reidreaders

20, she/her, spencer reid fangirl, mediocre fanfiction writer

[reidreaders]

MASTERLIST:

[totallynotashieldagent]

concept- Loki soulmate au where his soulmate is reincarnated over and over and over again but they can be anywhere in the universe so he uses his magic to become aware whenever his soulmate is reborn on whatever planet, as whatever species, as whichever gender. however, this time, it's earth. A part of him doesn't even want to bother because humans live such tiny short lives except reader is a mutant and her ability is healing. So she's stuck at the age her mutation developed, always healing, never aging. It's not until about a 150 something years pass that loki realizes that his soulmate is still that same person on earth so he finally ventures to seek her out and hope that maybe this time it'll be forever? send post.

[goth-queen]

[whoswitchybabyanyway]

marginalia

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

word count: 5.6k

summary: what starts as an academic crush on your painfully observant professor becomes significantly harder to survive after spencer reid signs a piece of feedback with “I remain yours sincerely.” unfortunately, you make the deeply questionable decision to keep it tucked inside your phone case.

includes: no use of y/n, professor!spencer reid, student/teacher dynamic, mutual pining, slow burn, academic yearning, intellectual intimacy, awkward flirting, emotional repression, praise kink if you squint, small age gap, office hours tension, accidental confession, unresolved sexual tension, humiliation as a love language, reader is down catastrophic, hopeful ending

based on this request

By the second semester, you know three things with absolute certainty.

First: Dr. Spencer Reid writes on whiteboards like he’s racing a clock only he can see.

Second: nobody voluntarily sits in the front row because it’s psychologically exhausting to be perceived by him for extended periods of time.

And third:

You are developing a deeply academic crush that is rapidly mutating into something clinically embarrassing.

The lecture hall hums softly around you with the sounds of backpacks unzipping and laptops waking from sleep. Rain taps against the high windows in restless little bursts, turning the late afternoon light silver at the edges.

At the front of the room, Dr. Reid is already halfway through uncapping three different markers at once.

He’s wearing a charcoal cardigan today.

You notice because of course you do.

Not in a normal way, either.

In the kind of way where your brain stores the information carefully like it might appear on an exam later.

“Statistically,” he says without turning around, “most people remember information better when there’s contextual novelty attached to it, which is why you all remember where you were during emotionally significant events but not what you ate last Tuesday.”

A beat.

Then he glances back toward the class.

“Unless it was tacos. People tend to remember tacos.”

A few students laugh.

You do too, unfortunately loud enough that his eyes flick toward you automatically.

There it is.

That tiny spark of recognition.

Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just enough to say I know you.

Which is worse.

Much, much worse.

Because you’ve taken two semesters with him now. You go to office hours. You answer questions when nobody else will. Once, during your first class, you made an offhand comment about eidetic memory research and his entire face lit up like someone plugged sunlight directly into the national power grid.

Since then, you’ve been doomed.

Utterly doomed.

You try to focus on the lecture.

Really.

You do.

But Dr. Reid teaches like a man accidentally possessed by forty-seven documentaries and an anxiety disorder. He paces when he gets excited. His hands move constantly while he talks, long fingers stained faintly with marker ink. He veers off-topic in fascinating directions and then somehow circles perfectly back without notes.

It should not be attractive.

And yet.

Here you are.

Again.

Second semester.

Same problem.

Maybe worse.

“Now, if we look at the correlation between environmental instability and cognitive adaptation,” Dr. Reid continues, already turning back toward the board before the class has fully caught up, “there’s a measurable increase in hypervigilant pattern recognition in subjects exposed to inconsistent formative environments, which sounds complicated but is actually just your brain becoming an overachieving raccoon.”

Marker squeaks across the whiteboard in frantic slanted lines.

His handwriting is terrible.

Not objectively unreadable, exactly. More like every word is trying to outrun the next one. Sharp angles, crowded letters, arrows shoved into margins as though his thoughts physically cannot remain in a straight line.

You stare at it anyway.

Fondly.

Which feels like a personal failing.

He writes faster as he talks, cardigan pulling slightly across his shoulders when he reaches higher on the board. One sleeve has ridden up near his wrist, exposing the thin line of his watch and a faint smudge of ink against his skin.

You should be taking notes.

Instead, your brain is busy cataloging details like you'll be taking a quiz on his anatomy.

Then he steps sideways to underline something, and your gaze drops completely against your will.

Oh no.

Oh, that’s unfortunate.

Because apparently Dr. Spencer Reid has a nice ass.

Not in a dramatic way.

Not in a “male model carved from marble” way.

Just… unfairly nice for a man who spends most of his time talking about psychology and forgetting to eat lunch.

The slacks help.

Which feels hostile, honestly.

You blink hard and jerk your attention back to your laptop with the violent internal energy of someone trying to slam shut fifty browser tabs at once.

Focus.

Academic environment.

You are a serious student.

A serious student who absolutely did not just spend several seconds staring at her professor’s ass while he explained trauma responses.

Jesus Christ.

“Repeated exposure to unpredictability,” he says, still writing, “can create compensatory behaviors centered around control, organization, or information gathering.”

A few tired chuckles.

Then the clock clicks over.

Immediate chaos.

The lecture hall empties like someone pulled a drain plug.

Students flood toward the exits in clusters of conversation and damp jackets, the noise swelling briefly before dissolving into the hallway outside. Within less than a minute, the room goes from crowded to echoing.

You stay seated.

Not intentionally.

At least that’s what you tell yourself.

Your laptop suddenly needs to be shut very carefully. Your charger has apparently tangled itself into a knot requiring advanced engineering. Your pens must be arranged with the precision of ceremonial artifacts.

At the front of the room, another student has stopped to ask Dr. Reid something about the midterm.

You try not to stare while pretending not to listen.

It’s difficult.

Because listening to Spencer Reid explain things is like accidentally falling into a Wikipedia rabbit hole narrated by a very pretty insomniac.

“…the issue isn’t the terminology,” he’s saying, already rifling through papers again while the student nods along. “It’s application. Most people can memorize diagnostic criteria. The harder part is recognizing behavioral variance in context.”

His sleeve slips down slightly as he gestures, revealing ink smudged along the side of his hand again.

God.

You wonder briefly if there’s a psychological term for being attracted to a man who looks like he's constantly five minutes away from a lecture.

Probably.

He’d know it.

The student thanks him and heads out, disappearing into the hallway with everyone else until suddenly it’s just—

You.

And him.

The room feels different when it empties.

Too large. Too quiet.

Rain patters softly against the windows.

Dr. Reid glances up from stacking his notes, clearly registering your continued existence only now. “Oh, you're still here. Perfect.”

Your stomach drops so fast it’s honestly impressive.

Perfect?

There is no version of “perfect” that has ever ended calmly for a student being addressed by a professor after class.

Your brain immediately begins cycling through possibilities at medically concerning speed.

You plagiarized accidentally somehow.

You cited the wrong edition.

You hallucinated an entire journal article in APA format.

You’ve been academically excommunicated.

“Me?” you say brilliantly.

Dr. Reid blinks once. “Yes?”

Excellent start.

You shove your charger into your bag and stand quickly enough that your chair squeaks against the floor.

The sound echoes.

Violently.

You briefly consider walking directly into the rain and starting a new life elsewhere.

Instead, you manage a strained little, “Sorry. Uh. Yeah. What’s up?”

Dr. Reid gathers a few loose papers into a stack before pulling one free.

Your paper.

You recognize the bent corner immediately because you spent three straight hours staring at it last weekend in a caffeine-induced fugue state.

“I finally finished reading these last night,” he says, tapping the packet lightly. “Your section on adaptive masking behaviors was particularly good.”

The panic in your bloodstream stutters awkwardly. “…good?”

“Yes.” He looks faintly surprised by your surprise. “Very good, actually.”

There’s something deeply unfair about receiving praise from Spencer Reid specifically. He says things too earnestly. No performance to it. No academic politeness. Just direct sincerity delivered with terrifying eye contact.

You feel your nervous system fold like cheap lawn furniture.

“You made an interesting connection between hypervigilance and social mirroring,” he continues, flipping through the pages. “Most students approached the assignment from a purely diagnostic perspective, but you framed it as a survival adaptation first, which is considerably more accurate.”

Your heart does an embarrassing little cartwheel.

Because this is the problem.

Not just that he’s attractive.

It’s that every time he talks to you, it feels like he’s opening a secret door in your ribcage and switching on all the lights.

“Oh,” you manage intelligently. “Thanks.”

“And your question here.” He points suddenly to a paragraph halfway down the page. “About whether prolonged masking eventually alters baseline identity perception?”

You nod slowly.

He looks delighted.

Actually delighted.

Like you handed him a particularly interesting puzzle and not a half-panicked essay written at two in the morning while eating stale pretzels.

“That’s the kind of question people usually don’t ask until graduate-level behavioral analysis,” he says. “There’s still ongoing debate about it, especially regarding prolonged trauma adaptation and identity diffusion.”

You try very hard to remain normal about the fact that Spencer Reid is complimenting your intelligence in an empty lecture hall while rain taps softly against the windows like a movie determined to make things worse for you personally.

“Most current models oversimplify the distinction between performed identity and integrated identity,” he continues, already slipping fully into Lecture Mode again. “Humans are actually much more context-dependent than people like to admit. Personality isn’t nearly as fixed as we pretend it is.”

He flips another page absentmindedly.

“You also cited Dr. Nakamura’s 2018 paper, which almost nobody finds unless they’re specifically looking for it.”

Your mouth opens before your brain catches up.

“…you noticed my citations?”

Dr. Reid looks up.

There’s a tiny crease between his brows now, confused in the gentlest way possible. “Of course I noticed your citations.”

Well.

That’s going to live in your skull forever now.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like naturally he paid attention. Like naturally he read your work closely enough to recognize specific research choices.

Meanwhile you’re trying not to ascend directly out of your body.

“You’re one of the strongest writers in the class,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Your arguments are usually more structurally complex than your peers’, even when you seem unsure of them.”

The room abruptly feels too warm.

You grip the strap of your bag tighter. “I didn’t know you thought that.”

Because there’s something unbearably intimate about being understood academically by someone you admire. It feels dangerously adjacent to being seen naked. Like he’s looking directly at the shape of your thoughts with careful hands.

Dr. Reid glances back down at your paper again, seemingly unaware he’s currently causing neurological events.

“I did mark a few places where your transitions got rushed,” he says, pulling a pen from behind his ear. “Mostly because I think you were thinking faster than you could physically write.”

You laugh softly before you can stop yourself. “That does happen.”

“Yes,” he says immediately, almost too quickly. “I know.”

Silence.

Tiny.

Strange.

His expression shifts a fraction afterward, like maybe he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Rain rattles softly against the windows again.

And suddenly you become acutely aware that you are alone with Spencer Reid in an empty lecture hall while he holds your paper like it’s something fragile.

Dangerous situation, truly.

Then he uncaps the pen and scribbles something quickly across the last page.

His handwriting slants wildly across the margin.

Fast. Crowded. Ink-smudged.

You watch his hand move despite yourself.

When he finishes, he folds the packet once and offers it back to you.

“There,” he says. “I added a few additional reading recommendations if you want them.”

You step forward to take it, fingers brushing briefly against his.

Electricity.

Actual cinematic electricity.

You almost drop the paper.

Humiliating.

“Thanks,” you say, quieter now.

“Mhm.”

But he doesn’t let go immediately.

Not enough to mean something.

Just enough to notice.

Then he seems to catch himself and releases the pages all at once, clearing his throat lightly before stepping back toward the desk.

You look down automatically.

At the bottom of the final page, beneath a cluster of notes and arrows and recommended articles, he’s signed off absentmindedly in cramped blue ink.

Excellent work here. Keep pushing this line of thought.

I think you’re asking the right questions.

— I remain yours sincerely,

Spencer Reid, PhD

Your pulse trips over itself.

Because who signs feedback like that?

Who writes I remain yours sincerely like a Shakespearean poet accidentally trapped in modern academia?

And worse:

Why does it make your stomach feel like it just fell down an elevator shaft?

The walk back to your apartment is a blur of rainwater, campus lights, and psychological deterioration.

Your umbrella keeps tilting sideways in the wind.

You barely notice.

Because every functioning part of your brain is currently occupied by one singular, catastrophic detail:

I remain yours sincerely.

Who writes that.

You clutch the paper tighter inside your bag every time the rain picks up, irrationally terrified the ink might smear. Which feels insane. Deeply insane. The behavior of a woman one inconvenience away from being studied in a laboratory.

By the time you get home, your shoes are damp, your hair is frizzing at the edges, and your nervous system is fried.

You lock the apartment door behind you and immediately pull the paper back out.

Like an addict.

Like a widow rereading war letters.

“Oh, this is bad,” you mutter to yourself.

Your apartment offers no judgment. Just soft lamplight and the hum of the refrigerator and rain whispering against the windows.

You drop your bag onto the couch.

Then sit at the kitchen table with the paper spread carefully in front of you.

You read the signature again.

And again.

And then, because apparently humiliation is now a recreational activity, you trace the letters lightly with your thumb.

Spencer Reid, PhD.

The ink catches faintly against the pad of your finger where he pressed harder on certain strokes. You can almost see the speed of him in it. The impatience. The intelligence outrunning the mechanics of handwriting.

God. You're so weird. You're unhinged. You're obsessed.

Your phone buzzes with a text from your friend Maya.

did u survive reid’s lecture or did he accidentally make eye contact and kill you instantly

You stare at the message for a long moment before replying:

worse

Three dots appear immediately.

what happened

You look down at the paper again.

At the stupid signature.

At the devastating little yours.

Then, against every survival instinct evolution ever gifted humanity, you take a picture of the bottom half of the page and send it.

There’s a full thirty seconds of silence.

Then:

OH YOU ARE DOWN HORRENDOUS

You groan aloud and drop your forehead directly onto the table.

The phone buzzes again.

“I remain yours sincerely”????? WHAT IS HE A PROFESSOR OR A MAN WRITING YOU FROM THE CRIMEAN WAR

Another buzz.

he wants u biblically

“HE DOES NOT,” you say aloud to the empty apartment, scandalized.

Your phone immediately lights up again.

u kept the paper though didnt u

You freeze.

Slowly, guiltily, your eyes drift toward your desk drawer.

Because inside that drawer already sits: one graded response paper, two annotated reading packets, and a sticky note from three weeks ago where Dr. Reid had written:

Your interpretation here is excellent. Come see me during office hours if you want to discuss further.

The sticky note currently lives tucked inside your favorite book like a pressed flower.

You close your eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper to yourself.

Another text arrives.

DID U KEEP THE PAPER

You type back:

not officially

Maya responds instantly.

that is the most incriminating answer ive ever heard

You abandon the conversation entirely and toss your phone onto the couch before she can escalate further.

Then you sit there alone for a moment.

Quiet apartment. Rain outside. Spencer Reid’s handwriting beneath your fingertips.

The thing is, you know this crush is ridiculous.

He’s your professor. Technically not even that much older than you, but enough that it matters. Enough that your brain keeps trying to file this under impossible and failing spectacularly every single time he looks at you like your thoughts are worth listening to.

That’s the real problem.

Not the cardigan.

Not the hands.

Not even the objectively offensive existence of that signature.

It’s the attention.

The terrifying sincerity of it.

Spencer Reid listens to you like he’s carefully placing your words somewhere safe.

And you don’t think anyone has ever done that before.

Your chest aches unexpectedly at the thought.

Too honest.

Too close to something real.

You exhale slowly and pick the paper up again, intending to finally put it away somewhere normal and reasonable.

Instead, your gaze catches on the folded edge of your clear phone case sitting beside you on the table.

No.

Absolutely not.

You stare at it.

Then at the paper.

Then back at the phone.

“This would be a humiliating choice,” you inform yourself firmly.

Silence.

Rain taps softly against the windows.

Five minutes later, you are sitting on your couch with Spencer Reid’s signature folded carefully behind your phone.

You look at it through the clear plastic.

Immediate stomach flip.

“Oh, you absolute loser,” you whisper to yourself.

But unfortunately:

you’re smiling.

By the time midterms crawl across campus like a biblical plague, your situation has not improved.

If anything, it’s evolved.

Dangerously.

Because now there is routine.

Now there are office hours conversations that accidentally become forty-five minutes long. Now there are moments where Dr. Reid pauses to ask, “You read the article I mentioned, right?” already knowing the answer before you nod.

Now there are tiny things.

Tiny, lethal things.

The way he automatically hands you printed articles first when passing materials down the row. The way his face brightens with visible recognition every time you speak in class. The way he says your name like he enjoys the shape of it.

It’s become less like a crush and more like being slowly haunted.

Which is why remaining after lecture today feels less unusual than it probably should.

You don’t mean to time it like this.

It just… happens.

The room empties in that familiar way, like the building exhales and forgets to inhale again. Chairs scrape. Jackets zip. Someone laughs too loudly in the hallway like they’re trying to prove they’re still human after all that thinking.

And then it’s just you again, hovering at the edge of the aisle with your notebook pressed a little too tightly to your chest.

Dr. Reid is still at the whiteboard.

Erasing.

Relentless little motions. Wrist flicking. Chalk dust or marker residue or whatever ghosts lectures leave behind drifting faintly in the air. His cardigan is pushed up at the elbows now, like it’s given up on behaving properly.

He doesn’t look over immediately.

Which, somehow, makes it worse.

Because you’ve started to associate his attention with a kind of internal weather shift. Like the room tilts slightly toward you when he notices you’re there.

You clear your throat.

Soft. Careful.

“Dr. Reid?”

The eraser pauses mid-swipe.

Then stops completely.

He turns.

And there it is.

That subtle recalibration. Like a radio finding your frequency without meaning to.

“Oh,” he says. Not surprised exactly. Just… pleased in a quiet way that feels too personal to name. “You’re still here again.”

Again.

Like it’s a pattern he’s noticed.

Like he’s been waiting for it.

You nod, suddenly hyper-aware of your hands, your posture, your entire existence. “Yeah. I had a question about today’s lecture.”

“Of course.” He sets the eraser down on the ledge beneath the board and steps away from it fully now, giving you his attention like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What about it?”

Your brain, traitorous thing that it is, briefly offers you ten different ways to phrase this more intelligently.

None of them survive the trip to your mouth.

“It was about emotional responses,” you say. “Like… how people react differently to the same stimulus depending on context and prior experience.”

He nods slowly, like he’s already tracing where this is going.

You continue anyway, because stopping now would be suspicious and also physically impossible.

“You said something about adaptation shaping perception. And I was thinking about whether emotional responses can… overwrite themselves? Like, if enough context builds up, does the original reaction still matter, or does it get replaced entirely?”

Dr. Reid tilts his head slightly, studying you the way he studies everything he respects—carefully, like it might shift if he blinks wrong.

“That’s a more complicated question than it sounds like you intended it to be,” he says gently.

Your stomach drops.

“Sorry,” you start immediately. “I didn’t mean— I just meant like in general, not—”

“No.” He interrupts softly. Not sharp. Just steady. “Don’t apologize. It’s a good question.”

That does something unfortunate to your nervous system.

He takes a step closer to his desk, resting one hand lightly on it as if anchoring himself to the conversation.

“So the original response doesn’t disappear. It becomes less accessible, or it gets reframed by later experiences. But it’s still there. Just… quieter.”

You nod slowly, trying to keep up.

“That’s why certain triggers can feel disproportionate,” he adds. “They’re not creating a new reaction. They’re reopening an old one that’s been reorganized over time.”

Something about the way he says it makes it feel less like psychology and more like confession, even though it absolutely isn’t.

You swallow.

“That makes it sound like nothing ever really goes away,” you say quietly.

A beat.

Dr. Reid looks at you a little more directly now.

“It doesn’t,” he says. Simple. Certain. Then, softer: “But that doesn’t mean it stays the same.”

The room feels warmer again.

Or maybe that’s just you.

You glance down at your notebook like it suddenly contains emergency instructions for being normal.

“Right,” you manage. “That makes sense.”

It doesn’t feel like it makes sense. It feels like it rearranged something in your chest and didn’t bother explaining itself.

Dr. Reid pushes off the desk slightly, as if the intensity of the moment has to be gently contained.

Then, almost like an afterthought, he adds, “Is that what you were thinking about specifically? Or was there another angle?”

There it is again.

That attention.

Patient. Open. Not assuming you’re wasting his time.

You hesitate.

Because the truth is more dangerous than the question.

But you’ve never been very good at leaving things unasked.

“I guess I was wondering,” you say slowly, “if people can… respond emotionally to something they intellectually understand isn’t rational.”

Dr. Reid stills for half a second.

Not much. Most people wouldn’t notice.

But you’ve started noticing everything.

“That happens frequently,” he says after a moment.

Your grip tightens on your notebook.

“Even when they know better?”

His gaze flickers briefly toward you again. Sharper now. Not unkind. Just… more precise.

“Yes,” he says. “Especially then.”

A quiet beat stretches between you.

Too quiet.

Your pulse has started doing strange, uneven things against your ribs, every instinct in your body suddenly screaming that this conversation has drifted dangerously close to something exposed.

Because the problem with Spencer Reid is that he listens too carefully.

Most people let things slide past them. Most people hear the shape of a sentence and move on.

Dr. Reid hears the fracture lines underneath it.

And right now you’re increasingly certain he’s standing one follow-up question away from watching you spontaneously combust in front of the behavioral sciences department.

You tighten your grip on your notebook hard enough to bend the edge slightly.

“Right,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Okay. That actually answered my question, so I should probably—”

You gesture vaguely toward the door.

Toward freedom.

Toward escape.

Toward literally anywhere that is not this room with this man looking at you like he’s trying to solve something.

But Dr. Reid’s expression shifts faintly before you can move.

Concern.

Not suspicion. Somehow worse.

“Are you alright?”

There’s no accusation in it. Just immediate attentiveness.

Which unfortunately makes panic bloom hotter in your chest.

“Yep.” The word arrives at terminal velocity. “Absolutely. Totally fine.”

You are speaking with the cadence of someone being held hostage by her own nervous system.

His brows pull together slightly. “You seem anxious.”

“Well,” you laugh weakly, “I think that’s sort of my baseline.”

Wrong choice.

Because that earns the smallest flicker of a smile from him.

Soft. Brief. Real.

It hits you directly in the bloodstream.

You need to leave immediately.

“I just remembered I have to…” You motion uselessly with one hand. “Do something.”

Brilliant.

Academic titan.

Dr. Reid opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else, and that tiny moment of anticipation detonates pure survival instinct in your chest.

“Anyway!” you blurt. “Thanks for answering my question. Sorry. Again. I’m gonna go.”

You turn too fast.

Your bag catches against the side of a chair.

The strap yanks violently sideways, dragging the chair with it in one catastrophic scrape against the floor.

You stumble trying to untangle yourself, notebook slipping from your grasp entirely.

Papers explode everywhere.

For one suspended second, the universe goes completely still.

Then Dr. Reid moves instantly.

“Oh, here—”

You both crouch at the exact same time.

Of course you do.

Naturally.

Because God is dead and this is apparently funny to the universe.

Your foreheads nearly collide.

You jerk backward so abruptly you lose balance a second time, catching yourself with one hand against the floor while loose papers scatter farther beneath the desks.

“I’m so sorry,” you say immediately, horrified.

But that's not the end of the torture. Because why would it be? Why would the universe and whatever forces rule it let you get out of this embarrassment that easily?

Your phone.

No.

No, no, no.

Time slows with cinematic cruelty.

The device must have slipped from your bag when the strap caught the chair. The clear case popped loose on impact, skidding separately across the floor.

And there, face-up beside the phone itself like evidence submitted directly to a court of law—

his signature.

And Dr. Reid is staring directly at it.

There’s no plausible explanation for this.

None.

You cannot even pretend it’s accidental.

Who accidentally stores a professor’s signed feedback inside their phone case?

No one, that's who. Just you.

Your soul begins exiting your body through your ears.

Don’t panic, your brain says uselessly, while panic fully consumes the landscape.

Dr. Reid reaches for the paper slowly.

You want the floor to open and swallow you whole like a tectonic event.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Dr. Reid looks at the note for one suspended second longer.

Then another.

His expression changes in tiny increments you only notice because you’ve spent months studying him with the intensity of a graduate thesis.

Recognition.

Confusion.

Realization.

And then something else. Something softer. Something that makes your pulse stumble violently against your ribs.

Very slowly, he lifts his eyes to yours.

You have never known true psychological horror until this moment.

“I can explain,” you blurt immediately.

Can you?

Absolutely not.

But the sentence launches itself out of your mouth anyway with all the grace of a car accident.

Dr. Reid’s brows lift slightly. “You can?”

“No,” you say honestly. “Actually, not in a way that helps me.”

Excellent.

Wonderful.

You briefly consider faking your death.

He glances back down at the paper again, thumb resting lightly near the edge where the fold has started softening from use.

And then, very softly:

“You kept it.”

Not teasing.

Not judgmental.

Which almost makes it harder.

Heat floods violently into your face.

“This was,” you say immediately, “so much less creepy in my head.”

A tiny crease appears between his brows like he’s trying not to smile.

“I didn’t say it was creepy.”

