larissa･ﾟ✧･ﾟ

it's never too late to be who you wanna be.

[slowlikeh0ney]

welcome to slowlikeh0ney! ୨ৎ

larissa. 19. she/her. reader. (wannabe) writer. aquarius. lover of all things music, space and ancient history.

my first fanfic: will i see you again? — SR

my inbox is open for chatting and requests :)

hope you enjoy your stay! ⋆˙

gif by @reidgif <3

[brrybasket]

[reidfullyyours]

[linsdoods]

criminal minds scribbles (I’m totally not rewatching cause of prentiss…..)

[h0lym01y]

HEADLOCK : ch. 3

chapter three : too late to stop

masterlist my ao3!

pairing : spencer reid x fem!reader

summary : You're on the hunt for an unsub who's forcing his victims to perform carnal acts or die. What you don't know is that he's set his sights on you and your colleague, Dr. Spencer Reid.

wc : 11k

tags/warnings : no use of y/n, dead dove do not eat, fuck or die, noncon/dubcon, nonconsensual filming, kidnapping, voyeurism, interrogation, mentions of vomit (nothing too graphic), blood, burns, torture, dental based horror, spanking (hand+belt), self mutilation, spencer and our heroine are lowkey starting to lose it.

authors note : CHECK THE TAGS ON THIS CHAPTER FOR WARNINGS

★

Maybe Hotch will make sure the bureau pays for all the therapy you’re gonna need when you get out of here. 

If you get out of here. 

How are you gonna pass a psyche evaluation after this? Sure, you feel sane but a part of you knows that you’re… different. Spencer is too. You don’t leave a place like this unscathed. 

Maybe the team won’t ever find you.

And you’ll spend the rest of your days here, being fucked by Spencer in every possible position until the unsub gets bored or one of you dies. 

Right now, with your lips on his, that doesn’t sound like the worst way to spend however many days you have left. 

You slide yourself closer as you kiss him. It’s nothing like the ravenous, all consuming kisses you share in the throws of passion. It’s soft, it feels natural. You pull away when he doesn’t immediately kiss you back, just to glance at his reaction. 

You only get a moment to look into those big doe eyes before it’s his turn to lean forward as his hands dart up to your face, cupping your cheeks as he closes the gap between you once more. No tongues, no teeth, just the two of you. 

You revel in it, this moment that doesn’t belong to the unsub, or anyone else watching you right now. This is just for you and Spencer. 

When he pulls away it’s only when he has to take a breath, he keeps his forehead pressed to yours. 

“This is… torture.” He murmurs. “And I’ve been tortured, this is so much worse.” 

Yikes, that’s not what you want to hear. 

“Spencer…” 

“You can’t possibly know how abysmal it feels to be here. I would quite literally rather be tortured.” He says it so casually as your mouth settles into a deep frown, his gaze softens. “Not like that, not because of you, well actually, all because of you.” He’s quick to correct himself but he isn’t making you feel any less bad about kissing him if this is his reaction. 

“That doesn’t make it any better.” You mumble, wanting to shrink away but his hands are still on your face, his thumb moving in small, gentle circles.

He chews his lip, lost in thought for a moment before he nods to himself, like he’s figured it out. 

“Did you know that torture is one of the most ineffective ways to get information out of a person?” 

“Yes Spencer, I went through the same training you did.” 

“Statistically speaking it just doesn’t work, even when you manage to ‘break’ your victim, over seventy percent of the time their mental state has been compromised or they give false information to make the abuse stop. It’s extremely hard to get someone to talk if they’ve resigned themself to not doing so.”

“This really isn’t what girls want to hear after they kiss you, you have kissed someone before right?” You swear you heard a rumor about Spencer and some actress he met on a case. 

“I’ve been tortured.” He’s really hammering this point home. 

“I know, Emily told me what happened, I’m so sorry Spencer I’m just a little confused as to how that applies to this-” 

“And even through being physically tortured and…” His voice trails off for a moment but he shakes it off. “I was in a sense ‘broken’ but I still gave false information to my captor. I never fully complied. I lied, I stayed in the moment as best I could, always focused on survival, I refused to give up.” 

You just sort of nod in response, hoping that you didn’t break his brain when you kissed him. 

“And now I’m here, trapped in a cement box with you, and that’s all it took.” He’s talking like he does when he’s found some great break in the case. 

“I’m still not following.”

“All it took was you.” His brow furrows as his gaze intensifies. “He put me in a room with you and I broke immediately, I immediately gave in to my base instincts and did everything he wanted. He served you up to me on a silver platter and I couldn’t concentrate on anything else because a part of me felt… grateful. How sick is that?”

Grateful.

“Not that sick.” Your response is immediate, if that makes him sick what does it make you?

“Do you know how it feels to have the one thing you’ve wanted for so long, given to you in the absolute worst way possible? The guilt I feel for liking it, for wanting it, it’s eating up my insides worse than any drug ever has.”

The one thing you’ve wanted for so long. 

You know exactly how it feels. 

“Spencer, it’s okay.” You finally manage to snap him out of his ranting.

“Is this real?” His whisper is so soft he’s practically just mouthing the words. 

You kiss him again, a wordless answer to his question. 

“You’re sort of a romantic in the strangest, most morbid way possible.” You say against his lips in between kisses. “Only you could make torture sound so passionate.”  

“You make me feel like I’m losing my mind.” He doesn’t bother to pull away either as he mumbles against your mouth. 

Maybe he is, maybe you are too. 

You can think about that tomorrow, you’d like to spend the rest of the night making out with him. It’s hard to think about the morality of all of this with his mouth, so sweet and warm against yours. 

★

You must have fallen asleep at some point, when you wake your body is intertwined with his. You sigh against him, enjoying the last few moments of normalcy before your waking nightmare begins all over again. 

“I’ve been thinking.” You jump a bit at the sound of his voice, tilting your head up you can see he’s wide awake, the dark circles under his eyes look even more prominent than usual. 

“How long have you been up?”

“A while, we should start considering soon that we may have to be responsible for our own escape. I don’t see a scenario in which the team finds us unless they get remarkably lucky.”

“There is no escape, unless you know how to get through steel doors.” You stretch, leaning back into him as he adjusts himself to fit his body against yours. 

“There’s always a way, I just haven’t figured it out yet.” 

“Well let me know when you do.” 

“His emotional response to the scene yesterday has me concerned. I’m worried we might see considerable escalation today.” 

“That doesn’t make sense, our compliance should keep him placated.” You flip yourself around so you’re face to face with him now. 

“Normally I’d agree with you but the reaction was almost too positive. Now that he’s hooked he’ll need more to get the same rush.”

“So we should stop complying?” That doesn’t sound like a good idea. 

“No, that would be even more dangerous.” 

“Then what are we supposed to do?”

“What we’ve been doing, whatever he asks of us.”

Great. 

“Good morning superstars.” He didn’t give you anytime to register that the intercom had even clicked on. “I see the two of you are feeling a lot more chatty, that is wonderful news. Now, as much as I love a nice emotional scene, your fans are not as interested in that. I think it is time to really test your limits as actors.” 

That’s not what you want to hear. 

“Are you up for a little roleplay?”

Definitely not what you want to hear.

“Listen closely, I do not enjoy repeating myself. On the underside of the sink in the bathroom I have taped a slip of paper, on it I have written my name, date of birth, and address. All the things your team would need to save you, of course if you reveal them during filming I will censor it, we are not done playing just yet.” You take his hand in yours instinctively squeezing. “I would like my leading lady to go, memorize her lines and then flush the paper. As she busies herself I would like Dr. Reid to move the props onto the set, I think you will know how I would like everything. Afterwards I will explain the contents of the scene.”

The door clicks in a way that’s starting to feel familiar. This time when you step out you’re surprised to find the hallway filled. There’s a small wooden desk, a duffle bag, and two metal chairs. He cocks an eyebrow at everything but does as he’s been requested, you can hear the scraping of metal as he drags the desk in. You focus yourself on fishing around under the sink, sure enough you find a folded scrap of paper. 

With trembling hands you unfold it, you’re a little surprised when you find exactly what he promised you would. 

Peter J. Hill

February 4th, 1989

301 Broadway W, Seattle Washington, 98137

Peter Hill. Just a normal, generic name, yet the sight of it makes you tense up. 

You repeat the information under your breath, over and over again until it’s branded on your brain, you couldn’t forget it if you tried. As instructed, once it’s memorized you flush it, stepping back out into the main room Spencer has set the desk up with the chairs on either side. His focus is entirely on the contents of the duffle bag, he’s holding it open. His mouth is pulled into a tight straight line and his brows are furrowed, you aren’t sure you even want to know what he’s looking at. That doesn’t stop you from trying to sneak a peek before he zips it shut, tossing it down.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to see that.”

“What? Why?” You’re about to reach around him for it but the intensity of his gaze stops you.

“Because I think I know that the scene is.”

“Brilliant Dr. Reid, always one step ahead, it is a shame you cannot help your team solve your own case, maybe they would have found you by now. Tell her what we will be doing today.” 

