#JUSTICE FOR SPENCER REID

[reids-left-sock]

i need to know if anyone else dreaded the next episode in season 12 during their first watch

like i am genuinely scared

because i KNOW this isn’t ending well

[reidsmanuscript]

Exceptional

Summary: what happens when spencer hears the rumors about your teenage years? what happens when some of those rumors are true?. Pairing: Spencer Reid x lawyer!reader Genre: hurt/comfort and fluff at the end! wc: 5.5k! TW: burning wounds, bullying, misogyny/patriarchal behavior, violent and impulsive behavior. not proofread yet. A/N: in the middle of writting this i realized it's very based on "the archer" and "the man" by Taylor Swift Masterlist! (it's not necessary to read the first 4 chapters!)

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If we're talking about anecdotes from your teenage years, well—there’s not much to tell. Just the totally mundane story of an angry, emotionally volatile teenager with too much brainpower who somehow bulldozed her way into Harvard Law. No big deal.

JJ had great stories about high school—being the captain of her football team, those wholesome, small-town moments straight out of a coming-of-age movie. Emily had the wildest stories—traveling the world, the chaos of never staying in one place, and even the ones that made you feel something, like how badly she just wanted to fit in.

It started with the urgent case the BAU was handed—students linked to an elite Harvard secret society were disappearing, their bodies found staged in ritualistic ways. As the case unfolded, Spencer turned to you, his voice a little more cautious than usual.

“Do you know anything about some Seraphic Circle?”

You didn’t need to think. You’d heard plenty about them. Too much, really. "I’ve heard of them," you said, your tone dripping with disdain and rolling your eyes. “Rich kids with too much money and power. Half of them don’t even deserve to be there, but their families pay for their spot.”

You were reluctant towards accepting going with them to Massachusetts, too much memories and teh constant fear someone might recognize you and call you out for past decisions that maybe weren't the best. Maybe they were worse than you wanted to confess and might even scare Spencer away. 

Still, he had asked you to accompany them. “Do you think they will remember you?”

“Nah… i don’t think so, they have tons of law students per year so…” maybe your words were right, but the higher thn usual pitch on your tone gave you away to spencer, that only he was able to detect, of how you weren’t saying all the true

Long story short, that's how you end up where you are right now, walking behind de BAU towards the Dean of Harvard office, with Spencer by your side. 

You reach the office just as Hotch shakes the dean’s hand, introducing each member of the team. “SSA Jareau, SSA Morgan, and Dr. Reid,” he says, gesturing to each of them in turn. “We also brought—”

“Woodvale.”

The dean’s voice cuts through the room the moment his eyes land on you, recognition flickering across his face. Not even a hundred years would be enough to erase your name from his memory. He didn't like you back then. 

An almost cynical, carefully polite smile curves your lips as you extend your hand. “Dean Langford.”

He grips your hand firmly, his expression unreadable. “Seems like you’ve come a long way from that time your burned one of my students”

The atmosphere in the room shifts instantly, tension crackling like a live wire. But you don’t let it show, ignoring how he didn’t consider you a proper student. Instead, your voice remains cool, measured.

“Those accusations were debunked after no evidence was found,” you say smoothly. “Unlike the very real recordings and witness statements I had of that same student saying—” you pause, tilting your head slightly, your smile sharpening, “women became hysterical when it came to sexual crimes.’”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Emily and JJ smirking, while Langford’s expression hardens.

The dean's smile barely falters. So, he does remember you. Not surprising—back then, you were even more impulsive than you are now. And that says a lot. 

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Don’t ask how, but somehow Garcia had dug up records that gave the team a list of names tied to the so-called “secret society.” Ironically, when the BAU interviewed students about it, everyone seemed to know what it was—just not anything useful.

“They sacrifice animals.” “A bunch of douchebags with too much money.” “They run everything. If you’re one of them, you’re untouchable.”

“Do any of the names look familiar?” Rossi asked, sliding the list toward you.

You scanned it, then shook your head. “Only the last names. But that’s not surprising—most of them come from old money.”

Garcia had also uncovered some interesting financial records. One name stood out: Andrew Carrington, former lawyer at his family’s prestigious Massachusetts firm. A-class dickhead.

“He’s got buildings in the city,” Garcia said, displaying files on the computer. “But his family’s the real power—deep pockets, old money. There are even a couple of campus buildings with their name on them.”

Rossi raised a brow. “Legacy admission?”

“More like a blank check.” You leaned back. “Everyone knew he bought his way in.”

“Any possibility he’s involved?” Hotch asked.

You considered it for a moment before shaking your head. “I don’t think so. Back then, this club was his pride. These murders? They only drag its prestige through the mud.”

“So… this Seraphic Circle thing,” Emily said, tilting her head. “Were you ever part of it?”

The police station buzzed around you, a low hum of voices and ringing phones, but your focus was on the files in front of you. Spencer sat beside you, skimming through pages with his usual quiet intensity. Neither of you was big on PDA—no hand-holding, no lingering touches in front of the team—but subtlety was an art you both had mastered. Your elbows brushed as you shifted in your seat, his knee resting against yours, the quiet pressure grounding.

“Not really,” you answered finally. “They claimed you had to have a big name in law, but what they really meant was that you had to be rich—and if you were a man? Even better.”

Morgan flipped through a file. “But you do know this Carrington guy.”

Before you could answer, Spencer’s fingers brushed against the side of your knee—a light touch so subtle no one else would notice. A quiet signal. He’d felt your tension the moment Morgan had mentioned Carrington.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. “Yeah… It was hard not to know someone like him. He’s got that whole ‘king of the school’ vibe, but honestly, he’s not capable of something like this.” You spoke nonchalantly, but your voice betrayed a hint of discomfort.

The team shifted focus to the next lead, moving on to analyze the unsub’s possible personality traits. After a few more exchanges, the decision was made to call Carrington in for questioning tomorrow—there was no use doing it this late. The discussion had settled, but Spencer’s fingers brushed against your knee again, just enough for you to catch it. He was still attuned to your every movement, a silent understanding between the two of you.

