worldfullofash

[worldfullofash]

I have a special place in my heart for Spencer fics where he gets flustered

[worldfullofash]

Today's menu:⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ Headcanon 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Pleasure to meet you, Doctor Spencer Reid gender neutral!reader

Spencer Reid... is a man who, in my eyes, eats the raisins from the mix of dried fruits and nuts. (In that “no one else wants them, so I will” sort of way... this may not be just about raisins.)

Spencer Reid... is not a bad cook, but he religiously holds to the recipe, so in case he is missing something extremely specific, he doesn't know how to work around it.

And he neither knows for how long to mix some things to not over-mix them, nor how much boiling is too much, etc.

Give him a recipe that requires measuring to micrograms and cooking for exactly 17 minutes, 25 seconds and 4 milliseconds, and he is a Michelin chef.

Give him your granny's recipe with 'Bake for 12–17 minutes and add a spoon of salt', and the man will be screaming in despair over how big that spoon is supposed to be, and he burns the thing to a crisp because he's scared to underbake it.

Spencer Reid... who would love to share clothes with his partner, but only under the condition that he will still know where to find them later.

Spencer Reid... who supports the academic rebellion against the publishing companies because research should be accessible to everyone. (Ehm... he would maybe even be one of the archive donors under a fake name...)

Spencer Reid... was a kid who took his time and learned sign language the moment he found out that one of his old neighbours back in Vegas had hearing problems.

Spencer Reid... is not a picky eater because of his childhood, but he avoids some types of food because of their texture when he can (for example: dried dates, soggy cornflakes, overripe bananas, and pears).

Spencer Reid... never really played any games, but Penelope made it her crusade to teach him how to play Mario Kart. (He is surprisingly good at it.)

Spencer Reid... has one pair of shoes he’s been buying for several years in a row at this point (those black sneakers), and he no longer even bothers to try them on in the shop. The moment they have a hole at the bottom, he just walks to the shoe shop, grabs the box in his size, checks that they don’t have any manufacturing defects, and pays for them.

Spencer Reid... is a man who smiles and waves back at smiling children when they wave at him first. Because they deserve to meet happiness and goodness while they still can. And hey... it’s just a smile. That’s the bare minimum.

Spencer Reid... is a man who cannot watch medical dramas with his partner—or unsupervised either. Because that man yaps about the medical inaccuracies and has to bite his tongue every time to not scream “Chest compressions! Chest compressions! Chest compressions!” when one of the characters whips out a defibrillator in a case where the patient's heart has stopped.

Spencer Reid... who is a cat person, but if he had a dog, it would be an English Cocker Spaniel called Remi, who was supposed to be trained as a search and rescue dog.

But she was too sad when she didn’t find the training figurines alive, so they had to remove her from the program and offered her for adoption. And so... the search and rescue dog found the man who needed to be found.

Spencer Reid... takes his time when the day of 'Bring Your Kid to Work' comes. He always hangs around to speak with the kids who are left behind—too shy to ask anything, or in general not really included—and answers every question they may have. (He is surprisingly the favourite agent, but he himself doesn’t know about it.)

Spencer Reid... who would crawl on his knees up the stairs from hell to heaven for his partner, but at the same time doesn’t need them to be with him 24/7.

Just the idea of sharing a flat with them makes him happy. Just the idea that behind that wall is the one person who loves him is enough. (He is like a turtle—he is hidden most of the time, but he loves the idea of closeness that is not completely obvious.) Being near them, letting them sleep on his shoulder, watching them move around the shared space, or hearing them hum from the living room—and the man is a puddle on the ground.

Spencer Reid... in my eyes, is a man who doesn’t mind dog-ears and broken spines on books. He wouldn’t do it purposefully to destroy the book—no, he has respect for the thing. But for him, those are the signs that the book was read again and again, and that it was well loved.

When he gets his hands on old antique books, he lingers a bit longer on the places where the spine is broken, trying to figure out what might have caused the previous owner to stay on that particular page longer than the others.

In his eyes, books are supposed to be worn down by time, by the hands that held them and turned their pages. Books are supposed to be read and loved.

Spencer Reid... is a man who appreciates those whimsical designs you can find on canned fish and boxes of matches, because he knows that even something so... useless and mundane got enough care from someone.

Something small for today :] And this may or may not be the canon for Spencer that exists in my stories so... yeah, maybe we will meet Remi one day And I'm definitely planning to write more of those head canons Hope you enjoyed! Underline note for the recipe: I'm not a native speaker, 'pardon my French' and any mistakes, but we're cooking in freestyle here

[worldfullofash]

L word

spencer reid x gn!reader | 800 words | Spencer being extremely, painfully, in love with the reader, that is literally the entire plot | fluff

Dr. Spencer Reid's Dissertation on the Groundbreaking Discovery of a Fifth Fundamental Force

It's basic physics that gravity is the weakest of the fundamental forces, but responsible for the attraction between objects with mass. Electromagnetism governs the interactions between electrically charged particles. Nuclear forces are the strongest of the fundamental forces, responsible for holding the nucleus of an atom together. 

