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‼️tumblr user esote-rika why do you write so much early season smut? Pt 2 Pt 3 Pt 4
FIC RECS
RECENT FIC | Masterlists:
🔎Spencer Reid main masterlist | 🚬Chip Taylor | that one time i made them meet [MDNI]
📖pink in the night (prof!reader x post prison prof!spencer)
ꫂ❁my OC Nadine Evans
🪕 bard!reader x ser Duncan the tall
relevant 🔖:
#erika after midnight for nsfw fics and posts, and #after dark for darker themed reblogs [minors please block these two tags if you want to follow me!]
S10E16 of criminal minds might be one of my favorites. I love when they get thrown into a den of untrustworthy police/guards/higher ups, the episode always gets so intense (this is the same reason I love the s9 double episode finale) and Kate Callahan is so fucking bad ass I wish she stayed a little longer
I love spencer i just wanna tug on his ears. Also, I voted for Vesper because someone needs to support the emily axford agenda. I know what you are.
🎲
HAHA IMAGINE MY EXCITEMENT WHEN I SAW VESPER MEANT SOMETHING COSMIC TOO (total darkness I believe, which ofc it does Emily axford does not half ass anything!!!) Sadly it lost but I also voted for it HAHA. I'm obsessed with her high key, this sudden friendship plot with Herbert is so endearing to watch.
erika mi amor im (re)reading all of pink in the night again because im missing prof reader and prof spencer most dearly while on my study abroad trip
— 💚🐰🔪
crime bunny I love you I hope you're having the best time (what are you studying if I may ask as a nosy bitch) also omg studying abroad IS very prof-squared coded I'm so honored!!! I'm in a weird funk rn but I'm excited to write for them again, my ideas document for those two is FULL!!! Especially after that kiss mhm.
Your existence revolves around your work, estate sales on the weekend, and the occasional one-night stand—carefully curated, just like the content you comb through every day at your job. But when you recognize a murder victim as one of the girls from a video you'd deleted, suddenly upper management is hounding you, cryptic messages are left in your work locker, and one very lanky FBI agent keeps showing up at your door.
post prison!Spencer Reid x content mod!reader
contents: fem!reader, no use of y/n but you'll occasionally be called 'Stella', reader is a smoker, typical criminal minds violence, self-isolating reader. More specific warnings will be added per chapter.
coming soon...
a/n: I feel a little manic. Sharing my ideas is always a bad thing bc I hyperfixate and do shit like this. Anyway. Short, limited series (I hope lol) so let me know if you'd like to be on the taglist! Gif by @reidgif
my mom on my ass abt my thesis and then acting like nothing happened and asking me to do her eyeliner like she didn't just call me useless and directionless ten minutes ago lol i love our constipated filipino mother daughter dynamics <3
I'm gonna have the house to myself from Wednesday til Saturday but my God is everyone else making it difficult it's like they heard Erika's going to be alone for four days, let's take Monday and Tuesday as opportunities to annoy the hell out of her before we leave 😃
Watching the vox machina s4 premiere and being absolutely clueless as to what's happening only to realize I completely missed the entirety of s3 😭 guess I'm binge watching today
SLEEPING IN A BED HALF EMPTY | spencer reid x reader
── .⟢ DIVIDE event masterlist .ᐟ
summary: a poorly-timed work trip opens a few poorly-healed emotional wounds for your boyfriend spencer. he's wishing your airport would crumble, and you're wishing you could convince him that leaving for a week doesn't mean leaving forever.
genre: fluff, hurt/comfort | word count: 1.7k
tags: gn!reader, s3!boyfriend!spencer, insecurity, fear of abandonment, mentions of s2 events: elle, hankel, gideon, spencer gets a well-deserved hug, title from a noah kahan song (duh), not proofread
notes: noah kahan sad girl summer is here. tysm for 1k <3
"But you could punch me in the gut, and it wouldn't hurt like watchin' you go smaller on the backroad." — Noah Kahan, Staying Still
The apartment is quiet.