After that, Hotch made the call for everyone to get some rest. One by one, the team decided to call it a night, heading out to their respective rooms. You and Spencer lingered behind, both of you wrapping up the last of your thoughts on the case.

Spencer was the one to break the silence. He looked around the station, then at you. His eyes softened for a moment before he spoke. “Enough for tonight. Let’s get some sleep.”

You nodded, thankful for the break. As Spencer found your coat, you dropped the files onto the nearest table. You stood still as he slid the coat onto your shoulders, the fabric brushing against your skin. As he did, you both made the mistake of letting your hands touch—just a fleeting brush—but it sent a warmth through your chest.

The walk to the motel was calm, with the quiet night air wrapping around you both. Spencer felt a strange mixture of calm and anticipation swirling in his chest, emotions he didn’t usually indulge. It wasn’t something he had the vocabulary for, not in his usual clinical sense. For once, there wasn’t a need for facts or equations to understand the feeling that settled inside him.

His fingers, almost absent-mindedly, curled into yours. It was a subtle movement, but the softness of it caught him by surprise. His thumb traced small, slow circles over the back of your hand, a tender rhythm he couldn’t quite explain. For someone who usually lived in the world of patterns and logic, this was unfamiliar territory. But the simple touch, the way your fingers fit together so naturally—it felt right.

In a world where everything was either solvable or predictable, this felt like the exception. There was no analysis needed. No need to question why it felt so much like a moment he wanted to hold onto. Maybe it was the quiet between you two, or the way everything around you seemed to fade as his thumb ran over your hand. All Spencer knew was that in that moment, nothing else mattered.

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The next morning, Hotch had sent Morgan and Prentiss off to speak with students on the campus, while he and Rossi took over the interrogation. The room felt different now, quieter—like the calm before another storm. 

Andrew Carrigton settled into the chair like he was sitting at a country club luncheon rather than an interrogation room. His suit was crisp, his cufflinks glinting under the fluorescent lights. If he was rattled by the fact that three of his former society’s members were dead, he didn’t show it.

Hotch sat across from him, his expression unreadable. Morgan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, unimpressed.

“Mr. Carrigton,” Hotch began, “we’re investigating the murders of three students, all of whom were members of the Seraphic Circle. You were one of its founders. We need information.”

Carrigton exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Tragic. Truly. But I haven’t been involved in years. You’d be better off asking one of the new recruits.”

Hotch didn’t budge. “We’re asking you.”

Carrigton smirked, tilting his head. “What do you want me to say? That it’s a secret society? That we have rituals and secret handshakes?” He chuckled. “Come on, Agent. It’s a networking club. A prestigious one, sure, but hardly the Illuminati.”

Rossi let out a sharp breath, unimpressed. “Right. A ‘networking club’ where only the rich and powerful get in, and anyone who doesn’t measure up gets chewed up and spit out.”

Carrigton raised an eyebrow. “That’s life, isn’t it?”

Hotch didn’t rise to the bait. “The night of the first murder, there was an event. Who was in attendance?”

Carrigton hummed, tapping a thoughtful finger against his jaw. “Hard to say. The Circle’s grown since my time. Dozens of faces, most of which I wouldn’t recognize.”

“You’re still connected. You know the leadership.”

Another lazy shrug. “I might know a few names. But as I said, things change. The president rotates out, always some eager young thing desperate to prove themselves. They run the show until the next one takes over.” He smirked. “I imagine the current one is quite overwhelmed.”

“Who’s pulling the strings?” Hotch asked.

Carrigton chuckled. “You give us too much credit, Agent. It’s not some grand conspiracy. It’s a club. People join, people leave. Some do well, some don’t.”

“And the ones who don’t?”

Carrigton waved a dismissive hand. “They drop out. Go on with their lives. Or—” he smiled, sharp, “—they stew in their resentment, blaming others for their own failures.”

Morgan’s jaw tightened. “You think that’s what happened here?”

Carrigton leaned back in his chair, perfectly at ease. “I think it’s always the same story. Someone on the outside looking in, bitter that they weren’t enough. And now they want to take it out on the ones who were.”

Hotch’s voice was cold. “That’s a convenient theory. But it doesn’t answer our questions.”

Carrigton’s smirk widened. “Then maybe you’re asking the wrong ones.”

From the other side of the glass, you watched Carrigton with growing irritation. He was the same smug, arrogant bastard you remembered from college, only now it was worse. His attitude hadn’t changed a bit, and neither had his ability to waste everyone’s time with his deflections.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes as he ran his mouth, completely ignoring the fact that three people were dead, his precious club possibly involved. He was too busy leaning back in his chair, playing at some sick power game.

You glanced at JJ, your patience already hanging by a thread. “There’s no cameras here, right?”

JJ, clearly thrown off by the sudden question, gave you a puzzled look. “No… why?”

Without answering, you turned your focus back to Carrigton and felt your hands tighten into fists. His polished smirk made your blood boil, his greasy hair gleaming under the lights. Your shoulders squared, the weight of your frustration making your movements sharper. You ignored Spencer’s curious glance, his quiet scrutiny as he watched you.

You didn’t have time for any of this.

You walked to the door and knocked once, the sound sharp in the sterile room. Before anyone could respond, you turned the handle, stepping into the interrogation room.

Carrigton’s eyes locked onto you the second you walked in. His gaze flickered briefly, a subtle but noticeable flash of discomfort before he quickly masked it with that same patronizing grin.

“Well, well,” he sneered, adjusting the collar of his shirt like he was trying to put some distance between himself and the real world. “I didn’t realize the FBI was hiring gutter rats now.”

Spencer tensed from the other side of the glass, his expression hardening as his frustration mounted. He was clearly growing angrier at Carrigton’s smug demeanor, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing you were even a little fazed. You simply smirked and kept your focus on the man sitting in front of you.

Carrigton’s glare never left you as you stepped closer, your tone ice-cold. “This ‘gutter rat’ is about to charge you with obstruction of justice if you don’t start talking, Andrew.”

