IN WHICH…MORGAN ASSUMES SPENCERS TIRED BECAUSE HES FINALLY FOUND SOMEONE TO SPENT THE NIGHT WITH, AND HES NOT WRONG, BUT NOT HOW HE THINKS.
WARNINGS: FLUFF, MORGAN THINKING SPENCE HAD SEX
A/N: this is very short ive just had this idea in my drafts 5ever and had to write it out idk. currently working on inbox requests tho dw!
spencer stood in the kitchenette, stirring an ungodly amount of sugar into his coffee. his face twisted in a yawn, back stretching up towards the ceiling. he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, which was usual for a case, but unusual considering he had been home, in his own bed.
“someone’s tired.” morgan walked over, grabbing a mug from the cupboard. while spencer had his specific mug that he labeled with his label machine, most werent that neurotic about what mug they drank from.
spencer grabbed the creamer and added a small amount, going back to stirring the hot liquid. “long night.” he said simply, not meaning to imply anything, but derek assured anyways.
“my man! finally found someone?” the question came with a grin and a clap on the back that made spencer’s shoulder slump forward.
he took a small sip from his coffee before placing it back on the counter and adding another sugar. “not that kind of long night.” he murmured. but he had found someone. someone he really really liked, maybe even loved. but the bureau didnt need to know that. not yet, at least. this was something he could keep to himself, something for only him to have.
derek’s eyebrows raised but he shrugged. “if you say so.” he hit the button on the coffee machine. “maybe me and garcia could set you up on a date.” he grinned.
spencer’s eyes widened. “thats not necessarily.” he quickly found a way to go back to his desk, claiming that he needed to get some work done.
—
the night before
“i dont understand why we always order take out when i always offer to cook.” y/n spoke, sitting next to her boyfriend on the couch. they had met at the town library by quantico, where she was working. after 3 months of knowing each other, they had started dating, and now, just over a year later, they lived together in an old one bedroom apartment they had picked together, built with warm wood structures that created a very warm atmosphere.
spencer was sitting next to her, eating from a plate of chinese take out. “because if you cook, that means less time we get to spend being together, because you like to cook alone.” he rattled off some excuse, taking another bite of chicken and broccoli. “plus, i think we basically pay the huángs bills, at this point.” the couple had become close to the owners of their favorite takeout place, known by name whenever they called or stopped in.
not being able to argue that fact, she settled into the couch and they ate in comfortable silence for a while. the tv was on lowly, playing some russian movie spencer had on dvd.after a while, the plates are forgotten on the coffee table and y/n is curled into spencer’s side, her head on his chest while he reads. “i think i want to paint my nails.” she says suddenly, looking at the bare ends of her fingers. “what color should i do?”
spencer thought about it for a moment. “im not sure. what colors do you have?”
after a moment of mentally going over the bathroom cabinet she spoke. “i have pastel pink, a mossy green, white, i think a few different purples, and some deep reds.” she told him. since her job was in the library, she was allowed to do as she pleased with looks. especially when she worked in the kids room, she was encouraged to express her sense of style.
“well, i like the purple best, the one you wore during your birthday. but, any color would look pretty.” he decided on thoughtfully. despite this being his first relationship, or really, the first women spencer ever talked to with even slight romantic intentions, he was a really good boyfriend. he said the right things, and apologized when he didnt.
she looked up at him through her lashes, still curled up on his chest. “if i grab the polishes, will you pick the color?” she asked hopefully, and of course, spencer agreed. she smiled and got up, padding into the shared bathroom. she grabbed the three different purples she had before making her way back to the living room, showing spencer the three colors. “okay, pick please.”
after thinking about it for a second, spencer pointed to a jelly-like deep purple with faint shimmers. “that one. it’ll match the sweater you always wear.”
“im so lucky to be dating a genius.” she pecked his lips, going to put the other polishes away.
the rest of the night was spent similarly. y/n painted her nails, spencer reid and kept her company and they ate ice cream. they hadn’t noticed the time until it was well past midnight, and neither made their way to bed, so they slept on the couch, curled in each others arms comfortably without a care for how it would affect their morning.
contents: spencer reid x fem reader. childhood best friends who are idiots in love!!!!! and a brief mention of clothes sharing bc im weak
notes: you will never guess who i just childhood best friendsified… also i picture mid seasons spencer during this but i just had to use this gif hes sooo cute
The second Penelope steps out of the bar, her hands fly desperately to her phone. She needs to text the only person who would enjoy the new information she has as much as she does.
ARE U HOME???? Sent 10:34 pm.
Spencer’s contact photo smiles back at her. It’s one of him from his early college days, which places him at about fourteen. He smiles sweetly at the camera from behind thick frames. It looks like he’s ready to correct someone who’s said something stupid.
Reid’s response doesn’t come nearly as quickly as she had hoped, seeing as she’s already standing outside his front door, her spare key in hand.
Yes, why? Are you ok? Received 10:40 pm.
It would be proper to knock and ask to be let in, but Penelope is a little past tipsy, and… it’s just Spencer. He trusted her enough to give her an extra copy of his house key, and with the information she has that’s just waiting to be freed from her mind… she knows he won’t mind.
It takes her a few tries to get the key into the slot, scratching the doorknob a few times before she can finally turn it. But then she’s spilling into Reid’s apartment, squinting into the darkness.
All the lights are off, and Penelope is just about to shoot him a very angry text about lying about being home when she picks up on the sound of the TV. She ditches her favorite pink pumps by the front door and hurries quickly into his living room.
During her rather difficult trip to the next room over, Penelope decides she’s going to have a serious talk with him about keeping the hallways clear. His house is a very clear health hazard.
With the serious lack of light, she bumps into what feels like a suitcase and nearly trips over a pair of sneakers before she even catches sight of the television.
The outline of Reid’s frame sticks out very quickly against the brightness of the TV. She doesn’t recognize the movie playing, but can hear him mumbling quietly to himself, and she giggles a little.
Reid makes commentary on movies out loud even when he’s all by himself. How cute.
Penelope grows sick of the darkness very quickly. Grumbling under her breath, she taps around the wall before flicking on the light.
“Reid, you’ll never guess who I just— Oh!”
The one big blob that Penelope had assumed was Reid comes into focus. Now bathed in the bright overhead lights, she watches in horror as the blob splits into two different people.
Penelope shrieks.
The blob on the left — the one that’s actually Reid — turns to face her, confusion and slight fear on his face.
“Garcia!” he says, his voice cracking up half an octave. “What are you doing here?”
The words pass in through one ear and out the other. Rubbing her dreary eyes, she squints at the half of the blob that’s sitting on the right.
It’s… a girl.
A girl. In Spencer Reid’s apartment.
Alone. With him!
The lack of space in between you both becomes very obvious the longer she stares. Spencer’s side is against the arm of his couch and you’re sitting next to him, leaning half against his chest. A patchwork blanket is thrown haphazardly over your laps, barely an inch of space between you.
“I— oh!” Penelope's eyes nearly bulge out of her head when she sees the arm he has wrapped around your shoulders. “Hi, hello, Reid. I didn’t know you had a guest.”
He gives her a sheepish smile, and the two of you untangle from each other. Spencer goes to greet her while you search for the remote to pause the movie.
Penelope stares without shame. You give her a sugary sweet smile while you fold the blanket up on the couch, looking exceptionally cute in what looks like Reid’s pajama pants.
“Garcia?” Spencer says, waving a hand in front of her face after what’s probably a moment of silence. “Are you okay?”
She swats him on the shoulder, whispering in what she hopes is a quiet tone. “Spencer Reid. Introduce me to your girlfriend!”
The blood rushes to his face. “My what? No… um. She’s not my girlfriend, Garcia—”
Spencer gets bowled out of the way when you nudge him to the side, a wide smile on your face.
Penelope almost awws out loud. You seem amused at his embarrassed stuttering but come to his rescue nonetheless. So cute.
You give her your name and your hand to shake, and she takes it in her own, shaking you around wildly.
“Are you Penelope?” you ask, ten seconds into the handshake Garcia still hasn’t stopped. Reid plucks your hand free from her grip, and you squeeze his wrist once before letting your hand fall down to your side. “Spencer talks about his team all the time. It’s really nice to meet you.”
Penelope soaks up every single detail of the way you interact with Spencer.
Spencer Reid, always so finnicky with physical contact doesn’t seem bothered by your closeness at all. The two of you are standing so close together your sides brush while you breathe. You’re wearing his pajamas and Reid’s hair is messy and unbrushed.
She’s never seen Spencer look so… domestic.
“Reid,” she says, turning to face her friend. “I think I’m hallucinating.”
She ends up on his armchair some time later, a tall glass of water in her hands given to her by Spencer in an attempt to sober her up. The both of you also assure her that you’re not a hallucination, and you even let her pull you into a hug just to make sure.
“Did you walk here from the bar by yourself, Garcia?” Spencer asks, the two of you blinking at her from his couch. He looks awfully concerned.
She waves him off, taking a nice sip of water. “Oh, relax. It’s barely a block from here, you know!” He doesn’t look too comforted, but she continues on. “I just— I had to come and tell you who I saw on a date there. And I know I should’ve knocked, so I’m sorry for that, but…” She points at you. “I didn’t realize you’d be on a date, too, Spencer!”
He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, and you snicker from your spot next to him.
“This isn’t a date,” you say, prodding at Spencer’s side. “Me and Spencer are just friends.”
Penelope is far from convinced. “But… you were cuddling on the couch when I walked in.”
The two of you exchange a look.
“Cuddling?” you repeat. Penelope can’t tell if you’re a great actor or if there’s genuine confusion on your face. “We weren’t cuddling.”
“We were watching a movie.” Spencer shakes his head, his big brown eyes going comically large. “Definitely not cuddling.”
Are you two… trying to gaslighting her?
“But the blanket! And the hugging and the touching! I saw it. I am seeing it,” she insists frantically, water threatening to spill over the rim of the cup. “Why else would two people need to sit that close during a movie?”
Spencer gestures to the TV screen, still lit up. “I was just translating the movie for her. It’s in Korean and it’s only just been released, so it hasn’t been subtitled yet. We were sitting close because I don’t like translating too loudly during movies. I enjoy listening to the actors speak.”
His quiet mumbling earlier hadn’t been him talking to himself. It’d been him talking to you.
Ohh, Penelope thinks, and she says it aloud too.
There’s beeping from the direction of the kitchen and you get up, but not before squeezing Spencer’s shoulder on the way out. His eyes follow you until you turn the corner, like he’s reluctant to let you go ten feet to the next room.
When he turns back to face Penelope, she’s grinning.
“Just friends,” she muses, taking another long sip of water. “Are you sure?”
Spencer raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I’m sure, Garcia. Why?”
“I don’t know about you, Boy Genius, but I don’t keep any of my friends a secret.” Penelope is sure her eyes are gleaming with excitement. She has a real life love story on her hands, whether Spencer wants to admit it or not. “I also don’t look at any of my friends like that!”
He smiles at her ribbing, looking at his lap. “I don’t look at her in any particular way, Garcia. And she’s—she’s not a secret. I just haven’t had the need to bring her up.”
“‘Cause you have a big fat crush on her?” she offers, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. “And you’re too scared to talk about her because you get all starry eyed and mushy whenever you do?”
“No, I do not have a crush on her. She’s visiting from Vegas. We’re close because she’s my childhood best friend.” He says it so quickly the words mesh together.
Penelope gives him a disbelieving mhm, and he rushes to defend himself.
“It’s not like any of the team talks about their friends from when they were kids. It wouldn’t make sense to bring her up.”
If Penelope was sitting close enough, she would swat at him again. “Well, you should’ve, since the two of you are absolutely not just friends—”
“Penelope, do you wanna stay for the rest of the movie?” you ask, appearing in the doorway with a big bowl of popcorn in your hands. “It’s almost over, but Spencer says the ending is crazy good.”
When you sit down on the couch again, you lean into Reid’s side and his arm goes around your shoulder almost automatically.
For translation purposes, she’s sure.
The two coworkers exchange a very loaded look.
This conversation is not over, Penelope’s eyes say.
We are not bringing this up ever again, Spencer’s silence replies.
Penelope gives you a wide grin. “Oh, I’d absolutely love to stay!”
She’s already looking forward to the future conversation between Derek and Spencer about his secret girlfriend who’s definitely, totally not his girlfriend.
notes: me giving spencer the childhood best friend he deserves because i cant imagine him going through all That alone…. my baby my baby….. also i fear i may be rusty at writing!!!!! lmk if u enjoyed !!!
Summary: Spencer bails on your birthday for a case. It just may be the straw that breaks the camel's back.
WC: 3,244
Warnings: Angst, Mentions of child kidnapping.
AN: This is the first fic I've written and posted in like 3 years, I think. Writing a fic is kind like going through TSA. You know you don't have a gun but now you're wondering if you do... writing a fic is like... I know I speak english, but now I'm wondering if I do. 🩵 Anyways, I did proof read this but it's also 3:30am where I am so who knows atp.
_____
Spencer’s nerves have been building since the little grey letters that spelled ‘Read 7:45am’ under his text first appeared. Minutes tick by and he forces himself to focus on the case. Work had always been an easy distraction for him. Each investigation requires his full attention, letting him get lost in what he feels most comfortable in — numbers, facts, and puzzles. But how can he do that when the only number he can think of is the number of hours since you read his text, the only fact he can focus on is the fact that you haven’t texted him back, and the only puzzle he wants to solve is 800 miles away celebrating a birthday alone?
Despite his head being in the clouds, the team wraps the case in a few hours and brings the missing little girl back to her parents. It’s a happy ending.
“Reid!” Spencer hears Emily shout through the low hum of the plane engine, pulling him from his faraway stare.
“What?” He asks casually. Turning his attention to the pair sitting across from him. Emily laughs.
“We’ve been calling your name for the last ten minutes.” Derek says.
Spencer looks around the cabin to see Rossi sitting beside him filling out a crossword puzzle, his glasses low on the bridge of his nose, and JJ leaning in from behind Emily’s aisle seat, also staring at him with a mixture of confusion and amusement.
He looks back to Derek. “We haven’t even been in the air for ten minutes.” He points out.
“What’s been up with you, Spence?” JJ asks. “You’re usually our resident computer but you’re…glitching today.” She jokes lightheartedly with a chuckle.
“Sorry…” Spencer mumbles, picking at the thread on his coat. He hesitates before being honest. “It’s Y/n’s birthday today and I bailed last minute.”
“For the case?”
“Yeah, we had a bunch of plans but I didn’t make it to any of them.” He confesses quietly.
“Spence, you could’ve taken this one off. You know Hotch is really understanding about our personal lives.”
“I would never forgive myself if I didn’t go and that little girl died.”
“You can’t save everyone, Reid.” Emily says gently.
“I can try.”
“You can’t lose yourself trying.” Rossi chimes in. Spencer glances at him.
“Did you give her a heads up?” Derek asks.
“I left before she woke up but I sent her a text.” He explains, glancing at his phone again. “She hasn’t messaged me back.”
“It sucks when plans get canceled at the last minute but surely she understands. I mean you guys have been together for two years. She knows how it goes.” Derek comments bluntly with a shrug and Emily rolls her eyes.
“She understands but I don’t know… it feels like something else.” Spencer mumbles, still deep in thought.
“You think she’s cheating on you?”
“What? No. Why would you say that?” Spencer defends, slightly annoyed by Derek’s brashness.
“Derek, you’re not helping.” JJ scolds. “Don’t put those thoughts in Spencer’s head. Y/n would never do that.”
Derek holds his hands up in defense.
“Ignore him. What makes it feel different?" Emily asks, nodding her head up. Spencer is aware that you and Emily are close so he knows her questions about you are always genuine.
“I missed our anniversary dinner last year. And a few months ago I missed Valentine's Day because of the Kentucky case.”
“So, a few rainchecks don’t hurt. An unpredictable schedule is a casualty of the job.” Derek argues again.
“It’s only truly unpredictable for so long. Then it becomes predictably unpredictable and takes over your life.” Rossi adds again, not looking up from his booklet as he presses the blue ballpoint pen into the thin gray page. “Four letter word for German wine?”
After a quiet moment, Spencer says “hock.”
Emily’s phone buzzes and she glances at it. She has a good enough poker face for everyone else but Spencer is a Las Vegan. She types on her phone and then avoids Spencer’s gaze for the rest of the flight.
After two hours of nothing but turbulence, they land with tired eyes and day old clothes. Spencer is the first one to stand and exit the plane. The tiny space has been growing tinier and tinier with each mile closer to the airport.
The bright tarmac lights illuminate like Christmas all around the ground crew. Men and women in orange reflective vests work to cart luggage and wave light-up wands to communicate with the pilots. The breeze catches his brown curls and Spencer pushes his hair out of his eyes before checking his phone again. The screen shinning onto his worried face.
Nothing.
He opens the message bar under your name, his fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment until his eyes catch sight of those grey letters again and he huffs before shoves his phone back in his pocket.
From behind him, he feels a hand on his shoulder and he turns around. “Reid, I know it’s not any of my business but I watched my job destroy my marriage for years. If I could go back, I’d do anything Haley needed from me to fix it.” Hotch says.
The cold air bites at Spencer’s skin. “Would you have left the BAU?”
“Yes but Y/n would never ask you to do that.” Hotch answers plainly and looks over Spencer’s shoulder to see the team chatting as they walk out of the plane. He lowers his voice. “The first few months after returning to the BAU, I almost quit. It felt impossible to do this job properly while raising Jack but I realized that it’s not about every second of your life being in your control — nobody in the world has that. It’s about using the time in your control in the right ways. When you can do that, being away from home isn’t so hard.”
“But how do I do that?” Spencer mumbles.
“You’ve gotta ask her.” Hotch walks away, lingering behind the team.
The metro ride from the airport to his usual stop down the street from your shared apartment is empty and quiet. He spends the shaky, fluorescent bleached ride replaying his conversation on the tarmac with Hotch. He wasn’t sure where to start. His eyes ache with a longing for sleep or better yet, something to rest them on — you.
Eventually his tired feet bring him straight to the door he’d walked out of this morning. The metal key in his fingers clinks against the scratched door. He slips into the apartment fully expecting you to be asleep. He’d planned to crash on the couch but as his sock covered feet slip out of his shoes, he hears rustling in your shared bedroom.
For a second, he lets Derek’s off handed comment about you possibly cheating, get the better of him. With a scoff, he refutes the idea and hangs his work bag on the hook by the door. You would never do that. Spencer knows that for certain.
A small smile grows on his face, happy you’re awake and ready to take Hotch up on his advice. Making the time he has control of matter more than the time he doesn’t.
The hinges squeak with age as he swings the bedroom door open. Spencer is wearing a careful grin but his face falls when he sees you standing by the bed, next to a half packed bag. The only lights on are the small lamps next to the bed.
“Y/n?”
You jump, clearly very frightened. You hadn’t even heard the apartment door open.”Spencer!” You shout in fear.
“Why are you packing?”
“I didn’t think you were coming home until Wednesday.”
“We finished early.” He mumbles, looking back down at the pile of clothes on your side of the bed. “Why are you packing?”
In a small, nervous voice you reply “I think I need some space…” You look away, too scared to see the look of devastation he must be wearing.
Spencer’s whole body feels numb.
“In the closet?” It was a stupid question, Spencer knows that but his heart still skips a beat when you shake your head.
“From me?” His voice cracks.
Your heart drops to your feet and tears prick at your eyes. Your jaw feels heavy and your teeth feel too big for your mouth as you admit “from us.”
The knot in Spencer’s tie digs into his neck. “From us?’ His voice trembles with impossibly more devastation. “Why?”
“Spencer… you know why.” You say quietly.
“Are you cheating on me?”
Shock over takes your features and you flinch at his accusation. “Are you serious?!” You say louder than necessary. Spencer curses himself for letting Derek get in his head.
“I’m sorry.” he says softly and earnestly. He steps forward. “I’m sorry.”
Your hard expression softens. “For what?” The sharp edge that was in your voice is gone but your spine stays stiff.
Spencer takes too long to answer and you humorlessly chuckle.
“I’m not gonna apologize for taking the case, Y/n. The first 48 hours are crucial. We needed to be there as soon as possible. We were working the whole flight over. You have to understand that it was an emergency.” Spencer has a bad habit of thinking emotions can be explained away, he knows this.
You shake your head, offended that he would even think you don’t understand the severity of the situation. Your body drifts closer to him, your weapons down. “Spencer, there is no reality in which my birthday dinner is more important than finding a missing 12-year-old girl alive, I know that. And I love that you have decided to use your limitless genius to help people. The way you care for these victims is more than just extremely attractive — it’s admirable. Everything about you is admirable. But…” You take a deep breath, almost ashamed to say your next words out loud. “I am constantly comparing the best days of my life to someone else’s worst day of theirs. And I never win. It sounds so selfish and petty but just because I understand the importance of your job doesn’t mean my feelings go away. It still sucks to cry in the restaurant by myself on my birthday.”
“You cried?”
You ignore his question. “We’ve missed Valentine’s Day two years in a row, you flew out on Christmas in the middle of opening presents and you didn’t get back until the new year, we never made up our anniversary dinner, and last week you bailed on our first scheduled date night in three months because you guys got a case.”
Spencer sighs. He’d never realized how much he was missing.
“All I could think about today was what I would tell our child if they were asking where Daddy was on Christmas morning, or their birthday, or their soccer game.” The mattress sinks as you sit on the end of the bed.
Spencer’s heart hitches at the news that you think about having a family with him. Tears well in your eyes and he joins you on the edge of the bed, sitting carefully next to you.
“I don’t want my job to hurt you.” He states. It’s not defensive, it’s honest. It feels like he’s trying to break ground on an open conversation. He turns to face you and places a hand on your knee.
“And I don’t want you to feel like I’m mad at you for doing good in the world.” You say tearfully.
“I don’t feel like that, baby.” Spencer shakes his head. “I just wanna know how to fix this.”
“I think… I just need some space to figure out if this is what I really want.” You confess and a tear falls directly off your bottom lashes, onto Spencer’s hand.
He swallows a lump of nerves and the sudden urge to vomit at the thought of being not what you want. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry.” You cry quietly, your posture giving away more as you sniffle and wipe at your wet eyes.
Spencer shakes his head and the wrinkled covers on the bed shift as he moves closer. His arms wrap around your crumpled frame. “Don’t apologize. Don’t apologize.” He repeats.
“I love you.” You remind him, one of your hands resting on his arm.
He kisses the top of your head. “I love you, baby.” He says earnestly, afraid this might be the last time he’ll ever get to say it to your face, holding you in his arms. His eyes glass over but he blinks the tears away. He kisses your hair again and holds you tighter.
“I’m so sorry, Spencer.” You say again and sniffle.
“Stop that.” He feels you pull slightly and he loosens his hold on you. You sit up and he catches a glimpse of your stricken face — eyes red and watery. He pushes some tear soaked strands of hair off of your feverish cheeks. You look up at him and through his pained expression, he offers you a small smile. He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “We’ll get through this, Y/n. Okay?”
You nod with low energy, closing your eyes for a moment and taking in a deep breath in an attempt to calm your shaky hands.
Spencer rubs your back, trying to comfort you but his kind gesture only makes everything so much harder. His other hand pulls your hair neatly off your neck and he places a chaste kiss against the skin of your shoulder.
You sigh heavily and use every ounce of strength left to raise to your feet, pulling yourself out of Spencer’s arm. The loss of contact is devastatingly heavy.
“I’m gonna stay with Emily for a while. She’s picking me up.”
Spencer’s throat bobs as he gulps. His eyes fall down for half a second, then back up to you. He nods. “Sergio will be happy to see you.” It’s an olive branch in the hurricane.
You chuckle quietly. “Yeah…” You agree.
Neither of you could make eye contact while you put a few things in a small bag. With a mixture of not wanting to smother you and not wanting to be smothered by the godawful thick sadness in the air, Spencer stepped out of the room. He sat on the edge of the couch in the living room, his muscles tense — ready to stand at any moment. The bones in his fingers ache from the nonstop wringing of his hands and his bottom lip stings from his teeth chewing it raw.
The sound of drawers opening and closing, your padded footsteps across the tattered rug, the zipping of small cosmetic bags, plastic racks clicking against each other as you shuffle through the closet. He tried to keep his eyes trained downward but every so often — at a new noise — they would flicker up to your moving figure as you paced around the room then he’d blink hard and look away again.
Each second that ticks by on the clock mocks him. The longer you take to pack, the longer you must be planning to be gone. Spencer squeezes his eyes closed and runs his hand over his face. He can feel a migraine coming on.
“Spencer?” Your quiet voice calls from the open bedroom door.
His head jerks up and he stands to his feet immediately. “Yeah?” His voice cracks and he clears his throat.
“Do we have extra toothpaste?” You mumble.
He slouches a bit. “Um, w-we don’t have any. Just take the one we share. I’ll get another one.”
“I’m sure Emily has extra.” You politely try to dismiss his offer.
“You need the one for sensitivity. Please take that one.”
You shuffle awkwardly. “Okay.” You whisper before disappearing back in the bathroom.
Spencer doesn’t sit back down. His knees feel like they’re locking and his lungs feel like they’re shrinking.
“Okay…” You announce quietly as you step back through the threshold, this time with a full bag.
You want to shrink yourself away under Spencer’s longingly stare. Leaving a bad man is rewarding. Leaving a good man is remorseful. Leaving a man like Spencer — the most beautifully layered, thoughtfully loving, good hearted, gentle, patient, and perfectly everything man — feels impossible. Even if you manage to pick your feet up off the floor and drag your beat up sneaker bottoms to the old wooden apartment door, the look he’s giving you will still haunt every room you enter for the rest of your life. Every morning coffee you’ll make, you’ll reach for his dorky chemistry pun mug too. Every time you laugh, you’ll look to your left hoping to see him there. Every hard night will feel heavier without his gentle reassurances and soft kisses. Every book will smell like him and every record scratch will sound like his quiet humming along to an old James Taylor song. Spencer is part of your life no matter what you decide to do during your time at Emily’s apartment.
He watches you like his soul wants to leave his body and attach to yours.
You move towards the door and Spencer mumbles something about helping you but you politely decline, telling him that you’ve got it.
He steps in slow pace behind you.
The dimly lit space near the door feels claustrophobic, like being trapped in a raging sea of white water at night.
“I’ll do anything…” Spencer confesses, heartbreak lacing his words. His eyes flit across your face.
His heart slows for a second as you drop the bag at your feet and step forward. He melts into you as you wrap your arms around his neck and embrace him tightly. The soft material of your shirt brushes his skin as his arm snakes around your waist, the other cupping the back of your head. He buries his distraught face into your neck, a few of his tears slide down the strands of your hair. Your bodies are flush against one another and he hears you softly say “me too.”
A moment passes and you pull back. You brush his hair back, gazing into his tearful eyes. He leans into your touch as your thumb wipes the glistening streaks of tears off his flushed cheeks.
“I’ll do anything.” He repeats. “Just tell me.”
“I’ll tell you what I need when I figure it out.” You whisper. He nods against your hand before turning his face and placing a kiss against your palm.
His hand reaches up and grasps yours, pulling it into his chest between the both of you. His eyes stay locked onto yours, afraid that even with an eidetic memory he’d forget them.
Your hand slides off his sweater vest clad chest as you step backwards, closer to the door. Your interlocked hands slowly and delicately pull apart. Spencer watches you pick up your bag and before you can talk yourself out of it, you open the door.
With a few minutes left in the day, Spencer quietly says through choked back tears “happy birthday, Y/n.”
Your heart can’t take anything else. You quickly step into the hallway and close the door behind you. Both of you pretend to not hear the other cry from the other side.
❥ 4 times you and Spencer pretended to be friends and 1 time it became too obvious.
❥ fluff, workplace romance, idiots in love, secret relationship
Your relationship with Spencer had become the BAU’s collective headache and favorite topic of discussion. Two geniuses, constantly dancing around the edges of friendship, completely oblivious to what was happening. You were both absolutely, phenomenally blind.
Or maybe you were just incredibly good at pretending.
⟡₊ ⊹
It was a rainy, wind-swept wasteland on the outskirts of Seattle.
You stood by the police barrier, clutching your notebook with white knuckles. The weather had turned on a dime—the sky bruised into a heavy slate gray, and a freezing sleet turned the ground into a muddy swamp. You were wearing a light dress shirt, which did absolutely nothing to keep out the damp.
Spencer, who had been studying the UnSub’s footstep patterns, suddenly turned to look at you. His hazel eyes narrowed with instant concern behind his rain-speckled glasses.
"You have a stage-one tremor. Your peripheral blood vessels are constricting to preserve heat for your vital organs. This is highly counterproductive."
Before you could even squeeze a word in, Reid unbuttoned his olive-green cardigan in one swift, decisive motion. He stepped right into your personal space—so close you could smell his cologne, old books, and coffee.
You didn't pull away. Instead, you cooperatively lifted your elbows, letting him drape the oversized, warm knit over your shoulders.
"My, my. So chivalry isn't dead after all," you teased softly.
Spencer`s lips twitched into a tiny, comfortable half-smile as he carefully wrapped the lapels over your chest and did up a couple of buttons. His hands lingered on your shoulders just a beat longer than hypothermia protocol required.
Right at that moment, Derek Morgan stopped next to you.
"Hey, kid," Morgan arched an eyebrow, fighting back a smirk. "Decided to play the chivalrous martyr? That’s... actually pretty sweet."
Spencer didn’t even blink, however he quickly adjusted his satchel strap.
"It’s pure pragmatism, Morgan. Studies show that cognitive function drops by fourteen percent when core body temperature falls below normal. She is the lead analyst on this profile. I’m simply keeping her brain operational."
Morgan nodded slowly, throwing you a highly expressive look.
"Right. Sure. 'Operational.' Whatever helps you sleep at night, kid."
⟡₊ ⊹
The case was brutal. The team hadn't slept in nearly forty-eight hours. The bullpen was a disaster zone of empty coffee cups, scattered crime scene photos, and maps. JJ had crashed on the couch in the breakroom, Hotch and Rossi had locked themselves in the office, and you and Spencer were left staring at the murder board.
You were sitting in one of the office chairs, legs stretched out. Your fingers were lazily and methodically running through Reid’s soft, messy brown curls.
Spencer was currently lying on the floor and holding a tablet, his head resting face-up right in your lap. Your fingers gently massaged his scalp, untangling the messy locks, and Reid`s eyes fluttered shut in sheer bliss every time your nails lightly scraped the back of his neck.
Penelope Garcia, carrying a tray of fresh donuts, froze on the threshold. Her eyes went wide behind her round pink glasses, her mouth dropping into a silent, delighted gasp.
"Oh," Penelope whispered, pressing the tray to her chest. "Am I... interrupting a session of highly intellectual bonding?"
You didn't even take your hand out of Spencer’s hair, just offered a tired, amused smile. Reid, without moving an inch or even lifting his head from your lap, calmly replied:
"No, you're not interrupting anything. She is helping me stimulate my cerebral cortex. It lowers cortisol levels and increases blood flow to the frontal lobes, helping..."
"That's friendly support, Garcia" you chimed in with a soft laugh.
Spencer nodded seriously, but when your fingers scratched a particularly sensitive spot on his neck, a sharp sigh escaped his lips, and the genius melted into your lap.
⟡₊ ⊹
The jet shuddered violently, the cabin walls groaning under the turbulence. Most of the team was dozing off. Rossi was reading a book, and Hotch was skimming through reports.
You were walking, buried in a case file, when the plane suddenly dropped, hitting a massive air pocket. You gasped, the file flying out of your hands as momentum pitched you forward.
Spencer, sitting right across the aisle, reacted with lightning speed.
He caught you by the waist, saving you from a nasty collision with the table, and pulled you flush against him. You ended up sitting squarely on his lap, facing him. Your hands instinctively gripped his shoulders, while his long fingers locked securely around your lower back to anchor you.
The jet kept shaking, but neither of you panicked. It was comfortable, safe, and entirely logical. You rested your hands on his shoulders, while Spencer kept his grip firm and natural, holding you as easily as if you did this every single day.
Rossi slowly lowered his book, peering at you both over his reading glasses. Hotch, too, looked up from his paperwork. A very loud, heavy silence filled the cabin.
"What?" You looked back at them, raising a single, highly unimpressed eyebrow.
"Uh, kids," Rossi said smoothly, raising an eyebrow. "I appreciate the safety precautions in turbulent weather, but I’m fairly certain there are still empty seats on this aircraft"
Spencer, whose heart was currently hammering against your ribs at a frantic pace, cleared his throat, giving his voice a lecturing tone.
"According to the laws of dynamics and mass distribution, under angular acceleration, two bodies bound to a single center of gravity experience a significantly lower moment of inertia. We just minimize the risk of closed-head trauma from colliding with cabin fixtures."
Hotch let out a sound that was suspiciously close to a choked laugh, turned a page of his report, and said dryly:
"Just make sure your 'single center of gravity' is buckled in if the turbulence gets any worse."
⟡₊ ⊹
It was barely 7:00 AM. The bullpen was empty, bathed in the soft, pale light of dawn. The air smelled of freshly brewed coffee and floor wax.
"Spencer, hold still for a second," You called out, catching up with him in the hallway.
You reached up, your fingers deftly catching the cool silk of his tie. Spencer immediately went quiet, his eyes softening as he looked down at you. He stood perfectly still, barely breathing, as you got closer—so close your shoes were nearly touching.
With practiced, gentle movements, you began to adjust his collar and slowly knot his tie. Your knuckles lightly brushed against his collarbone, sending a subtle shiver through him.
"You know," you purred, twirling his tie on your finger, "if you keep showing up looking like you fought a wind turbine and lost, Hotch is going to start questioning your cognitive efficiency."
A lopsided smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Actually, my current state is a direct result of circadian rhythm disruption. And technically, my tie was only skewed at a twelve-degree angle. That's well within acceptable margins."
"Keep telling yourself that, genius," you gently patted his chest, lingering you hands there, right over his heartbeat, which was rapidly speeding up. "There. Now you look like an actual FBI agent instead of a chaotic academic."
"Thank you," Spencer murmured, his voice dropping an octave as his gaze locked onto yours. A quiet, heavy warmth settled between you, neither of you making any move to step back.
"Good morning, early birds," a dry, amused voice echoed from the stairs.
You both almost jumped, but slowly turned your heads. Emily Prentiss was standing there, holding a travel mug. She looked at your hands, still resting on Spencer's chest, then at Spencer’s face, which was now flushing a light pink, and finally at how ridiculously close you two were standing.
"Let me guess," Prentiss said, tilting her head. "This is another friendly thing?"
Without breaking physical contact, you and Spencer answered in perfect, synchronized unison:
"Obviously."
⟡₊ ⊹
The rest of the team had already gone home. The bullpen was dark, and only the deep basement archives, buried under endless shelves of closed cases, flickered with a dim, yellow light. You had volunteered to help reorganize files from a decade-old case Hotch wanted double-checked.
You were standing by the back shelf, stretching on your tiptoes to reach a heavy archive box on the very top rack.
"Need a hand?" a soft voice murmured right behind you.
You spun around, finding yourself pinned between the cold metal shelves and Spencer. He had approached soundlessly and his tall frame completely blocked out the hall light. Reid reached up with a long arm, effortlessly sliding the box down, but he didn't step back.
In the shadows of the archive, his eyes looked incredibly dark. The exhaustion of the last few days, the sleepless nights, the whispered conversations, and all those "scientific" excuses you both used to shield yourselves suddenly evaporated. There was only a heavy, electric silence.
"Spence..." your voice caught.
His gaze dropped to your lips. "I... I know the statistics. The probability of co-workers transitioning into..."
"Screw the statistics, Reid," you breathed.
Something in Spencer snapped.
All his formulas, theories, and defense mechanisms crumbled to dust. He took that final step forward, erasing the last few inches between you. His large, cool hands gently cupped your cheeks as if you were made of spun glass. His fingers tangled deep into your hair, and he leaned down.
The kiss was soft, almost hesitant for a fraction of a second, before bruising into something deep, desperate, and hungry—a dam breaking after months of waiting.
You pressed into him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck, pulling him closer, erasing any boundaries left. Spencer let out a soft sigh against your lips, his grip on your waist tightening.
The sharp creak of the archive door made you both spring apart.
