GALATIANS 5:19-21 ♱ spencer reid x unsub!reader
summary: you finally convince spencer reid to meet with you in person with the promise of information on a prolific unsub. but standing face-to-face awakens a violent storm of long-suppressed emotions, and marks the beginning of a love affair that will ruin the both of you, permanently.
genre: smut (MDNI) word count: 8.5k
tags: reader is an unsub || DDDNE, choking, gunplay, blood play, biting, dom!spencer (he's having a Bad Day), is it foreplay or are they just trying to kill each other?, fingering, protected p in v, dom/sub dynamics, improvised gags (panties), mentions of sex dreams, matching each others' freak (gone wrong), violent obsession, toxic relationship, enemies with benefits, not proofread
note: this was a long time coming :3
⤷ unsub!reader masterlist ᝰ.ᐟ
"The acts of the flesh are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery; idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions and envy; drunkenness, orgies, and the like. I warn you, as I did before, that those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God." — GALATIANS 5:19-21 (NIV)
“I can’t see you.”
“I’m not gonna hurt you, doc. Come on—”
“I can’t see you.”
“…huh. Anyways, I’m gonna book this hotel suite—”
“No.”
“—and I’ll text you the details. It’s up to you whether you decide to come or not, but—”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because, I’m— there’s a line—”
“We’ve crossed plenty of lines already.”
“This is different. I’m not doing this—”
“What’s that guy’s name...? The, uh, unsub that you’ve been chasing since September.”
“The Baltimore Strangler?”
“The Baltimore Strangler, that’s it! Do you wanna know where he is?”
“You don’t have that information.”
“Yes, I do.”
…
“Come on. I’m a reliable source, aren’t I? Remember when I helped you out in Minneapolis?”
“That was different. It wasn’t in person.”
“Yeah, well, my rates have changed. If you want to find this guy, then meet me at the hotel. You’re still on your little redemption journey after Amherst, right? I’m sure your team would be thrilled if you cracked this for them—”
“I’m hanging up.”
—
Spencer is choking. Throat swollen shut around the lump of shame that has been lodged in there, rotting, for months. Almost a year. It feels as though its size has been increasing with each passing week. Poison seeps into his bloodstream, infecting him with a putrid disease that is steadily eating him from the inside. Guilt and depravity and all things undesirable, living in the pit of his stomach, the hollow of his chest.
There’s a book in his hands, wrapped in brown paper and topped with a black bow. He found it wedged in the door, keeping it propped open and giving him ease of access to Hell. How considerate.
The hotel room is too big. Too dark. And cold, too. A void that exists separately from his reality, a coffin masquerading as a bedroom.
You said you wouldn’t hurt him—promised it, even—but what good is the word of a serial killer?
And what good is Spencer when he’s standing here, paralysed? How can he have faith in your self-control when he makes such a perfect target? A willing lamb to the slaughter.
He hasn’t unwrapped the book. Isn’t sure he will at all. He’ll probably toss it when—if—he gets out of here. Leave it on the side of the road, maybe, or set it on fire—anything but taking it home with him.
There’s already enough of you defiling his apartment: case files, crime scene photographs, notebooks crammed with pages upon pages of you. Notes on your life, your victims; maps scrawled across double-page spreads, detailing where you’ve been; drawings of you, as he remembers you. Necklace stacks and shiny rings and flowy dresses. All soft smiles and wide, disconcertingly innocent eyes. The snow in your hair.
And now he can see you. Your silhouette, out of the corner of his eye. You’re sitting with patience on the balcony, obscured by sheer curtains. But he isn’t looking at you. Not yet.
His gaze is fixed on the wall before him, on the photographs that he can just about discern through the dark. Photographs of victims, your victims, the ones that Spencer has spent months searching for, displayed in chronological order. There are pictures missing, gaps in your story that you’ve yet to fill him in on, long stretches of empty space that leave him feeling sick.
He finds the face of Miles Richmond, the man Spencer had to fly out to Cleveland to dig up the bones of last week. There are no more pictures after him, just an expanse of wall that continues, uninterrupted, for several feet. He does not want to, but he can’t help but imagine the rows of faces that will eventually fill that space.
Far from Miles, nearing the bottom of the wall, are the grad students that you killed in Amherst. The final pawns in a decade long series of murders. Pieces of a country-wide puzzle that Spencer had been too blind, too stupid, to recognise when it mattered most.
“I used those, uh, paint-friendly command strips. The walls’ll be fine.”
Your voice pierces his ears like a crack of thunder. He’s heard you speak hundreds of times, static-laced over the phone, or distorted in his dreams, but this is different. Your words are clear, sharp. Unmistakably and hauntingly real.
“Are you doing this to taunt me?”
Spencer can hardly squeeze the words out around the limp in his throat. They’re uncertain, unsteady, imbued with the rapid pounding of his own heart.
“Just keeping track of your progress,” you say. “I thought you liked visual aids.”
Slowly, he turns toward the balcony. Stares at your silhouette for a moment, frozen, before setting the book aside and taking a tentative step forward. He reaches the open glass doors, feels the icy breeze on his skin, but he doesn’t cross the threshold.
You’re sitting with your back to him. Legs crossed, gazing out at the view of the city.
