wrapped in mismatched towels, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch, your laughter warmer than any blanket. And if a cozy evening like this with you made him get sick? Who was he to care? If anything, he had used the rain and the cold to scoot even closer to you on the couch, mumbling a small "My apartment is cold" as an excuse to press his thighs closer to yours.

Now, standing in the grocery store parking lot with the wind gnawing at his scarf—your scarf—he realized something with startling clarity:

He missed you.

Not in the abstract, distant way he missed people when they were gone. But viscerally, like a pit in his stomach, that couldn't be filled with anything but the sight of you standing infront of him with a smile.

The clouds overhead rumbled softly, like the sky missed you too.

Spencer turned toward the store, tugging his scarf a little tighter, and stepped forward, but something caught his eye.

Next to the grocery store, nestled between a laundromat and a pharmacy, was a new coffee shop. That in itself wasn’t unusual. But the name?

His breath caught slightly in his throat as he read the sign above the door.

Drip Drop Brew.

His eyes widened. He blinked, like maybe he had read it wrong. But no—those words stared right back at him, painted in playful script across the front window in soft red and black.

His breath stuttered.

“Drip drop drip drop,” you had murmured just last night as he made you tea, still damp from the rain.

You had stood beside him in the kitchen, doing absolutely nothing useful, your hair still curling with leftover stormwater. You never offered to help—and he never minded. You just liked being near him while he moved around the kitchen.

“Drip drop?” he’d repeated back, bemused, pouring hot water over chamomile leaves.

“The rain,” you’d said, as if it were obvious, tilting your head toward the sound. “Listen.”

And he had. Not to the weather, but to you—the way your voice softened around mundane things, how you found rhythm in the ordinary. It was ridiculous. It was perfect. It was such a you thing to do, finding magic in something as ordinary as the sound of water hitting glass.

Now, standing frozen on the sidewalk, the memory wrapped around him like the scarf still knotted at his throat.

A coincidence. It had to be.

But the way his pulse jumped said otherwise.

He took a slow breath, torn between stepping inside and continuing to the grocery store. He didn’t need coffee.

Groceries were forgotten the moment he pushed open the coffee shop door.

The place was you—cozy and vibrant, with mismatched armchairs in deep red and black , shelves lined with well-loved books, and the scent of freshly ground coffee.

He could already picture you here, curled up in that corner nook by the window, a half-finished report abandoned in favor of people-watching.

You both had a habit of doing reports in cafés—something that started as convenience and turned into tradition. A small ritual between the chaos of the job. He could still remember the first time you'd convinced Hotch to let it happen.

It had been on a slow day, paperwork piling up, everyone dragging. You'd walked into the bullpen and said, “What if we were… slightly more productive in a cozy public setting with caffeine and pastries?”

Complete with your best “convince-Hotch” smile.

Somehow, it worked.Honestly, most of the team had a hard time saying no to you. Even Hotch, who wasn’t exactly known for bending rules.

But Spencer? Spencer never stood a chance. He wasn’t even sure the word no existed in his vocabulary when it came to you.

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he’d ever truly said no to you. The word dissolved in his throat whenever you smiled at him.

He ordered a coffee—black, simple, but he let the barista add a drizzle of cinnamon syrup, just because it reminded him of the way you'd order his drinks when you thought he needed “spicing up.”

Then he settled down in the corner seat, back against the wall, giving him a view of the whole shop. It should’ve felt peaceful.

Instead, the absence beside him was deafening.

He let his eyes wander, taking everything in. The handwritten menu on a chalkboard. Cute drawings of animals, such as ladybugs. The tiny potted succulents lining the windowsill. A basket of dog treats by the door. A stack of used books by the counter with a handwritten sign that read: “Take one, leave one, love always.” C

Time slipped through his fingers like sand.

What should have been a thirty-minute grocery run had stretched into nearly two hours—first the coffee shop, then the quiet absorption of his book (of course he’d brought one; he’d sooner leave the house without pants than without reading material).

Eventually he forced himself to leave.

With a full bag of groceries and a head full of thoughts, he made it home. The sky had darkened even more, a low rumble of thunder in the distance echoing through the streets. Rain hadn’t started yet, but it was only a matter of time.

He unpacked everything robotically, stacking the pantry and fridge, then tossed his coat aside and curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped loosely around him.

He traced the spine of the book in his lap, his thumb brushing over the slight crease near the top.

Your book.