Morgan stood on the threshold, a forgotten jacket dangling from his hand. He froze. You and Spencer were flushed against the shelving—your lips were slightly swollen, your breathing shallow, while Spencer was panting, his tie askew, and a faint smudge of your lipstick marked his jawline.
Morgan’s gaze drifted from Spencer to you. Slowly, the widest, most victorious smirk you had ever seen spread across his face. He crossed his arms and leaned casually against the doorframe.
"Well," Derek drawled, his grin practically split his face. "I'm all ears. What scientific theory explains what I'm looking at right now? Oxygen deprivation? Salivary synchronization? Preventive measures against the common cold?"
Spencer opened his mouth to speak, his eyes darting frantically across the bookshelves. He looked down at you, but you had already hidden your burning face against his chest, sharing his utter embarrassment. For the first time in his entire life, the genius couldn't find a single fact.
"We... we were just..." He let out a breath, nervously adjusting his glasses, and muttered, "Damn it, Morgan, just close the door."
Summary: Spencer accidentally brings your lunch to work, revealing heart-shaped strawberries, a love note, and the secret girlfriend he somehow managed to hide from the BAU for eight months.
Word count: ~720
___________________________________
Title: Mixed Up
Spencer realized he had taken the wrong lunch bag at exactly 12:17 p.m.
He had been halfway through explaining geographic profiling to Luke when he reached inside the plain brown paper bag and pulled out a small plastic container filled with strawberries cut into hearts.
Luke stopped chewing. Spencer stared at the strawberries. Garcia, seated across from them, slowly lowered her fork.
“Well,” she said. “Those are adorable.”
“They’re not mine.”
“That somehow makes them more interesting.”
Spencer ignored her and looked inside the bag again. There was a turkey sandwich with the crusts removed, a packet of chocolate-covered pretzels, and a yellow sticky note folded over the lid of the container.
His name was written on the front.
Not Dr. Reid.
Not Spencer Reid.
Just Spence, followed by a tiny heart.
Luke leaned closer. “Thought you said it wasn’t yours.”
“It isn’t.”
Garcia gasped. “You have a secret admirer.”
“No.”
“A lunch-packing secret admirer.”
“No.”
“A secret admirer who knows about your deep and complicated relationship with chocolate?”
Spencer picked up the note before Garcia could reach for it.
Inside, in your handwriting, were six words: Wrong lunch. Eat it anyway. Love you.
He folded it immediately. Unfortunately, not quickly enough. Garcia made a sound somewhere between a shriek and a squeal.
“Love you?”
Every head in the bullpen turned. Spencer closed his eyes.
Emily emerged from her office. “What happened?”
“Reid has a girlfriend,” Luke announced.
Spencer opened his eyes again. “That has not been established.”
“You have strawberries shaped like hearts,” Tara said.
“And someone wrote that she loves you,” JJ added, smiling from her desk.
“That could be platonic.”
Rossi looked over the top of his glasses. “Is it?”
Spencer glanced toward the elevator. The doors opened. You stepped out holding his canvas lunch bag in one hand. You stopped when you saw the entire team staring at you. Then you spotted the open brown bag on the table.
“Oh,” you said. “You found the note.”
Garcia stood so quickly her chair rolled backward. “You.”
You looked at Spencer. “Should I be worried?”
“No,” he said at the same time Garcia said, “Absolutely not.”
Garcia hurried over and took both of your hands. “You’re the heart-strawberry woman.”
“I suppose I am.”
“And you love him.”
Spencer’s face warmed.
You glanced at him, smiling. “Unfortunately.”
He frowned. “Unfortunately?”
“You stole my lunch.”
“It was an accident.”
“And you didn’t bring mine back.”
“I was working.”
“You’re eating my sandwich.”
“You told me to eat it anyway.”
Garcia looked between you with visible delight. “How long has this been happening?”
“Eight months,” you answered.
The bullpen erupted. “Eight months?” JJ repeated.
Luke stared at Spencer. “You hid a girlfriend for eight months?”
“I wasn’t hiding her.”
“You never mentioned her.”
“I don’t mention many things.”
“You mentioned a documentary about mold spores for twenty minutes yesterday,” Tara said.
“That was relevant.”
You walked over and placed his lunch bag beside him. “I packed you soup.”
Spencer looked inside. “Tomato?”
“With the little crackers you like.”
His expression softened so completely that the teasing around you faded into a chorus of quiet, knowing sounds.
You leaned down and kissed his temple.“I have to get back to work.”
“Wait.”
Spencer caught your hand before you could step away. You looked down at him. He seemed to remember that the entire team was watching, but instead of releasing you, he stood and pressed a quick kiss to your lips.
It was soft and brief.
Garcia clutched Luke’s arm hard enough to make him wince.
“I love you too,” Spencer murmured.
Your smile widened. “Even though I cut off the crusts?”
“I was willing to overlook it.”
“You’re very brave.”
You squeezed his hand before leaving. The elevator doors closed behind you. Silence filled the bullpen. Spencer sat down and opened his soup. Rossi was the first to speak.
“So, when are we meeting her properly?”
“You just met her.”
“That did not count,” Garcia said. “I wasn’t emotionally prepared.”
Spencer reached for one of the heart-shaped strawberries.
Luke watched him eat it. “You know we’re never letting this go.”
“I’m aware.”
Garcia leaned over his shoulder. “Does she always pack your lunch?”
“No.”
“Do you pack hers?”
Spencer paused. Then he looked toward the elevator. “I do now.”
tags: spencer x bau!reader, no use of y/n, someone switched the fluff machine back on, 5 plus 1 fic, hand-holding, coworkers to crushes, reader has an idea, spencer's mostly just being polite about it, UNTIL
warnings: germ talk, spencer mentions hypothetical medical conditions
word count: 6.7K
summary: five times you take spencer's hand and one time he takes yours.
note: suggested by @emmadellaposta-blog in this comment:
May I propose to you a fic where Spencer tells reader he wants to get over some of his Germaphobia so she just randomly throughout the day starts holding his hand and when he asks what she’s doing she replies “exposure therapy” but it just leads to them realizing they have feelings for each other
title is from a glistening pleasure song. the song has ZERO connection to the fic i just love those words in that order.
~*~*~
ONE
"What the hell is that guy's problem?"
You don't recognize the voice at first, but you do recognize the face of the cop who's still not done rolling his eyes when you and Spencer turn the corner of the hallway at the local precinct. He's the one who spent more time glaring at Spencer than he did actually working when you were all at the crime scene earlier, as if Spencer not shaking his hand was some kind of personal insult and Reid hadn't evaded everyone's handshakes.
His fellow uniform, whose back is to you, shrugs, completely oblivious to the first guy's panicked expression when he sees you approaching. "It's the BAU. You probably have to be just a little crazy to do that job. Maybe he's just crazier than the rest of them."
"It's not strictly speaking a requirement, but it definitely helps," you say brightly, stopping several feet away from them. "We talk to so many assholes everywhere we go, a little bit of craziness helps us power through."
Next to you, you can tell that Spencer has gone rigid; you're not sure if he stopped walking because you did or if he actually froze.
There's really no way to pretend it isn't obvious that the two street cops are talking about him. Especially with the way they glance awkwardly at him and scurry off down the hallway without even acknowledging your comment. Probably lucky that this didn't turn into a full-blown discussion, Hotch wouldn't be impressed if he heard you talked to the locals like that. He'd do his whole Disappointed Dad routine of not shouting but looking very disappointed as he told you he expected better.
You turn to look at Spencer, pulling a face that makes it clear exactly what you think of those guys, but Spencer shakes his head at you.
"I'm not crazy," he says. "Actually my Mysophobia is quite mild. I just don't trust other people to keep their hands clean, and neither should anyone else."
You don't say anything about the disinfectant wipes in his desk drawer back at Quantico, or the way his shoes are lined up neatly in his hallway at home. (The temptation to nudge one of his chucks out of alignment had been almost too great to resist, but you had honestly been worried he'd retaliate by doing something to your car and it'd smell of rotten eggs for six months. He'd do the calculations and decide that revenge was worth having to take a taxi to work until the metro was running again. Or he'd get a ride from Emily.)
"Fuck them," you say dismissively.
"I'd rather not." He pulls a face and it takes you a second to realize he's joking. When you snort with laughter, he smiles at you, looking just a little smug.
"No, that'd probably be even more unhygienic," you agree. He opens his mouth to speak and you hold up a hand to stop him. "Nope. You will not give me any stats on that, you will not ruin sex for me forever."
Spencer closes his mouth like a fish.
"Thank you," you say, nodding.
"Perhaps it'd be easier, though," he says, making no moves to start walking again.
"Never having sex again?" Is he about to give you some honest feedback on your dating life?
"No." He shakes his head, too caught up in his own train of thought to really notice what you asked. "If I just shook people's hands."
"I mean, maybe," you agree, because it probably would make some things simpler. Just, none of those things are important. "But don't make yourself do something you don't want to do because that guy's a douche canoe."
"I'm not," he insists, looking down at his hands.
"Give me your hand sanitizer," you say, reaching out, palm up.
"What?" He frowns at you but immediately digs into his pocket for the small bottle. He squeezes a blob of the cool gel into your cupped palm and you rub your hands together, carefully spreading it on both of them before the alcohol evaporates and it dries out. Spencer is still watching you as he pockets the hand sanitizer.
When you're done, you hold up both hands to him, showing off just how clean they are and he raises his eyebrows in what you assume is approval. So you reach out and take his hand, not to shake but to hold.
"What are you doing?" His hand is stiff but he doesn't pull away.
"Exposure therapy," you say, squeezing.
The muscles in his hand relax slightly, but you can feel his palm getting sweaty. His hand is warmer than you thought it'd be, his skin softer. Somehow you expected calluses and dry skin, but his hands are as soft as the rest of him.
He wraps his fingers around your hand, submitting himself to the project.
"Spencer?" you ask a few seconds later.
"Hmm?"
"Are you counting?"
He looks like he's going to deny it but then he smiles, slightly shamefaced. "Yes."
"One minute, okay?" you tell him.
"Okay," he agrees, nodding, looking both ways as if he's worried someone will see the two of you standing in the middle of a police station hallway at 1 in the morning holding hands.
Some fears are more rational than others, you think to yourself as Spencer mouths, "59, 60," and then quickly lets go of your hand and shoves his own in his pocket.
TWO
You're in Garcia's office, sitting behind her as she types away, making things appear and disappear on her many monitors. Next to you Spencer is leaning against the desk you're perched on, his hands at his sides.
You indicate his pocket with your index finger and he pulls a "what?" face. When you mime rubbing something into your hands he looks at Garcia and then at you before he slowly pulls the hand sanitizer from his pocket and squirts some of it into your hand.
Garcia doesn't notice at all, still typing away, and you reach for Spencer's hand. He lets you take it, but you can see his eyes going slightly wide with panic.
"There are still more than a thousand hits," she says, taking a break from typing and starting to turn around in her chair.
"Can you limit it to just women who were divorced in the last six months?" he asks quickly, moving your joined hands behind your back where hopefully Garcia won't be able to see them.
"I never knew that was your thing, Doctor Reid," she jokes, turning back to her screens. "But I can indeed."
"It's not my thing," Spencer argues, "but it looks like it might be the UnSub's."
"No, I think Penelope's onto something there," you joke. Next to you Spencer is tense, but you're pretty sure it's more to do with the fact that you've got a firm grip on his hand than the joking. So you keep talking as a way to distract him. You're doing him a solid, basically. "How long after the ink is dry on the divorce papers do you make your move, Spencer? Do you hang around outside Family Court, scouting for future girlfriends?"
Penelope lets a giggle slip out, clearly appreciating the absurdness of the joke. Spencer Reid scouting for girlfriends anywhere. You're honestly hilarious.
Spencer on the other hand doesn't even dignify your joke with an answer. You think he might let go of your hand, but no. It hasn't been 60 seconds yet and you're pretty sure he's counting.
"Catching them on the rebound," you go on, smirking. You're going to keep it up until he reacts. "Clever to get them at their most vulnerable."
"Are you projecting?" he asks, head tilted innocently as he looks at you. "It sounds like you've thought about this a lot."
Touché, Doc.
"Ooooh," Garcia hums, sounding impressed.
You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back and then lets go.
If nothing else, this project is going to give you a very good idea of just how long 60 seconds is.
THREE
The case was exhausting, both physically and mentally, and practically everyone is asleep in their seats, with the exception of Hotch who is reviewing paperwork in the seat behind you while JJ snores quietly across from him, her own file abandoned on the table between them.
Next to you Spencer is sleeping with a pillow against the window, forced to make do after Morgan beat him to the bench where he's sleeping soundly under a blanket.
You shift, trying to get comfortable, accidentally hitting Spencer with your elbow.
"Sorry," you whisper when he opens one eye to look at you.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" he asks, opening his other eye.
You shrug, because you don't really want to admit that he was right and you were wrong, you shouldn't have packed your jacket in your hold bag, and you shouldn't have turned down a blanket when Rossi offered you one, and now you're too cold to sleep while Rossi is curled up across the aisle from Hotch, warm and comfortable under the blanket you refused.
Spencer doesn't say anything, just shakes his head at you with a faint smile, and then rearranges his blanket until it's covering you both. You lean closer to him so he can wrap it all the way over you.
"Thanks," you mumble, leaning your head against his shoulder, relaxing in the delicious warmth of the pre-heated blanket.
"Mhmm," he says, pushing his pillow back in place and tilting his head against it once more. When he settles, his hand brushes yours, knuckles moving against your fingers, and you chase him, pushing your hand into his. You might as well make the most of this time and do another therapy session.
Not acknowledging what you're doing in any other way at all, he turns his wrist so he can wrap his hand around yours properly, both of your hands falling into your lap. When you squeeze, he squeezes back, and then you feel his shoulder relax as he settles.
You wait with your eyes closed for the minute to pass, but when the 60 seconds are up he doesn't let go, so you don't either. Maybe he's ready to go for two minutes. You're nodding off when you finally feel his hand move, but instead of pulling it back, he's intertwining his fingers with yours.
His breathing is slow and even, you're pretty sure he's sleeping. Somehow it feels wrong to still be holding his hand when he's not aware of it, like you're… overstepping some boundary, tricking him. You try to pull away your hand, loosening your grip on him so you can push his hand back in his own lap, but he tightens his grip. It's not exactly firm, but definitely determined.
You smile, closing your eyes and burrowing closer to him until you're comfortable.
You're woken up a few hours later by him gently nudging you with his shoulder and then saying dryly, "You drooled on me."
His fingers are still braided through yours under the blanket and you use your other hand to wipe your chin and then the knit of his cardigan. "Sorry."
When you look at him his face is so close you can't really interpret his expression, but you don't think he looks disgusted.
Also, he hasn't let go of your hand.
"We're landing," you say, looking out the window at the Quantico air strip coming into view.
"That's why I woke you up," he replies.
"Oh." You honestly thought it was to complain about the drooling.
His thumb brushes a soothing circle on the back of your hand, and then he carefully releases you, pulling his hand away just in time to be able to give the blanket to JJ so she can stow it away.
You smile at him, impressed, and he smiles back.
FOUR
The bar is crowded but Emily and JJ managed to secure a table big enough for the whole team. There's a constant shuffling of seats, people drifting to the dance floor and back again, going to buy rounds of drinks, using the restrooms; and somehow you end up nursing your second piña colada pressed into Spencer's side while he's discussing interrogation techniques with Hotch and you're trying to understand what Penelope is telling you about the changes she made to her computer setup in excruciating detail.
Spencer shifts, moving even closer to you when Morgan pushes onto the rounded bench on Hotch's other side, and his hand ends up trapped between your thighs somehow. You move closer to Garcia, giving him space to pull his hand free, trying to pretend you don't notice the way his hand strokes your leg when he removes it.
Because he's not stroking your leg, he's just… moving his hand.
You clear your throat and nod, because Penelope looks like that's the reaction she's expecting, and she grins. "You weren't listening, were you?"
Spencer's hand is resting on his thigh now, but you're sitting so close to him that his pinky finger is still brushing your leg every time one of you moves. You're maybe moving a lot, not particularly comfortable on the bench seat.
You grimace in apology, your own hand settling on your thigh, so close to his that you could probably just stretch out your pinky and touch his.
"Well if you don't want to talk about my computer you can just tell me all about the date you went on last week," Penelope says and you realize this was her plan all along. Sneaky bitch, oh how you love her.
Next to you Spencer shifts again, his whole body going rigid when his pinky touches yours. You can feel him turn to look at you and when your eyes meet, he's frowning. You can guess what's bothering him, of course. Your hands touching under the table and you haven't been anywhere near hand sanitizer for well over an hour. What you have been doing is touching all sorts of unclean things, like the bar and the bench and money, the ultimate culprit in the exchange of germs, or so you've been told once.
Well, good. Time for him to lose the training wheels, you decide, and take his hand in yours, smiling with what you hope looks like encouragement.
His frown deepens, like he's thinking through a complicated game of chess, or maybe trying to talk himself off a ledge, and then he curls his fingers around yours, turning back to Hotch, his focus clearly going back to the conversation he and Morgan are having.
"Oh, it was great," you tell Penelope, feeling a little spark of excitement at how well Spencer's doing with his whole desensitization. You're kind of a genius for coming up with this, you tell yourself, pleased little butterflies fluttering around your stomach while Spencer's thumb rubs against your hand. "Yeah, he told me after dinner that he forgot his credit card so I had to pay, then suggested we both go back to his place because then we could share the taxi I'd also be paying for."
Penelope snorts. "And did you?"
You scoff. "No! I gave him three bucks and told him to take the metro, then I took a taxi home. By myself."
She laughs, delighted and you launch into the whole sorry tale about this absolute turd of a man you had to spend nearly two hours sitting across from at a restaurant because you hadn't organized a fake emergency call.
Next to you, Spencer's back goes less rigid as he clearly gets used to holding another person's unsanitized hand in this uncontrolled environment.
You squeeze his fingers, trying to convey how impressed you are by his progress.
He squeezes back, moving in his seat so his arm isn't bent at an odd angle under the table, making sure you're sitting so close that your joined hands aren't noticeable to anyone else. Your hands are resting on your thigh, his long fingers brushing against your tights. Or, well, not so much 'brushing' as, sort of, kind of stroking your leg, maybe? Not deliberately, of course, you know that, it's just what happens when you're both forever being jostled around as other people move around you.
Penelope gets up to go to the bar and really, there's plenty of space on your other side now, you could move away from Spencer's side, but then you'd have to let go of his hand, so you stay where you are, reluctant to let go before he does. He's doing so well, you want to see just how long he's able to do this for.
The room isn't cold, but somehow you still have goosebumps.
"Sorry about your date," he says suddenly, head tilted towards you, voice so low that no-one else can hear him.
You turn to look at him. "Don't be. My friend Katie set me up, she has terrible taste in men. The only surprising thing about that date is that she didn't want him for herself."
"Still. It sounded like you had a pretty bad time."
You shrug, one arm moving against his. "It's fine. Not the end of the world. There will be other dates, and maybe they'll be less terrible."
Spencer frowns, then nods. "Yeah, definitely."
"Why do you look so unconvinced? You think I'm doomed to a life of terrible dates?"
"No." He's shaking his head, but that frown isn't going anywhere. "That's not it."
"Then what?"
Under the table, Spencer's grip on your hand tightens and he looks uncomfortable. You wonder if he managed to forget he was holding your hand and now he realized it and wants to let go.
"It's fine," you tell him, because it is. He's been holding your hand for almost half an hour, your shoulder is actually getting a little stiff by this point. "You did really well."
"What?"
You squeeze his hand, since you can't exactly blurt out 'you're doing a very good job holding my hand' in front of all your teammates. Who knows what they'd read into that?
Spencer blinks. "Oh. Right. Thanks."
When you let go of his hand, it takes a few seconds for his fingers to loosen their grip, but when he does, you catch him surreptitiously rubbing his hand against his knee, not quite like he's trying to wipe you off, but still. Kind of like that.
When he gets up to leave half an hour later, he looks kind of uncomfortable when he says goodnight to you, raising his arms, and for a mad second you think he's going to hug you, but then he adjusts his satchel and you realize it was just falling off his shoulder.
FIVE
One of your favorite things about Spencer is, although his head can get kind of deep in the work clouds, once the case is over, if there's time before the jet takes you back home, you can pretty much always tempt him to go book shopping with you.
Sometimes you don't even really have to tempt him, because he has that eidetic memory, and he remembers you once telling him how you spent an entire day in your favorite bookshop in the world when you were in high school and now here you are in Portland and JJ has dismissed you both since you weren't on the team that did any actual apprehending of anyone, so there's less paperwork for you to do.
Spencer glances at his watch and then at JJ and then he tilts his head towards the exit while looking at you. And half an hour later, you're in heaven.
Book heaven.
You get distracted in the used books section, browsing biographies, and lose track of Spencer. When you resurface in Poetry it's been almost an hour and you realize you should probably find him. If you make everyone wait for you at the jet, they're not going to look the other way when you sneak off ever again.
You go through the aisles, looking for him, fairly certain he's in the used books section as well. There's enough to look at here, he wouldn't have made it to the new books, soulless historyless paperbacks.
You're not sure how you know that he's close, you just do. He's in the next aisle, definitely, and you're trying to decide if you should sneak up on him or that'd be a mistake considering what you both spent the last four days doing.
But then you hear it: "We have the paperback version as well, if you prefer."
You don't actually have to look to know this woman is flirting with Spencer. Her voice is so loaded with it, it's amazing the fire alarms aren't going off.
"Oh, that's fine. I prefer hardbacks." Spencer is polite but friendly in a way that's definitely not a rejection and you give in to temptation and remove a few books from the shelf so you can peer into their aisle.
18th century philosophy. Because of course.
And of course that woman is pretty with her nose piercing and purple-tinted hair and t-shirt that's just a little tighter than it's probably supposed to be, but in the most flattering way. A t-shirt that says, very loudly, "I can get you all the books you want, anytime, just come to bed with me."
Not literally, that would have been super weird to put on a work uniform, but it's definitely what the shop logo stretched out across her chest is implying.
"Well, if you need anything, just let me know. I'm Frankie, by the way." You wonder if the fire alarms are silent but fire trucks are actually on their way.
"Oh. Thanks," Spencer says and you can see his cheeks going all splotchy and red like he's too warm.
You stand up on tiptoes, which changes your view, and you realize why he looks like he's boiling.
She's touching his hand.
How unprofessional!
For just a second you think you've turned into your grandmother, who also cares way too much how people in the service industry behave even if their behavior has zero impact on her, and you think you might ask to speak to the manager, but then Spencer shakes his head no to something this absolute trollop just said, and which you didn't hear because your ears were ringing with righteous indignation, and she releases him.
And you realize something. You try not to, but you can't help it.
Because you're relieved. You don't care that this woman talks to customers like she wants to lick honey off of them, just so long as those customers aren't Spencer.
And you'd feel bad that clearly your exposure therapy hasn't really worked yet, because he couldn't have looked less comfortable and you know he gets shy sometimes, and it seemed clear that he liked her, and maybe if you had done a better job preparing him for this he would have been okay with her touching him.
Maybe you should also feel bad about the fact that there's a little part of you that's delighted that he'll let you hold his hand and not that woman.
No, you should definitely feel bad about that. Except you don't want any woman holding his hand other than you.
Once the aspiring honey-licker is gone, you walk into Spencer's aisle, trying to look like you didn't know he was there. If he notices, he doesn't say anything, just holds up the book he definitely already read most of and tells you he's going to buy it.
"You wouldn't prefer the paperback?" you ask innocently. He doesn't know you know, after all.
He looks at you, then at the gap in the bookshelf you forgot to refill, then back at you. "No." He says it like it's simple and your whole world didn't just spin on its axis.
Oh.
Your stomach does a little flip as you try not to read anything into that completely innocuous answer. Then he starts walking towards the cash registers, moving the book to the hand that's further from you, the one closest to you hanging loosely at his side.
You take it, carefully wrapping your hand around his, and he does the same, his fingers curling themselves around you.
You pass the woman he didn't want touching him earlier, and you think he might let go of you, but instead he just smiles politely at her, his grip on you not changing at all.
She smiles back, and then she smiles at you, looking all friendly and maybe a little bit apologetic and not at all like she wants to claw your eyes out.
You hope you smile back, but you honestly aren't sure what your face is doing at all.
You just know you're holding Spencer's hand and you don't want to let go.
Terrifying.
ONE
This was your idea. Spencer has reminded himself of that fact 27 times on his way from his apartment to the cinema.
He had asked Emily to go to the Eisenstein festival with him, she had made up some transparent excuse like he wasn't a professional lie detector, and you had said, "I'll go with you, Spencer. It sounds like fun."
And his lie detector just short circuited right then and there.
There's no part of him that thinks you're going to enjoy sitting through any one of the three movies that are playing back to back today, but he didn't question it. He did rewind mentally to make sure you had heard enough of the conversation to understand what he had been suggesting, and yes. You were there the whole time, actually sitting next to Emily when he had first brought it up.
But if you only said it sounded like fun because you felt sorry for him that no-one wanted to go with him to his black and white, Soviet era movie marathon, then he was going to just pretend he didn't notice.
And then he'd sit next to you in that cinema for at least 278 minutes, depending on the versions they were screening which the poster had been frustratingly vague about. Plus commercials. All in all, he'd estimate at least five hours. Sitting next to you. In a dark cinema.
Spencer doesn't believe in prayers or wishing on shooting stars, but he would have done both yesterday if he thought it might have done anything to lower the risk of a case coming up and cancelling your plans together. But he didn't need to, because here he is.
You're already there when he arrives, standing under the awning outside looking at your phone, and for just a second he's worried there's a text from JJ and you're being called into work, but his own phone hasn't said anything at all, and when you look up and spot him you smile, not apologetically or with anything like regret (real or pretend), but like you're genuinely happy to see him.
"Perfect timing," you say when he stops in front of you.
Spencer is seven minutes early. He smiles.
"Katie has been texting me non-stop." You hold up your phone as if to show him, and it actually beeps and lights up as if you planned it.
"Your friend with terrible taste in men?" There could be other Katies, obviously, but he's pretty sure this is the only one you've mentioned knowing.
"Uhhuh. She found another gem. She started dating a guy who's—and I could not be more certain of this—involved in some Ponzi scheme. He's got a friend who's single and she's convinced we'd hit it off." You open the text and read it, rolling your eyes, and then you shove your phone at him.
'Come on just give him a chance. What do you have to lose?' Spencer hands the phone back to you. "Does she mean, other than your money?"
You snort. "Who cares about money, Spencer? What about my dignity?"
He smiles, blowing an amused huff of air out through his nose. "I suppose there's that as well," he agrees. How much dignity does he have left considering the fact that he's about to spend his Sunday with you watching movies he knows you won't enjoy, when he could have explained to you that you wouldn't enjoy them and why, but he chose not to, because he didn't want you to back out?
Considering the fact that you spending time with him out of pity doesn't stop him looking forward to it? Considering the fact that he spent the entire morning wondering if you're going to take his hand in the cinema and actually getting excited at the prospect of sitting in a dark cinema screen holding his colleague's hand because she thinks she's curing him of… caring about hygiene?
Spencer isn't sure how dignity is measured, but he is pretty sure he doesn't have a whole lot of it left to measure.
"We're getting popcorn, right?" you ask, walking ahead of him into the cinema.
Spencer had planned on getting a coffee, maybe some pretzels. It's barely 11AM. "Of course."
At the concession stand you start picking up bags of candy at what he assumes is random, but then you show him two bags of pretzels, holding them up in turn. There's a third option, but he's never eaten that one in the office and you haven't touched it. He shrugs because he's fine with either and you throw both on the counter. "And a large popcorn with butter and a diet coke and a coffee with more sugar than you think should be legal. Actually, once you hit that point, just add a little more."
The teenager behind the counter looks at you, wide-eyed and a little scared.
"Three sugars," Spencer corrects you and you smirk.
He shakes his head at you, nudging you away from the counter before you can do any more damage. Doing some quick calculations based on what you've picked up, he throws some money on the counter before you can get your purse open.
"I was going to pay," you say, eyebrows furrowed. "You got the tickets."
Spencer, who can see the remainder of his dignity escaping out the door as he goes through the rites of an actual date, just shrugs. "You're doing me a favor, coming with me. The least I can do is feed you."
You look up at him. "Oh. I figured we'd go out for food after?"
He looks at the mountain of snacks you picked up, the tub of popcorn in your arm, bigger than your head. There's no way he can look you in the eye right now, not when you basically said you want to go out for dinner. With him. "And what's this? Appetizers?"
"No." You hug the popcorn closer like he threatened to take them away from you. "But aren't these movies seven years long? I feel like Russian movies are going to be long."
"They're not that long." He holds the door open and you walk into the screen ahead of him. The room is about half full, with people mostly centered in the middle rows. The front and back rows are both empty.
You stop, turning to look at him. "Where do you want to sit?"
Normally he'd prefer the front row, for his eyesight, but he nods his head towards the back row instead. You look just a little surprised, but walk in ahead of him, settling in one of the seats in the middle of the row.
He deposits your appetizers on the little table attached to his seat and sits down next to you. And then he waits.
You spend the first half hour eating popcorn, offering the tub to him at regular intervals, and then you open the bag of twizzlers, slowly chewing your way through one of them as you squirm in your seat.
"Are you scared you'll fall asleep if you sit still for too long?" he leans in and whispers.
You jump, startled. "No. I'm just hoping I can find the right angle and then this will make sense to me."
"It won't," he whispers. "Sit still."
Then he very casually and not at all deliberately puts his lower arm on the armrest between your seats, his hand within easy reach. It has worked well in the past, after all, there is previous evidence that his method is sound. If he makes his hand available, maybe allows his fingers to touch yours, more often than not you will take his hand.
It's a pretty devious thing to do, he's aware of that, and he's not really sure when your supposed exposure therapy stopped being something he allowed you to do because you seemed so determined to help him, and instead changed into something he didn't really mind before finally becoming something he actually wants you to do.
He wants to hold your hand, he wants to touch you, and he does not want your friend Katie to set you up on any more dates. Because you're right: statistically, eventually one of them will be a nice guy, and you'll like him.
But he won't - and this is the real problem here - be Spencer.
The first movie ends and you still haven't made any moves to touch his hand. You haven't actually moved much at all, and for a while he thought you had fallen asleep, but no. You were staring at the screen, your nose scrunched up adorably as you tried to follow the narrative.
Maybe Spencer should have double-checked that there would be subtitles…
When the lights come on for the 15 minute break between screenings, you get out of your seat. "I've just gotta—" you trail off, pointing at the exit to the lobby and the other people making their way out.
"You forgot your purse," he says, grabbing it from your seat and holding it out to you after you've passed him.
You turn and stare at him. "What?"
"If you're going to sneak off." He's mostly joking. Mostly. He's also a little bit worried you do want to leave.
But then you smile, shaking your head at him like he's being silly, and he feels like maybe he was.
"We can do something else," he offers all the same. Maybe you don't want to get away from him, but you could still want to get away from Eisenstein.
You take a step back towards him, almost but not quite knocking your knee against his. "Spencer, we're not leaving. There are two movies left, I'm coming back."
"You just want me to feed you," he says. Mainly to remind himself that's something you said you expected to happen.
Dinner and a movie. Would it be possible for you to do anything more date-like? In a completely platonic way, of course. Two more movies left for you to platonically take his hand.
"Exactly," you say, and this time you do actually nudge him with your leg. Luckily you aren't looking at him, so you don't see the way he has to suck a pleased smile all the way into his mouth.
This time, he lets you walk away, and when you return nine minutes later, you're holding another coffee for him. "You take it black, right?" you joke, handing it to him.
He takes a sip and you ordered it just the way he likes it, which he knew you would. "Thanks."
When he puts the coffee back in the cup holder between your seats, he brushes against your arm, sitting on the edge of the armrest. Strictly speaking the thing isn't wide enough for two, it's very much a territory to negotiate over, but you're taking up less than half of it.
Spencer spends about ten minutes wringing his hands in his lap, trying to decipher the situation. You shift, twice, but your hand doesn't move. It's still there, half on, half off the armrest.
Like it's undecided, or like it's trying to run away and you aren't letting it, or like it wants to be there and you don't want it to.
How is he supposed to know what to do?
The answer is probably that he isn't supposed to do anything. This isn't a date, it only looks like one from a distance, and just because he can't focus on the movie because all he can think about is holding your hand, that doesn't mean you want him to. You haven't technically told him that his exposure therapy is over, but you haven't held his hand since Portland, two weeks ago.
Like maybe doing it in public was some kind of graduation ceremony and didn't make him want to stay in that bookshop forever, never mind catching the jet back to Quantico.
He shifts, sighing deeply, only realizing how loud it was when you turn to look at him. "Sorry."
"You okay?" you whisper, leaning a little closer to him.
He's not, not at all. He's spiraling just a little bit. "Yeah, of course."
You look at him carefully, like maybe you don't believe him, and he turns back to face the screen so he doesn't have to look you in the eye. Then he takes a deep breath and places his arm on the armrest, taking up most of the remaining space on it.
His pinky finger is maybe an eighth of an inch away from yours and he digs it into the velvet of the armrest to stop it from twitching and accidentally touching you, although he's not quite sure why.
Maybe because it feels too much like begging to be touched, suddenly, after not being touched at all for so long?
But then, while the score crescendos dramatically, he suddenly feels it: Your pinky finger feathering along his and then away. At first he thinks he imagined it, but then it happens again, and again. And this time, it actually settles against his.
When Spencer turns to look at you, you're staring intently at the screen, looking for all the world like you're completely engrossed in the movie.
He moves his pinky so it's covering yours.
You don't move. At all.
He moves his pinky a little more, until it's settling on your ring finger.
You still aren't moving.
He feels his heart rate increase, the way it might do ahead of a myocardial infarction, or possibly a panic attack. But there's no pain in his left arm, no cold sweats, no shortness of breath.
He swallows, then he places his hand over yours, covering it completely.
Your thumb twitches but you don't pull away, so Spencer decides he might as well go for broke and wrap his fingers around your hand.
That's it, he's done it. He's holding your hand.
And then you move, your hand shifting. He's about to release you, worried he overstepped, but all you do is turn your hand and intertwine your fingers with his, pulling his hand off the armrest and into your lap.
Spencer double-checks the signals his body is sending him, just to make completely sure this isn't a heart attack.
He turns to look at you, and he's pretty sure you're smiling, your eyes still on the screen. "Okay?" he asks.
You turn your head and now he's sure you're smiling. "Of course."
When the second movie ends, you don't get up. Your hand is still intertwined with his, resting in your lap, and Spencer hopes you'll never move.
"This, um, this exposure therapy has really worked well," you say and there's something in your voice that makes him look at you.
"I guess," he says, because he's not convinced it has, really. He's pretty sure he won't be shaking anyone's hand unless it's yours.
You lift up your joined hands to show him. "I mean, we've been holding hands for like an hour."
He blinks.
"It's nice." Your voice is soft and you aren't looking at him, so he lets himself smile at your words.
summary: after a month of deliberation, healing, some avoidance and lots of talks with garcia, reader finally builds up the courage to get it on with Spencer. part two to "couldn't make it any harder"
genre/tags/CWs: fem!reader, pictures on header are just for aesthetic, reader has no descriptive features other than hair and afab features, very little angst, lots and lots of fluff, porn WITH plot, statistics about s/a recovery, reader is still wounded but healing, garcia is here!!, dacryphilia, no use of y/n, smut, breeding kink if you squint, implied that reader is on birth control, p in v, unprotected sex, oral (m and f receiving), swallowing, creampie, honestly not very proofread, sub!spencer if you squint, lots of stuttering, whimpering/whiny!spencer, honestly very intimate, established relationship
a/n: this is loosely based off tears, and part two to couldn't make it any harder! thank you so much for all of your support so far, it means the world! please comment or reblog with your thoughts, I love hearing from you guys and would love more moots!! ALSO, all of these statistics are real.
w/c: 5.6k (oops)
One month, 4 days, 7 hours, and 23 minutes had passed since you told Spencer about your history regarding sex, your aversions, and why you wouldn’t let him touch you. In the infinite moments between now and then, he still hadn’t tried to initiate anything with you. If anything, the frequent (and somewhat juvenile) hasty makeout sessions had all but ceased in the weeks following. Not that Spencer was outright turning you down, but he seemed more preoccupied. Always reading or tacking away at a laptop, too busy to pursue getting into your pants. Whenever you came onto him, however, in the small way you did, he never denied you. If you were able to pry his eyes away from whatever it was he was working on, get your hands in his hair and bring his lips to yours, it would be as if his laptop never existed. Like the printing press was never made— everything else but you melted away. Despite the progress you had made in your healing, you hadn’t gotten to the point of anything, “real”.