Carrigton's eyes narrowed, his lips curling in a sneer. “That’s blackmail.”

You didn’t flinch. “And if you keep dragging your feet, that’s another charge—contempt of court. Trust me, I’ve got plenty more where that came from.” You leaned in just enough to make sure he heard you loud and clear. “You want to keep playing games, or you want to start answering questions?”

Carrigton shifted in his seat, the cockiness starting to waver, but he still clung to that arrogance like a shield, gripping it with white-knuckled desperation.

“I want my lawyer,” he said, forcing his voice to stay even.

You scoff, tilting your head as if you were genuinely considering his words before your lips curled into something sharp and ruthless.

"Is that your way of admitting you’re not a good enough lawyer to defend yourself?" Your voice was smooth, razor-edged silk, venom threaded through every syllable. "Start talking."

His nostrils flared, a flicker of something—hesitation, anger, maybe both. It was barely a breath, but you caught it.

"From what I know, the admission process has gone to hell," he sneered, grasping at arrogance like a lifeline. "I spoke with their president last week about it. I'm not throwing my money at that place just for them to start letting in anyone."

Rossi’s eyebrows lifted as he slid the crime scene photos across the table, each image a stark, undeniable truth. “Are these people just ‘anyone’ to you, Andrew?”

For the first time, Carrigton’s arrogance fractured. It was subtle—the flicker of his gaze, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t reach for the photos.

And then you saw it. No matter how high his shirt collar was, it couldn’t quite hide the edges of old scars peeking out—angry, uneven marks trailing up the side of his neck, disappearing beneath expensive fabric. 

"We didn’t have anything to do with this," Carrigton muttered, his voice suddenly lacking its earlier bravado. His eyes flickered briefly over the crime scene photos, but his gaze quickly dropped.

"Who’s ‘we’?" Hotch’s voice was cold, demanding, cutting through the silence.

Carrigton didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he shifted in his seat, hands gripping the edges of the table, knuckles turning white. He wasn’t as confident as before.

You could feel it—he was trying to hide the discomfort, but it was there. The truth always made people uncomfortable.

You pushed yourself off the wall, your movement slow and deliberate, your eyes never leaving him as you circled around behind him. He tensed, just slightly at first, but it was enough.

The memory was still fresh, and you knew it. He hadn’t forgotten how you burned him—how the scalding coffee had left that mark on his neck. He was trying not to show it, but it was eating at him, that simmering, seething reminder that you’d done it and he couldn’t touch you for it.

You stopped just behind him, letting your presence loom over him like a shadow. He could feel your gaze, feel the space between you—too close for comfort, too close for someone who hated you as much as he did.

"What’s the matter, Andrew?" You leaned in, your voice low and smooth, but your words sharp as a knife. "Don’t like me standing here?"

"I told him to stop accepting anyone," Carrigton muttered, his voice tightening as he stumbled over the words. "Grayson Locke, that's his name. Legacy admission. But I had nothing to do with this. We even went through some names, cut people off."

You could feel the hesitation in his voice, the way he was trying to distance himself from the mess that was unfolding. His words were almost defensive, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as you. The stammering wasn’t lost on you—it was almost pathetic.

"What names?" Rossi’s voice was firm, but he wasn’t pushing too hard yet. He was letting Carrigton sweat just a little longer, a strategy you were both accustomed to.

Carrigton's jaw tightened, his eyes darting nervously between Morgan and you. "It was a list," he said quickly, almost as though the words were tumbling out before he could stop them. "Just find him. Tell him I told you to give it to you." He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering to the door. "Outside of that, I don’t know anything else."

There it was. The slip. The admission that he was just as tangled in this as the rest of them. But it wasn’t enough. Rossi stepped out of the interrogation room, heading off to search for the list.

“See? Was that so hard?” You taunted, slumping into the chair Rossi had just vacated, your eyes never leaving Carrigton. His smug façade cracked, just enough for you to see the shift. The sense of discomfort that he could no longer hide.

His eyes flicked to you, venom dripping from his words. “You think you’ve won? All you are is a stray dog who’ll burn in hell.” He spat the words, his jaw tight, but beneath the bravado, there was fear creeping in.

You straightened in the chair, completely unbothered by his outburst. “And you’ll be right there with me. I guess you know a thing or two about burning, don’t you?” Your smirk was sharp, a silent jab at the scars on his neck, the ones you’d left there.

His expression faltered, just for a second, but it was enough to make your blood run colder. Without warning, he shot to his feet, slamming his palms down on the table with a force that made it rattle. His face was inches from yours now, his breath stinking of rage and something darker—panic.

“Fuck you, you deranged bitch,” he hissed, his voice barely contained. “You’ll always be the daughter of some filthy addicts. You’ll never belong to this world. My world.”

You didn’t move, didn’t even blink. The words hit, but they didn’t land. “Did I strike a nerve?” You leaned forward slightly, your tone dropping to a razor-sharp whisper. “Or should I say... burn a nerve?”

Carrigton’s entire body stiffened, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles went white, veins bulging from his hands. His chest heaved with the kind of raw anger that radiated off him like a furnace. “You’re still the same psycho bitch I met years ago.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t let his venomous words land, only smirked. “Have you learned how to make women come, Carrigton? Or are you still calling them hysterical? Is that why your wife is filing for divorce?”

It wasn’t just the words, but the sharpness of your tone, the deliberate push of your venom that made it sting even more. Garcia had provided all the dirt, the skeletons hidden deep in his closet. You weren’t above having a little fun with it, using it to your advantage. Carrigton, though, was losing his composure with every word you threw at him.

You opened your mouth to retort, but Hotch beat you to it, rising from his seat. "Enough. We appreciate your time, Mr. Carrington. We'll contact you if we need further information," he said, his voice calm but firm.

Andrew huffed dismissively, rising to leave. As he reached the door, he paused, casting one last venomous glance in your direction. "You think you’ve got a place in this world? Trust me, you don’t. People like you? They end up alone, scrambling to hold onto the little sanity they have left before it all slips away."

