ThirstForReid

I want Spencer Reid, everywhere and anywhere… don’t pretend you don’t understand 🤍REQUESTS ARE OPEN🤍 (check guidelines)

[thirstforreid]

Oh, you’ve found ThirstForReid’s Criminal Minds corner❕

This space is mainly Spencer Reid dedicated. And if you want to request what I should write about, please check my request guidelines 🤍 I love when you guys send requests 🫶🏼 Updates will happen at my own pace, since I’m a student.

Lots of love 🤍

• 23 years old 👵🏻

• Aquarius ♒️

• Criminal Minds obsessed 🕵🏻‍♀️🕵🏻

• One Direction lover since 2010 🤍

• Preschool teacher student 🧸

• MASTERLIST - FLUFF

• MASTERLIST - ANGST/HURT/COMFORT

• MASTERLIST - SMUT

• MASTERLIST - SERIES

Requests are: OPEN

• REQUEST GUIDELINES

• CONTENT LABELS INFORMATION

Divider credit 🤍 @saradika-graphics

[thirstforreid]

I will be back sometime next week loves, with 1 post per week 🤍

Sadly, my mental health isn’t better, but I need something to do during my summer break.

Been taking it easy the past few weeks, and went on a little vacation time with my man and his family this week. And we traveled home today 🤍

Love y’all 🤍

[thirstforreid]

I’ll be back soon guys ❤️ Just taking a mental health break from some stuff right now ❤️‍🩹

Love you and remember to be kind to yourself ❤️

[thirstforreid]

Black Lace & Desperate Measures

Pairing: Spencer Reid x wife!reader

Description: Two and a half weeks without attention is enough to push anyone to desperate measures.

Gener: Smut (MDNI, 18+)

Word count: 1,694

Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, BDSM dynamics, consensual spanking, praise/degradation (”good girl”, ”slut”), rough sex, orgasm control/teasing, possessive behavior within a consensual relationship, ripped lingerie, cockwarming, married couple relationship, Dom!Spencer Reid, no major angst, happy ending (aftercare vibes) (MDNI)

A/N: Can Spencer just put me in place? I would wait on my knees for him when he comes home 🧎🏻‍♀️

The quiet scratch of Spencer’s pen was the only sound in the house. It was a Saturday, for God’s sake. Sunlight streamed through the windows, highlighting dust motes dancing in the air, a stark contrast to the storm of frustration brewing inside me.

For three years, I’d loved being married to Spencer Reid. The past year, since he’d left the BAU’s harrowing travel for a professorship, had been a dream in so many ways. He was home. He was safe. He kept reasonable hours. But lately, his work had simply traded one prison for another. Instead of a jet or a cheap motel room, his cell was his home office, walls lined with books, the desk perpetually buried under stacks of student papers.

It had been two and a half weeks. Two and a half weeks since his hands had been on me, since his brilliant mind had been focused solely on us. Our normally synced-high sex drives were languishing, and I was starving.

I’d tried everything today. I’d brought him coffee, letting my fingers linger on his shoulder. “Long batch?” I’d murmured, leaning close enough for him to smell my perfume.

“Mmm, surprisingly coherent for undergrads,” he’d muttered, not looking up.

I’d made lunch, his favorite, and ate it perched on the edge of his desk, swinging my bare foot gently to brush against his calf. He’d absentmindedly patted my ankle. “Thanks, sweetheart. This is great.”

By evening, I’d resorted to blatancy. I’d put on his favorite song from that indie band he loved, dancing suggestively in the doorway of his office. He’d glanced up, smiled a soft, distracted smile, and said, “You have great rhythm,” before returning to a red pen.

Enough. This called for drastic measures.

In our bedroom, I stripped off my comfortable cotton shorts and tank top. From the back of my drawer, I retrieved the set I’d been saving for a special occasion that never seemed to come: a bra and panties of sheer black lace. The bra was underwire, pushing my breasts up into a tempting swell, the nipples barely veiled by the delicate pattern. The panties were a mere scrap, a high-cut French style that did little to cover, only accentuate. I looked at myself in the mirror, a flush of anticipation and nervousness warming my skin. This would get his attention.

