matt-murdockk

[matt-murdockk]

I don’t mean this as hate or anything, but the reader stops being gender neutral if you use ‘she/her’ and ‘girlfriend’ to describe them 💔

oh god I genuinely do not know where I have fucked up, but thank you so much for pointing it out, I’ll go through the fics I’ve tagged gender neutral and fix it asap, I’m so so sorry 😞

edit: I went through Hindsight and there was a dialogue where reader says “Bold words from someone who doesn’t have the balls to tell his girlfriend he fucking hates her.” I have fixed it now. I am so sorry for the mistake, I’ve been wanting to write gender neutral reader for a long time, but I’m not really used to it, I guess I absentmindedly left that in. Apparently I also proofread like an idiot. Again, I’m so, so, sorry. Thank you so much for pointing this out, this was a learning opportunity <3

[matt-murdockk]

I am procrastinating on all the drafts, I need IDEAS

[matt-murdockk]

😭🫂

line without a hook by ricky montgomery is so spencer reid

[matt-murdockk]

line without a hook by ricky montgomery is so spencer reid

[matt-murdockk]

Hindsight

you'll see me in hindsight tangled up with you all night burning it down

pairing: spencer reid x gn!bau!reader

words: 2.5k summary: spencer's hindsight is screaming at him that he made the wrong decision by ending your relationship warnings: angst but like in a hot way, happy ending besties <3 spencer's kind of a dick in this for a little bit (he means well, he's just confused), language, allusions to smut, making out, fluff (?) towards the very end but like you gotta really squint

Spencer fucked up.

He's gripping the sink with both hands, water running down his face as he stares at himself in the mirror. The previous week has been hell, almost, and Spencer knows a thing or two about hell. It was the right thing to do, he thinks to himself, but he can't help the part of him that wonders if that's even true in the slightest. His mind flashes back to that fateful night.

"Spencer, what do you mean 'we can't do this anymore?'"

"Us. This!" he said, wildly gesturing to the space between you.

You stared at him, mouth parted like the words were there, ready to go, but stuck behind disbelief.

"Why?" you asked, quiet. Measured. Already bracing for an answer that would hurt. He hesitated. That was all the confirmation you needed— he didn’t want this either.

"I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending this is okay.”

“What part of this isn’t okay? The part where we care about each other? Or the part where we’re actually happy for once?”

“You don’t get it—”

“No,” you cut in, sharper now. “No, I don’t get it. Please enlighten me.”

Spencer ran both hands through his hair like he was trying to yank the thoughts out by force. “People I care about get hurt. That's just how it goes. You’ve seen what we deal with. You know how dangerous it gets. I can’t— I won’t be the reason something happens to you.”

You blinked. “Spencer, we work the same job.”

“That’s not— it’s different.”

“How?” You're beyond exasperated at this point.

“Because I—" he broke off, breathing hard. “Because I really care about you.”

You laughed, humorless. “Bang-up job of showing it, then. Also, wh— you think I don't care? Spencer, what—”

“I’m sorry,” he said, almost a whisper. “I just… I can’t live with myself if something happens to you. I cannot do this knowing I am actively putting you at risk.”

“Look. I care about you too. You’re the smartest person I know, and I trust your judgment. But if you’re going to sit here and break us apart, then you better have a legitimate reason.” You stepped closer. “Because what you’re giving me right now? It’s bullshit, Spencer. YOu know that. And I’m not going to let you overthink your way into a breakup.”

He looked at you like he wanted so badly to believe you. Like you were the rope dangling over the cliff, and he didn’t trust himself to grab it.

“Yes, we deal with hell on a daily basis,” you continued, softer now, “but we also come home to each other. It's tedious, and awful, and exhausting, but we have each other, Spence. And I—”

You paused. Swallowed hard. Didn’t realize you’d said it until it was already out.

“I love you.”

Silence.

Something cracked in his expression. He looked at you like that was the one thing he wasn’t prepared for. The one thing that might’ve saved him— if he let it. So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

Destroy it.

“I don’t,” he said, voice flat.

You blinked. “Don’t what?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stutter. Just said it. Like ripping the pin from a grenade and waiting for it to blow.

“I don’t think I love you.”

It didn’t matter what he meant. It didn’t matter if he was lying through his teeth. Because the second you believed him, the second you stepped back and nodded— something broke. The damage was done.

Now he’s gripping the sink like it’s the only thing holding him upright, staring at a reflection that doesn’t look like him anymore.

“I am an idiot,” he mutters to no one. The mirror doesn’t disagree.

He sees you everywhere. On his couch in your pajamas, eating cereal straight from the box. He sees you on the jet, asleep on his shoulder, warm and close and real. He sees the last time you laughed at something he had said. How your head tipped back, how your nose scrunched. He sees your face the first time he kissed you, how your smile made him feel like he was bathing in sunlight.

He sees you and him tangled together in the back seat of his car, your eyes closed and head tilted back as his name falls out of your lips like a prayer. He sees your pile of clothes next to his on his bedroom floor, half forgotten in the haste of needing each other.

He sees you in the faint lipstick smudge still clinging to the collar of his favourite shirt. In the barely-there marks scattered along his neck and chest, fading now but not forgotten. His fingers brush over them without thinking, retracing each one like muscle memory, each a timestamp of a moment he’d give anything to relive. He wonders if you're thinking of him too.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and laughs— bitter, breathless.

Yeah. Spencer fucked up big time.

You always thought that even if by some horrible twist of fate, your relationship with Spencer were to end, at the very least it would be amicable. You'd be able to work together, be friends, and still stand to be around each other. You were wrong.

Immediately after the fight last week, you were called to Detroit for a case. There was barely enough time to pack, let alone recover. So, you didn't say anything. Neither did he. To the team, or to each other. It’s easier that way, you thought. The team thinks everything is fine. Business as usual. You’re partnered up for interviews like always. Briefing side by side. Riding in the same car. Sharing a room.