He didn’t wait for a response, Spencer’s gaze locked with yours the moment Andrew was out of the room. His eyes were filled with concern, but you chose not to address it. Now wasn’t the time.

Instead, you stayed silent, the words echoing in your head. Something about them stuck, gnawing at you. Maybe it was the way he spoke—like he knew something about you that you hadn’t even fully admitted to yourself. Scrambling. It was true, wasn’t it? You were constantly on edge, barely holding it together, pretending that you didn’t feel like you were one step away from losing it. Maybe it would be easier to just give in, let go, and fulfill everyone’s expectations of you. Be the damaged, angry, broken thing they wanted you to be.

For a moment, you almost believed his words.

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If murdered students weren’t enough to set the rumor mill on fire, your presence definitely did. The thing about rumors is that they spread like wildfire.

“Sooo… guess what we’ve heard?” Emily’s voice broke through the room as she and the others approached, grinning like they had just uncovered the juiciest piece of gossip on campus.

“Anything useful?” you asked without looking up from the file you were flipping through. “Or is this about the librarian hooking up with students in the archives? Because if it is—old news.”

Morgan smirked, shaking his head. “Nah, actually, we heard about some girl who once got a professor fired.”

“And,” Prentiss added, leaning in with a knowing smile, “was banned from mock trial as a freshman after making another student indirectly confess he bought the answers to his exams.”

Your fingers froze for just a split second—the briefest pause, barely perceptible to anyone but Spencer, who noticed it right away.

You shrugged, trying to keep your voice steady. “People get weirdly creative when it comes to making up rumors.”

Emily raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “So you’re telling me,” she pressed, “that you’ve never heard of the girl who burned some rich kid’s manuscript because he plagiarized her?”

You sighed, closing the file with exaggerated nonchalance. “Sounds like a legend. And legends aren’t real.”

Emily snorted, clearly enjoying this. “Or when she threw a chair at a debate judge for interrupting her?”

Morgan gasped dramatically. “And don’t forget when she flipped a Monopoly board at a networking event after some trust fund brat said she didn’t have the ‘pedigree’ for law.”

Emily smirked. “I heard she broke his nose.”

You shrug it off. “Monopoly makes people violent. Everyone knows that.”

You knew they weren’t trying to be mean, but you’d rather die than show any hint of regret. You had made some questionable choices in the past, but those didn’t define who you were now. Right?

Morgan chuckled, crossing his arms. “Right, right. So I guess the whole thing about you making a guy cry so hard during a mock trial that he dropped out of law school is fake too?”

You were forced to pretend not being able to stop the small smirk tugged at your lips, “Okay, in my defense, that guy was pretentious and thought using big words would make him win.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow, “Some student mentioned you, uh, burning people when they pissed you off.” He exchanged a glance with Prentiss, both of them catching on to your lack of eye contact. “Is that what the Dean was referring to?”

You couldn’t help but feel a slight heat creep up your neck, but you managed to keep your gaze on the desk, avoiding their eyes. You didn’t need to give them the satisfaction of seeing how much it bothered you. “People talk,” you muttered. “But if you believe everything they say, you’re as crazy as they are.”

You could’ve fooled anyone in that room full of profilers, because hiding behind your indifference mask was something you were well-practiced at. That was, of course, if they didn’t know you deeply. If they didn’t spend weekends with you, cooking together, exchanging quiet conversations and inside jokes. If they weren’t Spencer Reid—the only one in the room who could read beneath the surface.

He noticed the way you winced when you shifted your neck, the subtle way you massaged the sore muscles with your hand, avoiding eye contact with everyone. To anyone else, it might have seemed like nothing, but to him, it was a clear sign that something was off. You weren’t as fine as you were pretending to be.

"Anyone want anything? I’m doing a coffee run." You don’t wait for an answer, already making your way toward the break room. But the laughter behind you lingers—harmless, good-natured, but still too close to the laughter of your ex-classmates. It curls around your ribs like a memory you don’t want.

You don’t notice Spencer saying he’ll come with you, but you realize he’s there when you hear his footsteps—loud enough for you to hear him, deliberate so he doesn’t startle you.

At the coffee machine, you take a breath, ignoring him. You press the buttons and try to shake the feeling off, but when you glance at him, just for a second, all he sees in your eyes is guilt. Shame.

"What?" Your voice comes out sharper than you mean. "You also think I’m a menace to society? They’re lucky I turned out halfway functional. Statistically, I shouldn’t have.” 

Spencer stays a few feet away—close enough, but not crowding you. The perfect arms-length distance. It was something he understood about you, something you never had to say out loud. Letting you decide if you needed space or needed closeness. Giving you control, even in something as simple as this.

"None of them think that," he says quietly. "I don’t think that."

It takes effort to look at him, but when you do, the tightness in your chest gets worse. You hate it. You hate the way it feels when you take a step closer, resting your forehead against his shoulder. And you hate how naturally his hand finds the back of your head, his fingers brushing through your hair in a slow, soothing motion, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

"I didn’t mean to—God, have you seen the scars on his neck?" Your voice cracks, barely above a whisper. "What kind of… monster does that?"

His hand stills against you for a second.

It breaks his heart every time you talk about yourself like this—like you’re one of the people he spends his life trying to stop.

"Technically, the probability of someone from your background reaching your level of success is less than three percent. And even among that group, only a fraction manage to sustain high-pressure careers."

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Yeah? And what’s the probability of me snapping one day and proving everyone right?"

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. "That’s not the point."

"Then what is?"

He exhales, steady and patient. "The point is that I could pull up hard data showing how statistically, you shouldn’t have graduated at fifteen. Or made it through law school on a full ride. Or become one of the best prosecutors in D.C. The odds of that happening were lower than one percent. But you did it. So if we're playing by numbers, then statistically… you're exceptional."

He pauses, watching you carefully. Then, softer "And not in the way you seem to think."