“It’s objectively creepy.”

“I don’t think objectively means what you want it to mean there.”

“That’s worse somehow.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Actually twitches.

You stare at him in horror.

“Please don’t laugh at me,” you whisper.

“I’m not laughing at you.”

“You’re visibly experiencing amusement.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It absolutely is.”

The smile threatens again, smaller this time, restrained at the edges like he doesn’t fully trust himself with it.

And then, disastrously, his gaze drops once more to the signature.

His own handwriting.

His own absurdly formal sign-off.

When he speaks again, there’s something almost embarrassed threaded through his voice now.

“In fairness,” he says, “I probably shouldn’t have written ‘I remain yours sincerely.’”

You make a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and cardiac arrest. “No, you really shouldn’t have.”

“I wasn’t thinking about how that sounded.”

“That somehow feels less reassuring.”

His eyes flick back to yours then.

Warm amber under fluorescent lights. Too attentive. Too intelligent.

“But you noticed it,” he says quietly.

There’s no ego in the statement.

Just observation.

You swallow hard.

“Yes.”

The room goes still around the answer.

Not awkward exactly.

Just aware.

Dr. Reid looks down briefly, almost thoughtful, before carefully placing the paper back atop your fallen notebook instead of immediately handing it over.

“You know,” he says after a moment, “historically, formal academic correspondence used possessive sign-offs fairly often.”

You stare at him.

“Are you trying to academically explain away my crush on you right now?”

The sentence escapes before you can stop it.

Silence detonates instantly afterward.

Your entire nervous system flatlines.

Because you did not mean to say that.

You meant to think it privately and then carry the shame forever.

Dr. Reid goes completely still.

His lips part slightly like his brain lost the next page of the script.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, staring at the floor. “Forget I said that.”

But the problem with Spencer Reid has always been this:

he never ignores important things.

And when you finally force yourself to look back up, he’s watching you with an expression so carefully controlled it almost hurts to see.

“You have a crush on me,” he says.

Not mocking.

Not smug.

Honestly, he sounds more astonished than anything else.

You squeeze your eyes shut briefly. “I am asking respectfully for the earth to open beneath me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer I currently have.”

You expect discomfort.

Distance.

Professional correction.

Instead, Dr. Reid exhales softly through his nose and sits back slightly against the leg of a desk beside him, still crouched across from you among scattered papers and your exploded dignity.

And then, to your complete horror, he says:

“I thought there was a possibility.”

Your head snaps up.

“What?”

A faint flush has appeared high on his cheekbones now.

Tiny. Visible.

It rearranges the architecture of your entire universe.

“You’re very attentive to me,” he says carefully.

You choke immediately. “I need you to stop observing things.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“You’re a behavioral analyst. This is abuse of power.”

That almost earns another smile.

Almost.

“But I wasn’t sure,” he continues more quietly. “And I didn’t want to assume something that would make you uncomfortable.”

You stare at him.

“You noticed,” you say faintly.

Dr. Reid tilts his head a little.

“You keep every note I give you.”

Well.

When he says it out loud like that, it sounds medically concerning.

“I didn’t think you knew that.”

“I didn’t,” he admits. “Not conclusively.”

His gaze flickers briefly toward the paper beside your phone.

“I do now.”

You cover your face with one hand.

“This is the worst day of my life.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“That’s because you’re not experiencing it from inside my body.”

A pause.

Then, very gently:

“No,” he says. “I don’t think I am.”

Something changes in the room after that.

Tiny shift. Tectonic consequence.

The humor softens at the edges, leaving behind something quieter. Something breathing carefully between the two of you.

Dr. Reid reaches down first, gathering the scattered pages into a neater stack before offering them back to you properly this time.

Your fingers brush again.

And this time neither of you jerks away immediately.

It lasts maybe half a second longer than it should.

Enough to feel intentional.

Enough to ruin you permanently.

His eyes lift to yours again, thoughtful in that dangerous way he gets when he’s turning something over carefully in his mind.

“You know,” he says slowly, “there are ethical complications here.”

You let out a startled laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

His fingers tap once against the edge of the paper still resting between you.

“You’re my student.”

The words land carefully. Reluctantly.

Like he hates them a little.

“Which means,” he continues, “that regardless of how I feel about this conversation, there are boundaries I’m responsible for maintaining.”

Your pulse stumbles.

Regardless of how I feel about this conversation.

That’s the moment the floor drops out from under you.

Because that’s not rejection.

It’s worse.

It’s possibility wearing a seatbelt.

“But there are also only six weeks left in the semester.”

Your breath catches.

The words land between you with astonishing softness.

Not a proposition.

Not quite.

Just a door left cracked open in the dark.

Dr. Reid seems to realize exactly how that sounded one second after saying it, because a flicker of alarm crosses his face immediately afterward.

“I’m not implying,” he starts quickly. “I mean, I am implying something, technically, but not inappropriately. I just meant that institutional boundaries are temporary in specific contexts and I thought transparency was preferable to pretending I hadn’t noticed the situation and now I’m explaining this badly.”

You stare at him.

Then laugh suddenly.

Not nervous this time.

Real.

Because Spencer Reid, genius profiler, has gone visibly flustered sitting on the floor of his own lecture hall.

The sound seems to catch him off guard.

His shoulders loosen a fraction.

And for the first time since this catastrophe began, the panic ebbs enough for something else to bloom beneath it.

Something warm.

“I… I can wait six weeks,” you say softly.

Spencer’s smile is small enough that someone else might have missed it entirely.

You don’t.

Because of course you don’t.

It changes him in tiny ways. Softens the sharp concentration he usually wears like armor. Pulls warmth into his face until he looks less like Dr. Spencer Reid, terrifyingly intelligent guest lecturer, and more like a man trying very hard not to look too happy about something.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Then, after the smallest pause:

“Good.”

[esote-rika]

VIRTUAL CONSTELLATIONS masterlist - spencer reid

Your existence revolves around your work, estate sales on the weekend, and the occasional one-night stand—carefully curated, just like the content you comb through every day at your job. But when you recognize a murder victim as one of the girls from a video you'd deleted, suddenly upper management is hounding you, cryptic messages are left in your work locker, and one very lanky FBI agent keeps showing up at your door. post prison!Spencer Reid x content mod!reader

contents: fem!reader, no use of y/n but you'll occasionally be called 'Stella', reader is a smoker, typical criminal minds violence, self-isolating reader. More specific warnings will be added per chapter.

coming soon...

a/n: I feel a little manic. Sharing my ideas is always a bad thing bc I hyperfixate and do shit like this. Anyway. Short, limited series (I hope lol) so let me know if you'd like to be on the taglist!

[marcidstars]

ERIKAAA WHATTTTOMGOMG

[marcidstars]

SLEEP WITH ONE EYE OPEN ♱ spencer reid x unsub!reader

summary: spencer reid wakes up to an unexpected guest all up in his business.

genre: smut (MDNI) | word count: 3.5k

tags: reader is an unsub || DDDNE, dubcon, somnophilia, oral (m receiving), protected p in v, technically a home invasion but it's fine, enemies with benefits, toxic relationship, religious imagery, reader is nocturnal, title from a metallica song: enter sandman, not proofread

notes: another freak fic dedicated to @crime-bunny, my perverted twin. there’ll be a part two to this, eventually; i think spencer ought to get his revenge.

⤷ unsub!reader masterlist ᝰ.ᐟ

"Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship." — ROMANS 12:1 (NIV)

You’re very light on your feet. That’s what you were told growing up; that you hardly made a sound, that you’d one day make an excellent ballerina. A perfect white swan.

You were quick, quiet, graceful. All traits desirable in ballet, equally applicable to serial killing. Though you doubt your parents had that “career” path in mind when they would praise how nimble you were.

Getting into the apartment is an easy feat. The key fits perfectly into the lock. The door doesn’t groan as you ease it open. You’ve already memorised which floorboards creak on the way to the bedroom.

Your flats slot perfectly beside his shoes, your leather jacket gets left on the back of his couch, and you’re left standing in your nightgown, navigating his apartment in the dark as though it’s your own. It isn’t something you’d usually wear to wander the streets of D.C in the dead of night, but flexibility is a virtue, and you’re always willing to make exceptions.

Spencer Reid is an exception. He’s the exception, really; you can’t think of anyone else you’d do this for. Nobody else has burrowed deep into your brain the way he has. Nobody else would make you peel back layers of protection, shed every boundary the way a snake sheds its skin, the way you have for him.

Maybe he’s managed to reach in and sink his fingers into the only softer parts of you that remain. Or maybe you, as a whole, softened for him.

Maybe it’s just a fault. A flaw in your proverbial programming. Your feelings for him aren’t rational, your fixation on him doesn’t make any sense—but what does? 

You’re human, animal, driven by instinct. What is rational is subjective, the definition of sense ever-changing. Logic and reason are little more than facades, costumes worn to make people feel better about themselves, to keep the animal at bay. They ought to realise that life gets a hell of a lot more interesting when they stop following rules, scriptures, telling them what’s right, and instead follow what feels right.

That’s your philosophy, anyway. You’re sure you’d be hard-pressed to find many people that agree with you. 

Not even Spencer agrees with you, but you aren’t sure you can trust the moral rulings of a man who’ll happily fall to his knees at the feet of a serial killer. He’s a hypocrite, forever condemning your actions, calling you sick, all while going along with whatever twisted game you decide to play like a dog on a leash. He’ll bend to your every whim, mould his morals to better suit your desires, but he’ll roll his eyes and moan about it first—like that somehow cleanses him of sin.

Spencer sleeps with his door open—why, you’ll never understand—and you’re grateful, because it means you can waltz right into his bedroom without needing to worry about any squeaky hinges. And you wouldn’t want to wake him. No, that would ruin the fun.

He’s lying on his back, blankets kicked off, all leaden limbs and deep, slow breaths. Tousled hair and parted lips. A true sleeping beauty. It is, perhaps, the most at peace you’ve ever seen him, unblemished by the chaos of his conscious mind, by your presence. You could quite happily linger in this doorway, watch him sleep until the sun rises, treat him as you would an art exhibit; look, don’t touch.

You take your time crossing the room, as though any sudden movement, however silent, may disturb him. Spencer’s a light sleeper, easily stirred, never able to let himself go. It’s no wonder he’s so tired all the time; even in his sleep, he can’t truly rest.

The mattress sinks slightly under your weight as you crawl onto the bed. Your breathing is so quiet, so shallow, that you may as well be holding your breath as you carefully shuffle closer.

A streetlamp bleeds into the room through the blinds. Diffused streaks of pale light stretch across the bed, his face, like half a dozen halos. You tilt your head, taking a moment to admire his face. The sharp angle of his jaw; his brows, relaxed; the undeniable softness that replaces the tension you are so used to observing, and that, to you, seems almost alien.

You trail your fingers, touch awfully light, along his thigh. His pyjama pants are soft, freshly washed, covered in a purple plaid pattern that is just so Spencer. You’d consider stealing them if they were more your colour. Your hand dips to his inner thigh, drawing lazy patterns before grazing his crotch. The contact is so brief, so mild, he probably doesn’t even feel it.

You watch him closely, studying him for any sign of a reaction, before you grow bolder. You cup his cock through his pants, relishing the warmth under your palm, the way it sends a rush of heat straight to your core.

His body responds to your touch without protest. Like it knows you, trusts you. His cock stirs, presses against your hand.

Now you’re actually holding your breath. Biting your lip. Clenching your thighs. Fighting to contain the adrenaline that’s coursing through you as it increases by the second, pushing you to act faster, to lead with a heavier hand. You have to remind yourself to breathe, to take it slow, to control yourself before you wind up waking him.

You palm him through his pyjamas, steadily, movements so languid it’s almost annoying. His breathing shifts. His brows crease. He shifts against your hand, just barely. Yielding to your touch, asking for more.

Precious. That’s what he is. He’s fragile, like this. Delicate in ways he’d never allow himself to be when awake, when with you. When there’s always a game to play, a façade to keep up.

You struggle with his pants, with finding the balance between eagerness and prudence, as you try to get what you want without shattering this moment. His pretty cock springs free, already half-hard, and impatience has you abandoning his pants at his thighs so you can grasp it gently, listening to the way he sighs under your touch.

It’s maddening, almost, the way his erection realises itself in your hand, the way his body reacts, even when unconscious, to your gentleness. He groans, and it’s one of the softest sounds you’ve heard as you work his cock, keeping your gaze on his face, watching the slight twitches in his sleepy expression, manipulated by tender hand. 

Your mouth has run dry. You lick your lips, chew on the plush, as you exhaust the last of your restraint.

You lean down, drag your tongue across the head of his cock, and almost moan at the taste of him—do moan at the little noise he makes when you take him into your mouth. Can something be maddening, if you’re already mad? Is there a limit to insanity? Do you breathe the surplus into him? Every time you fall into bed together, it seems he breaks that little bit more, and you heal. Piece yourself back together with all that you’ve taken from him.

His cock twitches against your tongue. This is another thing you’re taking. Another line you’re crossing. Another thing he’ll hate you for, and love you for. He’s a masochist that way. You wouldn’t take so much if he weren’t so willing to give it. If he didn’t kneel at your altar, present his neck for your knife. You’re both damned.

But doesn’t every relationship consist of rotten priest and innocent lamb? Sinner and saint? Corruption and consecration? That’s how it’s supposed to be, no? You trade places every now and then, wear each other’s skin like shitty Halloween masks, pretend that the sacrifice holds any semblance of power. That’s all the sex is: Spencer, desperately imitating control; and you, holding the knife behind your back, pretending it isn’t there, pressed so deep into your skin you’d never be able to let it go, even if you wanted to.

A jerk of his hips, and his cock hits the spongy back of your throat. You just about hear him gasp over the sound of your own gagging, and then his fingers are in your hair, tearing you from him so fast you’d think you’d bitten him.

You meet Spencer’s awake, wide-eyed gaze with your own deer-in-headlights stare. He’s half-sitting, propped up on one elbow. Mouth slightly agape. Cheeks flushed the same shade as his spit-coated cock.

“How did you get in here?”

And the game’s up. Shame, you were just starting to enjoy it.

“I used a key,” you say simply.

Spencer blinks at you. His grip on your hair starts to loosen, like what you’re saying might, for a moment, make sense in his sleep-clouded mind, but then he returns to his senses. “You don’t have a key.”

“I, uh—” you clear your throat, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before flashing him a smile. “I copied yours.”

“You—” he releases your hair, retracts his hand like you’re something filthy. “You what?”

“Just in case you…” Smoothing out your hair, you sit up. “…needed help, or something. I was looking out for you, really—”

“No.” Spencer cuts you off, shaking his head as he rubs his eyes. “This is— do you have any idea how out of line this is? How on earth could you possibly think this was appropriate?”

You shrug, opting to play dumb as you straddle him. He doesn’t try to stop you. “I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“You broke into my apartment.”

“I used a key,” you repeat.

“That’s still illegal,” he hisses. “Copying someone’s key for the purpose of entering their home without their knowledge, and with criminal intent, is a crime.”

“Criminal intent?” you scoff, biting back a grin. “I didn’t come here to rob you—”

“No, you just came here to touch me in my sleep.”

You nod eagerly. “And you have a problem with that?”

Instead of answering your (very simple) question, Spencer just leans his head back against his pillow, muttering under his breath. You think you hear “God” slip between his lips. Typical.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” he grumbles, returning his hands to his face.

You click your tongue, trailing your fingers across the front of his shirt. “I can go back out and knock, if that’ll make you feel better—”

“Don’t,” he warns, voice firm. “You are just…so…”

He never finishes that thought. Instead, he reaches over to the bedside table. At first you figure he’s reaching for his glasses, but then his fingers graze the handle of the drawer, just barely out of his reach.

He taps your thigh. “Get off of me.”

“Oh, come on,” you whine.

“I’m not asking.”

“Can’t we just—”

His hands are on your waist and, before you can finish complaining, he’s pushing you away. You land on the mattress with a petulant huff, resigning yourself to staring at the ceiling as he rummages through his drawer. You hear the familiar rustle of his condom box, followed by the softer, quieter sound of his pyjama pants being thrown aside.

“You’re no fun,” you mutter, “you know that?”

Spencer doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even give you a huff, or a sigh. He just rolls the condom on.

He’s sick of you, or claims to be, yet he still yields to you every time. He still plays the game, still entertains your desires even when he knows that he shouldn’t—that doing so is only reinforcing your behaviour.

He’ll complain about you breaking in, but he’ll still fuck you, even though you haven’t asked him to, because the truth is that he needs this just as badly as you do—if not more so. Spencer needs to give just as badly as you need to take, and he’ll pretend it’s the other way around. Utter subservience masquerading as dominance; it’s his drug.

Fingers close around your wrist, and he pulls you back up to meet his lips. He kisses you like he’s starved, one hand tangled in your hair as the other slips up your thigh. He tugs at your panties, tears them off when you lift your hips. Tosses them into the dark before pulling you down on top of him.

You straddle him like it’s second nature, and the two of you slot together like pieces of a puzzle. Him on his back, and you above him. Half cast in shadow, half painted in the subtle glow of the streetlight, whispering curses into his mouth as his fingers find your dripping cunt.

“God,” he breathes, almost groans. He sets his hands on your hips, gives you a gentle nudge so you pull back. “You really were enjoying that, weren’t you?”

You smirk as you sit up, adjusting yourself so you’re lined up with his cock. Grasping the base, you drag the tip along your slick folds, relishing the way you can feel him pulsing under your palm. “We both did,” you tease. “Actually, I think you might’ve been enjoying it more—”

A sharp gasp cuts through your words, followed by a poorly muffled cry as Spencer forces your hips down. His cock pushes into you without warning, and the pain—the pleasure—has tears pricking in your eyes before you can think to stop them.

He throws his head back with a hiss, fingers digging into your soft skin as he sinks you onto his cock, guiding you to take every too-big inch of him, until you’re sat flush against his hips. A choked whimper is all you can muster as your tight walls flutter around his length.

“Fuck—”

“I’ve got you.”

And he has got you. He’s holding you there, keeping you stuffed full of him until your body gives in.

He only lets go once you’ve relaxed around him, once your whining has stopped and you’re making subtle movements of your hips, desperate to keep going now that the discomfort has subsided—and he lets you.

You settle into a rhythm quickly, and Spencer’s even quicker to sink into the mattress, letting his hands roam the plush of your thighs as you take the lead. Your name leaves his lips in a whisper, and you swear the sound is more intoxicating, more addicting than any drug out there. His touch, his voice, the little hitches in his breath every time you roll your hips—it’s enough to drive you fucking crazy.

And when he meets your gaze, you almost come undone on the spot. Because what you find plastered across his pretty face is worship. The kind you can make out even in the dark; broken, but perfect.

Is this something you’re taking, or something he’s giving? Is there a difference? If there is, does it even matter?

His thumb brushes your clit, and your thoughts turn to static. Debating the ethical nuances of such a sinful relationship becomes difficult when you’re like this. Pleasure is pleasure, no matter how rotten.

Spencer could be your sacrificial lamb, the moth to your cursed flame, or just a sick flagellant—you don’t care.  Not when he’s beneath you, biting back moans and telling you just how good you are at taking his cock, acting as the votary to your twisted godhead.

Tension builds in your core, compounded by the attention on your clit. The effortless workings of his hands have you inching closer and closer to the edge, and he isn’t even looking at what he’s doing. He’s watching your face, transfixed. His hand, so perfectly tuned to the needs of your body, is the last thing on his mind; pleasing you is second nature. Like breathing, it doesn’t require thought.

Curses tumble from your lips as your hips stutter. You reach for the headboard to steady yourself, but as soon as you lean forward Spencer’s bending a knee, setting his foot on the bed so he can thrust up into you at a faster, harder pace. His hands grasp your hips, press indents into your skin that are bound to leave a mark, and hold you in place as he fucks you.

You’ve no choice but to surrender yourself, at that point. Back arched, both hands on the headboard, head thrown back as static crackles in your veins, mounts to something that is so dangerously close to catching fire.

“…’m close—”

Spencer mumbles something the same time you do. Equally as breathless. Words laced with an equally depraved amount of need. He’s echoing the sentiment, fingernails cutting into your skin as his leg starts to tremble.

You come undone first. The orgasm hits your hard, and you clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound as you come on his cock. Spencer groans as your cunt clenches around him, hugging his length tighter with each thrust as he fucks you through your release, and his follows close behind.

In the breathless space between moments, your mind moves slower than your body. You allow yourself to collapse on top of him, burying your face in the crook of his neck as you try to tame your ragged breathing. And he lets you.

His hand cups the back of your head. The other rests on the small of your back. He keeps you close. Presses his nose to your hair, lips following shortly after. 

Seconds pass before you finally gather the strength to raise your head, to check if he’s lost his mind, but Spencer’s face betrays nothing. His brows are set in his usual frown, but the dark softens his features, and you can infer warmth where there shouldn't be any.

"Do you, um—" You clear your throat, lips curling into that signature sly smile. "Do you want my key, or should I keep it? Save it for a rainy day—"

You hiss as spencer pushes you off him. Instead of complaining, you curl up at his side, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest before he decides it’s time to get up. He doesn't answer your question, and you don't push him to.

He rises to his feet, takes care of the condom, the wrapper—any evidence of what just happened. You think he's going to take care of you, too; drag you out of his bed, throw you out on the street, but he doesn't. 

He glances back at you as he picks your panties up from his floor. He tosses them to you, but not without asking, in a quiet tone, "Are you going home?"

The question gives you pause. It's the inflection, the way his words are weaved to obstruct something else, spoken with a stiffness he knows you'll pick up on.

You narrow your eyes, tilting your head to one side. "Do you want me to go home?"

He grabs his pyjama pants, ignores another loaded question. Because the day Spencer Reid is ever open with you will be the day Hell freezes over.

"There's nothing to do here," you add, seeing right through his silence. "I’m not gonna be able to sleep just because you fucked me. You—"

"I know, but—"

"—aren't that good."

Spencer still doesn't share in your humour, despite how much time you've spent together. He'll break every rule, bend every moral, but he'll never laugh at your jokes. He doesn't even crack a smile, just sighs and pulls his pants on.

"I was going to suggest you read a book," he says, voice flat.

He gets back into bed without another word. Faces away from you. Holds his breath in the silence that follows.

He wants you to stay.

"…okay," you answer, quietly. "I’ll go…peruse your reading material."

All he gives you in response is a low hum.

—

Spencer wakes hours later to the sun streaming through his blinds, head resting on something that isn’t a pillow; pillows don’t have heartbeats. 

His arm is draped over your waist, fingers loosely curled into the fabric of your nightgown the same way yours are curled into his hair. 

Memories return in quick succession, each one adding to the discomfort simmering in his stomach, visceral. His skin crawls at the thought of you spending the night.

So, he raises his head. In the light of day, he sees you clearly: the book lying open across your face, shielding your eyes; your slow, deep breathing; your arm lying limp at your side.

The world goes quiet. He blinks, and the discomfort fades into a memory, the way it always does.

He brings his head back down to rest against your chest, and he closes his eyes.

[luvlyk-13]

sweater

spencer reid x bau!reader

summary: you show up to the bureau wearing his sweater

The first thing Spencer notices that morning isn’t the case file in his hands.

It isn’t Morgan talking, or Garcia rambling through the speaker, or even the faint smell of stale coffee lingering in the bullpen.

It’s you. Specifically what you’re wearing. Or what you’re not wearing. Because that is definitely his sweater.

His brain catches it in pieces at first. The oversized sleeves. The slightly worn cuffs. The exact shade of dark gray he remembers because he bought it during a lecture tour in Boston three years ago. The one that’s softer than it should be because he’s washed it too many times.

And it’s on you. Spencer stops walking mid-step.

“Reid?” Morgan nudges him. “You good, man?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Because now you’re turning around, completely unaware, balancing a cup of coffee in one hand and the sweater shifts slightly off your shoulder.

His sweater. On your shoulder. Spencer’s brain, usually operating at a terrifying speed, completely stalls.

“…that’s my sweater,” he says under his breath.

Morgan follows his line of sight. Then grins. “Oh,” Morgan mutters. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

⸻

You don’t notice Spencer at first. You’re too busy trying not to spill your coffee while flipping through notes, muttering to yourself about timelines and inconsistencies.

It’s only when you feel someone hovering nearby that you look up. And there he is. Standing way too still. Eyes locked on you or, more specifically, on the sweater.

“…hi?” you say, a little confused.

Spencer opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“That’s—” he gestures vaguely, like words are suddenly optional, “—you’re wearing—”

You glance down. Oh, right. His sweater.

You’d grabbed it last night without thinking. You’d stayed over, fallen asleep halfway through one of his rambles about cognitive bias, and when you left in the morning, it was just there. Comfortable. Familiar.

You didn’t really think about how it would look walking into the BAU.

“…yeah,” you say, suddenly a little self-conscious. “I, um—hope that’s okay? I meant to bring it back but I was running late and—”

“You can keep it.” The words come out too fast. Too immediate. Spencer freezes after saying them, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Your eyebrows lift. “Keep it?”