But it's not all okay. It's not all fine, and you know that. He’s quieter than usual. You catch him zoning out in the middle of victim statements. His hands tremble when he thinks no one’s looking. He’s unravelling. And yet, every time you brush past him, he flinches like you’re the one that left.

He still looks at you the same sometimes. Like you’re his. Like you matter. Like nothing’s changed. And that, more than anything, is what hurts. You’re not angry. You’re wrecked. Because you can survive heartbreak. But what he did? That was reckless abandonment. You don’t show someone heaven and then blind them.

Neither of you has had a wink of sleep since then. Even familiar places feel foreign when you're not with each other. What makes it worse is that you're so used to being with and needing each other that it's second nature to you by now. There are absent-minded touches, kisses, lingering hands and eyes that none of you mention.

There’s a moment— small, forgettable to anyone else— when his fingers graze yours as he hands you a case file. It’s nothing. It’s everything. You both freeze. Just for a second. He doesn't look up. Doesn’t say a word. Just retracts his hand like it burned him.

And that’s how it’s been. Every second of this trip. A minefield of almosts. Close calls. Words left unsaid and looks held too long. Lying awake all night in the bed as far away from each other as possible. It's driving you insane. Damn Detroit's winter that makes you crave his warmth. And damn this forced proximity bullshit that the universe has punished you with.

You’re sharing a room, which is objectively a horrible idea, but it would’ve been suspicious to change it last minute. You'd mentally agreed not to bring it up now, so you had to soldier through. At least that’s the excuse you told yourself when you didn't protest. And so now, you’re both here, end of a long day, door shut behind you, silence thick enough to suffocate.

You're sitting on opposite ends of the bed like strangers in a waiting room. You hear him sigh behind you. A long, pained sound. And for the first time since the break, he says your name. It’s soft. Barely above a whisper. But it’s enough.

You turn, slowly. Not because you’re calm, but because you’re not sure what will come out if you speak too fast. He’s standing now, fidgeting like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Like he doesn’t know what to do with you. His shoulders rise with a breath he never quite finishes.

“I can’t sleep,” he says. “I haven’t. Since that night.”

You stare at him. “Okay.”

"Okay? That's it?"

"What do you want me to do, Spencer? Sing you a lullaby?"

"You know what, forget I said anything."

"Believe me, I'm trying," you say, your voice dripping with contempt. Spencer's face contorts like he's confused.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

“It means,” you say, finally standing too, “that you don’t get to say things like that and expect comfort. You don’t get to crack open this— this door like we’re still something and then slam it shut the second it scares you.”

He flinches.

“You think I’ve been sleeping?” you continue, voice shaking now. “You think I’ve been fine? Because I’ve been trying to be. I’ve been trying to hold it together. But it’s really fucking hard when the person I love tells me he doesn’t love me back and then acts like that never happened.”

He's trying to find the words, he really is, but he can't choose between the part of him that's mad at himself for being an idiot, and the part of him that's mad at you for believing him in the first place. He makes the wrong choice.

“You don't get to say that. You walked away. You believed me when I said I didn’t love you.”

Your laugh is sharp, disbelieving. “Oh, you major fucking hypocrite. I’m sorry— its my fault now? Was I supposed to not believe the man I loved when he looked me dead in the eyes and ripped my heart out?”

He throws his hands up. “I had to! You wouldn’t have walked away otherwise!”

“Yeah? And whose fucking fault is that?”

“Mine! Obviously mine!” he snaps, voice rising. “Is that what you want to hear? That I made a mistake? That I wake up every goddamn day hating myself for it?”

“Oh, poor you!” you shout back. “Waking up alone by choice. Because you couldn’t handle the idea of someone loving you. Spencer Reid— genius, coward, commitment phobe.”

He moves closer, eyes blazing. “Don’t twist this into me being scared of you. I was trying to keep you safe.”

You step forward to match him, nose to nose now. “Did I ask? Did I ask you to keep me safe, Spencer? You don’t get to protect me by abandoning me.”

“Oh, get over yourself—”

“Me? I need to get over myself? Jesus, you're so full of yourself. I can't even believe that I'm entertaining this right now."

"Nobody's making you stay. Door's right there."

"You know what, Spencer? Fuck you,” you snap.

“Fuck you.”

You let out a bitter laugh and shove his shoulder. “Bold words from someone who doesn’t even have the balls to tell their partner that he fucking hates them!”

“WHEN did I say that I hated you?” he roars, hands shaking now. “I never said that. I love you! Jesus Christ, of course I love you!”

You stare at him, heart pounding in your throat.

“Then do something about it, you moron.”

And he does.

He grabs your face like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth and kisses you so hard it knocks the air out of your lungs. It’s angry and desperate and messy, like trying to glue a shattered heart back together with nothing but skin and breath. Your hands fist into his shirt like you’re trying to tear it off or hold him closer, maybe both. Neither of you knows how to be gentle about it.

"You're an idiot," you mumble between kisses.

"Good, we're on the same page."

Your back hits the dresser with a dull thud, and neither of you flinch. His hands are everywhere— on your waist, your hips, sliding under the hem of your shirt like he can’t get close enough fast enough. His mouth moves from yours to your jaw, down your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your knees threaten betrayal.

He finds that spot just behind your ear, the one he knows drives you crazy, and lingers there like a punishment. No, like an apology. You gasp, hand tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging just hard enough to make him groan.

He is whispering apologies, begging for your forgiveness as he unravels you, his breath warm against your skin.

“Sorry’s not gonna cut it,” you whisper, voice already unsteady as you pull him back to your mouth. “You need to make it up to me.”

“I will,” he promises, between kisses that are more like confessions than contact. “I will. I swear to God, I will.”

And he did. Multiple times that night. For the first time in a long time, both of you slept. Not just passed out from exhaustion, but real, peaceful, uninterrupted sleep. The kind that only comes when the weight has finally lifted.