Your fingers curl into the edge on themselves, nails pressing into your palms as you process his words. You hate how much they settle into your chest, how they make something raw and aching twist inside you. You exhale, forcing out a scoff, trying to grasp onto the sarcasm that usually keeps you afloat.

"You make it sound like I'm some kind of miracle," 

"You might as well be the proof that God exists to me," Spencer says simply, like it’s the most obvious fact in the world.

Your throat tightens. You shake your head, swallowing past the lump forming there. "I hate how you do that," you murmur.

"Do what?"

"Make me feel like maybe I’m not beyond saving."

His hand stills for a moment before he squeezes the nape of your neck, grounding. "Then I guess I’ll just have to keep doing it until you believe it."

And for once, you don’t have the energy to argue.

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The case wrapped up when the team uncovered that one of the students they had interviewed had been fixated on getting into the Seraphic Circle. After his rejection, it became his breaking point, driving him to kill the members in a vengeful spree.

You would have laughed in Andrew Carrington’s face and shown him just how much that exclusive little club had spiraled into something violent and twisted, you would’ve. But, of course, that would’ve been disrespectful to the victims, so you didn’t. You wouldn’t let yourself sink into that bitterness.

But, it didn’t matter in the end. When you landed back in Washington—home, dear home—it didn��t matter. The case was closed, and, for the first time in a long while, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders. Your past mistakes no longer haunted you, and as you stepped into the familiar rhythm of your life, you realized that, just for this moment, you could breathe.

To be honest, you weren’t the same person you were back then. The young teen you once were would have never believed, or even considered, that she could be in a loving relationship with a man who would love her unconditionally, no matter what. She never would have believed that someone like Spencer could ever like someone like you. 

"Are you hungry?" Spencer asked, his voice soft as he dropped the go-bag by the entrance of the apartment. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead "I saw this new recipe for homemade lasagna," he added, his eyes lighting up in that way they always did when he was excited about something. "It has layers of ricotta, mozzarella, and this really rich, savory meat sauce that I think we could definitely pull off. I thought we could make it together—maybe add a little twist of our own, like some fresh basil?"

You smiled at his enthusiasm, noticing how his fingers brushed through his hair absentmindedly as he spoke. It was always endearing to watch him get excited over the little things. "Homemade lasagna? That sounds amazing," you replied, already picturing the cozy evening ahead.

His grin widened, and he pulled his phone from his pocket, swiping through the recipe. "It’s supposed to take a bit of time, but it’s not complicated...just a lot of love and patience—so, you know, I think we can manage. Plus, it’ll give us time to talk...and eat a lot of cheese."

You laughed, the sound light and full of affection. "I think I’m sold. Lasagna and cheese? Definitely the kind of night I need."

He gave a small nod, as if he were confirming his excitement to himself. "Okay, I’ll grab the ingredients. You’re in charge of setting up the music. Deal?"

"Deal," you said, already feeling that comforting sense of peace that only came from spending time like this—together, in your little shared world, filled with small moments that meant everything.

Who would’ve thought you’d be cooking lasagna with the soft crackle of a vinyl player spinning Billy Joel and Elvis Presley in the background

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

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tag list: @arialikestea @hellsingalucard18 @pleasantwitchgarden @torturedpoetspsychward @cultish-corner @nymph0puppp @l-a-u-r-aaa @cherrygublersworld @theoceanandthestars @i-need-to-be-put-down @alyeskathewave @kore-of-the-underworld

[theunholyvirginemilyprentiss]

HOTCH: Sorry Spencer, but you’ll have to play with someone else. Your brother and sister are grounded.

[pommeauromarin]

You know what trope is underrated ?

Frenemies to lovers

Why is it not more popular ? There's so much potential, the banter is always good and funny but can be angsty as well. It's always will they won't they and soooo much denial.

It's just so good

[notfeelingthyaster]

idk but tim's skills both in comics and in fanon are so inconsistent. like wdym he can fight azrael and ra's and lady shiva and he loses fights to... damian? like ok damian is a good fighter, trained by assassins and whatnot but it makes no sense, bc he wouldn't win against shiva

or like tim barely being able to hold out against jason both times he attacks him seriously (battle for the cowl and titan's tower).... but winning against all sort of weird ass shit in young justice?

im not even talking about how his intellect is all over the place, one day he is lying to batman and fooling doomsday and the other he is truly getting trapped/fooled by shitty ass villains like Calendar Man

[gingerbread-in-july]

I H A T E cheating fics, but if they actually make jeid canon, I will 180 and become the number one cheating fic enthusiast SO damn fast. I'm not exaggerating when I say that Spencer would make more sense with literally anyone else. I really mean anyone.

CM Evolution never should have been a thing. Even the OG series went on for entirely too long.

I'm feeling pretty solid in my decision to not watch Evolution because I am not AT ALL loving the insinuations of where they might take it. It's like they learned absolutely nothing the first time around.

[oophantom-writesoo]

BAU out of context but it's the Batfam #5

Tim/Robin: I'm with Batman

Green Lantern: Batman? You're not serious? You look like a pipe cleaner with eyes.

Tim/Robin: *offended*

Green Lantern: I could snap you like a twig.

Part Four l

[allieslittlewritings]

hii! would you write a spencer reid x daughter! or sister! reader where she just graduated high school and has a lot of mixed emotions, like, she’s relieved that it’s over but sad that she may not see her friends anymore or as much as she did?

thank you sm 💗

Graduation Blues

Spencer Reid x daughter!reader

Word Count: ~1.2k

Warnings: None :)

A/n: this was my first time writing a request. I hope I did okay and I hope you like it <3

The front door creaked open as you stepped inside. The familiar warmth your home held was comforting against the slight chill you felt from the cold weather outside. From a distance you could hear the sound of your best friend's car as she drove away after dropping off. Though you enjoyed spending an eventful day with your friends, there was also a hint of relief that came with being home.

Your removed graduation cap and gown hung over your arm. You looked down at it and felt that same feeling you had felt on-and-off all day. If there existed a fitting word to describe it, you didn't know what it was. It felt almost like anxiety and confusion, but that wasn't quite it. In racking your brain to try and reach an actual conclusion, you failed to notice Spencer exiting the kitchen and warmly greeting you.