According to Dr Reid, the most important (and quite frankly, the strongest) force that the human body can experience is actually a fifth one that's a combination of them all; it's responsible for attraction between bodies (specifically yours and his), it deals extensively with electrically charged particles (in other words, its what makes him feel like he is internally vibrating at a glass shattering frequency whenever you are around, how he can never seem to be anything other than at an excited state at just the thought of you), and most importantly, it's what holds the nucleus, the core, the crux (him) together.

Sure, whenever someone mentions in passing or as a joke that you were a force of nature, it was meant to be a figure of speech, a jibe, something to say just for the sake of it. But even without his PhDs, he knew better. No, to him, it was a fact that his world revolves around you. A normal, simple, everyday fact. The sun rises in the east. Nikola Tesla was born during a lightning storm. Casein in milk helps neutralise capsaicin, which is why raw milk helps with spicy food. Spencer Reid was deeply, irrevocably in love with you. Simple fact.

Close-up magic was cool, definitely, but he knew it was just perfectly timed misdirection and sleight of hand. Tricks. Illusions. White Lies. That's not to say he doesn't believe in magic or miracles, no, because that's all you could possibly be, right? A miracle? A blessing from a God he thought he didn't believe in, until you happened? Because what you do to him is nothing short of magic.

How the chaos of his mind fades into static white noise at a simple touch of your hand. How your eyes always look to find his in a room, no matter how crowded, and how you always smile like a kid who won a stuffed animal at a carnival when they finally do. How some part of you always stays and lingers around him every day, be it in your perfume that he can still smell on his clothes, remnants of the mark you've left on him, keys you've misplaced at his place, your mug next to his where the dishes are stacked, or in the little notes you leave for him to find throughout his day, reminding him that even with all the death, pain, and destruction in the world, perfection like you is possible.

People look at their lives in their own way. Most people quantify the time lived by looking at it in parts— childhood, teenage/adolescence, adulthood, and old age. For Spencer, though, there was only one other time in his life that mattered— Before you. He swears that everything he knows, everything he has ever learned, everything that he has been through, up until the point that he met you, happened specifically so that he could do just that— meet you.

If there's anything the BA in Philosophy 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.

a/n: this is so not like my usual stuff, i am aware, but i am in my feels right now and my WIPs are still IP and like i said i am in my FEELS, so here is my unfiltered, unformatted, definitely not even a little bit proofread spencer reid ramble. this wasn't even in my drafts i just typed and clicked post now so i really am sorry if this is horseshit. tried my best to keep it gender neutral but like i too fuck up so apologies in advance.

[worldfullofash]

My gawdd I can’t wait. I know it’s gonna be gooood

Hey guys, I finally got it to work. Turns out Tumblr was throwing a hissy fit if I tried to put any text indented :(

So, condensing everything I had to say: I'm posting a fic later today, I'm posting an April plans despite how late it is, and I'm also posting a snippet of the fic I'm posting here.

Anyway, here's the snippet. I hope you like it (also, it's part of a flashback so have fun guessing what the actual fic is about <3).

Snippet below

Your blades hit the ice with a sharp little scrape, and for a second, you wobbled—just enough to make you stumble forward a step and throw your arms out. The cold shot straight up through the soles of the rentals, settling in your knees, your spine. But then balance returned, muscle memory catching up, and you pushed forward with one foot, gliding out toward the center.

Stiles saw you before you could call out.

His head whipped up so fast it was a wonder his neck didn’t snap, and he immediately started flailing his way toward you, half-skating, half-praying to the friction gods that he didn’t go down in front of everyone. His cheeks were already pink from the cold, but they deepened into something bright and blooming the second you met his eyes.

“You made it!” he called, way too loud, like the music and noise and chaos had vanished and he just needed to fill the space between you with his voice.

You grinned. “You sound surprised.”

“I was surprised!” he said as he skidded up next to you, arms wheeling a little before he caught his balance. “I—I thought you weren’t coming. You weren’t answering your phone, and I thought maybe—maybe your mom bailed or like, you got kidnapped on the way here or something or I don’t know, fell into a Christmas tree lot and froze to death because that happens, and—”

“Dude,” Scott’s voice came from somewhere behind him, amused and exasperated in equal measure. “You’ve been doing this for the last twenty minutes. Let 'em say hi.”

You caught Scott looping around with a smooth turn, skating backwards effortlessly like he was auditioning for the Olympics. He winked at you and then made a face at Stiles, mimicking the nonstop motion of his mouth with one hand.

Stiles looked back at him, scowled, then whipped around to face you again.

“I’m just saying, okay?” he huffed, arms crossed now, chin tucked down defensively. “You didn’t answer your phone and I know you said you’d try, but like, you never just not text, and I thought maybe—well. Never mind.” His voice dropped at the end, losing steam.

You softened immediately, reaching out to gently tug on the hem of his sleeve. “Hey. I had to catch a cab last minute. Spent the last of my allowance on it, too.”

Stiles’ eyes went wide. “You did not.”

You shrugged. “You guys are worth it.”