That in itself isn’t weird, you suppose; you’re a naturally quiet person, and Spencer’s even quieter most days. To have your apartment enveloped in a stillness isn’t something new, nor is it cause for concern—you wouldn’t have it any other way, really.
But today there’s a weight to it, the quiet. It hangs in the air, thick like smog, sits on your shoulders for hours and leaves you will a full-body ache. It’s an unnatural silence, a forced one, defined by words, thoughts, which are actively being repressed. Pushed down. Bottled up.
Spencer is quiet, and not because he’s busy with his nose in some book or milling through his dozens of academic journals. He’s quiet, and he isn’t doing anything—and that isn’t a combination you thought possible until today.
Spencer Reid is either busy, or he’s talking. Rambling in soft tones about work, or physics, or quite literally anything—you’ve heard him talk at length about centipedes before—because that’s just the type of person he is. So to see him just…sitting there, picking at the skin around his nails, neither speaking nor acting, is uncanny.
Your boyfriend has been replaced with a statue, and it’s been like this all day. You noticed something was off when you first woke, and you were immediately able to identify the problem. You had hoped—evidently in vain—that Spencer might broach the topic himself, exercise his usually excellent communication skills, but no; he stayed quiet, grew quieter. And now it’s 6pm and you’re elbow-deep in the sink washing dishes, and Spencer’s still sitting on the couch, fidgeting in silence.
Or you think he is, until you feel a pair of arms wrap around you from behind. His chest against your back, nose pressed into your hair. You purse your lips, wait a beat, then two, for him to speak before setting the dishes in the sink and reaching for a towel.
“You okay?” you ask, voice light.
“Mhm.”
After drying your hands, you shimmy around until you’re facing him, brows set in a small frown. “Sure?”
Spencer flashes you a small, visibly strained smile. “Yeah, I’m sure. Are you, uh—” he clears his throat. “Are you all packed?”
“Yes sir.”
“And you’re not missing anything?” he asks. “You, um, forgot your toothbrush when we went on that road trip, and—”
“I have my toothbrush,” you say softly.
Spencer nods. He swallows like it’s painful. “Good.”
For a moment, you just watch him, hoping that he might take your look of concern as a sign to speak up but, of course, he doesn’t.
So, with gentle hands you reach up to cup his cheeks. “Spence,” you murmur, “I know something’s up.”
He lets his eyes flutter closed, and he leans into your touch with a soft sigh. But he doesn’t speak.
“You worried about this trip?” you prod.
You feel it under your palm, the way he bites the inside of his cheek before answering, “No. I’m not— well, I…” he sighs. “I don’t know.”
Leaning back against the countertop, you wait with patience. You keep your hands on his face, thumbs brushing tender circles against his skin as you let him organise his thoughts, giving him as much time as he needs.
“It doesn’t make sense, logically,” he eventually mutters. “What I’m feeling, I mean. I-I keep trying to…reason with it, but there’s just this— this voice in the back of my head.” He lowers his voice until he’s speaking in almost a whisper. “I just can’t help but worry you’re not gonna come back.”
His words catch you off guard. Your brows twitch, and he immediately begins to backtrack.
“And I know it’s stupid, and— and I know that, obviously, you won’t—"
“Spencer.” You cut him off carefully, hands moving from his face to his neck.
He falls silent, lowers his head. Shame seems to taint his entire being, weighing him down.
You wait a beat, trying to gauge where he’s at, what he’s thinking, before asking, “Is this about Gideon?”
All he does in response is smile. Self-conscious. Sardonic.
And it breaks your heart.
You know he’s been sensitive, more so than usual, since Gideon left—since Elle left, even. Since the awful incident with Tobias Hankel, the weight he carried—still carries—in the wake of it all. You can’t imagine how he must feel, and it’s rare that you see it at all because he handles it all so silently. Like he’s afraid of being too much. Too human.
“Spence,” you murmur his name again so he meets your gaze, “of course I’m gonna come back.”
“I know.” He shakes his head, takes a deep breath like he’s trying to will himself into being okay, and then he deflates once more. He leans forward and touches his forehead to yours like you’re the only thing keeping him upright, and he closes his eyes. “I just can’t stop…thinking.”
“About what?”