“I mean, not keep it permanently, unless you want to, which would be statistically improbable given normal clothing rotation habits, but—” he stops, exhales, visibly trying to reset his brain, “—it looks… good.”

There’s a pause. A very noticeable pause. Because Spencer Reid just said something looks good. And he is not looking at your face. He is very, very focused on the sweater. On how it fits you. On how the sleeves fall past your hands. On how it’s unmistakably his and somehow… better on you.

Your lips twitches, “You’re staring,” you say softly.

“I’m not—” he immediately looks up, which is worse, because now he’s looking directly at you, and his ears are turning pink, “—I just recognized the fabric composition.”

“Oh, of course you did,” you tease.

Morgan snorts loudly from across the room. Spencer glares at him for half a second before looking back at you, clearly trying to recover.

“…you didn’t have to bring it back,” he says, quieter now.

Something about the way he says it, less flustered, more honest, makes your chest tighten just a little.

“I know,” you reply. “But I wanted to.”

His gaze flickers, just briefly, to the neckline of the sweater again.

“…you can still wear it,” he adds.

Now you really smile.

⸻

The rest of the team catches on quickly. Garcia notices first, obviously.

“Oh my God,” her voice crackles through the speakers. “Is that boy genius couture I see?”

You choke on your coffee. Emily leans over her desk, squinting. “Wait… is that actually Reid’s?”

JJ looks between the two of you, already piecing it together, a knowing smile forming.

Spencer, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to combust. “It’s just a sweater,” he insists.

“Your sweater,” Morgan corrects.

Spencer adjusts his satchel strap. “Clothing items are frequently shared among—”

“—people who are dating,” Emily finishes.

Silence. Spencer blinks. You raise an eyebrow. Morgan grins like he’s just won something.

“…we’re not—” Spencer starts, then glances at you, falters, and immediately loses all confidence in the sentence, “—I mean, not officially, not that labels are necessary for—”

You step closer to him. Not enough to make a scene. Just enough that your shoulder brushes his. He freezes instantly.

“…you okay?” you ask, voice soft, teasing but gentle.

He swallows, then nods, “…yes.” But he doesn’t move away. And he doesn’t stop looking at you.

⸻

Later, when the bullpen quiets down and everyone’s distracted with their own work, Spencer finds himself standing beside you again.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just… lingers.

You glance up. “You’re hovering again.”

“I’m not hovering,” he says automatically.

“You are,” you smile. “But I don’t mind.”

That seems to short-circuit him a little.

“…okay,” he says.

There’s a small pause.

“…it suits you,” he blurts out.

You tilt your head. “The sweater?”

He nods, “I like it better on you,” he admits, quieter now.

That catches you off guard. Because Spencer doesn’t say things like that casually. You study him for a second, really look at him.

At the way he’s trying so hard to stay composed. At the way his fingers twitch slightly, like he wants to reach out but isn’t sure if he should. So you make it easier.

You gently tug at the sleeve. “Maybe I’ll keep stealing your clothes, then,” you say.

His eyes widen slightly. “You can,” he says, almost immediately.

Then, softer, “…anytime.”

Your heart does something stupid in your chest. And for once, Spencer Reid doesn’t try to explain it away with science. He just stands there, a little flustered, a little breathless and very, very aware that you’re still wearing his sweater.

[hotchnerss]

always soo freaking sleepy omg leave him alone ;-;

[cherrygarcia-07]

Star Pupil // Spencer Reid⭐️

synopsis: in which Spencer’s daughter is teaching her stuffed animal class and he is taking it very, very seriously

genre: fluffy

wc: 930ish

notes/tags: professor! spence, yes spencer named his childhood teddy bear after carl sagan, inspired by “reid, is your name samuel?”, space facts should be correct because i got them from NASA🤓☝️badger is named after badger from the wind in the willows his daughter isn’t just unimaginative

masterlist // if you enjoy pls reblog it helps promote the fic so much !!

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Spencer shifted where he sat cross-legged on the carpet, wedged between a small pink teddy bear and a large stuffed elephant. He clicked his glittery blue pen a couple more times, scribbling on his Disney princess-patterned paper again and watching as no ink came out. Sighing, he raised his hand in the air.

“Excuse me, Miss Reid?” He called out. Across the room small brown eyes much like his looked up from where they were helping Pebble the Penguin with his quiz. “May I have another pen, please?”

“Yes you may.” The little girl nodded seriously, rooting around her small pink desk before giving up, with all of her pens currently being sprawled across the floor in front of various stuffed animals. Instead, she opted for sneakily taking Pebble’s pen from beside his worksheet.

“Thank you very much.” Spencer said, taking his new sparkly purple pen from her warm hands before she promptly shoved them back into her pockets.

He watched her as she strolled across the room, reciting mostly-accurate bits and pieces from the astronomy book he’d caught her studying with a flashlight long past her bedtime the night before. Her little voice filled the room, her cadence rising and falling in a way all so familiar to him- a way that stood out to him even more so ever since he realised she was mimicking him. She paced up and down the room, the way he did in his classes, the way she’d seen him do a hundred times up and down the kitchen as he practiced his material. Spencer bit back a smile- having already been told off once for not taking her class seriously enough- before dropping his gaze back to his lap.

His daughter’s scratchy handwriting stared back up at him in glittery pink rows of questions. The exact same questions had also been painstakingly copied out on each piece of paper sitting before the entire circle of stuffed animals she was standing within, a faint smell of strawberry wafting up from each sheet. His eyes focused on a small smudge on the corner of his paper, a tiny little thumb print the evidence of her efforts. It’s rather silly the things that make tears prick your eyes when you’re a father.

“Carl.” She called, spinning to face a rather worn out looking teddy bear with a NASA logo on its chest. The same teddy bear had been Spencer’s earliest student as a child. “How many moons does Mars have?” He thought it was a little odd to ask additional questions during what was supposed to be a quiz, but he daren’t question her teaching methods. He understood better than anyone the itch to keep on teaching. Carl answered, albeit in a voice very similar to his teacher’s but in a slightly lower-pitch, earning a gold star sticker to his paper. Spencer’s cardigans were littered in the same stickers. He was, after all, her star pupil and he made sure everybody at the BAU knew it when he wore them like badges of honour with a proud smile to match.

“Badger.” She said, turning to the rather appropriate named stuffed badger at her side. “How many moons does Mercury have?”

Spencer’s spine straightened instinctually, ears perking up like a puppy hearing the world ‘treat’ as his hand shot straight up in the air. “That’s a trick question- Mercury doesn’t have any moons. It’s far too close to the sun to hold onto its own moon and even if it did it would likely eventually get pulled into the sun anyway.” He beamed up at her, holding himself back from prepping his sweater in preparation for its next gold star.

Instead, the little teacher furrowed her little brows at him, hands on her hips as she sighed. “Daddy!” She chided in her sternest voice. “I asked Badger, not you!”

Spencer’s mouth silently opened and closed like a fish, a slight flush tingling in his cheeks as his posture shrunk. “I’m so sorry, Miss Reid.” He offered her a sheepish smile before gesturing to the class for her to continue. “It won’t happen again.”

“Thank you.” She nodded, twirling on her heel to where Toto the dog was apparently waiting with his paw raised, not that Spencer could tell. He tilted his head back down to his paper, admiring where he could see that she’d stumbled over the spelling of Uranus a couple of times before getting it right. His was clearly the first quiz she’d written. A fruity smell wafted from the pen as he speedily answered the rest of the questions- play pretend class or not he was not about to lose his star pupil streak.

“Daddy?” He heard her call after a while. His neck snapped up to find her standing right in front of him, her sheet of gold stars in hand. “Which planet in our solar system has the shortest days?”

“Jupiter!” He answered immediately, and if he was in a seat he would be practically jumping out of it. “Jupiter’s days only last approximately 10 hours. Comparatively, Venus has the longest days- one day on Venus is equal to 243 days on Earth. That’s even longer than its years.”

“Perfect answer!” She was smiling at him now, her joy infectious to her father as a grin broke out on his own face.

“Well I have the best teacher ever.” Spencer answered simply, shrugging like it was the most true thing in the world. In the universe, even.

She reached out, pressing another sticker to his chest so that it sparkled over his heart. “And I have the best student ever.”

-

[mcsstydia]

Intuition - Spencer Reid

╰summary: Spencer is a goner for his girlfriend, and would do anything for her. On a rainy afternoon, he is suddenly very sure he wants to take the next step in your relationship. Only, he's very afraid he could do something wrong.

╰pairing: Spencer x reader

╰Warnings: pet names, Spencer is soooo in love, but so is reader, virgin!spencer, giggly first time, nothing too graphic, Spencer and reader both being so nervous but so in love they just enjoy sharing this experience, established relationship, no talks about protection (they had that talk beforehand, okay?!), Spencer wants the reader to have a good time and fearing he cannot deliver (spoiler: he can!), honestly this is love making at its finest

this is literally the first time in YEARS I've written intimate scenes (and definitely the first time since I've had experience myself), and it feels strangely vulnerable sharing this with the world, so please be kind <3

╰word count: 2.9k

જ⁀➴Masterlist

The rain drops were coming down hard against the windows of the apartment. In the distance, there was a thunder shaking the clouds. Distant, but audible.

Spencer had never shared the general public's stance on 'bad weather', as so many people liked to put it. No, the so-called bad weather was what had always calmed him.

The world somehow seemed quieter when the thunder was such a blaring contrast to it. And Spencer enjoyed the world a lot more when it seemed less loud. It relaxed him, the rhythm of rain hitting surfaces, and it made it easier to organize his thoughts.

Right now, as the storm was drawing closer, his gaze landed on you, book in hand, snuggled under a thick blanket he had wrapped you in not long ago.

Spencer and you had been dating for a little over three months now, and to say that he had never been happier would have been the understatement of his life.

For much too long, Spencer was certain he had been cursed. Not in the literal, mythical sense (his scientific upbringing was still a little too strongminded to really believe that). But in the loose sense of the meaning, yes, he had believed that.

Everyone around him had found love, they had started a family that he had so desperately craved himself.

Before he even knew how to approach a human of the female gender, Spencer had been certain he wanted to become a father one day. He loved children, of any kind, of any age. And he desperately, undoubtedly, wanted to give his child the fatherly love he had never gotten.

So why didn't it ever work out in his favor? It's not like he wasn't open to relationships. Sure, he was aware that he wasn't the most obvious choice for some women. He knew he could come across as awkward; he'd been told that countless times, both in a loving and in a mean way. Either way, he had internalized that notion.

Additionally, he was hesitant about physical touch. Agreed, not the best start to a relationship. But he had been sure, once the right person would come along, it would not be a problem.

And roughly one year ago, when you joined the team, he knew all of his waiting had not been in vain. Sure, it had taken some time (eight months) and some persuading (by Derek, Penelope, and Rossi) to ask you out, but once he saw the sparkle in your eyes and a giddiness as a response to his question, he knew it would be worth it.

And it had been. It might sound cliche, and he would not believe it himself had he not experienced it, but it felt like all of the stars finally aligned for him and brought him you. God, you were making him poetic.

You, perfect, flawless you.

You would roll your eyes at him would you hear his thoughts, he knew that all too well, and for a moment he was glad he was alone with his thoughts, alone with turning and twisting you in his mind to come to the conclusion he had drawn a long time ago; you were the love of his life.

A lazy, lopsided smile tugged at his lips at he took you in, drank you in, even. He simply could never get enough of you. Wasn't even really sure about how he got so lucky.

He watched your eyes scan the pages of the book resting on your lap, watched your fingers sprawled across the book, holding it in place while your other hand held a cup of tea close to your mouth, sipping on the lukewarm ingredients.

A sense Spencer had yet to completely familiarize himself with overtook him, again.

He wanted to touch you, he wanted to kiss you, to devour you.

Spencer had known he would eventually give in to the physicality so closely entwined with relationships once he really loved someone, but he had never anticipated it would happen to quickly, so violently, even.

He was no newcomer to kissing and making out.

But when he first kissed you, it seemed as though something in his genetic make up just changed. He knew it wasn't biologically possible, though he didn't seem to find a plausible explanation, either.

Ever since then, Spencer had the feeling he had to control himself around you, like your touch had somehow transformed him into nothing more but a wild animal, driven by primal wants and needs. He didn't really know the protocol around such things. Sure, he had done things before. But otherwise, he was a virgin in the majority of ways that counted.

He had told you pretty early on, and you had not even blinked at his confession. His worries about your reaction had all been in vain, and it felt as though a heavy weight was lifted off his shoulders and lungs when you didn't laugh or belittle him about it.

''You don't mind?'', he had asked, cheeks still unusually warm from his previous confession.

Your brows had been tucked together in genuine confusion. ''What? Why would I?''

And that was that. He thought it would take a while until he wanted to take that step. And again, like with so many aspects revolving expectations he had had about his first relationship, he was utterly, undoubtedly, wrong.

You had been with other men. He knew that. What he also knew, though, was that none of these men had been particularly kind to you whatsoever. So, naturally, he wanted everything he did for you to be as perfect as you deserved it.

Gaze still locked on your form, storm still raging outside, he suddenly jumped from his seat across the room from you and rummaged through the endless piles of books he owned.

''Whatcha looking for, handsome?'', you mumbled into your tea, gaze not lifting from the words on the pages.

Spencer tried ignoring what that simple pet name was doing to his central nervous system but failed utterly. His heart beat stuttered and he grinned boyishly into himself.

''I'm searching for a book on sex,'', he blurted, never having seen the sense in lying.

He heard you choking on your beverage and whipped his head around to you. ''Are you okay?'', he asked hastily, crouching on the floor in front of you within seconds as you continued coughing.

You nodded in reply, hand on your chest to calm your breathing, cheeks hot with the topic in question.

''Wha- I mean, eh...why?'', you brought out, pulse hammering in your neck and chest. Spencer's cheeks were also beginning to take on a pinkish color.

He blinked and furrowed his eyebrows, like he so often did before he tried to explain another complex train of thoughts his mind produced.

''Well, I know you've been with other men. And I haven't been. With other people, I mean. So I figured, I should further study what techniques there are to...uhm...to make you feel good, I guess?''

At this point, he was a blushing, rambling mess, and although your cheeks were pink as well, you wanted nothing more but to kiss the embarrassment from his face. You were incredulous, how could this man even exist? A man who wanted to research techniques before he ever touched you?

You shook your head in disbelief, and for a brief moment, Spencer thought he had said something wrong. But he quickly identified your love-struck grin he was lucky enough to have become familiar with.

''You're unbelievable. And I mean that in a good way,'', you mumbled, face still flush but giddy, Spencer could basically see the happiness on it.

Still, Spencer didn't really understand what you meant by that.

''Why?''

How could it be that the most endearing person on earth also happened to be your boyfriend?

''Spence,'', you whispered, smile still adorning your lips, as you pulled him in closer to you by his cardigan. He was still on his knees on the floor, crouching in front of the couch you sat on.

As soon as you touched him, he was a goner, he was basically putty in your hands. He had that lovestruck look on his face as his eyes transfixed on yours.

''I understand that you might be a little nervous, but I assure you, you don't have to be. You can do absolutely nothing wrong.''

''Well, of course! There are a lot of things I could do wrong for exam-''

''Spence,'', you cut him off. ''You love me. I know that. You love me more than any man who has ever touched me. And with that, I promise you, you will know what to do. You will know what's right.'', you explained, voice in a whisper, hands still holding his cardigan as you saw his gaze drop down to your lips.

Spencer cupped the back of your neck with one of his large hands and pulled you into him, your lips brushing his as you grinned into the kiss and he reciprocated.

Even after weeks of being able to getting used to it, you hadn't yet. The feeling of Spencer's lips on yours was a new one every time your lips connected. You felt lightheaded almost instantly, and you scolded him internally for ever thinking he could not know what to do with you.

''You're right, you know,'', he mumbled in between kisses.

''Hm?''

He pulled away, though not far, never far, to look at you, your face in between his hands, his thumbs stroking your skin, eyes lovingly holding yours. ''That I love you,'', he whispered, and you felt even dizzier.

''I'm always right,'', you giggled in response. ''And I love you too, you know,'', your voice was back to a whisper as Spencer placed light kisses across your jaw and neck. You let your head fall back, and he hummed knowingly in response.

Yet, this was not entirely out of the ordinary for you, yet. He took almost every opportunity he could get to show you just how much he loved you. It was what he said next that made you realize it was different this time, what made goosebumps break out on your whole body.

''Wrap your legs around me, I don't want to do this here,'', he whispered, then immediately kissed a spot below your ear, making you shiver.

You caught his eyes, both in surprise and in question.

''Spence, we don't have to-''

''I know what. But do you seriously think I don't want to? I can barely think of anything else,'', he confessed, the heat coming back to his and your cheeks.

You wordlessly wrapped your legs around his waist and he picked you up without effort. His lips found yours again, capturing them in loving kisses again and again. His hands were on the back of your thighs, and on the way to his bedroom, he let one of them deliberately slip to your behind.

You knew it was wrong to compare him to the men you had been with. But it didn't feel wrong, given he won every point without even trying. His kisses weren't hungry, they were curious, loving. His hands on your body weren't searching for more, they weren't possessive, they were curious. He wanted to explore every part of you in the most innocent way possible, and with each and every touch, he made you feel like he appreciated you, not like he wanted to own you, but like he wanted to love you, even more than he already did, if that was even possible.

Your heart was hammering in your chest as you ran through your last shower routine, wondering whether you shaved, but as Spencer lay you down gently onto the mattress, eyes finding yours, being both sure and excited at the same time, you knew it didn't matter. It was Spencer. He loved you more than anything. And you did, too.

Carefully, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants, looking into your eyes for confirmation, which you gave with a firm nod of your head. He slowly, cautiously, pulled the pants down your legs, and embarrassingly, you started trembling as soon as his fingertips touched the exposed skin of your legs.

He placed a few light kisses to your thighs.

''Are you okay?'', he asked as he noticed the trembling of your legs.

''Mhm,'', you mumbled in reply, catching his gaze. ''Just a little nervous, is all,'', you replied in a hushed tone.

''You, too?''

Spencer almost couldn't believe his ears. One of your hands cupped his cheeks and he leaned into your touch. ''Of course I am, baby.''

With your underwear still on, you sat up and pulled off your shirt, revealing your bare chest. Spencer cleared his throat and you were uncertain whether his eyes would fall out of their sockets before he could avert his gaze to someplace else.

You unbottoned his cardigan, which he took off in one swift move, before you tugged at the hem of his shirt, as well. He pulled it off and then you sat there, bare chest to bare chest, both heaving with heavy breaths and anticipation.

This time it was you who lunged forward, grabbing him by the back of his neck and pulling him against yourself. Spencer gladly followed and pushed you gently to lie back down again.

He continued kissing you while you felt him pull off his sweats. For a brief moment, you wondered whether he kept on his underwear, as well, but then you felt him warm, flush, against your stomach. The both of you shuddered at the contact, to which a fit of giggles erupted from your connected mouths.

Spencer then slowly pulled your underwear down your shivering legs and searched your eyes for any uncertainties. ''Are you sure?'', you heard him ask.

''Yes. Yes I'm sure,'', you nodded. He leaned his forehead against yours and you both took a moment to close your eyes and breathe and feel the other.

''Spence?''

''Yeah?''

''Just...Sometimes first times, they..um... they don't last very long. I want you to know that that's perfectly normal and please just... don't pressure yourself for me, okay?''

Spencer's chest felt all kinds of warm at your concern, and he nodded.

To your surprise, the next thing you felt were Spencer's fingers at your core, and you gasped in surprise. He drew soothing circles against the part of you that needed him most.

With every hiss, every moan that escaped your lips, you felt him twitch against your stomach.

It took him not more than two minutes to have you come completely undone before him. As soon as you were certain you could breathe again, you smacked his arm.

''Ow! What was that for?'', he grinned, perfect teeth on display. ''For lying to me! There's no way you have never done this!", you exclaimed, faking an angry scowl.

''I haven't, I swear!''

You pulled him down to your face, engulfing his lips in a lazy kiss. ''I told you. You'll know what to do,'', you mumbled against his lips.

At this point, you could feel him against your entrance, and any tiredness he had just induced you with was replaced by adrenaline again.

''Are you still sure?''

You smiled widely at him, eyes glistening with sureness, with happiness, as you nodded. Spencer was trembling too, now, and he quickly found one of your hands and entwined your fingers to ground him, before slowly, carefully, pushing in.

A shiver was ripping through both of your bodies, and it was not hard at all for Spencer to push all the way in, as you were more than ready for him. Though he was a lot bigger than you had anticipated. Your gazes met, both surprised, both immensely turned on, both bodies feeling on fire, which made the two of you erupt into a fit of giggles again.

Spencer brushed a strand of hair out of your face and peppered your face with light, loving kisses. You had never felt so loved.

''Is it okay if I move?'', to which you nodded in reply.

So Spencer started moving in and out of you, slowly at first, and you felt him fight off his release immediately. The feeling of him shivering, restraining himself below your touch, made you clench around him, earning a groan in return.

''Can you not-''

''Sorry, sorry,'', you giggled, and he huffed out a laugh in response.

''No, I'm sorry, I just-'', he met your gaze again, and his eyes softened, the stress he had put on himself only moments ago falling off of him once you were in his field of vision.

The hand that was not clasped by his own cupped his cheek again, a touch that said 'I'm here. You're fine, you're okay.', and he relinquished in the feeling of being understood.

He took all of his courage to move again, and he willed himself not to come simply by the feeling of feeling you, of being as close to you as humanly possible. Somehow, he felt you on every of his nerve endings, and he never wanted to do anything else, ever again.

After finally setting a pace that had you moaning and squirming beneath him, there's nothing else to do for him but let go and come undone. He moaned and trembled and you held him through it all.

He rolled onto his side, afterwards, pulled you in and placed kisses onto the top of your head. Then, sheepishly, he asked ''Can we do that again sometime?''

You prop yourself up on his chest, his fingertips caressing the back of your very sweaty back, a grin on your lips. ''Of course, baby. Anytime you want.''

''Yeah?''

''Yeah.''

Then you let him pull you into him again, lips meeting in kisses, in giggles, and in the pure happiness of having found a person that means everything to you.

[dirtylittlediary]

seven minutes - spencer reid

pairing : spencer reid x hotch's daughter!reader

summary : when you're taken by an unsub who holds a peculiar grudge against your father, seven minutes make a hell of a difference between life and death.

warnings : angst with maybe -45% comfort, kidnapping, torture, mentions of harm being done to other people, completely made up plot btw so no spoilers for the actual show, spencer losing his shit, established relationship

word count : 9.5 k

a/n : as usual, not proofread ! probably about season 10-11!reid as in looks reference but the plotline is all over the place so uhm sorry abt that i was legit js pulling shit from my criminal minds memory bank and shoved them all together... so yeah defo not season-wise accuracy. (the crash is based on s13 so lil spoilers on that... and i also looked up every technical term i could think of to make spencer sound accurate so uh) enjoy !

Spencer's hands are careful as he fastens your bulletproof vest over your chest, his brows furrowed. The fluorescent lights of the bullpen wash him pale, catching the faint shadows under his eyes from too many nights spent buried in files.

“You tightened it too much,” you mumble, wincing as he tugs the straps.

“It’s supposed to be tight,” he says automatically, not looking up.

“Pretty sure breathing is also supposed to happen.” That finally earns you a glance. Not amused. Just worried.

“You joke when you’re nervous.”

“And you lecture when you are.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. My lungs would like to file a formal complaint.” His mouth twitches despite himself, but it disappears almost immediately. Spencer smooths his hand over the front of the vest one last time, checking for gaps like he doesn’t trust the fabric to do its job properly. You study him for a second.

“You know,” you say quietly, “most people just say ‘be careful.’”

“I did say that.”

“Three times.”

“Because you ignored me the first two.” A snort escapes you, but it fades when you notice the way his fingers linger near your ribs. Restless. Anxious.The case had gotten ugly fast.Three victims in four days. All connected to the Bureau in some way. Retired agents. Informants. One federal prosecutor. And now the unsub had escalated from taunting the BAU to targeting your father directly. Aaron Hotchner had made enemies before. Plenty of them. But this one felt different.

Personal.

The unsub had been sending photographs for weeks now. Grainy shots of Hotch entering Quantico. Jack at soccer practice. You grabbing coffee outside the bullpen with Spencer. Watching. Waiting. The latest message had arrived that morning.

Tick tock, Hotchner.

And underneath it:

What hurts worse? Losing your team… or your daughter?

Hotch had gone frighteningly still when Garcia read it aloud. You’d watched the muscle in his jaw tick once before he started assigning teams like the world wasn’t tilting beneath his feet. Now the bullpen buzzes around you—agents moving quickly, radios crackling, Emily and JJ arguing quietly over routes—but Spencer still hasn’t stepped back.

“Spence,” you say softly. His eyes flick to yours immediately. “I’ll be okay.” The problem is he doesn’t answer. Because Spencer Reid has seen too many people promise that before bleeding out anyway. Behind you, your father emerges from his office already shrugging into his jacket.

“We hit the road in two,” Hotch says. The entire room shifts instantly into motion. Spencer finally lets go of your vest, though reluctantly, like peeling his hands away from something important.