That shut him up. At least, for a beat. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again—but nothing came out.

Scott skated by in a tight circle, doing a ridiculous spin that earned him a loud “show-off!” from a random teen nearby.

“Let me guess,” you said, watching him skate off with mock suspicion. “He’s been doing that since you got here.”

“Ugh, yes,” Stiles groaned. “The second he realized he was good at skating, he’s been all ‘look at me, I’m a majestic deer’ or whatever.”

You barked a laugh and leaned in slightly, bumping your shoulder into Stiles. “You’re not doing so bad yourself, Stilinski.”

He flushed deeper, and for a second he looked like he was going to say something cocky—but then he caught the slight curve of your smirk, and all the wind left his sails.

“I missed you,” he blurted instead. “Like. A lot.”

You smiled, and it must’ve shown in your eyes, because his ears went red.

“I missed you too,” you said, your voice a little quieter now.

He blinked rapidly and then made a weird noise that was probably meant to be a casual laugh but sounded more like he was choking on his own tongue. You giggled, skating around him once in a loose circle, and then held out your hand.

“Come on,” you teased. “Before Scott starts spinning so fast he creates a vortex and takes out a bunch of third graders.”

“You’re assuming that wouldn’t be hilarious,” Stiles muttered, but he took your hand anyway, fingers clumsy in his gloves, grip tight like he was worried he’d fall right through the ice if he didn’t hold on.

You tugged him forward, and he followed without resistance, grinning and unsteady and full of energy like he didn’t know how to hold it all in. He slipped once or twice, cursed loudly, clutched your arm, then laughed so hard he nearly dragged you down with him. And through it all, you just kept your hand in his and skated a little slower, steady and solid, just enough to keep him upright.

Scott whooped somewhere across the rink, executing a wobbly jump that made a kid scream and his mom glare.

“See?” you said, laughing. “Vortex. I warned you.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, cheeks pink and glowing. “Whatever. If we get pulled into a black hole of Christmas-themed ice death, I’m glad it’s with you.”

You tightened your grip on his hand and squeezed.

“Same, Stilinski.”

[worldfullofash]

Already reblogging cause i know ts is gonna be gooooddd

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

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

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

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

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

w.c: 3.2k

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

────────────

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

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

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

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

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

Those with ASD have a doubled risk of substance use.

He never stood a chance. Did he?

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

He feels like an outlaw to his own team.

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

How did everyone else?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The aftermath of the Hankel case.

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

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

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

He always anticipates a flinch that never comes.

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

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

Will he ever live outside of his mind?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“That’s if they find out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even at his ugliest, you still stay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re exhausted, lie down.”

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

“What are you gonna do? Tuck me in?”

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

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

“Then call someone else next time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why? Why would you do this—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know what you’re signing up for.

“Yeah. I’ll stay. Through it all.”

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

[worldfullofash]

hey , hey , hey , lover from vi

ᰔ pairing . . . s. reid !

ᰔ with . . . a gn!reader !

ᰔ . . . spencer reid + bf texts !

ᰔ look around . . . m. list, s.reid & criminal minds m.list

────── vi whispers . . . ᰔ

001. goodbye to the tags, im pissed at you.

002. last slide : got the idea from... this ! by @/peanutalergy & made it a whisper( using a lame joke i uh.. said to my old situationship. ) 😭 he just found out ab it guys..!! he's growing.

003. thank you, my old science notebooks for finally being useful.

004. NEVER MIND, HE'S GETTING AN EARLY RELEASE!!

© MINORLYATFAULT 2025

[worldfullofash]

Here's a little pep talk from Stiles 💜:

"Hey... Hey, look at me. Life sucks, I know. It's horrible. It's a big, ugly, mean monster with sharp teeth and a really bad comb-over and- ok, I'm getting off-topic, sorry. Basically, what I'm trying to say is that there's probably always going to be something bad happening, but there will also always be something good.

"No, no, don't look away. Eyes up here, remember? There we go. Much better. So, like I was saying, there's good stuff out there too. It can be hard to find, especially these days, but it's there. Just... take a moment to look for it. Take a nice, long, deep breath, and look around for a second. It doesn't have to be anything crazy. Maybe the wind is blowing in your favor to show off how hot you are, I don't know. It could be anything.

"And in really dire situations, because, yeah, there's plenty of those around here, look inside yourself. I know it's scary, I don't like doing it either. But the more you do it, the easier it'll get. Start small. Like... What's one thing you tolerate about yourself? You don't have to love it or like it, it's just something you're ok with. You've come to terms with its existence.

"Then, move on to something you do like. Even just a little bit. Come on, don't look at me like that! You're smarter than you think you are, there's gotta be a bunch of things. Alright, it's ok if there's not yet, but there will be eventually! We'll work on that.

"Now, as much as I love giving you all the love in my heart, you gotta give yourself some of the love you have in your heart too. I can't take all the credit, that would be greedy. Besides, have you seen yourself!? My God, I could pass out at any second, I'm serious! And even if you aren't vibing with the physical stuff, you have so many lovable qualities and talents that blow my mind every single day. You're not a useless blob of goo, ok? You're beautiful - inside and out - and special. You're very precious to me and so many others, even if they don't tell as often as they should.