“Sleeping in an empty bed for a week,” he mutters.
“And?”
He sighs. “The hypothetical—very hypothetical—scenario where you…enjoy being there, away from me, more than you enjoy being here.”
“Oh, honey…” your hands slip down further, fingers curling into the neckline of his sweater. “Spence—”
“I know it’s unfounded,” he says. His hands find your wrists, and he holds onto you like you may disappear if he lets go. “I know I’m being…clingy. Ridiculous.”
“You’re not being ridiculous.” You release his sweater, opting instead to entwine your fingers with his, holding his hands. “You’re allowed to worry.”
“I keep—” A laugh cuts through his words. Soft, light, but still laced with that slight self-consciousness that just makes you want to hug him and never let him go. “I keep hoping that Reagan will end up…falling down, or something. That way you won’t have to go.”
“Hopefully not while I’m there?”
“Oh, no— of course not!” His voice cracks as he pulls away, wide-eyed. “God, I’d never wish for—”
“I know, I know.” You squeeze his hands with a quiet chuckle, one that, thankfully, he mirrors.
You pull him back in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek as his lips curl into a small smile. When you lean back, you find that smile to be tainted, still, with a subdued sadness—less than there had been previously, but still more than what you want to see.
“Hey,” you murmur.
“Hey,” he echoes.
“I’m gonna come back, and— Spencer, look at me.” You cup his cheek as he tries to turn his face away, gently guiding him back to you. “And I’m gonna call you, okay? Every day, I promise.”
A frown crosses his face at your words, and he shakes his head. “You don’t need to…placate me,” he says. “I’m being childish—”
“I want to call you,” you interrupt, voice firm. “I wanna hear your voice. I’m gonna miss you, too, you know.”
His gaze drops to his feet, but even as the silence starts to sting you take care not to rush him. It takes him a few moments but, eventually, he meets your gaze once more, holds it like a lifeline. “You’ll call me?”
“Every day,” you repeat.
He nods. Slowly, like his head weighs twice what it should—but it’s still a nod. You pull him closer, press a kiss to the tip of his nose, before releasing his face.
“Here.” You fumble with the clasp of your necklace, removing it so you can press it into his palm. “Hang onto this for me, okay?”
A stretch of silence. Spencer stares blankly at the necklace, like he doesn’t know what to do with it, before shaking his head. “I can’t,” he says. “This— this is your favourite. You never take it off—"
“Then it gives me all the more reason to come back, right?” you ask, smiling.
Of course, Spencer himself is reason enough to come back. You could tell him that a thousand times, but there’d still be a part of him that doesn’t—can’t, for whatever reason—believe it.
It’s your favourite necklace, sure, you wear it every day, and going without it will undoubtedly feel weird, but you’d happily leave it behind for Spencer. You’d leave every piece of jewellery—no, everything, period, for him. You just wish there were a way to make him understand that.
So you settle for putting the necklace on him, not because it “gives you a reason to come back”, but because it gives him part of you to keep with him. Something that he can hold onto; a physical reminder of how much you love him.
You pull him into a hug, squeezing him tight like it may somehow convey, wordlessly, all the things you wish he’d believe. Like, if you hold him tight enough, you might infect him with just a fraction of what you feel for him.
His arms wrap around your waist once more, and you feel the tension that’s been wracking him all day begin to ease. He presses his face to your neck, mumbles “I’m gonna miss you” into your skin like a prayer, and you murmur back “I know, I’m gonna miss you, too.”
Time seems to stop existing entirely, and you have no idea how much of it passes during your embrace (a minute? Five? Maybe more?), but when you pull yourself away Spencer seems as though he’s had new life breathed into him. He smiles, kisses your lips, holds your waist not like you’re going to vanish into thin air, but like you’re something precious. And you think for a moment that maybe your hug did work, even if it’s only for a short time.
“So.” You run your fingers up and down his arms, tracing the creases in his sweater. “Are you gonna drive me to the airport tomorrow, or am I gonna have to call a cab?”
“Why would you call a cab?” he asks, frowning. “I’m not at work.”