“Why did you insist on doing this?” he asks. He tries to keep his voice calm. Steady. Tries to pretend that the mere sight of the back of you isn’t enough to give him a head rush.
You shrug. “I was bored. Wanted to spice things up a little.”
“You were bored,” he repeats in quiet disbelief. “You brought me out here, risked your entire game, your freedom, because you were bored?”
“And I missed you,” you add, like that makes it any better.
“I could have SWAT outside that door—”
“Do you?”
Spencer’s silence speaks well enough for him. Your breath catches in a soft laugh and, shaking your head, you slowly rise to your feet.
“You know, you could—”
Your words are silenced by a click. Quiet, but distinct. You don’t look surprised when you turn to see the revolver in his hand, aimed directly at you. You aren’t fazed at all. In fact, a slight smile seems to cross your face—almost imperceptible, but Spencer swears he sees it.
“…a little happier to see me.”
Your sentence ends on a soft, almost disappointed sigh, like his weapon is little more than an inconvenience in your eyes, and your attention quickly shifts from Spencer’s revolver to Spencer himself. His hair, shorter than it was when you last stood like this; his face, set in this cold, tense stare meant to hide whatever lies bubbling under the surface, barely contained; his eyes, and the slight softness they hold that betrays his entire façade.
His expression twitches, wavers as you meet his gaze as he has no choice but to see you. Not as you were, but as you are now, eleven months from your first meeting. He compares what he sees with the version of you he’s been holding in his mind for so long, noting the differences in the way you hold yourself, the way you appear sharper, almost. Confident. Cold.
Those memories of you have grown hazy around the edges. Coated with snow and soft December fog, lit by the dim yellow glow of a dying reading lamp. All of your sharpness, dulled by what he thought you were—what he wanted you to be.
But it’s different now. The crisp light of the moon brings out the edges that he was once blind to, cuts through those softer memories until there’s nothing left to cling to. November looks good on you.
You still aren’t dressed for the winter. You’re still only wearing a dress—black, made of a material so thin he’s sure the wind must be sailing straight through it—under that same knitted shawl, but it isn’t the style he’s used to seeing you in (or imagining you in, it doesn’t really matter—they’re one in the same). The dress is shorter, lighter, made of satin. A slip dress, instead of the flowy empire waist dress that he has come to associate you with. He isn’t sure why that bothers him so much.
You watch with shameless amusement as he takes you in and, when his wandering gaze comes to rest on your face once more, you flash him a smile.
“Hey.”
Spencer’s throat runs dry. A low thrum, misfired electrical pulses, replaces his every thought. Tension seizes him, piling on his chest, grasping his lungs, until he forgets how to breathe.
He doesn’t lower his gun. He doesn’t do anything. He just stares at you, sweat beginning to collect on his forehead despite the cold breeze.
“God, Spencer.” You take a step forward, biting back a grin. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He curses himself when he takes a step back, his body moving of its own accord, distancing himself before you can get too close.
“It really has been a while, hasn’t it? Since we were last…” You continue your advance until you’re standing right in front of him, in front of the barrel of his revolver. “…face to face like this. It’s a little rude, though, to pull a gun on an unarmed woman.”
“It’s a safety precaution,” he mutters stiffly.
“Oh, I bet it is.”
The quiet delight in your voice is already making him uneasy, but then you slowly lift your hand. Your fingers dance along the cool metal of his revolver, and you nudge it gently, silently asking— no, telling him to lower it.
And he does so without second thought.
“There we go,” you murmur. “Did you take a look at the book?”
“No,” he says. He feels sick.
“Hm.” You pout. Cock your head to the side. “No interest in gifts from serial killers?”
Spencer shakes his head. His words fail him. His jaw is cemented shut; feet glued to the ground. He knows where this is going, but he can’t bring himself to stop it.
“That’s…interesting.” You click your tongue, and your gaze drops to his neck. A small, almost curious frown crosses your face as you take that final step forward and reach up. Two fingers slip under the collar of his shirt, and they graze something familiar.
His hands close around your wrists. “Don’t touch me.”
“Relax,” you mutter.
You pull yourself free and, instead of feeling around under his clothes, you take the liberty of opening his shirt. You only unfasten the top buttons, just enough to reveal the chain of his necklace and watch, proud, as he holds his breath. You can feel the tension radiating off him, see the muscles straining in his neck as your fingers glide along the metal chain until they reach the pendant. The silver cross.
“No interest in gifts,” you murmur, looking up at him through your lashes, “yet you’re wearing one. Is there an explanation for that, or do you just…like it?”
“You told me to wear it.”
“And you said you weren’t going to. In fact, I seem to recall you saying that you would never brand yourself like that—what changed? Did you only put it on today, thinking it would appease me somehow? Or did you put it on the day I left it for you and feign otherwise?”
You watch the way his jaw works, teeth grinding against each other in response to your question, and you smile. That alone is an answer in itself, you don’t need a verbal one—he’d only try to lie, anyway.
Your free hand reaches for your own necklace, fingers grazing the matching pendant as you gaze up at him. “Do you want to kill me, Spencer?” you ask. “Or is the gun just to make yourself feel better?”