However, with every passing day, your wants began to overtake your worries. You knew Spencer loved you, and honestly, you were getting needy. Spencer had always been the most attractive man you’d ever met, but it seemed like every time he did something kind, it made your mouth water. He’d hold the door for you, smile at you and tell you you were pretty mid brushing your teeth. Every normal action elicited something absolutely primal to stir inside of you. It was only a matter of time, and you confided in Penelope as much.
…
“Pen, it’s bad. Like really bad. He looks at me with this sweetheart puppy dog look and I absolutely unravel.”
Penelope smiled deviously and twirled her hair with a fuzzy pen. “All those brains and he still can’t see you basically panting for him? You practically jump out of your seat whenever he mentions sexual sadism just because he’s saying the word ‘sex’.”
Your face burned. Of course, only you and Penelope really noticed, but when he was describing the habits of one of the usual monsters you dealt with, lord forgive you, you were imagining all of the other ways he could bring up that word. You groaned and put your face in your hands.
“Oh, god, I’m SICK, Garcia! I don’t know what to do.”
She smirked devilishly.
“Yes, you do.”
You cocked your head and removed your hands to look at her. “What?”
She smiled.
“Him. Do him!” She threw her head back and laughed as you rolled your eyes.
“It’s not that simple, Pen, and you know it.” You sat down in the chair next to her, and she gave you a sympathetic look.
“Look, angelface, I know — it is hard to move on. But you want him. It might be worth it to give him the chance to prove to you how different he is. More importantly, shouldn’t you help yourself heal? If this is what you want, don’t let those villains from your past rob you of this.”
You were quiet for a moment, then slumped into your seat a little further. “You’re right,” you said. “You are… and honestly, Pen, I don’t think I can wait any longer anyways.” You gave her a small smile, and she grinned back at you.
“I know I am! Now go get him, Tiger! Your resident gossip goddess wants to know how boy wonder treats my girl!”
..
When you entered your shared apartment that night, the room had a different air to it. The atmosphere was heavier, your heart was racing. And there was Spencer, sitting on the couch, reading like nothing was different. But right now, everything was different.
“Hi, hunny!” You said, trying to keep your voice even. He perked up instantly, his eyes filling with a light when they met yours.
“Hi! How was your day? You went to see Garcia, right?” He asked, always the caring lover. He never asked out of principal, only ever because he genuinely wanted to know. You felt the familiar heat pool in your core. You smiled and tried not to let it show, not yet.
“Yeah, I did. My day was good, we talked about… we- yeah. Just chatted. Gabbed..” You winced and let yourself smile, hearing how ridiculous you sounded. ‘Couldn’t just be normal, could you?’ you thought to yourself.
Spencer smiled and cocked his head, amused by your ridiculously obvious coverup. “Gabbed, huh?” He laughed and waved you over. You moved to him and sat on his lap. He wrapped his arms around you – he smelt like cologne and book ink. It was intoxicating. A blush, ever so slight, crept up your face as you tried not to focus on the fact you were just a couple layers of fabric from your fantasies coming true. You looked at him with a self-pitying, half-wince, half-smile. “Are you okay?” He asked, still smiling, only a hint of worry gracing his features.
You felt your stomach drop, and your palms grow sweaty. You closed your eyes and let out a sigh before facing him. You looked at him, his deep hazel puppy eyes making you squirm.
“Spence.” you said, putting your hands on his shoulders, the blush on your face deepening.
“Baby?” He said, utterly confused by your strange behavior. He knew there had been a lot on your mind recently, but this was extra out of the ordinary.
You considered what to say. ‘I want to have sex with you now please,’ seemed immature and very cold. ‘I’ve decided to take destiny into my hands, let’s fuck’ also seemed.. not right. You bit your lip, your eyes tracing the outline of his own. You could see his expression grow more worried, and you knew you were kind of freaking him out. Not the mood you want your partner to be in when you’re trying to do him for the first time. You decided to ditch words completely. In a last ditch effort to get your point across, you shifted so you were straddling his lap. You grabbed his face in your hands, tangling your fingers in his soft curls. You smiled– a real, steadying smile, and leaned in to kiss him.
Kissing Spencer always felt like the world’s problems were melting away. You kissed him softly, unhurried. Light brushes of your lips to his, then pulling him closer for more contact. He was warm- so, so warm. Your grip tightened in his hair, ever so slightly, and he whined softly. The noise reminded you of your intentions tonight. But unlike so much of the buildup so far, the reminder didn’t stress you. It brought you closer to him, and you ground your hips down onto his lap.
He shuddered, passing over your lips softly with his tongue, asking for polite entry. Polite– that was so much of Spencer’s behavior. He held the door, bought you flowers, massaged your aching body at the end of a long day. He read to you when he couldn’t sleep, asked “please” every time he wanted you to play in his hair, in the gentle way only you could. He was a kind, responsible man, and that did things to you.
You welcomed his tongue into your mouth, brushing yours against his, the kiss now becoming more feverish. His hands gripped your waist, grounding him. You were so beautiful, and he was in awe at his luck. The most beautiful woman in the world was on top of him, kissing him, pulling his hair and grinding on him. He felt his cock stir in his pants, and gently thrust up into your grinding. The pressure coaxed a soft gasp from you, and you moved your hands to his face and neck. You grabbed his chin to face you, and looked deeply into his eyes. “Spencer,” you panted, “I want you.”
Spencer’s eyes went wide as saucers, and his mouth fell open just so. “Baby…” he hesitated. Ever since you had told him about your past, he had held off from pressuring you in a way that might make you concede to an act you didn’t fully consent to. Your eyebrows furrowed, and you brushed your thumb over his lip, barely resisting the urge to slip it past and have him suck on it. “Don’t you want me, Spence?” You leaned in, whispering into his ear.
Spencer’s eyes fluttered shut and he swallowed hard. “I.. you have no idea… But, are you… sure? I’ve been..” he blushed, harder than he was before. You pulled back to look at him when he spoke.
“I’ve been, uh, reading? Researching, on- on how to aid recovery for those with negative sexual experiences?” He said it like it was a question. He was terrified– terrified that he might make you feel like a case study, but he wanted to show you how he cared. And statistics, experiment reports, that was how he cared. You nodded slightly, letting him know he was okay, that you were okay. He looked at you, then looked away. You brought your hand to the side of his face so he’d face you again.
“I found that, in numerous studies that regarding sexual experiences and, uh, there was a study that found the more space that the partner of the person who had a negative sexual partner, the easier the survivor found ways to enjoy sex– in this particular study, all but one survivor/couple group was able to make sex enjoyable for their partner after their negative encounter, and all of them in some way credit the enjoyment to the creation of a space where consent can be expressed and explored frequently. A-all this is to say, I want you. Badly- I want you badly. But I was trying to implement a space where you could explore your own wants without feeling entrapped into a false consent. Basically, I wanted to give you your own time.” He nervously smiled, sheepish at his admittance of his secret project.
You felt your eyes fill with the familiar sting of tears. Spencer wasn’t avoiding you, he was building you your own comfort zone. Letting you come to him, taking the pressure off. You hadn’t realized it fully, but before your first conversation, you always felt this kind of.. Clock ticking. Something inside you telling you that if you didn’t give it up, and soon, Spencer would move on. He’d leave for someone easier, though he never gave you the indication that was true. But ever since the conversation, when you initiated intimacy in the way you did, kissing and holding, marking and whispering, the clock was off. There was no more ticking, no more deadline you felt you had to meet. Your actions were your own. Spencer never gave you any reason to think he wanted you to give it up, he was never desperate. Just willing. Just there for you, in every way he could.
“I…” You trailed off, your voice choking up as you smiled at him, a single tear dripping down your face. You’d never felt more cared for in your life. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you. I… I want you, Spencer. I want all of you, and I want to give you all of me. Penelope said something today… and she’s right. You’re different. You’re nothing like the people I knew, the people who hurt me. Spencer… will you sleep with me?”
Spencer smiled at you, and brought his hands from your hips to your hands. “Are you sure? Like I said, I’d wait forever-”
He was cut off by you crushing your mouth to his. You knew, you knew he’d wait forever, and hearing him say it made you want to do nothing more than jump his bones. His kindness had you dripping, his thoughtfulness its own kind of dirty talk. “Spencer, I’ve never been more sure in my life.” You wiped your face and smiled. “Now, get naked.”
…
Spencer’s hands flew to the buttons on his shirt, making quick work of it before he shrugged it off and threw it behind him. Your mouth watered at the sight of him. Lean and toned, with the faintest happy trail. You pressed kisses to his neck, making your way down his chest. You shimmied down his body until you were at a good enough position, and began to palm him through his pants. Spencer let out a broken gasp, and gripped the side of the couch till his knuckles turned white. Your hands went to his waistband, but before you could pull it down, he grabbed your hands. “Wait,” he simply said. You sat up, confused. He stood up, walked to face you, and picked you up bridal style.
You squealed, and he smiled. “If we’re doing this now, I want to be in our bed. I need to make sure you’re as comfortable as possible, and statistically-” you cut him off once more, by kissing him as he walked you to the room. He smiled and laid you on the bed. He climbed over you, straddling your hips and leaning down to kiss your neck. His mouth found the spot just behind your ear that made you sigh, one hand on the side of your head and the other holding your waist.
Spencer moved his kisses down your body until he got to the hem of your shirt, and grabbed onto it before looking at you with a question in his eyes. You smiled and nodded, and he smiled back. You sat up slightly so he could pull it off of your head, and when he sat back on his heels, all he could do was admire you. You hadn’t been wearing a bra, so you were bare in front of him. He’d seen your chest a couple of times before, but never like this. He was in awe, and bent down to place gentle, reverent kisses. He took one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking on it and swirling around it with his tongue, massaging the other with his hand. You moaned, and laced your hands in his hair and grasped hard. He nipped you slightly, and you writhed in pleasure.
Once he decided he couldn’t wait any longer, he moved away from your chest and moved to where you wanted him most. He settled his head between your thighs and gently massaged your legs. You looked at him, and felt a tremor of nervousness and excitement course through you. Ever so gently, he hooked his finger and pulled your shorts to the side. You had chosen a pair of flexible lounge shorts for your in-home coffee date with Penelope, and now you were thanking your lucky stars that you’d done so. He hadn’t pulled your panties aside as well, giving him an all-access look at the pool of wetness that marked your underwear. He breathed heavily in utter disbelief that you could feel this way about him. He licked a stripe up the spot and you moaned and wrapped his hair in your hands. He did it again, and again, licking and sucking until he could tease himself no more.
“Baby,” he panted, “Lift your hips, please.” You did as he asked, arching your back so he could slide your pants down. Along with them went your panties, and as soon as your legs were freed of the clothes, you were struck with another wave of nervousness. You had planted your hips back down, and before Spencer settled once more between your thighs, his eyes met yours. There was so much love in that look — complete adoration. You gave him a shy smile and nodded, and he smiled back. He moved back to the spot he was at, and paused, looking in complete infatuation at your core. You were wet, so wet to the point of nearly dripping.
“So beautiful… you’re so perfect.” He brushed a thumb across your clit, featherlight, and you whimpered into his touch. You squirmed, eager to get what you’d waited so long for. He laughed, before pressing a kiss to the very same spot. There was more pressure this time, and you moaned, pressing into him. He groaned in response, wanting nothing more than to please you. Holding back no longer, he began to eat you like you were the fruit of an oasis in the desert. He was starving, he was begging, and he held onto your thighs like any moment you might disappear.
You were in heaven, between the strong strokes of his tongue and the vibrations of his moans, you couldn’t believe you had waited this long.
“S-spence, ohmygod-” you ground yourself into him, chasing the release of the coil you felt building in your stomach. Spencer moved one of his hands to slip a finger inside of you, curling it so it hit the roof of your walls. You yelped, and your back arched. The pleasure was building, but there was something stopping you from reaching your release.
“I- I- Spence, I can’t.. I ah, can’t do ittt….” you whined, clenching your fists and pulling his hair.
“Shh, it’s okay.. You can do it… you can let go…” He added a second finger and moved a little faster, and you cried out. “Please baby, let go for me.. Please, come on my fingers. I’ve got you.”
The reassurance and added stimuli combined were just too much for you. When he stopped talking and went back to your clit, your vision went white and you saw stars. You came hard around his hand, body spasming and twitching as you sobbed. Spencer only moaned, determined to continue until you had fully ridden out your orgasm. Once he saw your body’s reactions slow, he kissed your clit gently and moved up to kiss you, not removing his fingers. They slowly pumped in and out of you, sticky and warm. “Hi, baby, you did so well.” Spencer said, kissing your face and your lips, while you began to come down from the intense high. You panted, looking at Spencer and seeing only complete adoration.
Even though you just had one of the most amazing orgasms of your life, you found yourself still unsated. Like he’d awoken a beast inside of you that screamed to be fed. You launched to bring your lips to his, and he startled for a moment before kissing you with the same fervor you had. He finally removed his fingers and brought his hands to your head. You could taste yourself on his tongue, and Spencer whimpered at the intensity of your connection. You rolled over, so you were straddling him. Spencer’s eyes went wide and his mouth gaped with a broken whine as you ground yourself onto his pronounced bulge, still trapped in his sweats. You cocked your head and smiled deviously. “Didn’t I tell you to get naked?”
Spencer felt a flurry of butterflies as you moved to the side, freeing his lap so he could take off his bottom layers. When he moved his boxers down his legs, his cock hit his stomach with a mouth-watering thud. His length was about as big as you’d assumed based on the print you had become familiar with over the months you’d been together, but seeing it now almost had you drooling. It was shiny, precum dripping down the length, weeping with intent. When his pants were on the floor, he grabbed the base of his cock, desperate to relieve some of the ache. You whined at the sight. You were sure you could get off to the sight of him touching himself in front of you, but that was a theory you’d test another day. You bent down, giving the head a kitten-lick, the salty taste of his precum tastier than you’d ever believed it could be. Spencer bit his lip and moaned, determined to make this last as long as possible, but quickly realizing that time was burning like kerosene. Quick, hot, hotter than in even his fantasies. And god, did he have fantasies. Before he knew what he was saying, words tumbled out of his mouth.
“I’ve thought about this so many times, you’re s-so pretty, “ he mumbled as you licked up his length once more. He bucked, sensitive and leaking still. “Y-you’re all I think about, all I wanna do is make you feel– oh fuck–,” He choked out as you took his length into your mouth as far as you could. Such a sweetheart, he was. You were ravenous, and began to suck him off, determined to make him feel as good as he made you feel. His hand dropped from the base of his cock and fisted the sheets beside him, the other hand instinctively coming to your hair.
He made no move to force your pace, just needing the contact with you to ground himself so he’d last any amount of time longer. “Oh my god, oh my god- fuck, y-you’re really –ngh– good at that,” He babbled, lost in the feeling of it. You pressed up with your tongue as you sucked, hollowing your cheeks. He already felt himself climbing to the edge of his orgasm. He twitched, and you knew he was close.
“W-wait, I’m- if- I’m gonna cum, y-you’re gonna make me-,” He let out something in between a moan and a sob, a broken cry as his hips stuttered. His cock pulsed, letting out warm spurts of salty cum into your mouth. You continued to stroke him as he came, swirling his head with your tongue. He came hard, whimpering with every continued motion. When you felt he’d finished, you pulled off with a pop! and swallowed in one quick motion. You bit back a gag, the taste and texture not quite appealing, but the action itself hot enough to ignore. Spencer panted where he sat, cock still not shrinking. Your eyes widened, and you smiled. He opened his eyes to look at you apologetically.
“I’m sorry, you just felt really really good, and you looked really good, and-” You cut him off once more.
“Shh, it’s okay. I knew you were close, I wanted to make you feel good.” You grinned at him and licked your lips. “Do you think… you’re able to go again..?”
Spencer let out a soft laugh and smiled, looking down at his still stiff erection. “I’d love to. Actually, I’m kind of surprised? Not surprised that I want to, but surprised at being able to so soon. Typically men 25 or younger have a minimum refractory period of 15 minutes, at least.” Spencer grasped his erection and gave it a quick stroke before let out a shuddering breath. “Still very sensitive, but I can definitely go again.”
Your eyes glinted as you laid on your back and opened your arms, beckoning him to climb atop you. He did so, embracing you as your legs wrapped around him. His cock pressed to your clit, still wet, and you melted into the feeling. He pulled back to look at you, and he paused.
“I love you. I’m so grateful I get to share this part of myself with you, and that you feel comfortable doing the same.” Your heart soared as you pressed your mouth to his in a gentle kiss.
“I love you. I’m grateful, too,” was all you said before looking down your body to see his erection pressed against your core, and you pulsed around nothing, needing to have him inside you. Spencer received your silent message and pulled back to sit on his heels. He grabbed his cock and aligned with your entrance. You met his gaze and nodded, and he began to slide in.
The stretch was addictive. Just a couple of his seven inches slid inside your aching hole and your back arched. There was a slight burn, filling you so perfectly. He drew soothing shapes onto your hips in reassurance. His head was tipped back in pleasure, in almost disbelief at your softness. You were so tight, it felt unbelievable. “So good, so perfect for me…” he whispered. He brought his head back to meet your gaze, your eyes glazed in pure pleasure. He pushed in slowly before bottoming out, both of you moaning in unison. You hadn’t felt this full or cared for in your life, and felt tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. Spencer waited just a moment before slowly, ever so slowly, pulling out. The drag along your insides had your eyes rolling back inside your head, and Spencer was biting his lip so hard he was worried it’d bleed. He didn’t stop though, the pain necessary to prevent him from getting lost in the pleasure and cumming right then. He pictured the first time you’d kissed him, grabbing him by his tie and pulling him in. He thought he was enamoured then. But now, as he thrust back into you and you moaned his name, he was on cloud nine. He pressed on your uterus as he thrust in, and you let out a guttural sound.
Spencer began to thrust faster, but with just as much intention as before. Just as you were drunk off the feeling of his cock, he was completely intoxicated by the feeling of being inside you. He was babbling and moaning, nonsense coming out of his mouth. How you smelt good, how good you felt, how lucky he was.
“I’m so lucky- you’re so mngh beautiful, so so perfect, feels so good… you’re so good, wanna be good for you, can’t believe you’re oh my– m-mine…” His words made you clench around his cock. It’s like his every move was magic, made to coax your orgasm from you. Every stroke was beckoning your climax, every moan he let out just for you. It was almost too much, but the final straw came when he folded you just to be closer.
He moved his hands and slid them underneath your thighs, using a gentle strength you didn’t really know he possessed to push them up. He folded you, ever so gently, into one of the meanest mating presses there was, and fucked you so deep you saw stars.
“Oh, god Spence, it’s so- s-so deep,” you exclaimed, feeling your orgasm creeping up on you.
“I know baby, I know,” he said, eyes shut tight, deep in concentration. He sped up now, using the new angle to try and brush against the spot that made you cry out with every thrust. “Touch yourself, angel, wanna m-make you cum,” he whimpered, opening his eyes to look at you with the sweetest puppy dog expression. You moaned at his words and reached down to circle your clit, and you knew it wouldn’t be long.
“S-spence, I’m close, s-so close,” you cried out, and Spencer continued to fuck into you like his life depended on it.
“P-please come, please come on my cock baby please,” Spencer babbled, his eyes now brimming with tears. His poor overstimulated cock begged to release, but he was determined to please you. His pleas were too much, the angle too deep, your clit buzzing with pleasure. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tsunami, making your legs tremor and shake. Your pussy drenched his cock, clenching around him like you’d never let him go, and Spencer cried out.
“Thankyouthankyouthankyou, oh god, oh god I’m gonna cum, you’re so good, f-feels too good,” Spencer moved to pull out but you grabbed his hand on your thigh and had him look at you. You shook your head, purposely tightening around him, dizzy in pleasure. His eyes widened, and you whined.
“Cum inside, please don’t pull out–” You went to beg for him to stay once more, but who was Spencer to deny you? His orgasm hit him like a train, and he felt himself release inside of you, warm and sticky and just too good. He felt tears run down his face. To you, he looked like the picture of beauty. His hair was disheveled and he was red, sweating. He panted as he rutted inside you, his crushing orgasm finally subsiding.
You both lay there a moment, Spencer letting your shaking legs down. You panted, letting yourselves come down. You wrapped your legs around Spencer, having him lay on you. He practically collapsed when he did so. His softening cock twitched inside you. You held him, and began to giggle. Just a little at first, and then uncontrollably. Soft laughs, and without really knowing why, Spencer joined you. You both lay there laughing, the picture of post-coital bliss.
After who knows how long, he finally lifted off of you to pull out. You felt the pressure change, then his release began to leak out of you.
“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll go grab a towel.” He stood up, and went to the closet outside your bedroom, then the bathroom to rinse it with warm water. You looked at his surprisingly sculpted ass as he left, smiling and giggling once more. When he returned, you were sleepy, and felt comforted by the warm washcloth cleaning you.
“You look so beautiful,” he whispered as he cleaned you, then handed you the pajama top he had grabbed on his way back in. “That was incredible…did you have a nice time?” He asked, gentle and kind, doing one final swipe with the rag on the bed just beneath you, though you’d still have to wash the sheets before you went to bed. Your heart melted at his thoughtfulness as you sat up to put on the top, which was really just one of his softer button ups you often wore to bed.
“I had the best time, Spencer. It was everything I’ve ever hoped for and more.” You smirked. “We should do it again.”
Spencer laughed and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Don’t tempt me. After the lack of a refractory period earlier, I’m both eager to and terrified to find out how many rounds I could consecutively ejaculate, and I just went flaccid.” You hummed, and brushed the hair from his face.
“Another time, then. Do you want to order some food? Indian, maybe?” You asked, and he gave you a look of pure adoration.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: spencer reid x fem!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.5k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: Angst, hallucinations, blood and injury, hurt with no comfort, but an open ending, so who knows, edited while stoned, any season spencer, but mentions of Emily and JJ and Rossi
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: He thinks he's too late. The warehouse is a labyrinth. The unsub is gone. And when he finally finds you, you're barely holding on—pale, bleeding, and looking at him like he's a ghost. Spencer Reid has solved impossible cases before. He's saved victims who had no right to survive. But this is different. This is you. And he's not sure he can survive losing the only person who ever made him believe in happy endings.
𝐚/𝐧: I've got @rebelfell to thank for this little gem because your WIP graveyard actually led to me finishing this, and also, of course, all my love to everyone who interacted with the snippets because that was the motivation I needed <3 (also I only realized after putting this together that I had already used that pic of spencer in my other angst fic but I can't be bothered to find another one cause I like this one so yeah sry)
When you open your eyes, you see Spencer.
It's the first thing that registers—not the cold leaching into your bones, not the fire in your wrists, not the salt-and-iron taste of blood in your mouth. His face hovers above yours, all anxious eyes and sharp cheekbones, a furrow between his brows that you want to smooth away with your thumb. For a moment, the pain recedes, pushed back by a wave of relief so immense it steals your breath.
He found me. He came.
But the relief curdles almost instantly, replaced by a colder, more clinical truth.
You're dying.
You have to be. This is the brain's final mercy, the last, desperate gift of a system shutting down: a vision of the one person who makes you feel safe. You've studied this phenomenon, read case studies of mountaineers who see their families in the snow, of soldiers who whisper their lovers' names before the darkness takes them. The mind, in its infinite kindness, builds a bridge between here and nowhere, and populates it with the faces it loves best.
Of course yours would choose him. Not your mother, not the friends you've left behind, but Spencer—with his nervous hands and his brilliant mind and the way he always looks at you like you're a puzzle he's desperate to solve. He's the last thing your brain wants to see. The last thing it's letting you have.
This is how it ends, you think. Not with a bang, not with a scream, but with a lie. A beautiful, merciful lie wearing Spencer Reid's face.
He's saying something—his lips moving fast, the way they do when he's spiralling, when he's run three steps ahead of everyone else and can't slow down long enough to explain. You know that rhythm. You've watched him pace hotel rooms with that same frantic cadence, his hands gesturing at invisible diagrams, his words tumbling over each other like he's afraid they'll escape him if he doesn't get them out fast enough. But now, the words are muffled, distant, like you're hearing him from underwater, or through a wall, or from the wrong side of a dream you're already slipping out of.
His hand reaches for your face, and you almost laugh. A hallucination that touches you? That's new. Cruel, even. Your subconscious has never been this creative before—never this precise in its cruelty. It's one thing to see him. It's another thing entirely to watch his fingers trace the air between you like he's afraid you'll shatter.
Then his fingers brush your cheek.
Warm. Calloused. Impossibly real.
The sob you've been holding back cracks loose in your chest—a sound so raw and broken you barely recognize it as your own. It tears out of you like something that's been clawing at the inside of your ribs for hours, days, a lifetime. Every wall you've built, every careful detachment you've practiced, every clinical observation you've filed away—it all crumbles the second his skin meets yours.
"No," you rasp. Or maybe you just think it. Your throat feels shredded, raw from screaming—hours ago or minutes ago or maybe still. Time stopped making sense the second they threw you into this room, the second the door locked behind you and you realized no one knew where you were. "No, you're not—you can't be—"
He's already cutting through the ropes around your wrists. You feel the sawing motion—the blade of his pocket knife, you realize, the one he always carries, the one you've teased him about more times than you can count—and the rough fibres biting deeper into your raw skin before they finally fall away. Your arms drop like dead weight, the blood rushing back in pins and needles so sharp it makes you gasp. He catches you before you can hit the floor, his touch steadier than his voice, his thumbs pressing gently into the inside of your wrists where you'd feel your pulse if you had the strength to feel anything at all.
"I'm here." His voice breaks through the static, clearer now. Desperate. The kind of desperate you've only ever heard in his voice when he's talking about a case he couldn't solve—when the unsub slipped through their fingers, when a victim didn't make it, when he stayed up three nights running the numbers and still came up empty. "Look at me. I'm right here. I've got you."
His eyes are searching yours, that familiar intensity—the one that always made you feel like you were the most important thing in the room, in the world, in his entire sprawling, brilliant mind.
You want to believe him. God, you want to. Every inch of you is screaming at you to grab onto his voice, his warmth, his impossible presence and never let go. To let yourself fall into the safety of his hands and pretend the last however-many-hours didn't happen.
But the darkness is pulling at the edges of your vision—not sudden, not violent, but patient. Insistent. The way a tide pulls at a drowning person who's finally stopped fighting.
But here's the thing about lies—sometimes they feel true enough to hold onto. Sometimes they're all you have left.
"Hold on," he says, and you've never heard Spencer Reid sound like this—like he's the one falling apart. Like he needs you to be okay more than he's ever needed anything in his entire life. More than he needed to solve his first case, more than he needed to prove himself, more than he's ever needed air or sleep or the answer to a question that's been eating him alive. "Please, just hold on. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I let them take you. I should've been faster. I should've—"
His voice cracks, splinters, and you realize with a dull, distant ache that he's crying.
You've seen Spencer Reid cry exactly twice—once when a victim's mother broke down in front of him, and once when he thought no one was watching, staring at a photograph of someone he couldn't save. You'd never imagined you'd be the reason. You'd never imagined he'd sound like this—like the world was ending and he was the only one who knew it.
You try to lift your hand to his face. Just to touch him. Just to feel the sharp line of his jaw, the warmth of his skin, the proof that he's real even if you can't quite believe it anymore. But your fingers won't cooperate. They feel heavy, distant, like they belong to someone else—like they're already packing up and leaving, checking out of a body that's decided it's done fighting. So you just look at him. At the blood on his collar that isn't his. At the way his hands shake as he checks your pulse—two fingers pressing into your wrist, searching for a rhythm you're not sure is still there—and your pupils, and the cut on your temple that you'd almost forgotten about.
He's checking for a concussion, you think, and the clinical detachment of it almost makes you smile. Of course he is. Even now, even like this, he's running through the protocols. He's cataloguing my injuries. He's trying to save me the way he saves everyone—with his brain, with his hands, with every piece of knowledge he's ever crammed into that beautiful, impossible head.
But you can feel the fight leaving you, seeping out through the wounds you can't see, through the blood you can feel pooling beneath you, through the exhaustion that's been building for hours—days—a lifetime. It's not a violent surrender. It's quieter than that. It's the way a candle flickers before it goes out, the way a song fades at the very end, the way a breath leaves your lungs and you realize you don't have the strength to pull another one in.
You try to keep your eyes on him—on the panic in his brows, the way his mouth keeps moving like he's reciting something, a prayer or a passage or maybe just your name over and over. You watch the words form on his lips, watch them stumble and break and reform, the fear in his eyes, the desperation, the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the universe that matters—it's almost too much to bear. It's almost worth dying for, just to know you were loved like this.
But your eyelids are so heavy. Heavier than the ropes ever were. Heavier than the weight of everything you've been carrying, everything you've been pretending wasn't slowly crushing you.
You could fight it. You know you could—if you tried hard enough, if you clawed your way back to the surface, if you let his voice be the thing that pulled you up. But you're so tired. Tired in a way that goes beyond your body, beyond the pain and the cold and the blood. Tired in a way that feels like it's been building your whole life, like you've been running toward this moment and didn't even know it.
Just a moment, you tell yourself. Just one moment to rest. I'll open my eyes again. I'll fight. I just need—just one moment.
So you let them drift closed, and you let yourself pretend. Just for a moment. Just until the light goes all the way out.
Spencer feels you go limp in his arms, and the world stops.
Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. It stops—the way a heart stops when the electricity cuts out. One second there's noise, chaos, the distant echo of Emily's voice barking orders through the comms, the flicker of fluorescent lights overhead, the acrid smell of concrete and rust and blood. The next, there's nothing but the terrifying, suffocating stillness of your body going slack against him. Heavy. Too heavy. The weight of someone who's no longer holding themselves up, no longer fighting, no longer there in the way that matters.
"No," you hear him say, but it's distant now, like you're already halfway somewhere else—already crossing a threshold he can't follow you through. "No, no, no—stay with me. Please. You have to stay with me. Please."
He shakes you gently, then harder, his fingers finding your pulse point like a lifeline—pressing into the side of your neck with a desperation that borders on frantic. He's done this a thousand times. A thousand victims, a thousand assessments, a thousand clinical observations filed away without a tremor. But this is different. This is you. And his hands are shaking so badly he can barely find the right spot.
It's there. Faint, thready, but there.
He almost sobs with relief. Almost. The sound catches in his throat, strangles itself before it can escape, because there's no time for relief. There's no time for anything except the next heartbeat, the next breath, the next second of you still being here.
"Help!" His voice tears out of him, raw and desperate, ragged at the edges in a way he's never heard before. It doesn't sound like him. It sounds like someone who's already lost everything and is just now realizing it. "I need help in here! Now!"
He can hear boots pounding against concrete somewhere in the distance. Rossi's voice, calm and clipped, coordinating the response. JJ shouting something about the ambulance. The crackle of radio static. But none of it matters. None of it reaches him. All that exists is the space between your heartbeats and the terrifying weight of your head against his shoulder, your hair tangled beneath his fingers, your skin cooling against his palms.
He presses two fingers to the side of your neck again. Counting. Always counting. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand—
Your pulse stutters.
A beat. Then nothing. Then another beat, weaker than the last.
No.
"Spencer—" someone says. JJ. Her hand is on his shoulder, warm and grounding, but Spencer can't look away from your face. Too pale. Too still. Your lips are tinged with blue, and there's blood—so much blood—seeping through his fingers where he's pressing against the wound he can't even see, the one he's terrified is the one that matters.
"She's crashing," he hears himself say, and his voice sounds hollow, clinical, like he's reading an autopsy report for a stranger. Like he's already detached himself from the reality of what's happening because if he feels it—if he lets himself feel the weight of you slipping away—he'll shatter into pieces too small to put back together. "Her pulse is weak and irregular. She's lost too much blood. She needs a hospital now or she's going to—"
He can't finish the sentence. The word die lodges in his throat like broken glass, cutting him from the inside out. He can't say it. He can't even think it, because thinking it makes it real, and if it's real, then there's a version of the future where you don't exist, and that version isn't one he can survive.
"Ambulance is one minute out," Rossi says, and Spencer nods, numb, pulling you closer even though he knows he shouldn't move you, even though every rational part of his brain is screaming about spinal precautions and haemorrhage control and all the protocols he's memorized and taught and followed for years.
He doesn't care. He'll take the risk. He'll take all the risks. He'll spend the rest of his life making deals with a god he doesn't believe in if it means you open your eyes again.
"Come on," he whispers, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice breaking on every syllable. "Come on, you're not done. You're not done fighting. You can't be done—not yet—not when I haven't—"
He stops himself. Swallows. His eyes burn, but he doesn't let the tears fall—not yet, not while there's still a chance, not while he can still feel the faint flutter of your pulse beneath his fingers.
Not when I haven't told you.
The thought hits him like a bullet, sharp and devastating. All the words he's been too afraid to say, all the confessions he's buried and the careful distance he's maintained because losing you felt inevitable—but not like this. Never like this. He always imagined he'd have more time. That he'd find the right moment, the perfect words, the courage to look you in the eye and tell you that you're the only thing that's ever made sense to him. That you're the reason he gets up in the morning, the reason he fights, the reason he believes in something bigger than the darkness.
He never imagined he'd be holding you while you slipped away, begging you to stay while the words he should have said died on his tongue.
"One minute," he says again, like a mantra, like a prayer. He's not sure if he's talking to you or to himself. "Just one minute. You can hold on for one minute. You're the strongest person I know—you've survived worse than this—you've survived everything—"
His voice cracks again, and he presses his lips to your forehead, desperate and trembling. "Please. Please don't leave me. I can't—I can't do this without you. I don't want to do this without you."
OR — when chan meets his boiling point after your relationship is leaked, boundaries are crossed, and your wellbeing is on the line. nobody fucks with his baby.
idolbf!chan x girlfriend!reader
word count: 6.4k
content: fluff, fulfilling ending, mild angst (worries of forced breakup), angry leader mode chan, relationship is leaked and internet makes big deal of idols in love, reader is shoved around and touched in public, chan doubts himself A LOT, reader’s protection comes first, skinship (chan’s way of knowing reader his okay) lack of protection from security so chan takes things into his own hands, reader is hurt to the head, very very angry chan, eating food, chan kisses reader in between eating
author’s note: wrote up on this anon’s request, thank you so much for requesting! took a few creative liberties hope you don’t mind! writing this got me thinking about how chan deserves domestic life where he can do as he pleases without scrutiny :’) this was made with love and tender care as always <3
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That feeling when you know the good streak is going to end soon. The suspicion that things are going too well. Chan felt it in his trainee days every time he got closer to success before being pushed back. He feels it when the day goes too perfectly in the studio and rehearsal, all for Chan to feel a sickness overtake him or one of the boys. He feels it in the sound of joy and the feeling that pairs with it, followed by the dread of knowing this high will wane off.
That dread followed him into sleep, and was only bated by the girl who he took into his arms each night.
Chan had once found comfort in the sound of an airplane engine from the inside seating. It meant he was doing something new, being somewhere new and exciting. Getting to see the world and explore what it had to offer was his specialty.
All that fills his stomach is that familiar dread. He finds himself wanting to hide from the world, because as of right now, you've fallen victim to his lifestyle.
Staff had informed Chan when the plane was refueling for the journey from Seoul to Milan of something out of nightmare. Of all the things that staff could've informed Chan of, he would've rather preferred that all of the luggage was lost in transit to the loading station.
They'd tried to be as calm and placating as possible, he'll give staff that. Not that Chan is easily angered so long as something can be resolved with communication. However, when he saw the look on their faces, it was all over.
You were on the plane, curled up in your seat in a cocoon of a throw blanket and his black distressed hoodie. Peaceful, an image of bliss with the hood drawn up over your face.
Staff had handed him a phone. Said phone had a simple picture. If it was a third party viewing, they'd have no idea what they were seeing. However, Chan knew better. That picture was taken from a strange angle, perverse and unbeknownst to the two subjects in the photo. A high angle from something like a building or a parking complex. Those subjects were you and Chan, a snapshot taken hours earlier when you and Chan were coming out of the company van before boarding.