I padded barefoot down the hall to his open office door. He was framed in the lamplight, brow furrowed in concentration, his beautiful hands shuffling through pages. I leaned against the doorframe, one arm above my head, striking a pose.

“Spence?” My voice was a low purr.

“Hmm?” The pen kept moving.

“I’m feeling a little… neglected.”

“I’m almost done with this stack,” he said, the words automatic. He hadn’t even looked.

A spark of defiant need shot through me. I stepped fully into the room, the soft light now illuminating the lace clinging to my curves. I walked slowly to the side of his large, wooden desk and perched on the corner, right in his line of sight. I crossed my legs, then uncrossed them slowly.

“Spencer.” Firmer this time.

His gaze flickered up, did a double-take, and finally, finally, stuck. The pen froze in his hand. His eyes, those incredible, intelligent eyes, darkened as they traveled from my face, down the plunge of the bra, over my bare stomach, to the utterly insufficient lace between my thighs. I saw his throat work as he swallowed.

“See something you like, Professor?” I teased, running a finger along the strap of my bra.

For a long moment, he just stared, a war playing out on his face. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he set his pen down. But instead of reaching for me, he leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. A purely Spencer gesture, analytical and assessing.

“You’ve been a distraction all day,” he stated, his voice dropping an octave, smooth and controlled. “A very beautiful, very persistent distraction.”

“Is it working?” I asked, shifting so the lace rubbed against the desk.

Instead of answering, he stood up. My heart leapt. But he didn’t come to me. He walked to the office door and pushed it closed. The sound sent a shiver down my spine. Then he turned, his expression unreadable. He approached, but his movements were all business. He unbuttoned his trousers, pushed them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock, which was already fully, impressively erect. The sight made my mouth water.

Before I could react, his hands were on my hips. In one swift, ruthless motion, he hooked his fingers into the sides of my flimsy lace panties and ripped them. The sound of tearing fabric was shockingly loud in the quiet room. A gasp tore from my lips.

“Spencer!”

“Quiet,” he commanded, his voice low but firm. He lifted me off the desk as if I weighed nothing and guided me down onto his lap, impaling me in one smooth, deep stroke as he sat back in his chair. I cried out, the sudden, delicious fullness stealing my breath. My hands flew to his shoulders for balance.

“Now,” he said, picking up his red pen with his free hand, the other arm anchoring me firmly around the waist. “You will sit. And you will not move.”

“What?” I panted, incredulous. I could feel him throbbing inside me, a maddening, incomplete sensation.

“You wanted my attention. You have it. This is how you get it tonight. Be a good girl, or you know what will happen, baby.” His tone left no room for argument. He pulled a graded paper toward him, his eyes scanning the text. He was going to work.

It was torture. Pure, exquisite torture. I was stretched around him, aching and wet, and he was… grading. He made a small “tch” sound at a poorly constructed thesis statement. I clenched around him involuntarily.

The arm around my waist tightened like a vice. “I said don’t move.” He didn’t even look up.

Tears of frustration and desperate arousal pricked my eyes. I tried to be good. I focused on his handwriting, on the tick of the clock, on anything but the deep, throbbing need coiling in my core. I lasted ten minutes. Ten minutes of his scholarly commentary muttered under his breath, of his heat buried inside me, of my own pulse pounding in my ears.

Then, my desire overrode all reason. A slow, subtle undulation of my hips, seeking friction.

It stopped him cold. The pen clattered onto the desk.

“That’s it,” he growled, the controlled professor vanishing in an instant. In one fluid, powerful motion, he stood, lifting me off him. The sudden emptiness was a shock. Before I could process it, he had my hand in his and was dragging me from the office, down the hall, into our bedroom.

“On the bed. Hands and knees. Now.” The command was sharp, dominant.

I scrambled to obey, my heart hammering against my ribs. The cool comforter brushed my skin as I assumed the position, presenting myself to him. I heard the rustle of his clothes, then his footsteps circling me.

“You just couldn’t listen, could you?” His voice was a dark caress. “Couldn’t sit still and be my good girl.”

SMACK!

The first spank landed on my right buttock, sharp and stinging. I yelped, my back arching.