“I told you, it’s a safety precaution—”
“And we both know that I pose no threat to you. I couldn’t kill you, doc, even if I wanted to; that would spoil all my fun,” you say. “You could kill me, though. You could do anything. Shoot me, throw me over the balcony…whatever you wanted—I’m in no position to stop you. Of course, that would mean you’d lose out on everything else; the story, the bodies…” you give his necklace a gentle tug. “Quality time with me.”
Spencer’s so close you can feel his breath on your skin, and that isn’t entirely your doing; he’s been leaning in, slowly—so slowly that he hasn’t even noticed. Drawing closer to you like he’s been caught in your gravitational pull.
You tilt your head up, and his nose brushes against yours.
And then he snaps back. His necklace slips from your fingers, and, without another word, he turns away.
He retreats into the hotel room, and you watch as he sets his gun on the desk with an unsteady hand before gripping the wood veneer like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He lowers his head, closing his eyes as he takes a slow, deep breath.
“The Baltimore strangler,” he says, barely keeping his voice steady, “where is he?”
You waltz into the dimly lit room, smile plastered across your face, feeling as though you’re walking on air. You lean back against the desk and sigh.
“No idea.”
You could live in the silence that follows your confession. Strained and dense with electricity, like the air would ignite if you lit a match, and the whole room would go up in flames.
You’re looking at Spencer, but he’s not looking at you. His gaze is on the table, the gun, your hand dangerously close to his own. You can hear him hear him trying to control his breathing, trying to suppress the reaction that you so desperately want.
“…what?”
He says it through his teeth.
“I don’t know where he is,” you say, shrugging off your shawl. You set it on the desk, right beside his revolver. “I just—”
“You lied to me.” He straightens up, giving you full view of his barely contained frustration. “You manipulated me into—”
You scoff. “I gave you what you wanted.”
“Excuse me?”
“You wouldn’t— couldn’t have let yourself agree to this without some kind of moral justification,” you explain. “You needed a reason that went beyond your own desire—”
“No.”
“—and I gave you a reason. I only brought up the Baltimore strangler to make you feel better about yourself, because you and I both know that the real reason you’re here is because you just want to—”
A hand grabs your jaw, and the next thing you know your back is hitting the wall, hard. A dull pain blooms at the back of your head, trickles down your spine.
Spencer’s leaning over you, one hand braced against the wall as the other keeps tight hold of your face.
“I didn’t want to come here,” he hisses, “I didn’t want any of this, but you—” he shakes his head, trying to dismiss whatever words, whatever confessions, are trying to claw their way out of him. “This is your fault. Your…fucking fault that I— that I’m—"
It’s like watching a dam break. The cracks you left in his foundations, left untreated, festered like infected wounds. And now they’re grown too large, too deep, to fix, and he’s coming apart.
You broke him.
“Don’t you dare try to pin this on me, Love. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t deserve this—”
“You were too stupid to figure me out in Amherst.”
You’re grinning. Baring your teeth as his fingernails dig into your skin.
“You think I don’t know that? You think that I don’t regret that—regret you—every fucking day without your added bullshit?” He tilts your head up, breath hot against your face. “I didn’t ask for you to come back.”
“You wanted it, though.”
“No. I wanted you to leave me alone. You had already ruined everything: my sleep, my relationship with my team, my life— you were already in me. And you coming back, you disrupting my life any fucking further, was the last thing I ever would have wanted.”
“I ruined your life?” You laugh. “I wasn’t there, Spencer. Whatever happened in those six months has nothing to do with me—”
“It has everything to do with you.”
“—and I haven’t done anything to you. Nothing that you didn’t agree to. Nothing that you didn’t want—”
Something cuts your words off. A hand on your throat. His hand. Pressing down on your windpipe, restricting your air—choking you.
“I didn’t want this,” he hisses. “I don’t want you.”
He presses harder, and a noise escapes you. Strangled and high-pitched and weak. Delicate in a way he never thought he’d hear.
You’re clawing at his hand. You don’t mean to; you know he won’t take this too far, he can’t. But even as you tell yourself that, your body still starts to panic. An age-old primal response that you have seen dozens of times in your victims, now igniting in you, pushing you to write and scratch like an animal all while he stands and watches.
“I don’t want you.”
His voice has lowered to a whisper, barely audible over the blood rushing in your ears, and the faint ringing it carries with it.
He repeats it again, maybe. You can’t be sure. His lips move silently around the words, mouthing them to himself like they may somehow alter his reality.
There’s this look in his eyes. Laser-focused, yet far-off. He’s staring you dead in the eyes, watching the burning tears that threaten to spill, but he isn’t seeing you.
Or maybe he is seeing you. Maybe he’s seeing you, clearly, for the first time.
He releases your throat the same moment his lips come crashing down onto yours, leaving you no choice but to gasp into his mouth. Breathe him in. Rely on him for oxygen. With your brain so scattered, you don’t fully understand what’s happening until you feel his tongue against yours.
He’s kissing you. Not gently, as he had done in Amherst, but ferociously. There’s no thought, no meaning. It’s all primal. All need. You meet the way magnets do, overwhelmed by a force greater than yourselves, helpless against the energy between you.
I can’t see you. That’s what he had said over the phone. Not because he couldn’t trust you, not because of the risks that came with meeting you like this, but because he couldn’t trust himself. Because he knew exactly what would happen the moment he got you alone.
He’d lose control. You’d let him. You’d ruin each other.