“It’s an interrogation.” He looks white as a sheet. “We profiled him as a sexual psychopath, not a sexual sadist.”

“Maybe you were right about me, Doctor.” 

“Interrogation? What information could he probably want from us?”

“Not from us.”

“From you angel. I would really like to see you from a damsel in distress angle, I just think you would be so perfect for it.”

“Spencer, what is he talking about?” When you turn to look at him you step back, he looks like he’s going to be sick. 

“Would you be so kind as to retrieve the timer from the bag, Dr. Reid?”

You watch with bated breath as he does just that, a blinking red digital timer set for three hours, waiting to be activated. 

“In a moment I will be starting the timer, and the brilliant Dr. Reid is going to show off some of his FBI skills for us. I want to see the best the bureau has to offer, make her talk or you won’t like what happens.”

“What’s the incentive? I don’t understand…” Your eyes are still locked on Spencer, he’s clearly figured out something that you haven’t.

“It’s a game, against each other. There’s a winner and a loser.” You’ve never seen him look so terrified, his hands don’t twitch nervously, they just tremble. "Which means ramifications for the loser."

“I like you more and more everyday Dr. Reid, we practically finish each other's sentences.” A chuckle crackles over the speaker. “He is exactly right, the winner decides the fate of the other.”

It’s an easy choice, if losing means you save Spencer from some kind of punishment then you’ll just give up whenever you’ve put on a sufficient performance. 

“So I just have to give him your information and he wins?” You speak up into the faceless void of wires on the ceiling that you’ve begun to associate with your captor.  

“I would not be so quick to do so my dearest. You don’t even know what the prizes are yet. And in order to secure your prize I expect a show, you do not want to know what is in store for you if I am not impressed.” 

“We know what your expectations are at this point.” You sneer up at where you can only hope the camera might be. 

“You sound so excited to begin so I will not make you wait much longer. If you win, angel, and he is not able to break you, you will be rewarded with a little trip out of the bunker. You and I will enjoy a nice dinner together, candles, wine, I will pull out all the stops for you. Nothing but the best for my headliner.” 

You feel as sick as Reid looks. 

“And if Dr. Reid wins. I will reward him with a little dental procedure.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Your voice is shrill, you can’t even glance at Spencer anymore as he continues speaking. 

“Two teeth, I do not care which ones, he can choose, are to be removed.” 

“This isn’t even a choice, you can’t expect us to play along with this or give you any sort of meaningful show, obviously I’m not going to tell him anything.”

“I think your precious doctor might disagree. Best of luck you two, your timer starts now.” 

You watch as the clock starts ticking down from the three hour mark, collapsing into one of the chairs, cringing as the metal shrieks against the floor. 

“This is ridiculous, what kind of show can he expect us to put on, I’m clearly not going to tell you and you obviously don’t want me to.” When you finally brave another glance at him he looks apologetic. His fingers twitching against his palm. 

He gives you an apologetic half smile before he stares at the floor. And you know exactly what he’s thinking.

“No.” Stern and serious the word leaves your lips before you've even fully processed the look in his eyes. “Don’t be stupid Spencer.”

The vibe in the room has shifted so violently it nearly gives you whiplash. Whatever cautious, intimate energy you had is replaced with rigid anticipation. 

How quickly your captor can flip the script. 

“You know it wouldn’t just be dinner.” His voice cracks as he murmurs. 

“That doesn’t matter.” You stand, slamming your hand down on the table. “This isn’t even a discussion.”

“I agree, it isn’t.” His eyes are downcast, both of you are standing defensively now, bodies angled almost aggressively towards each other. 

The timer blinks in your peripheral vision. 

“Spencer, we can’t do this.”

“We have to.” His voice is strained now as he flexes his jaw. “If we don’t then he’ll separate us. If you win he’ll separate us, I- it isn’t even a hard choice.”

“I’m a big girl, Spencer. I can handle myself, we aren’t pulling your fucking teeth out over this, absolutely not. I am telling you no.” 

He crumples himself down on the floor, sitting with his knees hugged to his chest. 

“You don’t understand, with the escalation we’re seeing if he were to be left alone with you…” He rakes his fingers against his scalp, a mannerism you’ve seen from him several times in high stress situations. 

“I- No. I don’t care, we aren’t discussing this any further. We can put on a little show or whatever it is that he wants. You can fuck me and try to get a confession out of me, I don’t care but I’m not entertaining this.” You sit back down, letting yourself relax a little bit as he sighs, sounding defeated. 

You let your head fall backwards, silently cursing Peter Hill as you stare at the ceiling. 

“Can I kiss you?” His voice is small, you’re a little taken aback by the request so you just nod. 

“Yeah, of course Spence. But we also need to figure out what we’re doing here, if we don’t put on a good show then I’m worried we’ll be living out both punishments.” You turn your head back towards him, he’s standing beside you, crouched down so he can catch your lips against his, his hands cup your face for a moment before sliding down your body, he holds your hand for a moment, squeezing. It’s almost a little awkward but you don’t mind. When he pulls away you take a breath as you’re met with that apologetic smile again. 

“I’m so sorry.” He leans forward and gives you another peck on the lips and before you can register what’s happening you hear a click and he grips your wrist tight.

“Spencer, what the f-” You start to stand but his hands push down on your shoulders, hard, you immediately realize one of your hands is cuffed. Before you can react he’s got your other wrist, with a click you’re once again restrained with your hands behind your back. 

“I am so, so, so sorry, and if we get out of this and you find it in your heart to forgive me I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

You yank on the cuffs, they’re metal and the second you pull against them you know they aren’t coming off without a key. 

“Spencer, let me go, now.” Your mouth immediately settles into a scowl. A stern look on your face as you try to stay calm.

“You know I can’t do that.”

“I’m serious.” 

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” His begging is so genuine, as if he’s the one restrained right now. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Three hours is a lot of time, and I think if we come to an agreement then this doesn’t have to get out of hand.”

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“You will.” He tosses the duffle bag up and onto the table, you can see that it’s unzipped again, the bastard must have grabbed the cuffs when you weren’t looking.

“I won’t, I’ve had the same training that you have.”

“Exactly. I know every strategy and coping mechanism you’ve been taught.” 

Well, that’s not good. 

“Lets put on a show, make a real spectacle out of ourselves for an hour, I promise I won’t hurt you, but you have to tell me at the end of the hour.”

“No.” Your resolve stands firm, this is not happening.

“Sweetheart, please.” He kneels beside your chair. “I’m begging you not to do this.” 

The look in his eyes is almost enough to break you. Wide eyed and pleading with you but all you can do is shake your head. 

“No. I’m sorry Spencer.” You keep your voice stern even if you want to cry when he rests his head on your leg.

“You know there’s no safeword, there’s no stopping point. Do you understand what I have to do to you now?” His voice cracks again. 

You do know.

Unfortunately. 

Everything in his power to make you talk. 

If the roles were reversed you’d do the exact same thing. You understand him completely. Which is why you know that he understands why you can’t let him win. 

You brave a glance at the clock, less than ten minutes have passed. It’s going to be a long morning. 

When he finally stands up he clears his throat. His expression suddenly unreadable as he moves across the table, rubbing his hand over his face as if he’s trying to wipe away any emotion. You watch, silently, as he takes the other chair and sets it aside. 

“In an interrogation when you’re trying to empathize with the other person you sit, make them feel heard, make it a conversation. Stand when you want them to feel less than you, when you want to make them feel trapped.”

Spencer had said that to you once, when you watched Hotch sit with an unsub, he inflated his ego, tried to make him feel like he had outsmarted all of you. You’d asked questions and Spencer had been happy to answer. Now those answers ring around in your head.

You focus on keeping your breathing as even as possible as he starts to dig through the bag. You don’t look away and you don’t react when he starts setting the contents on the table. 

More cuffs.

A thick leather belt. 

A large red candle with a lighter.

A knife with a large blade. 

A hammer and pliers. 

“Really, you want me to believe you’re about to use a hammer on me?” You scoff, he doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Try to remember we’re performing.” He’s robotic as he tosses the bag back down to the floor, the heavy thunk tells you there’s plenty still in there. 

“It’s a good move, to lay everything out. Very effective.” You murmur, not sounding nearly as unbothered as you’d hoped to. 

“Stop talking.” He doesn’t raise his voice, he doesn’t even bother to look at you as he speaks. His expression has darkened so severely you feel compelled to comply.

You sit up a little taller, trying to not feel so small compared to him as he leans forwards, looking over everything.

“I’m not going to bother trying to reason with you any further, it’s a waste of time, you aren’t going to listen. I’m going to start simple, and give you an opportunity to see the error in your ways before I do anything too drastic. Every half hour that you let pass is going to result in an increase in the severity of my actions.” He never breaks eye contact with you as he speaks and it makes your hair stand on edge.

For the first time since you were taken you don’t feel safe with him.

If you said no right now he wouldn’t stop. 

Don’t act like that doesn’t almost make it better. 