You woke up tangled in each other, your head tucked under his chin, his arm tight around your waist like he still didn’t quite believe you were there. He kissed your forehead before either of you said a word.

The case wrapped itself up faster than expected after that. Something about sleep and not repressing your feelings— radical concepts, really. You and Spencer cracked the final piece during the afternoon briefing, and the rest of the team rallied around the lead like clockwork. It felt good to feel like yourselves again. Felt even better not to pretend anymore.

You’re on the jet heading home, fingers loosely intertwined beneath a shared blanket when Emily strolls past and pauses in front of your seat. Her smirk is practiced. Lethal. Oh, this can't be good.

“I was in the room next to yours,” she says, casually. “I heard screaming. Was gonna knock, actually, see if everything was okay.”

Spencer tenses beside you.

Emily raises a brow. “But then the screaming turned into a, uh, different kind of screaming.”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, burying your face in your hands.

“Anyway,” she grins, completely unbothered. “Glad you two worked it out.”

She pats Spencer on the back as she leaves. You and Spencer look at each other, mortified and emotionally prepared to change your identities and leave the country. He leans in to whisper something.

"Worth it."

a/n: wildest dreams og version does something to me man istg, song of all time <3 also I have been sitting on this fic for a while not knowing how to end it so I apologize if it's ass, I've been trying to experiment with writing different POVs and gender neutral reader, I'm tagging this as gn!reader, but I'm so sorry if I've accidentally implied that the reader is female 🫂

[matt-murdockk]

the five hottest things a fictional man can be are 1. highly intelligent 2. terminally ill 3. emotionally unavailable 4. full of trauma and regrets 5. lying about their identity

[matt-murdockk]

Spencer Reid Masterlist ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

fluff ☀️ | angst ⛈️ | comedy 🎭

Statistically Speaking ☀️ Nine-Nine! ☀️ 🎭 brooklyn 99 crossover Sweet Escape ☀️ Discretion ☀️ Wedding Crashers ☀️ 🎭 bones!reader L word ☀️ Atonement ⛈️ P️eek-a-boo! ☀️

G️old Rush — series (discontinued, i wrote like one chapter so consider it a one shot I'm so sorry 😭🫂) ☀️

H️indsight ⛈️ ☀️

[matt-murdockk]

Peek-a-boo!

dad!spencer x mom!reader | domestic fluff, a whole lotta love <3 | 600 words

a/n: consider this a reparation of sorts for Atonement

summary: a lazy sunday at the Reid household is filled with laughter when you discover just how much your daughter loves to play peek-a-boo

It's the sun that wakes you. Soft and golden, slanting through the curtains, filling your bedroom with a warmth reminiscent of a hug from someone who loves. Someone you love. Instinctively, your hands reach out to the other side of the bed, only to find a Spencer-shaped emptiness next to you. The sheets are still rumpled, still smelling faintly of him.

You hear sounds of muffled laughter from the next room. Two voices, both equally excited. Of course, he couldn't wait. You slip out of bed, careful not to creak the floorboards, and follow the sound. The nursery door is open just a crack, morning light spilling into the hallway, and you pause there.

He’s on the floor, knees bent, curls a soft mess, t-shirt wrinkled from sleep. Your daughter is in front of him, still in her little onesie, cheeks flushed with joy as Spencer covers his face with both hands and—

“Where’d Daddy go?” he says, peeking between his fingers.

She squeals and suddenly looks serious, like she couldn't believe what she was seeing, like she had just witnessed someone disappear into thin air, and when he drops his hands—

“Boo!”

More laughter. From her. From him.

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, heart so full it aches. You don’t make a sound. You just watch them. Your entire world is in front of you. His in his arms, laughing with him. You watch as their eyes crinkle the same way and notice how much they look alike.

He scoops her up with a soft grunt, cradling her against his chest like she’s made of glass and starlight. She kicks her feet in excitement, still giggling, grabbing at the collar of his shirt with her tiny fists.

“Oh, you’re so strong,” he whispers dramatically, making her giggle louder. She grabs his nose with one of her hands and pulls his face down to look into his eyes. She babbles something utterly incomprehensible— a string of sounds with all the conviction of a very important sentence.

Spencer nods solemnly. “You know what? I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you make an excellent point.”

She gasps like she can’t believe she’s being taken seriously, then locks eyes with him in an intense, unblinking stare. He blinks back, just as serious.

“What are you doing? Are you trying to intimidate me?” He leans in closer. “Is this a power play?”

Her tiny brow furrows. Still staring.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. “You’re trying to assert dominance.” He points at her like he’s cracked the case. “That’s exactly what this is. This is a tactical manoeuvre.”

She blinks.

“You have my respect,” he nods gravely. “But just so you know, two can play at that game.”

She responds by grabbing his nose again.

He yelps dramatically. “Okay, okay, you win!”

From the doorway, your laugh finally gives you away. He gasps dramatically, pointing to you. "Look who's here! Who is that?"

The moment she notices you, she breaks into a fit of giggles and rapidly crawls to you, wanting to be lifted up into your arms. You oblige, how could you not? You press a kiss to her cheeks with a hum as she uses both her tiny hands to clumsily try and hold your entire face.

"Morning, sunshine."

She babbles something in reply, all vowels and delight, and Spencer tilts his head.

“No good morning kiss for me?”

You grin, leaning over with your daughter still balanced on your hip. “Of course you get one,” you say. “Come here.”

And you kiss him, gentle and familiar. Warm like Sunday mornings.

a/n: propaganda i am falling for— girldad spencer <3

[matt-murdockk]

wow jeremy renner is in the new knives out movie. wish there was an app where we could talk about it

[matt-murdockk]

IM GREAT I love ur cm themeee

Full disclosure I've only watched a few episodes. Is this a sign i should watch more???