It was unmistakably Chan in that photo, it couldn't be hidden. His blonde fringe was peaking out of his black Chrome Hearts beanie. There was a lack of people aside from staff and you-- sweet and innocuous to the photo as you clamber out of the van behind him. Empty handed, and Chan holding your carry on with a small Wolf-Chan keychain hanging off the zipper.
Worst of all, he's holding your hand. His eyes are forward, a small content look on his face. You look all sleepy and lax. It's such a simple action, barely anything that anyone should care for. But suddenly, your hand in his feels like the end of the world.
Not for him, but for you. Which you may never recover.
It's a dark photo. It's pixelated and rough and it still had Chan's heart sinking to stomach in such a fast decline, he'd rushed to the bathroom to dry heave over the bowl. He's thankful that Fendi had provided Chan with a private jet for Fashion Week. Chan doesn't know if he could've handled any more prying eyes than the one's on the internet who must've been dissecting that picture.
When he'd come back from the bathroom, and down the aisle to his seat, staff is already looking at him. He rubbed his clammy palms on his sweatpants and reclined in his seat. He hates the look on their faces, equal parts pity and "I knew this was a bad idea". Love was never a bad idea when it came to you.
You, who is still sleeping soundly. Who won’t wake up until Chan says so, to let you keep as much peace to yourself as possible.
You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve any of what is waiting after this flight.
That was hours ago. And naturally, Chan has been a ticking time bomb with his head in his hand against the armrest of his seat. He couldn’t work on his beats. Music was just a reminder of why he was in this situation in the first place. That was the cruelty of being an idol, a suffering he never thought he’d feel.
Chan yearned for love for so long, and you fell into his lap like a blessing. Would it be taken away? Would the damage be too much to mend?
The jet is landed on the private strip, but there’s a week ahead of him with interactions and paparazzi. There’s fans and detractors. News outlets and media and messages and—
“Sweetheart…? We’re landed.” Be a leader. Do it for her. Be her brave man.
Chan’s voice tries to coax you away, running a crooked finger over your cheek. That was something constant, his comfort. He’d never give that up, he felt he was doing something right in this moment of strife in his mind. He pulls the hood back of your, no, his hoodie and watches your eyes go back and forth under your eyelids before they crack open to the harsh interior lighting.
It makes his chest hurt and his throat ache. You’re too peaceful for the news he’s about to don on you.
“Hey…” you whisper, voice all tired and rasped with sleep. Chan smiles lopsided, a boyish grin that wavers at the corners of his mouth. Be brave.
“Sleeping beauty… All good?”
“All good…”
God, he feels like the biggest bastard on planet Earth. Does someone have information on you by now? Are there netizens wishing ill upon you? Do they even know who you are, maybe someone found your private socials. What if they found your family, your job—
“Channie…? Are you good?”
You’d sat more upright while Chan’s eyes turned vacant and distant, like he was looking past you. He realizes his smile is vanished, the tips of his ears feel hot and pounding with the rush of blood. And if there’s one thing Chan isn’t, it’s a liar. He can be cheeky. He can tease. But this? This isn’t something he can shield you from. And that terrifies him to his bones.
You repeat his name again, more serious as you say “Chris?” and put a hand over his. He’s shaking like he’s been left in sub-zero temperature. But his temperature feels hot and clammy.
The sound of staff unloading his and your carry ons is like white noise. He feels like his clothes are touching him funny. His knee is bouncing a bit. And you’re still looking at him with those heartbreakingly soft eyes.
Your eyes look to staff, men and women who refuse to meet eyes with you. And that speaks volumes. Something’s wrong, they just carry on as if they know this behavior of Chan’s will take a minute to recoup. Your hand finds his, remembering an off-time something similar to this happened before.
Chan had come off stage after a performance and just slumped against you. Shaking. Vacant eyes, like now. Like if he didn’t focus on breathing, he’d forget how.
So, there you go. Taking his hand into his and rubbing soothingly.
“Hey, hey… Chris, look at me… Breathe, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
You tell him to breathe, and Chan feels like it suddenly becomes harder. Because you can see he’s a wreck. You’re not supposed to see him like this, he’s supposed to take care of you, of everyone. He nods, hurried and childish, his eyes looking down at your hand. You said, “I’m not going anywhere”, but Chan doesn’t know if that’ll ring true in a few hours.
It’s just you and him, he ignores the sound of staff talking about him and what they should do with the situation in low voiced Korean.
“Chris… Talk to me, what happened?”
You’re such a sweetheart. Sweetheart. He knew he chose right in giving you that nickname years ago. You loved the Australian lilt in the way he said it, and he loved the way it made you permanent in his life. You’re so fucking sweet, you don’t even think for a second that something utterly terrible just happened.
Chan takes a deep breath, lungs filling and deflating in a few seconds. Rattling. How does he say this to you? How does he tell you that for the first time in his life, he might fail in protecting someone he loves? His voice comes out weaker than he expects it to, like a wince.
“There’s… they found out.”
He’s met with silence. A soft murmur from staff pretending to busy themselves with cleaning out the jet cabin. They’re really just making sure Chan doesn’t pass out on them.
You stop that sweeping motion of your thumb over his hand. He feels when you squeeze his hand for a millisecond. Such a sweetheart— you don’t need him to explain. Not when you’ve had conversations like this before. “Finding out”. It made it sound like the love that you both shared was something wrong. Illicit. Perverse.
Chan watches that fear spark in your face. He knows all your little tells, because now you’re not even looking at his own face anymore. But in a miracle from above, that little sweeping motion of your thumb starts up again. You’re comforting him.
“Alright… Okay, um… H-How did they… Walk me through it.”
He blinks twice. You’re an insane and stupidly amazing woman. He almost wants to laugh. He could’ve told you the sky was falling and you’d just… ask for the prognosis?
“Someone, um… took a, uh… a picture. At the airport, in the back lot… Staff is trying to trace the person back, um… Y-You can’t really see you very well, but I am holding your hands and luggage, which someone is totally going to research and stalk into—”
You coughed a laugh. A beautiful sound bubbling out of you that gives Chan a reprieve from his turmoil. A few heads of staff look at you warily. His eyes narrow, roving over you as a nervous, grimaced smile appears on his face.
“I’m sorry?” he says, voice cracking at the end.
“N-No, I’m… I’m sorry, even… Even when our relationship is leaked… you’re putting yourself first.”
“Don’t. Don’t start, sweetheart.”
Chan knows where you’re going with this, and you still sit upright all noble and so damn wonderful.
“You remember the first time we talked about this?”
How could he not? You’d been dating for 3 months, but Chan had already knew it was serious. Something built and crafted carefully to last. He wasn’t letting you get away. You were so insane, waking up at all sorts of odd hours to walk with him when the boys were asleep after he’d brainstormed some lyrics or instrumentals.
You’d walk side by side to the Han River. The city was quiet and lit up with city lights on the horizon that looked like stars reflected back on the water. He’d told you being with him wouldn’t be easy. Loving him wouldn’t be easy, was what he wanted to say.
You’d looked up at him like he’d said the dumbest thing ever, and said a cheesy line about “not wanting it if it’s easy”.
Chan grinned all square and dimpled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head to assuage his nerves. He’d then told you that he’d have to treat you like a secret. That he couldn’t love you as freely as he wanted, but he wanted you nonetheless. Told you he knew it wasn’t fair and he understood if you wanted a way out.
You’d flicked his nose and called him stupid. You said you knew what you got yourself into the moment that he said he was an idol. You made it clear in your little declaration that you weren’t going anywhere when you said jokingly, staring into the dark water of the river, “Someone will have to pry you from my cold, dead hands”.
Smitten. Absolutely in love with you. He knew you were serious, that’s how you loved. With pure intentions and strength.
So as he looks upon you now, and you ask him if he remembers the terms you’d both set up, the mutual understanding of how this would all go? He nods. A bit shy for even thinking you’d turn away and cower from this. You duck your head a bit to meet his gaze and smile when he averts his eyes again.
“Yes, this is scary. Believe me, Channie, I’m… I’m really scared right now—”
“Please don’t be scared, sweetheart.”
“Channie. Listen.”
That quiets him. Lips faltering for a rebuttal to quell you. He doesn’t like the thought of you being in fear. But he listens anyhow, even with the underlying discomfort.
“I’m scared right now. This very… finite moment. I told you I knew what I was getting into… It was bound to happen, okay? A-And yeah, we didn’t get to announce on our own terms, but… It feels kind of freeing, doesn’t it? Liberating.”
You truly are insane. Any other sane person would be hyperventilating at the idea of millions knowing of their relationship. Something seen as “taboo” in the industry yet here you are again. Calling the murder of your livelihood liberating.
Chan shakes his head, already tasking for the worst. “The second we get back home, I… I can’t even begin to prepare you for the shitstorm that’s on its way.”
“I know, Channie…”
“The company, I-I’ll— I’ll work this out over the week here, they’ll issue a statement, they’ll say I was just helping a staff member out of the van in the picture— We’ll be okay, you’re okay… Sweetheart, I can’t lose you.”
Chan is a rambling mess and you see his face turn a bit pink. His brain is picking through every worst scenario to prepare for it. He doesn’t even want to check his phone to see what people are saying about you. People claiming to be Stays wishing the worst for you. For him.
“You’re not losing me, I’m not going—”
“You can’t promise that. Not when… Not when they might force us apart.”
He’s not talking about distance people behind a screen. He means the company. Chan’s seen it his fair share of times before, and while Chan is more than welcome to date under his contract… This could get messy. What if the boys are dragged into this? If people started blaming his Kids for menial things, what if his relationship with you breaks their careers?
He studied your silent face. That familiar, pensive look. His clever girl, he knows it all too well. It’s the same face when you’re figuring out a board game with him, or deciphering the layers of music on his laptop when he shows you his proud work.
“No one has that power over us.”
Simple words. Chan swears his breathing stops for a moment before he releases it with a desperate whisper of your name.
“Sweetheart, I… I can barely protect myself in this situation…”
“Let me protect us for once… I-I can’t talk to masses or… your company, but let me fight for us. I’m not letting you slip away,” you whisper into his skin as your lips come down onto his cheek, pulling back to see a small determination in Chan’s eyes.
Staff alerts him that they have ten minutes of personal time left before it’s time to go to claim luggage and head to the hotel. Right, the Fashion Week event. He was allowed to invite you with him, even if you couldn’t be seen with him. Or next to him. Or talk to him.
It all felt like an even bigger slight against you. Sweetheart, darling girl, who he wants to declare his love from the rooftops.
Chan’s eyes meet yours, and you give him your signature, beautiful yet halfhearted smile. You’re trying to soothe him; and damn you, it’s working a bit. Even if it’s just a fraction. All he can do is endure. That’s what he does best.
He takes opens his backpack from under his seat, pulling out a medical grade disposable mask. His fingers ghost your skin as he places the loops around your ears securely. Even concealed like this he’d recognize you from a mile away. You say nothing as he tugs your hood back over your head, cupping the back gently with small little scratches.
“Just look forward. Don’t talk to anyone. Security should be around you, you’ll be behind me. If… If anything happens that makes you uncomfortable, say my name. I don’t care, baby, just… It’ll be fast. Customs. Bags. Van. Hotel. We’ll work it out there, yeah?”
A hastily formulated plan that is utterly him. Diagnostic.
A your lips tighten into a thin line before you exhale off nerves and exhaustion.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
“I love you.”
Chan’s declaration is sudden and whispered. Like staff doesn’t deserve to hear it right now, his private tender moment. He doesn’t know why he says it other than the feeling that it fit right into the moment. You bring his knuckles up to your lips. A promise. You’ll be okay.
“I love you, Chris… I’ll be close by. Don’t worry about me.”
—
A shit show. Chan is familiar with those.
The first thing he sees through the glass after going through customs was a swarm of paparazzi, press, and fans welcoming him for the weeks ahead. Nothing out of the ordinary, just another airport arrival.
No, the problem was when you were spotted. And fuck, he’d forgotten that hoodie you were wearing was his.
Amidst the snapping of camera shutters and flashes, his heart is racing. He’s glad he too is wearing a mask on the lower half of his face, or you’d see how distraught he really was. Under the fabric of his tank top, his heart feels like it’s going to fly out of his chest.
Focus. Walk in silence. Make sure you’re safe.
The second thing Chan notices is that there’s more people than usual. Or maybe the walls of the airport in Milan are more narrow than he remembers. The provided security of four men suddenly seems like nothing. He does the math as he walks when his bags are handed to him:
You’re about 6 people away, tailing behind between staff and security. Don’t get distracted. I know you like sweets sweetheart, don’t look at the treats in the shops. God, I’ll buy you all the sweets you want when we’re at the hotel. Run you a bath and decompress to forget about this. Twenty minutes to the hotel, a ride should already be waiting.
The sound of people is louder. And the second Chan turns the corner and a guard opens the double doors of frosted glass, his heart sinks.
Cameras are naturally always on Chan. But for today especially, he wants them gone. Lenses, smartphones, all of it. Video equipment with recordings. A woman comes awfully close, to which he politely nods his head and continues walking.
More people swarm and he sees phones before he sees actual people. Security does their best to ward off these people, but he notices that with the amount of foot traffic, their entourage is moving slower. The sounds, the questions, the voices all grow more and more over time.
“Chris—”
His head is turned in a heartbeat. He doesn’t care if he makes a fool of himself, he’s stopped dead in his tracks and looking back for you with a bobbing head. His body is jostled by the movements of the tight fit, the arms of security banding away the swathes of onlookers.
Your head is down. You’re trying to move but you can’t. And someone has the audacity to grab at you by the arm? He’s cutting through his own people, ignoring how cameras are shoved into his face, ignoring how there’s so many bodies surrounding him as well. You’re being tossed around like nothing, a few phones trying to duck under your head, and Chan is with you in a millisecond.
“Don’t touch people, please,” he grits out as he forms a barrier between you and the people on your right side. Great. The crowd is held up, naturally as people wanted to convene to Chan. He has to add the formality of “please” as an afterthought. You’d want him to be polite. It’d be a meltdown if he said what he really wanted to.
What he wants to do is smack the phones out of every hand here and tuck you into his arms, walking out like a normal boyfriend would. He can’t afford that. Instead, his hand is ushered with a splayed palm between your shoulder blades. If Chan presses a bit into you to guide you further, he can feel the tension of your muscles.
The clamor of people asking him if this is staff or the “girl from the picture” irritates him to no end. Security was told by Chan himself to corral around you, not him. And for heavens sake, can someone figure out a way from this tight squeeze of a crowd?
Someone’s arm extends with a camera to catch a picture of Chan, and— SMACK! Right against the side of your head. The movement causes you to hiss in pain and fall into Chan. He watches your eyes squeeze shut and your eyebrows pinch in pain. And he’s seething.
“Absolutely not— We’re not gonna do that,” he mumbles under his breath as he gives a disapproving look to the man who is the culprit. His hand reaches out, rings on his fingers and all and shoves the camera lens away a bit roughly. It’s probably a thousand dollar camera lens, but you’re worth so much more. He can deal with the aftermath of that later.
I wanna smack that punk. Can I smack someone? Would you be okay with that? Probably not…
He’s then nodding a head to security to corral the man off. He keeps a tight arm around you, fingers itching to cradle your head to his chest. But he’s already doing so much, a display of affection would only make things descend further.
Nosy, mindless chatter about why Chan is being so protective of you. As if that should matter. He’d do that for any of the people around him. Instead, all that people care of is if this is his partner, either wanted to sneer or pry a glimpse into her.
Another hand reaches out with a phone and Chan doesn’t even think twice before wrapping an arm around your shoulder to shield you. It’s a bit forceful, and he’ll apologize profusely later, but it pulls you into his side. Chan mumbles a curse under his mask and his eyebrows turn taught together.
The motion of moving bodies in the cluster is much easier to maneuver now that they can pass through an opening directed by staff and security. He doesn’t look at you, but he keeps a steady hand on you. So much for laying low, but he could just stand by and let you get hurt.
The second the two of you get into the van that was sent outside of the airport, staff helping you in and loading luggage, he doesn’t say anything. He didn’t even stop for a photo-op. He doesn’t reply when staff asks if he wants water. White noise, an annoying pinching in the back of his ear.
And when the van is out of view, blacked out windows and all— Only then does he fuss over you, throwing off his mask.
He unbuckles his seatbelt, sliding across the back seat and hold you to him. Clammy hands cupping your face like a precious treasure. Your eyes frazzled and in shock, and it makes him whisper your name thrice into your hairline like a restoring prayer.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry— I was a total caveman back there, I had to grab you before anyone hurt you… You’re hurt aren’t you, from the cunt with the camera? Lemme see—”
Faster than the words can come out of him, Chan’s taking your mask off with gentle precision, but as fast as he can. Your hair is all mused when he draws back your hoodie, like a sleepy creature. But a few seconds ago you were just prey thrown into the den. He’s rifling his hands through your scalp, trying to see if you’ve got signs of bruising or bleeding where heavy equipment once stunned you.
“Tell me if it hurts— Fuck, fuck this shit. ‘M fucking pissed right now, sweetheart. I swear, if even a hair is missing here, I’m having words with everyone. Do you feel lightheaded… Can I get some water up here please?”
You look dazed, even with his soft touch, and Chan can’t tell if you’re going to sleep again or burst into a fit of nervous tears.
“Hey, hey, hey— Don’t do that, please— Talk to me, sweetheart.”
He brings his hands back down to cradle the sides of your face, keeping your eyes on him. That must’ve been intense and scary for you, he can’t even begin to imagine what’s going on in your head. You eventually clasp your hands over his wrists and let your forehead fall onto his shoulder, which makes Chan sigh in relief. At least you’re willing to be touched by him.
He slides his hands slowly up under the hoodie, under your shirt, to touch your bare skin. You’re safe. You’re okay. He doesn’t know if those internal words affirm him or you.
You lean into him, pressing your forehead into his neck. “I’m tired.”
“I know, my sweet girl… I’m sorry…”
“Don’t apologize,” you whisper, lips pressed into his neck and trailing down to his shoulder as you rest your cheek flat. Chan feels your breath over his skin. Evened out and calm, though a bit stilted.
“This is on me.” So quick to blame, he shakes his head and closes his eyes, holding you tighter and smoothing his hands over your spine.
“On you…? Because someone took a picture when you couldn’t control it?”
“I wish I could.”
“But you can’t, Channie…”
And he knows that all too well. His perfectionism consumes him sometimes, it bleeds into your relationship. Never touching you, but seeping into the ways that he can shelter you from the public.
Not like a secret. But something sacred in the profane of his eclectic life.
But he can’t. Simple words from you always feel the strongest, like he’s seeing the world in a whole new light. Like you’re some wise sage.
You’re not this unattainable being who’s out of his grasp. You’re right here. In front of him, with raucous laughter in a crowd that’s as contagious as your smile. Animals come to you in the street, and you immediately bend down to coo and pet. You have a way of looking at the world that proves to Chan that good things are all around.
He can’t do it perfectly, but he’ll try. Try his damn hardest to protect you even more, starting with talking to the company once you’re both home again.
Chan pulls back with pitiful eyes, smoothing his hands carefully over your head as they slide out from your clothes.
“Are you sure you’re not hurt…? You took a hit, hm? Sweet, brave girl…” Chan says as he smacks a kiss firmly onto your hairline. You hum and nod your head, just reminding yourself that no one’s taking him from you. Not a messy breakup through a company mandated NDA. Not a public statement. Not through apologizing to upset fans for being in love.
You look up at him and see every reason why you fell in love with him in the first place. His tact and grit. The concern and worry in his eyes. His soothing touch. How he loves with his whole chest.
“I-I had a welcome dinner for the event, but… Honestly, fuck that right now… I’ll send someone to represent me. You need me more— I need you.”
The van drives over bumps and cracks in the road, and it sways you against Chan. A small noise breaks in his throat and he wraps his arms around you, chin atop your head as the ride continues to the hotel.
—
Staying in the hotel room with you meant a complete detachment from any obligation that wasn’t… well, just you.
Fendi brand representatives were more than understanding of the situation, offering a box of sweets to send up to the room as temporary remedial support. You’d thought it was silly, a third party apologizing for something that wasn’t due to them.
You still accepted the box of pastries and cake, though.
Chan ran you a nice bath, as he’d promised to himself for you, sitting on the closed toilet lid and tracing his fingers over your back. He didn’t want to take his hands off you, not without thinking of the hands that were on you prior. Chan’s index runs down the back of your arm, where someone had attempted to pull you in that crowd.
You’ve got your knees tucked up to you, a plethora of lavender scented suds in the porcelain basin. Chan’s hands rake through your scalp to check for damage one last time before helping you dry off in a fluffy robe.
When it was Chan’s turn in the shower to clear his head, all he could think of was what to do with his anger. Letting the hot spray of water hit over him while you were probably lazing on the bed no doubt. You wouldn’t want him to hold onto his anger, but he couldn’t help it. When he was stripping to take his shower he was looking through all the buzz around you and him.
Photos from the airport. Saying Chan had a “meltdown”. Deep dives into who you might be, analyzing every minuscule detail to signs that you were always lingering under their noses. A clip of you getting hit in the head with the camera makes him want to gnaw on drywall until his teeth turn to sawdust.
He saunters out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, phone in hand and wet strands of blonde hair clinging to his forehead. Just as he presumed, you’re flipping through the room service menu, splayed out like a cloud.
You smile and turn a bit sheepish when you see his appearance. That lack of clothing that never fails to disarm you. He pushes his wet hair away from his forehead, and it sticks up in wild directions. Biting your lip, you singsong a “Hey, handsome.”
The tips of his ears turn red, but he just stares at you. Eyes darkened and expression sullen. Tired. Maybe it was the hot water, but you know he’s still thinking of earlier. How could he not?
“No updates from me. They don’t get a lick of a word from me for a while.”
Bubble. It sounds silly, but you know that’s the best punishment Chan can offer. It sends a message… or in this case, a lack thereof. You snort and sit upright, musing, “You’re doing the whole “punish-the-entire-class-for-three-people’s-wrongdoings” shtick, huh?”
The corners of his lips quirk upright, a dimple craters his face. “I mean it. This was an overstep. You know how much I hate that shit, baby…”
Chan huffs as he throws himself onto the bed, purring like a cat as he feels your nails rake up and down his skin. He closes his eyes, sighing the tension out of his body. His cheek is pressed against his folded forearms as he speaks.
“Sent some messages. People need to learn… Told them off a bit, took my picture down—”
“Your profile picture?” you interrupt, a small laugh escaping you as he frowns.
“It’s the best I can do without completely losing it on everyone.”
“Okay… okay, what’d you say in your messages?”
Chan opens his eyes and looks up at you, grunting as he sits up on his elbows to give you his phone. He was already in the Bubble app when he’d come out of the bathroom:
🫧 260223
🐺: It does not matter if I am with staff, a friend, the kids, a lover, etc. You do not behave like this. These people know who they are. You should know better, and it pains me to have to write this.
🐺: On a personal level, leave the people around me alone ffs. You’re here for the kids and I, not to push around the people in our lives. Do not write editorials on the people I hold dear to my heart. Don’t say bad things about my loved ones lol. I know them and you don’t.
🐺: My choices. My decisions. Accept them or don’t bother being a fan.
🐺: Diabolical.
🐺: Don’t stick your camera right in my face
🐺: Respect boundaries please
You look up from the phone and Chan isn’t looking at you anymore. Like he’s mulling over the thought of saying more on the messages. He pinches the lobe of his ear and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
“As for you… I’ve already emailed the company. We’ll announce it properly that you’re my—”
“Christopher, are you serious—?”
“—That you’re the love of my life… You’re mine, and you’ve been mine, and this whole day has been insane, but I don’t want… I don’t want peace if it isn’t with you.”
Stunned to silence. This is a major step in his career, in his life. But it was bound to happen, even if it wasn’t on your own terms. He watches your mouth flounder for words and sits up on his elbows again, taking your hand in his.
“Sweetheart… You’re not some dirty secret, you never were… You’re not illicit, you’re mine. I’m tired of hiding the things I’m proud of. You’ve every piece of me, yeah? The ones that no one sees. They’ve just been for each other,” Chan leans against the headboard and brings your hand over his chest, your touch feeling how erratic his heart is beating. He’s just as nervous as you are, even when he’s taking the lead.
Your eyes soften, throat feeling a bit tight with emotion. “What if… What if it goes bad…?”
“Then it goes bad.”
You laugh, a bit of a wet sound now that glossy tears are starting to pool in your eyes. He smiles so delicately, closing his eyes as he gives you slow popcorn kisses on your cheek to make you feel better.
“I learned that from a girl once. She’s amazing. She taught me that sometimes things are out of my control.”
“She sounds badass.”
Chan grins, a hand cupping the back of your neck as he watches you wipe salty tears from your eyes in closed fists. “She is. And I’m gonna tell the whole world about her. But… there’s a few things I’m keeping private.”
His nose brushes yours as he chases your eyes for contact. You feel your face heats with his intensity. How does he still manage to look at you like you’re the only woman on planet Earth?
“What would that be, Christopher…?”
“Oh, it’s Christopher again now, is it?”
He playfully kisses under your jaw and brings you down to play with him on the bed, keeping his arms tethered around you as you writhe from the tickling of his wet hair on your face.
“Keeping these moments private. When I have you to myself… Just like this," he mumbles against your skin, breathing in the smell of your skin and expelling warm breath against it. You always smell like something fresh to him. Something cozy and intimate that he can't put into words. "They'll know you as my girlfriend. It'll be official. And Stay can get off my ass about me being lonely... Let's order some food, yeah? Think I finally built up an appetite."
The remainder of the night is spent with the hotel curtains drawn at the balcony. Ordering whatever sounds most appetizing on the room service menu, and cozying up next to each other while trying to figure out how the TV channels work.
All he's ever wanted is for your ultimate happiness. Sometimes factors of life get in the way of that, but you're a constant. His Kids are a constant.
Chan watches you happily munch on a burger on the bed, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Pets your head a little before puckering his plush lips to kiss you on yours mid chew, much to your chagrin as you groan and pull away. He takes a bite of a pizza slice.
"Channie, 'm eating..."
"Okay? Swallow and kiss me."
"That's what she said."
"Minx..."
You finish your bite and turn your head properly, looking up at him with expectant wide eyes. It makes Chan want to squish your face until your eyes pop out. Cuteness aggression.
Instead he leans in a bit, closes his eyes, and brings a hand under your chin to direct your lips onto his. In his mind, he thinks there's nothing more perfect than this, and that's coming from the master perfectionist. He trusts that you enjoy this longing kiss as much as he does when your lips move against his.
A small sound escapes him, like pure want. He pulls back before it goes any further and he swipes all this food away so he can satiate his other hunger.
“You’re incredible,” he breathes out, shaking his head as if he can’t believe you’re his. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger and you don’t even realize it. You just cozy back into his side and continue to eat, watching stupid infomercials and snuggling against him.
Chan’s arm comes over your shoulder and stays. Pulling you closer, like he can fuse into you.
This is the best he can do. Chan’s nervous for the future, as he often is. But with you feeling like this against him, it’s an exciting kind of nervous. What was that word you’d said— liberating. You’re always right, aren’t you?
New terrain is exciting. Even if it terrifies him. Because you’re not going anywhere, even if he’s haunted by the prospect of seeing people come and go from his life. He knows you’re the one that locked him down.
No obligations for the week ahead. He’ll go through his ambassador work. Take some interviews and pictures, an editorial video. And at night, in the late hour of Milan, that’s when he’ll come alive. He’s going to take you to that small restaurant you wanted to go to so bad. To see architecture and cobbled streets in golden lamppost light.
Chan burrows his nose into your damp hair, whispers a sweet nothing, and closes his eyes. You’re the peace he strived for. Even when it comes with a storm, he’ll chase it away.
a/n: i was gonna write something cute about chan helping y/n move because i am moving and i wish i had Big Strong Man to help me but this turned into a whole lot of pussy eating and not a lot of packing and moving. warnings: y/n has a pussy, weird caveman jokes, oral sex, MDNI. 1k.
“we ran out of tape!” you hear a call from the kitchen, muffled by the cardboard your head is currently surrounded by. you’re halfway inside a box, patting down newspaper so you can create a cushion for your carefully curated collection of mugs to sit on so they don’t break in transport.
“the fuck we did,” you grumble, annoyance and a flash of panic rising up as you dust your hands off and make your way over to chan. “we just bought some yesterday, don’t tell me we forgot it in the cart-“
you cut yourself off when you see chan holding a full roll of packing tape on one finger, a teasing smile on his face.
“kidding,” he laughs, setting the tape down to walk towards you. “got ya.”
“you just had to mess with me while i was working,” you roll your eyes but accept when he turns you around to lean you against the empty kitchen counter. “did you accomplish your goal of being one annoyance closer to me murdering you and taking the insurance money to hire movers?”
“no, but i did accomplish my goal of getting your attention,” he leans into your space, pressing you up further into the countertop. “you’re working too hard, baby. take a break.”
“i just need to get one more box done, then-“ the rest of your sentence is muffled by the palm of his hand and you make angry eye contact with him above his wrist. it’s the only thing you can do to retaliate, since he doesn’t get grossed out if you lick his hand and gets weirdly turned on if you bite it.
“box later,” he insists, pulling his hand away to tame a stray lock of your hair down against our head. “lunch now. hungry.”
“and he’s reduced to caveman speech,” you give in easily when you feel the weariness of your muscles sink in. it is easy to ignore when you are busy, but with the languid comfort that comes with his weight pressed against yours it draws your attention.
“would a caveman do this?” he leans in the rest of the way and presses his lips to yours in a slow, gentle kiss, letting his breath out into a sigh against your mouth. he squeezes his hands against your hips and lifts, and your center of gravity shifts as you’re placed on top of the counter.
“that’s exactly what a caveman would do, i think,” you say, breaking the kiss to thunk your head against the cabinet behind you. you can see his brain working to produce a witty comeback by the way his eyes narrow, but he must lose the fight with his own intelligence because he sinks to his knees a moment later without a word.
“i think cavemen like snacks,” he leans his head against your thigh and plays with the waistband of your shorts with his hands, looking up at you through his dark eyelashes. “does my food consent to a little pre-lunch sample?”
“as long as we can let this metaphor go, you can do whatever you want,” you feign nonchalance but your heartbeat is picking up, crescendoing into a racing pace when he manages to wiggle your shorts and underwear off of you.
you would go into the semantics of your bare ass on the kitchen counter being unhygienic, but you’re moving out tomorrow and soon that’ll be someone else’s problem. hopefully the new tenant bleaches everything.
he noses at your folds, unhurried and curious like he’s discovering something for the first time. when his tongue darts out to taste you, you’re almost embarrassed by the whine that leaves your throat without permission. really, you shouldn’t be so effected by such a simple touch, but you both have been too busy with packing the last few weeks to do anything other than unsatisfying quickies in the shower and it’s left you restless.
your breath hitches when he grabs your thighs and pushes your legs further apart. his next lick is harder, more of his tongue reaching out to draw a broad stroke between your hole and your clit. your hips jerk when his teeth graze against your skin and a small gush of slick escapes as you clench around nothing.
“the snack talks back,” he smirks, using two of his fingers to spread the wetness around. he teases at your entrance, and chokes on a gasp when your hands fly to his hair to press his face against your core.
“oh my god, shut up,” you loosen your grip when he gets the message and starts sucking at your clit, meaningfully this time instead of whatever he was doing before while thinking of some weird prehistoric era joke. he dips his fingers into you, crooking his fingers and making shallow thrusts that light up your nerve endings. fuck, this will be over too soon with the way you’re reacting.
you let go of his hair to cover your mouth as you start panting along with the pulsing in your pussy, and he whines into you pitifully. you’re not sure if it’s because he wants you to pull on his hair or because he wants to hear you, but he relaxes when your hand fists back into his curls.
“fuuuuuck, baby,” your hips are moving in minute jerks and you can feel the familiar burning heat spread through your core as your orgasm builds. you twitch one last time as it finally snaps, and your walls pulse desperately around his fingers as he eats you through it. your legs close around his ears as you come, your vision blacking out for a moment in response to his enthusiastic licking and sucking.
you relax your legs and push him away once the pleasure sparks into overstimulation, electricity crackling against a fine line between good and too much. he stays for a few seconds longer, stubborn in his desire to clean you up and hear you whimper, before falling back into his heels.
his face is glistening with your slick, his lips are red and swollen and he looks so satisfied with himself that you’re abruptly annoyed again.
“don’t say it,” you warn, the fear you wanted to instill dulled by the lethargy in your voice. “whatever stupid joke you’re going to say, keep it in your head.”
“i wasn’t going to say anything,” he protests, the mirth in his eyes revealing that he was, in fact, going to say something. “wait, but i’m actually hungry. let’s order takeout?”
spencer reid x reader
description: you and spencer wake up in the morning feeling needy
wc: 1.1k
a/n: im gonna cry, cringe, hide, and everything in between
It was finally Wednesday. The day you were waiting for because for the first in a while, Spencer didn't have to go to the bureau. Across his bedroom, the early morning sun shined softly through the blinds, casting long golden lines across his face.
The apartment was really quiet, the faint hum of the city waking up, and the steady, comforting sound of Spencer's breathing beside you. He was still fast asleep, his long frame curled slightly toward you and his slender arm around your body. His face was like a painting structured by Johannes Vermeer.
You shifted slightly, trying not to wake him, but the movement caused his grip to tighten. A low hum rumbled in his chest and his eyes fluttered open. His eyes met yours, blinking sleepily before a warm, lazy smile spread across his face.
"Good morning," he murmured, his voice thick and raspy from sleep. He leaned forward, pressing a soft, warm kiss on your forehead. "Morning," you whispered, tracing the line of his jaw. "Did you sleep well?"
"Always do when you're here," he said, his hand sliding beneath the covers to rest against the bare skin of your hip. His long fingers were warm, sending a shiver down your spine. The heat of his body was intoxicating. He shifted closer and you could feel the hard on of his morning wood pressed against your thigh.
Spencer notices your breath catch and his smile turns into something cocky. He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.
"You smell so good," he whispered, his lips brushing against your sensitive skin, making you gasp lightly. "Can we stay like this for a while? I don't go back to work until tomorrow."
"That sounds perfect," you breathed, arching your neck to give him better access. His grip on your hip tightens to pull you against him. He took his time, his lips tracing a sweet path from your adam's apple to your shoulder.
Spencer slid over you, his tall, lean body settling perfectly between your thighs. The heavy duvet covered you both like a cocoon as he looked down at you, completely mesmerized.
"You are so beautiful in the morning," he murmured, his voice full of quiet awe. He pinned your hands above your head, his long fingers intertwining with yours, holding them gently against the mattress.
With his free hand, he reached down between your bodies. You parted your legs further for him, a soft whine escaping your lips as his long. slender fingers brushed against your center, finding you already warm and slick. He stroked you slowly, his thumb tracing your length in a careful perfect rhythm that had your hips instantly twitching upward.
"Spencer.." you gasped, your eyes fluttering shut.
When you opened your eyes, he was watching you with pure devotion. He slid two fingers inside you, his long reach hitting exactly the right spots that you can't even reach. He began a slow, rocking motion, his thumb maintaining enough friction.
The contrast of the cool morning air outside the blanket and the intense, building heat beneath it was overwhelming. Spencer's pace was not rushed, but precise enough to push you right to the edge. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps as you chased his touch.
"You're so, so sweet," Spencer praised softly, leaning down to capture your boob in his mouth as his fingers moved faster inside you. You squeezed around him, completely helpless against the rhythm he was setting.
The tension broke suddenly, a sharp wave of pleasure came over you. You arched into him, a muffled cry from you echoes in the silence of the morning, your body trembling beneath his. Spencer held you in his other arm, his fingers slowing to a gentle, soothing touch as you rode out the intense afterglow.
Before you could fully catch your breath, Spencer shifted, aligning his hips with yours. He was panting slightly, his forehead resting against yours. "I need to be inside you," he choked out.
He was kneeling in front of you, undoing the tie of his red plaid pajamas. Spencer pulls his pjs down along with his purple briefs.
At this point, you were gawking at him. He notices you staring and brings your chin up using his pointer finger to make eye contact with you.