Now is not the time for your perverse tendencies to shine, you can’t disassociate and forget the stakes anymore. This isn’t just another scene where you get fucked and try and process it later, there are consequences to your actions now. Consequences that only affect him, leaving you to bear the guilt of your choices.  

The timer lets you know it’s been about fifteen minutes, he seems to have come to a decision as his hand hovers over everything on the table, he takes the lighter in his hand, fiddling with it for a moment before he lights the candle. It’s one of those thick and short ones, the size of a can. 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He finally breaks eye contact with you as he stares down at the floor. 

“I know.” It feels weird to be reassuring him right now. 

He walks around the table until he's standing behind you, gentle with you as he repositions you so you’re bent over the table.

He kicks your legs further apart, one hand on your lower back.

“Simple and painful enough to show you that I’m serious.” He mumbles to himself as you turn your head to try and get a better look at him to no avail as he keeps himself just out of your sight line. “Not so boring that it would result in retaliation.” You chew on the inside of your cheek all the while he’s still mumbling to himself. 

His hand rests on your lower back.

“Bruises are actually one of the safest injuries to have, because the skin is left unbroken it's the injury that puts you at the least risk for infection. We’re gonna start with thirty minutes and see if that makes you eager to talk.”

Only Reid would give you facts about the beating he’s about to give you.

You flinch involuntarily when he raises his hand. 

Fuck.

He does not hold back. 

Loud and firm as his hand connects with your ass, immediately you bite your lip, stifling a yelp. 

You want to scold him, or curse him out, or do literally anything but he gives you no options as his hand on your lower back pins you down and another blow connects. It’s so wildly clinical, the way his face screws up, like he has to do this. 

Maybe he does, you can’t really know what the reverse scenario would be. Would you let him face the unsub alone? You want to confidently say yes but deep down you know that isn’t true. 

You don’t get much time to dwell on it, your focus is reoriented when he hits you again. 

★

“Let’s go over everything again.” 

“We’ve already gone over this a dozen times, Hotch. Nothing changes and every second we don’t find them puts them more at risk.” Morgan hasn’t sat down once in the last twelve hours, alternating between standing over the table staring at photos and transcripts and pacing the room. 

“I just don’t understand why you can’t find them. This guy’s uploading at least one video a day.” Hotch turns back to his computer where Agent Garcia’s face fills the screen, her eyes flitting back and forth across her own monitors. 

“This guy isn’t dumb, every video he uploads he uses a different VPN and location for.” She never looks at the camera, too lost in tabs upon tabs of information. 

“Is it possible that any of these locations might be the actual one?” Hotch’s brow furrows. 

“None of them are anywhere close to Seattle, sir. Based on the upload time of the first video we know they’re still in the city somewhere.” Her face scrunches up as she looks away from her screen. “There’s a new upload.” 

“God damnit.” Derek grumbles as he puts his head in his hands. 

“Can you get it taken down before it spreads?” If it’s possible Hotch sounds even more grave than he usually does. 

“I can try, but he has some sort of bot set up, by the time I get it taken down two more pop up on another site.”  Her voice cracks. Everyone knows just by looking at her that she’s been crying most of the morning. 

“Forward us the link Garcia, you don’t have to watch it.” Hotch sits down in front of his laptop, waiting for the video to download. 

“Well, the thing is, this one is different.” Her expression is that of confusion as the video plays out on her own monitor. 

“Different how?” For the first time in hours Emily speaks up, previously lost in her own notes and files. 

“He isn’t directing them to do anything, and it’s dark in the room.” 

“They didn’t know they were being recorded.” Hotch clicks impatiently on the file, as if it can make it load faster.  

“They’re just talking and- oh.” 

“Garcia?” Hotch’s voice rings out clear.

“I feel like I shouldn’t be watching this.” 

“Forward it to us, I can take care of it.” For the first time in most of their careers, Hotch doesn’t sound so sure.  

He has to. 

Two members of his team, taken at the same time. The entire thing is being posted online as it’s happening. He should be able to stop this.   

Reid’s only twenty seven. 

And then there’s you, just a few years younger. 

Digging his fingernails into his palm he straightens up, everyone needs to keep it together. 

★

You can’t seem to stop crying.

Of course you’re crying, it fucking hurts. That doesn’t mean you’re any closer to telling him. 

His hand ended up being not so bad, it was the belt that really hurt.

He put the timer in front of you so you could watch as the seconds agonizingly tick down. It feels like the longest thirty minutes of your life and when it’s done you can’t help but sigh in relief, the side of your face is damp as you lay in a puddle of your own tears. 

“Are you okay?” He doesn’t help you up, you’ve still got plenty of time together, but he does bring you some water, tilting the bottle so it flows into your mouth.

“As good as I can be.” You try to sound sarcastic but you just sound hurt as your voice trembles. 

“Are you ready to be all done?” As he talks he takes the knife, flipping it in his hands a few times before he lets it rest on the edges of the candle, the blade hovering directly above the flame. 

“Am I ready to talk? No, I’m not.” This time you do manage to keep your voice steady. 

“Maybe another thirty minutes would help.” You fight the urge to groan, especially when he leans down and plants a kiss on your shoulder before standing up straight. He drags the belt across the raw skin of your ass before sliding it down to the backs of your thighs. You press your forehead down onto the cool metal of the table as the first smack hits the sensitive skin there. 

★

“So?” Morgan’s the first to speak when Hotch returns, looking haggard. The look on his face would be concerning on any case, it sets everyone on edge. 

“They’re… okay.” He sits, sorting through the pile of files in front of him. 

“Okay? That’s it? In the last video he was mouthfucking her and now they’re just okay?” 

“Don’t be gross Derek.” Emily scowls, this whole situation has left her sick to her stomach. 

“I’m not being gross, I'm being realistic.”

“It was an intimate moment that they wouldn’t want shared with the team.” Hotch murmurs as he rubs at the worry lines on his forehead. How is he gonna explain a video of his agents confessing feelings for each other and making out?

“More intimate than what we’ve already seen?” The angry edge to Morgan's voice has been unrelenting since the night they were taken. 

“I’m making a call as the unit chief that is in the best interest of our team. End of discussion.” 

How the hell is he supposed to tell his team that he doesn’t really understand what’s happening in that room anymore? That he just needs to get them out before they forget that they’re being held there against their will. 

“We’re gonna circle back to every living victim, and I mean every single one of them. Somebody has to have something that will give us some kind of clue as to who we’re dealing with.” He splits the files up into even groups, spreading them out between the dwindling members of the team. “I want everyone on the phone until somebody can give me something new.” He keeps his tone even as Emily and JJ stand, eager to get out of the stuffy room. 

“What’s on the video?” Derek closes the door, leaving the two of them alone. 

“I told you, it isn’t important.”

“Then what’s got you so freaked out.” 

Hotch looks like he’s seen a ghost and he knows it. 

“I just- I keep waiting for him to snap out of it.” Aaron keeps his voice low, as if anyone outside of the conference room can hear him.

“The unsub? I don’t think he’s gonna snap out of whatever movie magic delusion he’s living in.”

“Reid.” Hotch breathes out his name, thinking of the team's boy genius, and how he didn’t seem to be thinking with his brain these days. 

“The kid?” 

“When he was taken by Tobias Hankle he was in the same situation, he knew he was being filmed and could send us messages, and help us get him out.” He glances down at his watch. It’s been almost sixty hours since they were taken. “All he does is think, every one of his actions is always taken with intentionality, he’s an anxious overthinker.”

“I’m not following, Hotch.”

“This time, there’s nothing, no glance to the camera, no hand signals, word play, nothing. It’s like he has no self preservation skills in there. He should be keeping his distance from her outside of the scenes to keep the unsub placated but he doesn’t, he jumps at every opportunity to give her whatever she wants, to be as close to her as possible, knowing that it could result in retaliation from the unsub.” 

“They’re both in a really bad spot right now. I don't see why it matters if he’s trying to keep her happy.” Morgan jumps to Reid's defense on instinct. 

“Because he understands the profile. Now that we know what he was always after, that changes things. He’s an organized offender, he’s motivated by his need to control the scene and his obsession with her. The killing meant nothing to him, it was simply a way to punish those who wouldn’t obey. He’s a sexual predator with obsessive tendencies. Under no circumstances should he be pushed in anyway, it will always have negative effects but Reid just… keeps pushing." 

“Is it possible he’s misunderstood the profile?”

“When has Reid ever been wrong? It’s like he suddenly has no regard for his own safety, look, I’m not blind, I’ve seen the flirting between the two of them around the bullpen. But this isn’t flirting, he’s blatantly throwing self preservation to the wind.”

“It sounds like you’re profiling Reid now.”

“I am. Right now he’s a danger to himself. The unsub is spiteful and cruel. But Reid knows he won’t hurt her, he’s the only one in danger right now and he’s doing nothing to take the target off his back.” 

★

You stop watching the clock after five minutes, closing your eyes you stop trying to swallow down your squeaks of pain with each hit of the belt. Thirty fucking minutes of torment.