The one you’d pressed into his hands last week with theatrical solemnity, your brows furrowed in mock severity. “This one is my favorite,” you’d said, voice low, as if entrusting him with state secrets. When you’d jabbed a warning finger in his face, he’d barely suppressed a grin. “If anything happens to it—”

He’d waited, eyes bright with amusement, until you’d leaned in close, your voice dropping to a theatrical whisper: “You will know my rage in ways you’ve never known before.”

The threat was absurd—he’d seen you genuinely angry exactly once, and even then, you’d mostly just frowned harder—but he’d played along, snatching the book from your grip with exaggerated defiance.

“Terrifying,” he’d deadpanned, already flipping to the first page.

That was another one of your rituals: swapping books every week, your version of a love language. You’d once called it “literary matchmaking.” Every Friday, without fail, a book would be passed between you—sometimes annotated, sometimes dog-eared, always loved.

This book had been your favorite.

Now, tracing the dog-eared corner of page 111—your favorite passage—he realized with a quiet ache that he could almost hear your voice between the lines.

He’d read three chapters today, but the words blurred together, his focus frayed by the day’s odd synchronicities—the cookies, the scarf, the song, the café.

And now this: your favorite book in his hands, your phantom laughter between the lines.

Spencer exhaled, tilting his head back against the couch.

The universe, it seemed, was determined to remind him of you.

Thirty minutes later, he turned the final page.

The book was finished, and God, he understood now why you loved it so much—the way the prose curled around his ribs like smoke, the underlined passages that felt like secrets shared between just the two of you.

Your notes in the margins had been his favorite part: little exclamation marks beside plot twists, sarcastic commentary in the corners, the occasional doodle when you’d clearly gotten distracted.

With a quiet sigh, he set the book on his lap, but the spine—well-loved and cracked from years of your hands holding it—fell open again of its own accord.

And there it was.

A single line, highlighted in soft yellow, framed by a constellation of pink hearts you’d drawn with the same care you reserved for frosting cookies or arranging flowers in his too-empty apartment:

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”

The air left his lungs in a rush.

It hit him with the force of a bullet train—no warning, no gradual buildup, just the devastating certainty of it.

The cookies. The scarf. The radio station. The coffee shop. The way his chest ached when you laughed. The way he’d memorized the cadence of your voice without meaning to. The way every road, every book, every breath seemed to lead back to you.

Oh.

Spencer Reid was in love with his best friend.

And the terrible, beautiful truth was—he’d been in love with you for a long, long time.

i like him i like that autistic man

nobody can make me hate tim drake 💔

🕸️Your Friendly Neighborhood Alien Kisser | Masterlist

mark grayson x spider-woman!reader

prologue — the bite the spider didn’t just change your body, it changed everything.

chapter 1 — double lives, double dates pt 1 double lives and double dates pt 2 you weren’t there. you should’ve been there.

chapter 2 — tangled threads pt 1 tangled threads pt 2 the way she touches his arm… yeah. you’re spiraling.

chapter 3 — the kiss and the curse pt 1 the kiss and the curse pt2

chapter 4 — a stranger in her skin pt 1 a stranger in her skin pt2

chapter 5 — spiders and secrets

chapter 6 — the unmasking pt 1 the unmasking pt 2

chapter 7 — i don’t know who i am anymore

chapter 8 — the fight for yourself

chapter 9 — truth and tangled healing

chapter 10 — our city, our web

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Manga), 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Anime) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: gojo satoru/ geto suguru Characters: Gojo Satoru, Getou Suguru, Ieiri Shoko Additional Tags: satosugu, professor gojo, doctor gojo, suguru has a vagina, geto cuntboy(?), university students satosugu, Masturbation, Gojo and geto were college rivals, geto being superior in everything, and gojo was a looser, tables have turned, tech guy suguru, emotionally and sexually exausted suguru. Summary:

“A special beginners course organised by Professor Doctor Gojo Saturo, on how to feel the best pleasure from just 10 minutes of warm-up.”

A course for people with clits, vagina; For which only Geto showed up and miraculously a practical assignment was added too.

INVINCIBLE STORIES

**Some of the shorts might shift into longer stories, or inspiration for them. But for now, this is how I'll organize things to get ready to start writing multuple parts**

[Take One]

Use Your Senses (Mark Grayson)

Did Mark just find the secret to keeping your attention?