The kiss ends as abruptly as it started. Spencer tears himself away, chest heaving with ragged breaths. His eyes find yours, and he stares down at you with this look that you can’t quite pick apart. Like he’s searching for something. For a sign that you want him to stop, or to carry on—you aren’t sure.
His mouth works, lips giving shape to words that have no sound because whatever he wants to say—if he even knows what it is—gets stuck in his throat. So, instead of speaking, instead of fighting, he just kisses you again.
It’s all he seems to know how to do, and he does it with the certainty, the specificity, of someone who has done it a hundred times over. And he doesn’t falter, not once. His hands grab your cheeks like they belong there, tilting your face up so he can deepen an already dangerous kiss.
It isn’t confidence. Can’t be; his hands are shaking. He’s clearly in two minds about this whole endeavour, and yet he’s doing it anyway. He doesn’t even want this, allegedly, yet he’s on you like he can’t fathom being anywhere else.
Spencer isn’t confident. He’s helpless. It’s evident in his breathing; shallow, erratic, almost panicked. This isn’t something he has control over, and it isn’t as simple as attraction—attraction doesn’t do this.
This is something worse. You aren’t sure what this is.
“You…fuck…”
He can barely allow himself space to say a single word. He whispers them into your mouth with a kind of desperation that makes your stomach flip. His hands are all over you now, never staying in one spot for too long before moving on to the next. Mapping out your body with his palms. Tracing your curves over the thin satin. Making sure you’re real.
Your fingers are in his hair, one hand cradling the back of his head as the other tugs at the collar of his shirt, urging him closer until there’s no space left between you. He slips an arm around your waist, hisses when you nip his bottom lip so hard he tastes blood on his tongue, your tongue. You giggle against his mouth, and whine when he pulls away.
The sight of him like this, red-faced, lip swollen and oozing with fresh blood, stirs something within you. Something vile. You press your thumb to the wound, smear the blood across the bruised plush before pushing it into his mouth. He accepts it without thinking, and you can’t help the whine that escapes you when his tongue circles your thumb, lapping at the metallic fluid like its instinct. Like it’s normal.
Spencer’s hands settle against your ribs, just under your breasts. His thumb sits where the underwire of your bra would be, if you were wearing one. Perhaps he was too caught up in the kiss, in his own need, to notice earlier, because the discovery is evident on his face. You watch the subtle shifts in his expression, the way his gaze trails across your body as he realises the position he has you in. Pinned, back to the wall, held in place by his own bodyweight. You wouldn’t be able to move if you wanted to.
You told him he could do anything he wanted. You handed all the power over to him. Relinquished control—physically, at least.
He’s tugging at your dress before he dares second guess himself. Sliding the thin straps down your arms and guiding the fabric down, leaving you exposed before him.
Time, for Spencer, comes to a screeching halt, and for a moment all he can do is stare. His fingers glide along the curve of your ribs with unexpected gentleness—reminiscent, almost, of how he was all those months ago—before settling on your chest. His palms fit so perfectly to your body you’d think he was made for this. Carved out of marble just to touch you. To feel your heart racing under his fingertips, tantalisingly close yet cruelly inaccessible.
And then he squeezes. Fingers curling into your skin with such force you can’t help but gasp. You pull your thumb from his mouth, try to kiss him, but he dodges. His mouth meets your collarbone, progresses down your chest, and he isn’t kind.
He leads teeth-first, nipping hard at the sensitive skin before soothing the red marks with his tongue, painting your chest with a trail of slow-drying saliva mixed with his blood.
You’re already a mess by the time his mouth finds your nipple. Maybe it’s the tension, the months of build-up, the heat that persists despite the breeze coming in from the balcony, or just the fact that you’ve been deprived of this kind of attention for so long—whatever it is, it has you soaked through your panties. Clenching your thighs as Spencer ravages your tits like he’s trying to get to your heart. Like he’d rip it straight from your chest, if he could.
It's a high, a familiar one, that you haven’t felt in almost a year. An insatiable burning in your veins, pungent with a discordant need that leaves you nauseated. Sends your head spinning. Pushes you right up to the edge of a cliff, dares you to take the leap, promises catharsis.
It takes possession of you, drives your fingers into his hair. You tear him away, pushing him until his legs meet the edge of the bed, and you force him down and straddle him.
Your hands shake, taught fast-crumbling restraint, as you fumble with the buttons of his shirt. You only make it about halfway before giving up, and then you mouth is on him. Trailing sloppy, bestial kisses down the column of his throat as his hands roam your body. Back, hips, ass. He’s pulling your dress up, exposing bare thighs that he doesn’t hesitate to sink his fingers into.
Your drag your tongue along the chain of his necklace, relishing in the way he shudders beneath you, before your teeth meet his skin. You bite him. Hard. Likely hard enough to have drawn blood if he weren’t so quick to grab a fistful of your hair and pull you off of him.
He shoves you with such force that you actually bounce when your back hits the mattress, and before you can sit up, he’s pinning you down. Hands grasping your wrists. One leg between your thighs, knee pressing against your cunt. The cross dangles from his neck. Touches your chin.
There’s something on the tip of his tongue, you can sense it. An insult, probably. More empty words, declarations of hatred that mean nothing.