"You're doing great, I promise. You're trying, that's all we can do, you know? Everything's gonna be ok. Well, eventually. It might seem like forever, but it'll happen, I know it. I love you so much."

[worldfullofash]

AN ‘I FEEL’ STATEMENT. / S.REID / SUMMARY - Spencer and you interrogate a suspect

PAIRING: bau!reader x spencer reid / w/c: 1.7K / ???

a/n: guess who this is based on and win a cookie

Spencer didn’t even look up when you barged into the motel room.

“Don’t say it,” he said, flipping a page in the case file.

You froze in the doorway, still halfway through pulling off your FBI jacket. “Say what?”

“That the crime scene smelled like expired deli meat and failure.”

You made a face. “Okay, rude. That’s classic FBI fieldwork ambiance.”

He looked up and smirked. “You’re predictable.”

You tossed your jacket on the chair and flopped onto the bed beside him. “You like me because I’m predictable.”

“I love you in spite of it.”

You stuck your tongue out and stole the file from his hands. “Alright, Dr. Sass, what do we know?”

“Third victim, male, 30s, found in an alley behind a gas station that sells ‘hot dogs’ that may or may not be actual meat,” Spencer replied with a snarky tone , leaning back against the headboard. “Ligature marks, same positioning as the first two. Garcia’s running facial rec now.”

You flipped through the photos. “This guy looks like my ex.”

Spencer tilted his head. “Which one? Also…You dated a guy with a neck tattoo that says Loyalty Over Everything?”

“He had a motorcycle and a soft spot for cats. It was a phase…. And the tattoo said ‘I’m a dick’ in Chinese.”

“I sincerely hope your standards have risen.”

You gave him a smug look. “Please. I’m dating a literal genius with three PhDs. I upgraded.”

He hummed. “Four soon.”

“Whatever,” you said, nudging his arm. “You’re basically the FBI’s version of a trophy husband.”

He blinked. “Are you saying I’m your trophy husband?”

“Yeah. Except instead of a yacht I got… trauma and access to crime scenes. I guess?”

Spencer rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. “Romantic.”

You snickered. “That’s what they all say.”

For a while, you worked in comfortable silence, both reading over the files. The motel TV buzzed in the background, playing a rerun of some bad soap opera where the acting was worse than your last polygraph subject.

“So,” you said eventually, “you think this guy’s trying to make a point? The symmetry, the posing, the weird ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ energy of it all?”

Spencer looked thoughtful. “He’s definitely performing. But it’s subtle. Less drama, more… statement.”

“Like a TED Talk, but make it murder.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed. “I fucking hate Ted talks, people who talk for hours like that are so annoying.”

He glanced sideways at you. “Speak for yourself. I’m adorable.”

“You’re adorable in a ‘my girlfriend wants to kick my ass daily’ kind of way.”

“To be fair, you want to kick everyone’s ass. Some more sensually than others.”

“HEY! Me and Emily had a deal. Have you seen— actually don’t answer that I’d have to kill you.”

“I find you so oddly attractive.” He said, looking a bit perplexed by his own taste.

You bumped his shoulder gently. “You always say that like you’re surprised.”

Spencer gave you a soft look, the kind he saved for when the world got too heavy. “I’m not. You’re annoying and incredible.”

You grinned. “Aw. You’re such a sap when we’re surrounded by homicide photos. You should be more mindful of the dead,”

“Don’t ruin it.”

He leaned in to kiss you, brief and warm. Then he stole the case file back like the nerd he was.

“Fine,” you said, standing up and stretching. “I’ll go see if Morgan found anything useful, or if he’s just flirting with the local deputy again.”

“Tell him if she has a cowboy hat, he has my blessing.”

You grabbed your jacket, pausing at the door. “If I get shot, tell the team I died being hotter than all of them.”

Spencer looked up with a totally deadpan expression and whistled. “That goes without saying.”

You blew him a kiss and shut the door behind you, already drafting what you’d say to Morgan when you saw him.

Eventually , you’d caught the guy.

The suspect sat cuffed to the table, arms crossed, expression somewhere between cocky and confused. He’d asked for a lawyer three times. The team knew it. So did you. But now he was suddenly cooperative—and you had a feeling that had less to do with his conscience and more to do with the fact that Morgan had promised he’d be “dealing with Dr. Reid next.”

What he didn’t know?

He was getting both of you.

You stepped into the interrogation room, Spencer behind you, both of you in sync like you were about to perform a synchronized FBI ballet—but with more psychological warfare.

Outside the one-way glass, Morgan muttered, “This’ll be interesting.”

Inside the room, you dropped into the chair across from the suspect and offered a sugary smile.

“Hi, Marcus. Love the scowl. Very tough guy who definitely has never cried in a 90s Honda civic. Or was it a Toyota?”

Spencer sat beside you, calm and collected, opening the file in front of him like he was about to politely destroy a man’s entire worldview.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “So they sent the nerd and the girlfriend?”