"Hi, sweetheart. Did you have fun?" He pulled the sleeves of his shirt down, his hands slightly damp from washing dishes.

Absent-mindedly you hummed in agreement and started taking off your shoes. Spencer wasn't big on wearing "outside shoes" inside, citing how much bacteria you could unknowingly step into your home.

You missed the analytical look on his face. "You okay?"

Being both a profiler and an attentive parent, he could always tell immediately when something about you seemed even remotely off or wrong. Something as small as sighing in smaller intervals than usual was always noticed by him.

"Do I not seem okay?" you tried your best to make it sound like a joke. As if you were so obviously okay there would be no reason to doubt it.

Spencer smiled a little sadly, "Uh, no, not really." He hesitated for a second. "It took you about two seconds longer than usual to answer me. And even then you didn't actually say anything. I'd expect you to be so excited you wouldn't even bother taking off your shoes or pausing by the door. You haven't really looked at me since you got here." He tilted his head as he observed your body language.

You didn't say anything in return and instead just focused on hanging up your coat, turning your face away from your dad.

With a gentler voice Spencer spoke again. "I made mac and cheese if you're hungry, I wasn't sure if you'd eat while you were out so, I figured it was better to just make it."

Still not a word left your mouth. Luckily for you, Spencer was practically just as good at interpreting silence as speech.

"Okay, why don't I go get us some food? We can eat, and then, only if you want, you can talk to me about whatever is going on. Does that sound good?"

"Yeah," you said softly.

Spencer looked at you for a moment longer and then went to the kitchen to get you two food.

You followed him to the kitchen and got plates and forks for the two of you, setting them by your usual seats around the dining table.

Spencer did most of the talking while you ate. He told you about the plot of his latest read, what he liked about it and the miniscule inaccuracies that didn't sit right with him.

His rambling was a comforting distraction from your thoughts for a while.

Spencer swallowed his last bite of food and took a sip of water. "Can you tell me what's wrong now?"

Silence filled the apartment for a minute while you gathered your thoughts.

"When you graduated high school, did you miss it afterwards?" you asked.

Spencer laughed awkwardly, "No, not at all. I was very glad it was over, but I didn't have the type of high school experience you did. My graduation day was mostly spent trying to convince your grandmother the shadow outside her bedroom window wasn't a human being."

He paused and changed his tone to a softer one before continuing. "But if that's what's bothering you, I think I understand. You've spent years going to that same building, with more or less the same people. The same teachers and classmates. Now that that's ending, it's maybe a little harder to deal with than you thought."

"I was so focused on studying and finally being done with all my exams that I didn't even really think about it until today." Your voice got more choked up as you continued. "Only one of my friends is going to college in the same state I am. We're all going to be busy and every year we'll see each other less and less."

Spencer nodded as he listened to you.

"You've gotten so used to seeing them almost every day and going from that to seeing them a few times a year is a big change," he thought out loud. "Sweetheart, I know how much you care about your friends, how much you've nurtured your relationships with them, and that won't change."

The look of hesitation on your face remained.

"Regardless of where all of you go, or how frequently you hang out, you'll still have all of the memories you've made. The experiences you've had together over the years aren't going anywhere."

"Only about 5% of people remain friends after high school," you said quietly.

"That's still approximately four hundred million people, sweetheart." He reached an arm forward to wipe one of the stray tears rolling down your cheek and then gently tilted your face up. "You know, the odds of you existing are almost four hundred million times less than that. The odds of you and your friends existing at the same time? Even less. A statistic you found on Google doesn't define your personal relationships."

"That doesn't help very much," you whispered honestly.

"Unfortunately, I don't think anything I tell you right now will truly help. I can't promise you that you'll still be as close with your friends in twenty years as you are now, but I can promise you that it'll all work out exactly how it's supposed to." He stood up and walked around the table to where you sat.

"Now, why don't we go make hot chocolate and eat your graduation cake?" He held a hand out for you to take.

"You made me a cake?" you frowned, taking his hand.

"I was going to, Aunt Penelope beat me to it," Spencer sheepishly admitted, pulling you up from your chair.

He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and slowly pulled you into a hug. "I'm sorry I don't always have a very helpful answer or solution to your problems, but please don't ever think just because you grow up you have to stop coming to me when you don't feel well."

"I won't," you mumbled into his chest.

You went to the kitchen with your dad. While he made your hot chocolate, you started to tell him about the happy aspects of your day. As you thought about your day—hearing your friends and family cheer when you accepted your diploma on stage, laughing with your friends while you all reflected on the last few years, the new inside jokes that transpired—a warmth spread in your chest. Whatever happened in the future, you'd keep all your memories safely tucked away in your heart, and think of them fondly.

[sapphicricebowl]

i love autism bc wdym one day i watched a tv show and now im majoring in criminal justice…

[nosweetprinceoflove]

If i learn that a weird little homoerotic relationship in a piece of media I enjoy is actually supported by the actors/directors/writers but too progressive for the time I. I feel emboldened. Obligated to continue on their legacy.

[trans-masc-michelangelo]

Anyone have any macho black guys (characters) who adopt nerdy white boys as little brothers???

Here are mine! (This is just what I can think of off the top of my head-)

Derek Morgan with Doctor Spencer Reid in Criminal Minds.

John Stewart (Green Lantern) with Wally West (Flash) in the Justice League Unlimited TV show.

[reidsmanuscript]

Heartbeat.

Summary: Spencer Reid shows love in all the ways he knows how—whether it's making sure his gf eats well or eating her out like it's the most natural way to worship her. Pairing: Spencer Reid x reader (not necessarily lawyer!reader but yeah it's her) Genre: smut/NSFW (i know. me? so weird) WC: 2.1k! TW: fingering, oral (f receiving), AFTERCARE!! A/N: im alive :p and this is what happens when me and my gf dont have sex in 2 weeks lol. minors do not interact! Masterlist (it's not necessary to read the first 4 chapters!)