THANK YOU KSNDKDJSK and I’m not even fully through all the seasons yet but so far I’ve really really liked it, so if you’re not completely out of the cm phase yet maybe you could give it a try? ���

[matt-murdockk]

Peek-a-boo!

dad!spencer x mom!reader | domestic fluff, a whole lotta love <3 | 600 words

a/n: consider this a reparation of sorts for Atonement

summary: a lazy sunday at the Reid household is filled with laughter when you discover just how much your daughter loves to play peek-a-boo

It's the sun that wakes you. Soft and golden, slanting through the curtains, filling your bedroom with a warmth reminiscent of a hug from someone who loves. Someone you love. Instinctively, your hands reach out to the other side of the bed, only to find a Spencer-shaped emptiness next to you. The sheets are still rumpled, still smelling faintly of him.

You hear sounds of muffled laughter from the next room. Two voices, both equally excited. Of course, he couldn't wait. You slip out of bed, careful not to creak the floorboards, and follow the sound. The nursery door is open just a crack, morning light spilling into the hallway, and you pause there.

He’s on the floor, knees bent, curls a soft mess, t-shirt wrinkled from sleep. Your daughter is in front of him, still in her little onesie, cheeks flushed with joy as Spencer covers his face with both hands and—

“Where’d Daddy go?” he says, peeking between his fingers.

She squeals and suddenly looks serious, like she couldn't believe what she was seeing, like she had just witnessed someone disappear into thin air, and when he drops his hands—

“Boo!”

More laughter. From her. From him.

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, heart so full it aches. You don’t make a sound. You just watch them. Your entire world is in front of you. His in his arms, laughing with him. You watch as their eyes crinkle the same way and notice how much they look alike.

He scoops her up with a soft grunt, cradling her against his chest like she’s made of glass and starlight. She kicks her feet in excitement, still giggling, grabbing at the collar of his shirt with her tiny fists.

“Oh, you’re so strong,” he whispers dramatically, making her giggle louder. She grabs his nose with one of her hands and pulls his face down to look into his eyes. She babbles something utterly incomprehensible— a string of sounds with all the conviction of a very important sentence.

Spencer nods solemnly. “You know what? I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you make an excellent point.”

She gasps like she can’t believe she’s being taken seriously, then locks eyes with him in an intense, unblinking stare. He blinks back, just as serious.

“What are you doing? Are you trying to intimidate me?” He leans in closer. “Is this a power play?”

Her tiny brow furrows. Still staring.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. “You’re trying to assert dominance.” He points at her like he’s cracked the case. “That’s exactly what this is. This is a tactical manoeuvre.”

She blinks.

“You have my respect,” he nods gravely. “But just so you know, two can play at that game.”

She responds by grabbing his nose again.

He yelps dramatically. “Okay, okay, you win!”

From the doorway, your laugh finally gives you away. He gasps dramatically, pointing to you. "Look who's here! Who is that?"

The moment she notices you, she breaks into a fit of giggles and rapidly crawls to you, wanting to be lifted up into your arms. You oblige, how could you not? You press a kiss to her cheeks with a hum as she uses both her tiny hands to clumsily try and hold your entire face.

"Morning, sunshine."

She babbles something in reply, all vowels and delight, and Spencer tilts his head.

“No good morning kiss for me?”

You grin, leaning over with your daughter still balanced on your hip. “Of course you get one,” you say. “Come here.”

And you kiss him, gentle and familiar. Warm like Sunday mornings.

a/n: propaganda i am falling for— girldad spencer <3

[matt-murdockk]

I hope Zac Oyama sees this

[matt-murdockk]

the way i have lived a million lives since i sent this ask help 😭 your post basically inspired me to see cm and well full circle moment, I'm writing for spencer now, so astoria, all that i am now is because of you in a way 🥹🫂

I have not seen a single episode of cm but since you're in a spender mood, imma humour you and ask for a we're on a case together and we keep butting heads because we have very different theories as to what is going on au.

I'm going to make this part of the blurb celebration ty<3

"I'm just saying, it makes no sense that the killer would purposefully do that," you said quickly, knowing Spencer was about to interrupt any second. "Not unless they were trying to make it look like someone else did it."

"Or maybe they were just immature," Spencer objected. "Maybe it's their first kill. Not everyone can have a plan."

"Yes, I'm sure murder happens spontaneously." You rolled your eyes. "I know what killers talk like. The one we have locked up is obviously not one!"

"Or maybe you're getting too soft for the job."

Morgan winced on your behalf, knowing that was a low blow, even with your long bantering history. Sure you disagreed with him on a daily basis, but there was a line; the one Spencer just crossed.

Eyes flaming, you turned to him with a sharp glare.

"Say that again."

"Did you not hear me the first time?" he asked, taking a step forwards. He did feel bad about saying it, but apologizing to you was not his strong suit.

You hated how you could clearly smell his cologne now — the one you despised because it was his signature one. It smelled of sandalwood, amber and even a hint of roses. It was just enough intoxicating to forget for a second what the argument was about.

"Where are you going?" you asked Morgan, who was getting up slowly.

"Uh, I need to go get popcorn," he replied, pointing to the door. "When I come back, I better not walk in on you two making out."

"C'mon, it happened one time!" you called after him, feeling the heat rise up your neck.

[matt-murdockk]

HI MAYA LONG TIME NO SEEE

ASTORIAAAA OH HOW I HAVE MISSED YOUUUUUUU

how have you been 🥹🫂

[matt-murdockk]

Peek-a-boo!

dad!spencer x mom!reader | domestic fluff, a whole lotta love <3 | 600 words

a/n: consider this a reparation of sorts for Atonement

summary: a lazy sunday at the Reid household is filled with laughter when you discover just how much your daughter loves to play peek-a-boo

It's the sun that wakes you. Soft and golden, slanting through the curtains, filling your bedroom with a warmth reminiscent of a hug from someone who loves. Someone you love. Instinctively, your hands reach out to the other side of the bed, only to find a Spencer-shaped emptiness next to you. The sheets are still rumpled, still smelling faintly of him.