You smiled wider. “Aw. You think I’m just the girlfriend. That’s cute.”

Spencer didn’t look up. “Statistically, assuming a woman is less competent in a professional setting increases the likelihood of public humiliation by seventy-three percent. But don’t worry, we’ll keep it between us.”

“For real? You just know that?” The suspect hissed.

“No asshole, I made it up…” Spencer mumbled, still looking at the file and reading it closely.

You slid the photo across the table—victim number two. “Let’s talk about this guy. You were seen outside his apartment the night he was killed. Coincidence, or did ya get the first time murder jitters?”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

Spencer’s voice was deceptively light. “We didn’t say you did. You said that. Interesting.”

You leaned in, resting your chin on your hand. “Also interesting? That your fingerprints were on the door handle, and the doormat has your boot tread on it. You’re either involved or you’re just deeply nosy.”

Marcus shrugged. “Maybe I was there. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, honey,” you said, voice syrupy-sweet. “People like you never do things for no reason. You can’t even microwave instant soup without making it about your masculinity.”

Spencer coughed like he was covering a laugh.

“Also if you’re microwaving soup shame on you. Put it in a damn pot on the stove like the rest of us.” You groaned, knowing damn well you did it yesterday.

“Look,” Marcus said, sitting up straighter. “I don’t have to say anything to you.”

You looked around the room , faux confusion on your face. He literally asked for you?

Spencer tapped the table twice. “Totally fair. You’re exercising your rights. But just to clarify, you’re not denying you were there. So if we subpoena your phone, we’re not going to be shocked by GPS data, right?”

You leaned toward Spencer and whispered loudly, “Is this the part where we pretend we don’t already have that?”

He nodded seriously. “Yes, for dramatic effect.”

Marcus shifted. “You’re bluffing.”

“Buddy,” you said, leaning back. “The FBI does two things really well: crush dreams and ruin lives. And my boyfriend here’s got a PhD in both.”

Spencer added, “Technically only one, but I did minor in destroying egos.”

“Oh for real? That’s fine I have a masters in being better than most people and humbling men. I think that’ll suffice.” You replied.

Outside the glass, JJ blinked. “Are they… flirting? In the middle of an interrogation?”

Hotch muttered, “I think it’s working?”

Back inside, the suspect was starting to sweat, his earlier confidence deflating like a balloon at a sad birthday party.

You pulled out another photo—this time of Marcus’s ex, who had filed a restraining order last year. You dropped it gently on the table.

Spencer’s voice was quiet. “She’s scared of you.”

“And she was like 16.”

Marcus looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor as Spencer flipped to the next page in the file.

“Her name was Emily,” he said calmly, tapping the paper. “She filed for a restraining order at sixteen. Updated it again when she turned seventeen.”

Marcus scoffed. “She was—she acted older than she was.”

You blinked. Spencer’s jaw twitched.

“Oh wow,” you said, leaning forward. “Do you have an I feel statement about that?”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, like—‘I feel like I want to date children’?”

You nodded thoughtfully. “That’s the vibe I’m getting too. Really leaning into the predator energy.”

“I’m not a predator,” Marcus snapped, defensive now, angry. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Spencer arched a brow. “We literally read your search history.”

You added, “And the restraining order. And the texts. And your very creative Reddit username.”

“Subtle wasn’t your strong suit,” Spencer muttered.

You leaned back in your chair, folding your arms. “So here’s what we do know about you, Marcus: you’re insecure, violent when women say no, and very interested in people who are still in Algebra II. That about cover it?”

He opened his mouth—then shut it again.

“That’s what I thought,” you said sweetly, before glancing over at Spencer with a grin. “See? We’re so good at this.”

He smiled back. “Terrifyingly good.”

“You think this is funny?” Marcus snapped, finally rattled. “This little good cop, bad cop thing?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Good cop? You sweet summer child.”

“We’re not good cop, bad cop,” Spencer added helpfully. “We’re bad cop, worse cop.”

“I’m worse,” you chimed in. “Obviously.”

Spencer nodded. “That tracks.”

Marcus was silent, jaw tense.

You leaned in again, tone shifting. “Look. You talk to us, you get some control back. You don’t, and we throw this entire file at the prosecutor and let them tear you apart. Your call.”

Spencer added, “Statistically, cooperating suspects receive lighter sentences. Not that you seem like a man who cares about consequences, given your stunning history of rage texting and unpaid parking tickets… and dating children.”

You smiled. “Seriously, ten tickets? What are you, allergic to parallel parking?”

Marcus stared at the table, finally cracking.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he muttered.

You and Spencer exchanged a glance.

“Okay,” you said, sitting back. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

[worldfullofash]

This is how Eddie would ask you to prom

[worldfullofash]

Real footage of Spencer Reid returning for s18

[worldfullofash]

CHECKMATE. • S.REID

─── IN WHICH Spencer has always been a strategist, whether in the field or over a game of chess. But when the game takes an unexpected turn, he finds himself flustered by an entirely different kind of move.