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

You let out a frustrated huff, glaring at the endless stack of case files, briefs, and annotated court decisions scattered across your desk. Legal jargon, precedent, motions—you’d spent the whole afternoon parsing through it all, mentally preparing for the courtroom battles ahead.

It was only Wednesday, and the week already felt endless.

With a sigh, you dropped your head to the desk, forehead meeting wood with a soft thud in your shared apartment’s quiet study. You didn’t even flinch when you heard Spencer’s footsteps behind you.

His hands came to rest gently on your shoulders. “Come on,” he said softly, thumbs beginning to knead the tension in your muscles. “You should take a break… or call it for the day and eat something. You’ve been at this for hours.”

You didn’t lift your head, but you leaned back into his touch with a quiet groan, letting him work the stress from your neck and shoulders.

“I can’t,” you mumbled into the desk. “I have three pre-trial motions, one defense strategy to dismantle, and a prosecutor who thinks citing Latin makes him clever.”

Spencer huffed a small laugh, his fingers expertly working over the tight muscles in your shoulders. “Fiat voluntas tua—let it be your will,” he murmured near your ear, the Latin smooth and affectionate on his tongue.

You barely registered the kiss he pressed to the side of your neck, but you did feel the warmth of his hands as they slipped lower, gently untucking your shirt from the waistband of your slacks with quiet precision. The kind of slow, deliberate movement that said he wasn’t rushing—he was inviting.

“Come on,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “let me help you relax.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment you hesitated. The weight of the day still lingered in your mind—but his voice, his hands, the warmth of his body close behind yours… it was so easy to melt into it.

He felt your body begin to soften beneath his touch, the tension bleeding away as your shoulders lowered, your breath deepened. He knew he’d convinced you—not with pressure, but with patience.

Spencer gently helped you rise from the chair, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek as his hands found the first button of your blouse. You didn’t stop him. Instead, you let him walk you slowly back toward the bedroom, one step at a time, his fingers working open the buttons with a kind of reverence. He took his time, eyes flicking up to yours between each one.

Your legs bumped the edge of the bed and you sat with a quiet exhale, letting yourself surrender to the moment. He knelt in front of you without a word, a quiet offering of himself, and leaned in to kiss along your stomach as he helped slide the shirt from your shoulders. You moved in tandem, undoing your pants, lifting your hips to slide them off with his help.

He was still in his slacks and dress shirt—no tie, sleeves rolled to the elbows—but he hadn’t made a move to undress. This wasn’t about him. This was about giving you space to breathe. To let go. To be taken care of.

Spencer pressed another kiss to your inner thigh, his hands steady on your hips. “Lie back,” he murmured, voice velvet-soft. “Let me take it from here.”

Spencer reached for a pillow, his touch gentle as he slipped it beneath your hips, easing the familiar ache that often settled in your lower back after long hours at your desk. His fingers hooking into your panties and sliding them down with care, kissing a slow, reverent path along your thighs as he did. Each kiss was soft, warm, almost worshipful—like he was reminding you how deeply he adored every inch of you.

Once you were bare, he moved back up, the heat of his body hovering over yours as he kissed you fully, deeply. His mouth moved with purpose, tongue slipping past your lips to meet yours. There was no rush—just the steady, grounding rhythm of him.

As his mouth explored yours, his fingers found the last item still clinging to your skin—your bra—and he unhooked it with ease, sliding the straps down your arms with a touch so careful it felt like a promise.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze soft but burning with focus, with care, with want. His fingertips brushed down your side “You okay?” he whispered, voice husky but patient.

You nodded. “Yeah,” you said softly, knowing he liked hearing the words. Spencer gave you a small smile before dipping his head, returning to the trail of kisses he’d started earlier. His mouth found the curve of your neck, warm and deliberate, moving slowly down to your chest.

He took one nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking gently over it before sucking, drawing a soft gasp from your lips. His free hand cupped your other breast, thumb and forefinger teasing the nipple with practiced, tender precision. You hummed in response, pleasure curling in your stomach as the steady rhythm of his mouth and hands grounded you.

He gave both of your breasts equal attention, switching between them until they were perfectly perked, glistening faintly in the soft light of the bedroom from his mouth. The sight made something flutter deep inside you—how focused he was, how thoroughly he worshipped every inch of you.

Once satisfied, he kissed his way down your body, slow and deliberate—along your sternum, across your stomach, pausing just above your navel to savor the way your skin trembled under his lips.

He adjusted his position, settling in deeper between your thighs, looping them over his shoulders like it was second nature. His hands gripped your hips just enough to anchor you.

Then he leaned in—his tongue pressing flat against your pussy, collecting the slickness there and spreading it with slow, purposeful strokes. The warmth of him sent a pulse through your core, each pass of his tongue both soothing and electric.

He liked taking his time with you — licking and sucking slowly at your clit, his tongue teasing between your folds with deliberate care. The way your thighs gradually relaxed, your fingers threading softly through his hair, told him everything he needed to know. He felt the weight of your legs draped over his shoulders, the warmth of your skin against his cheeks as he moved with purpose, circling his tongue with gentle precision.

You weren’t the type to moan — not loudly, not for show. Instead, you gasped, breath hitching in your throat, soft huffs slipping out as your fingers combed slowly through his hair. There was something grounding about the way he ate you out — like he wasn’t just chasing your pleasure, but studying it, learning you.

Maybe it was the warmth of his tongue, the way it moved with purpose. Or the wet, open-mouthed kisses he left on the insides of your thighs, patient and steady. Whatever it was, it made your body soften beneath him, made the tight coil of tension you always carried begin to unravel. With him between your legs, everything else quieted.

His mouth closed over your clit, kissing and sucking with slow precision as one hand slid back upward, finding your breast. He cupped it gently, his fingers teasing the hardened nipple beneath his touch, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat.

There was something deeply satisfying about going down on you — not just for the physical reaction, but for what it meant. It wasn’t instinct or biology driving him. There was nothing reproductive about it. Having his mouth buried in your wetness felt intimate, intentional — almost sacred. A quiet act of trust that he didn’t take for granted, not for a second.