Spencer leans down and kisses your forehead softly, but his slow movements were torturing you because you really wanted him.
He guides himself to your entrance and pushes forward slowly. You let out a high, breathless cry at the sudden fullness, your hands finding their way to his neck. Spencer groaned, burying his face in your shoulder as he began to move, his strokes long and deep.
The friction was perfect, the slickness from your release made every movement effortless. He rocked against you with a steady, intoxicating moment. His hands sliding down to your thighs to push it towards your shoulders and the angle change was so surreal.
"Oh fuck," you squeaked out from the sudden change. You felt your arousal coating him and the vivid image of that in your head only made you more wetter.
Every thrust sent a new bolt of electricity straight to your core, pulling you right back up towards another peak. "Spencer, oh my god," you cried out, your fingers moving up to your body, holding onto your boobs to pinch and twist it.
"I've got you, I've got you," he chanted, his voice raw and breathless. His movements started losing precision and turning into pure need. He hit your sweet spot repeatedly, driving you completely over the edge for the second time. As your muscles clamped down around him in a tight, pulsing climax, Spencer let out a soft whimper. He gave a few more, deep, desperate thrusts before pulling out and finishing on your stomach.
The bedroom was silent again, except for the sound of your synchronized, heavy breathing. He reaches for the wet wipes on his nightstand and wipes himself off you while also cleaning you up.
Your hips twitched at the cold, soft material. After he cleaned himself, Spencer collapsed softly against you, careful to not put all his weight on you and his heart hammering wildly against your chest. He stayed with you for a while, lazily kissing your jaw, your cheeks, and your lips.
Finally, he rolled onto his side, pulled you against his chest, and wrapped the duvet tight around you both. The tweeting of the birds hum put the two of you back to slumber. And if you wake up sore, he'll gladly make up for it.
spencer reid x pre-school teacher!reader
description: the fbi visits your classroom for the day and your students are very interested
wc: 1.2k
Preschool mornings have chaotic energy. It's a hustle of finger paint, missing shoes, and fifteen 4 year olds trying to talk at the same time.
You get used to mess, being a preschool teacher. But today, the energy in the room shifts completely when the heavy wooden door swings open, and a tall man in a slightly rumpled suit steps inside.
He looks entirely out of place among the mini plastic chairs and colored alphabet rugs. He's clutching a leather satchel and his hazel eyes wide as he takes in the vibrant noisy room. Behind him stands Penelope Garcia, beaming in a bright green blazer, practically buzzing with excitement.
"Hi, everyone!" Garcia sings out, waving out her hands enthusiastically. "We're from the FBI!" A collective "ooooh" from the kids makes you smile.
You stand up, brushing a stray speck of yellow glitter off your dress, and smile. "Welcome! Class, this is Miss Garcia and Special Agent Reid. They're here for Career Day to tell us how they help keep people safe."
Spencer clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looks down at a stack of flashcards in his hand. "Uh, actually, Miss Garcia is a Technical Analyst, not a field agent. And my title is Supervisory Special Agent, though-"
"He's a super-brain spy, kids," Garcia cuts in smoothly, throwing an affectionate arm around Spencer's shoulders. "And he's very excited to be here."
Spencer flushes, his eyes darting to you. "Uh.. yes. I brought visual aids."
You can't help the soft laugh that escapes you. "Well, Agent Reid, the floor is yours. Why don't you sit right here?" You gesture to the only available seat near the font - a bright yellow plastic chair.
Spencer stares at the tiny chair for a long second. You can practically see his brain calculating how his six foot one frame is going to fit. With extreme care, he folds his long legs and you bring a fist against your mouth to prevent from spilling out a laugh.
A little boy named Clyde scoots closer to him. "Mister policeman," You're quick to gently remind your students to call adults using their appropriate title names.
"Clyde, his name is Agent Reid, I think he would rather be called that." You bend down to meet his height. Spencer's hand touches your shoulder and it startles you a bit.
"I'm so sorry for scaring you, but it's totally fine," he says your name, keeping his stare on you for a bit before Penelope clears her throat. You stand up and move to the side to let him guide the class.
"Go ahead, Clyde." Spencer smiles at him, his hands clasped together as he leaned towards him. You were certain he was going to fall off the tiny chair if he moved even a little bit closer.
"What does FBI mean?" His little hands going up to his face, squishing his cheeks upwards that made it more chubby than it actually is. "FBI means the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was actually founded in 1908 by Attorney General Charles Bonaparte. What's more interesting is he was the grandnephew of Napoleon. Bonaparte."
You intervene gently, hoping you weren't being rude to interrupt his question and answering moment. You offer Spencer a sympathetic smile before talking to him. "They might want to hear a little bit about what you do everyday, Spencer. In kids terms, just to make it easier for them to understand."
Spencer blinks, his eyes locking onto yours. The look of panic from his furrowed eyebrows melts into something softer at your comforting tone. He swallows hard and nods.
He puts his flashcards away in his satchel. "Well, my job is like solving a big puzzle. Imagine you come into the classroom and someone took the goldfish crackers. I look at the clues left behind, it could be crumbs on the table or a footprint in the sandbox. To figure out who took it, I use my brain to help people who are lost or scared."
A little girl with pigtails raised her hand. "Mister policeman, do you have a badge?"
"I do." Spencer carefully pulls his FBI credentials from his jacket pocket, holding it out. A dozen tiny hands instantly reach out to poke the gold seal. He doesn't pull away, instead a smile forms on his face as he watches their eyes light up with wonder and excitement.
"Do you a carry a juice box in your bag?" another child asks, pointing to his satchel. "No, mostly books and case files," Spencer replies, his voice drops to a gentle tone he gets when he's comfortable. "But did you know that reading books actually changes the way your brain works? It creates new pathways, which makes you better at solving puzzles."
For the next twenty minutes, Spencer completely captivates the room. He manages to explain behavioral analysis through the lens of sharing toys and understanding feelings. Garcia watches from the back, leaning against the cubbies with a soft, knowing smirk on her face as she looks between you and Spencer.
When it's time for them to go, the children groan in unison. "Alright, friends, let's give a big thanks to Agent Reid and Miss Garcia," you lead, and the classroom erupts into a chorus of high-pitched thank yous.
"Thank you Mister Policeman and Miss Garcia!" Even though you said 'Agent Reid', they still called him that.
Spencer awkwardly but carefully lifts himself out of the tiny chair, smoothing down his tie. Garcia gives you a quick, warm hug. "You are an angel for handling this many tiny humans daily. I'm leaving Spencer's card on your desk. For.. legal verification of our visit. Obviously." She winks, entirely unsubtle, and heads for the door.
He stands still behind you, his satchel slung over his shoulder. He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit you've quickly learned to recognize.
"You were amazing with them," you say, stepping closer to him. "Not many people can switch from serial killer statistics to a goldfish cracker concept that quickly."
Spencer's cheeks turn red again, a soft smile turns up at his lips. "Thank you. I was significantly more intimidated by them. They're unpredictable, but you're incredible at what you do. The patience and emotional intelligence required to manage a classroom of this development stage is amazing."
'Well, it helps when I have FBI agents dropping by to assist," you tease softly. Spencer's breath catches slightly, his eyes dropping to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes. "I, uh.. Garcia wasn't lying about the card. It has my personal cell phone number on the back. In case you have any follow up questions about federal law enforcement or... anything else."
"I might just have a few questions." you give him a warm smile. He gives you a small smile, his dimples showing. "I look forward to answering them."
With one last look, he turns and walks out the door, tripping slightly over a plastic building block on his way out. He recovers with a quick embarrassed wave. You watch him go, walking back to your desk to put away the card in your purse and heading towards the front of the classroom to see your kids giving you cheeky smiles.
I'VE NEVER BEEN A NATURAL ── .✦liaison!prentiss!reader x spencer reid
summary: Your first month working with your older sister's team goes about as well as you expected—there's betrayal in their eyes, professional stolidity in yours, and a gaping Emily Prentiss shaped hole you'll never fill.
contents: 4.2k words, fem!reader, you are Emily Prentiss' baby sister, hints of mommy issues, no physical descriptors or use of y/n, you're like old money prissy vibes though, suspicious and distrusting reader, Erin Strauss cameo, intro fic.
a/n: WELCOME TO LIAISON!PRENTISS!READER!!!! sorry it took so long I was turning this fic over and over and over until I finally decided ENOUGGHHHH just post it. Nothing really happens, they barely even interact sorry about that lol. I just needed to get it out otherwise it's going to rot forever in my drafts. Next fic is outlined though and it's got more action and rivalry I promise. gif by @reidgif
series masterlist
The bullpen is quiet when you enter. Your heels—four inch stilettos beause you have standards, of course—echo off the linoleum floors before tapering off into a dull silence when you stop in the middle of the empty room, head swiveling from one end to the other.
Your previous assessment turns out to be wrong—the bullpen is empty.
It isn't that you're expecting fanfare when you arrive, but total solitude feels too pointed. A planned statement without a single word uttered.
Elizabeth Prentiss had it drilled in your head that clothes and grooming are the first things people notice about someone, the first shot at making an impression and controlling people's perceptions. It's a lesson you've taken to heart. Not a single hair out of place, shoes gleaming, makeup minimal. Every single inch of you screams effort and maintenance. You are burnished stone, shiny and always ready to face a crowd.
It's all a little embarrassing to be dressed to the nines, and have no audience.
You glance at your phone. Check the date, the time—all correct. You're here earlier than required, but not enough to enter a room without a single soul to greet you. You resist the urge to frown, though the suspicion keeps ringing in your ear. This isn't worth getting wrinkles over, not yet. One phone call to the Section Chief should clarify this—though you think it's way too early in the day to be dealing with Erin Strauss, and you loathe the thought of seeming incompetent—so you swipe through your contacts for her number.
"Oh my gosh, you're here!" a voice comes from your right, too bright and loud for such an hour. "I mean, they said we're getting a transfer, but you're a little early and–oh, this must be so confusing. Hi, I'm Penelope Garcia."
Thank god. You do not want to call Erin first thing in the morning like some sort of lost child seeking comfort from a parent.
A flurry of colors enter your peripheral, and you pocket your phone as you turn. Penelope Garcia. She's tall, click clacking in her stilettos—a vivid pink that matches her lips, quite a stark contrast to your sleek navy ones—and wearing an outfit that would probably get a memo if she didn't work in a department that tends to bypass the smaller bureaucratic rules.
"Hi, Penelope." you muster up some warmth and smile back at your savior. "I can see why the BAU needed me to transfer this year." you gesture around the empty room.
She laughs, and the expression seems to complete her entire look. Vivacious and bright, like sunshine slanting through windows in the spring.
"Oh, you have jokes. We're gonna get along very well. No, the team flew to Colorado last night on an active case."
"I wasn't informed of that."
"I'm sorry, that was supposed to be my job, but it slipped my mind with everything else happening." she ushers you to the staircase, talking a mile a minute. "You get your own office, of course, as the new liaison. It hasn't been cleaned out since JJ became an official profiler— both Hotch and I have our own offices—we filled in the position for time being, but Hotch wants to be more present for his son, and I really can't do it anymore, not with the other tech analyst stuff. So now you're here! We'll have to get the name on this nameplate replaced, of course, and oh my god I totally haven't let you introduce yourself yet."
Your smile falters slightly, but Penelope is too busy rattling the old doorknob to notice. Introductions. Yes. Normally, you carry your name like an honor, volunteer those facts with pride, but the circumstances here are… complicated.
"Don't tell anyone, but I was trying to open your file, but you're like, super secret for some reason. Usually Agent Strauss tells us who the new agent is, but for you it's all sealed." she adds.
For good reason. The door finally opens, releasing a muted scent of must and old paper. Your nose wrinkles in disgust, but you follow Penelope inside without complaint. It's dark and moody, even after she flicks on the light, filled with boxes of old files, probably archival cases. Jennifer Jareau's nameplate sits on the table, covered with a thin layer of dust, and you get an odd sense of intrusion.
You shouldn't be here. You don't belong here. Emily kept it secret from you for a reason and you should keep it that way.
"So, mystery agent, to what name are we changing the sign outside?"
It's almost cartoonish, the consecutive expressions on her face once you finally say your name. Once she catches that damning word—Prentiss. It's a gradual shift, a slow blink of incomprehension, before the similarity registers, her pretty eyes widening in realization. And then, confusion. It would've been funny if you weren't on the receiving end of it.
Penelope Garcia wears every emotion clear as perfectly polished glass. You file that thought away for later.
"Yes, that Prentiss."
You're prepared for it. Have a script memorized for any questions. It doesn't even offend you when Penelope laughs, disbelieving and shrill.
"She never told us she had a… a sister?"
"Emily does have a habit of keeping secrets, doesn't she?" you say lightly, a feeble attempt at humor even though the words feel like nettles clawing up your throat.
Penelope blanches, deflates, and it's an interesting thing to witness, like watching the sun get blocked by a large cloud in real time and feeling the subsequent shade. She flounders, hands waving vaguely by her side, clearly unsure of what to do, how to handle this information that's been unceremoniously dumped upon her.
"How… why?" She finally manages, a fragile whisper drifting in that dusty room. "Who else knows?"
You blink, considering. The answers to that lies with Emily, but you can make guesses. And Penelope's line of questions isn't outright hostile, which is good. You can work with curiosity. That's easy to win over, though no less dangerous. Penelope isn't all cotton candy and rainbows, of that you're certain.
"She's the only person who can answer that." You shrug, and your smile is only slightly strained. "I think Agent Hotchner knows, but I'm not sure and he's not here to confirm."
Penelope nods, taking it all in with a crease between her perfectly plucked brows. "That's… right, of course. Um, so this is your office and—"
She's cut off by a phone call, the identical tune that's programmed into every federal-issued phone. You both reach into your pockets in unison, but it's Penelope who has to answer.
"Garcia… Yes sir," she smiles apologetically and angles her body away.
For the second time today, you feel like you're intruding. Almost like a kid playing dress up, strategically choosing an outfit that excudes confidence and respectability, only for everything to be too big. You smooth your hands over your blazer to reassure yourself it's not the case. It's tailored to perfection, hugging the curve of your waist and flaring slightly at the hips, snug without being inappropriate.
Still, your stomach turns as Garcia murmurs into her phone. You swivel, focusing your attention to the table, running your fingers over the files stacked on a neat pile and pretend not to hear. Penelope's voice is lowered, but she doesn't leave the room, so you really can't be faulted if you catch snippets—murmurs of she just arrived and I'll send it as soon as I can.
"Duty calls?" you say after she says goodbye, glancing over your shoulder.
Penelope nods. "Yes. Unfortunately. But Hotch says you can shadow me while they're gone. I can brief you on the case, if you want?"
Shadowing someone when you're a fully competent agent with a long list of credentials should feel like an insult, a slight to your skills. Maybe if it came from someone else, it would land that way, but Penelope just sounds genuine and slightly nervous.
So you nod. "Lead the way."
You did not expect to spend your first few days in solitude, nor did you expect to be summoned by the Section Chief not even a week into your transfer, yet here you are.
Erin Strauss' office is almost identical to your mother's. Well lit and perfectly kept, with a shelf of impressive books just behind the expensive reclining chair. Credentials framed and hanging proudly on the walls. Upon her desk lays a nameplate bearing her name and title, a telephone, and a neat stack of folders perfectly aligned. A cursory glance tells you nothing of her life outside the Bureau, no pictures of her family, of friends, none of the colorful trinkets that litter Penelope Garcia's office.
Impersonal. Perfectly contained and professional, just like your mother's.
It makes you feel even more on edge.
Your mother's offices, whether it's stationed at home, or across Europe, or the Middle East, were always a place to keep your guard up. There is no telling what invisible flaw will catch Elizabeth Prentiss' keen eyes, or earn her clipped, mildly disproving tone of voice. The Section Chief's office carries the same atmosphere.
In that regard, you feel like you've been trained all your life to face the likes of Erin Strauss.
Poised in your pantsuit and heels, you face her like she's another journalist asking for a statement. Polite neutrality, lips curled in the lightest hint of a smile.
"How are you finding the BAU, Agent Prentiss?" If the familiarity of the name bears any ill feeling, Erin Strauss doesn't show it.
"Well enough, there's really nothing of note so far."
She tilts her head, waiting for more.
"Ma'am, my transfer occurred while they're all on an active case in Colorado. There's not much else to tell you, unless you want to hear about how I've spent the last three days cleaning out Agent Jareau's old office."
Her lips thin, unamused. "I would have hoped you'd made yourself more useful. Your last unit chief sung praises about your initiative."
"I've helped Penelope Garcia contain the online panic, and looked through Facebook—"
"Facebook?"
"Part of the background check." You smile. "I've been helping the team from behind the scenes as much as I can, which is ironic considering my job is to be their public facing representative."
Her shoulders draw back, almost imperceptibly, but you catch it. You always do. Noticing these things come like breathing to you by now. You do not know the section chief well enough to put a name to this shift, but your instincts, honed by years of people watching, tell you Erin Strauss is an administrative agent first and foremost.
Read: she values agents who will play along, who move within the red tape.
Meaning, that straightening of her posture is her offense materializing, and she thinks your comment, no matter how carefully worded it may be, isn't as innocuous as you'd tried to make it sound.
"But I'm learning a lot of valuable insights from Agent Garcia." you add quickly, hoping the save is satisfactory.
"Such as?"
Such as they don't trust you. At all. At least, the few agents who know of your existence—Hotch, who you've only talked to on the phone, and Garcia, who is kind but acts skittish when there are lulls in the case and she's forced to socialize with you. You can't blame either of them, considering your identity, and the circumstances of your abrupt transfer. Fuck's sake, who assigns a new agent to a team while they are in an entirely different state?
None of this had been your fault. You've been caught by the red tape too—you'd requested this transfer last year, when Emily still worked with the team, but for whatever reason, they delayed and kept you stuck in the California office. Your mother had warned you about that—she had less sway in the west coast—but at the time, all you had wanted was to get as far away from the Prentiss legacy as you can.
But the BAU is too busy to care about specifics. And even if they weren't, you know the wound is still too fresh. Emily coming and going—dying, but surprise! not really— carrying secrets the whole time.
Terrorists. Espionage. You.
No, you definitely don't blame the team for their distrust.
But Section Chief Strauss is looking for an answer, and that feels too personal to divulge.
"Such as the growing degree of these new social media websites in relation to serial killing. Platforms like Facebook and Twitter make it easier to map victimology, track social circles and routines. So many people volunteer the information online, in ways that would take investigators week to uncover decades ago." you reply instead, deliberately keeping the topic about work.
"That can't be all you're learning from this."
You resist the urge to sigh. "Not necessarily, but a victim's social media presence offers access to a lot of things. I'm not learning anything necessarily; I'm helping out. Garcia's workload is only going to increase with all these new websites, after all."
"Interesting." But Erin Strauss sounds the complete opposite of interested. The word slips out absentminded. Unimpressed.
Your ears prick at that sound. The slow drag of syllables, the flat tone. You've heard it one too many times; in your world, it indicates the beginning of criticism. What you could improve, how poorly you're doing. For a fleeting moment, Erin Strauss morphs into your mom and suddenly you're sixteen and sobbing from anxiety.
You blink. Clear your throat. The woman in front of you is not your mother, and you fixate on the graying strands of Strauss' hair, silver melting into blonde, to keep your focus.
She's waiting for something; people in positions like to do this—drop hints, let the silence stew until it grows so unbearable the subordinate slips. Talks without an objective and stumbles into whatever is needed from them. A secret? A confession, maybe?
You can tell Erin Strauss is good at this game. Has the patience and cool authority to circle around it, stare you down for hours, if necessary. Unfortunately for her, your job is quite literally meant for this.
"Very interesting indeed, ma'am." You smile, syrupy and bright.
She gives up. "Has anyone mentioned Agent Prentiss?"
Ah. A name, then, and perhaps a story attached. No matter where you go, Prentiss carries a significance.
Your smile doesn't waver, though your brows furrow innocently, projecting a sense of confusion. You aren't above taking advantage of these social dynamics; Director Strauss clearly relishes in her power, though she would never flex it explicitly.
"Nothing beyond the usual surprise, though I must reiterate they're on an active case, and I haven't met the rest of the BAU yet. Besides, Emily has transferred, I don't understand why she's relevant to my work with this team." You say, blinking like a helpless baby deer.
She makes a sound that's half sigh, half groan. Director Strauss' next words are careful, but impatient, as if she's speaking to a dolt. "She's relevant because this unit has experienced difficulties regarding… personal loyalties."
There it is. It is easy to ignore the borderline patronizing tone that colors her voice when she plays right into your hand and reveals information like this. Personal loyalties? What on earth could that mean? Beyond what happened with Doyle, had Emily done anything else? Had the other members?
"And you're making sure I won't become another one?"
Strauss says nothing, but that's answer enough. So this team is loyal, perhaps to a fault, but Strauss isn't just worried about that—she wants to information. About the team. Perhaps from a fresh set of eyes.
You could almost respect it, if she'd say it outright.
"By all means, ma'am, be blunt and tell me what exactly you're looking for so I can give you better answers the next time you decide to check in." you say.
Erin Strauss looks caught, both by your audacity, and the unexpected call out. Her mouth parts, then clamps shut, a little like a fish, before her gaze sharpens like steel.
"I am not looking for anything."
"My apologies, then. For a moment, I was worried you got the wrong sister. Emily's the one trained in espionage, not me."
You wait for the subsequent chill, for the air to grow cold. Instead, Erin Strauss huffs, frustrated but… amused.
"You're just like you're sister."
You bite back a smile. Better Emily than your mother.
"Most people seem to mean that as a criticism."
For the first time since entering the office, Strauss' mouth twitches into something resembling a smile. "Merely an observation. And maybe a warning—your name inevitably carries assumptions, agent. This team might embrace you for it, but that loyalty usually comes at a cost."
The team does their best to welcome you, considering the circumstances. At their arrival, there's confusion and betrayal stitched into their very being, stiffening their handshakes and freezing their cheeks so their smiles never quite reach their eyes. It's all so awkward you find yourself thinking Strauss is wrong—your family name isn't making them embrace you. It's acting more like a wall, involuntarily erected and keeping you away from certain members of the team.
Alex Blake has it easy. She receives you with open arms, aware of the history but detached enough to evade the awkwardness. She's kind and warm, but is close enough to your mother in age that you're always half expecting some form of criticism to fall from her lips whenever she asks your opinion over something—usually language related, her field of expertise. Nothing ever does; in fact, she seems eager to know your thoughts, engages in your ideas with genuine curiosity. It always takes you by surprise. You are always braced for the ball to drop, ramrod straight and perfectly polished, just in case her eyes wander to your hair, or a smudge in your make up.
David Rossi just seems happy you know they have a new liaison. Told you that job drove poor Garcia to tears, like he's warning you about the horrors you're about to face. Once in a while, a syllable slips and you know Emily's name was at the tip of his tongue. Instead, he shifts and calls you kid like you're 23 and green, instead of someone with years of experience under your belt. Somehow, the word never drips with condescension, and the familiarity with which he says it tells you he probably called your sister the same thing. At some point, you begin to welcome it.
With Derek Morgan, things get a little complicated. He looks at you like he's looking for traces of Emily, but he's not sure if he actually wants to find them. Some days, it seems like the similarities—your manner of speaking, the sharp intellect, the obvious rich kid background—gives him relief. Even brings a fond smile on that handsome face, however reluctant it may be. Other days, he can't look you in the eye, choosing to address the files in front of him instead of you, as if even a glance is risky. Part of you understands; your presence is not only new, it is secrecy personified. Emily's mysterious past made even worse. You don't push. You value workplace dynamics over being fully accepted, and if this is the inch he's willing to give, then you'll be content. For now.
And your predecessor. JJ, trained in communications and appearances, and you can tell she was good at her job because you can't quite get a read on her. She spent an entire year fooling her teammates, so every interaction with her is tainted with layers of this knowledge. You never know if anything she says is genuine. Or perhaps it's your resentment manifesting as distrust. She knew your sister was alive. If her feelings mirror yours—after all, Emily trusted JJ with her "death," but still kept her little sister a secret—she doesn't show any hint of it. Every interaction with JJ is warm, if a little awkward, and you can never tell if it's because she's smoothed over the rough edges, or if they were never there to begin with. Maybe the problem lies only with you.
Spencer Reid doesn't have a social life. At least, that's what you've concluded from the short amount of time you've spent here. He stays in the bullpen almost as late as you do, but somehow manages to avoid you entirely. It's easy to do, considering you spend the evenings holed up in the liaison's office, and he's always bent over paperwork—Rossi's and Morgan's, never his own. According to Penelope, it's a playful arrangement between them, though Spencer never tells you about it. Never tells you anything, really. He doesn't talk to you unless it's directly related to the job, so everything you know about Spencer is from observation. Gangly and smart—the type to make you know it, too, with his constant statistical tangent and information dumps, aka unbearable. Currently, his avoidance means you've never had to be on the receiving end of his rambles, of which you are thankful.
"How were your first three weeks so far?" Aaron Hotchner's office is surprisingly more homey than the Section Chief's had been—pictures of his son on the desk, a couple more family pictures displayed proudly on the shelf behind him. Ironically, it feels more imposing, but that might have more to do with Hotch's presence than the decor.
If you opened the dictionary and looked for the word 'impassive' you're almost certain a picture of Hotch is provided there instead of a linguistic definition. But maybe you just haven't learned to read him yet. That'll come with time. So far, he's made no mention of Emily, but talked about your mother, which is so much more embarrassing. It seems like you're stuck chasing away the shadows of two impressive women before you, and doomed to fail no matter what you do.
"It's been going well, sir. I think I'm adjusting to your team's rhythm."
"Our."
"Sorry?"
"Our," Hotch looks up from the file. His eyes are pitch black, but warm. "You're part of this team now too."
"Right. I'm adjusting to our team's rhythm." When you smile, it's not forced. Hotch is perhaps the last person you expected to accept you explicitly, but the relief it carries breaks past your usual politeness. Still, Erin Strauss' voice lingers in the back of your head like a broken record. This team might embrace you for it, but that loyalty usually comes at a cost. Any efforts to silence it is futile.
Your new chief responds with a friendly nod.
"And yes, I'm inclined to agree. The request for your own nameplate should come in today." Hotch says, thumbing through a file one his desk. "Along with that, I think you're ready to take over fielding the cases on your own."
You blink; the only reaction you allow yourself to express. He and Garcia had been easing you into the job, allowing you to handle the older cases—closed ones, some needing follow ups and check ins—while they taught you the ins and outs of going through the newer reports that come in. What you need to look out for—not just victimology, but time frames and geographic patterns. Cases involving children get prioritized, but only if there's an existing pattern, otherwise they get redirected to ViCAP. While it's true that you've slipped into the team's rhythm near seamlessly, you hadn't expected them to give you full reign after only a couple of weeks.
"If you're certain, sir, then I would be more than willing to do it." Your back straightens even more, if that's possible.
"I am. Your work prior to this unit has been exemplary, and I'm allowed to overrule the probation period on account of the skills you've shown. And you've been doing a good job, agent, I see no reason to keep you under our supervision."
You nod, "Thank you sir. Honestly, I was beginning to think Garcia was going to lock me in her techno cave to start organizing her glitter pen collection."
Hotch's mouth curls up for a fleeting second, but vanishes before it becomes a full smile. "Garcia knows not to waste your skills on her collection, as expansive as it is."
A stack of files slide towards you, teethering comically from the action. "I trust that you'll choose with vigilance and care. It's easy to get overwhelmed by the cases that come in, but quantity does not always dictate urgency."
"That's noted, sir." With a last nod, you rise and step out of his office. Your heart pounds, but you're unsure if it's from nerves or excitement. Likely both. Likely both, and then some. Because as you leave Hotch's office, you catch Spencer and JJ, heads bent together like they're sharing a conspiracy, take one glance at you and jump apart.
Your smile is plastic. Erin Strauss' words ring in your head, louder this time, as you lock yourself in your office.
series masterlist.
pls comment and reblog if you liked it!!! ily thank you so much for reading!
ohhhh my dear liaison!prentiss!reader, I’ve been excited for your arrival for so long now!!!!! wowowow she is everything i imagined she would be. smart, sharp, a little bitter, mommy issues galore, confident but always questioning herself at the same time, badass but in an entirely different way than emily, the list goes on. I cannot wait to see how her dynamic with spencer (and the rest of the team) evolves over time muahahaha
I screenshotted this message back when this reader was just an invasive idea in erika’s brain she was trying to expel and I took up the position of the devil on her shoulder constantly trying to encourage her to pursue it. and here I am still!!! front row barricade at the scene of the crime WOOOO!!!
summary: The Behavioural Analysis team gets called down to Arkansas to investigate a series of strange murders. Couples are found with several different methods of death, ranging from stabbing to hanging. Only one thing ties them together: their relationship. What happens when their resident genius and the new team member get ensnared in the unsub's web? Will the team be able to save them before it's too late, or are they doomed to suffer the same fate as the victims that came before them?
warnings: mutual non-con, death threats, canon-typical violence, murder, past child abuse, insecurity on both ends, guilt, gunshot wound, kidnapping | 18+ MDNI
word count: 9,571
A/N: prompt fill for day 3 @juneofdoom | "No one will find you" | Kidnapping
{Read on A03} | Part 2
Elle Greenaway’s departure from the Behavioural Analysis Unit and its circumstances shook the team in ways none dared to speak aloud. Each carried the weight differently, but none bore it more heavily than Aaron Hotchner and Spencer Reid, who both felt as if they played an instrumental role in their former colleague’s downfall.
Hotch buried his guilt in silence, a constant tension pulling at the corners of his carefully constructed stoic demeanour. Reid, on the other hand, dissected it through endless questions—quiet, relentless probes into what they could have done differently. Neither found solace, for there was none to find. Looming over them was the lingering thought that if they had done more, Elle might not have spiralled so fast and so far, like a supernova collapsing into a black hole.
Hotchner shouldn’t have been surprised when, not long after, there were files for new recruits piling up on his desk. They sat there like a reminder of his failures and a testament that each of them was replaceable in the eyes of the higher-ups, as if Elle’s departure hadn’t shaken the team to their core. They were expected to move on as if nothing had happened. As was customary in the FBI.
He stared at the files for what felt like hours, each name and resume blending into the next. None of them seemed like a good fit. None of them were Elle.
A knock on the door distracted him from his fruitless search for a new agent. He glanced up to see a young woman standing in his doorway, her hands clutched her crossover bag tightly, eyes taking in the space before her. They settled on him after her quick perusal of the room, her posture stiff and eyes flickering with uncertainty.
“Can I help you?” Aaron asked, not unpolitely.
Clearing her throat, the woman offered a bright smile. “Hello, uh, I’m Agent Willow Barrett.”
Raising a brow, he waited for her to continue. She took his nonverbal response in stride despite the anxiety that threatened to choke her next words down her throat. “Your new recruit? I just got transferred.”
“I didn’t accept any transfers,” he said, setting down the file in his hands. “There must have been a mistake, I’m sorry.”
“Strauss sent me down here this morning. She said that I could get to work today.”
Hotchner could feel his frustration bubbling under the surface. Of course, Strauss was behind this. Not even a week had passed, and she was already shoving off some new agent to him. Taking a moment to study the woman before him, he couldn’t help but wish Strauss had sent him anyone else. This woman was too young, too eager and far too bright for the shadows that consumed each member of this team. He didn’t want to have to watch another young agent get consumed by this job.
“Of course,” he said, in place of the hundreds of things he wished he could say. “I’ll show you to your desk.”
Introductions were made as Willow made her way to the recently vacated desk. Each member did their best to hide their lack of enthusiasm; Hotchner just hoped the new agent wasn’t expecting to be too enthusiastically received. The wounds were too fresh—too sore to be introducing a new person. But Hotcher knew better than most that this was one of those things that you didn’t fight.
Despite the team's obvious reluctance to replace Elle, they couldn’t help but let Willow into their circle. She easily made friends with Garcia after their shared enthusiasm for various movie stars (particularly Ryan Gosling and James Marsden). Derek and she traded banter like old friends, skirting the edge of HR’s radar with their constant flirting. Not only did she listen to Spencer’s random info dumps, but she actively sought them out, asking random questions when bored at her desk. JJ and her found they had similar music tastes, often taking to sharing an iPod during a long flight back to D.C. She proved herself time and time again on missions with high stakes, winning the good graces of both Hotchner and Gideon who admired her competence and quick thinking.
She found a place in the Behavioural Analysis Unit, somewhere she felt like she belonged. The team quickly became a second family to her, late nights and long shifts, ensuring they’d grow close in no time at all.
—
“Willow Barrett, you’ve done it again.” Derek grinned up at her, lemon buttercream frosting painted on his nose. Garcia laughed at him, wiping it off with her thumb and taking the frosting for herself. Derek winked at her, a smirk plastered across his face.
“Seriously, Willow,” JJ dropped her cupcake liner into the trash, “if you ever decide to leave the FBI, you need to get your own bakery.”
“Trying to get rid of me, Agent Jareau?” Willow asked, smirking over at her friend.
She placed a hand on her chest, appalled. “And lose my free supply of the greatest baked goods known to man? Uh, no thanks.”
“I’m glad to know that my baking is the only thing keeping me on this team,” she deadpanned.
“Ooh, you made cupcakes?” Spencer walked into the room, lighting up at the sight of the confections placed on Willow’s desk. His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary, a small smile tugging on his lips as he took a cupcake. “Thanks!”
Willow smiled at him, enjoying the way his expression always managed to light up at the sight of her treats. “Gotta earn my keep somehow,” she winked at JJ.
“Where do you find all the time to make stuff anyhow?” Penelope crossed her arms with a pensive look on her face. “We just got back from the case last night!”
“A baker never reveals her secrets,” she said conspiratorially.
“That’s a magician,” Spencer pointed out, wiping the frosting from his own nose.
“Same difference.”
“Well, her treats are pretty magical,” Garcia conceded, stealing another cupcake from the batch.
Derek went for another one, but got his hand slapped away by Willow. “Leave some for Hotch and Gideon!”
“Why does Garcia get two?” He crossed his arms like a child.
“Because, she’s my favourite.”
“What? Nuh uh, we both know that I’m the favourite. Come on, sweetness, just one more?”
Garcia laughed at Morgan. “Oh, my sweet chocolate thunder, you just don’t have what it takes to win over Agent Barrett. She has fallen for my charms. She’s completely head over heels, isn’t that right, my darling honey bee?”
Derek gasped dramatically. “You both have been going behind my back? Ouch.”
“Nothing personal, Derek,” Willow said, sympathy coating her honeyed words. “Garcia is just the better flirt.”
A collective round of oohs sounded through the bullpen.
“That hurts, you know.” Derek pouted. “I really thought we had something here.”
“Don’t worry, sugarplum.” Willow booped his nose. “You’ll always be my second favourite flirt on the team.”
Reid watched the interaction, his lips turning upward at the familiar repartee. His eyes filled with an admiration that didn’t escape the notice of Morgan, who turned to look at him with a knowing, shit-eating grin.
“Team, briefing room, now.” Hotch interrupted the light-hearted banter, not a second wasted in greeting the team. He stormed past them with barely a glance their way, Gideon on his tail. The team shared a look.
“We just got back,” Derek said, brows furrowed.
“Whatever it is, it must be urgent,” JJ frowned. Willow grabbed two cupcakes before joining the rest of the team in their journey to the briefing room.
“Here, I made these last night,” Willow said, offering the cupcakes to the older men. Catching Gideon’s eyes, her stomach twisted at the gleam in his eyes. Each time she offered baked goods to the team, she couldn’t help but feel like Gideon knew. He knew of the shadows that clung to her, that seeped into her cracks and destabalised the very foundation of her carefully curated persona.
“Well, whilst you were busy making cupcakes,” Hotch began, using the remote to pull up the crime scene photos, “someone else was busy murdering Christine Matthews and Hayden Chambers.”
Grimacing, Willow took her seat and grabbed a file.
“Over the past four months, fourteen bodies have been found in Arkansas, Louisiana and Mississippi,” Hotchner said.
“Why are we just hearing about this now?” JJ questioned, not having seen a case this large pop up in her stack of cases.
Hotchner sighed. “Until now, they haven’t been able to connect these murders to the other cases because they didn’t have the same MO, and the dump sites were scattered.