“You stay with Luke,” he says firmly. “Don’t split up. Don’t go anywhere alone." You blink at him.

“Wow. You and my dad should start a podcast.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re always serious.”

“That’s statistically inaccurate.” That almost gets a real smile out of you.Almost. Then Hotch’s voice cuts through the bullpen again.

“Let’s move.” You reach up and pull Spencer down towards you, catching his lips in a quick kiss as your dad, Luke, Walker and Emily all walk towards the black SUV's waiting for you downstairs.

The kiss barely lasts two seconds.

Still, Spencer chases it for half a heartbeat when you pull away, his hand catching briefly at your wrist like he’s fighting the urge to keep you there.

“Be careful,” he says quietly. You soften a little at the look on his face.

“Spence, we’re literally just surveilling a warehouse.”

“That statement significantly increases the statistical likelihood something catastrophic is about to happen.” Luke snorts from beside the elevators.

“He’s got a point.” You roll your eyes, backing toward the bullpen doors.

“You’re all dramatic.” Hotch appears behind you, expression unreadable but tired in the way only your father can manage.

“Move.”And just like that, the moment’s over. Everyone scatters into motion.

The unsub’s name is Daniel Kessler.

Former paramedic. Former military. Smart enough to stay ahead of the BAU for six weeks and angry enough to make mistakes.

More specifically: angry at Aaron Hotchner.

Three years ago, Hotch testified in a corruption case involving Kessler’s brother. The brother went to prison. Died there eleven months later.

Kessler blamed Hotch.

And now bodies were piling up across Virginia with surgical precision and handwritten messages left behind at each scene.

The latest lead had come fast—a possible location tied to one of Kessler’s shell companies just outside Quantico. Which was why the team was mobilizing so quickly. Three SUVs. Hotch and Rossi in the first. JJ and Tara in the second. You, Luke, Emily, and Walker in the third. Spencer stayed behind with Garcia to monitor incoming intel. He looked miserable about it.

At first, the drive is almost painfully normal. Walker’s driving. Emily sits shotgun flipping through case notes while Luke scrolls through updates on his phone beside you in the backseat. Rain taps softly against the windows. The highway stretches dark and endless ahead of you. Your phone buzzes.

SPENCE You forgot your scarf.

You smile despite yourself.

YOU Tragic. I’ll hold a funeral later.

Three dots appear immediately.

Then:

SPENCE Funny people are statistically more likely to survive traumatic situations.

You bark out a laugh. Luke glances over.

“Pretty Boy?”

“Unfortunately.” Emily sighs dramatically from the front seat.

“You two are disgusting.”

“You say that like you haven’t watched them stare at each other for ten straight minutes in briefing rooms,” Walker says.

“I have,” Emily replies. “That’s why I said it. I've also watched them pine for each other for years. This sudden shift in dynamics is weird. I honestly liked it better when Reid was all stuttery and shy around her."

"We didn't pine." You grumble, shifting in your seat. Four separate looks immediately get directed at you. Luke actually lowers his phone.

“Be serious.”

“He wrote you a six-page apology because he accidentally snapped at you once,” Emily says to absolutely no one’s surprise.

Walker snorts from the driver’s seat.

“Reid used to look like he was being held hostage every time she touched him.”

“He still does sometimes,” Luke says.

“Okay, wow,” you mutter. Emily twists slightly in her seat to look back at you.

“Sweetheart, he once walked into the glass conference room wall because you smiled at him.”

“That happened one time.”

“Twice,” Luke corrects. Walker laughs.

“Nah, my favorite was the coffee thing.” You narrow your eyes.

“What coffee thing?”

“You brought him coffee every morning for like eight months,” Walker says.

“Because he forgets to eat when he’s working.”

“And Reid started memorizing your coffee order after day two,” Emily adds smugly. Luke points between all of you.

“See, this is why none of us were shocked when they finally got together.”

“You were all shocked,” you argue.

“We were shocked it took this long,” Emily corrects. Emily cackles. “You're dating a textbook.”

“A very pretty textbook,” you mumble before thinking better of it. Unfortunately the entire car hears you. Walker makes a wounded sound.

“Oh, that’s disgusting.” Emily clutches her chest dramatically.

“No, let her continue. This is healing me.” You flip her off from the backseat. Rain continues tapping softly against the windshield as the SUV speeds down the dark stretch of highway. The radio crackles quietly every few seconds with updates from the other cars. Somewhere ahead, Hotch and Rossi are already discussing entry routes. JJ’s voice cuts in briefly over comms before fading back out. For a moment, everything feels strangely normal.

Easy.

Luke elbows you lightly.

“You know Reid almost called Hotch Sr when he asked permission to ask you out.” Your head whips toward him.

“What?” Emily bursts into delighted laughter.

“He did.” Walker nearly misses the curve in the road because he’s laughing too hard now.

“No he did not.”

“Oh, he absolutely did,” Emily says. “Hotch just stared at him for like ten full seconds while Reid visibly aged.” Luke deepens his voice badly in imitation. “‘Agent Hotchner, respectfully, I was wondering if—’”

“Stop talking,” you groan.

“—if your daughter would potentially—’”

“You’re all dead to me.” Emily wipes tears from under her eyes.

“Your father looked so uncomfortable.” Walker grins into the rearview mirror.

“Honestly brave of Reid. I’d rather fistfight a bear than ask Hotch for dating permission.”

“He didn’t ask permission,” you defend automatically. Luke raises an eyebrow.

“He absolutely did.” Luke laughs. And for one perfect, stupid second, everything feels fine.

Then you see it. Up ahead. Small. Sharp. Metal glinting beneath the headlights. Your stomach drops instantly.

“Walker—” Too late. The SUV hits the spike strips hard. The sound is explosive. All four tires blow at once.

"Shit !" Walker jerks the wheel violently as the vehicle fishtails across the slick highway. Emily shouts something.

"Everybody hold on !" Luke grabs for the handle above the door. Your seatbelt locks brutally across your chest as the world spins sideways.

Then— Headlights. Blinding. A truck horn screaming— And impact. Metal shrieks. Glass detonates. Your body whips sideways so hard your vision whites out completely. Something slams into your ribs.

When you wake up, you can’t breathe. Pain hits first. Not sharp. Everywhere. Burning agony flooding through every inch of your body like someone poured gasoline into your veins. A broken sound leaves your throat. Smoke curls through the crushed SUV. Your head lolls sideways. Everything looks wrong. The windshield is gone. The dashboard is crumpled inward. Blood streaks the windows. Your seatbelt digs painfully into your chest. For a second you can’t understand why your left arm won’t move properly. Then feeling rushes back all at once and you nearly black out again.

“Fuck—” Your voice comes out shredded. You force your head up. Emily’s slumped against the passenger door, unmoving, blood running down the side of her face. Luke’s crumpled awkwardly beside you.

Walker— Walker’s head hangs at an angle that makes your stomach twist violently. Too still. Far too still.

“Walker,” you croak. No response. You try again, panic climbing your throat. You reach forward, wincing at the pull of your seat belt, shaking him. “Walker!” His entire body slumps forward, head landing on the steering wheel with a deafening thud. You bite back the bile threatening to spew out of you, your vision tunneling as you jerk back. Your chest caves inward.

Oh God. Smoke thickens around you. The car groans. Somewhere outside, people are shouting. You fumble clumsily for the seatbelt release with trembling fingers. It finally clicks. The second it unlatches, your body pitches forward violently and agony tears through your side hard enough to make you scream. Something’s wrong. Something is very, very wrong. You look down. Blood. So much blood. A jagged piece of metal protrudes from beneath your ribs. Your vision flickers.

“No no no—” The driver-side door suddenly jerks open. Cold rain floods in. A man appears beside the wreckage wearing EMT gear. Reflective jacket. Medical gloves. Calm eyes. Relief crashes through you so hard you almost cry.

“Ma'am,” he says firmly. “Stay still.” You nod weakly.

“My-My friends - Please you have to-” Your eyes dart around, trying to catch a glimpse of the other cars. You can see smoke and fire from somewhere behind you, and panic claws up your throat. "Oh, god- my-my dad is in- please, you have to-"

“We’ll get them,” he says quickly. “I need to move you first.” Your brain feels slow. Foggy. He cuts through your vest with terrifying efficiency. Strong hands slide beneath your arms. Pain explodes through your abdomen as he pulls you free from the wreckage. You scream.

“I know,” he says soothingly. “I know. I got you.” Rain pours down around you. Lights flash red and blue across the highway. Your head lolls weakly against his shoulder as he carries you toward the ambulance. You can barely keep your eyes open. Your body feels heavy.

Wrong.

“Dad,” you mumble. “Need my dad—”

“We already got the two other cars evacuated. We have extra RA's en route to escort your friends to the hospital. Your father is waiting for you there.” the EMT says. You nod, rain soaking your clothes. He loads you onto the stretcher. The ambulance doors stand open behind you.

Then— Movement. Across the wreckage. Another SUV. Crushed against the guardrail. And stumbling out of it— Hotch.

Your father can barely stand. Blood runs down the side of his face. One arm hangs limp. But the second his eyes land on you— Pure horror floods his expression.

“Sweetheart !” Your breath catches.

What ?

Your breath catches. The EMT had said Hotch was already at the hospital. Your stomach drops so violently it almost makes you vomit.

No.

No, no—

Hotch stumbles forward through the rain, slipping against the soaked pavement as he tries to run toward the ambulance. Rossi is behind him shouting for medics, for backup, for somebody to stop the vehicle, but your father’s eyes are locked entirely on you. On the man beside you. And suddenly you understand. The EMT’s hand tightens on the stretcher rail.

“Wait,” you whisper. Hotch sees your expression change.

“No!” he roars. The ambulance doors slam shut. The sound nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. Panic detonates through your body. You jerk upright instantly despite the agony ripping through your abdomen.

“Stop the fucking ambulance!” you scream, scrambling backward across the stretcher. Pain tears through your ribs so hard your vision whites out, but adrenaline keeps you moving. “Stop—” The EMT grabs for you. You swing first. Your fist cracks against his jaw hard enough to snap his head sideways. For one glorious second, he actually looks surprised.

“Bitch,” he mutters. You lunge for the door handles. Your blood-slick fingers almost catch them before he hauls you backward violently. Agony explodes through your side and a scream rips out of your throat. Outside the tiny rear windows, you can still see your father. Hotch is running after the ambulance. Actually running. Broken. Bleeding. Desperate.

“Dad!” you sob, slamming your palm against the doors. “Dad!” The ambulance swerves sharply.

The EMT hooks an arm around your waist and drags you back against him with brutal force. You fight instantly, elbows flying despite the pain.

“Get the fuck off me!” you choke out.

“Jesus Christ,” the man snarls, struggling to keep hold of you. “You really are his kid.” Something cold presses suddenly against your neck. A syringe. Your blood runs cold.

“No—” The needle plunges into your skin. You gasp sharply and shove at him harder, but your limbs already feel wrong. Heavy. Slow. “No no no—” The man restrains you easily now, forcing you back onto the stretcher as the sedative floods your bloodstream. Your vision starts swimming almost immediately. Outside, through the blurred back windows, you see Hotch reach the ambulance for half a second— His hand slams against the rear doors as he screams your name.

“No !” The sound breaks something inside you. Then the ambulance surges forward. And your father disappears into rain and flashing lights. Your body stops cooperating.

Your arms feel numb.

Your heartbeat echoes strangely in your ears.

The EMT pulls off his mask calmly while you struggle weakly beneath him.

Not an EMT.

Kessler.

You recognize him now. The eyes. Cold. Empty. Patient.

“You should’ve stayed still,” he says, almost disappointed. Your mouth won’t work properly anymore.

“You…” you slur weakly. Kessler sighs, pushing you flat against the stretcher as your body goes limp beneath his hands.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “You’re bleeding internally. This is keeping you alive.” You try to fight him again anyway. Your hand barely lifts. Kessler watches you with detached fascination.

"Let's see if Aaron Hotchner's precious daughter is more important than putting me behind bars." He grabs another needle and grabs you arm.

You try to fight back- God, you try.

But your body feels like it's been filled with concrete, like your veins are hardening with every passing second, weighing you down.

Kessler grins.

"Sweet dreams."

-----------------

"Aaron- Aaron, listen to me-" Rossi is waving his arms in front of Hotch as real sirens flood the space. Emily crawls out of the car, coughing and bleeding from her temple, her hand pressed to her side as she limps her way over to Luke's side of the car and tugs him out. JJ stumbles from another wreckage, waving her hand in front of her face as she coughs, a large gash running down the side of her arm. Tara doesn't look badly hurt, just concussed as she stumbles down the stretch of highway, her hand pressed to her head in confusion as Derek helps her forward.

And Aaron Hotchner can't fucking breathe.

"N-No, we- we have to go after her." He rasps, shaking his head. "The ambulance didn't have a license plate but-but it was him. It was him, Dave." Rossi grabs Hotch hard by the shoulders.

“Aaron!” Hotch’s chest heaves violently. Rain pours down his face, mixing with blood from the cut at his hairline. His eyes are locked on the empty stretch of highway where the ambulance disappeared into the storm.

“The ambulance didn’t have plates,” he says again, voice shredded raw. “It was him. Dave, it was fucking him.” Behind them, chaos erupts across the crash site. Actual EMTs flood the highway now, shouting over each other as they move between the wrecked SUVs. Red and blue lights flash violently across twisted metal and shattered glass. Somebody yells for extraction tools. Another medic shouts about fuel leakage. Walker’s body is finally pulled from the front seat. Emily sees the tarp being unfolded and stops dead.

“No,” she whispers. Luke catches her arm before she can stumble forward. JJ presses a trembling hand over her mouth, blood still running down her forearm. Tara stands dazed beside Derek, one hand against her temple as she tries to process the devastation around her. For one horrible moment, nobody speaks. Then the highway explodes back into noise.

“Aaron,” Rossi says again, more firmly this time. “Talk to me.” Hotch looks like he can barely breathe.

“She saw me,” he rasps. “She looked right at me.” His voice breaks on the last word. Dave’s stomach twists. Because Aaron Hotchner does not break. Not like this. “She realized it wasn’t real,” Hotch says, staring blankly down the road. “She started fighting him.” Emily looks up sharply.

“What?” Hotch drags a hand over his bloodied face.

“He was dressed like an EMT.” His breathing turns uneven. “I thought she was being transported until I saw—” He cuts himself off hard. Too late. Rossi catches it immediately.

“What did you see?” Aaron closes his eyes for one second too long. When he opens them again, there’s something almost haunted sitting behind them.

“She was hurt.” The team goes still.

“How bad?” JJ asks quietly. Hotch swallows.

“I don’t know.” Lie. Everybody hears it. Aaron’s jaw tightens violently. “There was blood,” he says carefully, like each word physically hurts. “A lot of blood.” Emily’s face drains of color. Luke curses under his breath.

“She couldn’t move properly,” Hotch continues hollowly. “He had to carry her." Nobody says anything after that. Because they all know what that means. Then headlights tear onto the highway. A black SUV brakes hard across the shoulder. Spencer is out of the vehicle before it fully stops moving. Garcia barely gets the car in park before he’s sprinting after him.

“Hotch!” Spencer shouts, panic already threading through his voice as he takes in the wreckage. “What happened?” Garcia steps out behind him—and freezes completely.

“Oh my God.” The highway looks apocalyptic. Smoke. Rain. Crushed SUVs. Flashing lights reflecting off blood-slick pavement. Spencer eyes scan frantically across the scene.

JJ.

Emily.

Luke.

Tara.

Derek.

Rossi.

Hotch.

His stomach drops. Because you’re not there. Spencer’s breathing changes instantly.

“Where is she?” Nobody answers quickly enough. And terror detonates behind his ribs. “Where is she?” Emily looks away. Garcia starts crying immediately. Spencer stares at them.

“No.” Luke steps forward carefully.

“Reid—”

“No.” The word cracks out of him violently. “What happened?” Hotch finally steps toward him, rain dripping from his ruined suit.

“Kessler staged the crash,” he says hoarsely. “He took her.” Spencer just stares at him. Like the sentence physically does not make sense.

“Took her?” he repeats faintly.

“The ambulance was fake,” Rossi says grimly. “He disguised himself as an EMT.” Garcia lets out a broken sob behind them. Spencer’s face goes completely white.

“When?” he asks.

“Less than four minutes ago,” Luke says. “Local units are already searching—” Spencer looks immediately at Hotch. Not Rossi. Not Emily. Hotch. Because Hotch saw her last. And Aaron realizes Spencer already knows that too. Their eye contact lasts half a second. It’s enough. Spencer’s expression changes instantly.

“How bad was she hurt?” Hotch doesn’t answer quickly enough. Spencer takes a step forward. “How bad?” Aaron looks wrecked. Actually wrecked.

“She was conscious,” he says carefully.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Aaron,” Rossi warns quietly. But Spencer doesn’t look away from Hotch. Hotch exhales shakily through his nose.

“There was blood.” Spencer’s breathing stutters.

“How much?”

“I don’t know.” Another lie. Spencer hears that one too. And suddenly he looks furious. Terrified, grieving, furious. “She couldn’t move on her own,” Hotch admits quietly. “He carried her into the ambulance.” Garcia breaks down harder behind them and Derek crosses the space immediately to grab onto her. Spencer physically sways where he stands. For a second it looks like he might actually collapse. Then his face hardens into something sharp enough to cut glass.

“What direction?” Hotch blinks.

“Reid—”

“What direction did he go?”

“Eastbound,” Hotch answers carefully. Spencer immediately turns toward Garcia’s SUV. Hotch grabs his arm before he gets two steps. “You are not going alone.” Spencer jerks free instantly. His eyes are glassy with panic now.

“You let her get in that ambulance.” The words hit like a gunshot. Silence crashes down around the wreckage. Spencer looks horrified the second he says it. Because he knows exactly who he just said it to. A father who watched his daughter get kidnapped while injured and bleeding. Hotch recoils anyway. Not angry. Just devastated.

“I know,” he says quietly. That destroys Spencer more effectively than shouting ever could. His face crumples. Rain pours around all of you in endless sheets as sirens scream across the highway.

And somewhere out there— You’re alone with Kessler.

--------

When you come to, the first thing you feel is that the pain at your abdomen has lessened.

It’s still there.

Deep. Burning. Wrong.

But dulled somehow, like your body’s been wrapped in cotton. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy as you force them open. Darkness swims above you for a second before dim industrial lights sharpen into focus overhead. Concrete ceiling. Rusted pipes. Water dripping somewhere nearby in slow, echoing intervals. Your wrists jerk instinctively.

Metal rattles. Cold panic slams into you. You're strapped upright to some kind of steel chair bolted into the floor. Thick restraints pin your wrists and chest in place. Your injured side throbs violently when you struggle, making black spots burst across your vision.

“Easy. I bandaged you up but you're still actively bleeding out.” The voice comes from somewhere ahead of you. Kessler steps into view calmly, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he’s in the middle of an ordinary workday instead of holding an FBI agent hostage. Your breathing quickens immediately.

“Fuck you,” you rasp. He actually smiles faintly.

“That’s usually the morphine talking." Morphine. That explains the floating feeling in your limbs. You look down quickly. Your vest is gone. Soaked bandages are wrapped tightly around your abdomen beneath a gray thermal shirt that definitely isn’t yours. There’s dried blood everywhere. Along your arms. Beneath your fingernails. Across the floor near the chair. Your stomach twists hard.

“How long—”

“Thirty-six minutes since the crash,” Kessler answers smoothly. Ice floods your bloodstream. The team. Your dad.

“Where are they?” you demand. Kessler ignores the question entirely. Instead, he walks toward a camera mounted on a tripod across the room. And your blood runs cold all over again. “No.” Kessler adjusts the lens casually. “No no no—”

“You know,” he says conversationally, “your father’s reputation in the Bureau is fascinating. Aaron Hotchner. Untouchable. Unshakeable. Men like him always think they understand sacrifice until it becomes personal.” Your restraints clatter violently as you fight them.

“You’re insane.”

“Probably.” He doesn’t even blink. Then he reaches beside the camera and wheels something large into frame. A timer. Digital.

Bright red numbers glaring through the darkness.

00:59:48

Your stomach drops.

“What is that?” Your voice cracks. Kessler finally looks at you directly.

“The amount of time your team has left.” He grabs your arm, sighing as he squeezes and IV bag and mounts it onto the stand beside you.

“Kessler—”

The dosage is regulated electronically.” He taps the pump beside the bag. “Small increments over time. Once the drip reaches completion…” He shrugs lightly. “Multi-organ failure. Cardiac arrest shortly after.”

Your mouth goes dry instantly.

“No.”

“The fascinating thing about poison,” he continues conversationally, “is how personal it feels. Bullets are loud. Explosions are chaotic. But poison?” He tilts his head. “Poison makes people wait.”

Your stomach twists hard enough to make you gag. You stare at him in horror. Then fury detonates through you.

“You’re a fucking coward.” Kessler hums softly.

“And yet your father still can’t catch me.” He presses a button. The camera light turns red.

LIVE.

—————————

The BAU bullpen is chaos. Medics move between injured agents while tech analysts flood every available screen searching traffic cams, road footage, satellite hits—anything. Nobody’s winning. Hotch stands in the center of it all like a ghost. Still covered in blood. Still soaking wet from the rain. Spencer sits at Garcia’s station beside her, fingers flying across the keyboard so fast they blur. His hands are shaking violently.

“Nothing,” Garcia whispers tearfully. “No ambulance hits, no hospital pings, no traffic cams—he scrubbed everything.” Emily presses gauze harder against the cut on her temple.

“He planned this for months.”

“No,” Spencer says instantly. Everyone looks at him. Spencer’s eyes stay locked on the screen. “Longer.” Before anyone can respond— Every monitor in the bullpen flickers. Static crackles. Garcia startles violently., fingers flying over her keyboard, trying to figure out how this is happening. Then your face appears onscreen.

Bruised. Bloodied. Restrained.

The room stops breathing.

“No,” Hotch says faintly. Your head lifts weakly toward the camera, disoriented and terrified and alive. Spencer goes white beside Garcia.

“No…” The digital timer flashes beside you.

00:58:03

“What the hell is that?” Luke breathes. Then Kessler steps into frame. And the entire room explodes into motion.

“Trace it now!” Emily shouts. Garcia is already typing frantically.

“I’m trying!” Kessler looks directly into the camera.

“Good evening, Behavioral Analysis Unit.” Kessler smiles like he’s hosting a lecture instead of a hostage broadcast. Garcia’s hands fly across the keyboard.

“I can’t get a lock—he’s bouncing the signal through multiple servers—oh my God, oh my God—”

“Penelope,” Emily snaps, though her own voice shakes. “Focus.”

“I am focused!” Onscreen, Kessler slowly circles your chair. The camera quality is grainy but clear enough to show the blood staining the bandages around your abdomen. Clear enough to show the IV line running into your arm. And the transparent liquid steadily dripping through the tube. Spencer goes completely still beside Garcia.

Not calm.

Worse.

The kind of stillness that means he’s trying very hard not to completely lose his mind. Your head hangs weakly forward before lifting slightly at the sound of Kessler speaking. Your eyes look unfocused. Drugged. Terrified. The bullpen falls silent. Even the analysts nearby stop moving. Because this isn’t just being streamed to the BAU.

This is public.

News stations are already picking it up. Social media feeds explode in real time across nearby monitors. Millions of people watching an FBI agent tied to a chair with a countdown beside her.

“Aaron Hotchner,” Kessler says smoothly, looking directly into the camera. “You know, I expected someone taller.” Hotch doesn’t react outwardly. But Rossi sees his fist tighten. Sees the blood dripping from where Aaron’s fingernails cut into his own palm.

“You built your career profiling monsters,” Kessler continues. “You taught agents how to think like predators. How to anticipate violence.” He tilts his head slightly toward you. “But you never considered what happens when someone decides to study you instead.” Your breathing trembles onscreen.

“Kessler—” you rasp weakly.

“Shh.” He adjusts the IV line almost tenderly. “You don’t need to talk right now.” Spencer physically flinches. Luke swears violently under his breath.

“The poison entering Agent Hotchner’s daughter’s bloodstream,” Kessler says calmly, “is administered incrementally through an automated pump system. By the time the timer reaches zero…” He smiles faintly. “Well. I imagine your Dr. Reid can explain organ failure better than I can.” All eyes snap toward Spencer automatically. Spencer’s face has gone corpse pale. But his voice still works. Barely.

“It depends on the toxin,” he says mechanically, eyes glued to the screen. “If it’s ricin-based or synthetic colchicine compounds, systemic collapse would begin gradually. Respiratory distress first. Then cardiovascular instability. Seizures. Multi-organ failure—”

“Spencer,” JJ says softly. He cuts himself off instantly. Onscreen, your eyes flutter shut for a second too long.

“Hey,” Kessler says sharply, gripping your jaw hard enough to force your head back up. “Stay awake. It's not fun for our viewers if you die right now." You whimper, trying to inch away from him. He chuckles, low and mean. A broken sound leaves your throat as your body jerks weakly against the restraints. Spencer’s breathing changes instantly.