Every strike of the belt leaves you what you can only assume is a pretty nasty red welt. Very rarely do you find yourself in a situation where Spencer doesn’t fill the silence with random facts about something niche, or a statistic relevant to your position. 

Remember that this is a scene. 

He doesn’t want to do this, he has to. Perform or the consequences will be worse than separation and missing teeth. 

He doesn’t want to hurt you. 

He’s silent, other than his heavy breathing from the effort required to continuously tear into the meat of your thighs. 

You cry out with every hit, no sense in trying to look tough anymore, he knows it hurts. 

You take every single one. 

It’s easier when you think about why you have to do this. The image of a faceless man with his hand in Spencer's mouth, yanking out his teeth flashes across your vision. 

You’re anticipating another hit but it doesn’t come, slowly, you peek your eyes open.

Oh thank god. 

One hour and forty minutes left. 

Over an hour down. 

He undoes the cuffs behind your back and he’s quick to reconnect one of your wrists to a loop on the top of the desk. He pushes you back until you’re sitting in the chair, the cold metal stings against your raw flesh, drawing a hiss out from between your teeth. He remains silent as he sits across from you. 

“Can we talk about this, please, just for a few minutes.” Your goal is to sound as natural as possible, like this is an everyday conversation. You aren’t sure if it comes out that way. 

His eyes flit over to the timer. 

“I just don’t think we have anything to talk about if you aren’t going to tell me what I want to know.” God he’s stubborn.

“I just want you to hear me out, then I’ll hear you out, okay?”

He sits back, combing his fingers through his hair. 

“Fine, ten minutes” He flips the knife over the flame, the metal of the blade’s covered in a thin layer of soot now. 

“I need you to think reasonably, he’s been a man of his word so far, if I’m left along with him it sounds like we’ll have dinner and talk and that’ll be all. I’ll be back here before you know it.” You try to sound like the idea of being alone with Peter doesn’t absolutely terrify you. “The alternative is something dangerous and permanent.” You say your peace, staring at him as you wait for a response. 

“No.”

“No?” Well you weren’t expecting that. You were expecting intelligent and rational Dr. Reid to listen to reason, or at the very least, consider it. 

“No. You heard me. I cannot sit back and willingly let you do this. You think that you’re biting the bullet here and that you’re doing something to ‘protect’ me, but all you’re doing is getting yourself killed.” 

“You aren’t listening-”

“No, you aren’t. The man that we’re dealing with is an obsessive, sadist. If you’re left alone with him he won’t be able to control himself. It’s why we’re in here and he’s out there. He knows that once he finally takes his favorite toy out of the box he’s going to break it. If you go with him you won’t be coming back.” 

“I just don’t think he’s a sadist, he doesn’t kill for sexual gratification, he kills when he doesn’t get his way. As long as I do what he says I’ll be fine.” 

“You say that like it's so easy to follow orders from a serial rapist and killer. You don’t know what he’ll ask of you, and what happens if you don’t live up to his every expectation.”

“Whatever, let’s agree to disagree.”

“No, I don’t agree with you at all. I’m right, and if you’re going to make me hurt you to keep you alive and safe then that’s what I’m going to do.” He takes the knife, careful to never touch the blade. “Where do you want it?” 

“Spencer.”

You can tell by the way his eyes frantically flit around that he’s cracking under the pressure of the clock. 

“Make a choice or I will, we’re running out of time and if you won’t listen then I have to do this. I was thinking on your torso, across your ribs, that way it’s covered by most clothes. You won’t be able to wear crop tops and you’ll be stuck with one piece swim suits but that’s not so bad. At least I’ll still have a couple of teeth that no one ever sees.” Oh he’s pissed. He lifts the side of your top, the skin of your hips and waist are still dark purple, why not add a few more marks? 

“Don’t act like this is up to me. You’re choosing to do this.” You hiss. 

“Torso it is.” The hand not holding the knife grabs your free wrist, pinning it to the table. “You don’t understand at all. I can’t let you do this, there’s nothing I won’t do to stop you.” 

You watch, unable to tear your eyes away as he presses the thin edge of the heated blade against your ribs for just a few seconds before pulling it back. You’re hit with a searing white pain as a white line sizzles itself into your skin. It’s a completely different pain that the one you’ve endured from the spanking, you’d rather deal with that ten times over than then deal with this.  

You don’t recognize the cry that leaves your throat. 

Jagged and pained. 

With the way Spencer flinches you’d think that he was the one who was burned. 

You wait for the next burn but it doesn’t come. Instead he stands, carefully setting the blade back down onto the candle. His jaw is locked so tightly you’re worried he’s going to pop a blood vessel. 

He stares at you, eyes roaming from your tear soaked face down to the burn. 

You expect to see impatience, or a tired annoyance. 

Instead you just see shame, all of the bravado he had vanished at the sound of your anguished cry. 

An immediate regret for his actions.

Something about his sadness makes you forget that he even hurt you to begin with. You just want to comfort him. 

Jesus. 

Maybe you’re both going crazy. How long have you been here? It can’t be that long, a day or two? 

Spencer looks positively disturbed. 

Maybe he finally realized that you’re right, and it probably isn’t worth it to go through all of this just to end up with a bloody mouth.  

He’s quick on his feet as he hurries across the room and out the door, you stare, worried as he darts into the bathroom. You turn away at the sound of him retching. Facing the clock and watching as it ticks down another twenty minutes, ever so slowly. Accompanied by the sounds of Spencer spewing the contents of his stomach up. 

Finally, after what feels like forever you hear the water running, and a few moments after that he returns. Pale and distraught. 

He looks different. Changed. Like something has snapped. 

You almost ask him if he’s okay. 

Instead you clear your throat.

“What next, Spence?” 

He has to have an idea. You have to finish out the scene, even if hurting you apparently makes him retch. He looks so ashamed, maybe he won’t be able to bring himself to do this anymore.

Returning to the center of the room he takes another set of cuffs, leaning over the table to attach your free hand to the back of the chair. It’s an awkward position. One hand laid out on the table and the other behind you. You don’t question it, you’re too busy watching, holding your breath as he picks up the hammer. 

He must not feel too bad if this is what he’s gonna do next. 

“Don’t make me do this.” His whisper is so sincere. Pleading with you for any submission you can offer him. 

“I’m not making you do anything.” Unfortunately you have nothing to give at this point. You won’t let him make this sacrifice. Not when the alternative is far less gory. 

At least you hope it is. 

“You can make this stop.” He balances himself, leaning against the table, one hand splayed out and the other gripping the hammer so hard his knuckles are white. 

“So can you.” 

He chews his lip, eyes wide and wet around the edges. 

“Don’t move your hand, I don’t want this to be any worse than it needs to be.”

His words make you freeze in place, your hand rests palm down on the table, fingers spread.

You keep telling yourself through all of this that he would never really hurt you. 

Just beat and burn you.

Suddenly you’re not so sure. 

You probably should have considered that was something he was capable of before you let him cuff you to the table without any resistance.

He really has lost it.

He’s convinced himself that this is the only way to ‘save’ you.

And you’re stuck trying to save him. Let him torture you to save him from torture. Or save yourself from any more agony and subject him to the same thing. 

It’s the same choice he’s trapped in. 

You should have asked yourself how far he might go to get you to talk. You would go pretty far.  

“I’m sorry.” His voice snaps you out of your thoughts, he seems to have made up his mind, a look of resolution in his eyes. “It’s kinda funny, it didn’t really matter what the alternative was, I was never going to let you go with him. He could have threatened to break every bone in my body and I would still be doing this.” 

When he raises the hammer you flinch, he gives you one last look, pleading with his eyes but you just shake your head. When he slams it down you shriek, wincing as you feel a fresh flood of tears flowing out of your eyes.

You’re waiting for the adrenaline to fade, for the pain to hit. When it doesn’t you slowly open your eyes, flexing your fingers everything feels fine. You’re staring down to your perfectly intact hand. 

With a splatter of red across it. 

Across the table from you his left hand is splayed out, where the tip of his pinky should be there’s only a red splat. 

Your mouth falls open as your breath hitches. 

The remainder of the finger twitches, still spurting blood. He moves quickly and efficiently as he takes the knife off of the candle. Crying out in pain as he smashes what’s left of his pinky against it, effectively cauterizing the wound. 

What the fuck. 

“Please sweetheart, just tell me, if you tell me we can stop.” His voice is strained and higher pitched, tinged with the agony you know he must be feeling. You try to reach out to him but he’s done a damn good job restraining you.  

“Spencer stop, please, please stop.” You’ve got tears and snot running down your face at this point, he’s clearly got tears streaking down his face as well but his resolve never wavers, his hand is back on the table. Fingers splayed wide as the smell of burning flesh hits your nostrils. “Don’t, Spence, please.” You start to babble incoherently as he raises the hammer again, his eyebrows furrowed but there isn’t a moment's hesitation as he stares down at you.