Spencer Reid 𝓍 𝑔𝓃!reader 1.6K ⋆ fluff ⋆ established relationship ⋆ awkward Spencer ⋆ soft moments ⋆ innocent make out

Spencer Reid doesn’t usually let himself lose at chess.

He’s too used to calculating every move, to knowing the exact number of steps it will take to win. But when you walk into his apartment, bright-eyed and smiling, holding a pizza box in one hand and a soda in the other, his mind suddenly feels... a little too cluttered for strategy.

You're the kind of presence that doesn't need to be analyzed. He can feel the pull of your energy before you even say a word, a gravitational force that brings him a quiet kind of peace. It makes the chessboard between you seem small, insignificant in comparison.

“You ready to lose?” you tease as you sit down across from him at the small coffee table, the board between you both. The game has barely begun, but you’re already looking at him with that playful smile that’s just too good for his sanity.

Spencer, of course, doesn’t answer the challenge outright. Instead, he adjusts his glasses and squints at the board, his mind quickly picking apart the different combinations. But as his fingers hover over the pieces, he realizes he hasn’t moved in what feels like ages, his focus drifting to the way the sunlight hits your hair, the soft laugh that escapes you when you take a casual sip of soda.

You, however, notice.

“You’re stalling,” you observe with a knowing smile, leaning forward just a little, catching his eye. You know exactly how he works.

He’s blushing before he can help it, but he shrugs it off, moving his queen to the center of the board with an exaggerated gesture. “Just contemplating my options,” he says, his voice a little too steady for the warmth spreading through his chest.

A few more moves pass, but the tension between the pieces only grows. It's not that Spencer minds—no, he’s lost in the rhythm of the game, but also in the rhythm of you.

And then, with a gentle, teasing smile, you make your move, carefully nudging your bishop forward, putting his king in check. The game isn’t over, not yet, but his mind seems to stop entirely. The move is so simple, so easy, and yet Spencer can’t help but notice the softness in the way you move—your fingers delicate, the way your eyes soften when you glance up at him.

Before he can even think about his next move, you’re standing up, slipping around the edge of the table, and without a word, you gently push him back onto the couch, your hand on his chest.

He lets out a soft laugh, startled by the sudden movement. "What are you doing?" he asks, his voice quiet, but amused, unsure whether this is part of the game or something else entirely.

But you only smile, your touch warm against his shirt as you guide him back into the pillows. “Just giving you a break,” you say, your voice soft, and for a moment, everything else disappears.

You climb onto the couch beside him, close enough that Spencer can feel the heat of your skin near his, but not close enough to make any real move. You don’t rush him. You never do. Instead, you lean against the couch and watch him, your gaze steady, filled with something warm and trusting.

Spencer finds his breath catching in his throat. It’s like time slows down around you, the moment lingering, sweet and soft. His mind isn’t thinking about the chessboard anymore, or the game he’s losing. He’s thinking about you—how your hand rests lightly on his knee, how you haven’t pulled away, how his pulse seems to beat in time with yours.

And then, without thinking, his hand moves to the back of your neck, gently guiding you closer. It’s slow, deliberate, a question. And when your lips brush against his, it’s everything. Soft. Languid. No rush.

The kiss is sweet at first, a quiet touch of warmth and tenderness. Spencer feels his pulse race, his mind slipping into the moment entirely. His glasses fog up instantly from the proximity, and he smiles against your lips, the warmth of your kiss too much for his senses to process all at once.

You pull away slightly, just enough to catch your breath, and Spencer laughs softly, his voice low and a little embarrassed. “I... I can’t see you,” he admits, his glasses so fogged up he can’t make out your features.

You chuckle, brushing his hair back with your fingers. “I guess that’s one way to win the game.”

Spencer grins, his heart fluttering at the way your fingers feel in his hair. "I’m not sure I’m winning anything right now."

But then you kiss him again, slower this time, your lips gentle and languid against his, and Spencer’s world narrows down to the warmth of you, the softness of your touch, the quiet hum of contentment between you both.

His hands move instinctively, resting lightly on your waist, pulling you just a little closer, but still with no rush. He’s content, lost in the peacefulness of the moment—no moves to calculate, no moves to make, just this.

The kiss lingers. The world outside Spencer’s apartment fades into nothing. You’re here, in his arms, and nothing else matters. Not the game, not the strategies, not even the foggy glasses that sit crookedly on his face.

“You’re distracting me,” he murmurs when you finally pull away, his voice thick with a contented smile.

You smile, that same mischievous look in your eyes, but there’s a softness to it now—something warmer. “I’m not sorry,” you say, your fingers brushing the side of his glasses, gently moving them back up his nose.

And Spencer, without thinking, pulls you back into him, his lips finding yours once more. This time, the kiss is lazy, a slow, tender thing that speaks of nothing but the quiet affection that’s settled between you both.

The game doesn’t matter anymore. Not when this is what he wants. Not when you’re right here, with him.

And as you finally pull away for good, both of you a little breathless, Spencer laughs softly, a deep, content sound that fills the space. “I think we both lost.”

You grin, your eyes sparkling. “We can always start a new game later.”