“What just happened?” Emily demands. Spencer stares at the screen.

“The poison’s already active,” he says quietly. Garcia looks horrified.

“But there’s still fifty-seven minutes left—”

“The timer isn’t for symptom onset.” Spencer swallows hard. “It’s for fatal dosage completion.” Nobody speaks. Onscreen, Kessler steps back toward the camera.

“You have one hour,” he says conversationally. “Find me before the drip finishes…” He shrugs. “And maybe she lives. But I should warn you,” he continues. “Removing the IV incorrectly triggers the failsafe.” He taps the side of the electronic pump. “And if the line stops prematurely…” Another small shrug. “The dosage accelerates.” Garcia lets out a strangled noise.

“That’s impossible,” Luke snaps.

“No,” Spencer says faintly. Everyone looks at him again. Spencer’s eyes stay locked on the screen. “It’s not.” Hotch spins around, his chest heaving.

"Garcia, get me a list of Kessler's known adressesses, a list of his spending info- maybe he rented out a place- i want everything you have on him, now !"

Garcia is already moving before Hotch finishes the sentence.

“I’m on it, I’m on it - okay- okay - ” Her voice is high and strained, fingers slamming across the keyboard like she’s trying to outrun panic itself. Multiple windows open and collapse across her monitors. “Known addresses are mostly burned, he went dark after his brother's death but - there’s financial ghosting here, offshore shells, prepaid infrastructure - he’s not staying anywhere with a paper trail -he’s not staying anywhere period -”

“Focus,” Rossi says sharply, but even he sounds strained now. Emily is already leaning over her shoulder.

“What about municipal access points? Abandoned government facilities?” Luke shakes his head.

“We’re checking transit grids already. He’s not static - he’s moving through infrastructure, not occupying it.” Spencer doesn’t blink.

His eyes are locked on the screen. On you.

00:53:18.

Your head droops again, just slightly, and Spencer’s breath catches so hard it sounds like it hurts.

“Hey,” JJ says quietly, noticing him. “Reid, stay with us.” But he doesn’t answer. Because his brain is already somewhere else. Already rebuilding everything Kessler just showed them.

The IV pump. The feed latency. The lack of metadata. The stabilization pattern. Spencer swallows hard.

“He’s not in a building,” he says suddenly. Garcia looks up.

“What?” Spencer’s voice tightens.

“The signal stability - there’s too little fluctuation for a fixed structure. No HVAC interference, no power grid variance, no reflective bounce patterns consistent with concrete reinforcement -” Emily frowns.

“Then where is he?” Spencer doesn’t look away from the screen.

“Mobile containment unit,” he says. “Or a retrofitted transport shell. Something insulated enough to mask environmental noise.” Luke curses under his breath.

“Like a van.” Spencer shakes his head once.

“Bigger.” Silence. Hotch turns slowly.

“Bus?” Rossi suggests grimly. Spencer finally looks at them.

“No,” he says. “Something that can support medical-grade equipment, power draw for a stabilized livestream, and internal temperature control without drawing attention.” Garcia’s hands freeze mid-type.

“Oh my God.” Emily’s voice drops.

“A mobile medical unit.” Rossi’s jaw tightens.

“Like disaster response.” Hotch’s eyes sharpen instantly.

“Ambulance.” Spencer nods once. But it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels worse. Because that still leaves too many possibilities. Too many jurisdictions. Too many vehicles. Too much ground to cover while the clock keeps bleeding out.

00:53:04.

Onscreen, Kessler steps back into frame briefly—just enough to adjust something near the IV stand. You flinch sharply. Harder this time. Hotch makes a sound low in his throat—barely audible, but it cuts through the room anyway. Spencer’s hands curl into fists at Garcia’s station.

“Garcia,” he says quickly, voice suddenly urgent. “Cross-reference registered medical transport units within a fifty-mile radius of the crash corridor. Anything that went off-route in the last hour.”

“I’m already - ” Her screen updates rapidly. “Got it, got it - Okay, there’s twelve possible matches - ”

“Twelve,” Luke repeats sharply.

“We don’t have time for twelve,” Emily snaps. Hotch steps forward again.

“Cut it to three,” he orders. “Now.” Garcia swallows hard.

“I can filter by signal - give me thirty seconds - ”

“Twenty,” Hotch says. Nobody argues. Because on the screen— You shift again. Barely conscious. Barely holding on. And Spencer Reid, who has spent his entire life turning chaos into patterns, suddenly looks like he’s staring directly into something he cannot solve fast enough.

Garcia’s screen updates again. Once. Twice. Then locks. Her breath catches so hard it hurts.

“I’ve got him,” she says. Nobody speaks. Hotch turns instantly.

“Where.” Garcia swallows.

“Abandoned agricultural zone outside Leesburg—old county service land. There’s a decommissioned livestock processing facility on the property. Signal’s cleanest there—he’s stationary.” Spencer is already there before she finishes the sentence.

“How far?” he asks immediately. Garcia glances at the route mapping.

“Forty-six minutes,” she says quietly. The number lands like a gunshot. Silence. Emily shakes her head once.

“We don’t have forty-six minutes.” Rossi is already moving toward the SUV.

“Then we don’t waste a second.” Hotch stares at the map like he can force the distance to shrink through sheer will. Spencer’s voice breaks through again, sharper now.

“How long—how long until completion?” Garcia’s fingers tremble over the timer feed.

“Fifty-three minutes,” she whispers.That finally shifts the math in the room. Because everyone understands it at the same time. Forty-six minutes to reach you.Fifty-three minutes until the drip completes.

Seven minutes.

That’s all they’ll have once they get there. Seven minutes to find you. Seven minutes to neutralize Kessler. Seven minutes to keep you alive. Hotch exhales once, slow and controlled—but his eyes are shattered.

“Let's move,” he says. The SUVs tear down the highway in formation, sirens splitting the night open. Inside Hotch’s vehicle, no one speaks anymore unless they have to. The countdown is on every screen.

Every phone. Every live feed Garcia refuses to close.

00:52:41.

Spencer stares at the map overlay like he can bend it into something faster. Luke grips the seat hard enough to go white-knuckled. Emily keeps her eyes forward, jaw tight, blood still drying at her temple. Rossi drives like a man refusing to accept physics as final. Hotch doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away from the road even once.

“Forty-six minutes,” Luke says quietly, almost to himself. Spencer’s voice is barely audible.

“That’s if nothing goes wrong.” Nobody responds to that. Because they all know what it means.

------------------

00:07:00.

Your body feels like lead.

Your veins are on fire.

Your mouth has gone dry, and you can barely breathe- every breath sounds like a rusty rattle of child's mobile. Your vision flickers in and out like a broken signal. Your body isn’t yours anymore. It’s heavy in the wrong places, light in others. Your fingers twitch weakly against the restraints, but there’s no strength left behind it.

The IV pump beeps steadily beside you. Too steady. Too calm. Like it doesn’t care that you’re dying.

You groan, trying hard to stay awake, to stay concsious.

They're coming for you. They have to be.

The room hums with fluorescent light and something worse underneath it—your heartbeat, irregular now, stumbling against the poison like it’s losing the argument. Kessler circles you slowly, hands behind his back like he’s inspecting something he built.

“Do you know what your father hates most?” he asks lightly. Your head lolls a fraction toward him. It takes effort just to keep your eyes open.

“People like you,” he continues. “Not weak. Not careless. Just… loved.” Your throat tightens. Spencer’s name tries to form in your mind and doesn’t quite make it. Kessler steps closer, studying your face like he’s waiting for something interesting to happen.

“You’re very difficult to break,” he says thoughtfully. “That’s what makes this worth watching.” The IV pump beeps again. Too steady. Too final.

Your fingers twitch weakly against the restraints. Kessler leans in just slightly.

“I wonder how long it takes,” he murmurs, almost curious. “For Aaron Hotchner to choose between duty and family.” Your stomach drops hard.

“Don’t,” you rasp, but it’s barely sound. He smiles faintly.

“Oh, he already has.” And then— The doors behind him explode inward. Not an opening. An impact.

Wood and metal snap as tactical force hits the room like a wave.

“FBI! DOWN!” The shout is immediate chaos. Hotch is first through, weapon up, eyes scanning—locking instantly on you like everything else in the room ceases to exist.

“Aaron!” Rossi calls, sweeping left. Emily and Luke split right. Derek comes in hard behind them, already moving. Kessler barely has time to turn before Hotch has him pinned against the nearest surface, gun pressed high, voice ice-cold.

“Don’t move.” Kessler actually laughs once. Spencer doesn’t even look at him. He’s already across the room. Everything else collapses into noise and motion behind him—Hotch securing Kessler, Rossi shouting commands, Emily cuffing him down—but Spencer doesn’t register any of it. He reaches you like gravity finally remembered him.

“Hey—hey, hey,” he breathes, hands shaking as they go to your face immediately. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Your eyelids flutter.

"Spence ?" He nods, hands working at your restraints atfer he softly tears the IV out of your arm.

"Yeah, yeah, it's me. I'm here, alright, i'm here." Your body falls forward, exhausted, the second those restraints stop holding you up, your body folding like it’s been waiting for permission to collapse. Spencer catches you before you hit the ground. Immediately. Completely.

“No - no, no, no - hey, hey, hey - stay with me,” he says, voice cracking violently as he pulls you into him. “Stay with me, okay? Stay with me-look at me.” Your head lolls against his chest. He’s on the floor now without even realizing it. One arm under your shoulders. One hand pressed hard against the bandages on your abdomen like he can physically stop what’s happening inside you. He looks up, his eyes frantic.

"Derek ! Derek !" He calls as Hotch and the others disappear outside, pushing a cuffed Kessler with them. Derek's head snaps over and his face drains of color.

"Holy shit." He gasps, his chest heaving. Spencer chokes on a sob, pushing your hair away from your face.

"We-We need an ambulance. She-She's losing blood, she-" He gasps in a breath, shaking his head. "He’s got to have—he’s not carrying something like this without a reversal agent.” Spencer doesn’t look away from you. “Shelves,” he says instantly, voice raw but focused only on survival. “Look—look everywhere. Cabinets. Lockboxes. He wouldn’t leave it unbalanced.” Derek moves immediately. The timer ticks down like a taunt.

00:04:53.

Derek rummages through shelves, cabinets, drawers, cursing under his breath as he throws things on the ground. You clutch weakly at Spencer's vest, your hands shaking.

"Spence.." He shushes you, pressing his lips to your forehead.

"Hey, hey, don't talk, okay ? You're going to be fine. Just fine, okay ?"

"I-I'm so cold." You manage, shivers coursing through your body. Spencer grimaces.

"I know, baby, i know." He looks up. "Derek, where the fuck is that antidote !" Derek rips open another metal cabinet so hard the hinge screams in protest.

“I’m looking, I’m looking!” he snaps back, breathless, scanning shelves packed with medical bags, vials, and sealed containers that absolutely should not be here. “This guy is insane—”

Spencer hears none of it anymore. All of it narrows down to you. To the way your fingers are trembling against his vest. To the shallow, uneven rise of your chest. To the way your skin feels wrong beneath his hands—too cold, too fast to lose heat.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats again, but it’s not steady anymore. It’s breaking apart at the edges. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you—just stay with me, okay? Just—just stay with me.” Your head tips slightly against him. And for a second, his entire body goes rigid.

“No,” he whispers immediately, like he can undo it with the word alone. “No, no—hey—look at me. Look at me.”

Your eyes barely open. Barely there. But they do. And it ruins him.

“Got something!” Derek suddenly shouts from the far side of the room. Spencer’s head snaps up so fast it hurts. Derek holds up a small locked case - medical-grade, reinforced, labeled in a way that makes Spencer’s stomach drop immediately. “Is this it?” Derek demands. Spencer doesn’t even hesitate.

“Yes. Yes, that’s it - bring it here, now!” Derek slams it down beside them and Spencer’s hands are shaking so badly he almost fumbles the latch. The lock clicks open.

Inside: syringes. A sealed ampoule. A vial clearly marked in clinical print- ANTIDOTE.

He’s already drawing it up.

“Where do I—”

“Her arm,” Spencer says instantly, tearing his own focus into something sharp and functional because if he doesn’t, he’s going to fall apart completely. “Right arm - no, no - left - there, there - ” Derek moves in, steady hands taking over what Spencer can’t control anymore.

“I’ve got it,” Derek says low. Spencer nods too quickly, not letting go of you for even a second. His other hand stays pressed to your shoulder like an anchor. “Okay,” Derek says. “Injecting now.” The syringe depresses. For half a second, nothing happens. Then your body jerks—just slightly. Spencer makes a sound that’s halfway between a gasp and a sob.

“Hey - hey, hey,” he says immediately, hand cupping your cheek. "You're gonna be okay." But you're still slipping somewhere he can’t follow fast enough. “I’ve got you,” he repeats again, but now it’s desperate. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you - please - please don’t do this - ” Derek looks up sharply at the doorway, where JJ stands frozen.

"We need medical backup now!” JJ nods, rushing away.

Spencer sobs, then immediately chokes on it, pressing your hand tighter against his chest like he can force you to stay by sheer will alone. Footsteps thunder back in—Hotch, Rossi, Emily. Hotch sees you on the floor. And something in his face breaks cleanly. But Spencer can’t look at him. Can’t look at anyone. Because you’re right there in his arms and still not safe.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice collapsing completely now, tears spilling down without permission as he holds you closer. “Hey, hey- don’t leave me. Don’t leave me, okay? Please - please don’t leave me.” Your fingers twitch once.

Weak. Barely there. But it’s enough. Spencer grabs your hand immediately like it’s a lifeline.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, crying openly now, forehead pressing to yours. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s it. Come back to me. Come back—please, just come back to me.” Your shiver, a soft whimper drawing from your lips.

"I-I'm tired." You manage, shaking your head. Blood from your abdomen is still soaking your shirt, your pants, and Spencer is shaking.

"You-You can't sleep, baby. You have to- You have to stay awake. Keep your eyes open." The antidote has taken effect. The colour that had drained from your skin over the hour is coming back, and your breathing has returned to a normal pace. And the pain flooding back into your body is unbearable. You can feel the blood pumping out of you from your abdomen, and you groan weakly as you try to press your hand over the wound, only to find Spencer's hand already lodged there. You gulp, bringing your hand up to softly touch Spencer's cheek.

"Yo-You came for me." You rasp. Spencer chokes on a laugh, a desperate, wet thing.

"Of course I did." He mumbles. "How could I not ? God.." He gulps, shaking his head. "I love you." You smile, holding back tears as you cough. Your body trembles with shivers, and you groan.

"I-I'm sorry." You rasp, shaking your head. Spencer's heart drops. He shakes his head.

"Hey, hey- no. Don't apologise, you're going to be just fine, okay ? Y-You're going to be fine." You nod, smiling through the pain. You want to believe him.

You really do.

The antidote is working.

Derek said it is. Spencer knows it is. But you’re still so cold. Still shaking in his arms like your body can’t decide whether to stay or let go.

Spencer sniffles, brushing your hair away from your face.

"The ambulance is gonna be here any minute. They're going to make you all better. Okay ?" You nod.

"Okay." You say, forcing a smile, choking on the blood that creeps its way up your throat. "I love you, Spence." You rasp, shaking your head. Spencer’s heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic, desperate drumbeat of denial. He tightens his grip on your hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your cold knuckles.

“Don’t you dare say that like it’s a goodbye,” he orders, his voice a raw, broken thing. “It’s not a goodbye. You hear me? It’s an ‘I’ll see you in a minute.’ We’re going to have so much to talk about. Y-You're gonna rub this in my face, yeah ? Brag about how you-you survived this and i panicked for nothing.” He’s rambling, his brilliant mind reduced to a single, primal function: keep you here. Keep you with him. Your eyes are still on him, but they’re starting to lose focus, the light in them dimming like a candle in a draft. The smile on your lips is a ghost, beautiful and terrifying.

“Spence…” you whisper, and it’s the worst sound he’s ever heard, thin and reedy, threaded with the liquid rattle of fluid in your lungs. “It’s… so quiet.” He doesn’t understand what you mean. The room is chaos-Hotch’s clipped commands, Derek’s frantic pacing, the sound of JJ’s voice on the phone with dispatch. But then he realizes. For you, the world is collapsing. The sounds are fading, the pain is receding, and all that’s left is this.

Him.

“No, no, it’s not quiet,” he argues, his voice rising in panic. “It’s not. Just listen. Listen to me. I’m right here. I’m so loud, remember? You say I never shut up. So just… listen to me. Stay with me.” He’s pressing harder against the wound in your abdomen, a futile, desperate attempt to physically hold your life inside you. His hand is slick, warm, and the smell of copper fills the air, thick and suffocating. It’s the smell of his failure. Your breath hitches, a shallow, wet gasp.

"Tell… tell my dad… I’m sorry.” The words hit Spencer like a physical blow. Dad. Hotch, who is standing just feet away, right behind that door, pacing and shouting orders. Spencer can’t call for him. He can’t give him that. He can’t acknowledge the world beyond the circle of his arms.

“You’ll tell him yourself,” Spencer chokes out, tears streaming down his face, dripping onto your cheeks. “You’ll tell him tonight. When we get home. We’ll order Chinese food and you’ll tell him you’re sorry for worrying him, and he’ll pretend to be mad but he won’t be, and we’ll all be fine. We’ll be fine.” Your fingers, the ones he’s holding, twitch weakly. Your grip loosens. The pressure is gone. “No,” he whimpers, a sound so pathetic and full of pain it doesn’t even sound like him. “No, hold on. Hold my hand. Don’t let go. Don’t you let go of me.” Your eyes open again and you nod. He smiles, kissing your forehead. And then, through the cacophony of his own despair, he hears it. Faint at first, then growing stronger, clearer. A high, insistent wail that cuts through everything else.

Sirens.

Relief so profound it’s dizzying crashes over him. It’s the cavalry. It’s the answer. It’s another chance.

His head snaps up, his tear-blurred vision finding the window ahead.

“Did you hear that? They’re here. They’re almost here.” He looks back down at you, his face breaking into a wild, desperate grin. “You hear that, baby? You hear that? The ambulance is here. They’re here. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.” He’s laughing now, a wet, hysterical sound of pure relief, staring at the window as the red and blue lights start to show.

“We did it. We made it. Just hold on. Just a few more seconds. Please, just a few more seconds for me.” He looks back at the doorway, expecting to see the paramedics burst through with their bags and their machines and their magic. But the sirens are still distant, screaming down a street that’s too far away.

He looks back down at you. And the world stops. Your eyes are still open, but they’re not seeing him anymore. They’re fixed on a point just beyond his shoulder, glassy and vacant. The shallow rise and fall of your chest has stilled. The hand he’s clutching is limp and cool in his.

The silence in the room is absolute.

“No,” he whispers. The smile is gone from his face, wiped clean away. “No… no, no, no, no, no.” He shakes his head, a sharp, jerky motion of denial. “Hey… hey, look at me. Look at me. They’re here. The ambulance is here.” He shakes you gently, then a little harder. “Hey.. hey, look at me. You’re not allowed to do this. You’re not allowed to leave me. You hear me? C'mon, this isn't funny." He shakes you."Come on! Look at me.” But you don’t. You can’t. The sirens are closer now, screaming, a piercing, torturous sound. They’re the sound of hope arriving seven minutes too late. The door bursts open. Emily is the first one in, her face flushed and triumphant.

“Spencer! The ambulance is here, they’re coming, they’re—” She stops. Her eyes find Spencer, cradling your still body on the floor, and she sees everything. The blood. The stillness. The absolute, soul-crushing devastation on his face. Her triumphant shout dies in her throat, replaced by a small, choked gasp. Hotch is right behind her. He takes in the scene with one sweeping, all-seeing glance. He sees Kessler’s handiwork, he sees the discarded antidote, he sees Spencer on the floor. And then he sees you. He doesn’t make a sound. The unit chief, the man who faces monsters for a living, simply breaks. His shoulders slump, his face goes slack, and all the color drains from his skin. He stumbles forward a half-step, his hand reaching out, then falling back to his side. He knows. Emily rushes to Spencer’s side, her hand hovering over his shoulder, afraid to touch.

“Spencer…?” He doesn’t answer. He’s lowered his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body wracked with huge, silent, violent sobs that shake him to his core. He holds you tighter, rocking you back and forth, a desperate, rhythmic motion.

And Spencer Reid - who has spent his entire life understanding loss in theory before he ever had to survive it in practice - lets out a sound that is not human.

It rips out of him.

Raw.

Shattered.

“No - no, no, no, please - please, please - ” He pulls you closer instantly, like he can reverse it if he just holds you tighter.

Like physics can be negotiated.

Like love is supposed to win this.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, but it’s falling apart now. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you- You're okay. You're okay, you're okay, you're okay-”

"Reid." Derek's voice echoes around the small space. Spencer shakes his head. Spencer doesn’t hear him anymore.

Doesn’t hear Emily crying.

Doesn’t hear the radio chatter suddenly erupting outside as the medics arrive too late.

He just holds you. Like if he stops, even for a second, the truth will finish settling. Sirens flood the building outside. Red and blue light strobing through the broken doorway.

And still -Spencer is whispering your name into your hair like it’s a spell.

Like it’s the only thing left that still makes sense.

The paramedics finally burst through the doorway, their practiced efficiency grinding to a halt as they take in the scene. No one moves. No one breathes. The paramedics slowly back out of the room, hushed whispers echoing in the small space.

Spencer looks up, devastated.

"No.. No, where are they going ? They-They have to save her, they-"

"Reid." Derek rasps again, wiping at the tears falling down his face. He looks back down at you like it’s instinct, like he can anchor himself in you. But you don’t move. Not even a tremor. Not even the smallest betrayal of life returning. Just stillness. Heavy and final.

Spencer’s breath stutters.

Once. Twice.

Then completely stops behaving like it belongs to him.

His hand shakes as it smooths over your hair. So careful. So tender. Like you’re made of glass and he’s terrified of what happens if he presses too hard.

Emily makes a sound behind him—small, broken, human.

“Spencer…” she tries again, stepping closer like she might physically pull him out of it. But he flinches at her voice like it burns.

“No,” he snaps instantly, sharper than he means it. Then it collapses immediately into desperation. “No, no—don’t—” Hotch is still at the doorway. Still completely still. Like something inside him shut off in self-defense the second he understood. But his eyes don’t leave you. Not once. Not even when Rossi puts a hand on his arm and squeezes like he’s trying to hold him together by force. Spencer presses his forehead to yours again.

Harder this time. Like proximity alone can reverse biology.

“I got you,” he whispers, voice breaking into pieces now. “I got you, I got you, I got you—” His sentences stop making sense. They turn into fragments. Into breath. Into something raw and animal and terrified. “I didn’t—” he chokes, pulling you closer like he can physically shield you from the truth, “I didn’t get here fast enough. I didn’t—I didn’t—”

Derek steps forward again, slower this time. Careful. Like approaching something sacred and shattered.

“Reid,” he says quietly. “Kid…” Spencer shakes his head violently again.

“No,” he says again, but weaker now. So much weaker. “No, no, no- Just - just help her. Just - just fix it. Fix it - please - ” His voice breaks completely on the last word. And then he tries again, because Spencer Reid has always believed that understanding something well enough means you can change it. “If I - if I give her CPR - if I - if we - ” His hands move like they don’t belong to him anymore as they lay you down on the ground, flat on your back.

One presses to your chest. Wrong. Desperate. Begging.

“Spencer,” Emily says softly, tears finally spilling over now. “Spencer, stop—”

“No!” he shouts suddenly, panicked, frantic. “No, no, I can— I can do it. I can fix it. I can- I can-” His voice disintegrates mid-sentence. Because your body doesn’t respond. Because nothing changes. Because time doesn’t care how hard he tries. And that’s when it hits him all at once.

Not gradually. Not gently. All at once. Spencer goes completely still.

His hands freeze where they are on you. His breath catches like it’s been hooked on something sharp. He falls backwards, his hands coated in blood coming up to press against his eyes as he sobs. Emily is by his side in an instant, pulling him into her, rocking him as Derek sniffles and gets to his feet, walking over to your and softly guiding your eyes shut. Hotch swears under his breath, wrecked sobs escaping him, and he turns away from you, gasping for air as he rushes out into the night. Luke, Tara, JJ and Rossi have gathered in the doorway, watching as Derek grabs a folded sheet from one of the drawers and lays it down over you, clearing his throat.

"The- uh, the EMT's should come back in here. Take-" He clears his throat, "Take her to the morgue."

The timer beeps behind them like some sick alarm clock. They all look back and the flashing numbers.

00:00:00.

The seven minutes are up.

taglist !

@overdrive1975 , @alialuvsreid. @nanni197 , @goawayplease95

[ginsoakedheart]

plan your trip: things to know before you travel

tags: spencer x bau!reader, no use of y/n, first meeting, strangers to enemies (for now) warnings: none word count: 1.4K

part of the lonely planet’s guide universe. masterlist is here.

summary: first meeting between spencer and reader does not go great and neither do any of the subsequent meetings. your visit to hell is off to a very uncomfortable beginning i'm sorry to say.

note: the original plan was to set this in s6 or s7 but then someone *cough* tumblr user marcidstars *cough* started some horny s2 spencer with glasses agenda agenda and this whole thing replanned itself in my head. the main consequence is that half the drafts for future parts are titled "the sex education of spencer reid" which really is not where this was supposed to go and i can only apologise.