Whatever it is, he can’t bring himself to say it. It’s too difficult when you’re under him like this, dress pulled down past your chest, pushed up to your hips, shifting subtly against his knee, unable to stop yourself from seeking that little bit of friction.
So he just brings his lips down onto yours once more. Releases your wrists, keeps one hand braced beside your head as the other trails down your body.
His fingers slip past the elastic of your panties, circle your clit for a fleeting, electric moment, and slip into you with ease. You moan into his mouth, too drunk on the curl of his fingers, that intoxicating metallic taste on his tongue, to bother keeping it down as you bend your knee, angling your hips so he can thrust his fingers deeper and hit that spot that’s bound to make you come apart.
Spencer groans against you, fingers working faster as your hand skims over the smooth, warm skin of his chest, his abdomen, before reaching his belt.
“Please,” he whispers, breathless, “tell me you have condoms.”
It must show on your face, the brief flash of poorly concealed disappointment, because Spencer’s expression sours instantly.
He starts pulling back. You whine, grab his arm, and he pulls back harder, taking his fingers with him.
You huff in defeat, head falling back against the mattress. “There should be some in the bathroom,” you mutter. “Complimentary.”
Spencer sits back on his knees, gives you a stiff nod, and then he’s gone. He vanishes into the bathroom. You hear the faucet running. Stopping. Starting again.
And he doesn’t come back.
He doesn’t come back, but he doesn’t lock the door, either. So, really, it’s just an invitation for you to follow him.
You give him a few minutes—one minute, if you’re being honest—before sitting up. You scan the dark room for any sign of his phone, and you find nothing.
…okay. One hell of an oversight on your part. Cool.
You fix your dress, pulling the fabric back into place as you scramble to your feet. Smooth out your hair, lick the blood from your lips, make yourself look pretty in a normal way, not in a serial killer way, before sauntering into the bathroom.
His phone sits face-up on the counter, next to a bloody tissue. Fingers grip the porcelain as he leans over the sink. He can see you—your reflection—behind him in the mirror, lingering in the doorway, watching the rise and fall of his shoulders.
“We can’t do this.”
You lean against the doorframe. Arms crossed, voice light. “We can.”
“I can’t let us do this.”
The faucet is leaking. Counting the beats that pass after his words. Measuring the silence.
“You can,” you say.
“I can’t.”
Either he didn’t shut it off all the way, or this hotel has shitty plumbing. It’s more likely the latter; Spencer isn’t the type to leave a job half-done, or a girl half-fucked.
A text half-sent, though, might be a different story—you hope it’s a different story.
He’ll snap at you if your next words are you can. He knows he can; that isn’t what he’s saying.
But you don’t know what he is saying.
He could be having a moral dilemma, grappling with the reality that his mouth, his fingers, are now soiled with you.
Or he could be stalling. Buying time for feds, snipers, SWAT—whatever cavalry come out of the woodwork when an agent pushes the “I’m in a hotel with a serial killer, send help!” button.
“Why not?” you ask.
Spencer scoffs. “Are you serious?”
“Are you?”
He turns to face you, back pressed to the sink. He licks his still-bleeding lip. Presses his teeth to the wound. Subtly. Like he’s hoping you won’t notice.
He looks exhausted. You’re only just starting to realise how rough he looks. Eye bags. Neglected stubble. A dullness in his once-bright eyes.
But he doesn’t look anxious. He doesn’t steal a glance at his phone. Doesn’t tap his fingers against the porcelain. Doesn’t leave the wound alone; makes it worse.
“Are you serious, Spencer?”
Did you snitch, Spencer?
“This isn’t right,” he mutters, defeated.
“Nothing about this is right,” you say, watching him closely. “Forgive me for thinking that was the whole point.”
“For you.”
“Not for you?”
“I’m only here…” He sighs, rakes his fingers through his hair. “So I can get closer to putting you away.”
“You could call your team right now,” you say, “there’s nothing stopping you.”
Spencer nods, but his gaze drops to the tile floor. His shoulders droop, and he purses his lips for a moment before saying, “you know I can’t do that.”
The smile that lights your face is a genuine one, full of relief. Spencer didn’t snitch. He may have thought about it—definitely thought about it—but he refrained.
“Aww.” You tilt your head to the side, grinning. “Because you care about me?”
“Because I care about the families of the people you killed,” he corrects, tone turning icy, “they deserve closure.”
“Right…” You nod slowly. “And that’s why you kissed me, is it?”
“I’m not doing this.”
He storms out of the bathroom, leaves his phone on the counter.
You deflate as he walks past you, but you only let him stray a few steps before you speak up again.
“Isn’t this what you’ve been dreaming about?”
You don’t have to turn to watch his reaction. You can see him in the mirror. He freezes a little ways beyond the doorway, footsteps halting as your question pierces straight through him.
You can see yourself, too. Your smudged make up, your still-flushed face, the marks on your chest that are already starting to darken into bruises. The rings of dried blood that encircle each one.
You think, for a moment, that he might keep walking. That he might storm straight out of the hotel, abandon his belongings, and refuse to meet with you like this ever again. But he doesn’t, of course. He can’t.
“…what?”
He turns to you, slowly, and you look over your shoulder with a smile.
“You thought I couldn’t tell? I’m a smart girl, doc, I know when—”
“Don’t.”