“You come into my office,” SMACK! on the left, “dressed in next to nothing,” SMACK! “trying to seduce me,” SMACK! “when you know I have work to do.” Each blow was punctuated by his words, the pain melting instantly into a deep, throbbing heat. I was moaning, pushing back against his hand, my earlier frustration now a wildfire of submission.

“What a slut,” he breathed, his hand smoothing over the heated skin he’d just punished. Then his fingers were between my legs, finding me soaked and desperate. “Dripping for it. Couldn’t even wait.”

A moment later, he was behind me, his hands gripping my hips bruise-tight. He didn’t enter me slowly. He sheathed himself in one brutal, deep thrust, punching a ragged scream from my throat.

“Yes! Spencer, please!”

“Please what?” he grunted, setting a punishing, rough rhythm, each drive knocking me forward on the bed. His hand came down on my ass again, the sharp slap mingling with the filthy sound of our joining. “You wanted my attention? You’ve got it.” He fisted a hand in my hair, pulling my head back, arching my spine. “Look at you. Taking it so well. My pretty, desperate girl.”

His words, his dominance, the relentless pace of his hips - it was overwhelming. I was babbling, pleading, completely at his mercy.

“I love this,” he groaned, his pace becoming frantic, losing its measured control. “I love how you let me manhandle you. How you come apart for me.” His voice broke. “That’s my pretty girl. Now come for me. Come on my cock.”

It was the permission I needed. His words, his possession, shattered the last of my restraint. My orgasm ripped through me, violent and blinding, my cries muffled by the bedding as my body convulsed around him.

The feel of me clamping down on him undid him completely. With a guttural groan, he drove into me one last, deep time, his body shuddering as he found his own release against the heart of me.

For a long moment, the only sounds were our ragged breaths. Then, carefully, he pulled out of me. I slumped bonelessly onto the bed, a spent, trembling mess.

I felt him move, then his weight dipped the mattress beside me. He leaned in, his lips brushing my sweat-dampened ear, his voice a low, satisfied rumble.

“You really love teasing me, huh?” A soft kiss on my shoulder. “Now you know what will happen next time, baby.”

His hand landed once more, a final, playful-but-stinging spank on my sensitized flesh. I gasped, jerking against the sheets, a fresh, sated thrill running through me.

He just chuckled softly in the dark, pulling me back against his chest, where I drifted into the most contented sleep I’d had in weeks.

[thirstforreid]

Dom!Spencer got the most votes. So I will start writing today and probably do my weird research on stuff (the things I have to research sometimes for my fics 🫣)

I will post it on Friday or Saturday 🤍

But don’t worry! I understood that many also wanted a Sub!Spencer. And I will do one after the dom!Spencer. But one at the time 🤣

But seriously, I understand why you guys want Sub!Spencer 🥵 Sub!Spencer Reid isn’t a want, is a NEED

[thirstforreid]

Help me choose my next fic ✍🏼

If anyone has some ideas, don’t hesitate sending them in, but please look at my guidelines beforehand 😘

What kind of fic do you want to see next? ✨🤍

FLUFF

SMUT (Dom!Spencer)

SMUT (Sub!Spencer)

ANGST

HURT-COMFORT

Voting ended onJun 16

[thirstforreid]

Starting the morning with Criminal Minds. I just wanna pinch his little cheeks and kiss that pouty mouth 🤏🏼💋

[thirstforreid]

I Hate You, I Think 𓂃 Part 2

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAUreader

Description: Their arguments make perfect cover. To the BAU, they’re still workplace rivals. But behind closed doors, stolen kisses and secret rendezvous prove that hate was never the right word.

Gener: Smut (MDNI), enemies to lovers

Word count: 1,448

Warnings: enemies to lovers, age-gap, secret relationship, explicit sexual content, oral (m receiving), swallowing, dirty talk, praise kink, workplace romance, sneaking around, public/workplace sexual activity, teasing, established relationship, suggestive humor, mild possessiveness, Spencer being obsessed (MDNI)

A/N: My summer break FINALLY started last Friday, so been working trying to write this one since then 🫪 But anywaaaaaay, now I can finally stop thinking about school until September

The familiar hum of the lights in the bullpen was the only sound competing with the furious scratching of pens and the rhythmic tapping of keyboards. It was a Friday, but it felt like a Monday stretched thin - the calm after the storm of a closed case, leaving only the vast, silent sea of paperwork in its wake. Across from me, Spencer was a study in focused irritation, his long fingers drumming a staccato beat on the edge of a file folder.