“I dunno, in case you feel like driving us off of a bridge, so I miss my flight.”
Spencer’s jaw drops. “I would never—”
“I know.” You chuckle, poking his shoulder as a playful grin creeps up your face. “I’m kidding.”
He rolls his eyes, very obviously suppressing a smile of his own, and kisses your forehead. “I’ll drive,” he murmurs, “don’t worry.”
very casual warriors fan, but they're out so by virtue I refuse to support whoever won the Western conference HAHA. Helps that the Knicks haven't been in a finals in decades! AND THEY WON HURRAY
content warnings: murder, canon typical violence, mentions of stalking, i think that's it, but as always please message me if you feel differently and I'll get it added
a/n: this took...way longer than expected because I basically scrapped my initial draft, but I'm really glad that I did so I could put out this vastly improved version. A vast majority of this hasn't been beta read, but fuck it, I'm ready to post. This part is a bit of a read, but hopefully that will hold you guys over while I work on the next part <3
credits to @/strangergraphics for the divider
word count: 3.4k
From a young age, you’d had a deep love of music and performing. You auditioned for every musical put on at your school, competed in every talent show, and got up early every day in high school to make it in time for morning choir practice. As you got older, you began jotting down lyrics in school notebooks and composing songs in your free time. You started performing at open mic nights and booking local bars, working your way up one gig at a time before you got your record deal. Once you signed your record deal, you went on tours where you opened for bigger and bigger artists until you found yourself on your first headline tour. You felt like your dreams were coming true, but that sense of success gave way to fear when the first body was found.
You were halfway through your tour, having completed the international tour dates and returning to the US for the latter half. Your first show in America went according to plan, though you had no doubts it would : your opening act, Erika, put on a fantastic show, the crowd was just as excited as you if not more, and you were yet again reminded of how much you loved being on stage. The next morning on the tour bus is when you saw the article about a body being found at a hotel near the venue. It named the victim and mentioned that they had been in town to attend your show. Your manager told you it was an unfortunate coincidence. not something for you to worry about. You sent your condolences to the fan's family and their death lingered in the back of your mind even as your tour continued.
News of another murder arrived after your next show. Though your name wasn't mentioned in the article, you recognized the victim as the fan you'd brought on stage during your performance. The little voice in your head told you that these murders were connected to you, even if no one else could see that yet. It wasn't until your third show and the corresponding third murder that you were approached by investigators. The stoic, well-dressed man waiting for you at the next venue introduced himself as SSA Aaron Hotchner with the Behavioral Analysis unit of the FBI. He was accompanied by a petite, sharp-dressed blonde, Agent Jareau or JJ, as you'd come to find out. They informed you that the most recent victim had attended your show, but the link to you was confirmed by evidence at the crime scene, song lyrics written on the wall in the victim's blood. Your song lyrics, to be exact. At your request, you were shown an image of the message which read 'Darling, you're the one I want.' Neither agent said it, but you knew there was a possibility that this killer wanted to get close to you and viewed these other fans as competition. They thanked you for your time and informed you someone would be back later with more questions. This interaction played on repeat in your mind as you left to greet some fans who'd won a meet-and-greet with you before the show. You couldn't help but wonder if one of them would be the next target.
The next morning brought a second visit from Agent Hotchner, this time he was accompanied by a Dr. Spencer Reid.
"Not agent?" you'd asked, intrigued by the change in title.
"I have three PhDs," was the response from the tall, lanky man.
You answered a few more questions about your interactions with the victims as well as if you'd noticed anything suspicious. You were wrapping up when Hotch's phone went off. He stepped out of the room to take the call, giving you a moment alone with Dr. Reid. He gave you a cute albeit awkward closed mouth smile.
"Has your team ever dealt with a case like this before?"
"Most of our caseload involves serial killers, but we've profiled a few stalkers as well. Sometimes the two overlap."
You don't get the chance to press him for more information because Hotch returned to the room, his facial expression betraying nothing to your untrained eyes, but Spencer recognized that look and knew another victim had been found. With a nod of his head, Hotch signaled that he needed to speak privately with Spencer. You didn't move from your seat, watching as the two men spoke in hushed voices. You fidgeted with the charm on your necklace as you strained to listen to their discussion. Though you missed most of it, you got the gist- another body, along with another set of your lyrics, had been found.