“Tell me.” He whispers, when you stare back at him wordlessly he nods, as if reassuring himself before bringing the hammer down again. You don’t have the foresight to look away this time so you’re forced to watch, horrified, as he eviscerates the tip of his ring finger. A fresh splatter of red decorates the table. He’s out of breath, and so pale you’re worried he might pass out. He doesn’t waste any time as he retrieves the blade once more, trembling so badly he nearly drops it before he repeats the same process of burning the flesh around his finger until the bleeding stops. Your entire body shakes as you dig the cuffs deeper into your wrists, futilely trying to do something, anything to make him stop.

“Spencer. I am telling you to stop. Right now.” You want to sound authoritative, but your voice trembles so bad you just sound like a scared child. 

“I don’t see how this is better than a couple of teeth but we can keep going if you think this is what you prefer.” He’s out of breath, his chest heaving. His whisper is so dejected it only serves to make your tears flow faster. 

God, is he right? Is this better than a couple of teeth? Your brain can’t process anything right now, you’re too fraught. 

“Anything else Spencer, I will give you anything else, just fucking stop, please.” You don’t comprehend his escalation, how can he go from such tame actions against you to this, why the fuck does he care so much? 

“You know what I want. And if this is the only way I can get it then this is what we’re doing.” He’s already splaying his hand out on the table in front of you again, you can’t look away from his mangled fingers, half of his hand is out of balance. 

“Wait! Just wait a second! Please, Spencer, if you care about me at all you won’t do this. If any part of you feels the devotion you claim to have for me you’ll stop. Just stop.” His hand is close enough to yours now that you manage to reach out and touch your finger tips to what remains of his. “Anything else, in the whole world, I’ll give you anything else, do anything else, just stop.” You whisper the words, like you’re trying to talk someone down off a ledge, which technically, you are. 

“There’s only one thing that I want.” 

“Please.”

At least I’ll still have a couple of teeth that no one ever sees. He’s certainly proving that point right now. 

“There’s only one thing I’ve ever wanted, and I’ll be damned if I let this man take that away from me.” You’ve never been as afraid of him as you are now. Eyes wide and focused, and surprisingly coherent for a man who just smashed his fingertips off with a hammer. He could have done so many other things, so many less violent things before going straight for this. 

“Spencer.”

“We’ve got so much time left, once I get through all my fingertips I can only imagine what I’ll have to do to myself to make you understand.”

“I understand you perfectly fine, Spencer. I understand that you’ve completely lost it.” Your voice cracks, you try to reach him again but he pulls his hand back, spreading his fingertips wide so there’s no room for error. 

“If you understood me at all you would know that it doesn’t matter what the alternative is, there is never going to be a situation where I choose to let you be alone with him, I don’t care if he’s chained to the wall and you have a gun. He doesn’t get to be in a room with you, he doesn’t get to touch you, he doesn’t get to talk to you, he doesn’t get to breathe your air.” He sounds like he’s giving one of his lectures as he manages to pull himself together long enough to regain his composure and stand up straight. “Now, tell me. Because once I get through my fingers I’m going to start pulling my teeth out, and all of this will have been for nothing. Then, I’m going to line them up right here.” He drags the hammer leisurely in a line across the table just out of your reach. “To remind you, that I’m doing this for you, because you’re all I care about. To show you just how devoted I am.”

You don’t have time to unpack that right now, not while he’s still holding the hammer. 

“Spencer.”

“Tell me.”

“Spence.” As your voice hitches up an octave as his eyes squint, like he’s bracing himself again. 

God, maybe he’s right, how can this possibly be worse than two teeth? 

“Please.” Your heart breaks in two as his own voice turns to a soft whimper, he sounds so fucking scared.

When his eyes squeeze shut your own go wide with the raise of the hammer. 

“Peter Hill! Peter J. Hill, he- he was born on February fourth, in nineteen eighty nine.” The words fly out of your mouth as he slams the hammer down again, you sob as it hits the table. He pulls his hand back just in time, you’re on the verge of hysterics, you can’t seem to catch your breath as you inhale sharply, no amount of air seems to be enough. 

“I need the address.” His voice is hoarse and he’s as out of breath as you are. 

“Three zero one, West Broadway, Seattle, Washington, nine, eight, one, three, seven.” You mumble, you put your head down on the cold metal, still slick with blood. You don’t care at this point. 

There’s a faint beeping sound as the timer blinks, permanently stuck just above the forty minute mark. 

You don’t move.

You don’t sigh in relief. 

You don’t react, or even listen when the intercom clicks and the low voice demands more things you don’t want to hear. 

Your body is still heaving with sobs as he clicks the key into the cuffs, your wrist twitches involuntarily. You don’t turn to look when the time beeps again. Spencer does, he’s saying something to you but the words just aren’t registering with you.

Eventually he grabs your shoulders and shakes you.

“Sweetheart, you did so good, we’re almost done.” How is he holding it together right now? He takes your hands in his, all you can do is stare at the missing fingertips, burned black on the ends. “Hey, honey, I need you to focus for a few more minutes.” You finally manage to meet his eyes as he gives your hands a gentle squeeze. 

Hotch said something once about how the most important time to remain calm is when one of your teammates is freaking out. Someone always has to be in control. 

“You don’t call me honey, you don’t call anyone honey.” You murmur, like you’re in a trance. 

“I know, but you’re so sweet, you’re so good, I just can’t help it. I need you to help me, then we can be all done.” The patient tone he’s using is tinged with an urgency you don’t understand. 

“Why would you do that Spencer? You had so many other options.”

“I didn’t, I’m sorry honey. I got so scared that he was gonna take you away from me, so I did the only thing I knew was guaranteed to make you talk.”

He hurt himself.  

“Can we go lay down?” You’ve never heard your voice sound so soft. It’s like someone else is talking and you’re just listening in.  

“Yes, we will go lay down, but you have to focus, can you focus?” He squeezes your hands tighter and god, you really do try to focus as he places the pliers into your hands. “I need you to pay attention. Nod if you understand.” He looks behind him and you follow his line of sight. 

Ten minutes remain on the timer now.

When he turns back you nod slowly.

“Good, we only have a few minutes, I need you to locate my premolars, I typically chew with the right side of my mouth so you’re going to be looking on the left.”

“What?”

“The fourth and fifth teeth from the back, take from the top row.”

“Why?”

“Because my incisors and canines are important visually and my molars are the teeth I use primarily when I eat.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“No, why are you telling me this?”

“Because I need you to pull them.” How the fuck is he so chill right now? 

“No.”

“Yes honey, I can’t do it, I know I won’t be able to, the body has ways of stopping you from hurting yourself.”

“You already hurt yourself.” You point at his fingers, your voice is starting to drift up an octave again. 

“That was instantaneous, it was one swift moment, I couldn’t stop myself once the swing was in motion. This will require a lot more pulling and possibly twisting.”

“I can’t, you can’t really expect me-”

“You can, and you will, because we don’t have a lot of time and if you don’t do this he intends to come in here and pull all of them himself, that’s what he said, okay?”

“Spencer-” 

“Don’t squeeze too hard or you’ll end up crushing it, pull in one swift motion. It’s very likely that I’ll pass out after the first one, remember, the fourth and fifth teeth from the back.” 

You watch as he feels around in his mouth with his fingers before he nods to himself. 

“You have less than ten minutes, you need to do the second one right after the first, keep me propped up. There’s gauze and cotton balls in the first aid kit in the duffle bag, stuff the gap in my teeth with anything you can, when it fully soaks through you swap them.”

“Spence, I can’t-”

“You can.” He’s deadly calm. “I know you can, you’re so strong, we’re going to make it out of this together, I promise. I’m gonna get us out of here.” He holds your face with his intact hand. Leaning forward to press his lips to yours for just a moment before he pulls back, the look in his eyes tells you that it pains him to do so. 

You flip the pliers in your hand, feeling the weight of them. 

“Promise?” 

“With all my heart.” It’s the last thing he says before he opens his mouth. 

★

“I want to see the video, Hotch.” Morgan followed him out into the parking lot.

Garcia had called hysterically crying when the newest video was uploaded. Hotch left the room with his laptop and didn’t come back for a full two hours. At that point Derek had called Penelope himself, trying his best to calm her down. The only information he could get out of her was that their unsub had gone from porn to snuff. 

“We all need to fully understand the unsub if we're going to catch this guy, hiding information from us isn’t going to help them.”

“If this were any other case we’d be home by now. The unsub stops killing, we’re no longer needed. The only reason we’ve been allowed to stay on this case is because it’s our agents out there. There’s only so long we can stay on this.” 

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that from the point she was taken to the upload of the first video implies that the unsub is keeping them in a forty mile radius. I’m going to start going door to door, I’ve already got Garcia sending me a list of every house with a basement.”

“Hotch-”

“I don’t know what else to do. We have no leads, we have nothing. The unsub isn’t going to take any new actions other than ones that only affect the two youngest members of this team. I’m not going to have their lives on my conscience because I didn’t do everything I possibly could to save them. All I know is that we have no leads on this guy, but I’ll know him when I see him.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Call Emily and JJ from the car, tell them to start on the other side of the city, we’ll meet in the middle.” 