You hear sounds of muffled laughter from the next room. Two voices, both equally excited. Of course, he couldn't wait. You slip out of bed, careful not to creak the floorboards, and follow the sound. The nursery door is open just a crack, morning light spilling into the hallway, and you pause there.

He’s on the floor, knees bent, curls a soft mess, t-shirt wrinkled from sleep. Your daughter is in front of him, still in her little onesie, cheeks flushed with joy as Spencer covers his face with both hands and—

“Where’d Daddy go?” he says, peeking between his fingers.

She squeals and suddenly looks serious, like she couldn't believe what she was seeing, like she had just witnessed someone disappear into thin air, and when he drops his hands—

“Boo!”

More laughter. From her. From him.

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, heart so full it aches. You don’t make a sound. You just watch them. Your entire world is in front of you. His in his arms, laughing with him. You watch as their eyes crinkle the same way and notice how much they look alike.

He scoops her up with a soft grunt, cradling her against his chest like she’s made of glass and starlight. She kicks her feet in excitement, still giggling, grabbing at the collar of his shirt with her tiny fists.

“Oh, you’re so strong,” he whispers dramatically, making her giggle louder. She grabs his nose with one of her hands and pulls his face down to look into his eyes. She babbles something utterly incomprehensible— a string of sounds with all the conviction of a very important sentence.

Spencer nods solemnly. “You know what? I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you make an excellent point.”

She gasps like she can’t believe she’s being taken seriously, then locks eyes with him in an intense, unblinking stare. He blinks back, just as serious.

“What are you doing? Are you trying to intimidate me?” He leans in closer. “Is this a power play?”

Her tiny brow furrows. Still staring.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. “You’re trying to assert dominance.” He points at her like he’s cracked the case. “That’s exactly what this is. This is a tactical manoeuvre.”

She blinks.

“You have my respect,” he nods gravely. “But just so you know, two can play at that game.”

She responds by grabbing his nose again.

He yelps dramatically. “Okay, okay, you win!”

From the doorway, your laugh finally gives you away. He gasps dramatically, pointing to you. "Look who's here! Who is that?"

The moment she notices you, she breaks into a fit of giggles and rapidly crawls to you, wanting to be lifted up into your arms. You oblige, how could you not? You press a kiss to her cheeks with a hum as she uses both her tiny hands to clumsily try and hold your entire face.

"Morning, sunshine."

She babbles something in reply, all vowels and delight, and Spencer tilts his head.

“No good morning kiss for me?”

You grin, leaning over with your daughter still balanced on your hip. “Of course you get one,” you say. “Come here.”

And you kiss him, gentle and familiar. Warm like Sunday mornings.

a/n: propaganda i am falling for— girldad spencer <3

[matt-murdockk]

should i change my url to reidwine

[matt-murdockk]

Atonement

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader words: 4.2k summary: Spencer battles his addiction and self-loathing, only to find the possibility of redemption in the unwavering care of someone who refuses to leave. warnings: oh boy, ok so we've got a LOT OF ANGST!!!, Spencer's addiction (!!!), suicidal thoughts, a lot of self-loathing, Spencer is spiralling (rip), mildly descriptive withdrawal process, possibly incorrect etymology facts, a dead fish, the self-loathing really is heavy on this one, I'm serious. a/n: i am holding your hand, i scared myself with this one, BUT the ending is pretty optimistic so it's not all pain :')

Heracles atoned. His crimes were a result of madness— divine madness, not his own. It can be argued that they weren’t even his actions at all. And still, he atoned.

The Oracle of Delphi instructed him to give twelve years of service to the king of Mycenae, and even though Heracles believed Eurystheus to be beneath him in stature, he accepted the 12 labours. Heracles completed the 12 momentous tasks as atonement for the crime of killing Megara and their children, even though it was Hera's vengeance that drove him mad and tricked him into committing the crime in the first place.

If Heracles sought redemption for something that wasn’t truly his fault in the first place, what about the rest of us? What about atonement for crimes not born of divine madness, but of choice? What about the consequences that stem not from insanity inflicted by gods, but from choices made— cold, human, and deliberate? Is that something one can atone for?

Apophenia. A common human tendency to see patterns where there are none. It makes you believe in coincidences. It’s why people find meaning in lottery numbers, in shuffled tarot cards, in the sequence of a roulette wheel. It's what makes Spencer draw parallels between himself and perhaps the mightiest of Greek heroes, only he doesn't see them as equals, but one as a sorry excuse, an imitation, a failed attempt at living up to the other. He sees one as a myth, and the other as a mockery. A hollow echo. A failure.

I feel like a kid again. That's a nice thing, right? Feeling like a kid? Innocent. Loved. Nurtured. Pure. Scared. Wait, scared? Scared. Alone. Vulnerable. Guilty. Crying to sleep every night. Curled up into a ball on the playground, busted eyebrow and broken glasses with stains of blood and dried-up tears. I gotta tell Mom I need new glasses. Again.

Oh. He feels like a kid again.

Do they know? They might know. They must know. They know. He pretends they don't. They pretend they don't. Everybody knows. Was it kindness that kept them quiet? Decency? Look the other way so he wouldn't be ashamed? Not exactly helping, then. Or was it so they could have deniability? We had no idea. Spencer Reid? Our Spencer? They gasp. He wouldn't.

They've definitely noticed. That much he knows. All eyes are on him when he's in a room. Not in the usual Spencer is being his brilliant self again way. In a Spencer is a disgrace to himself, look at his pathetic face way, except no one would look him in the face anymore. Like if they looked at him, it would be painfully obvious in their faces what they really thought of him. Like there was no way to look at him the way you would look at a normal person.