“I was called this morning because the police chief in Monroe County pieced together one thing that tied them all together. Each dump site had both a male and a female victim. Whilst the ways they were killed differed, further investigation proved that both victims engaged in sexual intercourse before being killed.”
“And they didn’t find the connection sooner?” Morgan questioned.
“Most didn’t even bother to check; the ones that did only found evidence that the female was penetrated. There was no evidence that the male victim did it,” Hotchner explained.
“So there was no DNA evidence that the male victim had sex with her in the cases before?” Willow frowned as she looked at the pictures.
“He never finished?” JJ ventured.
“It is possible to get DNA even if the man didn’t.” Spencer shook his head. “It might be a little more difficult, but it is definitely possible.”
“The man used protection, which is why there was no evidence of his involvement. It wasn’t until the last murder that they noticed the man had trace amounts of semen left on himself,” Hotchner said.
“So our unsub is killing people for having sex?” Willow questioned, raising a brow at the various crime scenes. “Why would they… this doesn’t make sense… I mean, going from poison to stabbing to hanging? Why?”
Spencer piped in, “Not to mention that Christine was hanged while Hayden was stabbed with a sword. They were both killed at roughly the same time. Why would the unsub change his method so drastically?”
“And with a sword? What kind of person owns an actual sword?” JJ questioned, disbelief coating her words.
“That’s a question to ponder for the plane ride. Wheels up in thirty.”
—
The ride there wasn’t long enough for the team to even begin to come up with a solid working theory as to why this unsub was changing his MO so often. The only working theory they had thus far was that the couples had sex before being murdered which could tell them that the unsub was against premarital relations or relations existing outside of marriage; a few of them were married to other people; most of them were single, living alone, however, which did help them throw away the theory that the unsub was killing adulterers. The victims were all in their 20s to 30s, each holding such vastly different jobs and were of different social classes.
“Reid, Barrett, I need you to talk to the most recent families. Try to find connections between the victims. Morgan, Gideon, I want you guys to go to the latest crime scene. I’ll set up at the precinct with JJ.” Hotch said once they had exhausted all possibilities with what they had on hand thus far. Everyone nodded in assent before dispersing.
The plane hummed with light conversation after their secondary discussion of the case came to a conclusion. Each person was busy looking at files, talking about the case, or preparing themselves mentally for the challenge that their job always presented. Reid usually spent the time in between the discussion and arrival jotting down notes or reading the files dozens of times. This time, however, Reid seemed distracted, fidgeting in his seat and looking out of the window.
Morgan approached him, leaning over the table to talk to him. “Reid, you okay?”
Reid snapped back to attention before he flashed him a distracted smile. “Yeah, just… just thinking.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow, not buying it. “About the case?”
Reid hesitated, glancing over at Willow, who was sitting on the other side of the plane with JJ. His face softened when he saw her laughing at something JJ had said to her. He quickly darted his eyes back to Morgan. “Yeah, uh, yeah, just the case.”
Morgan gave him an unimpressed look as his eyes flickered back over to Willow. “Come on, man,” he sighed, exasperated, “You’ve been giving her lovey-dovey puppy dog eyes for weeks now.”
Reid tensed in his seat, gaze darting to Willow as if to make sure he didn’t hear Morgan’s words. “What? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about how every time she is in the room, your eyes always glance over at her. I’m talking about how your focus is always on her, whether or not you realise it. Come on, Reid. It doesn’t take a profiler to figure that out.”
Reid flushed slightly, crossing his arms defensively. “No, I’m just–I just admire her as a good agent. She’s really good at her job; it’s admirable, that’s all.”
Morgan chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s all? I’ve been a profiler for how long now? You really think you would be able to hide it from me? I know a crush when I see one.”
Reid shook his head. “It’s not like that. We’re just friends, nothing more.” He looked over at Willow, a pained expression on his face as he murmured, “I… I can’t ruin that.”
Morgan’s expression softened as he looked at the kid. “I get it, Reid, really. You’re worried about messing up what you have. But you can’t keep pretending that you don’t have feelings for her. You’re not fooling anyone. It’s only a matter of time before she finds out for herself. If she hasn’t already.”
“You think she knows?” he frantically questioned.
“Probably not, I’d say she’s pretty oblivious when it comes to that. But, as a profiler, it’s only a matter of time before she starts drawing her own conclusions.”
Reid sighed, sinking down in his chair. Morgan glanced over at Willow and JJ, both engrossed with something on JJ’s phone. He smiled at the sight. “Listen, Reid. You don’t have to do anything right away. Just don’t ignore your feelings, okay? You deserve to be happy, and I can see that she makes you happy. If you like her, you should let her know, ask her on a date. No pressure, just… don’t let her go. She’s one of the good ones.”
—
“So,” JJ turned off her phone, turning in her seat to fully face Willow, “how are things with Spence?”
Willow furrows her brows, glancing over at Spencer, who is talking with Derek. “Uh… they’re fine? Why do you ask?”
JJ smiles at her, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “I see the way you look at him. Come on, Wills, admit it. You have a thing for him!”
“No, I don’t,” Willow vehemently protests, her cheeks taking on a deep red flush. JJ raises a brow at the agent, unimpressed.
“Right… and the blush on your cheeks has nothing to do with the fact that I’m right.”
“I don’t like him like that. He’s just… he’s like the nicest guy I’ve ever really gotten to know. He’s just a friend.”
“Mhm,” JJ hums, a soft smile on her face. “Y’know, if you were to ask him out, he’d probably say yes.”
“I am not going to do that.” She shifts in her seat, glancing over to see Spencer laughing with Derek. She couldn’t do that to him. Not only would it gain the attention of HR and risk one of their chances of staying with the BAU, but it would also ruin their relationship. Once he knew… once he knew, Spencer would want nothing to do with her. Once he knew, she’d lose his friendship; she’d lose his kindness. And even if he miraculously stayed with her despite the knowledge of her past, she’d only take him down with her.
Spencer Reid was too good for her; that much was obvious. He was smart, sweet and had this air of innocence that Willow knew she’d only taint with her blackened soul and bloodied hands. She may have erased that part of herself from existence, tried to leave it behind her when she turned seventeen, but the scars remained. Her trauma would only drain the light from Spencer. It wasn’t fair of her to expect him to put up with her baggage. He deserved someone who could love him wholly. Someone who wouldn’t love him in shattered pieces, edges sharp like broken glass.
And no matter how good Spencer was, she also couldn’t allow herself the chance to fall into the same trap her mother did when she was her age. There was no doubt in her mind that Spencer wasn’t the same as her father, but that did not erase the irrational fear that being with him would take away everything she’d worked for. That she’d end up like her mother; nothing more than a glorified live-in maid, meant to wait hand and foot on the man she so foolishly entrusted to love.
“Hey,” Jennifer nudged her, brows creased. “Where’d you go just now?”
Shaking her head, Willow locked away her fears, shoving them in the dark forbidden vault where they came from. She knew better. When she was at work, all thoughts of her past were to remain behind the vault. Anything seeping out could be used as ammunition against her. She would not allow her team to see how weak she used to be; she wouldn’t give them any reason to doubt her abilities on the job. She was strong now. She had built up her walls over the years, and nothing could get through her defences. “Sorry, just lost in thought.”
“Well, just think about it, okay? I think you two would make an adorable couple.” JJ winked at her before heading over to the coffee pot, leaving Willow to frantically shove her thoughts away until after the case when she was alone in the safety of her apartment.
—
The ride to the Chambers’ house was relatively quiet, both Reid and Barrett lost in their own thoughts. Barrett looked over to see Reid fidgeting with a pen, his eyes scanning the files that he must have checked over at least ten times on the ride alone. “Hotch has never sent me to visit victims’ families with you before. Usually, he lets Gideon take point on that front.”
Reid didn’t look up, his fingers still twirling the pen absently. “That’s because he’s better at connecting with people. He always knows what to say to grieving families. I assume he trusts you to be the empathetic one,” Reid huffed, shaking his head.
Willow’s breath caught in her throat at Reid’s words. He said it so nonchalantly, as if it were a fact. As if he truly believed that Hotchner trusted her with something. No matter how hard she’d tried, she didn’t feel like Hotch thought of her as a part of the team. He distanced himself from everyone, but to her, the most. If she’d had to guess, her superior barely tolerated her. But there Reid was, telling her that Hotch trusted her. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Spencer looked over at her. “I’m not the best with… well, social interactions. If you couldn’t tell. He wouldn’t send you unless he knew that you’d be able to pick up some of my slack. I mean, I can tell them the facts easily. I can analyse their home lives, no problem. But that isn’t what these families need. They need someone to… I don’t know… kind of like guide them through.”
She felt her cheeks warm at his inadvertent praise. She knew that she brought skills to the table that the others couldn’t—knew that she provided a new, unique perspective, but it was always good to hear it directly from one of her team members.
The house was a simple craftsman-style home. Flowers lined the veranda, well taken care of with a white picket fence surrounding the property. “You can take point on this one,” Spencer said, examining the surroundings.
“You got it,” Willow responded as they walked up to the house.
A woman wearing a bright yellow cardigan answered the door. Well-defined lines told stories of laughter and smiles. “Mrs. Chambers?”
“Yes? Who are you guys?”
“We’re FBI,” Willow said, pulling out her credentials. “I’m SSA Barrett, and this is Doctor Reid. We just have some questions about your son.”
“I already told the police everything I know,” the woman shook her head, tears gathering in her waterline.
“We just want to make sure that there’s nothing they missed. Anything you could tell us could get us one step closer to finding the person who did this,” Reid explained. “May we come in?”
“Oh, yes, certainly.” She gestured them into the living room. Papers were scattered on the coffee table, bills and condolence letters mostly. A small, nearby trash bin was halfway filled with used tissues.
She sniffled as she gathered the papers into a pile, trying to clean the space. “All these letters and it still doesn’t seem real… I… I was supposed to go first, y’know. A parent shouldn’t outlive their child.”
Willow grasped the woman’s trembling hands. “It’s truly terrible what happened to your son. There are no words to properly express my sorrow.”
Mrs. Chambers chuckled, something hollow and broken distorting the sound. “I suppose you do this a lot, huh?”
“It never gets any easier.” Willow moved the box of tissues closer to her. “We want to talk to you about the day your son went missing. Anything you tell us could help, no matter how inconsequential it seems.”
“Okay, what do you want to know?”
“What was he doing that night?”
“I sent him to the store,” her voice cracking, she wiped her eyes. “We were out of sugar, and I wanted to make some banana bread from the bananas that had gone bad.”
“This wasn’t your fault, Mrs. Chambers,” Willow reassured her.
She laughed wetly, shaking her head. “That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”
“Was there anything off about that night? Did he seem nervous or agitated?”
“No, not at all. He told me that he had a good day at work. He said his boss even hinted at a promotion.”
“Your son works at an insurance company, right?”
“Yeah, he was a customer service representative.”
“Okay, did he mention anything about anyone that was jealous of his success? Anyone who knew of the possible promotion? Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt your son?”
“No, no. He was a good kid. Everyone liked him. He uh… he liked to volunteer at the soup kitchens when he had the time.” Mrs. Chambers blotted the tears from her face. “Who would want to hurt my baby boy? He never did anything to anyone. He… he didn’t deserve this.”
Willow glanced over at Spencer as the older woman broke down, sobs shaking her body. Placing a hand on her arm, Willow consoled the weeping woman.
“You don’t need to apologise, ma’am. I understand this is difficult. We just have a few more questions if you’re up for it.”
“Yeah… yeah, go ahead.”
“Was your son dating Christine Matthews?”
“No, no, he wasn’t seeing anyone. I would have known if he was.”
“Are you sure? He never brought her over or talked about her?” Spencer questioned.
“No, he spent most of his time studying. He only hung out with a few friends… Kyle and… I think Jeremy was the other guy’s name.”
“Okay, did anything seem off about them?”
“No, they were good kids too. Kyle worked and volunteered with him. Jeremy was a friend from school, they went way back.” Mrs. Chambers furrowed her brows then. “I just remembered something strange, though… It’s probably nothing.”
“What is it?” Spencer jumped in. “Anything could help.”
“Hayden did mention that he met this one guy at a bar last week. He said something about him seemed off, but he thought he was just some drunk.”
“Do you know what his name was?”
“No, Hayden never said.”
“Do you know what bar he was at?”
“I think it was The Green Lodge. Do you think it was that man? Did he… did he kill my boy?”
Willow handed her a tissue from the box on the end table. “We’re not sure yet, but we’ll look into it. Thank you for your help. You wouldn’t mind if we’d go look in his room, would you?”
“Why?”
“Just to see if there’s anything that could help us with the case,” Reid piped in, stopping his perusal of the pictures on the mantel.
“Sure, just, um, just be careful with his stuff, okay? It’s all I have… all I have of my baby.”
Willow placed a reassuring hand on Mrs. Chamber’s trembling hands. “Of course, ma’am.”
“Might I ask what happened to Hayden’s father?” Reid asked. “I noticed he’s present in earlier pictures, but he just kind of disappears as he gets older.”
“Oh, John, he uh, he left us a while back. Started getting real distant and angry. I told him that if he couldn’t be present for his son the way he needed to be, he could leave. He used to visit Hayden every once and a while, but then he just stopped. We didn’t really mind. All he ever caused for us were problems anyhow.”
“Do you know if he’s still around?”
“No idea, why?” She furrowed her brows. Gasping at the implication, she asked, “Do you think he has something to do with this?”
“It’s impossible to tell right now. We need to follow all potential leads,” Reid said. “It’s likely that he doesn’t have anything to do with it, but it’s possible that this could be what we were missing.”
“What he means is that we can’t rule out anyone just yet.”
—
“Did you find anything at the Chambers’s house?” Hotch asked over the phone as they drove to the next house.
“Apparently, he went to a bar last week, The Green Lounge, some man talked to him, and Hayden thought there was something off about him. He brushed him off as a drunkard. Everything in his room seemed normal. He also had an absent father, John Chambers, but I don’t think that has anything to do with the case.”
“I’ll get Garcia to check out the bar and the father. You guys keep searching.”
“Nothing on your guys’ end yet?” Willow questioned, raising her voice to be heard.
“Not yet, we’ll call if we get anything.”
Reid hung up the phone and went back to poring over the files.
“I don’t think the pictures are going to change, Reid,” Willow chuckled, glancing over at his furrowed brows and bitten lip.
“I feel like the answer is right in front of my face. I’m just not sure what it is yet.” Reid shook his head, slamming the file closed and rubbing his eyes.
“I know you’ll figure it out, Spence, you always do.” Willow set a reassuring hand on his knee, her bright smile lifting his spirits ever so slightly.
The Matthews’ house was nothing like the Chambers’ residence. The grass around the shotgun house was overgrown; the wooden railing on the porch looked one strong wind away from being blown off. A tall woman answered the door, a large hoodie hanging off her gaunt frame.
“Hello, I’m Special Agent Barrett, and this is Doctor Reid with the FBI.”
The woman huffed, alcohol wafting off her breath. Unshed tears made her reddened brown eyes shine under the yellow porch light. “What do you want? I already told the police all there is to know about my sister. I just want some damn peace and quiet.”
“We’re very sorry about your loss, we were just hoping-”
“I don’t give a damn what you were hoping! My baby sister is dead, and there’s no amount of talking that can fix that.”
The woman went to slam the door in their face, but Willow firmly interjected, “Maybe not, but we believe that the more information we have about your sister, the better we can find the person who did this and bring them to justice.”
She scoffed, rolling her eyes as she headed back into her house, leaving the door open. Willow glanced over at Reid, questioning if they had gotten their invitation inside. Reid shrugged and followed the grieving sister into the living room.
“Hope you don’t mind the mess. My sister was always the clean freak.” She bitterly laughed. “She’d throw a fit if she saw the state I left the house in.”
“We need to know, was your sister seeing someone? Perhaps a man by the name of Hayden Chambers?”
Raising a brow, she said, “The police asked me the same damn thing, and I’ll tell you again. My sister was the most goody-two-shoes girl there was. There ain’t no way she was going behind my back and dating some good-for-nothing guy like Chambers.”
“You knew him?” Willow questioned. “Why didn’t you like him?”
“No, I didn’t know him, but if he wasn’t able to prevent the guy from hurting my sister–if he didn’t even try to protect her, how good can he be?”
“Ma’am–”
“Don’t call me that. That was my momma. I’m just Polly.”
“Okay, Polly,” Willow conceded, “Hayden was as much of a victim as your sister was.”
“Well, from what I know, he was big enough to fight off the guy who did this.”
“How do you know that?” Reid asked.
“The police showed me a picture of him,” she shrugged. “It was obvious he worked out or something.”
—
“Sister seemed a little suspicious,” Willow said as soon as they got into the car.
Reid sighed, “I agree, but I still don’t see why she would target the other people. She might have held resentment for her sister, but she didn’t have-” The ringing of his cell phone interrupted Spencer mid-sentence. “One sec.”
Willow glanced over to see Spencer’s eyes harden.
“I see. Okay, we’ll head over right away.”
“What happened?”
“There’s been another murder.”
“I guess it’s safe to say that we can rule out Polly as our unsub then,” Willow sighed.
—
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Chief Anderson said in lieu of a greeting. “Poisoned clothes? Where does the guy get this stuff?”
“Poisoned clothes?” Reid questioned, crouching down to the victims. A long green dress and headband adorn her body, each stitch meticulous and gorgeous.
“Yeah, the woman is wearing them. The man was holding her, so the poison got transferred to him as well.”
Reid furrowed his brows, muttering unintelligibly to himself.
“What is it, kid?” Morgan called out to him, seeing the way his mind was racing to come up with something.
“I need to get to the drawing board.” Reid stood up, racing back to the SUV. Willow looked at Hotch for confirmation before taking off after him. The team followed them back to the station, all confused as to what Reid could have possibly found out from that last crime scene.
—
“It didn’t hit me until now,” Reid began once everyone was in the conference room. He erased what was already on the whiteboard, writing down the methods of murder in a messy scrawl. “In the Greek tragedy, Medea, Glauce is killed by a poisoned coronet and gown, her father Creon embraced her as she died in excruciating pain, poisoning himself in the process. It was Medea’s revenge on Jason for betraying her-”
“What does that have to do with the other murders?” Hotch interrupted him before he could continue to rant about the play.
“Okay, right. Uh… Matthews and Chambers, stabbed with a sword and hanged. Although there are many tragedies that could be, I’m thinking Antigone. ‘…hanged by the neck in a fine linen noose, strangled in her veils’; instead of a rope, the unsub used linen, which is how Antigone hanged herself in the play. And here, with Amelia and Oliver, Romeo and Juliet, Amelia stabs herself with Romeo’s dagger, and Oliver poisons himself. The carving knife and rope hanging could be from Tess of the d'Urbervilles. Hallie was found with blood on her; her fingerprints were on the knife; she killed Ben. Thirty stab wounds and a fall to his death, La Celestina. Hamlet could be the poison and the poisoned blade.” Reid said, pointing at all the crime scenes as he spoke.
“What about the guy in the ground and the woman that hanged herself?” Derek asked.
“That could be from Oedipus Rex. Hear me out, Ken’s eyes were mutilated by a sharp object, just like Oedipus. Jacosta hangs herself over her bed just like how Emily was found.”
“Okay, but for those of us who don’t read tragedies, why was Ken also buried in a mound in the backyard?” Morgan questioned.
“Oedipus was said to have been swallowed by the earth to become the guardian hero of the land,” Willow chimed in. “What?” She grew defensive from all the strange looks shot her way. “Boy wonder isn’t the only one who likes to read.”
“Guys, our unsub is taking pages out of literary tragedies,” Reid said, bringing the focus back to the case.
“Okay, so our unsub is well-read,” Chief Anderson said. “How does that help us find him?”
“Seeing that Tess of the d'Urbervilles and La Celestina aren’t the most popular tragedies, we know that he isn’t just taking his knowledge from high school mandated readings.”
“This could mean that our unsub either studied literature or teaches it. It could also mean that our unsub spends a lot of time around books,” Gideon concluded.
“Okay, with Antigone, Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, La Celestina, Medea, and Tess of the d'Urbervilles, the narratives all contain the themes of doomed love. It's definitely a pattern,” Reid added.
“Maybe the unsub sees these couples as representations of these themes. If our unsub is projecting onto them, he might feel justified in ending it before their relationships fall apart,” Gideon said.
“This would all certainly explain why his MO keeps shifting,” Hotch said, eyes furrowed as he took in all the new information. “He’s not killing based on a compulsion–he’s reenacting different tragic narratives.”
“All of these tragedies with the exception of Tess of the d’Urbervilles were plays—whilst technically La Celistina was a novel, given the dialogue form that Fernando de Rojas wrote it in, it’s often classified as a play due to its structure—which could mean that we’re looking for someone in the acting department. Think local theatres, college or high school theatres too,” Reid mentioned.
Hotch called up Garcia. “You’ve reached the all-knowledgeable Garcia. What can I do ya for?”
“I need you to come up with a list of all literature and drama professors, students and theatre groups. Any libraries as well. We’re probably looking at someone with a record. Maybe something related to stalking, given the sexual nature of these crimes. He’s likely in his late twenties or early thirties, given the ages of the victims.”
“On it, bossman,” Garcia said.
Willow leaned forward in her chair, eyes flickering over the multiple boards filled with writing and pictures. “But what triggered him? What made him start putting on these way too realistic plays? If we figure out what started the pattern, maybe we could find our unsub or at least where he’ll try to strike next?”
“In most tragedies, the catalyst is betrayal—real or perceived. If our unsub has experienced a betrayal in his own life, he might be projecting it onto the couples,” Reid suggested.
“Which could mean that his final victims will be the ones that wronged him,” Gideon said.
“Right!” Reid agreed. “So if we can find our trigger, we’ll find our unsub and his last victims.”
“Garcia, look for someone who was recently divorced or laid off. Anything our unsub could perceive as some kind of betrayal.”
“Barrett also made a good point earlier,” Hotch said. “Reid, Barrett, I want you to go to the first victim’s families and figure out what about them made our unsub snap.”
“Got it,” Willow said, jumping up from her seat to get ready. Reid followed behind her, stuffing the file into his bag as he jogged to catch up.
“You’ve read Oedipus Rex?” He asked once they were alone.
“Yeah,” she looked around before leaning in close to him, “don’t tell anyone, but I was a major theatre kid growing up.”
“No way!” Spencer shook his head, unable to believe her words.
“Way,” Willow giggled. “That’s our little secret, though.”
She winked at him before turning to get into the vehicle just in time to miss the faint blush that rose to Spencer’s cheeks. He supposed it would make sense for her to be a theatre kid. The way she was able to blend so seamlessly in every situation. Be it interrogations, comforting families, or even matching Morgan and Garcia’s banter. She effortlessly fit in wherever she went, a social chameleon of sorts.
Slipping into the car, he eyed Willow in a new light. She never shared much about her past. The fact that she was entrusting him with this part of herself felt significant. It felt like she had given him the key to discover more about the enigmatic masterpiece that was Willow Barrett.
“So,” he started, wanting to keep the conversation running, “theatre kid, huh? What was your big role?”
Willow grinned, one of her real smiles that never failed to sweep Spencer off his feet. “I had a few. My favourite, though, would have to be playing Lady Macbeth in high school. I absolutely nailed the ‘Out, damned spot!’ scene.
Spencer chuckled, trying to imagine a young Willow up on stage. “I can see that. You have the dramatic flair for it.”
“Thanks… I think?” Willow shot him a quick glance. “What about you, Reid? Ever been in the spotlight?”
“Me? Oh no, no. That’s uh, that’s not my scene. Public speaking for the FBI is bad enough.”
“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’ve never recited a bit of Shakespeare. Not even for fun?”
“Well, I do have a soft spot for Hamlet.” Reid sheepishly admitted. “I used to uh… well, I used to put on plays when I was a kid… for my mom. I played all the characters, and it was pretty dumb-”
“Hey,” Willow broke him out of his self-deprecating spiral, “I think that’s pretty cute.”
“You do?” Reid inwardly cursed himself as his voice cracked.
“Yeah,” she sent a blinding smile his way. “Let me guess: ‘To be or not to be’?”
“Actually,” Spencer said, voice softening at the memory, “I prefer, ‘What a piece of work is man.’ It’s uh, it’s reflective.”
“Hmm… makes sense. That is a good one. Kinda sums up everything, right?”
“Yeah, exactly,” Spencer agreed, his tone almost reverent.
The car fell into a companionable silence as Willow continued on route to the first victim’s boyfriend’s house. Willow glanced back at him every once and a while, something on the tip of her tongue.
“Y’know,” she drawled after several minutes of silence. “I would’ve never guessed you’d be so into plays. I thought you were all about math and sciency stuff.”
Reid chuckled, “Sciency? I’m pretty sure that’s not a word.”
“Humour me, Doctor.”
“Well, why can’t I like both? My mom used to read to me when I was a kid, so I think that’s where my love for the classics came from.”
“Really? I didn’t know that about you.” Willow hadn’t heard him talk much about his parents at all if she was to be honest; she never brought it up either, not wanting to potentially press on a tender bruise. Willow knew all too well that not all parents deserved children.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know you were a theatre kid in disguise,” Spencer countered, teasing grin on his face.
“I swear to god, if you tell the team about it, I will make your life hell.” She shoots him a quick glare, her anger betrayed only by a hint of mirth sparkling in her eyes.
“Good luck with that,” Reid smirked, “I’m pretty sure Garcia would maim anyone set on harming me.”
“Pfft, Garcia? I’ve got her in my pocket. She’s my sweet sugarplum fairy.”
“You guys and your nicknames,” Spencer cringed, a chuckle laced through his words.
“You love them, don’t you, my darling, my sweetheart, mi amor, mi corazón?” Willow teased him, knowing that anytime she called him a nickname, he’d get embarrassed. It was honestly adorable how easy he was to fluster.
Spencer groaned, but there was no hiding the smile tugging at the corner of his lips or the reddened tips of his ears. “You’re insufferable.”
“You love me,” Willow countered, deftly manoeuvring into a spot on the street next to the victim’s boyfriend’s house.
Spencer muttered something under his breath, but Willow was already out the door and en route to the door. He followed her up the unassuming driveway that led to a simple craftsman house. A man wearing a simple t-shirt answered the door, his eyes scrutinising the pair in front of him.
“Are you Nathan Brown?” Reid questioned.
“That depends,” he said, his voice heavily accented, “who’s asking?”
“I’m Doctor Reid, and this is SSA Barrett. We’re with the FBI. We have a few questions about your girlfriend, Daisy.”
The man took in a deep breath, closing his eyes. “FBI? I already talked to the police. Please leave me alone.”
“Please, we’ll only be a minute,” Willow pleaded.
The man opened his eyes back up, tears forming in his eyes as he looked at both of them intently. “Fine, just… let me get y’all some water or something. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“We’re fine,” Reid dismissed him as they entered the brightly decorated home. “We’ll only be a little bit.”
“No, no, I insist. My mama always taught me to be cordial to guests. Especially ladies such as yourself, Miss Barrett.”
Glancing at Reid, Willow said, “Well… thank you, I suppose.”
Nathan led them to the living room, gesturing to a floral printed couch, he said, “Have a seat. It used to be my mama’s. She wanted me to take it. Daisy always loved sitting there with her embroideries and books. You wouldn’t mind helping me with the glasses, though, would you, Doctor? I unfortunately don’t have three hands.” Nathan chuckled, sending a wink to the agents.
Reid looked over at Willow, who nodded her head in assent. Watching the two men head to the kitchen, she stood to look at the bookshelf. Furrowing her brows, she noticed that the picture frames were all face down. Picking one up, she saw a picture of Nathan and Daisy on a beach, smiling and having a picnic. The others were all of the couple on dates, happy and laughing. It made Willow’s heart ache, knowing that this happy couple couldn’t live out their full potential, knowing that they didn’t get the chance to get married, have kids, and grow old together.
She reached an empty space in the shelf, the dust was missing from a portion of it, as if something was there before, and had only recently been moved.
Frowning, she scanned the room for the missing picture. Her eyes almost passed right over it. Sitting on the floor, the deep brown frame sat face down. She walked over to the picture and squatted down to take a closer look. The glass was shattered and the frame cracked. Inside, the picture depicts Nathan getting down on one knee on a small, picturesque bridge as the sun sets behind them. Sighing, she placed it back where she found it.
They should be back by now, Willow couldn’t help but think to herself. Maybe Nathan broke down, and Spencer was trying his best to provide comfort. She should go check up on them.
Entering the kitchen, Willow opened her mouth to ask them what was taking so long, but before she could even get the first word out, they were stolen right from her throat. Her heart stopped in her chest at the sight of Reid, knocked out cold on the ground. Blood ran down his face, painting his pale skin a nasty crimson colour.
“Oh, god,” Willow muttered to herself, running over to him; she threw all of her training to the side at the horrific sight of her injured friend. She probably bruised her knees with the force she dropped down beside him, but she didn’t care. Reid was hurt. He was unconscious. She grabbed for her phone to call for backup, desperately hoping that Spencer could hold on just a little longer. Her quick perusal of his body didn’t show any other signs that he’d been injured, but who knew what Nathan could have done to him in the time she was busy checking out the pictures.
She didn’t even get the chance to enter Hotch’s speed dial number into the phone before the world before her faded to black, a throbbing pain sending her off into the abyss.
—
Willow groaned as she blinked up at an unfamiliar ceiling, mind fuzzy as her unconscious state slowly wore off. She panicked at the feeling of rope around her wrists and ankles, effectively ridding the fog from her mind. Her head whipped around, trying to take in as much of her surroundings as possible. Tears threatened to escape, the throbbing in her head increasing as her thoughts raced. Where was Spencer? Where was she? Was Spencer okay? Where was the team? Were they looking for them?
Pulling on her restraints, she tried to loosen the knots to no avail. Whoever did this, no, Nathan was very talented at tying knots. Huffing in frustration, she took in her surroundings once more. The walls were as bare as the room she was in. The only window was covered with a tarp of some sort, blocking her only way of telling how much time had elapsed since she and Spencer were taken.
The door opened, its hinges creaking with the slow movement. Heart racing, she tugged at her restraints in a final attempt to free herself before meeting her doom. She closed her eyes, hoping that someone would at least come for Reid before it was too late for him.
The door slammed shut, causing Willow to whimper as her eyes flew open to assess the threat. Spencer was standing in front of the door, Nathan by his side, with a gun pointed straight at her. Catching Reid’s gaze, she instantly noticed the red, watery eyes, streams of tears rolling down his face.
“Spence,” Willow called out to him, “it’s okay. I’m okay.”
A sob broke out from Spencer’s mouth, guttural and pained. Nathan smiled, shoulders shaking in silent laughter.
“They’re going to find us, and when they do-”
“No one will find you,” Nathan interrupted her, “Not in time anyway.”
“Let us go, Nathan. There’s no coming back from this. It doesn’t have to end this way.” Willow tugged on her restraints again.
“Shut up!” he screamed, causing Spencer to flinch. His eyes pleadingly bore into Willow’s soul, begging her to stop.
“Do it,” Nathan said, using his free hand to shove Spencer towards the bed.
“Please, I don’t… I can’t… please… don’t make me,” Spencer pleaded, eyes flicking between the woman lying supine on the bed and the man holding the gun at her head.
“I will blow her brains out if you don’t.” Nathan clicked the safety off the gun. “I swear to god I’ll do it!”
“Spencer?” Willow furrowed her brows. “What’s going on?”
“I-I can’t,” Spencer stammered, hands coming up to cover his face.
A gunshot echoed through the silence of the house, causing Spencer to scream out, “No!”
Right above the spot where Willow was bound, a bullet hole rested in the wall. A bullet hole that could have resided in her forehead. Images of blood pooling out and lifeless eyes staring up at him accusingly enter the forefront of his brain.
Spencer shuffled over to the bed, tears falling faster and faster. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
Trembling, Willow watched as Spencer climbed onto the bed with her. “Spence?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to, please!” He cried, tears dripping down on Willow’s face.
Understanding dawned on Willow, crashing over her like an ice-cold wave of the Atlantic. Her eyes searched her colleague—no, her friend’s face that was etched in horror and disgust. A resignation settled in her watery eyes, gut churning as she sent what she hoped to be a reassuring smile his way.
“It’s okay, Spencer, it’s okay.”
He shook his head rapidly, whimpers crawling their way out of his mouth. “No, no, please, I’m sorry.”
The gunshot echoed through the room once more, Willow’s high-pitched scream following behind it as the bullet tore through the side of her leg. “You think I won’t fucking kill her? I swear to god I’ll do it!”
Spencer frantically placed his hands on the weeping wound, trying to staunch the blood loss as best he could. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, tears pouring down his face as he listened to her whimpers and groans. She gasped as the pressure on her leg sent waves of pain crashing over her.
Another shot reverberated the room, Spencer wailing out, “No! Please, stop, no! Don’t hurt her! Please! Kill me instead, please!”
Nathan only laughed. “You work as a behavioural analyst, right? What about my behaviour makes you think that I would do that? You guys must have studied my work. Tell me, Agent–sorry, Doctor Spencer Reid, what about my work suggests that I’d let you guys off easy?”
“You don’t understand. We’re not in a relationship! This-this doesn’t match your MO. We aren’t dating.”
“Who said anything about the others dating?” Nathan cocked his head, smirking.
“You wouldn’t kill us before you get what you want,” Reid declared, confident that this unsub would only kill them once Reid had done what he wanted him to do to Willow. The chances of them getting out of this alive hinged on the fact that this unsub needed them to complete the act; Nathan needed to have the complete fantasy. He wouldn’t be satisfied with killing Willow before Spencer had done what he wanted to her.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“Jeremy Cross and Patricia Underwood. Thomas Johnson and Amanda Walters. Patrick-”
“Why are you saying their names? Who are these people?” Reid asked, praying that every second he kept him talking bought more time for his team to find them.
“Those are the people who didn’t corporate.” Nathan shook his head. “Their deaths were nice and slow. First, the woman,” he points the gun at Willow before directing it to Spencer, “then the man.”
“I don’t believe you,” Spencer defiantly jutted his chin out, trying to ignore the growing pool of blood seeping into the mattress.
“I started by ripping off each of their fingernails. I burned off the tips of their fingers. I pulled out their teeth-”
“Stop,” Spencer snapped, his overactive mind creating a haunting visual of Willow being subjected to that kind of torture.
“I sliced their skin open; hundreds of small cuts left to bleed out. I spread them out so the process would be longer. Do you know how long it can take for someone to bleed out like that, Agent Reid? We can put it to the test.”
“Please, don’t hurt her. Please. She-she didn’t do anything,” Reid pleaded with his captor, hoping to prolong the inevitable.
“And I let the men watch everything. I make them see what they could have prevented. And it’s only when the woman is dead that I start with the man. But I don’t let them get off so easily. No. I make them ra-”
“I’ll do it!” Spencer cried out, anything to stop the man from continuing. He couldn’t continue to listen to it, knowing that any details would only help his mind create a macabre movie in his head.
He couldn’t quite ignore the whimper that left Willow’s mouth in response.
“I’ll do it, just… just please don’t hurt her. Please.”
“I promise you, her death will be practically painless.”
“What… what tragedy are we going to be?”
Nathan chuckles, “Did Romeo know his story was going to be a tragedy? Did Hamlet or Haemon know how they were doomed to die?”
“No, but we’re not the characters of a tragedy, Nathan.”
“From where I’m standing, it looks pretty tragic to me.”
—
“Reid isn’t picking up his phone,” Hotch interrupted the team, who were busy searching through the names of possible suspects.
“I’ll try him,” Morgan offered, flipping out his phone. His expression darkened when he was sent to voicemail. “Did anyone check in with Barrett?”
“I’m doing it right now,” JJ said, phone clutched to her ear.
“I’ll call Garcia, see if she can find anything on Mr. Brown.” Hotch left the room, his countenance giving away the tormented emotions rolling through him. The team sat on the edge of their seats as they waited for Willow to pick up the phone.
“She’s not answering either,” JJ announced, brows furrowing as she tried again.
“She’s not going to pick up,” Hotch declared as he marched back into the room, “Garcia, tell them what you found.”
“Okay, Nathan Brown was a hit when he was in high school, auditioning for plays left and right. He got a bachelor’s degree in literature with a minor in theatre. He became an English teacher and directed some local plays. In October, he got engaged to Daisy Summers, the first woman to be poisoned.”