Sweater (Mark Grayson)

There's some annoying thing about Mark that just won't let him leave your mind

Secrets (Mark Grayson)

You weren't supposed to find out this way

Savior (Variant Mark Grayson)

From monster to Messiah

Partners (Mark Grayson)

School projects are the worst

Differences (Mark Grayson)

You and Mark want completely different things from each other

He Remembers (Mark Grayson)

You moved away long ago, but you and Mark used to be inseparable

Meet the Graysons (Nolan, Debbie, & Mark Grayson)

Work gives you many chances to meet many interesting people

[In Production]

- One Sided Rivalry (Mark Grayson)

You've known the guy for forever, you should be close with him. But how can you be nice, when all that you wish is for Mark to finally stay away from you? Less and less it's starting to look like that'll happen, so ... do you just ... keep pushing him away? Or is it time for something new?

Pt 1

Pt 2 ... Coming Soon

- Little Rich Boy (Mark Grayson)

Your friend lives the picture perfect life, not that he thinks so. You two are completely different! You truly hope he appreciates all he has. Mark doesn't get why this is such a big deal to you. But you won't start seeing him differently now, right?

Pt 1

Pt2 ... Coming Soon

SHE WAS A MOMENT OF CHAOS MASTERLIST (INCOMPLETE).

"It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try to readjust the way you thought of things." — The Reptile Room, by Daniel Handler

Pairing: Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: Death, mental health struggles, violence, smut (later down the road), & a lot of angst.

Total W/C: 2.6K

❥ If you'd like to be on the taglist for updates, comment on this post.

Summary.

Your life had started out normal. A boyfriend, friends, a stable job, and an aunt who took over as the parental figure in your life. But fate had a cruel sense of humor, and you are wrapped in its claws as you watch your once-perfect life fall apart. As strange things happen around you, you find yourself being watched by a force you cannot see. Amidst this chaos, there is only one constant: you.

Prologue.

Chapter 1: With Love Comes Loss.

Chapter 2: Survivor's Guilt.

Chapter 3: Unique Frequencies.

Chapter 4: The Boy in the Mask.

Chapter 5: Inky Veins and Agents of Chaos.

Chapter 6: Is Everything Going to be Okay?

Chapter 7: The Illusion of Love.

Chapter 8: The Healing of Old Wounds.

Chapter 9: Summer Kisses or Government Threats?

Chapter 10: A Hollowness in Her Chest.

Chapter 11: Final Showdowns.

Chapter 12: A Twist of Reality.

I feel like a virgin when I search up “x Reader” with a new character I like

I feel like a virgin when I search up “x Reader” with a new character I like

Cheat, cheater, pumpkin eater

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Mark Grayson x Siren!Tall!Fem!Reader

Premise: Mark just began his relationship with Eve, so why is he never looking at her?

Extra: I love the cheating trope where reader is a homewreaker, so here we are. Haven't watched invincible but the guy is hot. Ergo this story of him cheating on his GF.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no description of reader other than being tall.

General Warnings: Smut, blood, cannibalism?? (Only reader eats ppl), canon-typical violence

Rating: 18+

Status: On-going

Current word count: 4.6K

Oh, Angels have pink hair.

A Giant Woman.

The moon is silver! I like silver!

And you? What would you do for love?

I have all the characteristics of a human being.

There is no real me. Only an entity.

I simply am not there.

To be added on Tag list: !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑/Gen Masterlist

Yup. I think I found the faces for them.

Jason fans I have wonderful news for yooooou

they call it "self insert" because im inserting myself inside of him

Guess who caught up in the manga

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: House of the Dragon (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Additional Tags: Dragon Riders, Boys' Love, War, Romance Summary:

La guerra se desata en el mundo magico de Modrum. Aunque improbable, una alianza sostenida de débiles peldaños es lo único que sostiene la paz. Dos generaciones de jinetes después. Oliver Plint y Kaius Crees continúan con la tradición de odiarse el uno al otro. Inevitablemente tienen que trabajar juntos cuando los beneficios de su mundo comienzan a comprometerse.

La paz y estabilidad de su mundo depende únicamente de sus dedos entrelazados manchados de sangre y oro.

La danza de los dragones.

Milenios después de que la devastación atacara las tierras que los dioses le otorgaron al mundo, Hubo belleza inundando cada plano de esas bendecidas tierras, las especies vivían todas en paz, lo inimaginable sucedía como actos comunes, la vida, en pocas palabras era tranquila.

Cada ser cumplió con su deber, las sirenas habitaban el mar, las hadas plagaban los bosques, los dragones surcaban sus cielos, y el sinfín de animales y habitantes mágicos acogió sin dudarlo a la especie que se consideró lo único simple en todo el lugar, los humanos formaron parte. El mundo tenía paz.