Spencer smiles, leaning back into the pillows, his hand still resting lightly on yours. “Yeah. Later sounds good.”

And for once, the game doesn’t matter.

All that matters is the way you fit perfectly next to him, the way your touch makes everything in the world feel a little more at ease. The way you’ve already won, without even trying.

[worldfullofash]

"imagine liking men" is dumb have you ever seen a mans happy trail. Good Lord

[worldfullofash]

Spencer baking w reader who insists on "eyeballing it" for a lot of the ingredients because she doesn't want to have too many dishes to do after (and she knows the recipe well). Spencer gets super anxious about this and talks about how baking is a science and you can't just eyeball it so he directs her on how much of each thing to use because he can basically measure the ingredients with his eyes. (or he insists that r uses measuring cups then he will do the dishes after)

heehee just a thought

-🪲

Yes yes yesss, thank you 🪲!

I mean let’s be real to Spencer mf Reid everything is science. Especially baking and/or cooking. He borderline gets so worked up about you just winging it.

He secretly is jealous that you can magically bake delicious sweet treats without a recipe, but he’s in denial. Just imagine him staring at you baking. Like this guy is scared and amazed at the same time. He also has to physically stop himself from meddling. Let me paint a picture of Bf!Spencer lurking beside you with twitching fingers while you bake, silently begging to help.

But you love him for it.

“What are you doing?”

“Uhm.. baking?”

“You call that baking?? 🧍🏼”

Don’t get me wrong he does not mean it in a mean way. He’s just baffled by how you bake. You always prove him wrong by letting him taste the most delicious, scrumptious cake you’ve baked.

“Don’t you dare say it.”

…

“It was a piece of cake.”

When he came over for the first time he found out you don’t own aaaannnyy cookbooks. From then on he made sure to gift you as many as he could. Like he’s trying to convert you to using recipes💀 BUT you’re just stubborn af. You keep eyeballing it just to annoy him a little. To get him to loosen up.

When you tell him that measuring ingredients is a waste of time. His eyeballs almost flew out of their sockets. He loves you, reaaaally loves you, but he could never imagine doing something without a step by step plan(on paper or often in his head). Because of this, he can be a bit bossy and sassy when it comes to baking together.

Speaking of that, you guys think you can pull off cooking a romantic dinner together or a bake date… uhm you were wrong. It most likely ends up in bickering. You know they say that putting up a Christmas tree puts every relationship to the test? Well for you and Spencer it’s cooking/baking. But don’t you worry, most of the time it’s just playful banter.

“You’re privileged by dating a partner with an eidetic memory who can look at a recipe for 10 seconds and remember everything. As a matter of fact said partner can also look at an amount of flower and decide how much it is(🤓☝🏻). And you still decide not to use it????”

Don’t mind if i do

He tries to bribe you into using measuring cups. And no, it didn’t work.

I also can imagine teaching him tricks that no cookbook can teach him. Things that were passed down in your family. This way he starts to trust your way of cooking a little more. As we all know Spencer is always willing to learn. He eventually learns that cooking can be just a fun activity, it doesn’t always have to be a difficult mathematical equation.

For the record, this guy is still scared of salmonella

[worldfullofash]

Please send in Spencer Reid thoughts. I need to write about him <3

[worldfullofash]

✯Introduction✯

Heyy everyone, I am Ash and I write headcanons/blurbs/imagines about multiple fandoms and characters (MCU, The Hunger Games, Criminal Minds, Teen Wolf etc.)

The headcanons can vary depending on whatever you’re feeling like. Angst or fluff, romantic or platonic, general headcanons: you’re allowed to send in everything! Even just thoughts about a certain character are appreciated.

My first language isn’t English btw

Requests are open <3

Here’s who i’ll be willing to write for: Stiles Stilinski, Spencer Reid, Penelope Garcia, Robin Buckley, Peter Parker, Pietro Maximoff, Finnick Odair, The avengers family dynamic

I rather do not write smut. So please respect that.

Have a lovely morning/day/night!

✯Masterlist✯

[worldfullofash]

Spencer ‘feminist’ Reid would take your last name. I said what I said.

Not only does he respect your family and ancestry, but he also does not want to be associated with his asshole of a father. The only reason he hesitates is because he shares a last name with his mother as well. However, I know for a fact that Spencer would be honoured to take your last name. He sees it as completely devoting himself to you and that is what he aspires to do for the rest of his life >>

[worldfullofash]

heya girly! i was wondering if you were interested in writing a spencer x reader fic where the reader has like cool tattoos on her upper back, lower back etc. she usually dresses in long sleeved pants and shirts so when she is supposed to go to a club to catch the unsub the team looks shocked at the tattoos and spencer gets flustered that he just starts spitting facts. maybe they are friends who flirt or early relationship. it could be fun if spencer traces her tattoos as he blabs which makes reader explode (his hands 😍). thank you in advance 🫶🏼

tattoos — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader has tattoos , mention of a bar , mention of pain while getting the tattoos a/n: hii !! love love love this request ( i'm actually planning on getting my first tattoo soon !! ) so i hope you like this <3

You stood in front of the mirror, carefully fixing the necklace around your neck. The dim light was making the silver chain glimmer as you centered the pendant just right. 