He’s quick to dial on his phone as he gets into the passenger seat. Once he’s instructed them on where to start they make their way to the edge of the radius. 

“What did he do to them?” He can’t help it, he has to ask. He has to know. He has to know how bad it was so he can know how to fix it when he

“It’s what he made them do to each other.”

“Jesus.” 

“It’s worse than I thought it would be, I don’t even know what state they’ll be in if we find them.

“When we find them, Hotch.” 

“Seattle wants us off the case in the next three days.”

“What?” 

“They say we can work on this from home, it isn’t a problem anymore because he isn’t taking any new victims.” 

“Why aren’t we pursuing this on a federal level?”

“I already tried, they want this handled discreetly, it doesn’t look good when two agents are simultaneously kidnapped and tortured on video. We haven’t even released anything to the public about them, haven’t technically filed them as missing.”

“You can’t be serious.” 

“I wish I wasn’t.”

★

You spent the next several hours taking deep breaths, trying to pull yourself together. Eventually you manage to get your breathing to even out.  

You do exactly as he said, keeping him upright against a wall, there’s a steady stream of blood at the corner of his mouth for a little while until the cotton seems to finally be doing its job. You dutifully change it out every few minutes, digging your fingers into his neck to feel for a pulse every time. 

You can’t help but take his hand in yours and examine his wound while he’s unconscious. There’s a good inch taken off of two of his fingers. You’re going to kill him when he wakes up. 

For now you lean your head on his shoulder. 

Letting your eyes rest for just a few minutes. 

When you wake it’s to low, pained moans. 

You snap to attention immediately, sitting up as you turn to assess the damage. He’s currently pulling the soaked cotton out of his mouth. 

“Let me have a look.” You’re quick to take his face in your hands as you tilt his head up, staring at his bloody mess of a mouth. He groans but you’re satisfied with what you see. His mouth isn’t the only part of him that’s a mess. His eyes are dark and frantic, his hair askew, the bottom half of his face is smeared with red. “You’re lucky, I got the root of both teeth, there shouldn’t be any fragments left and it looks like the blood is clotting. We should go to the bathroom soon and rinse out your mouth.” It’s your turn to be the calm one as he stares at you like a scared puppy. Even if your calm involves your hands still trembling as you hold his face. He nods, slow and measured as he lets his head fall back and rest against the wall.

You watch, focused on his every move as he winces. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” You try to scowl at him but he looks so pathetic you can’t bring yourself to. 

“Shouldn’t have what?” His speech is a little garbled and you watch as his tongue pokes at the gaps between his teeth, gently prodding at his aching gums. 

You grab his hand, holding his smashed fingers up in front of his face. 

“This. You shouldn’t have done this. There are other ways to put on a show for that freak, you didn’t have to mutilate yourself.” 

“I didn’t do it for him, I did it for you. You weren’t going to tell me otherwise.”

You want to argue further but what he’s said is technically true, even if you don’t agree with his motive. If the goal was to get you to talk he found the only thing that was going to work.

“I’m not happy with you.” You mumble, clearing your throat. 

“I’m not asking you to be.” 

“Good.” How do you forgive someone in this situation?   

“I don’t regret it.” He says rather bluntly. 

“I know you don’t.”

What is this? 

What do you call your relationship with someone who does this?

He spent the morning romantically comparing being with you to torture and the afternoon torturing himself as if to prove it.  

Even now, with his blackened finger tips and missing teeth, he looks at you with those wide doe eyes like you’re the most important thing in the world. Like he’s trying to figure out if you’re okay. 

“You’re an idiot.”

“You keep saying that, it’s factually untrue. If I was an idiot I wouldn’t be able to-“

“Please just be normal for like five seconds. You were just brutally tortured, maybe chill on the ‘well actually’ of it all.”

“Brutally tortured is a rather extreme way of putting it.” 

You take his hand in yours, tracing your fingers across his palm and up and down his fingers, lingering on the ones missing the top knuckle. 

“Did he talk to you after I passed out?” He speaks your thoughts aloud, you’re both wondering if that was satisfactory. 

“No, radio silence, I’m wondering if that was what he wanted.” 

“He wanted extreme, we gave him extreme.”

“You gave him extreme.” 

“Don’t be mad at me, I did it for you.” 

He keeps saying that.

He tangles his fingers in yours, you watch as he flexes the, bending each digit carefully. His ring finger and pinky spasm, uncoordinated. 

He did it for you. 

All that just to keep you from spending a moment alone with the unsub.

When you don’t respond he turns to face you, hair still askew. 

“Are you afraid of me?” He whispers. You really think about it before responding, even if your instinct is to immediately say no. Are you afraid of him?

“I’m not afraid of you, I’m afraid for you.” You finally respond. It’s a half truth, there was definitely a moment today where he frightened you. You aren’t sure what he would have to do to make you permanently afraid of him. Even if he kind of lost it there for a minute, some revolting, and unrelenting part of you almost thinks it’s romantic.

How far he would go for you. 

You need to get the fuck out of here. 

Do you even want to?

Yes. Obviously. 

Obviously.

“I’m afraid of myself.” You whisper back to him, returning your head to his shoulder as he wraps an arm around you. 

“I know why I’m afraid of myself, but what do you have to be scared of?” He’s trying so damn hard to sound light hearted but you can see right through it. 

“When I woke up here, the second time, and you were with me it didn’t even cross my mind to be worried that you’d been taken. I was just relieved to be with you.” He doesn’t respond, silent beside you. “I think there’s something wrong with me. There’s this little voice in my head, constantly nagging at me, telling me these horrible things about myself.” Your voice cracks as you try not to cry. 

“We all have that voice.” His fingers trail down you back, lightly scratching at you, a weak attempt to soothe.

“Not like mine. It’s my voice, and all of the horrible things are true.”

Damn right they are. 

“What kinds of things has this voice been telling you lately.”

“That I-” You swallow the lump forming in your throat, staring at the floor ahead of you, anything to not look at him right now. “That I like this.”

“You’re being forced to orgasm, of course it’s going to feel good, you can’t control that.”

“It’s not just that, it’s all of this. It’s the excuse to finally be with you. Seeing you… care about me so strongly, even if it’s acting, or real, or whatever it is.” Your heart threatens to pound out of your chest as you finally say it out loud. “What is this? You and I? You know more than I do, are we victims of circumstance? If I was stuck in here with Hotch, or Emily, or anyone else would I still feel like this? Is this entirely based on a trauma bond?” You find yourself picking at your nails until he stops you, intertwinning his fingers in yours. 

“Well, I can’t speak for you, but I don’t think I would have smashed my fingers with a hammer for Hotch or Emily.”

Just for you. 

“Could you speak like, not in torture metaphors?”

“Do I really have to spell it out for you? I think you should know how I feel about you by now.” Missing teeth and fingers flash across your mind.

“You make me feel like I’m losing my mind.”

That’s what he said last night. 

Maybe the cost of being together is losing your mind. 

“What do we do if the team never comes for us? What if they just can’t put a profile together and we end up stuck here?” You don’t want to be grim but it feels like more and more of a possibility with every passing hour. 

“I have a plan.”

You cock an eyebrow at him and he shrugs.

“I obviously can’t tell you.”

You never know who’s listening. 

You have a plan too. You know, without a shadow of a doubt that it will work, you just have to get Spencer to agree to it. 

★

You can’t sleep, not after the day you had. Spencer on the other hand practically passed out in your arms, his head on your chest, the rest of his lanky body coiled around you. 

You stare straight ahead into the darkness. 

If the bureau doesn’t cover your therapy you’re gonna make Hotch pay for it out of pocket. 

The crackle of the intercom makes you straighten up a little.

“Trouble sleeping, angel?” 

You look down, Spencer still breathes in steady even breaths, still fast asleep. 

“I was just thinking about what tomorrow's film might be, I mean how do you top the performance we put on for you today.” You try to sound genuinely interested, as if the mere sound of his voice doesn't make you want to recoil. 

Any information you can get out of him is useful. 

“The performance today was just… I mean wow.” You can hear the smile that must be playing on his lips. As if the two of you are friends chatting on the phone, you lean in to it. 

“Did you like it? I can’t stop thinking about it.” 

“Oh sweet angel, I loved it. Although there were a few things I would change.”

“Like what?” 

“Too many props, the focus was not on the two of you. I thought I would like it more than I did, I prefer more hands-on scenes.” 

 “Really? I thought you would have been impressed by his prop work.” You play up a mock offended tone as best you can in a whisper.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t impressed. In fact there are definitely props I would like to see you use in the future.” 

This might be the only chance you get to speak to him alone, you have to ask the question that’s been eating at the back of your mind. 

“How does this end? I mean, there has to be an ending. You’re a film maker, I know you have to have some big final act planned.”

“You know me so well, I bet you are an excellent profiler.”

“I do my best.”

“And so humble, you really were born to be a star.” 

“Give me a little teaser trailer for the grand finale, please?”