Your fingers stilled when the pair faced you again and Hotch spoke, "We're going to beef up your security at each venue. Spencer here will also be staying with you for extra protection."
"Wait, you expect me to just… continue my tour like this isn't happening? Like one of my fans isn't getting murdered after every show?" you questioned, appalled at the idea of putting more people at risk.
"For the time being, yes. We can use your tour schedule to predict where this unsub will strike again. If you cancel your shows, we won't have a reliable way to track his movements," Hotch explained.
You gnawed on your lip while you processed his words, internally weighing the decision as if you really had a choice in the matter. The room is silent until you nod, "Okay, if this is really the best way to stop this guy then I won't cancel."
"Spencer here will keep you safe until we catch this guy," Hotch reassured you.
"And the fans who come to the shows, you'll keep them safe, too?"
"I'll let Spencer explain the specifics to you. I need to check in with the rest of my team," Hotch replied, leaving before you could question him any further.
Your attention turned to Spencer, "So…my fans?"
"We're going to do everything we can to guarantee their safety."
"In other words, you can't promise no one else will die."
"No, but it won't be because we didn't try. We're going to catch this guy," Spencer stated as if it was inevitable.
You replied with a nod, choosing to believe him rather than dwell on the possibility that this killer would go free. "Right, well, I uh I need to get ready. I have an interview and performance for a local radio station before tonight's show."
"I know, your manager gave us your schedule. Do what you need to, I'll be here when it's time to leave," Spencer said as he got comfortable on the couch.
You disappeared into the bedroom of your hotel suite, returning to Spencer an hour later. You'd changed from your casual attire to an outfit more befitting your public persona. You'd taken the time to do your own hair and makeup as well. Your beauty team would redo it before you took the stage tonight, but you often chose to do it yourself for interviews. With one last glance in the mirror, you grabbed your purse and walked back into the room where Spencer was waiting patiently. He was pouring over files that he'd spread out across the coffee table, brow furrowed in concentration. You cleared your throat and he looked up then scrambled to shove the papers back into their corresponding folders. You bit your lip to stifle a giggle as you watched him, there was something adorable about this seemingly put-together FBI agent rushing to put his things back into his messenger bag.
The interview and performance went according to plan. A small vetted group of fans was in attendance. You spent time taking pictures and signing autographs, thankful that they chose to come see you. You wondered how many would have shown up if they knew that their presence put them on a killer's radar. Regardless, you didn't let your smile falter for the whole event. Your cheerful demeanor only slipped for a moment when you stepped back into the dressing room, but it was long enough for Spencer to notice. You flopped onto the couch, planning to get some rest before you had to change for tonight's show. Instead, you stared off into space, ruminating over the murders.
"You don't have to pretend like this isn't affecting you," Spencer said, breaking you out of your trance.
"What?"
"Your fans being targeted. I can see that it's getting to you, even if you don't want to admit it," he elaborated.
"I don't really think I have a choice. Everything is kind of…'go go go' between the travel, the public appearances, the tour itself. If I let it show that I've got something other than this tour on my mind, it can lead to negative press or people cancelling their tickets. I can't exactly keep touring if everyone decides it's safer to stay home."
"I…I know we've asked you not to address this publicly, but you shouldn't bottle your feelings up either. If you're up for it, I don't mind listening."
"…I'll think about it. Sometimes it's hard to tell who really wants to be my friend and who just wants gossip to sell to the tabloids."
"Anything you tell me stays between us. I care too much about my job to put it at risk to make a few bucks by selling secrets."
You studied him, noting his sincere eyes. It's not easy for you to let people in, not since your name became recognizable. Fame could be an isolating existence. You never knew if someone had an ulterior motive, a desire to exploit their connection with you for their own gain. Something about Spencer felt…real. He hadn't once asked about what other celebrities you knew or if you'd listen to his latest demo (not that he had one, but multiple people had requested that you checked out their music). Though you couldn't explain why, you inherently knew he was the kind of person who kept his word.