We’d been partnered to write the final report on our recent undercover operation. It had been a delicate, dangerous dance in a world of high-stakes art forgery, and now, translating that tension into dry Bureau prose was its own special kind of agony.

“Your timeline on the third meeting is off by at least twenty minutes,” I said, not looking up from my screen. My voice was clipped, professional, the same tone I’d used with him for years.

He sighed, a sound of profound exasperation. “It’s not off. You’re forgetting the traffic pattern on I-95 that evening due to the minor collision at the 14th Street exit. Accounting for that delay puts my arrival precisely within the window.”

“Oh, I’m forgetting the traffic patterns?” I shot back, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes, usually so warm and honeyed when we were alone, were now cool and challenging. “Maybe if you hadn’t insisted on taking the ‘statistically more efficient’ route instead of the one I suggested, which had no collision, we wouldn’t be having this debate.”

Morgan glanced up from his desk, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Round one-thousand, folks. Place your bets.”

JJ shook her head, hiding a smile behind her coffee mug. “Just get it done, you two. Some of us have plans that don’t involve forensic bickering.”

This was our carefully constructed facade. The bickering, the debates over minutiae, the public friction - it was our smoke screen. Since that electric, desperate night in the alley behind that bar a month and a half ago, where Spencer had pinned me against the brick wall and touched me with an intensity that stole my breath, nothing and everything had changed. At work, we were the same old rivals. But in the shadows of an empty office after hours, in the cramped silence of a supply closet, or tangled in the sheets of my apartment or his, we were something else entirely. A secret, hungry and constant.

The arguments were our cover. They explained the lingering glances the team might catch, the heightened awareness. They explained why Garcia had leaned in just yesterday, her voice a conspiratorial whisper, “Sweetie, you’re walking a little stiff. Everything okay?”

“Just overdid it at the gym,” I’d lied smoothly, my thighs still pleasantly aching from the night before.

Now, after another fifteen minutes of increasingly petty debate over semantic choices in subsection B, I pushed my chair back. “You know what? I can’t think with you breathing my air. I need the original witness statement from the file room to prove my point.”

“Fine,” Spencer said tersely, not looking up. “Maybe the cold air in the basement will help clear your obviously clouded judgment.”

I shot him a glare that would curdle milk and headed for the stairs. The basement was quiet, a tomb of past cases and cold concrete. I found the correct aisle and was pulling a thick folder from a shelf when I heard the door click shut softly.

I didn’t need to turn around. I felt him. A smile touched my lips before I even saw him.

When I turned, he was there, leaning against the end of the shelving unit, his tie slightly loosened. All the professional annoyance had melted from his face, replaced by a look of heated intent. I closed the distance in two steps, my hands fisting in his shirt as I pulled his mouth down to mine. The kiss was instant and deep, a silent confession that tasted like coffee and him.

He broke it, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against mine. “We need to be quick, honey. And quiet.”

I smiled against his lips, my hands already moving to his belt. “Well, you have to be quiet,” I murmured, my voice dropping to a husky whisper. “I was planning on repaying you for that night a month and a half ago.”

His breath hitched as I sank to my knees on the cool linoleum floor. The click of his belt buckle was loud in the silence. I unbuttoned his trousers, my fingers deft, and freed him from his underwear. He was already hard, and a thrill of power shot through me.

I started slowly, my hand moving in a firm, steady rhythm, watching his face. His eyes were dark, locked on mine, his jaw tight with restraint. I leaned forward, taking him into my mouth, and he let out a sharp, quiet gasp, his hand coming down to cradle the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair.

“That’s it,” he breathed, his voice a strained, low rasp that vibrated through me. “Just like that. God, your mouth…”

I worked him, alternating between the slick pressure of my hand and the warm suction of my mouth, glancing up through my lashes. The sight of him - Dr. Spencer Reid, genius, profiler, my professional nemesis - coming completely undone in a basement file room because of me was utterly intoxicating.