“I suppose I cannot keep secrets from you, not when you are so eager. We are still far from our finale, I have so much more in store for you, but I especially liked watching you with those pliers in your hands. The way you did exactly as you were instructed to when the alternative was so much worse. I wonder what I would have to do to get you to wrap those pretty little fingers around something a little more lethal? Or make you aim at Dr. Reid? What would I have to do to get you to pull the trigger?”  

You wish you hadn’t asked. 

★

[ohlittlebluebell]

Jennifer Jareau & Emily Prentiss in Criminal Minds 19x02

[red-enby]

drawing criminal minds characters part 1: spencer :)

[mesliberales]

The Baby Files • S.R

Spencer and his wife are making a docuseries for their future child.

pairing: future dad!/husband Spencer x future mom/wife reader

WC: 1.1k

WARNINGS: none really, MAJOR fluff, no use of Y/N, reader is pregnant, they are married (?)

“No, you’re doing it wrong—“

“No, I doubt that I am, actually,”

“Spencer, stop. Touching. It.”

Despite the seemingly straightforward inked instructions to follow on the white paper manual that came with it, the camcorder was much harder to work with than either Spencer or his wife had anticipated and the two of them had spent the better half of a warm Saturday morning bickering on how to set it up and get it properly functioning.

“I’m not even touching it! But, I believe this button right here—“ Spencer argued, hands that were hovering by sides reaching over to almost press a button.

“Wait, wait! It’s on,” She backs up and stares down the camera, eyes squinting in suspicion to whether or not it was seriously recording.

“Is it on?” She turns her head toward her husband, ponytail flicking her face as she does so from the speed of the head movement. Spencer looks equally as suspicious, that crinkle in between his brows giving it away.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Genius is speechless for once. He picks up the recording device and points it at his wife. She’s a soft-focused picture in the frame, squinty eyes and frowning lips and messy Saturday morning hair. The little screen displays a run time, seconds steadily ticking by in white numbers across the top.

“It is on,” his voice is nothing short of relief behind the camera and her shoulders bunched in frustration loosen, a smile gracing her face in the two of their shared alleviation.

“Alright,” she claps her hands in front of her, exhaling softly through her nose.

“Hi, future baby, it’s me, your mom,” she introduces herself, and her hands go to cradle her tummy. Though she hasn’t started showing yet, knowing that he or she, a product of the deepest form of her and Spencer’s love, is being formed in her womb makes her already feel far too maternal.

“You’re in here right now, and although I don’t know who you are yet, I know that I love you already,” On the other end of the camera, Spencer can’t help but smile, feeling the same warmth of love for something that doesn’t even have eyes or feet yet. But it will, and the premise is exceedingly enough.

“I know that you’re gonna make me and your dad so, so proud because you’re gonna be you,” She speaks with such sureness and such passion into the camera.

“And you’re gonna be the coolest little dude ever,” After her little spiel/introduction, hands leave her tummy to reach for the camcorder. Roles reversed now, her behind the camera, the lens pointed at Spencer’s face, she makes a little gasping sound.

“And, oh my goodness, who is this?” She coos into the camera and Spencer looks away very awkwardly, eyes darting all over the room. He wasn’t very good at these sorts of things, even if it was his idea to create a baby video diary.

“Well, I’m glad you asked, future baby, because this handsome creature,” Spencer scoffs, cheeks heating up as he swats at the camera. She sidesteps the swat and readjusts.

“Stop it,” despite his lighthearted protests, she continues.

“This is your dad,” A wave from Spence, awkward, lips pressed into his signature thin lipped smile, and out of frame, soft giggles erupt. He’s barely looking into the lens, more or less keeping his honey-nut eyes behind his glasses on the girl holding the camcorder. If he could put into words on how beautiful she looked, he’d be at a loss (a rarity for him), the closest would be glowing.

“I know, right?” She continues. “We are so lucky, let me tell you,” Her hand appears in frame as she points to Spencer, nails painted in a wide array of different shades of purple and he exhales a laugh, with it, some tension.

“This guy? He’s the bestest person ever, and he’s, like, super smart, so if you ever have any questions,

Dad will have no problem answering them,” Her voice goes from silly to soft with honesty as she introduces Spencer, future dad, properly, wanting their kid to know that he or she were going to have the best dad to walk the Earth. No one is ever truly ready to be a parent, but if anyone was to be a good one, it would be him. She was certain of that fact.

Spencer doesn’t like being in the spotlight for too long though, so he takes the camera from her once again and wraps a lanky arm around her waist, angling the camcorder above them so they are both in frame.

“We are so excited to meet you, and we miss you already,” Spencer speaks as his wife rests her head on his shoulder, nodding along to the words pouring out of his mouth.

“Well, missing someone you have never met isn’t actually possible, it’s really the idea of someone that the mind subconsciously makes—

“Actually, in Russia they call it tocka which literally translates to the spiritual anguish of missing someone or something you’ve never had,“

The info dump will probably make little future baby’s head explode, but she didn’t dare interrupt him. That would be a habit never developed in this household. He had spent his life with people who didn’t appreciate his quirks, and his home would not be one of those places. She presses a kiss to Spencer’s jaw, the closest bit of skin at the moment, and nods once again. Affection would also be something to be proud of, rather than ashamed of.

“So, we miss you already,”

She says, a repeat of his earlier words, a simple reiteration. Spencer’s free hand moves to rest on top of hers that’s lying gently on her belly. They gaze at each other briefly, but words aren’t needed for the look exchanged. It’s nothing short of pure adoration and respect and love. That’s what the household would consist of. This baby would be brought into a world of cherishing.

Future baby wouldn’t have to worry about doors slamming or belittling or being forced to eat food that made them sick, they would have to worry about lipstick stains left on skin for the first day of school and laughing until their cheeks hurt.

“Mommy loves you,” She brings the camera to her lips, an exaggerated mwah sound leaving her mouth and then she nudges Spencer.

“And- and Daddy loves you,” he says, it’s more in a Spencer fashion, reserved, shy, but his eyes tell the story his tone can’t convey properly.

She gives the lens a kiss for him, another over the top mwah (but that’s why he loved her) and clicks the button that ends the recording—

“No, that’s not the right button,”

“What? That’s literally the one you pressed, I saw you,”

“No, it’s this o—“

Though the screen goes black, the amount of love poured into the short video, an introductory if you will, is left lingering, and maybe a few laughs can be taken away as well. But, future baby was already adored, and future baby was already the best thing that happened to the Reid household.

AI-Free Blog, no AI was used in the writing of this.

a/n: maybe I should attend therapy for my parental issues, but why pay when writing Spence as a dad is free??

a/n #2: spring / summer baby fever is no joke

This was loosely based on this edit I saw on TikTok, credits to @edit_inqq!!

[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.

[marcidstars]

THE EDGES OF YOUR SOUL | spencer reid x reader

── .⟢ DIVIDE event masterlist .ᐟ

summary: you wake half-convinced that yesterday was a dream, but spencer reid and his shiny new wedding ring are quick to reassure you that it was all real—and forever has never looked so good.

genre: fluff | word count: 1.2k

tags: fem!reader, husband!spencer, newlyweds, just straight fluff, spencer is a wife guy, he's so in love it's disgusting, cuddling, title from a noah kahan song (duh), not proofread

notes: i don't usually write wedding/marriage fics, but i make an exception for spencer reid. he'd be such a whimsical little wife guy oh my god i hate him.

"And the edges of your soul, I haven't seen yet. Now I'm glad I get forever to see where you end." — Noah Kahan, Forever

For a moment, you aren’t sure where you are.

A bed, obviously. You can feel the plush of the mattress hugging your hip. The covers, freshly washed, covering your sleep-leaden limbs. Something’s thumping, steady, under your head. A heartbeat murmuring sweet nothings in your ear. A pair of strong lungs. Inhaling, exhaling. An arm around your waist. A hand on your shoulder.

Your eyelids fight against the last dregs of sleep, and you squint in the unwelcome face of the sun. It spills into the room through the sheer curtains, soaking you in its warmth and blinding you with its light. You shift, stiff joints groaning in protest, and press your face into his chest.

Bells. You remember bells. Confetti; the environmentally friendly kind. A bouquet of purple flowers, frozen mid-air in a hazy memory, landing in the reluctant hands of Emily Prentiss in another.

Something moves. His fingers are in your hair now, brushing through the strands with such painful gentleness it doesn’t even feel real. This is just another later of a dream, more warm and fuzzy scenarios created by your unconscious. It has to be, because nothing that is real could possibly feel so…sacred. It’s too perfect. You feel as though you’re floating, lighter than air.

Until the ache sets in. It’s in your head, dull and heavy, dragging you back down to earth, clouding your mind with a fog that extends beyond simple drowsiness. And with it comes a sore throat. A dry mouth. Can you be hungover in a dream? Surely not, that would just be cruel. 

You groan. The sound reverberates in his chest, rattles his tender heart. You hear him chuckle.

“Ugh…time?” you mumble, voice hoarse.