“Why would he kill his fiancée?” JJ asked.
“She was having sex with another man,” Gideon spoke up. “That’s our trigger.”
“Okay, but if that was his trigger, why was he going after single people? Wouldn’t he stick to couples that he found cheating?” Morgan questioned.
“Guys,” Penelope cut through their conversation, voice tight with urgency, “I’m looking into his job, it says here that he was fired after accusations of him forcing two of his actors to… to be intimate with each other got out. Parents found out and didn’t want him around their kids.”
“He’s not going after couples having sex,” Gideon concluded.
“He’s forcing the victims to have sex with each other,” Hotch finished his sentence, jaw tight and eyebrows drawn together. JJ’s wide eyes darted around the room. Morgan stood from his chair and stormed out of the room.
“Morgan!” Hotch called after him. Sending an apologetic look to the rest of the team, he jogged to catch up with his colleague.
“We need to get out there, Hotch. We need to find them,” Derek said, voice laced with desperation.
“I know, Morgan.”
“Then let's go!”
“Did you guys find the unsub?” Chief Anderson asked as he approached, having heard the commotion.
“Nathan Brown,” Hotch said. “We also have reason to believe he took two of our agents.”
“Oh god,” Anderson shook his head, “He’s… he killed his own fiancée?”
“And now he’s going to kill Reid and Barrett,” Morgan fumed.
Anderson placed a hand over his mouth, looking pale. “We need to move on this now, then. I’ll send all units to his place-”
“No,” Hotch interrupted firmly. “If we go in with sirens blazing, we’ll set him off. We cannot risk the lives of two federal agents like that.”
Morgan’s jaw clenched. “We can’t waste any time, Hotch! Those kids aren’t going to… we need to get them out of there now. He’s clearly unstable. Who knows what he’s doing to them?”
“And that’s exactly why we need to be careful. He’s unstable. If he knows we got him, he will kill both of them without hesitation. There is no talking a guy like this down.” Hotch glanced back at the team, who had been listening in on the conversation. “We need a soft approach. We can’t let him know that we’ve got him until it’s too late for him to pull the trigger.”
Anderson nodded. “Tell me what you need from us.”
—
Willow looked up at Spencer as he fumbled with his clothing. His eyes hadn’t been able to reach hers since he agreed to their captor’s demands. His body shook with sobs, muffled and quiet. She didn’t look down, didn’t allow herself to invade Spencer’s privacy in such a way. Everything else was being taken away from them, she would not take that away from him, too.
His hands trembled as he undid her button and zipper. He was murmuring something under his breath, repeating it over and over again. “Spence?” she whispered, “Look at me.”
He violently shook his head, a choked-off sob catching in his throat. He continues his words, this time loud enough for her to barely make out.
I’m sorry.
Her heart tore to shreds as he mumbled apologies over and over again. “No,” she muttered, low enough so Nathan didn’t get the pleasure of hearing their conversation. “You don’t apologise because there’s nothing to apologise for.”
Spencer shook his head, his doe brown eyes finally lifting to meet her. “I don’t want to.”
chapter four : and you look half dead half the time
masterlist my ao3!
pairing : spencer reid x fem!reader
summary : You're on the hunt for an unsub who's forcing his victims to perform carnal acts or die. What you don't know is that he's set his sights on you and your colleague, Dr. Spencer Reid.
wc : 15k
tags/warnings : no use of y/n, dead dove do not eat, fuck or die, noncon/dubcon, nonconsensual filming, kidnapping, voyeurism, electric shock, switch!spencer, switch!reader, blood, gore, lots and lots of spit, unprotected p in v, oral f!receiving, squirting, multiple orgasms, choking, forced orgasms, face-sitting, angst, talks of pregnancy, broken bones, unhealthy conversations about SA, two extremely traumatized people trying to survive, bittersweet ending.
authors note : here she is!!!! at long last, the final chapter of headlock <3 the amount of support for this fic has me so incredibly grateful, i hope the ending lives up to expectations <3 please let me know if there's any spelling or grammar problems, this chapter kind of got away from me and my brain has been fried by the editing process lol
★
The BAU had a pretty serious reputation.
Highly skilled, highly specialized, and highly exclusive.
You had a plan. Once you graduated from the academy you would get yourself assigned to a nearby field office, something in Virginia. After a few years in the field, once you prove yourself, you will go directly to Quantico and meet with the unit chief, in person, to show how serious you are about being a profiler.
Half of your class had similar ambitions but you were serious. You already had your degree in psychology and with your abilities you could be a useful asset to their team.
You have the drive and the ambition to make it happen, you’re certain.
So imagine the look on your face when SSA Aaron Hotchner approached you one day after class.
Your hands trembled when you shook his.
Your head was spinning, you caught bits and pieces of what he was saying.
“Highly recommended by your professors… Jason Gideon’s retirement… fresh new faces… good influence on the rest of the team… specialty in forensics.”
You nodded along, and thanked him profusely when he handed you a business card and told you to call him when you graduated.
And suddenly, a quick six months later, you were stepping out of the elevator and into the busy bull pen. Straightening the blouse you’d spent the last two weeks agonizing over.
You had a duffle bag full of clothes and toiletries, just as you’d been instructed to bring. And you’re large over the shoulder purse, filled with anything and everything, prepared for anything your first day could possibly throw at you.
You were going to be a profiler, the best profiler the BAU has ever seen, and you’ll be damned if you let anything get in your way.
People shuffled around you, heads down in their files and phones as you weaved through them until you reached Agent Hotchner's office. He hung up the phone when you opened the door and stood to greet you. Telling you how happy he was that you accepted his offer. (As if you could ever say no.)
“Let’s introduce you to the team, and then I’ll show you to your desk. Everyone's been briefed on your arrival and I’m sure they’re all eagerly awaiting an introduction.” He gave you a practiced, professional smile as he led you out of his office and back into the bullpen.
You followed closely behind him as he took you down a hallway, stepping into a side room you were met with a wall of screens and two people crowded around them.
“Allow me to introduce you to Agent Garcia and SSA Morgan.” He had urged you inside as you stared in awe. You’re familiar with both of them.
Penelope Garcia, originally on the FBI’s watchlist, was arrested and offered a deal to avoid prosecution by joining the team instead. She’s a prolific hacker, she’s practically famous online.
And of course you’re familiar with the shockingly handsome man beside her.
Derek Morgan, seasoned member of the team with a focus on obsessional crimes and explosives.
You know the whole team like the back of your hand and right now you feel like a fangirl at a meetup event.
“Wow, it is- it’s so nice to meet you.” You held your hand out, relieved to be met with a handshake from both of them.
Reserved but optimistic.
They’re open to the idea of you, they just aren’t sure yet.
You’ve been practicing your profiling.
You exchanged pleasantries, nodded and laughed when it was appropriate. All of the things you promised yourself you would do to keep your cool.
After a few minutes of small talk you followed Hotch out of the room, to a different office where you meet Agent Jareau.
Jennifer Jareau, media relations and police liaison.
Also notably, drop dead gorgeous.
And she couldn’t have been sweeter. Complimenting your outfit as your face burned hot as the sun.
You run into your next introduction in the hall on the way to the bull pen.
“This is SSA Prentiss.”
Oh, you know who she is.
Emily Prentiss. Linguistics expert, with a specialty in terrorism and counter-intelligence. Her mother was a relatively notable U.S. diplomat.
You must be smiling like an idiot when you shake her hand.
You continue following behind Agent Hotchner, feeling like a kid in a candy store as you return to the bullpen.
“And of course, saving the best for last, your deskmate, Dr. Reid.” Agent Hotchner leads you to an empty desk, directly adjacent to the young man who has his head in a book.
You’re more than familiar with him.
Dr. Spencer Reid, the youngest person ever recruited for the BAU. You’ve heard that he can read 10,000 words a minute. He has an eidetic memory, and an IQ of 187. You had a friend who met him once at a lecture, she told you that he’s a staunch germaphobe.
When he looks up you know you’re done for.
Sharp angled features, accentuated as he tucks his hair behind his ears.
His wide hazel eyes size you up as he closes his book.
“I figured as the youngest members of our team you would get along well enough to share a desk. I’ll leave you to set up your space, we’ll meet in the conference room in an hour.” You watch as Agent Hotchner returns to his office, leaving you alone with Dr. Reid.
“It’s so nice to meet you.” For the first time you don’t offer up your hand, you just smile at him. “Let me know if you like the desks a certain way or if I set anything up in a way that bothers you at all.” You take a few things out of your purse and place them carefully on the large wooden desk. A framed picture of you with some friends from the Academy, a few trinkets from home to fill the space, and several notebooks and pens.
“You look a bit young for the BAU.” Spencer leans towards the little glass partition between you.
“Not as young as you were when you started, what was it, twenty three?” You’re thrilled that he’s even talking to you, even if you’re being a bit overeager. Your friend had told you he was a little awkward if not outright abrasive.
She hadn’t told you he was so pretty.
“Twenty two actually, what else have you heard about me?” He fully stands and moves to lean on your desk as you rock back in your chair, his eyes wander across your desk, you can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to profile you.
“I heard that you have three PHD’s, you got your first when you were only sixteen, and you’re working on a fourth. You have an eidetic memory, and an IQ of a hundred and eighty seven, and you can read ten thousand words a minute.” You ramble without thinking about it, hoping in the back of your mind that you aren’t scaring him off.
“It’s actually twenty thousand.” His eyes lock onto your face now, clearly gauging your reaction.
“Really? Do you really actually retain the information?” You give him a smile and are remarkably pleased when he returns it.
“As far as I can tell.”
“How was your last deskmate?”
“I didn’t have one, Hotch says I have a personal space problem.” He looks a bit abashed at that, you’re surprised he even admits it so plainly.
“Was there no other spot available?” You look around the room, sure every desk is full but there are several clumps of three and four, you could have joined a different group.
“There definitely were, but he seems convinced that I can be more sociable.”
“If you want me to, I can probably move my desk to a different clump.” The last thing you want to do is upset one of your team members on your first day.
“I wasn’t trying to imply-” His cheeks and ears burn red. “Hotch is right, it’ll probably be good for me to make a few friends.” Hesitantly he held his hand out to you.
Your smile practically doubles in size as you shake it.
“It’s nice to make your acquaintance then, Dr. Ried.”
“Likewise.”
★
You decide not to tell Spencer what you talked about with Peter.
It would only serve to stress him out. That’s what you tell yourself at least.
When you wake the red door is shut and locked once more, which puts you both on edge. What could possibly be waiting for you once it’s opened? Instead of stewing on it too much you spend the morning wrapped in Spencer's arms, enjoying a moment of normalcy before whatever the day brings crashes down upon you.
Normalcy.
Is this what normalcy looks like now? Is this what your life will be like outside of here? You aren’t sure you could live without him after all this, and you have to imagine he feels the same way.
He’s certainly gone to extremes to show you that.
“What’s the first thing you’re gonna do after the team finds us?” You take his hand in yours, examining the burnt stumps of his fingers as you break the silence.
“Probably go to a hospital, and then a dentist.” He doesn’t pull away, letting you trace shapes mindlessly against his palm.
“Well yeah, obviously. Aside from the obvious things, what will you do first?” You turn to look at him, despite everything he still smiles at you.
“I haven’t given it much thought, I’m more focused on getting out of here first.”
“Just play along, please?” You groan.
“Why don’t you tell me what you’ll do first?” He leans forward, bumping his forehead against yours.
You have to think about it for a moment.
“I want to get my nails done. I was putting it off before all of this and now I definitely need it. Just the longest, most extravagant mani-pedi they offer.” Looking down at your hands now there’s blood under your nails, and your wrists are raw and bruised.
“Then I imagine the first thing I would do would be sit in a salon waiting room until you’re done.” You aren’t sure if he’s joking or not and thinking too hard about it makes your head hurt so you change the subject.
“What was the first thing you did after you were kidnapped by Tobias Hankel?” It’s probably too personal of a question but at this point are there really boundaries between the two of you?
You know you haven’t crossed a line because he answers without hesitation.
“I took a long shower, like two hours long. I just stood under the water, they had sent me home alone and I just wasn’t sure what else to do.” He pauses, chewing his lip as he thinks. “I felt alone for a long time after that.”
You wonder if that’s how you’ll feel. That’s probably how you’re supposed to feel.
Except you aren’t alone.
You have him.
It’s funny, you’ve known him less than a year but right now it feels like you’ve always been together. You hardly remember life without Spencer.
“What happens when we leave here?” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them.
What happens to us?
That’s the real question on your mind.
“I guess we go back to work, that’s sort of what everyone does when something like this happens. Everyone pretends it didn’t happen.” He sounds… hurt.
You have a hard time swallowing his words.
Something like this.
Like this is something you’re expected to go through.
“Are we going to be okay?” Your brain feels like it’s becoming more and more scrambled, the line between performance and reality is starting to blur and you can’t help but wonder if he’s been acting this whole time.
He really seems to stop and think about his answer.
“I think so, I think you and I will be more than okay.”
Whatever that means.
You’re starting to get a headache so you decide to focus on his wounds to distract yourself, taking your time to examine his hand properly and then his mouth. The bleeding from his gums seems to have stopped completely which is great news. The corners of his mouth are stained red from residual bleeding overnight but he seems to be doing as good as you can hope for.
“How does everything feel?” You ask as you release your grip on his jaw.
“I… don’t really know, physically I feel a little off, nothing I wouldn’t expect to feel all things considered. Mentally, I’m mostly worried, yesterday was out of place for the usual content he’s had us make. So I have no idea what to expect today, he could regress if he didn’t like it, if he did like it we might see some escalation.”
Hands-on.
That’s the term he used.
“Well-” You start but close your mouth the second you hear the crackle of the intercom.
“Hello, my stars, I am thrilled to see you are more talkative today.” There’s an excited edge to his voice that makes you immediately uneasy. “I continue to be amazed by your performances. Yesterday did not go exactly as I had imagined yet I was still awestruck by some of your choices.”
“We weren’t exactly given much of a choice, were we Peter?” When Spencer speaks up you’re a little surprised by his continued attitude with your captor, especially considering the soft spoken conversation you’ve been having.
“Dr. Reid, you may think me a villain but I have given you everything you have ever wanted. You should be thanking me.”
Even Spencer, who has a response to everything, doesn’t have a response to that.
“Regardless of your rudeness, I have a present for the two of you. Behind the door you will find a delightful surprise, and with it a promise that you won’t have to hear my voice again for quite some time, maybe ever. I have decided our communication may be better across different mediums. And of course you know that if you do not comply you-”
“Will be separated, or shot, or whatever it is you feel like today, got it.” Spencer is quick to find his voice again, what has gotten into him?
He’s a lot of things but he isn’t this. Interrogative, sure. Analytical, always. Brazenly aggressive? Never.
“Oh doctor, you really are in some kind of mood today. That is fine, you are entitled to that mood after the performance you gave us yesterday. What a twist.” The door creaks open and neither of you moves, you aren’t in any rush to see what gift is waiting for you. “I have been thinking, yesterday your performance was… enchanting. I keep asking myself what made it so special and I think I found my answer.” He says every word as though he is the most important person in the world, saying the most important sentence anyone has ever heard. “You two hardly need directing, you just need a motive to perform, and you do positively captivating work. So, for the foreseeable future I will cease all specific requests, let us see what you can do. I think your motivation will become abundantly clear rather fast.” He makes a horrific swallowing sound, as if he’s salivating at just the thought of what’s about to happen. “I want to be dazzled, and I think this is how I get the best show possible from you both.”
“So you aren’t going to be giving us any instruction at all? We’re just supposed to do whatever we want?” It’s your turn to speak, voice cracking as you do because that’s almost worse, at least with specific directions you had plausible deniability for all of this. That all changes if you’re calling the shots.
“No my sweet flower, I still have my expectations. You both have your… habits. Things that I enjoy, and things that I do not. I would like to put an end to some of your less desirable habits, and pave the way for more preferable ones. So no, you will not have free reign, but I also know that with a little slack on the leash you might do some of your best work. Now go, enjoy your gift. You may not hear from me again, but know that I am always watching you, angel.”
For what might be the last time, you hear the click of the intercom. There’s a twisted finality to the sound, followed by the creak of the door opening.
“So we’re supposed to just make up a scene?” You turn to Spencer as he gets to his feet. Watching as he makes his way across the room, when he pulls the door open you see a little pink gift bag on the floor, complete with glittery tissue paper sticking out of the top.
He picks it up apprehensively before bringing it back to you. When he hands it to you it’s heavier than you expected for such a small bag.
“I assume it’s for you.” The bravado he had when speaking with the unsub has fizzled out now that you’re alone again.
You move slowly as you pluck the tissue paper out of the bag. You can’t make out the contents so you flip the bag and dump them out onto the blanket.
And you immediately recognize what it is.
Two collars fall out of the bag, both with a thick chunk of black plastic attached to them with two silver prongs poking out. Accompanied by two little padlocks.
You look up at each other in sync, with the same wide eyes, a silent understanding happens in your shared look.
Here’s the motive to perform.
Neither one of you wants to do this, obviously, but you both take one in your hands regardless. What choice do you have? For seemingly the first time since you arrived in this terrible place, you don’t even bother to think of a way to get out of this. There is a complete acceptance within you that this is simply another thing that you must do.
It isn’t a great feeling, but there’s an odd comfort to it.
You don’t need to think of a way out of this because there isn’t one, there’s nothing you can do about it so why upset yourself over nothing.
Spencer must have come to the same conclusion as you because he picks up one of the collars with a resolute look, wrapping the thick nylon band around his neck. You watch as he carefully positions the prongs against his throat and closes the latch, scooping the lock up and with his fingers he snaps it shut before he loses his nerve. Sealing his fate.
Taking a deep breath he looks at you, almost expectantly.
Okay.
Your turn.
Your hands are trembling as you lay the length of the collar out flat. After a few deep breaths, you wrap it around your throat, feeling the cold, sharp metal of the prongs. Your hands are still shaking like a leaf in the wind as you close the latch, dropping the padlock in the process.
“Here, let me help.” He takes the prongs, adjusting them to a different part of your neck. “We want to avoid the carotid artery.” He murmurs before picking up the lock and clicking it shut, sealing your fate as well.
You stare at each other once more, now with matching accessories.
“So I guess we should just…” God, you don’t want to say it out loud, even if it isn’t something you’re necessarily dreading. But now, with the threat around your throat you don’t have much of a choice.
“Probably, I imagine he isn’t exactly feeling patient now that we have them on.” His eyes roam over your body like he isn’t sure of what to do, as if you haven’t already done this. Finally he leans in, one hand cupping your cheek as he kisses you. He’s so gentle with you, slow and intentional. It feels so natural to be touched by him, like you were meant for this. Maybe this won’t be so bad, if it’s just having sex until the unsub is satisfied you can handle that. When his fingers comb through your hair your entire body seizes.
The two of you both go rigid against each other, it feels like your body is being stabbed with a million frozen needles, an endless icy pain that seeps into your bones. Your spine straightens and you feel like you’re being puppeted as you twitch. After a few agonizing moments you collapse against each other.
“That can’t possibly be a standard shock for a dog collar.” You gasp the words out as he nods.
“We need to try something else.” You look him over as he speaks, the flesh under the prongs is red, you’re sure you have a mark to match. At least it wasn’t enough to leave you with a burn, yet.
“Clearly.” Your head is spinning, you can’t actually be expected to think clearly right now? All you can think about is the possibility of another shock happening at any moment.
“So we try a different approach, do you think he’s just generally looking for rough intercourse or does he want something more blatantly violent? I just don’t think this is actually that efficient of a communication method. We have no-” Spencer’s ramblings are cut off as you both seize up again.
The shock lasts much longer than this time, your jaw clenches tight as you try to breathe. You can feel the electricity running through every inch of you, for a moment you swear your heart skips a beat. That can’t be good.
You don’t know much about the dangers of electric shock. But Spencer does, and he looks terrified.
His expression is enough to make you throw yourself at him the second you have control of your body again. Knocking him backwards onto the floor.
“No more talking.” You mumble against his mouth as you bite his bottom lip. You don’t know what you need to do to make the shocks stop but talking about it certainly isn’t going to help.
There’s a moment of hesitation from him and you just know he’s fighting the urge to ask if this is okay. That’s the last thing you need right now, stopping to ask if you're alright with this will undoubtedly end with another shock.
“Come on.” You murmur, taking his hand and guiding it between your legs.
Thank god that seems to be permission enough for him as he slips his hands past your waist band, any shame you felt a few short days ago has long since gone out the window. Based on the way he whimpers when his fingers press against your folds you’re certain he’s in the same boat.
Gone is a sense of shame between the two of you, if this is your normal you might as well enjoy it.
“Just do what you want to do, it’ll be better for both of us.” You press your forehead to his, gently rocking yourself against his hand. After everything you’ve been through at this point it’s hard to believe his fingers are still hesitantly hovering above your entrance.
You can practically hear his internal monologue in your own head.
Prior consent doesn’t count as consent in future situations. Especially when you’re being coerced by electric shock, We’ll do whatever you’re most comfortable with, even if it means getting shocked until our hearts simultaneously explode.
His erection is actively poking your hip right now and he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for the okay.
The collar might not not be motivating enough for him but it certainly is for you, you know exactly what the unsub wants to see.
He wants to see all the things you want to do to the man staring up at you slackjawed right now.
You bring your hand up to his face, squeezing his jaw, you force his mouth open wider, staring in his eyes as you spit into his mouth. You raise your eyebrows at him, daring him to react as his eyes manage to go even wider.
Self proclaimed germaphobe Dr. Reid looks at you, and swallows.
You really are the exception to his rules.
Finally he swipes two fingers against your clit, being electrocuted might have left you feeling tense and paranoid but his touch has all of that melting away.
Thank fucking god.
His fingers slide across the length of your cunt, he hums when he feels the wetness pooling at your entrance. He never pushes into you, only teases your hole until you’re keening against him.
Hovering on all fours above him you’re sure you’re a sight, panting like a dog for more.
Your noises only serve to egg him on. Using your wetness as a lubricant he focuses on your clit. You squeeze your eyes shut, almost instinctually rocking back and forth against the heel of his palm. He doesn’t seem to be in any rush, rubbing lazy circles against you until your legs shake so bad you’re worried you’ll crumble and fall down on top of him.
“Can I get on top now?” The sound of his voice makes your eyes snap open as you nod eagerly. Holding onto your hips he flips you over so your positions are reversed. You lean back, waiting patiently for his hand to return to your cunt. When he doesn’t you whine.
You’re rewarded with his fingers looping around the sides of your panties, yanking them down until you're bare before him.
“Open your mouth.” His tone isn’t demanding, more like a plea.
So you do just that, and when you meet his eyes you hardly even see Spencer anymore.
Gone is the sweet boy you share a desk with, he has been replaced by something hungry and tragic.
He’s just like you now.
Sick.
He leans down until your lips are almost touching, he isn’t as confident as you were but he still spits into your mouth without hesitation. Pulling back to watch. When swallowing his breath hitches. His fingers pull on the hem of your camisole, pulling it up until it’s over your arms and your head.
He takes a moment to just stare at your chest in a way that would usually make you cover yourself up. Instead you just let him. Squeaking in surprise when he leans down and sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, making obscene sounds in the process. His tongue swirls around it for a moment before he starts dragging his tongue back and forth, letting his teeth lightly graze against the sensitive bud, never actually biting down. Alternating between sucking and lapping at your nipple until it stiffens into a peak. When he’s satisfied he switches to your other breast, repeating the process. When he pulls away to admire his work your nipples are swollen and both of your tits are slick with spit.
The sight is enough to make him bite his lip in a weak attempt to stifle a whine.
You’ve all but forgotten about the collar around your neck as he starts to bend your knees up towards your stomach. You're caught off guard when he keeps pushing until your legs are pointed straight up with your feet over his shoulders. Turning his head he kisses your ankle before gently biting the skin there. You’re positioned in a way that his clothed cock rubs against your core, your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head. Just when you think he’s about to pull his boxers down he stops.
He opens his mouth and you just know his dumb ass is about to ask if you’re okay with this, so you kick the side of his head and glare at him as his mouth snaps closed. He nods, at least the part of his brain that uses his critical thinking skills still works.
You both know the unsub doesn’t like when he asks you for consent, you don’t know or honestly care why. He can ask you if you’re okay a hundred times a day when you get out of here.
There’s another moment's pause from him, and if looks could kill your glare would put him six feet under.
“For gods sake, Spence, just fuck me.” You hope you don’t sound too mean but he doesn't seem bothered, quite the opposite.
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
You feel a rush of relief when he kicks his boxers off, his cock stands at attention, the poor neglected thing is already leaking, leaving his tip shiny and slick.
He wraps his arms around your legs, holding you like a vice as he lines himself up and slides into the heat of your cunt.
It stings just as much as it did the first time but you revel in it this time. Who cares about a little pain anymore? You just squeeze your eyes shut and groan. He likely doesn’t even hear the edge to your groans over his own breathy moans.
He doesn’t give you as much of an adjustment period this time either, his hips are already rocking back and forth. Whether it’s for fear of being shocked or simply because he can’t help himself is unclear.
He holds your legs firmly in place, ankles thrown over his shoulders as he pistons in and out of you. Both of you are reduced to whimpering messes in a matter of minutes as you feel the all too familiar tightening of the knot in your stomach.
Boy genius can’t be far behind you based on the sporadic nature of his thrusts. You’d say that happened fast but you’re in no position to judge, not when your breath is catching in your throat with every thrust. He knows your body surprisingly well because you can tell he’s holding out for your orgasm before his. His quick, sloppy thrusts become focused. Shallow, just the right way to slide against that sweet spot before slamming into your cervix until the knot snaps.
You clamp down on him, the force of which draws a string of whimpers past his lips as he scrambles to pull out, coming on your stomach. You watch the way his jaw tightens, and his cock twitches, admiring the sight before you lean back. Taking a few deep breaths as you try and collect yourself. He slumps over next to you, in a similar state.
He plants a kiss on your shoulder before pressing his forehead against yours.
Your eyes are starting to flutter shut when your back arches. A strangled cry leaving your throat as you feel a quick shock is delivered to your body. Spencer spasms onto you, his fingers twist around his collar, pulling uselessly.
It’s a mercifully short burst of electricity this time but still enough to make you sit up straight.
“What did we do wrong?” Your voice is hoarse.
He looks troubled, more troubled than you’d expect, even after all that.
“I-I’m not sure, I guess we just have to try again.” So rare is it to hear Dr. Spencer Reid sound unsure.
“Okay, fuck, okay.” You’re trying to think back over everything you just did. He didn’t shock you the entire scene until the end so he clearly didn’t have a problem with the contents of the scene. You’re a mess of scrambling limbs as you both smash your lips together once more in an attempt to avoid any form of reprimand. “Let’s try something else.” You grumble against his lips.
You’re racking your brain for ideas, clearly he’s doing the same but it’s edged with a panic. If you choose the wrong thing you risk another shock. How much would it take to stop your heart?
Focus.
He didn’t like what you just did, okay, do something else. Do something different.
Does he want more talking or less?
More participation on your part, less on Spencer’s?
Rougher?
Meaner?
Without the unsubs direct commands Spencer isn’t as sexually dominant as he originally had to be, maybe the unsub wants that dynamic to be included in every scene.
You can do that.
Happily.
First things first, you need him to be as naked as you are.
You climb into his lap, straddling him as you push him back so that he’s laying back once more. Yanking on the hem of his shirt until you’re able to pull it off of him, tossing it aside you drag your hands up and down his torso.
God he’s pretty.
Somehow even prettier with a collar around his neck.
Don’t think like that.
Grinding down against him you can feel his cock already swelling again.
“You get hard so easily.” You grab his jaw, noticing his stubble for the first time. How long have you been here?
“I thought you said no talking.”
“Well that didn’t work out so well, I’m trying something different. Do you not like it?”
The dumb look on his face makes you forget about the collar for a moment, it makes you forget about the room you're in, and it makes you forget all about Peter Hill. All you can think about are ways to make him keep making that face.
“This is fine.” He mumbles.
“You do all the work every time Spencer, you must be tired by now.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He really does sound tired. Maybe not from this exactly, but in general.
“Maybe you could let me take care of you this time?” You tuck a strand of hair away from his face as he continues to nod.
Assuming that the unsub might see Spencer as a surrogate for himself this would be a wise course of action. Seeing you as the dominant, more active, participant might be exactly what he wants. Maybe the reason you were shocked was because he could see how hesitant Spencer was, maybe he just needs to see one of you taking the lead.
That’s the only reason you’re doing this.
Certainly not seizing an opportunity.
Your panties have long since been discarded so it’s relatively easy to reach back and grab his cock, lining him up with your entrance as you sink down onto him. You’re typically concentrating and rolling your eyes into the back of your head when he first enters you, but right now you get a perfect view of his face.
Mouth open in an ‘O’ as his eyes flutter shut, a pornagraphic moan slipping past his lips. This is already so much better.
Once you’re fully seated on his cock you fight the urge to grind against him, instead you just watch his face, the way his features twist and contort in pleasure.
“Do you like it when I spit in your mouth?” You do your best to keep your tone sultry, more condescending than actually caring about the response.
You’re met with a frantic nod and you nearly lose your resolve when he opens his mouth.
This is better than any romance book, sexy movie, or porno you’ve ever seen.
You want to take a picture, since that isn’t an option right now you settle for burning the mental image into your brain before you give him exactly what he wants. You hover over him, letting a line of spit fall from your mouth to his. His cock twitches inside of you simultaneously. You don’t dare take your eyes off of him as he swallows again.
So fucking good.
He’s too good. Maybe this is what you should have been doing all along. He never needed to be in charge, this is a million times better than any show you’ve put on. If Peter wanted a star he’s got one right here. Licking his perfect pretty lips.
Batting his eyelashes at you like his cock isn’t lodged in your stomach.
“I wonder what else you like?” You don’t even say it for the camera, that was forgotten the second he opened his mouth and presented his tongue to you.
He doesn’t have a response, just that pretty, dumb look. Is this what it’s like for him? Watching you come apart so easily, you completely understand his ridiculous torture metaphors now, this is fucking torture in the sweetest way humanely possible.
You don’t know what possesses you to do it but you tentatively at first, you wrap your fingers around his throat, careful to avoid the bulky part of the collar. It’s a move made mostly for show. But when you’re met with a frantic, impatient, nod, you squeeze.
His hips rock upwards immediately, fucking into you, instinctively your grip tightens around his throat as if you can steady yourself. It only makes him buck into you harder. He splays his hands out across the tops of your thighs, nails digging into your flesh, leaving a trail of crescent marks in his wake.
The room fills with the sounds of curses as you let your head fall backwards, so much for doing the work, Spencer’s doing most of the work as he continues to fuck up into you. You briefly let your hand slip off his neck, his hand catches your wrist, holding you against his throat as you wrap your fingers back around it.
“Fucking- shit, oh my god.” His brows furrow together as he whines, you’ve never heard him curse so much before.
He angles his hips off the floor, grinding the base of his pelvis against your clit until you’re seeing stars. You’re definitely squeezing too hard but he won’t let your wrist go and your body is too tense from the pressure building in your stomach. Based on the sounds he’s making you’re sure he doesn’t care, his eyes are basically rolled into the back of his head at this point anyway.
“So fucking good, Spence, oh my fucking-” Your voice trails off into a moan as rolls his hips up against you just so. The goal was to focus on him but he seems hell bent on making you come, so much so that he doesn’t even bother thrusting into you. He just keeps angling his hips against yours in any way he can to put pressure on your clit. And you reward his efforts every time by tightening your grip.
Once again your orgasm hits first, before you’re ready for it and before you’ve recovered from your first orgasm. He forces it out of you. And in return you brand your handprint across the front of his throat. Your vision is blurring white as you cry out. Your chest heaves as you gasp, fighting, keeping your eyes open as you stare down at your pretty boy.
His cheeks are bright red as he sucks in a breath, you’re about to start riding him in earnest, it’s the least you can do. But before you can he grabs the back of your head, forcing your lips onto his as his tongue presses against yours. You start to groan his name but he swallows the sound when he sucks your tongue into his mouth. Just like that with a stutter of his hips you feel his cock jerk inside of you as he comes, spilling out around the base of his shaft as he makes a mess out of both of you.
The corners of his eyes are damp when you look at him, you can’t help but kiss him there, moving to his cheek, and then his forehead. You both stay silent, a palpable tension replaces the lust in your cloudy mess of a brain as you wait to see if it was enough. The energy in the room shifted completely.
You can’t imagine a world in which that wasn’t adequate.
Yet somehow, it wasn’t.
You fall forward, letting your forehead rest on the cold cement as you feel the burning against your neck. From your throat down to your fingertips, you can feel the white hot fire burning you from the inside out. It lasts long, too long. It feels like the prongs are boring holes straight through your throat and out the other side.
When it finally relents Spencer's fingers are pulling on your collar.
“What’s wrong?” You mumble, your visions a bit blurry as you struggle to sit up.
“I need to adjust the prongs, we’ve got burns now and we don’t want to keep hitting the same spot or it could become necrotic.” You don’t really comprehend what he’s saying but you sit still so he can do whatever it is he’s insisting on. “Okay, now can you do mine?” He tilts his chin up as he nods and you adjust his collar as well.
The sight of his burn snaps you out of your stupor.
A gnarly red and white blister has formed under the prongs, it hurts just to look at but the sting on your own neck reminds you that you have one to match.
The smell of burnt flesh floats in the air around you.
Once you’ve adjusted his collar as he instructs he leans in and kisses you, pushing you back until you’re the one laying down this time. When he starts to pepper kisses down your chest and stomach until he’s between your legs you squeeze your thighs together. You cannot deal with another orgasm right now.
“No.” You’re firm as he gives you those ridiculous puppy dog eyes.
Good luck saying no to that look.
“I’m serious Spencer, no. Get back up here and stick your dick in me so we can give this another try.” You’re fried. Mentally, physically, literally.
“Just you this time, sweetheart.” You groan as he kisses your inner thigh. Your hands tangle in his mess of hair, pulling too hard, even though it doesn’t seem to affect him. “I can’t go again, I need a minute. For someone my age the average refractory period is between thirty minutes to an hour and considering I've already gone twice in a row I’m gonna need a moment before I’m ready to go again. Since you are someone assigned female at birth you don’t have a physiological refractory period so by process of elimination this is what we have to do.”
All you can do is glare at him.
“I don’t know exactly what counts as a scene but I’m pretty sure it’s an orgasm. And it can’t be mine.”
“Spencer.”
“Look, I think I figured out what we have to do, just let me test my theory.”
He buries his face in the crease of your thigh, dragging his tongue across your skin.
“Well at least tell me!”
“You aren’t going to like the answer.” He mumbles into the meat of your thigh as he sucks a mark into the skin before turning towards his main target. “I’ll try to get this done as fast as possible.”
Your poor overstimulated clit is where he settles his mouth. Flattening his tongue against you as tries his damndest to get you there.
And god it feels good.
He worships your cunt, his tongue writes prayers against you as it darts back and forth. You see god everytime he jams his tongue into you, as if he can effectively fuck you with it.
It feels so good.
But you’re too scattered. The last shock was different, demanding. And it’s left you genuinely afraid. You’re too on edge to come right now. Your body is tense in all the wrong spaces and even with his face buried between your legs all you can think about is the burn mark on both of your necks.
“I- I can’t Spence.” It’s too much, too much of a good thing, especially when you aren’t any closer to an orgasm.
“That’s just not true, you’ve done it before you can do it again.” He’s out of breath as he rests his head on your thigh.
You whine, kicking your leg weakly in an attempt to knock him away from you.
“Get on top.” If that’s his solution he clearly isn’t listening to you.
“What?”
“Sit on my face.” He says it like it’s the answer to all of your problems but you can’t imagine more stimulation is going to be the answer when your entire body is on edge.
“Spencer…”
“Please?” He whines, sounding like he might honest to god cry if you deny him this. “It’ll be better for you I promise.” He says it like his dick isn’t starting to harden just at the thought. Unfortunately you need him hard for what you’re sure will be round four when this inevitably doesn’t work. Until you figure out what Peter wants you need to prepare yourself for a long day.
What if this is what he wants?
What if he just wants you to fuck each other until you pass out? Until your body simply can’t handle it anymore.
You don’t get long to dwell on the thought because Spencer’s laying down beside you.