*~*~*

It’s not fair, maybe, but Spencer still blames you for how it happened. At most, he’ll compromise and call it an accident. But an accident you're mostly responsible for.

He’s never been away from work for this long, not once since Gideon first showed him around the bullpen and then pointed to a desk with an air of ‘you live here now, my foundling’, but things were bad with his mother after Randall Garner, and the increasingly frustrating phone calls with the administrator at the sanatorium and the guilt eating him up from the inside had meant he eventually went to Hotch and asked for a week.

One week.

Not unheard of.

People take time off for all sorts of reasons all the time.

Except not Spencer.

Spencer doesn’t take time off, but this one single time he did, missed a whole case. Hotch didn’t even call and ask him to come back, just left him to get on with his personal life, like the team wasn’t already a man down after Elle left.

Which means that when he does come back, everything is different. Even more so than it was when he left.

And that is your fault.

He has this constant feeling in his body, this unseizing discomfort, the same way he feels when a painting is askew or he sees someone put their fingers in the sugar jar in the kitchenette. This constant scratching of nails on a blackboard. Your nails. Or maybe you are the nails, he can’t decide.

It’s not fair, it’s not reasonable, it’s not rational, but it’s how he feels:

It’s all your fault.

Because he comes back and you’re just there. Sitting at a desk and making small-talk with JJ about where to get the best pizza in DC, giving Morgan the finger when he calls you Calamity Jane. Like you belong and you already have rapport with people who find Spencer a puzzle most of the time, and not necessarily one they want to solve.

And when they spot you, JJ just says, “Oh, there he is. This is Spencer,” like that means something to you. Then, and only then, does anyone tell him that you exist, much less your name and the fact that you’re part of the team now.

You don’t reach out a hand for him to shake, you just wave without getting out of your seat. You don't do that because you aren't friendly, you do it because someone told you not to try to shake his hand. 

You were warned.

Spencer was in Las Vegas dealing with things and then he was blindsided.

So, yeah, screw you, actually.

He waves back with what you later describe to Penelope as ‘a severe lack of enthusiasm’ (Penelope finds this hilarious for reasons you don’t understand) and then sits down at his desk, ignoring you completely.

Maybe if he can pretend you aren’t here for a while, he can wrap his head around the fact that you are in fact here before he has to deal with you again and it’ll all be fine.

Except, then you go and offer to bring him a coffee ten minutes later and it’s not enough time and he can feel his jaw go tense and there’s a stabbing sensation above his left eyebrow, and he decides it’s you who’s giving him a headache, not the fluorescent light above the next desk that’s blinking away like it thinks it’s auditioning to be a strobe light.

You see him looking at the overhead light and squinting. “The janitor promised he’d fix it today,” you say reassuringly. Which is the sort of thing you’d know, because you belong here now.

Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes and doesn’t say anything.

You wait for another few seconds and then mutter, “okay,” as you walk away.

When you come back, you’re just carrying one mug of coffee, and he eyes it as you set it down on your desk but then quickly turns away when you catch him looking and pull a face at him. It’s possible that when Spencer first became an agent, people treated him like a child and maybe he kind of looked like one from certain angles, but unlike you, at least he didn’t act like one.

But you leave him alone after that, don’t talk to him at all for the rest of the day, or the next. You’re not outright ignoring him, which is also kind of annoying because it makes it look like Spencer is the mean one. You just sort of… sidestep him, somehow managing to either evade or derail any conversation he’s in without actually looking like that’s what you’re doing.

Spencer would be impressed if it wasn’t so annoying, the way it's obvious to him that you’re being deliberately rude but everyone seems to miss it.

The way you actually smirk at him while everyone else looks oh so impressed by your wit. Spencer is tempted to mime that he’s gagging, feels kind of proud of himself for suppressing the impulse and then intensely frustrated that no-one knows how well he’s behaving because it looks like he’s just being normal.

And then you snort as you walk away, as if you know what he nearly did. Which really pisses him off.

So he starts interrupting you. Not in obvious ways, just dropping pens right as you hit your stride, banging his head loudly and deliberately on the table when he picks it back up, making everyone look at him instead of at you; shuffling papers around and accidentally hiding what you were looking at until you’re forced to ask him to give you the picture or report or whatever it is; taking the last cup of coffee from the pot so you have to make more and wait around for it to brew while he can get back to work and being clever as you contribute absolutely nothing, leaning against the counter in the kitchenette.

That last one backfires when it has him drinking old, lukewarm coffee that no amount of sugar can save and maybe watching you drink it would have been more satisfying.

By the end of his second week back, subtle hostilities have turned into an outright war. Not a violent, fast-paced one, but a slow, steady battle, arguments that can last for days like they’re games of chess, abandoned when you need to concentrate on work, picked back up later when you’re free to focus on it as if no time has passed at all.

If this had been an intellectual debate with someone he respected, Spencer might have enjoyed it, but instead it’s just trading insults with you, who he actively dislikes, and there’s nothing enjoyable about it.

In fact, the only thing that makes it even remotely worthwhile, is that it’s clear that it frustrates you just as much.

Some days, actually, that’s enough to make him smile.

Everyone else has noticed, too, but not at all surprisingly, none of them seem to care. The only exception is Penelope who flat out refuses to let you both come into her office at the same time, ‘in case the energy from your hostilities causes a short circuit.’ 

Which is not how electricity works and Spencer tries to explain that to her, but she’s adamant and says something about juju and he gives up just in time to see you bite your lip in amusement from the doorway.

He very nearly forgets that you’re the enemy, which means he almost pulls a face and shakes his head at you, but luckily he manages to catch himself just in time.

Instead, he squeezes past you out of the office, back scraping against the doorframe to stay as far away from you as possible, head bent back so he doesn’t accidentally make eye-contact with you.

It means he misses your eye-roll but he doesn’t miss the way you ask Penelope ‘What the hell that guy’s problem is?’

Spencer has never been ‘that guy’ in his life, the way you sound like you mean it, but he can absolutely tell you what his problem is if you want to know. 

Because it’s you.

You’re the problem.

It’s always you.

[marcidstars]

okay FINE i take full blame for this change. but only because it means i get more s2 spencer with glasses content <3 i'll find a way to con you into writing s5 spencer next, just you wait.

AND AND AND i love this. so much. insufferable petty reid is so dear to me especially when he has glasses on

[hotchnerss]

this Spencer means very much to me

[hotchnerss]

this scene specifically makes me so feral. keep me FAR AWAY from him for his own good. it's on SIGHT

[ginsoakedheart]

things to do: experience the local nightlife

tags: s2!spencer x bau!reader, no use of y/n, spencer being horny for reader, but he still finds her annoying, both can be true warnings: no actual smut, but smutty thoughts and referenced smutty happenings, mentions of alcohol consumption word count: 1.3K

part of the lonely planet’s guide universe. masterlist is here.

summary: the team is out partying. reader's having fun, spencer not so much. rewrite of the night out at the beginning of 2x14 so he's about to have a much worse time (sorry my guy).

*~*~*

Spencer doesn't realise the daggers he's shooting in your direction are visible to anyone else until Morgan calls him on it. Just slaps him on the back as he settles next to him and then he says conversationally, "It's a strange feeling, isn't it?"

"What is?" Spencer asks, genuinely confused, his eyes shifting to Morgan for a few seconds before they're inevitably drawn back to the dance floor where they find you immediately, still writhing against some man who bought you a vodka cranberry 20 minutes ago. 

"That feeling when you're sure you hate her guts but then you realise that actually you really want to see her naked." 

"I have—” Spencer starts to argue but manages to swallow his words before revealing that he in fact has seen you naked. Or at least pretty close. It’s really more of a technicality. "I have no interest in... that," he says instead, more of an awkward mumble than actual objection.

"Whatever you need to tell yourself, pretty boy," Morgan agrees lightly because this isn't really a big deal to him, at most it's some light entertainment to get him through the working day. 

Spencer is learning, in a really frustrating way, that it's nothing like that for him. It’s not light, and it definitely isn’t entertaining.

On the dancefloor you’re making moves to extricate yourself from the stranger’s grip, pulling away from him with your hands on his shoulders, saying something that makes him shake his head and laugh, holding both hands to his chest as if you shot him.

How melodramatic, what an idiot. 

You can’t possibly be charmed by that. 

Except of course you can. What does Spencer know about what you find charming? Not him, that’s about as much as he’s clear on. And that’s fine. It’s great. It’s not as if he has any interest in you, either, whatever Morgan might think, and whatever this nagging voice in the back of his mind might be trying to point out to him.

Because you are, without a doubt, the most aggravating person he has ever met, the way you talk over him in briefings; the way you smirk if he makes the wrong move when he plays chess with Gideon as if you’re some would-be grandmaster; the way you slurp when you drink soda through a straw like those last few drops in the cup are what’s going to save you from dying of thirst. The way you realised he found that annoying and now you look him dead in the eye when you do it. Deeply aggravating.

He just wishes he didn’t want to sleep with you quite so desperately.

You vanish through the doors to the ladies room and in his mind Spencer follows you out there, has you pressed against the door of a toilet stall, a hand down your skirt and invading your panties, finding you wet and ready for him as you start undoing the zipper on his slacks. 

In the real world, he shifts uncomfortably on his bar stool, turning himself away from the room and concealing the evidence of his too vivid imagination under the bar. 

Your approach is so swift, the room so loud and smelly, that he barely has time to register your presence before you're leaning into him, whispering in his ear. "Hey, perv." Your voice is low and seductive, your breath warm against his neck.

"Hey, yourself," he says, pulling away from you and starting to cross his legs protectively, then abruptly changing his mind. 

He sees your face fall, just a little, like you maybe expected a warmer welcome. Which is crazy, seeing how you can't stand each other. But then you shake it off, settling into your usual snideness. "Having a good time over here all by your lonesome?"

Your face is flushed, cheeks pink and a sheen of sweat on your forehead. Not unlike how you looked right after he felt you come on his fingers. "Not as good as you, clearly," he says, hoping he inserts enough venom into it that you don't think he's sulking, absentmindedly rubbing his middle and index finger against his leg.

You look at him, brows furrowed, and he realises he failed. "Wait, are you jealous?"

He splutters, objections stumbling over themselves in their haste to leave his mouth and in the end nothing intelligible comes out. "No," he manages finally.

"Oh no, I think you are." Your eyes are sparkling, you seem delighted by the idea of it. Or maybe you’re just drunk. Spencer really hopes that you’re just drunk. "You're worried I'll go home with some guy and he’ll fuck me so good I forget all about you and your remedial sex ed."

Spencer's eyes go wide and he looks down at the bar, relieved that you're only half right. He had worried about that, but not for the reason you think. “Must you be so crude?”

You lean close to him again, putting a hand on his thigh just above his knee and then slowly sliding it upwards. “Come on, Reid. How can you do it if you can’t even say it?”

Spencer shifts on his bar stool, nearly toppling off it in his desperation to get away from your touch before you realise he’s already half hard. “I—” he stutters, his brain scrambling to come up with a sentence to follow up on that stellar beginning.

“Come on,” you say, egging him on, your fingers squeezing his thigh so close to his growing erection he’s sure you know what’s happening in his pants. “Say something dirty.”

His jaw is so tense he can barely speak. “No.” 

“Spoilsport.” You release your grip on him, hand sliding off his thigh, and your voice is light and completely unbothered, like you never expected him to do it anyway so it doesn’t matter to you that he didn’t. You’re not even disappointed, that’s how low your expectations are.

You’re half turned away from him, feet moving to walk away when he blurts out: “Dance floor.”

You freeze, turning back to him. “What?”

“Dance floor,” he repeats. “That dance floor is very, very dirty.” Even from all the way over here it looks sticky and disgusting.

You laugh, actually gripping his arm so you don’t topple over as your whole body shakes. Spencer just stares at you, eyes wide in shock, wondering what it says about his psyche that you laughing at him is a turn on. Is that normal, or is it some sort of fetish it never occurred to him that he might be into? 

“You are, with absolutely no comparison—” you say when you can finally speak again, “—the weirdest guy I have ever met.”

“Thanks?” he says sarcastically. 

“Oh, no, that wasn’t a compliment,” you assure him. But then you smile, and even if it wasn’t your intention it sort of feels like one to him.

This time when you turn to leave, he doesn’t try to stop you, just watches you silently, sipping on his club soda as you walk around the dancefloor and make your way to the table where Hotch, Haley and Penelope are talking. 

The guy you were dancing with earlier comes up to the bar, waving at the bartender from right next to Spencer, indicating that he wants to buy another beer. “Shoot you down too, did she?” he asks and it takes Spencer a moment to realise the guy is talking to him.

“Not exactly,” he replies, emptying his drink, sucking up the last few drops with a loud slurping noise. The stranger eyes him, clearly annoyed by the noise, and Spencer smiles to himself, satisfied. Then he gets off the bar stool, grabbing his jacket and messenger bag. Doesn’t say goodbye to anyone when he leaves, just waves a hand in the general direction of the table you’re all at.

He’s still on the sidewalk waiting for a taxi when JJ calls out to him from just outside the bar, letting him know that an urgent case has come up in Atlanta and he'll be going there instead of home.

[spencilweidblog]

Heyyy, I'd love a latte with hazelnut/coconut drizzle (one or both, whatever you decide) and whipped cream!

Maybe one where reader is Garcia's childhood best friend and they end up traveling near her on a case? And Spencer notices how pretty she is and yadda yadda kissy kissy

Also I did see your most recent post, take your sweet time I'm in absolutely no rush, I'll probably forget about this the second I send it anyway <3

𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒅 (𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒊𝒕 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔)

a/n: wowwww the way this absolutely wrote itself. I LOVED THIS REQUEST!!! seriously this was the fastest i’ve ever written a fic before. ty for the req i hope you love!! receipt is at the bottom!!

summary: spencer meets garcia’s childhood best friend and promptly forgets how to act like a normal human being. between phone calls and sneaking around, what starts as a crush turns into something a lot harder to keep hidden.

content warnings: spencer reid x fem!reader, lots and lots of smooching, slightly suggestive moments if u squint real real hard, otherwise just disgustingly tooth-rotting fluff

The case wrapped up clean.

The unsub had been apprehended with no further casualties, hostages rescued. The team had made it back to the precinct, packing up their things as they prepared to leave.

“Okay, now that we’ve got the bad guy and all of the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad things are over, I have one tiny request.” Garcia announced to the team.

Hotch glanced over his shoulder as he zipped up his go-bag. “What’s that?”

“Could we please stay for dinner?” She asked, eyebrows raised hopefully. “My best friend growing up lives right down the road from here, and I haven’t seen her in ages. I’d love for her to meet all of you.”

Hotch looked around, assessing the reactions of the team. The accomplishment of a job well done seemed to outweigh their tiredness as everyone shrugged and nodded.

Before long, Spencer was trailing behind the group as they strolled up to the restaurant. The air was starting cool as the sky dimmed, and the aroma wafting out the doors was making his mouth water.

“Oh, hi!” He heard Garcia exclaim suddenly. He couldn’t really see through the crowd of people, with the team and the patrons coming and going from the restaurant, so he shoved his hands in his pockets and waited his turn to be introduced.

“It’s so good to see you!” Garcia chattered. “These are the people I’m always telling you about. This is Hotch, and Emily, and Rossi, Derek, JJ, and—“ she paused, peering over everyone’s heads. “Reid! There’s Reid, in the back.”

He turned his head as everyone shuffled aside, creating an opening, and he pulled his hand out of his pocket to wave and then—

Oh. Oh, wow.

“Hi.” You smiled, and it almost knocked him off his feet.

He blinked, hand awkwardly half-raised before he reminded himself to look slightly less like a deer in headlights.

He straightened, clearing his throat. “Hi.”

You were…

For once, his brain actually ran out of words.

Beautiful. Gorgeous. Stunning. Radiant. Breathtaking. Captivating. Alluring. None of them seemed to truly encapsulate you.

The group was soon ushered inside the restaurant and sat at a table. Conversation began to flow as you and Garcia caught up and you got to know the team.

“Oh, you actually said that?” Your jaw dropped as you looked at Emily.

“Not only did she say it, she said it in front of the entire Sacramento Police Department!” JJ interjected, causing the table to burst into laughter.

Spencer couldn’t help but watch you as you threw your head back, shoulders shaking with laughter. Your laugh was infectious, he thought. He wanted to be the reason you laughed like that.

Wine and chatter flowed around the table as you dicussed JJ’s children, Rossi’s career as an author, Derek’s most recent date.

He was mid-bite when you turned to him. “So, Reid, what about you? I hear you’re the resident genius.”

He nearly dropped his fork, chewing quickly. “Um, well, I guess you could—“ he coughed, trying to swallow before continuing. “I mean, it depends how you classify ‘genius.’ My IQ is statistically above average, I have an eidetic memory, and I read at an average speed of…”

He trailed off, noticing the rest of the table had gone silent. He cleared his throat. “Um, yes.”

You nodded approvingly, eyebrows raised with a slight smile as the group chuckled.

The meal began wrapping up, plates slowly clearing and wine glasses emptying. Spencer watched you still as Garcia turned the conversation back to you, actively reminding himself not to stare.

“So, tell me.” Garcia said, leaning in to you. “Are you dating anyone?”

Spencer felt like a puppy who had just heard the word “treat.” He stared hard at the tablecloth, trying not to seem invested in the answer.

“No, not since that guy from the bank.” You replied, smoothing your shirt.

“Thank God. He was so… average.” Garcia answered. “You could do so much better.”

Someone accidentally nudged his shin under the table. He shifted, heart fluttering at the knowledge you weren’t involved with anyone. Not that he would ever do anything about it, but it was nice for the moment to not have to imagine you with anyone else.

Checks rolled out, everyone paid, and the group made their way to the door.

A chorus of goodbyes echoed across the group outside the restaurant. Garcia pulled you into a tight hug. “Keep in touch.”

“Of course.” You replied as you pulled back, looking to the rest of the group. “It was so great meeting you guys.”

The sentiment was returned and you waved, flashing that brilliant smile one more time. “Have a good flight!”

You turned on your heel, and Spencer felt a pang in his chest at the thought of not seeing you again. Oh, well.

A hand grabbed his arm with a vengeance, and he turned to face the culprit.

“Ow! Garcia, what are you doing?” He pulled his arm from her grip, rubbing at the irritated skin.

“For a genius, you really are acting like an idiot!” She whispered. “Go get her number!”

His eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “What?”

“Did you not feel me kick you under the table when she said she was single?” She asked, exasperated. “I’m setting you up! Go ask her for her number! Now!”

She punctuated her demand with a little shove in your direction, and before he knew it, he was calling out.

“Hey!”

You turned around, already about fifteen feet away. “Hey?”

He glanced back over his shoulder briefly before half-jogging over to you.

He swallowed. “Um, I wanted to, uh—“ He cleared his throat, forcing himself to look up at you. “I wanted to ask if I could maybe… get your number.”

A smile twitched at the corner of your lips. “Really?”

His heart dropped. “I mean, only if you want to. I just— I think you are really nice, and pretty, and—“

“You think I’m pretty?” You interrupted softly.

He paused, meeting your shining eyes.

“Yeah.” He breathed. “I do.”

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, rustling through your bag. Spencer thought, briefly, that there’d never been a time he so badly wanted to watch someone bite their lip like that in slow motion on repeat. He wanted to tattoo the image on the inside of his eyelids.

Chill out. He reprimanded himself as you handed him a napkin with your number scribbled on it.

“You can call me.” That smile turned his brain to static once more as you waved sheepishly, a rose tint coloring your cheeks in the dim light. “Bye, Reid.”

The whole interaction had him heckled mercilessly on the flight home, but he didn’t mind too much. The teasing was all worth it the second his gaze landed on that ink-stained piece of tissue.

He waited about three days to call you. He almost hung up on the fifth ring, convinced you wouldn’t answer, when your voice crackled through the speaker.

“Hello?”

“Hi, hi. Um, it’s Spencer. Reid. Garcia’s friend?” He sat up straighter, as though you could see him.

“Oh, hey!” He could hear your grin in your voice, and it made him smile reflexively. “How are you? Read any good books lately?”

“Yeah! You know, I just re-read The Count of Monte Cristo in the original French. It’s fascinating.” He replied animatedly, settling back into his couch.

That first phone call lasted nearly forty-five minutes.

The second was nearly an hour.

Before long, he got in a routine of calling you ever other day, and then every day. Eventually, Spencer Reid, ever the technophobe, found himself texting you every chance he could. He even bought a used laptop so he could video chat with you on WhatsApp.

It wasn’t just your physical appearance. Spencer was attracted to so much more than that. Your kindness. Your humor. Your patience. Your laugh. Your intelligence.

You told him about your life, your family, your job. He eventually opened up to you about his mom, some of his trauma. And you listened to every word with heartfelt kindness.

After a few months of this, the man who relied so heavily on statistics felt that it was just dumb luck you actually gave him your number.

“So, I’ve been thinking…” You said one night on a video call.

He raised his eyebrows at the screen. “Yeah?”

“What if I flew out and stayed with Pen for a weekend?” You asked. “You and I could actually… you know, spend some time together. In person.”

Spencer hesitated, turning the idea over in his mind.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see you. God, did he want to see you. Three months of only having you over a screen was slowly becoming torture. His dreams were becoming increasingly plagued with the idea of holding you, kissing you…

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts.

“I’ll take your silence as a no,” you said jokingly, but he could hear the dejectedness in your tone.

“It’s not a no, it’s just…” He paused. “How are you going to keep it from Garcia if you’re staying with her? Won’t she wonder where you’re going?”

Privacy was very important to Spencer. He loved his teammates like family, but truthfully, he valued keeping your relationship between the two of you, at least for now. He wanted to navigate the idea of you without any outside influence or opinion.

He’d had that conversation with you early on, given your relationship with Garcia, and you had been fine with it.

“I can make something up, give her a fake reason I’m in town.” You shrugged. “I just really want to see you, Spencer.”

He felt a strange swell of pride in his chest at the thought. “I really want to see you, too.” He replied softly.

A mischievous grin crossed your face. “Besides, it might be kinda fun. Sneaking around.”

He fought a smile at the idea. “Yeah? When would you fly out?”

And so the plan was set in motion.

You texted Garcia not long after, saying you needed a place to stay for a weekend for your great-grandmother’s funeral. She agreed, albeit her excitement dying a little at the addition of your need to spend time with family members in town, but you assured her you would reserve some time for her, too.

Sure, you felt a little bad about the lie, but it would have to do for now.

Two weeks later, Spencer was checking his phone every five minutes for a text signifying you’d landed.

Buzz.

He scrambled for it so quickly it was almost comical.

“in your city :)”

He bit back a smile at the message before quickly typing his reply:

“See you soon.”

When four p.m. rolled around, Spencer found himself walking up to the park.

There you were.

Sitting on a wooden bench, people-watching. The afternoon sun was beating down on the world, but around you, it looked like a halo.

You. Real. Not on a screen for the first time in months. And this time, not as a stranger.

Your head turned at the sound of his footsteps, and you broke into another one of those steal-his-heart smiles.

“Hi.” You said, looking up.

“Hi,” he echoed, a little breathless.

He stepped closer as you stood, and then you were both right there.

You hesitated. He paused. Should he hug you? Was that too much too soon? He hadn’t had any sort of physical contact with you before, outside of your fingers brushing his when you gave him your number.

A small, nervous laugh from you. “I didn’t know if we were, um—“ you gestured.

“Yeah, me neither.” He huffed out a laugh. He took you in for another moment before asking, quietly, “Can I hug you?”

“Yes. Please.” Your answer was immediate.

His arms enveloped you, and then you melted into him.

He exhaled slowly against the top of your head, nerves and tension melting away as he held you. Real and warm and solid against him, not just a memory and a voice through a speaker.

You pulled back just a bit, hand staying on his arm.

“I missed you,” you breathed.

His eyes flicked down to your mouth before he could stop himself. “Yeah, I— me too.”

You gazed up at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “You can.”

“I can what?” He asked.

“Kiss me.”

“Oh.” He mentally chastised himself for being so obvious.

Then immediately mentally high-fived himself the second his lips touched yours.

The kiss was soft, and new. His hands came up to cradle your face, a little clumsily.

But somewhere, distantly, in the static that was currently filling his brain, he thought this must be nirvana. A state of perfect peace, liberation, and completion. This must be the glorious thing and the pinnacle that everyone dreams of acheiving.

He doesn’t know how long he stood by that bench, kissing you, but he knew that he would spend every waking second waiting for the next one.

The rest of the weekend felt… unreal.

He took you to his favorite local coffee place. You perused the shelves of his frequented bookstore, fingers laced together. He showed you his apartment, which all too quickly felt like your little corner of home in an unfamiliar city.

And every once in a while, another kiss.

Maybe it was more often than that.