A warning. Soft-spoken and desperate.
Not a warning. A plea.
And you ignore it.
“It makes sense, really,” you continue, facing him fully, “the brain latches onto things it deems unfinished—”
“Stop it.”
“It’s a natural response, Spencer. You had a crush on me, I fucked you over—”
He walks away, back into the bedroom.
“—and now you’ve been fucking me, haven’t you? Every night. For how long?”
He’s shaking his head, dragging his fingers through his mussed hair, tugging at the strands like it might wake him up. Like this might just be another dream.
Sighing, you follow him into the bedroom.
“You said I ruined your life, right? Is this why? Because you’ve been tormented by sex dreams?” you ask. “Because I just have that much power over you? Because you don’t recognise yourself anymore?”
“You…” He lets out a shuddering breath. One that seems to shake his entire being. “…have no idea what this has been like. This year,” he mutters, pressing his palms to his eyes, “You— you have no idea what you’ve…done to me. What you—"
He spins around, ready to raise his voice, but the sight he is met with silences him instantly.
You’re holding his revolver. Flexing your fingers around the grip like it’s a toy.
“I didn’t…do anything to you, Spencer,” you say, voice calm—thoughtful, almost—as you inspect the chamber. Six bullets. “As much as I wish I could torment you like that, your dreams are, unfortunately, beyond my control.”
It’s a pretty gun. Old school. Reliable. The metal is cool to the touch. You wonder how hot it gets when it fires.
“And as for power— I’m not gonna hurt you, Spence, come here,” you gently grab his arm as he tries to back away, and you pull him closer, speaking slowly, clearly, giving your voice an almost seductive edge as you press the gun into his hand. “The only power that I have here…is power that you have given me…”
Spencer’s hand trembles under your own as you carefully guide the gun to your chest, aligning the barrel with the pendant of your necklace. He flinches when you cock back the hammer, and the chamber locks into place.
You move slowly, dragging the gun up the column of your throat before pressing it firmly to the underside of your jaw. To your jugular vein. And you flash him a smile.
“…you can take it back.”
His lip is still bleeding. Swollen. He’s staring at you like you aren’t human. Something beyond comprehension.
If only he knew how wet you are right now. Your life, his hands. The fact that he could—should—but won’t. You’d take his hand, if you were a little more daring, making feel just how much you’re enjoying this. Make him finger you with a loaded gun to your neck. That would be one hell of a way to die.
“…what the fuck is wrong with you?”
He’s so close. Closer than he should be. You can feel his breath on your face. Smell his blood.
His tone is harsh. Words spoken in a whisper, laced with volatility, disbelief, the slightest bit of fear.
Your smile widens. Grows sharper. “You’re the profiler, you tell me.”
Maybe it’s more than a bit of fear. Spencer’s shaking his head, just barely—an unconscious movement, one he probably isn’t even aware of. Whatever façade he’s trying to maintain is offset by his pretty eyes, wide with fright. Discomfort. Concern.
“You’re sick.”
You gasp, mock surprise flooding your expression as you ask, “really?”
Spencer doesn’t appreciate your humour. The tension in his jaw seems enough to crack his teeth, chock with frustration—and restraint.
“Come on, doc, what’ll it be?” you pose, innocently batting your lashes at him. “Fuck me, or kill me?”
Two options. Each requiring a betrayal of Spencer’s self: his morals, or his desires.
There is, of course, a third option: he could just leave. Get out of here before he damns himself any further—but where’s the fun in that?
He brushes a strand of hair from your face, fingers grazing your skin. His face betrays nothing. His gun remains pressed to your neck.
A hand settles on your cheek, thumb tracing slow, soothing circles. You can hardly think for the sound of your own heartbeat. You can feel it in your throat, hammering against the barrel of the gun. You don’t realise you’re holding your breath until you start feeling lightheaded. Adrenaline sits stagnant in your veins, and it burns.
Spencer leans in like he’s about to kiss you, but doesn’t. His lips ghost over yours, and you can practically feel his resolve crumbling in the seconds before he speaks.
“Get back on the bed.”
And he lowers his gun. Steps back.
Relief manifests itself as laughter. Breathless, slightly manic. “Fuck,” you breathe, “you had me worried for a—”
“Now.”
His voice is sharp, cuts through your laughter with such a brusque certainty it’s clear that killing you is, in fact, not off the table just yet. In all the months you’ve spent tormenting him, you’ve never heard him use that tone before.
It’s just a single word, but it carries with it an unmistakable air of control.
You purse your lips, suppressing a smile as you step back. “As you wish.”
Spencer lowers his head as you turn away. You hear him set his revolver on the desk, carefully, as you make your way back over to the bed.
You take the liberty of removing your dress—or you try to, but Spencer catches your arm. He spins you around so fast you almost lose balance, and his mouth is on yours without warning.
Your hands grasp the collar of his open shirt to steady yourself as his dip down to your mid-thigh, where the lace hem of your dress sits. He breaks the kiss briefly, just enough to tear it off over your head, and then he’s back on you. Hands on your waist, pulling you flush against him as his thumbs press against your stomach.
Quickly, you finish what you started earlier; unbuttoning his shirt until you can slip it off of his shoulders and have it fall to the floor. You’re scratching him before he can stop you, dragging your nails down his chest and relishing in the groan it elicits.