“Sit on my face, now. Or he’s gonna shock us again.” You’re getting tired and it honestly isn’t worth the fight. Especially when he’s staring at you so eagerly.
“Fine.” You grumble as you sit up on your knees, throwing your leg over his head so you’re kneeling above him
“Just relax, I’ll do everything, okay?” It’s remarkable that he can sound so sure considering the circumstances.
You aren’t sure if you can relax in this position.
Your knees shake, and you struggle to hold yourself up above him. You just want to lay down but he wraps his arms around the backs of your thighs. In one swift motion he yanks you down so you’re sat in earnest on his face.
“Jesus, Spencer.” You lean forward, tangling your fingers in his hair to steady yourself. Scraping your nails against his scalp in the process.
You’d feel worse about how you might be hurting him if he wasn’t already moaning into your cunt, the vibrations only serve to tighten your grip on his hair.
He isn’t as focused, instead he alternates between your clit and your now dripping hole. When his tongue is on your clit it feels like you’re being forced to sit on a vibrator. He darts his tongue back and forth against you, occasionally twisting his head to the side so he can breathe. Whenever that happens you’re rewarded with the stubble on his cheeks and chin against your sensitive nub. You can’t decide if it feels good or bad at this point. He pokes his tongue against the rim of your fluttering hole and you're in an even worse position. You’re dealing with the sensation of that combined with the bridge of his nose knocking against your clit.
You hate that he was right, this is working.
You don’t have any choice other than to let it work because his arms are wrapped so tightly around your thighs you couldn’t lift off of him if you tried. Not that you would, you’re riding that precarious line between discomfort and pleasure now that makes this so much more bearable then you’d expected.
If you had the capacity for embarrassment right now you’d be horrified by the wet sucking noises he’s making, instead you let your head fall backwards as he forces you closer and closer to your breaking point. The tightening in your stomach is inherently different than it usually feels, the muscles in your face twitch as you focus and chase that sensation.
Almost uncontrollably, your cunt flutters around nothing and you feel a gush between your legs, Spencer doesn’t let up for a second as you come.
“Oh my fucking god.” You straighten your knees as you manage to pry his tongue off of your clit. You’re gonna have a permanent crease between your eyebrows after this, your face has been scrunched up so long. “Spencer stop-” You roll off of him, laying flat on your back beside him, the blankets are soaked.
You’re gasping for air as you wait for the next shock. But Spencer clearly has other plans as he sits up next to you, shoving your legs apart once more, one of his hands pushes your thigh up towards your stomach.
“We can't stop, we have to go again.” The bottom half of his face is shiny and slick.
When he slides his fingers against your swollen clit you shove him away.
“No- I’m done. I need a break, just a few minutes.” You feel like you might cry.
“We don’t have a few minutes, we need to do this right now. Then you can take as long of a break as you want.” He sounds so sure.
“Promise?”
“I promise, please, just trust me.”
Frantic and jittery, he strokes himself. His free hand slotting back between your legs, much gentler this time.
“You don’t even need to do anything, just lay here and I’ll take care of it. Promise, I promise.” He mumbles, careful not to use too much pressure as you continue to fight the urge to shove him away.
Any precision he usually has is gone completely by now, replaced by sloppy circles against your clit as he jerks himself off. When you whine at the friction he spits into his hand before returning to your clit. He holds his other hand out in front of your chin, wanting the same for himself. You spit onto his palm, earning yourself an breathy groan as he uses it to properly fuck his hand.
It becomes abundantly clear that he isn’t trying to make you come again, if anything he’s simply touching you for his own gratification. And you’re thankful for it, if only one of you needs to have an orgasm to count as a scene you’re happy to sit this one out. Your clit buzzes, hypersensitive to every uncontrolled stroke against it. He whimpers as he ruts against his hand, hips stuttering as he makes a sound between pain and ecstasy.
His eyes squeeze shut as a filthy whine leaves his lips, forehead slick with sweat as his head falls backwards. You can see the veins in his neck straining as he has what you're sure is a rather uncomfortable orgasm, spurts of come are added to the mess between your legs.
Neither one of you dares to move. You’re waiting, convinced you’re about to be shocked at any moment.
But you aren’t.
Spencer was right, thank god.
He collapses beside you and the room fills with the sounds of your haggard breathing.
“How did you know that would work?” You finally break the silence, still struggling to catch your breath as he rolls over onto his side to face you.
“I didn’t, it was a lucky guess.”
You sit straight up, looking offended.
“You promised.” You try not to sound shrill, since he did technically fulfil his end of the deal.
“I know, I’m sorry.” You can’t stay mad at that sheepish half smile. How is he still managing a smile after everything you’ve been through?
“I mean, I guess it’s fine since you didn’t technically break your promise. How did you figure it out?” You lay back down on your side so you’re face to face.
“The collars are meant to be used for ‘fixing bad habits.’ I eventually realized that that meant training.”
“Training?”
“Like training a dog.” He grimaces. “When we do something wrong we’re shocked, when we do something right we aren’t. What he’s essentially doing is training us to do what he wants unprompted.”
“So that he doesn’t even have to ask.”
“Exactly, I have to assume that the goal would be that eventually we would be having sex the majority of the time. He said he isn’t going to speak to us anymore so it’s safe to assume he plans on using the collars as his only communication.”
“How much would it take to kill us?” Your voice shrinks as you ask the question that’s been picking away at the back of your mind.
“Electricity? It’s hard to say. It’s less about the voltage and more about the current, any amount of voltage to a human heart could be fatal. But the human body has an inherent resistance to electrical current. It’s a really tricky concept because without sufficient voltage the current would be unable to travel through the body regardless. The closest thing to an answer that I can give you is that nine volts with enough current would typically be considered enough to deliver a lethal shock.” His hands start to move in that familiar way they do when he’s lost in an explanation.
“How much do you think our collars emit?”
He hesitates before he speaks again.
“The average dog collar emits three to nine volts with a low current but it’s safe to assume that based on the feeling of the shock, and how it courses through our entire bodies, that he has modified them to have a stronger current.”
“So it could kill us.”
“Yes, it’s possible.”
“So we should do everything in our power to not risk another shock.”
“Yes, that would be wise.”
“So we let him… train us?”
“I don’t think we have much of a choice in the matter.”
There isn’t much more you can say about that. What other options are there? That’s the question you’ve been asking yourself since you were taken. What else could you possibly do?
“What happens when we’re trained?”
“I think we just have to hope it doesn’t get to that point.”
You know the answer, he does too. If it works then you both become obedient pets, fucking each others brains out non stop until your hearts stop.
“So from now on when we wake up we should just have sex until we’re sure he’s satisfied?”
“I guess.”
★
The next morning when the lights come on you do just that.
You wake up to sloppy kisses, rolling over almost instinctually onto your belly as he tugs your panties down. You lay prone as he kisses down the length of your spine before sucking a mark into the skin. And another, and another, and another. You bury your face in your pillow, letting out a series of low moans. His knee spreads your legs as he slots himself between your thighs.
And you’re happy to let him.
He comes buried in your pussy, but not before his arm twisted around to the front of you and ripped an orgasm from you.
“Should we go again?” You turned to whisper, worry biting at the edges of your voice.
His hands on your hips guide you on top of him, once you’re straddling him he pulls you into a lazy kiss.
“I don’t know if I can right now.” He murmurs, almost cracking a smile. “Besides, I don’t think it’s about doing it multiple times, it’s about doing it unprompted."
“Okay, we can just do this then.” You wrap your lips around his bottom lip, lightly sucking.
It’s easy to get distracted by him, everything about him is distracting. But you’ve had an idea on your mind for sometime and you need to find a way to bring it up without drawing attention to it.
“Do you remember when Tobias Hankle saved your life?” He stiffens up a bit at the name but he nods.
“I couldn’t forget it if I tried.”
“Why do you think he did it?”
“He wasn’t a bad person, he was just a person in a bad situation, he never had a chance to be anything else. He was a victim of his circumstances.”
“I wonder if we could be saved the same way.” You murmur it against his jaw, hoping it’s loud enough to be heard and quiet enough to not be picked up by a microphone.
“I don’t think that would save me, not this time.” He picks up on what you mean immediately, his fingers comb through your hair as you kiss his cheek. You brush your lips against his stubble.
“It might save me.”
He flips you both so he’s on top, where his lips can’t be read by anyone looking down from above.
“It hurts.” His lips connect to your throat, kissing across the line of bruises. “You would have to stay completely silent and still.”
“I can handle it.”
“And if it doesn’t work?”
“Then we do this.” Your hand trails down his body until you can palm him through his boxers, a small part of you is pleased to find he’s already hard. “We do this forever, until we’re old and grey.” He moves up your jaw, biting your earlobe before breathing his words out against you.
“I could seriously hurt you.”
“Then do it right, put those three PHD’s to work. Do it hard enough to prove that it’s real, and soft enough that you don’t break anything.”
“That’s a really dangerous line to ride.”
“We won’t get another chance. Make it real.” It’s the last thing you say to him before you go back to kissing him in earnest.
Turns out he can go again.
★
How many days has it been?
It can’t have been more than a week since you were taken, you’re sure of it.
Without the daily presence of the unsubs voice everything starts to blend together. Wake up, have sex, stare longingly at each other as you talk about nothing in particular until you either have more sex or are shocked into doing so.
Out of habit, you start crawling on top of him before you’re even fully awake every morning.
Just like the unsub wants.
Just like you want.
That line starts to get blurry and the thought scares you, so you choose to ignore the nasty little voice in your head.
After another long day you curl up against him, grateful for the dim lighting the evenings provide for you.
“Do you think he’s won?” You whisper into the darkness, you’re certain the unsub must be asleep at this point, you’ve been awake so long. He has to sleep eventually.
“What do you mean? I’m sure the team is still looking for us.” He holds your face in one of his hands, an action that is starting to feel familiar to you.
“Yeah, but look at us.” You motion at yourself dramatically. “He did it, we’re just animals now, doing whatever he wants and now we… we enjoy it, all we do is have sex. He won.” You notably haven’t been shocked in some time.
“I don’t think that’s how we should view it.”
“How else are we supposed to look at it then?”
“We… take comfort in each other, despite the things he makes us do, we still-” He stops abruptly, swallowing loudly before continuing. “We still care for each other, that means we’re still human.”
“He doesn’t even have to tell us what to do anymore, Spencer. We just do it.” Your voice cracks, this whole situation has made you insufferably emotional.
“I think you’re being too hard on yourself.” His thumb traces little shapes against your cheek.
“How much of this is real?” You hate how needy you sound.
“All of it’s real. All of this has happened and is continuing to happen.” He tilts your head up, forcing you to look at him.
“You know what I mean, Spence.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” He looks at you like he feels bad for you and you hate it.
“Why didn’t this happen organically? Why did it have to happen here, where it was forced?” The words are clunky as they force themselves out of your mouth.
“I think it would have happened organically, eventually. I can’t count the amount of times I almost asked you out.”
“Then why didn’t you? I would have said yes.”
“I realize that now but I just couldn’t be sure.” How the fuck could he be unsure? He’s the most intelligent man you’ve ever met and you certainly weren’t subtle.
“I was obsessed with you.”
“You were nice to everyone.”
“I was extra nice to you.”
“You never realized that I liked you either.” He scoffs.
“Yeah, but I’m not a genius.” You poke him gently in the chest and he cracks a small smile.
“We could still do that, go out. When we get out of here.”
Could you?
It’s hard to imagine a world where you sit across from him in a restaurant after all of this.
Before this? Sure, you spent plenty of nights imagining it. You would style your hair down, and wear mascara. And you’d wear one of your dresses, something he’d never seen before that showed off your shoulders and legs. He never got to see that at work, you wanted to wow him.
Now he’s seen it all, and he seems pretty pleased with it but you aren’t exactly fantasizing about a little italian restaurant with him these days. Not when you know what awaits you after dessert.
Could you sit across from him, eating complimentary bread out of a basket, talking about the weather? Your relationship seems to be pretty far beyond that at this point.
“Maybe.” You murmur.
“Maybe?” His voice hitches up as he cocks an eyebrow at you. “If you turn me down for a date after all of this I’m quitting my job and moving as far away from Virginia as possible.”
“I’m not saying that- I’m just saying… I don’t know. Can you really see us going back to normal after this? Just acting like this never happened, we start dating and- and what? We hold hands everywhere, we go out to dinner, go to the movies, we act like a normal couple? I just don’t think we’re a normal couple, Spence.”
“We don’t have to be a normal couple, I don’t want to be a normal couple. We can be a couple that gets takeout and only watches movies at home because we’re scared to go outside. We can be disgusting with our public displays of affection, just to show everyone that they could never understand the devotion we share. Instead of dates we can stay in bed and I’ll show you every night just how much I want to be with you, I don’t care. We can do whatever you want to do, as long as it’s done together.” He sounds like he’s already made the decision for you and honestly, you’re glad. He makes it sound so easy.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I mean it, whatever you want.” He plants a kiss between your brows before resting his chin on the top of your head. “That also means that if we get out of here and you want nothing to do with me I’ll respect that choice.”
“You’re an idiot.” The absurdity of the idea makes you laugh.
“You have that effect on me.”
There’s a beat of silence where you simply enjoy the feeling of his arms around you before you bring up the question that’s been quietly building up in the back of your mind.
“Do you think it’s possible I’m pregnant?” You don’t feel too different but you have to ask. With the amount of unprotected intercourse you’re having it’s entirely possible. Spencer only pulls out half the time, it doesn’t seem like something he’s even concerned with. Yet when you look at him now he looks pale.
“I- I hadn’t even thought about that. I guess I just assumed we’d be out of here by now, I hadn’t considered the possibility.” So rarely does he sound as unsure as he does right now.
“What do we do if I am?”
“We… handle it. We can handle it.”
No you can’t.
Not when there’s no end in sight. Imagining giving birth in this tiny room with only Spencer to help you makes your blood run cold.
“Maybe we should handle it before it becomes a problem.”
By putting your plan into motion and getting the hell out of here.
What other choice do you have? You’ve all but given up on the team at this point, and you know he has too. Even if neither one of you wants to say it.
“If you’re ready for that.” You can tell purely based on his wary tone that he knows exactly what you mean.
“I’m ready.” You hope he is too. You’re only gonna get one shot at this, and if you fail there might not ever be another chance at getting out of here.
★
This is it.
Hopefully you’re as good of an actress as the unsub seems to think you are.
Okay.
You’re dead.
Your heart stopped, probably from all the electric shocks, it makes perfect sense.
You aren’t sure if Spencer’s awake yet, but you can’t check. You try to recall the original videos you watched on the jet of the victims. You don’t remember the quality being that good, there were multiple angles but they were all grainy. Hopefully the quality is poor enough that they can’t pick up the tiny movements of your chest as you try to stay completely still.
After what feels like hours Spencer finally sits up beside you, mumbling a greeting to you before going quiet. He whispers your name, when you don’t respond he shakes your shoulders before repeating your name louder.
“Sweetheart, wake up.” You’re doing everything in your power to keep your breaths shallow, keeping your chest as still as possible. “Come on, time to get up.” You aren’t the only one putting on a show, the panicked lilt of his voice is exactly what you asked for. Dejected and frightened.
His fingers slide under your collar, pressing against your pulse point. You know he feels the beat of your heart but the hitch of his breath says otherwise.
“No, no no no.” His voice is barely a whisper as he presses his ear to your chest.
You’re both caught off guard when a shock is delivered to both of you. You grit your teeth immediately, it takes every ounce of strength you have left to not react. You let your body twitch, keeping your face free of any reaction to the best of your ability. It’s a full ten seconds of electricity through your veins, when it finally stops you fight the urge to take a deep breath, instead returning to your brief little inhales and exhales.
You don’t dare to open your eyes but you can hear Spencer struggling to get back up. Your entire body feels fried and you’re almost thankful for the excuse to stay laying down.
You can hear him sniffling, his hands are on you, locked together over the center of your chest.
Just like when Tobias Hankel saved him.
You brace yourself as he begins chest compressions, a steady rhythm against you. It’s exactly as you’ve been trained, hard and consistent, when performing CPR you should be pushing in at least two inches. He’s certainly doing that, you want to wince in pain but manage to resist when he stops, carefully opening your mouth with a hand on your chin before locking his lips to yours. He pinches your nose shut, when he blows the air you’re eternally grateful when he breaks the seal between your lips and lets the air escape instead of forcing it into your lungs.
You make sure to let your chest rise regardless.
After one exaggerated breath he sits back up and returns to the compressions, his own breathing is shaky and you can hear him gasping, scared little sounds. You count each agonizing slam against your chest, a small whimper escapes your throat when you feel a sharp pain in your ribs. He doesn’t relent, when he hits thirty on the dot his mouth is back on yours, your cheeks are wet this time when he pulls back, when he returns to the chest compressions each one sends a jolt of pain directly to your ribcage.
“Come on, please, please, just wake up.” His voice trembles and it’s clear now that he’s crying. “Please I can’t do this without you, I can’t do anything without you, please, wake up for me, please sweetheart.” He’s a rambling mess, his voice a strained whine.
You aren’t the only one acting like your life depends on it.
There’s no more shocks, and no voice over the intercom. Just the two of you putting on the performance of a lifetime, praying that this works.
With each push you feel the pain in your ribs grow sharper and more focused on the left side of your body.
You don’t know how many rounds of compressions you do, eventually you go numb, you briefly wonder if you’re actually dying as Spencer sobs over your body. Maybe you really did die, and these are your last moments in your body.
Eventually he stops. His body folds forward, his forehead resting over your heart.
“I’m so sorry, I should have kept you safe, I should have protected you.” His body trembles against you as he scoops you up holding your limp body in his arms.
When do you call it quits on this?
You don’t have a plan for if this doesn’t work, do you just sit up and act like everything’s fine?
“Just wake up, please, I love you.” His voice is so soft and vulnerable.
That almost makes you open your eyes.
Instead you stiffen up at the sound of the door creaking open. You don’t dare move now, not when you’ve already come this far.
You can feel Spencer's body go rigid against yours as foot steps cross the room.
“I- I never wanted her to get hurt. I never meant for this to happen.” You recognize the voice as Peters immediately, even without the crackling robotic tone of the intercom. “Oh god…” You can’t help but finally open your eyes to stare at him.
He’s so… ordinary.
Mid to late thirties, white, balding, polo shirt and khakis. He’s crying, his head is in his hands as he whimpers. You don’t get a good look at his face before Spencer is on him.
You’ve seen Spencer in the field before, this is nothing like that.
Any of the calculated, deliberate restraint he usually exhibits goes out the window as his hands grip his shirt collar, his fist slams into the side of his head. Peter stumbles, falling onto his back, staring up with a look of horror as Spencer kneels over him.
You watch, frozen as his fist connects to your captors face.
Again, and again, and again, and again.
You watch as his face goes from a terrified expression to a smashed mess of flesh and teeth. He struggles for a little while, weakly clawing at Spencer's chest, but it does nothing to deter him.
At one point Peter looks at you, both eyes so swollen they’re barely visible. You hear his garbled voice.
“Please.”
Spencer grabs him by the jaw, forcing him to look back towards him. You think back to something he said.
“He doesn’t get to touch you, he doesn’t get to talk to you, he doesn’t get to breathe your air.”
He really meant it.
All for you.
He remains deadly quiet as he slams his fist into him until he stops twitching beneath him. His knuckles are split, but it’s nothing compared to Peter's face. He doesn’t even look like he used to be a person.
Just a lump of gore with teeth.
Because he loves you.
There’s a moment of silence where Spencer’s chest heaves as he struggles to catch his breath, your own heart racing as you stare at him, sitting up and clutching your ribs. Eventually his fingers wander down and into the pockets of what remains of Peter Hill. Tossing his wallet to the side before carefully setting a cell phone beside the corpse.
Finally he turns, a splatter of viscera coats his face and torso.
And you know all he can see on your face is the hunger behind your gaze.
He has the same look in his eyes.
Pupils blown, encompassing the rest of his iris.
No amount of therapy is ever going to fix you after this.
“You did it.” You whisper as he sits up, crawling over to you as he holds your face in his blood smeared hands.
“It was all you, you did so well.” He kisses your cheek as he tucks your hair behind your ears.
The logical thing to say right now would be ‘let’s get out of here.’ The logical thing to do right now would be to run out the now open door and scream until someone, anyone, comes to help you. Instead you turn your head towards his hand and kiss his palm.
“Tell me that you meant it.” You whisper.
“Every word.”
You slide your hand up and across his chest, making your intentions pretty clear as you lean forward to catch his lips in a kiss. Gentle and sweet to start, eventually becoming something with more fire behind it. He’s the one to pull away first.
“You’re hurt.” His hand traces over the back of yours, leaving a slick trail of red.
“It isn’t too bad. I promise.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” He lifts your top to examine your ribs, you doubt anything's broken.
It’s probably just a fracture.
Probably.
It isn’t important right now, nothing is as important as the look in his eyes.
“Say it again.” You pull your shirt down, lifting his chin so he focuses on your face instead of your potentially broken bones.
He knows what you want, he always knows what you want.
“I love you.”
“Again.” You mumble, unable to take your eyes off of him.
“I love you.”
And you know it isn’t for the cameras, it isn’t fearing punishment, it isn’t to keep you safe.
He says it for you, just for you.
You grab the collar of his now stained shirt and smash your lips against his. He devours you, all consuming and possessive with every lap of his tongue and every nip of his teeth. His hand is sliding up your leg, you don’t bother being as subtle as you shove your hand down the front of his boxers, you’ve never been as pleased as you are right now to find that he’s already hard. He groans into your mouth and you happily swallow every one. When his fingers graze against your inner thigh you gasp, the sharp intake of breath makes you wince as you yelp. The pain in your rips taking all of your focus as well as his. He immediately pulls away from you.
“Hospital first, everything else later.” His tone is firm and you know it’s a command for himself as well as you.
You whine for a moment but when the stabbing pain in your ribs continues you give it up, letting him help you to your feet. He practically carries you as you limp beside him, but not before taking the blood stained cell phone in his hands.
Past your makeshift bed, past what’s left of your captor, past the red door, and through the hallway to the door at the end that’s now swung open.
You’re both faced with a ladder.
As you’re forced to climb up the rungs you’re less convinced your ribs are just fractured. You whine with each step up.
When he lifts the latch climbing out into the sun, he’s quick to turn around to help you up and out. Once you’ve managed to fully exit the bunker with what you hope is minimal damage you’re left standing barefoot in a suburban backyard. White picket fence and all.
He kicks the hatch closed and you can see that the top of it is made to look just like patchy grass, blending right in with the rest of the yard. The rest of the team never would have found you here.
You stay behind Spencer as he walks towards the front yard, your hand locked around his.
You aren’t really sure what you’re supposed to do now, outside of the basement you suddenly feel small compared to the rest of the world.
Spencer's hand never leaves yours as he flips the unsubs phone open, dialing the number without looking at it as he brings it to his ear.
“Garcia, can you get a trace on this number?” He says it so casually, like it’s any other day.
There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line until you hear a quiet voice.
“Spencer?”
He hesitates, almost as if he isn’t sure.
“Yeah.”
She starts to speak again but you don’t have a chance to hear what she says as he clicks the phone shut, tossing it onto the grass in front of you both.
In the unforgiving light of the sun you get a really good look at him.
He looks awful.
The dark circles that seem to be permanently under his eyes have practically doubled in size. His jaw is lined with a sprinkle of stubble and god he looks thin.
Of course he always looks thin but now he’s thin.
And none of that even touches the fact that he’s still actively bleeding out of the gashes that decorate his knuckles. When you look him in the eye you can see he’s sizing you up as well.
You’re certain you’re as much of a sight as he is.
A perfect pair.
You stay standing, you’re a little worried that if you sit down you won’t get back up. You thought it was the morning but it looks more like evening, people pass in cars, slowing down at the sight of you and neighbors step out onto their porches.
It isn’t long before you hear sirens. But it isn't the police that pull up first, it’s a black SUV, followed by an ambulance. Hotch and Morgan rush out of the car, guns drawn. You don’t have to tell them he’s already dead, one look at Spencer and they both holster their weapons.
The way Morgan looks at you makes you nauseous.
You’ve seen him look at corpses in a similar manner, scowling like he arrived at the scene a few minutes too late. Hotch seems to sense his reluctance, directing him towards the house. He’s all too happy to get away from you.
You’re glad it’s just Hotch.
He doesn’t try to embrace you, and he does his best to keep his expression neutral, even if it’s obvious he’s profiling you both right now.
You zone out, focusing on the dozens of cop cars that come screeching down the street. Spencer and Hotch are having a conversation but you can’t focus on it when you’ve got half the Seattle police force storming the little blue house. Several of them stop in their tracks, gawking at you.
To be fair, you are standing out on the lawn in panties and a tank top.
A paramedic tries to lead you away from Spencer as he continues to talk with your unit chief, he stops abruptly as you let out a sob that catches you by surprise, a little hiccuping sound as they put an arm around you and try to take you away from him.
Spencer reacts before you can even say his name, yanking you backwards as he shoves the paramedic to the ground. Standing in front of you defensively.
Everybody freezes. Hotch, the other medics, even the cops.
You feel everyone's eyes on the two of you as you cling to Spencer's arm. You want to say something, anything, but your tongue lay uselessly in your mouth.
Hotch is quick to help him to his feet, apologizing profusely as he puts a hand on the paramedics shoulder. You can hear him whisper under his breath.
“I think it’ll be best if we don’t try to separate them.”
When he approaches you his hands are out where you can see them and he speaks softly.
“Reid, we need to get her checked out, from the way she’s walking I would imagine something is probably broken.” You recognize his tone of voice. It’s how he talks to victims on a case once they’ve been rescued. Technically that’s what you are now. “You can go with her but you need to get checked out too, you’ve lost a lot of blood.”
You squeeze his arm, turning to look at him as he nods.
Hotch escorts you both to the ambulance, when they lay you down on the stretcher Spencer stays by your side, silently watching, with his hand always holding yours.
As they examine your ribs someone takes a look at Spencer's fingers, you take the opportunity to finally try and speak.
“How long were we gone?” You don’t recognize the shaky, soft voice that leaves your mouth.
You have seen him smile a single digit number of times since you joined the BAU, right now he gives you a sympathetic smile. Like he’s looking at a wounded animal.
“About three and a half weeks.”
That catches Spencer's attention.
“How is that possible?” He pulls his hand away from the doctor looking him over as he comes to sit beside you on the edge of the ambulance. “We couldn’t have been in there for more than a week.”
“Based on what we saw in the videos he was depriving you of sleep. He kept you awake for long periods of time and let you sleep for short bursts.” He almost looks like he’s about to put a hand on your knee but he thinks better of it when his eyes dart towards Spencer. “Garcia is in the process of recovering all of the footage, we promise we will keep it as private as possible, the rest of the team will not have access to it.”
Three and a half weeks.
“Where’s the rest of the team?” It’s like Spencer can feel how stressed you are as he tries to change the subject.
“They had to return to Quantico.” He looks ashamed of himself as he says it. “We negotiated a deal to keep Morgan and myself on the case for an extended period of time but everyone else needed to return to work.”
“How much time did you have left?” You say it before you can stop yourself.
How much time before you abandoned us completely?
Not that it mattered, it wasn’t the team that saved you.
“We had another week and a half.” You have to give it to Hotch, he doesn’t try to lie to you. You only nod in response, squeezing Spencer's hand before he can say something he regrets.
The paramedic poking at your ribs tells Hotch that they need to get you in for an x-ray as soon as possible, there aren’t any signs of internal bleeding yet but that could change at a moment's notice.
You wish he’d talk to you directly, it makes you feel like a child when they don’t address you.
★
You can see them through the glass.
Emily, Morgan, J.J, even Penelope.
You can also assume what he’s telling them. Usual protocol for someone in the state you’re in is to ease them into interactions with loved ones. At the very least you don’t have to worry about all of them running in here at once.
“We could be in worse shape.” Spencer mumbles from across the room. You refused to be in separate rooms, instead you stand opposite each other in your shared room. Neither one of you is ready to lay down, not after the day you’ve had, you’re too jittery.
He’s right, you really could be.
There aren’t words for the amount of relief you felt when they told you that your urine test came back negative for pregnancy. Your period was likely late because of the stress your body was under. Sure, having his baby wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but in those circumstances? You don’t know how you’d ever live with conceiving a child in those conditions.
Spencer narrowly avoided sepsis, his gums were in bad shape, he’s on an IV drip of a pretty strong antibiotic. They said there was nothing that could be done for his fingers other than eventual cosmetic surgery to try and reconstruct the ends into something other than a smashed, burned mess. And of course he had several fractures along his knuckles.
You did in fact have a broken rib, and two fractured ones. Spencer wasn’t happy to hear that but he never once expressed any upset towards you. You’re pretty sure you could kill someone in front of him and he wouldn’t so much as bat an eye.
And now you’re here.
Your stomach and chest are covered in bandages, his hands are in a similar state. Both sentenced to bed rest for quite some time.
You cringe at the sound of the door opening as Emily steps into the room.
She pulls you into a hug that you struggle to return.
“I’m so glad you’re okay.” She whispers as you hear her sniffle.
You aren’t, but you nod anyway.
“Me too.”
“We have the best nursing staff assembled to do your kit, everyone is female. I can stay with you or I can wait right outside the door.” She gives your hand a squeeze and you instinctively pull away.
“What kit?” You’re hyper aware of how shrill your voice sounds, it makes Spencer stand up straighter across the room.
“The rape kit.” Her expression softens and she speaks like she’s scared you’ll run away like a frightened animal.
You scoff.
“I don’t need a rape kit.”
“We really think you should, hon.” She takes a step towards you and you lurch backwards, Spencer is quick to cross the room to stand beside you, angled imperceptibly between you and Emily.
“I don’t need a rape kit.” You say it more firmly this time, enough to catch the attention of the rest of your team in the hall, Hotch steps into the doorway as you look back and forth between them. “I wasn’t raped.”
A hush falls over the room.
“Maybe we could talk alone, you might be more comfortable-” Emily starts to walk towards you but Spencer steps forward, stopping her in her tracks.
“I’m not going anywhere without Spencer.” You accentuate your point by grabbing his arm and pulling closer.
“No one is saying that this is his fault.” Hotch doesn’t step into the room, he speaks in that steady even tone of his. “You are both victims in this situation, we just need to assess the extent of your wounds.”
“They already did.” You wish they would all stop looking at you like you’re made of glass.
“With wounds of this… genre, it’s best that we get them checked out immediately, we have up to ninety six hours to-” Hotch starts again in that painfully gentle tone, like you might shatter into pieces if he speaks too loudly.
“The answer is no. You can’t do it without my permission, and I’m saying no.”
“I really think we should talk about this privately.” You glare at Emily when she speaks again, you’d always considered her to be your closest friend in the BAU. Now you feel on edge around her, around everyone.
“I said no.” You hiss.
“You can’t legally force her into any testing without her explicit consent.” Spencer finally speaks, measured and authoritative. His tone reminds you of Hotch’s.
It makes Emily flex her fist, they both stare at each other until Hotch steps in between them.
“And we have no plans to do any tests without her permission, if she doesn’t want the kit then we won’t do one.” You can tell Hotch is desperate to deescalate the situation.
“I wasn’t raped.” You repeat yourself, watching as the entire room flinches as you say it.
Including Spencer.
No one has anything to say to that.
“I think I’d like to be alone.” You manage to steady your voice as you glare at them. Hotch is the first to step out of the room, when Emily reaches the doorway she turns back.
“Let’s go Spencer.” The second the words leave her mouth your hand squeezes his. Her eyes dart down as she catches the movement, when her gaze returns to your eyes her expression is devastating.
You don’t want their pity.
Yet they seem resilient in their attempts to shove it down your throat.
“We’ll talk to you all tomorrow. I’d like to sleep.” Your words are the final nail in the coffin.
You are a we now.
An us.
When you’re with Spencer you are alone. Without another word he helps you into your bed before pushing his own bed against yours. Neither one of you speaks as you lay down, you simply hold hands until you feel his breathing become even and steady, the all too familiar indicator that he’s fallen asleep. You take the opportunity to slip into the bathroom. When you flip the lights on you finally know why everyone keeps staring at you. You make Spencer look good in comparison.
You don’t recognize the terrified woman in the mirror. She looks like she survived something much worse than being trapped in a basement for a month.
So much of your skin is covered in bruises.
If he didn’t leave a bite mark or a hickie somewhere he squeezed you so tightly he left handprints. His grip hadn’t felt that tight in the moment.
You look straight out of a horror movie.
A shell of who you once were.
Your hair is still damp from when you had taken a shower earlier, pulling it away from your face while looking at your neck. Dark purple splotches cover your throat, spreading down your clavicle. A line of blisters and burns decorate your neck.
You feel like a monster. No wonder everyone looks at you like you survived something horrifying. Maybe you did.
You flick the lights off after just a few seconds, you don’t want to look at the creature staring back at you anymore.
When you step back into the room he’s sitting up, and he looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“C’mere.” His voice is thick with sleep as he motions you towards him. You climb into his bed, smoothing his hair down with your hands. “You’re so pretty.”
“You’re delusional.” Your voice sounds like your own again when it’s just the two of you. Not the trembling quiet voice that seems to come out when anyone else is around.
“So, so pretty.”
“Everyone's been staring at me like I’m a ghost.”
“They’re staring because they’re jealous. They can’t believe that you’re so pretty and you’re all mine.” And god, you believe him. Forgetting all about the monster in the mirror. He could tell you the sky was pink and that grass was blue and you’d believe him right now.
“I love you.” He wipes a tear from your lash line with his thumb.
“I love you.” You don’t doubt that for a second.
★
Everything is different now, how could it not be?
Neither one of you could have guessed how your time in the bunker would affect you in the long term.
You both go back to work after a mandatory three month sabbatical. You avoid field work, opting to work from a desk most of the time, no one ever questions the choice. And Spencer always takes the stairs when you come in to work, he says the elevator makes him nauseous.
You moved out of your studio a week after you left the bunker. The single room space you once found cozy now made you feel like you were suffocating. Besides, neither of you slept well when you were apart, it just made sense to move in with him.
Instead of the flowy and light pajamas you used to wear you now sleep in long sleeves and layers, even if it means waking up covered in sweat.
Spencer never falls asleep before you, most nights you wake up to find he’s wrapped himself so tightly around you it’s impossible to get comfortable. You never complain, it doesn’t bother you.
You don’t go to girls' nights anymore and Spencer never takes up Derek’s offer to grab a drink. When there’s the occasional team bonding trip to the bar you both go, never separating your hand from the others.
The picture on your desk of your friends has been replaced with a photo of you and Spencer at your cousin's wedding. The trinkets that once sat under your monitor suddenly seemed silly, eventually they ended up shoved in the back of a drawer. You don’t need them anymore; your deskmate always makes sure you have fresh flowers to brighten up the space.
Instead of being charmingly awkward Spencer’s been described as a bit more blunt and offputting than he used to be. And fine, you aren’t as bubbly as you used to be. You have every right to act the way you do. You still find him plenty charming.
Sure, you miss your friends. You miss spending your lunch breaks trying new local restaurants with Emily, and you miss long nights spent in Penelope's cave working on a case. And maybe you miss early morning trips to the gym with Morgan. But those things aren’t an option for you anymore. You try to be away from him but you can’t, it’s like you’re addicted. If you spend too much time apart you start to break down, hyperventilating until you find your way back to him.
You’d feel worse about it if he wasn’t just as bad.
Maybe worse.
The first time you interrogated an unsub after your sabbatical Spencer had burst into the room and Morgan had to put him in a headlock to stop him from strangling the unsub.
They don’t look at you the same anymore.
Hotch looks at Spence like he’s dangerous.
Morgan doesn’t joke around with you anymore.
Spencer made Penelope cry on your first day back.
And Emily looks at him like he’s holding you hostage.
You don’t care what they think. They didn’t save you, Spencer did. And you’d much rather have the ring that’s around your finger than a cuff around your wrist.
They just don’t understand your relationship, they couldn’t. None of them know what it’s like to be loved like this.
All that matters is that you’re happy, even if they don’t seem convinced.
You aren’t a normal couple.
And you don’t want to be.
★
a/n : i really hope y'all enjoyed headlock <3 <3 follow @holymolynotifications for future fic updates!!