Your moment of contemplation is broken by a knock at the door. Spencer's hand went to his holstered weapon, readying himself to take out the potential threat on the other side.
"Hey, it's just me. Are you decent?" came Erika's voice through the closed door.
"Yeah, you can come in," you answered.
Spencer relaxed at your easy response, but still watched as the doorknob turned and opened to reveal Erika.
"I come bearing pre-show gifts, including- oh. I didn't realize you had company," Erika faltered at the sight of Spencer.
"Erika, this is Dr. Spencer Reid. He's um he's with the FBI," you explained.
"Oh. Right. Your manager mentioned something about that. He's just…not what I expected," she said, her words laced with apprehension.
"You were saying? About pre-show gifts?" you asked, ignoring the wary tone in her voice. You didn't want to make Spencer uncomfortable by speaking about him as if he wasn't in the room.
"I was going to wait to give you this until the end of the tour, as a thank you for inviting me along, but I thought it might be a nice little good luck charm, considering well, everything," Erika explained as she handed you a small gift bag.
"Oh, you didn't have to get me anything. I enjoy your music and this provided a chance to expose more people to your brilliance," you smiled.
"It's not a big deal, really. Just- do a girl a solid and open it?"
"Okay, okay," you caved, pulling the tissue paper out. A jewelry box tumbled out of the bag and into your hand. Inside the box was a golden ring, its band formed by interwoven ivy leaves. "Erika, this is gorgeous," you thanked her as you slipped the ring onto your right ring finger.
"I saw it and knew it was perfect for you," she gave you a gentle smile.
Spencer peered at the ring's design from his spot on the couch, "Did you know that in floriography, or the Victorian language of flowers, ivy represents friendship, affection, and loyalty? Some books from that era also associate it with matrimonial love, but that's not as common."
"How fitting then. Not the matrimonial part, obviously, but the rest of it," you mused, admiring the ring.
"Well, I should get back to my room so I can make sure I'm ready on time. Don't wanna miss my call time," Erika said, walking to the door.
"Break a leg!" you called after her.
"You too," she flashed a smile over her shoulder then shut the door.
You turned to Spencer, ready to share some of your worries, but were yet again interrupted by a knock. Your stylist poked her head in, "You ready to get all dolled up, hun?"
With a nod of your head, she entered the room and herded you to the makeup chair. Spencer watched as your stylist went through her routine, transforming you from 'girl next door' to 'international pop star' with ease. By the time she was done, you had just enough time to change and make the trip to the stage for your opening number. As you performed, you caught sight of Spencer's watchful eye from the wings. You reminded yourself he was only here to protect you and you absolutely could not be falling for this man. You forced yourself to focus on performing, losing yourself in the music instead of lingering on your growing desire to kiss Spencer.
After your encore, Spencer escorted you back to your dressing room.
"So, what'd you think?" you asked as you washed your makeup off.
"About what?"
"The show, silly. And don't sugarcoat it, be brutally honest with me."
"It was visually appealing and you're a talented musician, but it's not really my preferred music," he answered.
"What's your go to music then?"
"Beethoven."
You laughed, assuming he was joking, but his facial expression remained the same, "Wait, you're serious? That's all you listen to? Do you know anything more recent?"
"I enjoy Miles Davis. I also know all the words to every Bob Dylan song."
"I wouldn't have pegged you for a Dylan fan."
"My mom used to play his music when I was little."
"My dad likes his work, too," you said, only a hint of teasing in your tone.
He didn't respond so you busied yourself with gathering up your things. Tonight was your last night at this venue so you didn't want to leave anything behind. Spencer stayed close as you walked out to the waiting tour bus. You'd spend the night on the road rather than in a hotel room as you made your way to your next stop. Spencer set his stuff in the spare bunk beneath yours while you got ready for bed. You climbed into your spot and got under the covers, settling in for the night.
You tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep. This went on for a few hours before you whispered Spencer's name, testing to see if he was awake, too.
"Everything okay?" he whispered back.