He absolutely committed himself to relishing every single moment you were there. You spent nearly all day Saturday at his apartment before you finally convinced him you had to spend some time with Garcia, or she would get suspicious.

“I’ll stop by tomorrow before I have to leave.” You said, toeing your shoes on by the door.

He swallowed, the notion weighing heavy on him. “Sounds good.”

You stopped. “Oh, hey. I still have your sweater on.”

He shrugged, looking down at you. “It looks good on you. Keep it.”

You flushed, eyes dropping shyly to the floor. “Thank you.”

He kissed you one more time, really breathing you in, before he opened the door for you and watched you walk away with a wave.

Sunday had arrived all too quickly.

You were outside his door, bags in hand. You handed his folded sweater back to him gently.

“I did wear it all night.” You smiled half-heartedly. “But you can have it for now. I need a reason to come back and steal it again.”

Spencer pursed his lips, fighting back the emotions threatening to rise up in him.

“It was… really good to see you.” You said softly, gazing up at him.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “It was.”

There was a pause.

“You’ll text me when you land?” He asked.

“Obviously.”

Another pause. You looked at each other for a moment.

He was very appreciative for his eidetic memory in this moment, because he couldn’t forget you standing here in his apartment.

“We should do this again sometime.” Your voice was watery through your joking tone. “I really liked sneaking around with you.”

Spencer didn’t answer you. He just leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss. Warm and sweet and over all too soon.

A thin laugh from you as you parted, eyes brimming with tears.

“I’ll see you.” He said softly.

You nodded, brows crinkling. “Bye, Spence.”

And you were gone.

On Monday, Spencer wore the sweater to work. You really must’ve worn it all night, because it smelled just like your perfume, bringing him a small amount of comfort knowing this weekend hadn’t been a fever dream.

He tried to work, his focus drifting between thoughts of you and the occasional buzz in his pocket.

“How was your weekend?” He overheard Emily ask Garcia as she walked in.

“Oh, it was great. I really love getting to see her, but she was super in and out the whole time. Lots of visiting to do, she said.” Garcia replied.

Her footsteps faltered by his desk.

“Reid?”

“Yeah?”

“Where did you get that sweater?”

He froze, risking a glance up. Garcia’s face was twisted in confusion.

“This? It’s mine.” He replied, trying to keep his voice smooth. Casual.

“No.”

“What do you mean? It’s mine.”

“No, I saw…” she trailed off. Spencer swore he could see her eyes light up, growing wide as it clicked.

Uh oh.

She gasped. “Oh my gosh!”

“Wait—“ Spencer started.

“Oh my gosh!” She repeated, louder this time. “You! You dirty dog!”

“It wasn’t—“ He leaned in, trying to do damage control. “It wasn’t like that. We’ve been… long distance.”

“I knew it!” she shouted, spinning in a circle. “I knew something was weird when she wouldn’t tell me where she kept disappearing to!”

Spencer winced. “We didn’t want to—”

“You lied to me,” she gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “Oh my gosh, you’re in love with her.”

His cheeks were on fire. “I— what? No, I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to,” she said, grinning. “You’re wearing the sweater.”

He blinked. “It’s my sweater.”

“Exactly.”

And later, when his phone buzzed again in his pocket, he didn’t even try to hide it.

“miss you already :(”

“Miss you more.”

“Call you tonight?”

Across the room, Garcia watched him with a knowing grin.

And for once, Spencer didn’t mind being figured out.

———————————————

𝙲𝙾𝙵𝙵𝙴𝙴 𝙾𝚁𝙳𝙴𝚁 #11

𝙸𝚃𝙴𝙼𝚂:

𝙻𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎 ……… 𝙵𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏

𝙷𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚕𝚗𝚞𝚝 𝙳𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚕𝚎 ... 𝙼𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝙿𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚃𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎

𝙲𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚞𝚝 𝙳𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚕𝚎 …. 𝚂𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝 𝚁𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚃𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎

𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 ..... 𝙷𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝙴𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝙰𝚍𝚍-𝙸𝚗𝚜: 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚊'𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚊 𝚢𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚢 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚢

———————————————

[marcidstars]

lucky strike | spencer reid x reader

summary: your car breaks down on a case, and sharing a motel room with your least favourite coworker becomes quite the challenge when he insists on pushing all your buttons. fortunately, you know just the way to get him to shut up, even if it's just for the night.

genre: smut (MDNI) word count: 10k (oops)

tags: fem!reader, enemies with benefits, petty arguing, sub!spencer, dry humping, unprotected p in v, they're freaking it raw, creampie, oral (f receiving), come eating, edging, overstimulation, mentions of birth control (pill), accidental L-bomb, motel sex, spell-checked but not really proofread

notes: part two of overexposed | this is the smuttiest thing i've written so far, i think.

“So sick of sayin’ yes sir, yes sir.” – Maroon 5, Lucky Strike

Rule number one of working in the BAU: never agree to draw straws.

It doesn’t matter how many times Rossi assures you that his games aren’t rigged, they absolutely are. They have to be, because Reid and you get paired up so often, you’d think you were best friends.

Nobody wanted to take on a six-hour side mission—three hours there, three hours back—to speak to the ex-wife of this week’s unsub, yourself included. So, naturally, Rossi had raided the local PD of their toothpicks, snapped the ends off of two of them, and presented them to the team with this devilish smile that said I know exactly how this is going to go. You don’t even know why you agreed, if we’re being honest, because you too knew damn well what would happen when you plucked that toothpick from his conniving hands.

You pulled the first short straw, and you got to watch in silent, not at all surprised frustration as Spencer pulled the second one. You had had half a mind to take your stupid toothpick and jam it into Rossi’s eye, but you restrained yourself; after all, you’re supposed to be the better, more mature half of your duo with the world’s most idiotic genius. He had tried to protest, arguing that he was too valuable of an asset to essentially abandon the investigation, but the team were quick to throw the two of you out of the police department and into an SUV that had spent all day boiling in the Louisiana sun.

That leads us into rule number two: never trust an SUV.

After three hours of suffocating in that cursed car, choking on the thick, oppressive air, you had arrived at the home of the mysterious ex-wife. Another hour-and-a-half of questioning later, you were free to embark on your journey back to the team.

Tragedy struck not even an hour even into the drive. The car stuttered, screeched, and stopped dead in the middle of traffic. You’d tried just about everything you could to breathe life back into the overheated corpse of the SUV, but it was no use; you had broken down. 

And just like that, the dam broke and the tense, carefully maintained silence between you and Spencer shattered into pieces.

Standing there, on the side of the road, Spencer had yelled at you—or you had yelled at him; you don’t remember who started it—until you were red-faced and people in their functioning vehicles were craning their necks to watch the scene unfold as they drove on by. 

You called Hotch. Spencer dialled triple-A. Both phone calls crushed whatever remnants of hope you dared cling to.

On your end, Hotch informed you that the unsub had just taken a hostage—surprise! The BAU needed every bit of information you had gathered from the ex-wife, and they needed it now. He barked orders at you over the phone, telling you to check yourselves into a motel and call him back ASAP, and abruptly hung up.

On Spencer’s end, triple-A had kindly told him that the car was fucked—hurray! Something was wrong with the engine, apparently, and you needed to wait for roadside assistance to bring their tow truck. 

But you didn’t have time to wait, not when there were lives at stake. So, you dialled Hotch’s number right there and began relaying everything you had learned over the sound of cars speeding by: details about the unsub’s failed marriage, his childhood, and—

Spencer had snatched the phone from you the moment you dared stumble over a word, damn near tearing your arm off with it. He promptly appointed himself leader of your botched hostage negotiation, and he left you to explain the situation to the very confused—and rightfully a little concerned—roadside assistance workers.

The negotiation continued into the back of some good samaritan’s car, and the two of you were dropped off at what looked to be the shittiest motel in the entire state. It was at that point you stole the phone back and ordered Spencer to speak to the receptionist whilst you walked the team through the safest way to approach the unsub.

In the motel room, you were finally able to put the team on speaker. You set the phone on the desk and, after two hours of anxious pacing, the unsub was finally detained.

And that brings us to the present, and to rule number three: never expect the BAU to come to your aid, no matter how desperately you may need it.

You’re lying face-down on the bed, listening to Hotch’s static-laced voice as he informs you, in essence, that all is well. Spencer is still standing, hands stuffed into his pockets, nodding along with everything being said.

“When can we expect to be picked up?” he asks.

The pause that follows his question is a damning one. A death sentence delivered through thick silence.

“The two of you will be staying at the motel for the night,” Hotch says. You can hear it in his voice, a slight awkwardness; he knowswhat he’s doing, yet he’s doing it anyway.

It’s fine, though. It’s just one night in a shitty motel. Really, it could be worse—

“But I only booked one room.”

Your head shoots up so fast you’re sure you almost break your neck. You scramble up onto your knees, already shaking your head in disbelief—refusal to believe.

“You’re fucking kidding.”

Spencer looks mortified.

“Reid,” you warn, “tell me you’re not serious—”

He huffs, like you’re somehow the idiot in this situation, and crosses his arms. “I didn’t think we’d be staying here!”

“You didn’t— oh my God. How?” You bark out a hollow laugh. “How are you so fucking stupid?”

The phone speaker crackles, picking up the faint sound of Morgan’s laughter.

Spencer’s cheeks are starting to turn red. “I just assumed that—”

“IQ of 187, they said” you mutter, exasperated. “God help us all.”

“I’ll— I’ll go to the front desk.” He’s already heading for the door, raking his fingers through his hair as he walks. “I’ll get us another room—”

“The front desk closed thirty minutes ago.”

“...oh.”

You take a deep breath, turning away from him as you redirect your attention to the phone. Your lifeline. Clearing your throat, you put on the calmest, most amiable voice you can manage and say, “...Hotch?”

“You’re two hours away,” he says plainly.

“Please.”

“By the time we get you back here it’ll be almost three in the morning.”

“I’m begging you.”

“The answer’s no. The two of you will handle this like adults, and we will see you tomorrow.”

Just when you think he’s about to hang up, another voice comes through the speaker. Morgan’s.

“Have fun, lovebirds.”

Spencer scoffs so loud you’d think he was choking on something. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing!”

The call disconnects just as he lurches forward to grab the phone. He holds it in his hand for a moment, staring down at it with frustration that amounts almost to rage, before tossing it to you with a strangled huff.

“I can’t believe this.”

“I can’t believe you only booked one room,” you counter. “Seriously, what did you think was going to—’

“Alright, I get it. I’m an idiot.”

“Mhm.” You flop back onto the bed with a sigh, letting the silence hang in the air for a moment before adding, “Hey, at least we did it.”

“We?”

“Uh…yeah?”

Spencer pulls this face. Disgust mixed with disbelief. It would be comical if it weren’t directed at you. “You barely contributed.”

“Oh, come on—”

“You spent half of that negotiation just…lying around whilst I gave all the information—”

“Information that I got from the guy’s ex-wife.”

“Only because you wouldn’t let me speak to her.”

“Because you don’t know how to talk to women.”

Spencer’s pacing ceases, and he turns to you with a scowl. “Sorry?”

“I was doing you a favour.” You look up at him with a mocking smile. “You would’ve embarrassed yourself if you’d spoken to her.”

His lips curl at the corners, and you’re sure that he’d be shooting lasers from his eyes if he could, zapping you into oblivion. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, then opens it again to say, “You are such a—”

“A what?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

And he closes his mouth once more.

Sitting up, you shuffle to the edge of the bed and cross your arms expectantly. “Go on.”

You can see the tension in his jaw, the way he’s grinding his teeth subtly. He spends a good few moments just staring at you, probably trying to explode you with his mind, before he turns away with a sharp, catty huff. 

“I’m never agreeing to anything like this again,” he mutters.

“Good. Me neither.”

There’s nothing provocative about your words—you’re actually agreeing with him, for once—yet Spencer spins back around to face you all the same. 

“You’ve been nothing but irritating all day,” he spits.

“And all you’ve done is complain.”

“At least I’m not incompetent.”

“Beats being an arrogant little bitch.”

Again, Spencer turns on his heels and begins walking away. “That’s it,” he announces, “I’m taking a shower.”

“Running away. Real mature—”

The bathroom door slams, and you swear it shakes the very foundation of the motel room.

Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath. Try to calm yourself as the reality of this horror movie-worthy situation catches up to you. You’re to share a room with Spencer Reid—share a bed—because of his stupidity, and he had the gall to call you incompetent. 

The shower turns on. You can hear it through the paper-thin wall, and part of you wants to barge into that bathroom, drag him out by his hair and leave him, naked, on the side of the road. It’s the only way you’ll get any semblance of peace tonight, that’s for sure.

But what would that say about you? That you’re just as childish—as petulant—as he is? You’re supposed to be the bigger person here, the better person.

So you resign yourself to lying in wait, dreading whatever bullshit the next twelve hours have in store for you.

—

Thirty minutes later, Spencer emerges from the bathroom muttering about the disgraceful state of the bathroom. He doesn’t seem to notice, or care, that you aren’t listening to him; you’re frankly too distracted by the state of him. His hair is still wet, and his white shirt has been left untucked, held closed by a total of two buttons. Your gaze lingers, rather unapologetically, on the curves of his exposed collarbones.

Whilst he was showering, you rummaged through your go-bag and pulled out whatever pyjama-esque clothes you could find. You are, as Spencer is always so keen to point out, terribly disorganised; your bag hasn’t been restocked in over a month, and there are more “complimentary” hotel toiletries hidden in there than there are clothes.

In the end, you settled on a plain black compression top that you don’t remember owning, and a pair of grey sweatpants that you’re sure can’t be yours on account of the fact that they are far, far too big for you.

You watch as he unzips his own go-bag—no doubt perfectly organised, alphabetised, colour-coded, and packed with enough supplies to last him weeks in case of an emergency—and raise an eyebrow.

“Calmed down yet?”

Spencer spares you a single, fleeting glance out of the corner of his eye before exhaling sharply through his nose; a punctuated, silent no. But then he seems to pause. Seconds pass as he stares at his bag, unmoving, before turning his head slowly to look at you again.

You’re splayed out diagonally on the bed, taking up as much space as possible as you flick listlessly through the same beat-up book you’ve been nursing for over a month now. In your peripheral vision, you can just about make out the way his focus strays to your clothes. To the thin sliver of skin visible between the hem of your top and the waistband of your sweats. And then he clears his throat.

“You’re paying for the repairs,” he mutters stiffly.

You set your book on your chest and turn to him with a frown. “I am not—”

“I paid for eleven of your coffees last month,” he says.

“And I covered the bill for that stupid Doctor Who edible experience bullshit you took me to the month before.”

“You still owe me a dollar for that.”

“Forty-nine cents,” you correct. “We agreed to round down.”

“No, you insisted that we round down. I told you I wanted the change.”

“Are you really that broke that forty-nine cents makes all the difference?”

“No,” he mutters, pulling a folded pair of pyjamas from his bag. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Then you can pay for the repairs.”

You scoff. “There’s a big difference between some pocket change and a busted car, Reid.”

“The Bureau will reimburse you.”

“Then why can’t you just pay?”

“Because,” he unbuttons his shirt and, honest to God, throws it at you, “it’s your turn.”

“You—” You groan as his shirt lands on your face, and you throw it back at him. “You are such a child.”

Spencer catches the shirt with a cold, sarcastic laugh. “Really?” he asks. “Because it seems to me I’m the only adult here.”

You roll your eyes as he continues changing, but you can’t help but let your gaze wander across his body; his bare neck and chest, now free from the usual confines of his shirt and tie. You’d quite happily take a bite out of him if you thought you’d live to tell the tale.

As he pulls on his pyjama shirt, you sigh. “How much is it gonna cost?”

He shrugs, methodically folding his work clothes before tucking them neatly into his go-bag. “Timing belt replacements typically cost between four-hundred and one-thousand dollars.”

Your face contorts in disgust at his words and, for a moment, you think he may be joking.

Unfortunately, he isn’t.

“Fuck off,” you say. “I’m not paying that.”

“Neither am I. I wasn’t the one driving the car.”

Somehow, your expression manages to sour further. You cast your book aside and prop yourself up on your elbows. “So this is my fault?”

“Is that what I said?”

“It’s what you implied.”

“A timing belt doesn’t just break out of nowhere,” he says, perching himself on the side of the bed. He speaks slowly, clearly, like he’s explaining something to a child. “There are signs—”

No sooner has he sat down do you stand up, effectively swapping places with him. “The check engine light never came on.”

“Still, you should have—”

“Sitting in the driver’s seat doesn’t make me omnipotent, Reid,” you snap, crossing your arms as you glare at him from the other side of this much, much too small room. “You had just as much information as I did—”

“It isn’t the passenger’s responsibility to check for faults—”

“So you didn’t notice, either?” you ask. Not my responsibility is just Spencer-speak for I’m a hypocrite refusing to admit my own oversight. “You’re the one with a fucking PhD in Engineering, you know—”

“And? I’m saying it isn’t my job to notice—”

Oh, and he’s doubling down. Amazing. 

“Oh my God.” You’re talking over him now, raising your voice as you rake your fingers through your hair. “Grow up. You’re a federal agent, Reid. Act like one.”

Spencer snorts. “That’s rich coming from you.”

You really wish you were making this up. You wish this were some frustration-induced hallucination, but it isn’t. You’re actually standing here in some run-down, shitty fucking motel, arguing with a genius who was too stupid to book two rooms. You’re sure you’ve seen this be used as a set up to a straight to DVD romcom, for Christ’s sake.

You have half a mind to walk back over there and smack him across the face, but it would only make this worse.

“Maybe,” Spencer continues, entirely unprompted, “if you treated me with the slightest degree of decorum, I would act in kind.”

This is Hell. The car crashed, you died, and this is Hell. It has to be.

“And maybe if you respected me,” you snap back, “I would act—”

“There’s nothing to respect.”

The laugh that escapes you in response to that statement isn’t a pretty one. It’s somewhere between a cackle and a murderous screech. You have to laugh; you’d kill him if you didn’t.

You’re sure that, in the animal kingdom, a laugh like that would be heeded as a warning—and a serious one, at that. A real don’t fuck with me or I’ll kill you noise; a universal language.

But Spencer Reid isn’t of the animal kingdom—at this point you aren’t sure he’s from earth at all—because, in spite of your warning, he keeps talking.

“You’re unprofessional, aggressive, short-tempered, bitter, frustrating—need I go on?”

“You forgot smart and sexy—”

“There is nothing about you worth respecting,” he declares, “not when you’re…on my ass all the time.”

It’s the way that he still hesitates before saying ass, even though he has said far worse things to you in the past, that momentarily clears the resentment clouding your mind. Spencer Reid, genius supreme, the man who apparently hates you more than any unsub you’ve come across, can still barely bring himself to curse. 

…and it’s the way he’s implying that you are somehow the perpetrator in all of this that has that resentment rushing back tenfold.

“I’m on your ass?” 

“Yes,” he says. “You are. It’s infuriating.”

“Infuriating, right…”

“You do nothing but antagonise me,” he adds. “You’re pestiferous.”

“Mhm. And you’re a fucking saint.”

He shrugs. “I think most would agree I’m better than you.”

You purse your lips into a tight smile, letting your gaze wander across the room before returning it to him. “And if they knew you were fucking me?” you pose. “Would that tarnish your pristine reputation?”

Just like that, Spencer’s cocky, confident attitude vanishes in an instant. He scoffs, visibly recoiling at the mention of your relationship as his expression morphs into something half-disgusted, half-defensive. “That’s—”

“I mean, the team are already calling us lovebirds, but what if they knew?” you continue, ignoring the way his cheeks are beginning to flush. “What if the BAU knew that their obnoxious golden boy was sleeping with someone so unworthy of respect?”

When he doesn’t respond, you step closer to him.

“You know it’s funny, actually, that you say that,” you say, “because the only person on this team who doesn’t respect me, Spencer, is you.”

“You don’t respect me, either,” he mutters.

“Why the hell would I?”

You sound almost amused as you cross the room. You close the space between you, drawing closer until you’re standing right in front of him.

Spencer raises his head, arms crossed, to look up at you. He’s glaring, or trying to, but his gaze spends only a fraction of a second on your face before it begins to wander. Lingering on the outline of your chest visible through your top, and then on the waistband of your underwear that peeks out over the top of those baggy sweatpants—embroidered, ironically, with the word sweet.

You watch the way his jaw works, chewing on whatever insult he has lined up, as he finds himself painfully distracted by the sight of you before him.

And you straddle him.

“Why would I respect someone like you, Reid?” you ask as you settle into his lap. 

He makes no effort to push you away (why would he?), but he doesn’t exactly welcome you with open arms, either. He tenses up, heat rushing to his face despite his attempts to appear perfectly neutral.

“Tell me,” you purr, placing a finger under his chin so he’s meeting your gaze, “why would I respect someone so— what was what word you used? Pestiferous? Someone who goes out of his way to piss me off, even when I haven’t done anything wrong…and for what purpose, hm?” You rest your other hand on his chest and lean in close, brushing your nose against his with a barely suppressed smirk. “You wanna know what I think?”

“...not really,” he says stiffly.

“I think you like it when I’m pissed off,” you say. “I think that my short temper, and my aggression, and all those other flaws you listed, are all things you like about me. Am I right?”

“No,” he mutters. “Why would I—”

“Because you’re pathetic, and you’re a shit liar.” Smiling, you shift slightly, pressing yourself down against the tent in his pants that has been there far longer than he’ll ever admit. “And your, um, body has ways of giving you away. And I bet you’re real glad the rest of the team aren’t here, right?” you murmur, leaning down to ghost your lips along his jaw. “Because that means we can make as much noise as we like.”

You feel him suppress a shudder as you press a gentle, open-mouthed kiss to his skin. He tenses, but only briefly, as your hand moves into his hair, cradling the back of his head as you trail kisses up his jaw, and it doesn’t take much for him to melt. One hand settles instinctively on your hip, keeping you pressed against his erection, but the other tries, gently, to push you away.

“What’s wrong?” you murmur. “Can’t handle a bit of—”

As you raise your head to mock him, Spencer’s lips collide with yours. He kisses you with a kind of desperate hunger that sends a rush of heat straight to your core and, for a moment, you find yourself wanting to drop the act completely and let him have you—but where’s the fun in that? 

So you pull away, pressing your thumb to his needy lips as you don a sarcastic pout. He releases your hip, and his hands roam your waist and stomach, working their way up to your chest. You can’t help but admire him even as he’s feeling you up; he already has that look in his eyes. Weakness. Soft and pretty in all the ways that drive you crazy.

Your throat tightens. Contracting around something terribly familiar and wholly unwanted. Something you’re bound to choke on if you sit with it for too long.

So you pull him into another, harsher kiss, letting a moan slip into his mouth as his thumbs graze your clothed nipples, and it’s a sound that he mirrors as you slowly start rocking your hips against his. His hands drop down to the hem of your shirt, and you pull back long enough to let him tear it off over your head before your lips are on his again.

You set your hands on the back of his neck, gluing the two of you together as you grind yourself against him. You feel the way his breath hitches with each roll of your hips, and you’re certain you could make him finish just like this, without needing to lift a finger, but that would be far too easy on him. It would be merciful, almost, and that isn’t what you’re here for. 

Before you can start formulating your evil plan, Spencer pulls away. His lips latch onto your neck, peppering the skin with feverish kisses as he works his way down to your collarbones before dipping down, further, to your chest. Your fingers weave into his hair as his teeth graze a nipple, and you pull hard. Hard enough to make him moan as your mouth meets his and you catch him in another bruising kiss. His hips buck up into yours, shamelessly begging for more friction, but all it does is make you withhold it.

So, with impatient hands, he forces your hips down, rubbing your aching cunt against his cock through the layers of fabric separating them. You break the kiss with a sharp gasp as a violent heat twists in your core, and you push him away.

You watch the rise and fall of his chest as you catch your breath—it’s hypnotic, almost—before meeting his gaze with as calm a look as you can muster.

“I’m gonna go grab a towel,” you say, keeping your voice equal parts soft and firm. “When I come back, you better not have any clothes on. Got it?”

Spencer nods eagerly and without question. You lean back, admiring him for a moment longer before you finally dismount him and disappear into the bathroom.

You take more time than you should, deliberating between two identical motel towels as you listen to the faint rustle of clothes as Spencer strips himself of his pyjamas. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, shirtless, red-faced, and you feel that familiar pang of self-awareness in your stomach. The kind strong enough to re-awaken your voice of reason, and that voice tells you that this has got to stop. 

How many more times are you going to fall into bed with him before this blows up in your face? Before you fall further into this grave you've dug for yourselves, and find yourselves utterly unable to climb back out?

Being the bigger person is a myth. It always has been. It's just a lie you tell yourself—the same one that he's probably been tellinghimself—to further stifle the latent realisation that you are, undoubtedly, just as bad as each other. You're no better than Spencer is, and he is no worse than you are.

You can tell yourself that you're the bigger person, that you're more mature, more sensible, but that doesn't erase the reality you're in. You're standing, half-naked, in a grotty motel bathroom waiting for your coworker to strip himself bare. You're terrible.

And you can’t imagine being anywhere else.