Every day, he comes in to work screaming: Look at me. Do you see me? Do you see what I'm doing to myself? Do you see it? Do you see me? Look at me. Don't look at me. Stop looking at me. Stop. Don't look at me. Please. Stop. Stop. No. Stop. STOP. "Morning," is all they hear.

You look at him. Oh no. Not you. Please. You're... not disgusted? You're not looking at him as if one would an insect. Huh.

Great. You are so pathetic, you're pretending people like you. Do you realize how pathetic that is? Do you realize how pathetic you are, Spencer? You're so deep in delusion that you think someone cares. No one cares. Nobody cares.

His thoughts are loud today. Louder than usual. Not ideal. You're still looking. You're crying. You're crying?

Amazing job! You've made the one person who probably cares about you cry just by existing. Hey, do you know what you should do? Do you know what you should do, Spencer? Kill y—

"Hey, are you okay?" It's his own voice. An act of rebellion against himself. A lifeline.

"Spencer, are you?" you ask, sniffling. That's the first time someone has stopped to ask him that question. He didn't know what to say.

At the depth of my delirium, I think of you. I think we're in love. I think of being in your arms. I think of you holding my hand and telling me you love me. I think of you telling me I'll be fine. I think of you telling me I'll be okay. I'm not fine. I'm not okay. I need you. I'm sorry. Tell me you love me. I'm sorry.

He just stares. You look at him just a second longer than he wants you to, give his hand a little squeeze, and then you're gone.

See? She's gone. You know why she's gone? You know why she didn't stay, Spencer? Wait, actually, think of a reason why someone would stay. Go on, try. That'll be much harder, yeah. Pathetic.

Mirrors don't work anymore. Whenever he looked in one, he used to see himself. He just sees a silhouette now. A hollow void that only moves seconds after he does. Somebody he knows but cannot quite recognize.

You see that? Even your fucking reflection thinks you're pathetic.

They're mocking him. They are taunting him. They don't even have the decency to look back at him. Pretty shitty for a mirror, he thinks.

Hey. Idiot. Yeah, you. What are you looking at? You're feeling sorry for yourself? You're sorry, buddy? You're guilty? You wanna go back? Back to mommy? Back to before all this? Back to how it used to be? Back to... what, exactly? Back to being brilliant and broken and hiding it better? Back to when you still had the energy to fake being whole? Weak.

Spencer doesn't remember what home feels like. It used to be Vegas until he had to leave. It used to his job until he had to hide. It used to be his apartment until he couldn't trust himself to be alone anymore. Sometimes when you look at him, talk to him, touch him, he thinks this could be home. But it's never enough. The more of you he had, the more of you he wanted.

Boy, you never stood a chance, did you?

The first time, he promised himself it would be just this once. It's wrong, yes, but it's for recovery. It's just this once. He can stop whenever he wants to.

Second time, the last time. It's not like he can't stop if he wants to. He's in control. It's fine.

Third, the final time, for sure. It's only for a while. It's not permanent.

He can stop whenever he wants to. He can stop whenever he wants. He doesn't want to stop. He can't stop. The more he had, the more he wanted.

The pull, the calling, the addiction, it's far too evil. It's a siren. It's a mimic. It fools you into thinking it's taking you somewhere beautiful. Some place you need to get to. And every time, it promises you that you're getting closer. That you'll get there soon enough. Just a few more steps. Just a couple more times. Just another leap. But all it does is lie to you and make you feel like you're close. Like you're getting there. Like you will be home in no time. When in reality, you've regressed. You're worse off than you were when you started. Only then do you notice you're all alone.

What a wonderous, massive, cosmic joke. Doctor Spencer Reid. Child Prodigy. Genius. Criminal Profiler. Special Agent with the FBI. Drug Addict. Liar. A threat to himself and the people around him.

The walls are too close tonight.

Everything is itchy. His clothes. His skin. The thoughts under his skin. The thrum in his veins that won’t quiet down.

You don't know who you are when you're not in pain. That's why you keep coming back, Spencer. Not for the high. For the silence. The certainty. God, what a burden it must be. Having to pretend they're not afraid of you. Like they don't flinch whenever you open your mouth.

"Shut up. Just shut up," he yells to his empty apartment.

He rubs his face hard enough to leave marks. Paces the length of the living room five times. Seven. Twelve. He forgets what number he’s on.

He wonders, not for the first time, if this is the moment he finally fractures beyond repair. If this is where the brilliant, broken, bullet-dodging Spencer Reid finally snaps and nobody notices. Maybe they already did notice. Maybe they’re just waiting to see if he self-destructs before they have to say something.

This is pathetic. You are pathetic.

He sits. Then stands. Then sits again. The couch is too soft. The floor is too cold. The apartment smells like nothing and everything. Bleach. Dust. Failure.

You don’t even get to be tragic. You’re just exhausting.

His hands are shaking again. Not just the twitchy, ignorable kind— full tremors, rattling like change in his pockets. He tries to hold them still. Fails.

You’re not going to get better.

He closes his eyes.

You're alone, Spencer.

He opens them.

Nobody's coming for you.

No one cares.

You are all alo—

Three knocks. Someone's here. You're here. You're here? What are you doing here?

"What are you doing here?"

"Hello to you, too, Spencer. Care to let me in?"

~

You're leaning against his counter. He's stood on the other side, facing you, but not quite meeting your eyes.

Can't even look her in the face. Loser.

"Spencer?" He responds with a hum that sounds like it is meant for him as much as it is meant for you.

"I've been here for fifteen minutes and you haven't said a word."

"Right. Ah, there you go. That's a word. That good enough for you?"

That's right. Push her away. Antagonize her. Make her hate you. That'll show her for caring about you.

"Spencer, don't be like that, come on."

"Don't be like what? Like a junkie? Like an addict? Is that what you mean? Jesus, you can't even say it." I am not trying to push you away. I cannot help it. I am so sorry. Please still like me.