A shove, and your back hits the mattress. Spencer’s crawling on top of you, lips reuniting with yours in another fervent kiss as he kneels between your legs. You grasp his hand as he reaches for your tits, and you instead guide it down to your cunt, pressing his fingers to the sodden fabric of your panties. You’re soaked, more than you had been earlier, and his reaction to it is visible. Audible. A hitch in his breath. A shudder. A quiet groan. One that you echo as his fingers brush against your clit.
“Is this what your dreams are like?” you murmur between kisses, grinning. “Pinning me down? Having your way with me?”
He responds by kissing you harder, like forcing his tongue into your mouth might succeed in shutting you up. You grab his jaw, push him away a little to break the kiss, get a better look at him.
“Or am I on top?” You raise an eyebrow, fingers pressing into his skin. “Am I calling the shots? Bossing you around? Am I—”
“Stop talking.”
He pulls free from your grasp, swats your hand away before diving into you again. His hand cups the pack of your neck, pulling you closer and giving you no choice but to let him kiss you.
Whining, you wrap your legs around his waist. His cock presses up against your cunt through the layers of fabric, and his hips instinctively buck against yours.
Your fingers are lost in his hair, curling into the soft strands as he moves his hips—consciously, now. Laboured breaths fill the space between kisses, accompanied by the occasional soft moan as he ruts against you.
“Fuck…” Spencer breaks the kiss to drag his lips along your jaw, moistening the skin with his saliva before attacking your neck.
You’re not one to turn down an opportunity when it presents itself to you, so you’re quick to sink your teeth into his shoulder with a force that you hadn’t bothered to calculate in advance. Spencer yelps—almost squeaks—and jerks back. Your teeth scrape against his skin, and when you finally let him go, he’s pinning you by your neck, holding you down like you’re some wild animal.
“Spencer,” you whine, writhing as his hips stop moving, “come on—”
“Stop biting me.”
“Oh, you’re fine,” you mutter, as if his shoulder isn’t starting to bleed. “I can’t help it.”
“You can’t help it,” he repeats, unamused.
“It’s instinct.”
“Yeah?”
He’s tugging your panties off, peeling the soaked fabric from your aching cunt.
“You want to bite something?”
His hand grabs your face, parts your lips. He balls up your panties and pushes them into your open mouth.
Something in your brain slips out of place. Goes quiet. Dormant.
You moan when the fabric touches your tongue. The taste—the smell—of your own arousal fills your senses, drowns out whatever rational thoughts dare remain until you’ve nothing left to give but pathetic whines as you nudge his belt with your foot. Begging, almost. Because you’re beginning to think you might die, or succumb to some arousal-driven madness, if he doesn’t fuck you.
He seems to get the message, because he pulls one of the hotel condoms from his pocket and sets it on the bed. You try to reach for it, but he grabs your wrist, holding it firm as he unfastens his belt, then his slacks.
And then he’s standing up, taking the condom with him as he strips down to his underwear—a plain pair of purple boxers, with a rather pronounced wet patch at the crotch. You sit up, looking about ready to pounce on him if he takes any longer, already clenching at the mere sight of him like this.
He takes his boxers off, and all you can do is stare, slack jawed, at the view you’ve been blessed with.
You’ve pictured Spencer Reid naked thousands of times, daydreamed about him for eleven months, but all of your fantasies pale in comparison to the real thing. Because he’s perfect. Gorgeous in ways you hadn’t even considered. A work of art.
Your panties fall from your mouth, land in the crevice between your clenched thighs. Spencer lifts your chin and gently stuffs them back into your mouth.
“Bite down.”
And you bite down.
Spencer purses his lips when you follow his instruction without hesitation, and the slight twitch of his cock is all you need to know that this is having the exact same effect on him as it is on you.
Him in control. You, submitting. Positions neither of you are used to. A dynamic flipped on its head. It’s maddening.
He keeps hold of your chin for longer than he should, studying you with an expression that you can’t quite decipher. His dark eyes bore holes into you, saturated with emotions that he himself likely doesn’t understand.
When he does eventually let you go, he moves fast. He tears open the condom, fumbles with it for a short, uncoordinated moment, and rolls it on before grabbing your legs and pulling you to the edge of the mattress. He grabs a pillow, positions it under your hips quickly. Mechanically, almost; like he’s trying real hard not to think too much about what he’s doing, what he’s going to do.
And you aren’t thinking at all. You stopped doing that as soon as he took his pants off. Your act shattered and need took hold, loud and feverish and so desperate. The game doesn’t matter, none of it does. Spencer could do anything, and you would let him. You had meant that before, and you mean it even more now.
He’s leaning over you, one hand braced against the mattress and the other gripping the back of your thigh, lifting it. You raise your hips, and he takes that as permission.
He straightens up, steadying his cock with one hand as he lines it up with your entrance. He takes your leg, hooks it over his shoulder, and nudges your cunt with his tip, watching the way you clench for him, the way you’re dripping for him, before taking that deep breath.
A push, a gasp, an arch of a back, and he’s inside of you. Your teeth dig into the fabric of your panties as your body yields to his length, and you take him to the hilt in one slow, deep thrust.