"I can't sleep."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"It's just… the next stop is my hometown. A lot of my friends and family are going to be there because I'm not allowed to warn them."
"Hey, it'll be okay. We'll have extra security in the venue and I can talk to Hotch about getting some undercover agents stationed near them," Spencer said, his steady voice soothing your worries.
You and Spencer continued to talk in hushed voices until you fell asleep to the sound of his voice explaining some obscure historical fact. When you woke the next morning to news of another victim, it gutted you, but Spencer was there for you to lean on, providing an outlet for you to express that anguish. Most of your time was spent going to and from interviews or meet and greets, preparing for each night's performance, or being holed up in a room with Spencer. It was on the third day of shows at your 'hometown' venue that you decided you needed a change of scenery. You put on a t-shirt and jeans, skipping the usual beauty routine you followed when you made a public appearance. The laid back look would make anyone do a double take if they saw you. You were careful to maintain a separate private image so you could pretend that you didn't live in the spotlight, even if it was only long enough to run a few short errands. You were pulling on your sneakers when Spencer caught sight of your dressed down state.
"Uh what are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm going out," you answered, like it was simple, like you didn't have a threat looming over your head.
"You really should stay here," Spencer urged as he watched you put on your jacket.
"Being forced to stay put at every stop is making me go stir crazy. Besides, this is tradition," you replied.
"Putting your life at risk is tradition?"
You huff, "No, obviously not. I was talking about doughnuts. I used to come see shows here when I was younger and we'd always make it a point to get doughnuts from this place down the street. They're open late so we'd stop by after the concert ended while we waited for traffic to die down. I want to go before I perform tonight, since it'll probably be crowded after," you explained.
He said your name causing you to look his way, "I mean it, I'm supposed to be keeping you safe."
"Okay, then keep me safe by coming with me."
He didn't answer, sizing up just how stubborn you'll be about this outing.
"C'mon, Spencer, I'll buy you one, too. And a coffee, if you want. I know how much caffeine you drink on the daily," you pushed, hoping that the promise of sugar would make him cave.
"…Fine, but no additional stops and if I sense anything wrong, we're coming straight back here- doughnut or no doughnut," he relented.
"Deal."
You dragged Spencer to the doughnut shop you mentioned. The shop wasn't crowded so you took your time examining the selection of pastries. You settled on a traditional glazed for now and ordered a fancy decorated one to eat after your show. Spencer got chocolate iced with sprinkles. You convinced him to hide in a corner booth with you while you ate your doughnuts. The two of you lost track of time as you giggled at his lame jokes and he acted like he wasn't growing attracted to you, the real you behind the stage persona. As you walked back to the venue, your hand brushed against his, an unintentional touch. Without taking a second to think about it, Spencer's fingers intertwined with yours. You gave his hand a gentle squeeze, silently telling him this was okay. Neither of you let go until you returned to your dressing room where your stylist was waiting.
That night during your show, you changed your setlist, much to the surprise of the fans in attendance. You sat down at the piano and your gaze searched the crowd, landing on Spencer as he waited in the wings. Your voice shakes almost unnoticeably as you speak, "I hope you guys don't mind if I change things up on you. I uh I've been working on a new song for a while and I finally got the inspiration I needed to finish it. This is my first time performing it so be gentle with me? This is 'Delicate.' I hope you guys like it."
Your eyes kept finding Spencer's tall figure as you sang, almost as if you hoped he'd pick up on being the inspiration for this track. The stunned look on his face told you he had. When he made eye contact with you, he sent a sheepish smile your way as his cheeks turned pink. Your lips formed a shy grin in return as you continued your performance. For the first time in your life, you were excited for the show to end so you could have a moment alone with Spencer.
On the other side of town, the unsub observed the blood-spattered scene in front of him. The identity of the tall brown-haired man whose lifeless corpse lie on the bed didn't matter to his killer. He'd only been targeted because of his similarity to a certain FBI agent. The unsub took a moment to add one final detail to the scene, to make sure the correct message was delivered. Using the dead man's blood, the unsub wrote another set of your lyrics, this time from the song you'd premiered that night, on the wall: Honey, I don't want to share.