"I meant, don't be distant with me. I meant, don't be a jerk, you jerk," you say, your voice more reprimanding than angry. That shuts him up.

"Spencer, I am not going to walk around eggshells with you. I don't want to. You have a problem. You need help. You know that. I cannot sit still at work, pretend everything's fine, nod my head and hope you'll be okay and forget everything when I go home. I cannot be like that."

Spencer looks at you like you're hanging stars in his sky. You continue.

"I am so sorry that it took me this long to figure it out and come help you. I had to be sure we're doing it right."

"Doing what right? What are you talking about?"

"Getting you sobered up. I don't really know much about it, and I didn't want to go somewhere that would leave a paper trail. You could lose your job. I did some research, pulled some strings, and well, I was able to get some supplies and over-the-counter meds and worst case scenario, if something does go wrong, which I'm really not counting on, I know some people who would be willing to help off the record."

He stares at you like you're some kind of hallucination. Some fever dream conjured by withdrawal and regret and too many sleepless nights. For him? Why would you do this?

“Why would you do this?” he says aloud, voice flat. Hollow. “What is wrong with you? You could get fired for this. Do you understand that?”

Please don’t stop. Please don’t take it back. Please don't leave me alone. Please don’t say this was a mistake.

You cross your arms, unfazed. “Yeah, I know. Thanks for the concern, by the way.” You look at him and see his face contort in confusion.

"Honey, no offence, I say this with lots of love in my heart," you put your hand over his and continue, "but you're a self sabotaging moron who thinks he doesn't deserve good things. You are very wrong, for the record, and I deeply care about you in spite of that."

Exactly. Why?

“Exactly. Why?” he says. The words are louder this time. Angrier. Desperate. “You don’t owe me anything. I’ve treated you like crap. I’ve lied to you. Pushed you away. I'm a mess. A tragic self-fulfilling prophecy. I’m not— I’m not someone you should still give a damn about.”

And there it is. That trembling, cracked little part of him. The kid who got beat up on playgrounds and cried about it alone. The man who thought he had to earn affection with perfection.

You take a breath. You move your hand, which was on top of his, to hold it now.

“I don’t need reasons or incentive to care about you, Spencer. You don't have to deserve or earn anything from me. Or anyone, for that matter. You are a good person. You deserve to have joy in life. You were not this self-loathing, withdrawn, quiet person, not when we first met. I love listening to you. I love when you get excited about something. I know you're still in there. You’re still my friend. A huge part of my life, whether you like it or not. I love you.”

I love you too. Oh god, I love you too.

"I miss you when you’re not around,” you continue. “And I’m done missing you even when you are. So pony up. We’re getting you sober.”

"Did you know that the word sober originates from Latin? Yeah, se meaning without, and ebrius meaning drunk. The word sobrius which is where sobriety is believed to have come from, literally means without wine."

"There he is."

~

"Alright, so it's nothing you don't already know, but I'm telling you anyway so you know the drill. It's going to be painful. You'll have cold fevers, nausea, you'll sweat a lot, your body will hurt, you may have episodes, and you will feel awful. And that's all before it gets to the hard part."

"You know, you don't have to do this. You don't need to— I don't—"

"Spencer, Spence, hey," you hold both his hands in yours and continue, "Look at me. It's okay. I know what I'm getting into. We can do this. I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

I hope I hold on long enough for you to see me when I'm not like this. When I'm okay. Like I used to be. Like I was when I first saw you. But God forbid, if I let go, I hope it's in your arms.

"Okay."

It comes in waves. The chills start first— sharp, stabbing needles running down his spine, crawling beneath his skin like he’s being flayed alive from the inside out. Then the nausea, rising like a tide, acidic and angry. His body betrays him over and over again. Sweat clings to him, drenching the sheets, pooling under his neck. Every movement feels like a punishment. Every breath feels borrowed.

And she’s still here. Still here. God.

He can’t look at her when it’s bad. When he’s shaking so hard his teeth chatter. When his limbs lock up and his sobs catch in his throat like barbed wire. He hates that she sees him like this. Hates that he can’t hide the worst parts of himself.

Why are you still here? Leave.

Every time he opens his eyes and finds her still at his side— cool rag in hand, whispering his name, smoothing the hair back from his forehead, holding his head up when he vomits— it shatters something in him. A tenderness he’s not strong enough to hold.

You shouldn’t have to see this. You don’t deserve to.

He tries to apologize. For the sweating. For the smell. For the vomiting. For the crying. For the memories he’ll never let himself say aloud. For existing like this in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and cracking.

“You don’t have to be, you have nothing to be sorry for,” she says every time.

But he is. So, so sorry.

You could’ve loved a hundred better men. Men who would’ve taken care of you, who wouldn’t need saving, who would know how to say thank you instead of I’m sorry.

And still, she stays.

Maybe I’m being made new. Maybe this is what it means to be reborn, to be stripped down to nothing, to be known in every terrible inch, and still not be sent away.

He doesn't believe in God. Never really has. But if he did, if he ever were to believe in something divine, it would be this. Her. Here. Now. In all her human mess and radiant grace, holding the pieces of him steady like they're sacred.

If I make it out of this… If I make it to the other side… it’ll be because she walked with me through the fire and didn't once let go.

And if he doesn’t—

Let it be here. Let it be now. Let it be in her arms.

He shakes his head, eyes glassy and wild, muscles locking in protest. “I don’t think I can do this. I don’t— I can’t—”

His voice is barely human anymore. It's all pain and fear and shame twisted into syllables that sound like defeat.

You kneel beside him, one hand on his shoulder, the other brushing damp curls from his forehead. “Yes, you can. You’re doing great. You’re doing so good, Spencer. We’re almost there. You’re so close. You’re doing great.”

He wants to believe you. God, he wants to. But everything hurts. Everything burns. His bones feel like they’re breaking and reforming all at once. His mind is louder than ever, telling him he’s weak, that he’s wasting your time, that you’ll hate him after this.