You return to the bedroom with all the confidence in the world and find Spencer sitting, naked, on the edge of the bed, caught somewhere in the space between nervous and excited. He’s wringing his hands, trying to avoid tending to his persistent erection as he awaits your return. Hugging the towel to your chest, you watch him for a moment and let your gaze wander shamelessly over his exposed skin, savouring his anticipatory silence. His still-wet hair sticks to his forehead. Dewy collarbones shine like gold in the dim, yellow-toned light.

You feel it again. A slight tightness in your throat. The beginnings of something awful. But it’s overpowered by the palpable rush of need that takes hold of you as you gaze at him. It’s enough to drive you mad.

Tossing the towel onto the bed, you slot yourself between his legs.

"You're awfully quiet," you tease, carefully brushing his hair out of his face as he looks up at you. You could drown in those eyes, if you let yourself. 

His gaze hardens slightly. "Nothing to say." 

"You always have something to say."

"False."

He's running his fingers along the waistband of your sweats, barely grazing your skin as his eyes trail across your body.

"True."

He shoots you a glare. "Do you want to keep arguing?"

"Not particularly," you murmur, smirking. Gently, you reach out a hand to touch his cheek. "I'm just surprised. You're being so good—"

Spencer swats your hand away instantly.

"Don't," he warns before returning his attention to your body.

You cross your arms. "You don't like praise?"

"I don't like being mocked," he corrects.

He presses his thumbs against your waist, watching with great interest the way the soft skin yields to his touch.

"Who said I was mocking you?" you ask, feigning innocence.

He scoffs. You feel it against your skin, hot, before he presses a kiss to your hip. "You're always mocking me."

"Not always."

It takes strength to keep your voice steady when he’s doing this; appreciating your body in silent ways whilst navigating a half-hearted argument, like it’s second nature to him. And it is second nature, you suppose. He could probably fight with you in his sleep.

He looks up at you again with this dull, almost bored kind of scepticism purposefully forged to hide something deeper. Something realer. Something that has a weight to it and is far too heavy for this. For you. He tugs gently at the drawstring of your sweats, and the knot comes apart with ease under his touch. The fabric sags, barely clinging to your hips, and all it takes is a gentle tug for them to slip down your legs, leaving you in just your underwear.

His lips meet your skin again, trailing kisses down from your navel to the embroidered elastic of your waistband. His gaze finds yours, just for a moment, in a fleeting request for permission that sends a fresh pang of heat to your core, right where his lips hover. You nod, wordlessly, and he makes quick work of removing your underwear, peeling the soaked fabric away from your needy cunt as you try not to clench your thighs. 

He drops them at your ankles, and his kisses continue. Following their path down until his mouth is dangerously close to where you need him to be. Before he can get too carried away, you thread your fingers into his hair once more and pull him, gently, away.

The second those eyes are on your face, something violent turns within you. Your fingers still in his hair, caught between moments as you bury the urge to mount him right then and there. It's not like he would complain. 

His thumbs brush over your hip bones, moving in perfect sync as he watches you quietly. Studying your micro expressions, probably, searching for a crack that he can exploit; a way to piss you off, turn the tables, put himself in control. But the more you look at him, the more you realise that this isn't what this is. He's just…waiting. Eagerly, sure, but patiently. 

He's waiting for you to tell him what to do. He's read the situation, read what you want out of this, and he's moulded himself to it without question—without needing to be told. It's perceptive. Considerate, almost. How he's letting you have this; how he knows you well enough to know that you want this. 

And that? That pisses you off.

"Sit back," you say, keeping your voice soft, "against the headboard."

He moves immediately, scooting into position without question. However brief, you feel weirdly cold in the absence of his touch.

Once he's comfortable, you join him on the bed. You settle, on your knees, between his legs, keeping your gaze on his face as hisgaze roams freely across your body. A compliment tries to crawl its way up your throat—an earnest one—because God, he looks perfect. But you clench your jaw, keeping your words at bay; compliments are for couples, and you aren't a couple. 

But the words fight back. Compliments converge on your tongue, crowding your mouth, until you have no choice but to pull him into another kiss. Pouring all the things you daren't say into him, as though he may somehow understand without you needing to say any of it out loud. His hands come to rest on your jaw, not your body, and he cradles your face like it's something precious, pulling you closer and closer until you're practically on top of him, one hand braced against the headboard and the other trailing, slowly, down his body.

His breath hitches as your fingers grasp his cock. You feel it jolt in your hand, and one of Spencer's hands moves to the back of your head, hardly giving you room to breathe as he kisses you. The adrenaline, the sheer need with which he touches you, it's all starting to make you feel dizzy. He's stealing the oxygen from your lungs but, in return, you get to steal a stifled moan from between his lips. That's more or less an equivalent exchange, in your books; to have him at the mercy of your hands. To have that stupid mouth of his occupied with something that isn't just insult after senseless insult. 

He shifts his hips with a soft groan, bucking up into your hand as you continue to tease him. And he groans again—louder, sounding more like a whine than anything else—when you refuse to change your pace.

What you do instead is pull away. You hover there for a moment, breathing into his open mouth as he tilts his head up, wanting more, and you bask in that delicious, desperate look in his eyes before sitting back. You continue working his cock, slowly, as you wipe the saliva from your mouth with the back of your hand. Spencer doesn't bother tending to his moistened lips; he just watches you, eyes wide like he's seeing you for the first time. Awestricken and gorgeous and—

That noxious dizziness lingers even as you catch your breath. It breaks down your thoughts, loosening the fibres until you're sure your brain is naught but mush. Held together by the low crackle of static that grows louder with each second you spend looking at him. 

You realise far too late that you're looking at him the same way he's looking at you. Like a complete fucking idiot.

It's the kind of self-consciousness that hits like a freight train, flattening you before you even see it coming. It throws you off balance in the worst way and you feel vulnerable. exposed. More than you've ever felt in your previous encounters. You've been in far worse, far more vulnerable positions in the past—physically, at least. When you've been under him, or bent over a desk, or at his mercy on your knees.

You're in control here. And yet this is the first time you've felt truly vulnerable. Emotionally vulnerable. 

So you do everything you can to counteract it, before it leaves you seriously compromised.

You release your grip on his cock, ignoring the way he whines in protest as you move to straddle his hips. His hands settle, firm, on your waist, moulding themselves to your curves as you kiss him again. Partly to shut him up before he says anything that'll further tangle the static-laced wires in your brain; mostly to shut yourself up before you say anything you know you'll regret. You'd rather choke on your own tongue—or his tongue—than let a single, adrenaline-driven, foolish word slip out before you have the chance to scour it for cracks, for any chance that it may contain feeling.

You grasp his chin, ensuring he’s looking directly at you as you pull back. Your other hand works its way down until it's grasping his cock, lining it up with your entrance.

"You're so pretty like this," you murmur, hot breath filling the minimal space between you as you lower yourself, just slightly, so his tip kisses your entrance, "you know that?"

You almost can't believe your own words—seriously, you had one job—but the look on Spencer's face kills any trace of regret you’d dare have. His breath stutters, you see it catch in his throat as he stares up at you with this wide-eyed expression. Surprised, yes, but voracious. Like you've flipped a switch he didn't know he had. 

"I mean, you're always pretty. Too pretty. But this—" 

A sharp hiss escapes you as you lower yourself onto his cock. The pain is familiar, not unbearable, but it's there. A stubborn reminder of the importance of foreplay when you're too tight and Spencer's dick is too damn big. 

But you can take this kind of pain. When it's controlled, like this. When you can feel your body yielding to him and the pain steadily blooms into pleasure. 

You feel him tense. He goes deathly still, muscles straining with the effort it takes not to thrust up into you as you sink, slowly, onto him—that would actually hurt and, worse, it would piss you off.

Carefully, you push through the resistance, letting gravity do most of the work as you continue speaking even as your breath comes in uneven gasps and your voice starts to shake. "When you're all quiet like this, when you aren't…being a fucking nuisance, I could just—"

His fingers anchor in the soft skin of your waist. He throws his head back, eyes shut tight as you take him to the hilt. The noise you make is somewhere between a guttural groan and a needy whine as he stretches you out, and you cup his face with both of your hands, keeping him close as you touch your forehead to his.

A weak, breathless "fuck…" is all he can manage as he exhales a shaky, barely held together sigh. You can feel the tension in his jaw under your palms. The electricity that thrums, wild, under his skin.

You give a tentative shift of your hips, testing the waters, and you feel him shudder beneath you. You pull back a little, enough to get a good look at his face; the tiny twitches of his brows, his eyes, as you move against him. 

"That good?" you murmur, letting your hands trail down from his face to his chest, tracing the curves of his collarbones as you settle into a slow rhythm.

Spencer nods, humming in quiet approval as he closes his eyes. You watch the way his lashes flutter, the way the crease between his brows deepens with each rock of your hips, and you bite your lip.

"Say it."

"It—" He flexes his fingers, as though he's just remembered he has them, and his hands drop to your hips, encouraging your movements as he tries to keep his breathing steady. "It feels good," he whispers. "You feel…so good."

His words have you clenching around his cock, hard enough to elicit another soft, pretty little moan from his lips.

"That's it…" you whisper, tone sickly sweet as you lean down to press your lips to his neck.

Instinctively, Spencer leans his head to the side, allowing you access to the sensitive skin as those hands of his grow a little more confident and begin working their way back up to your chest. He cups your tits, and you feel him press his lips to your shoulder before murmuring, "there are condoms in my bag, if—"

You hum against his skin, shaking your head as you nip at his neck. "Don't need them."

"But—"

"I went on the pill," you admit. Quickly, but reluctantly. Like ripping off a band-aid. Like you’re confessing to something that runs far deeper than a simple birth control prescription.

Spencer's hands freeze mid-squeeze, and you know immediately that he's picked up on every implication you were hoping to brush over. "You— what? When?"

"After last time." you raise your head with a sigh and meet his gaze. When he tries to speak up again, you're quick to press your thumb to his lips. "Unless your next words are thank you, I don't wanna hear them."

For a moment, he looks as though he's about to protest. Five weighted words were all it took to pull him from the moment completely, it seems. His eyes are wide, frantically searching your own for something you can't let him find. 

But then, instead of probing you with any more questions, he just nods. You can't be sure if this is him giving up, resigning himself to staying on his side of your emotional walls, or if he doesn't even need to try anymore—not when you've made it all so damn obvious. The optimist in you, wherever she may be, is hoping for the former; there'll be less fallout that way.

“So just keep that pretty mouth of yours shut,” you add, slowly re-introducing that thick, mocking tenderness to your voice as you raise your hips, “okay?”

He nods again. Sharper. Eager.

You know he'll find a way to bring this up later—in the middle of the night, probably, when the air feels too heavy and neither of you can sleep—the way he always manages to bring up the things you don't want to talk about. The touchy things. The things that are bound to spark an argument, because you're uptight and he's intrusive and you both loathe each other, and you can't get along unless your tongue is down his throat or his dick is inside you, and even then you still find yourselves bickering. 

An impatient shift of his hips is all you need to know that, unlike you, a future argument is actually the last thing on his mind right now. His hands have started working again, mapping out your body like he doesn't already have it memorised as his gaze remains fixed on your face—and, really, you'd rather he be looking anywhere else. 

You raise yourself until it's only the head of his cock that remains inside of you and then, after another agonising moment, you drop back down, swallowing his length in one quick, smooth motion. He gasps, you groan, and all thought of that hypothetical argument vanishes as he thrusts up into you, burying himself deeper as your walls pulse around his cock.

Curses tumble, unrestrained, from your lips as you move against him. His hands guide you into a steady rhythm—firm, but not forceful—and you tilt your head back slightly as the tension that has been stringing you together begins to dissipate. 

Spencer takes advantage of the exposed skin immediately. He nips at your neck between messy kisses. His breath against your skin is enough to make you whine as you thread your fingers into his hair, and you raise his head just enough to bring your lips down on his, catching him in a disgustingly heated kiss. His hands stray from your hips to your ass, feeling you up with the kind of desperation that never fails to drive you insane as he moans shamelessly into your mouth.

The break in the kiss is abrupt, leaving Spencer nothing to drown his senseless whines in as you trail your lips along the edge of his jaw. You aren't sure what it is, maybe it's your breath on his skin, or the way your hand rests gently on his neck, pressing ever so slightly against his throat as you rock your hips, but something is bringing him closer to the edge. You can feel it in the way his breath catches, the way his hands begin to tremble, the way his sweet moans start to devolve into unsteady whimpers.

You kiss your way to his ear, nip at the lobe as his shoulders start to shake. "You close?"

He swallows hard. You feel it under your palm. "…mhm."

"Good. Now look at me— Reid, look at me." 

You keep your voice impossibly soft as you work your fingers into his hair, tugging on the chestnut strands to keep his head up as he tries to hide his face.

He's already a mess. face red and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, lips kiss-swollen and parted like he's waiting for you to dive into him again, but you don't. You make him hold your gaze, keeping one hand in his hair as the other cups his jaw, and you don't stop. Not until his face is contorting in those deliciously familiar ways and he has no choice but to close his eyes because he is so, so close.

And then you stop.

Your hips come to a brusque halt, stopping just as he is about to find release. You watch him blink, confused, before he meets your gaze with this adorably desperate expression. His chest heaves against your own, and you don your most charming smile.

"You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?"

The softness of your voice seems to fool him for a moment. Sugary words fail to register in his sex-clouded mind. You lean in a little closer, brushing your nose against his.

"You're not gonna come until I say you can."

That registers. His eyes widen, and he's shaking his head before he can even find the strength to speak. The words follow shortly after; a string of breathless nos that are about as useless as they are desperate. It's cute, how he thinks he might be able to talk you out of this—as though this hasn't been your plan from the start.

"I think it's only fair, after all the shit you've given me today," you continue, pouting as you brush your thumb against his cheek, "that you learn a little…respect, no?"

"You…" tension seeps into his jaw, and it isn't the pleasurable kind. His expression hardens, just slightly—probably as much as it can given the circumstances. "…are such a—"

"And that starts with being nice." You cut him off, still maintaining that smile as you look down at him. "If you start calling me names, Reid, then this is only gonna get a hell of a lot worse for you, and better for me. Understand?"

Spencer grits his teeth. His gaze flicks between your eyes and your lips, strays briefly to your body, to where his cock is still nestled inside of you, before returning to your face.

"Unless you want me to stop?" you pose, leaning back.

You don't give him enough time to respond before you're easing yourself off of his cock, but his hands find purchase on your hips and push you back down, burying himself inside of you once more with a force that makes both of you gasp.

"No." he says quickly. "N-no, don't…"

"Thought so." Smugness seeps into your voice before you can stop it, and you cock your head to the side. "So be good for me, and I'll let you finish."

Your mocking tone isn't well-received. Spencer huffs, flexing his trembling hands as he tries to act unbothered. "…I hate you—"

"Ah," you cut him off with a click of your tongue, shaking your head as you cradle his face. "Come on, honey, you're smarter than this."

Those words must be laced with something. A sedative, maybe. Something equal parts sweet and toxic. Because they quell Spencer's protests immediately. His throat runs dry. He tries to blink it away but it's no use; his mouth moves wordlessly, and he stares at you, dumbfounded, like you've cast a spell on him. 

Honey. Who'd have thought that would be his weakness?

You aren't much of a pet names person yourself, but…if Spencer is into it, then you might be open to changing your mind. 

…let's not think too hard about what that says about you. Like the birth control, it's one of those things that you're better off notlooking too deeply into—for your own sake.

"You good to keep going?" 

He doesn't seem to hear you.

"Reid."

"Yes," he says, brain finally kicking back into gear as he gazes up at you.

"Good."

You reward him with another kiss, muffling the angelic noise he makes as you move your hips. Slowly, at first. Easing him back into it so he doesn't unravel immediately.

You fall into a dance, of sorts. A sick, somewhat cruel dance, but a thoroughly enjoyable one—for you, at least. You murmur praises in his ear, fanning hot breath over his skin as you fuck yourself on his cock, bringing him closer and closer to release until he's a babbling mess and you can feel him twitching and pulsing desperately inside of you, and then you stop. You deny him. You mock him. You let him catch his breath. And you continue.

You do this two more times, and with each instance of denial Spencer grows more frustrated. More overstimulated. More pathetic. He ruts into you, or tries to, but it’s sloppy. Too weak to make any difference. Futile, because he stops as soon as you tell him to. 

By the time you even consider letting him finish, he's inconsolable and you're exhausted. But the ache in your legs is nothing; a small price to pay for having him like this. Trembling in your arms. Clinging to you for comfort even though you're the very cause of his suffering. It's terrible, really. You should be ashamed of yourself for getting off on this as much as you do; it's sick, but by God is it cathartic.

Maybe you're power-hungry. Maybe you're desperate for any semblance of control. So frustrated with your own lack of control that you've resorted to taking it out on him. It's nothing he doesn't deserve; it's his fault you feel so out of control. He stirred these stupid emotions within you; it's only right that he be the one to face the consequences—and it's not like he wouldn't benefit from being put in his place for once.

"I-I can't— I can't…"

"Yes, you can."

Spencer's face is buried in your neck, shaking his head desperately as he mumbles nonsense between dulcet whimpers. You keep your voice low as you stroke his hair, babying him in a way he'll probably kill you for later—but it'll be worth it. 

His voice is thick, strained, sounding almost as though he's about to cry. And as you gently coax his head up, that's exactly what you see. Dark eyes glazed with tears. They sit heavy on his waterline. Unshed, but there.

You'd probably feel bad, if it weren't the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen. 

"God." The word escapes you in a breathless sigh. Awe-struck. You cradle his face in your hands, rubbing soothing circles into his burning cheeks as you admire him. "Look at you. So pretty."

What you wouldn't give to snap a photo of him like this. You'd carry it around in your purse; a trump card that you could whip out every time he dared to get on your nerves.

He's still shaking his head. Words reduced to incoherent mumblings as you continue working his poor cock with your cunt. Your legs—thighs, knees, hips—are screaming at you in protest, they have been for a little while now, and your core is impossibly tight; you've been so focused on Spencer, on keeping him on the edge, that you've all but forgotten about chasing your own release. You'll be limping tomorrow, no doubt, and the team will mask their suspicion as concern when they ask if you're okay. You wonder if you'll be able to get away with telling them Spencer hit you with the car; it's not like he'll be able to argue otherwise.

You press your lips to the corner of his eye, kissing away a tear before it can escape down his cheek. 

"You wanna come?"

The string of frantic, broken yesses that fall from his lips is enough to make your fucking head spin.

"Yeah?" You tilt your head, ghosting your lips over his as you continue the steady rock of your hips. "What do you say..?"

All you get in response is a choked whimper. One that sounds dangerously close to a sob. He's gripping your hips so hard you're sure he’ll leave bruises, ten of them, mapping where his fingers were anchored in your skin. 

"Reid." You're beginning to falter yourself. Your voice is starting to shake as you near the end of your rope—and your patience. "Come on, honey, just—"

"I love you."

It takes you a moment—an eternity, it feels—to understand what was just said. Three words, uttered with such an undeniable clarity yet you're sure you've misheard him. You must have. 

But he's burying his face in your neck, hips bucking wildly as he repeats those very words. Whispering them into your skin like a prayer. Over and over. I love you.

Shit. 

Shitshitshit.

He was supposed to say please.

When your hips stutter, uncertain, he moves them for you, bringing you down onto his cock repeatedly as his whispers devolve once more into incoherent whimpers. It's enough to knock the thoughts right out of your head, and you're left with nothing but moans to choke on as you try to reorient yourself.

"That's— fuck, that's it…" you murmur, breathless, in his ear. "You can come…"

Spencer sobs—loud and raw and fucking intoxicating—into your neck, and you feel him break immediately. His self-control shatters and he finishes inside you, emptying himself into your needy cunt as you whine and writhe in his lap. But even when he's spent, he keeps going. His hips move mindlessly, feebly fucking his seed into you as he whimpers incessantly.

"Reid." His name comes out in a shaky whisper, in the space between breaths as your heart pounds and your head spins. You cradle the back of his head, holding him close as he trembles in your arms. "Reid, honey…that's enough…"

You hear him sniffle, and you hold him a little tighter, unsure of whether he's even heard you until his hips finally give up. He slumps forward, leaning his weight on you as he finally lets himself relax—lets himself breathe. You place a hand on his back as you allow yourself to do the same, and you melt into each other. 

Your fingers trail, gently, up and down his back, tracing the curve of his spine as you rest your head on his shoulder. It's too tender of a gesture. Too kind. Too loving. You know that, but you do it anyway. 

He needs this. Comfort. Reassurance. And you're ready to provide for as long as it takes for him to—

"…fuck you."

…come back around. 

He mutters those words, quietly, into your skin. The same place he had whispered I love you just minutes ago. 

Those juxtaposing sentiments react in your stomach, twisting your insides until you’re full of nothing but tense, aching knots. You bark out a weak, exasperated laugh. You have to laugh; God knows what you'd do if you didn't.

Spencer raises his head and meets your gaze, bleary-eyed and exhausted. And soft. Perfectly, painfully soft. And beautiful. He looks like you could love him.

It could be adrenaline. Heightened emotions. Embers of lust that reignite the second you lay eyes on him. Whatever it is, it has you kissing him again. Pulling him in with such urgency you almost miss his lips entirely. Some deranged part of you wants to hear him say it again. And again. And again. Until it's the only thing he knows how to say. The only thing you know how to hear.

Finally relinquishing his grip on your hips, Spencer's hands move to your face without thought, and he kisses you with everything he has. When you try to pull back, he whines. Pulls you in closer. Refuses to let you go even for a moment. You have to reach out blindly in search of the towel. You feel around behind you, leaning back as far as he'll allow you to until, at last, your fingers graze the soft fabric.

And then you feel yourself falling.

You topple over, pulling Spencer down with you as your back hits the mattress. He groans against your lips and pulls away to find you still reaching for that damn towel. He grabs it for you and, before you can get a word in, kisses you again. You raise your hips, hoping he still has enough brains to understand what you're asking of him, and he positions the towel underneath you. 

Pulling out feels like a dam breaking. Punctuated with a wet pop and followed by a gush of something warm. He whines, you shudder, and you don't stop kissing each other until you forget how to breathe. When his lips finally leave yours, his breathing comes ragged. He sits back, kneeling between your burning thighs, and takes in the sight of you with this dazed, almost drunken look that has you throbbing despite your exhaustion. His gaze trails down your body until it settles on the mess between your legs. 

"…Reid—"

By the time you're able to find your words, his face is already level with your cunt. He spreads your folds and watches, transfixed, the way it leaks out of you. He licks up your slit, gathering his own release on his tongue, before diving into you. You're so caught off guard you don't think to try and stifle the outrageous moan that tears through you, and you promptly clamp a hand over your mouth as your head falls back. 

No amount of oh Gods and expletives can account for the expertise with which Spencer Reid uses his tongue. If he isn't fucking you with it, he's circling your clit with it, teasing and sucking on the overstimulated nub until you're writhing so much, he has to pin your hips down with one hand and finger you with the other. 

You're seeing stars before you know it, hurtling towards an orgasm so fast you can barely form a coherent thought before you're there. And you think, for a fleeting moment, that he may keep you there. That is his revenge. And you have never been gladder to have Spencer prove you wrong. Your back arches off the mattress, and you're moaning things that you can't make out through the haze of an aggressive orgasm. It could be his name, a prayer, a curse, or something worse—you don't know.

Your fingers are numb. Your toes, too. They tingle with a static that persists even as your orgasm subsides. You feel Spencer shift. Feel the weight of his head as it rests against your hip. The heat of his breath against your skin.

For a moment, it all goes quiet. Thoughts give way to white noise. Feelings evaporate into a gas that cannot be weighed down by labels.

But peace only lasts as long as it takes for the fog to clear. You return to your sweaty, exhausted body just in time to be swept off your feet by a tsunami of feelings. Anxieties. Emotions that shouldn't exist.

You aren't sure when Spencer and you drifted from the shallow end to the deep end. You aren't sure when things changed. When you crossed that line and cast aside your life jacket when you know you don't know how to swim.

The only thing you're sure of now is that you're drowning. And the only thing keeping you from sinking entirely is the fact that Spencer hasn't noticed yet. 

You nudge him with your foot, navigating your way around the lump in your throat to grumble "needthebathroom", or something vaguely along those lines. Spencer rolls off of you, mumbling something equally incoherent—or maybe you just don't care to hear it—as he rubs his eyes. 

It hurts to move, but you do it anyway. You sit up, trying not to wince as your entire lower half screams in protest, and drag yourself to the edge of the bed. Spencer asks if you're okay, you think, and you give him a vague hum in response. 

Your trembling legs barely manage to carry you to the bathroom, where you collapse with your back to the door and breathe out a long, shuddering sigh. You'd probably scream if you thought he wouldn't hear you. 

I love you.

Immediately, you're dismissing those words. Waving them away like an unwelcome guest. You tell yourself he doesn't mean it. That he can't have meant it, he just…he just…

He wasn't thinking straight. He wasn't thinking at all. Hell, he probably won't even remember it. It's insignificant. Unimportant. 

That’s what you tell yourself, at least. And you really, really hope you’re right.

And if you aren’t...then this might just kill you.