Hasta que la perdió.

Los humanos son imperfectos por naturaleza, no es que desearan serlo simplemente no podían controlarlo. Por eso cuando la envidia envolvió las venas de los primeros hombres nadie pensó que tendrían que interferir, los dioses no pondrían a seres destructivos en la tierras que contenían la paz ¿Cierto?

El resentimiento es una enfermedad aérea, los humanos, anhelantes de peculiaridad fueron la mejor forma de contagio. ¿Por qué los otros tenían magia y ellos no? Las innumerables cuestiones los hicieron envenenarse de envidia; decidieron entonces, si no podían conseguir la magia, la arrebatarían. Los primeros levantamientos iniciaron un día de pesca, con cientos de barcos llenos con marineros que zarparon con el único objetivo de poner un ejemplo. Miles de sirenas cantaron su tragedia aquel día.

Aquellos que alguna vez fueron respetados, incluso apreciados, esta vez fueron temidos, ya no había más debilidad en los cuerpos mortales, en su lugar se alzaron lentamente contra la magia que les había sido gentilmente mostrada. Años de sangre y lucha después; poco quedo de lo divino en el mundo de Modrum. Entre la crueldad de la guerra dos figuras singulares resaltaron. Sus caminos se marcaron por sangre, ambos con la amarga ambición de un mundo diferente

Aliados, compañeros, enemigos.

La sangre y el oro coronaron a los primeros reyes humanos, avariciosos y ciegos tomaron sin dar a cambio. El poder fue repartido en dos grandes reinos, Aurelen la tierra del oro y las hadas extintas y Sylvarith la montaña de bosques y dragones. Modrum fragmentado había perdido la gloria de sus grandes días. Las hadas desaparecieron, las pocas que quedaron fueron convertidas en esclavas, y las sirenas preferían mantenerse en lo profundo, donde su belleza no cautivaba y sus cantos se ahogaban junto a marineros de poca importancia. Poco a poco no quedó rastro de lo hermoso y divino que solía ser el próspero mundo de Modrum.

Entre todos estos seres solo uno fue considerado digno de permanecer. Con vida y relativa libertad, los dragones altos e imponentes sobre cualquier otro ser, lo suficientemente sabios para callar y tan audaces para no escuchar, Estas denominadas indomables bestias, fueron los compañeros perfectos para aquellos despiadados reyes que buscaban el control de tierras que no les pertenecían.

Hace cientos de años, el cielo se iluminó con un suceso histórico, la danza de los dragones expandió el poder de aquellos que se coronaron a sí mismos en cenizas y sangre. Ambas casas ahora convertidas en nobles palacios de reyes y jinetes se atravesaron en la guerra por el control de todo. El fuego envolvió el cielo con su calor y la sangre y el oro adornaron las cicatrices en las manos de los jinetes. Cuando finalmente todo termino no había mucho que salvar, las cenizas aun ardientes se forjaron en el terror del pueblo y la poca paz que pudo conservarse era sostenida por un par de manos débiles, un tratado de paz demasiado delgado impidió una segunda gran guerra. Sus coronas se consagraron con el poder absoluto.

Aquellos días oscuros se habían alejado de ambas familias, ahora un par de décadas después la fragmentada paz que se había conseguido después del baile de los dragones, estaba pendiendo de un diente de león. Los nobles herederos de ambas familias, Plint y Creed una vez más unidos por poco más que un hilo de odio fino, el destino de un mundo colgaba del espacio entre sus dedos entrelazados.

Oliver Plint no era un luchador, prefería entre todas las cosas montar a su dragón y escapar, aunque fuese por pocos minutos del legado que le precedía. No era un sanguinario ni un prodigio de la espada, si algo lo definía era su absurda gentileza. Todo lo gentil se extingue en el mundo, la amabilidad no coexiste con la fuerza.

Kaius Creed estaba preparado para una matanza, la espada y su dragón eran sus únicos aliados y además de su ambición por la corona de Aurelen, no había nada que le importara, era un guerrero un rey nacido en la corona, envuelto en brazas y oro, echo para odiar y destruir así tuviera que morir para lograrlo era un sacrificio digno de tomar. Nada duraba para siempre, a excepción del honor.

Los dos reinos se tocan de nuevo durante una gala particularmente absurda y cuando un par de movimientos en falso podrían destruirlo todo se necesita de dos almas corrompidas para evitar que los dragones vuelvan a danzar.