Spencer’s cursing under his breath, hissing about how tight you are as he tries to adjust, to acclimate to the feel of you, before he comes undone. His fingers dig into the plush of your thigh as he eases himself out almost all the way before slamming back into you, eliciting a moan—or a cry, you can’t be sure—that your panties do very little to muffle.
He quickly finds his rhythm, and with every rock of his hips you feel yourself break that little bit more. With his free hand, he tears your panties from your mouth and cups the back of your head as he leans down.
“Is this what you wanted?” he hisses, voice strained. “Is this why you called me here?”
You struggle, for a moment, to regain your grasp on language—on reality. But when you do, you look him dead in the eye and bare your teeth in a crazed grin. “Is this why you came?”
Spencer grabs your jaw, forces your head back against the mattress as his pace shifts into something brutal. Hips slamming into yours until you can do nothing but moan as you cling to him, fingers tangling in his hair, nails digging into his scalp.
And then he’s grabbing your other leg, throwing it over his shoulder, folding you in half and fucking you like it’s his purpose. Like he was made for you—or you for him. When you start slipping, he pulls you back into position, hips atop the pillow, making sure to hit that perfect angle over and over until you’re too fucked to think.
You don’t realise you’re speaking until he’s telling you to shut up. Broken strings of pleases and yeses have been tumbling, unrestrained, from your lips for God knows how long, breathy and feverish and shamelessly needy. This, apparently, is something he doesn’t like, though you aren’t sure you believe him given that, every time you speak, his grip grows tighter, his breathing heavier, and when you say his name—when you beg him not to stop—he fucking moans.
And when you keep babbling, when you tell him that you’re close, he pulls back. Straightens up. Gets a real good look at you; your tear-streaked makeup, your swollen lips, the cross necklace that’s gotten tangled in your hair. He slows his pace, retrieves it, and you think for a brief, uncertain moment that he’s going to break it, pull it from your neck, snap the chain, but he doesn’t.
He gives it a small tug, pulling you up as he continues rolling his hips. The metal cuts into the back of your neck, embeds in your skin.
“Touch yourself.”
“Spence—”
“Please.”
He pulls harder on your necklace, but your hand is already moving. Fingers skimming over sweat slick skin until they find your clit. He releases you, lets you fall back onto the mattress, and he fixes your necklace. Positions the pendant, carefully, on your chest. Between your tits.
Spencer’s hips gradually return to their almost brutal pace, spurred on by the sight of you working your clit beneath him. His fingers twitch against your thighs as your walls hug his cock, tensing as the pressure builds and you bring yourself closer and closer to release.
He doesn’t take his eyes off you for a second; back arched, drunk on his cock, touching yourself for him—you’re perfect. Dreadfully, beautifully perfect.
And once he allows that thought into his mind, he comes undone. He ruts into you, pushing you over that edge, and he follows close behind.
His hips sputter as he finishes. Legs and arms tremble with fast-fading adrenaline, with exhaustion, and with the immediate, suffocating weight of what he’s just done.
He stays leaning over you for as long as it takes him to catch his breath, and then he’s forcing himself to move. He pulls out, ignoring the latent sparks of desire it ignites, ignoring the way you whimper helplessly, and immediately gets to work on cleaning himself up.
Shaking hands remove the condom, tie it off, and toss it in the trash before he begins gathering his clothes. All while you lie back, looking disgustingly pretty, as you try to reorient yourself.
He’s about halfway through getting dressed when you speak up, voice soft and mellow.
“The Baltimore strangler,” you murmur, watching with tired amusement as he rushes about the dark hotel room, “he owns a bar in Fells Point…Lancaster Street, I think.”
Spencer pauses, shirt crumpled up in his hands. “I thought you didn’t know anything.”
“You, uh…” You press your lips into a smug little smile. “Jogged my memory.”
He stares at you for a long moment, jaw working as he chews on every response that crosses his mind, none of which are at all pleasant. But, ultimately, he keeps his mouth shut, pivots away from you, and slips his shirt on before holstering his gun.
“Can you at least open my gift?” you ask, suppressing a yawn. “It could be important, you know.”
Huffing, Spencer picks up the book and quickly tears away the brown paper, letting the scraps fall to the floor as he inspects the cover.
"De mon esprit humilié, faire ton lit en ton domaine…"
Baudelaire. Les Fleurs du Mal.
"…infâme à qui je suis lié comme le forçat à la chaîne."
You’re grinning, he can hear it in your voice. His fingers tremble against the cover of the book and, for a moment, he finds himself utterly seized by the urge to throw it in your face. To grab you, flip you over, and—
God, he feels sick.
“We’re not doing this again.”
The tremble reaches his voice, taints his words. Makes him sound as small as he feels.
“Of course not,” you say, smiling. “I’m not crazy.”
He’d probably laugh, if he didn’t feel as though he were choking. He can’t breathe. Can’t think with you in the room, with you all over him—in him. Your bruises. Your bite marks. Your DNA embedded in his skin. He needs to shower. Clean his wounds. Nurse his pride. Update his tetanus.
He needs to leave, before you pull him back in. Before he loses any more of himself to you, to this.
So, he gathers the last of his belongings, tucks the cursed book under his arm, and he walks out, head held as high as he can manage with the shame piling on his shoulders.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
And your voice is the last thing he hears as he closes the door behind him.