He loved sucking on your clit until it was puffy and swollen, flushed red from the attention. Every nerve ending — all 8,000 of them — was his to activate, to light up one by one until pleasure rippled through you like a current he was controlling with care.

“Spence,” you gasped, eyes squeezed shut, voice barely more than breath.

He answered by squeezing your thigh, grounding you, his mouth never leaving you. His tongue circled your entrance with slow, deliberate strokes, and the bridge of his nose brushed your clit with every movement. 

Your hands tangled deliciously in his hair, pulling gently as the pleasure built inside you. His hand remained on your breast, teasing your nipple with slow, deliberate strokes that added to the growing heat. The pillow beneath your hips eased the tension in your back, giving him perfect access as he flicked his tongue over and over.

His rhythm was steady and unrelenting, driving your thighs to press instinctively against his head. The sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, almost drowning out your breathy moans, was pure heaven for Spencer. His free hand spread your folds wide, fingers exploring your entrance with tender insistence.

Wet noises and soft, ragged moans filled the bedroom, wrapping around you like a warm, intoxicating cocoon.

“Don’t sto—p,” you moaned, your voice trembling as the knot in your stomach tightened. One of his fingers slid inside you slowly, curling upward toward that spongy spot Spencer knew so well.

He felt your body tense, your legs trembling slightly as he added another finger, moving with steady precision. His tongue flicked pointedly over your clit, circling with deliberate intent.

As you neared the peak of your pleasure, waves crashing through you one after another, both your hands gripped Spencer firmly against your core. His tongue never faltered, keeping its steady rhythm as you rode out your release.

Maybe you started grinding against his face at some point, riding the waves of pleasure washing through your body — that delicious, liberating tension gathered in your stomach and spilling over.

His thumb traced slow circles on your thigh as his tongue continued to taste you softly, flattening against you with tender persistence. His fingers pumped slowly, caressing the sides of your body, steadying you as you rode out your orgasm.

When the waves began to subside, he eased back gently, planting soft kisses along your thighs—slowly moving down, almost reaching your knees as he settled back onto his m, eyes searching your face for the quiet relief and love he saw reflected there.

“Better?” he asked softly, careful not to disturb the quiet stillness that lingered in the room.

You hummed in response, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. Your hand reached for his cheek, brushing it gently. He leaned into the touch, kissing the inside of your palm before slowly rising from the bed.

You reached for his pillow, nuzzling your face into it. His scent—warm, familiar, his shampoo and something uniquely him—wrapped around you like a blanket.

In the distance, you heard the faucet running as he rinsed his hands and mouth, then wet a towel with warm water. A few moments later, his quiet footsteps returned, and you felt the gentle touch of his fingertips on your arm as he opened your hand—the one you’d used to hold him—and wiped it clean with care.

“Can I?” he whispered in your ear, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head.

You nodded without opening your eyes.

His hand moved slowly between your legs, gentle and respectful. He liked taking care of you—not just before or during, but after. Especially after. He knew how much you hated the feeling of being sticky, and this small gesture was one of many ways he showed you he was paying attention.

When he was done, he folded the towel neatly and set it on the nightstand, the silence between you both tender, as you abandoned the pillow to hug him, laying over his chest. 

His hand drifted slowly down your spine, fingers tracing each vertebra with quiet intent—S1, L5, L4—counting them silently like a litany. A methodical ritual, grounding him. He continued upward, naming each one in his mind until he reached the delicate curve at the base of your neck—C1.

He paused there, fingertips resting against your pulse point. Your heartbeat thudded gently beneath his touch, still slowing from the high. He counted the beats, calculating your heart rate—just a little elevated, but still within normal post-orgasmic range. Around 92 bpm, he estimated.

Spencer exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing over the nape of your neck, where skin met spine. He wasn’t sure if he was studying you or holding on to you—but maybe they were the same thing.

His mind recorded everything—the rhythm of your breath, the warmth of your skin, the subtle shift of your shoulder blade beneath his palm. At the end of the day, every sound, every word, every scientific detail got etched into his memory like ink on paper. But his skin would always crave yours.

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

Feedback feeds motivation! Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated <3

tag list: @arialikestea @hellsingalucard18 @pleasantwitchgarden @torturedpoetspsychward @cultish-corner @nymph0puppp @l-a-u-r-aaa @cherrygublersworld @theoceanandthestars @i-need-to-be-put-down @alyeskathewave @kore-of-the-underworld

[kitkat5628]

You guys know when the dynamics in a team are soooo good you don't know who to ship who with?

Teen Titans/Titans

Young Justice

Birds of Prey

Voltron (exclude Shiro ofc, talking about Keith, Lance, Hunk and Pidge)

X-Men

Scooby-Doo? Kinda, depends

Team 7

The BAU (Not all characters obviously)

Like, I don't always ship characters and it's not the important part of the story anyway but there are some dynamics between teams... You just can't pick the couple yk?

Then there are the characters outside of the team you ship with one of the members. And that's even more confusing😞.

[bondwithme-murderstyle]

out here fighting for my life with writing smut chapters again

they’re just thrown together so bad rn oml 👎🏼

[ninugh29]

Im on CM 3x2 and I can’t get over the fact that all these people seem to know that Reid has a drug problem and NO ONE CARES????? “What could I have told her” “…that one of my agents might have a serious drug problem which I didn’t report” AND Y’ALL JUST DONT GAF????

[heizenka]

(❛) - request  (✿) - fluff  (✯) - angst 

spencer reid

redemption in betrayal - ✯,✿

you're wanted for three murders, and in order to catch you they call in dr. spencer reid. your former partner.

loss of my life - ✯

the team finds you after you'd been abducted by an unsub, but in every scenario spencer had imagined when they found you, this was the one that pulled the floor from beneath him.

derek morgan

coming soon

copyright 2021 heizenka, all rights reserved. I do not allow my creations to be published of translated anywhere else so please do not repost.