“Ten thirty-two— no, thirty-three,” he says in a whisper, keeping his words soft, inoffensive, like he knows your condition without you needing to complain about it. He sounds awake, and he’s smiling—you can hear it.

With great effort, you raise your head, wincing as the light hits your face. His hand reaches out, casts a shadow over your eyes.

He isn’t smiling. He’s grinning.

“…hey.”

“Hey.” He tucks some of your hair behind your ear, brown eyes turned to gold in the sunlight; honey, like his voice. “How are you feeling?”

You lean into his touch, expression melting into a lazy smile. With a gentle sigh, you let your head sink back against his chest as you murmur, “’m good.”

Spencer’s arms wrap around you, holding you tight as he presses his nose to your hair. “Just good?”

“Great,” you correct, shaking your head. “Happy. The happiest.”

“That’s better.” He kisses the top of your head. “I’d feel like a failure if my wife weren’t the happiest the morning after the ceremony.”

His wife. You swear you feel the world tilt.

“I’d have to find a way to fix that,” he adds, letting his fingers trail down your spine.

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” he says. He’s trying to sound serious, and he isn’t doing a very good job. “That’s what Morgan kept telling me yesterday: happy wife, happy life.”

You huff out a short, breathy laugh. “And you’d take advice from Morgan?”

“Is it not true?”

“Oh, it’s true. Just…right message, wrong messenger, I guess.” You lift your head, meeting his gaze with a smile. “But I’m plenty happy. You’ve nothing to worry about there.”

“Good.” He fixes your hair again, smoothing any flyaways as he studies you with this look of intense focus, almost frowning, like he’s struggling to believe what he’s seeing, committing your every feature to memory in case you disappear. “And Morgan’s had some successful relationships.”

You hum. “Define successful for me, hon.”

“Having a favourable or desired outcome,” he says, not missing a beat. “Success is subjective, my love.”

“Mhm.” You nod slowly. “And Morgan’s idea of success is…”

“Intense, short-term relationships.”

“Right, of course. So, naturally, he’s the guy you’d go to for marriage advice.”

“I never said I sought him out,” he says, frowning. “I actually told him I wasn’t interested in any advice, or…pep talks. But he kept badgering me as I was getting ready.”

“That’s what the best man is for,” you muse with a solemn smile, “spewing unsolicited advice as he mops the sweat from your forehead.”

Spencer scoffs. “I wasn’t sweating.”

“You so were.”

“It was hot.”

“You were shitting yourself,” you say, brows raised. “Don’t lie to me, Doctor Reid.”

“Fine, Mrs Reid,” he concedes with a huff. “I may have been…shitting myself. A little bit. Figuratively.”

Mrs Reid. He’s trying to kill you.

You bite your lip, roll your eyes at the sight of his smug little smirk before trailing your fingers down his chest. Your wedding ring glimmers in the light as you draw lazy patterns along his skin. “I was shitting myself, too. Figuratively.”

“I didn’t notice,” he says. When you frown, he quickly adds, “I’m serious.”

“You’re a profiler,” you say.

“And you’re beautiful.”

He says it like it’s a fact. Concrete. Unchangeable.

You laugh. You have to; you might cry if you don’t. “And beauty is enough to render your years of profiling experience useless?”

“Only yours.”

Yup, definitely trying to kill you.

“You…” you shake your head, feeling your smile falter. It shifts into something raw, something fragile.

Spencer cups your cheek, holds you steady. Murmurs “I love you” in this agonisingly tender tone that only breaks you further. 

You lean into him, closing your eyes as you admit in this small, quiet voice, “I thought it was a dream.”

“The wedding?”

“Mhm.”

“The whole thing?” he asks, amusement seeping into his tone. “Even the staff threatening to kick Morgan and Garcia out for indecency?”

“I have a…vivid imagination,” you say. You fall silent for a moment, pursing your lips, before adding, “But…I doubt I’d have been able to come up with those, um, vows of yours. You’d have made a fucking incredible renaissance poet. Proper…dramatic.”

He’s grinning again, pride swelling in his chest. “You wanna hear them again?”

“Do you want to make your wife cry?” you ask.

“Only if they’re happy wife tears.”

“Sadist.”

“I said happy tears. Come here.” He grabs your waist, shifts you so you’re lying on top of him, chest to chest. “Let me recite my vows, please.”

You glare at him, barely able to contain your smile. “You just want to show off.”

“Pshh, no.” He shakes his head adamantly. “I just want to make sure that you know just how grateful I am…that I get to be the one to spend forever with you. It’s an honour.”

The way his voice softens with each word has you closing your eyes, fighting back the stupid tears that threaten to spill if you keep looking at him. He brushes his thumb against your cheek, touch so light it feels almost reverent.

“And I want to show off, just a little.”

He laughs as you swat his hand away, hisses like you’ve hurt him. You shake your head, try to speak but your voice comes out all wobbly, so you hide your face in the crook of his neck, and you sniffle when he hugs you.

“…just recite the damn vows.”

“Yes, ma’am. Anything for my beautiful wife.”

[secretgardenzinmymind]

watched 13 going on 30 for the first time and thinking about a spencer fic au where reader is jenna, matt is spencer, and maeve is wendy

aka reader overlooked spencer in childhood which resulted in them going their separate ways and spencer having to grieve both the friendship between him and reader and maeve’s life later on

but reader and spencer get their happy ending when she wakes back up as a 13 year old and vows to never take him for granted

he never meets maeve (sorry girl) so he doesn’t have to go through the pain of losing her

[slowlikeh0ney]

my two favourite pieces of media together. i need this.

[itsyooniesworld]

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐰 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐆𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 🤎

[ozempicofficial]

[reidgif]

[slowlikeh0ney]

reading the off campus series because my best friend forced me

[slowlikeh0ney]

it paid off because i’m in love with the show!!!!!

[marcidstars]

── .⟢ DIVIDE .ᐟ a spencer reid x reader event

⟢ TEN FICS. ─ ⟢ ALL INSPIRED BY NOAH KAHAN SONGS. ── ⟢ CHOSEN BY YOU.

...and the results are in! this was so fun to put together, and i'm so grateful to everyone who cast their votes. ily <3

without further ado, here's the event masterlist, complete with descriptions for each upcoming fic...

fics are listed in no particular order, and will be posted over summer!

!! those highlighted in red will require a content warning when they are posted.

EVENT MASTERLIST ─ ✧

𑣲 - fluff | ✴︎ - angst | ‏꩜ - hurt/comfort

⟢ teach me how to not stare at you | 𑣲 ⤷ you're dripping because you got caught in the rain moving into your new apartment, not because you happened to run into your very attractive (and inexplicably half-naked) neighbour in the hallway. from that point on, the universe seems intent on tangling your paths and, before you know it, you can no longer imagine a life without him.

⟢ sleeping in a bed half empty | 𑣲 ꩜ ⤷ a poorly-timed work trip opens a few poorly-healed emotional wounds for your boyfriend spencer. he's wishing your airport would crumble, and you're wishing you could convince him that leaving for a week doesn't mean leaving forever.

⟢ the edges of your soul | 𑣲 ⤷ you wake half-convinced that yesterday was a dream, but spencer reid and his shiny new wedding ring are quick to reassure you that it was all real—and forever has never looked so good.

⟢ beneath the weight of the earth | ✴︎ ‏꩜ ⤷ a flare up. a breakdown. and a number dialled in desperation. turns out your guardian angel wears doctor who pyjamas and has a fondness for renaissance poetry. (cw for poor mental health)

⟢ i know your name (but not who you are) | ✴︎ ⤷ reconnecting with an ex is never a good idea. ever. especially when it's clear that neither of you have moved on, despite your attempts to feign otherwise.

⟢ seasonal bugs in a canvas tent | 𑣲 ‏꩜ ⤷ whoever thought that a camping trip would resolve lingering tensions surrounding faked deaths and months of lies was an idiot. when spencer reid cannot sleep, you extend an olive branch in the hopes that he may finally work through his feelings—and you get far more than you bargain for.

⟢ you're the moon | 𑣲 ⤷ spencer has never been a fan of lavish social events, especially after prison, and he only attends the annual FBI gala to make you happy. but when it all gets a bit too much and he disappears, you're quick to find him and bring him back down to earth. slow dances are better when shared in private, anyway.

⟢ under the glow of the tv light | ✴︎ ⤷ separating your personal and professional lives becomes difficult when your ex-boyfriend's quiet bitterness almost jeopardises a case, and your attempt at a mature conversation turns into a shouting match that is barely masked by the sound of the tv.

⟢ if these trees started talking | ✴︎ 𑣲 ⤷ graduating college unearths feelings that neither you nor spencer have time to unpack. instead, you drive. and you pray that, across the county line, you may find a future where the two of you aren't destined to grow apart.

⟢ the rattle of your keys | ✴︎ ‏꩜ ⤷ spencer has learned the hard way that vulnerability only leaves him open to hurt—and, worse, disappointment. you're determined to prove him wrong, but it's hard to do so when he's already convinced himself that you're going to leave him once you get too close.

[slowlikeh0ney]

migraine so bad i feel like him rn