But your voice cuts through the noise like light through smoke.

You’re still here.

You’re still here.

You’re still here.

When the worst of it passes, you're both tired. Him, more so than you, of course, but you're exhausted regardless. His world is still spinning, but not violently anymore. Just slow, dizzy loops. You're sitting beside him on the floor, hair messily tied back, sleeves rolled up, skin warm where it brushes his.

“Hey,” you say gently, pushing a water bottle toward him. “When was the last time you ate?”

He blinks. “I… don’t remember.”

You nod like that’s what you expected. “Okay. No worries. I’ll look around your kitchen, see what I can make work.”

God, you’re so… gentle. It’s devastating.

You're holding a knife in your hand, looking at his fridge, hoping to find some vegetables, fruits, anything. You don't. You absentmindedly hold the knife as you ransack his kitchen as politely as possible.

He watches you shuffle toward the cabinets. He should offer to help. He should stand. He should do something. But all he can do is sit there on the counter, hunched, wrapped in the too-big hoodie you made him change into, staring at the way you move around his space like it’s your own. Like you're allowed to be here.

And if you could just twist that knife into my heart, stab me lightly, yeah, that would be great.

You start opening drawers and cabinets and make a little sound of horror. “Spencer, honey. You live like a caveman. Where’s all the food? Have you been eating at all?”

He shrugs. Tries to play it off. “I’ve… had protein bars. Mostly.”

“Mmm.” The noncommittal hum you make isn’t exactly believing. But you don’t push. “That’s okay. We’ll do takeout tonight. Figure out the rest tomorrow.”

He nods, too tired to argue. Too in awe of you to try.

“Go relax, okay?” you say as you pick up your phone. “I’ll order something. Just rest until it gets here.”

You wait until he’s curled under a blanket on the couch— he didn’t want the bed— and that’s when you really look around.

It’s chaos. The kind that builds slowly, quietly, until it drowns a person.

Books are scattered everywhere. His meticulously labeled files are out of order. His fish tank light is flickering and dim. The automatic feeder has maybe a day’s worth of food left. And worst of all, one of the tiny fish is floating belly-up, pale and still.

You cover your mouth and breathe through your nose. He hadn’t noticed. He didn’t even see it. That’s what breaks your heart. You step into the hallway and call Garcia.

“Penelope. I need you to do me a favor. No questions asked. I’ll owe you forever.”

You hear the shift in her tone instantly. “Tell me what you need.”

“I’m sending you a picture. I need a fish. Exactly like the one in the photo. Same kind, same size. I need it tonight. As soon as you can.”

There’s a beat. “On it.”

By the time the takeout arrives, you’ve got the new fish hidden in a thermos packed with water, and you’re swapping it into the tank just as Spencer wanders into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and asking if he should grab plates.

“Yeah,” you say, forcing a smile. “Grab whatever you’ve got.”

He disappears into a cabinet, and you finish the switch in record time, flushing the old one without blinking. He doesn’t notice.

He just sits down beside you a minute later and says, “Thanks for staying.”

You hand him his plate.

“Always.”

He smiles at that— tired, but genuine. You both eat in silence for a few minutes, the clinking of forks against ceramic the only sound between you. You keep glancing over, watching for signs of nausea, ready to intervene. But he seems okay. Exhausted, but okay.

After a while, he leans back, running a hand through his hair.

“I think I need to lie down.”

“You shouldn’t lie down just yet,” you say gently as he settles onto the couch.

Spencer looks up at you, eyebrows furrowed. “Why not?”

“If you end up throwing up again while you’re asleep, you could choke on it. Just for tonight— until it’s fully out of your system— it’s safer to stay upright. By morning, it should pass.”

“Oh,” he says quietly, like he hadn’t thought of that. Of course, he hadn’t. He’s not used to someone else worrying about the aftermath. He's not so used to someone else worrying about him, period.

I love you.

You sit down beside him, not too close, but close enough that he could lean if he wanted to. “You can rest here. Sit with me. Like you do on the jet.”

He turns to you slowly. “You’re… not going home?”

You shake your head once. “I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re okay.”

There’s a sharp sting in his throat, and for once it has nothing to do with withdrawal. Have I mentioned that I love you? In case I haven't, I love you. I'm sorry. I love you.

You open your arms a little, wordlessly offering, and after a moment’s hesitation, he lowers his head to your shoulder. He doesn’t even realize how tightly he’s holding onto you until your fingers slide through his hair.

"You're fine. You're going to be okay."

The next morning, he wakes up before you do.

The light’s different today. The early sun filters through the blinds in soft, dappled gold. For the first time in what feels like ages, it doesn’t feel too harsh or blinding. For the first time in longer than he can remember, the sun doesn’t scream. It just… glows. Gentle. Warm. Alive.

You’re still asleep, head tilted, mouth barely parted. Your brow’s furrowed even now— worried in your dreams, probably about him. Always about him.

He watches you in silence. Not like a man haunted. Not like someone waiting for the sky to fall. Just grateful. Reverent.

You saved my life.

If there's anything the BA in Philosophy has helped him understand, it's this. Existentialists argue that life has no inherent meaning, and individuals must create their own meaning through their choices and actions. By that logic, his choices and actions, having subconsciously led him to you, must mean that you are the true meaning of life. Not an existentialist? Not a problem.

Plato believed that the meaning of life lies in attaining the highest form of knowledge, which is the Idea of the Good, from which all good and just things derive utility and value. Considering how Spencer's pursuit of this exact idea is what led him to you in the first place, this must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that you were the true meaning of life. At least to him.

Nihilism suggests that life is ultimately meaningless and that there is no objective value or purpose. Nihilists must have never encountered you, he concludes.

This could be home. You could be home. It could be enough.

a/n: it could count as fluff towards the end but like only if you're mildly fucked in the head like I am