A knock on the door made you jump slightly. 

"Hi, it's Spencer. Are you ready?" His voice was gentle as always.

You exhaled slowly, taking in your reflection once more. "Not really," you admitted, a slight smile tugging at your lips. "Can you help me, Spence?" 

There was a pause before he answered. "Can—can I come in?" His voice wavered slightly, as if he wasn’t sure whether stepping into your room was allowed. 

You chuckled softly. "Yes, Spencer." 

The door creaked open, and Spencer entered cautiously, his tall frame hesitating near the doorway. His hazel eyes swept over you briefly before he forced himself to look away, rubbing the back of his neck. 

"You, um, you look… nice." His voice was quieter now, and you caught the way his gaze flickered to the floor before meeting yours again. 

A small, knowing smile played on your lips. "Thanks," you said, turning your back to him. "I just need help with a button." 

The fabric of your shirt shifted as you pulled your hair to the side, revealing the top of your bare back. Spencer took a step forward, but then he froze. 

"You… have tattoos," he stated, his voice laced with surprise. 

You grinned, tilting your head slightly to glance at him. "I know." 

For a second, he just stood there, his brain visibly working overtime to process this newfound information. You could practically see the gears turning in his head as his lips parted slightly, eyes darting across the inked patterns on your skin. 

Then, like clockwork, he started to ramble. 

"You know, historically, tattoos have been used as a form of identity, cultural expression, and even spiritual protection. The oldest recorded tattoos date back over 5,000 years. Ötzi the Iceman, who was discovered in the Alps, had carbon tattoos that were likely used for medicinal purposes—” 

You turned fully now, a smile tugging at your lips as you watched Spencer, his gaze flickering everywhere but directly at you. His hands were tucked awkwardly into the pockets of his slacks, and the slightest tinge of pink dusted his cheeks. 

When his eyes finally met yours, he faltered. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, clearing his throat as if that could erase his flustered reaction. “You—um, you needed help with something?” 

You bit back a laugh at his obvious attempt to redirect the conversation. “Yeah, just a button,” you reminded him, turning once more to expose the small, undone clasp. 

Spencer took a cautious step forward. For a second, nothing happened. And then, you felt it—his fingers brushing lightly against your bare back as he reached for the button. His touch was barely there, yet it sent a shiver down your spine. You had been close to Spencer before, but never like this. Never with this much awareness. 

His breath hitched slightly, and then you felt it—his fingers tracing along the delicate ink of one of your tattoos. 

“I like this one,” he murmured, almost to himself. 

Your heart nearly stopped. 

His touch was featherlight, following the curve of the design etched into your skin. You didn’t need to look to know which one he was drawn to. You could feel it. 

“That’s my favorite,” you admitted, your voice a little quieter now. 

Spencer didn’t respond right away. Instead, his fingers continued their slow exploration, moving to the next piece of ink. Your breath hitched as his fingertips barely grazed the sensitive skin there, his movements hesitant, as if he were memorizing each line, each shape.

His fingers moved to the next tattoo, tracing the delicate lines. His touch was soft, the pads of his fingers barely skimming your skin. 

You weren’t sure if he even realized what he was doing—or if he was lost in thought, letting his curiosity take over. 

“Did they hurt?” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath against your skin. 

A shiver ran down your spine as you felt the warmth of his breath so close to your neck. 

“No… not really,” you murmured, closing your eyes as his fingertips brushed against another inked design. “Some more than others.” 

He hummed quietly, considering your answer. His fingers moved again—just the lightest trace along your skin.

“This one,” he said, his voice steady but soft. “Did this one hurt?” 

You didn’t have to look to know which one he meant. The one just below your shoulder blade—an intricate design, one that had taken hours to complete. 

“A little,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “But I wanted it, so it was worth it.” 

Spencer’s fingers lingered, tracing the pattern like he was committing it to memory. “That makes sense,” he said quietly.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe.

And then, as if suddenly realizing what he was doing, Spencer pulled his hand back. He cleared his throat, taking a small step away, putting distance between you. 

“Sorry,” he said again, but this time, it was different. His voice was lower, rougher—like he wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for touching you or for stopping. 

You turned to face him, slowly. For a moment, neither of you spoke. 

His gaze dropped back to your ink, his fingers twitching slightly, like he wanted to reach out again but thought better of it. 

And you almost wanted him to. 

The thought sent another rush of heat through your body, and you had to look away before your own feelings betrayed you. 

Spencer exhaled slowly, stepping back, putting space between you. 

“We should… we should get going,” he said, voice quiet, almost reluctant. 

You nodded, trying to ignore the way your heart was still pounding. 

As you grabbed your things and headed for the door, you could still feel it—his touch, his breath, the way he had looked at you. 

And something told you that no matter how much time passed, Spencer Reid would remember the feeling of your tattoos beneath his fingers. 

Just like you’d remember the way it felt to have him trace them.