“You think you’re so clever,” he moaned quietly, his hips giving a minute, involuntary thrust. “Arguing with me about traffic patterns. You just wanted an excuse to get me down here.”

I released him with a soft pop, smiling. “Is it working?” I whispered before taking him deep again, swallowing around him. His quiet groan was my answer.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he choked out, his other hand braced against the metal shelf. “Right here, between cold case files 1998 and 1999. They’ll find me and your only comment will be a correction on the time of death.”

I laughed, the sound muffled, and redoubled my efforts, my own body humming with a responsive ache. His whispered praises and filthy encouragements fell around me like a spell - telling me how good I was, how perfect, how he’d been thinking about this all day, how he could still feel me from last night.

His control was fraying, his breathing becoming ragged, shallow pants. “I’m close, sweetheart, so close. Look at me.”

I did, holding his burning gaze as I took him to the back of my throat. That was his undoing. With a stifled, guttural sound, he came, his body tensing like a bowstring before shuddering apart. I stayed with him, swallowing every bit of his release, until he was spent, sagging slightly against the shelves.

For a long moment, the only sound was our ragged breathing. Then, with a tenderness that contrasted violently with where we were and what we’d just done, he gently tugged me to my feet. He cupped my face, his thumbs wiping delicately at the corners of my mouth, and kissed me, deep and slow and sweet.

“Your turn tonight,” he murmured against my lips, his eyes promising a thorough and detailed retribution. “My place. I have a new theory on circadian rhythms and sensory perception I want to test. Extensively.”

I straightened his tie, my fingers lingering. “Is that your way of asking me to stay over, Dr. Reid?”

He buttoned his trousers, his composure sliding back into place like a mask, though his eyes still smoldered. “It’s my way of telling you. Now, you have the wrong witness statement, by the way. The one you need is from box 14-C, not 12-B. I’ll see you upstairs. Try not to look so smug.”

He turned and slipped out the door, leaving me alone with the smell of old paper and him. I leaned against the shelves, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across my face. I grabbed the correct file from 14-C.

Upstairs, I dropped the folder on his desk with a soft thud. He didn’t look up from his typing.

“Took you long enough,” Morgan said, grinning.

”Basement’s a maze” I replied, sitting down and smoothing my skirt.

Spencer finally glanced over, his expression one of pure, academic condescension. “Find what you needed?”

I met his gaze, holding it for a beat too long. “Everything I was looking for,” I said, my voice perfectly even.

He gave a barely perceptible nod, then turned back to his screen, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. The argument, it seemed, was on pause. The game, however, was very much still on.

[thirstforreid]

Currently middle of the night here. And once again I’m up reading Spencer Reid smut 👀 And I have plans later today, but do I put down the phone? Noooooo 😏🫣

[thirstforreid]

I Hate You, I Think

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Description: Four months of arguments, irritation, and unresolved tension finally explode in a dark alley behind a bar after a case.

Gener: Smut (MDNI), enemies to lovers

Word count: 2,043

Warnings: Enemies to lovers, age-gap (25/38), heavy sexual tension, arguing/flirting, explicit sexual content, fingering, public sexual activity, dirty talk, praise/teasing, dominance, possessiveness, swearing (MDNI)

A/N: Finally an update, at 3:50 am 🫣 Finally have summer break at June 11th. And then I can update more 🤍

The fluorescent lights of the BAU jet hummed a familiar, monotonous tune, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in my chest. Across the aisle, Dr. Spencer Reid was already buried in a file, his long fingers tracing lines of text I couldn’t see. Four months. Four months of being the newest agent, of finding my footing with Luke’s steady guidance, Garcia’s infectious joy, and the solid camaraderie of Emily, JJ, Tara, Matt, and Rossi. I’d even been welcomed to girls’ nights. But Reid? Reid was a permanent, prickly splinter in my side.

The team’s jokes about us being “workplace enemies” weren’t jokes to me. They were my daily reality. If I suggested a geographic profile, he’d counter with a statistical anomaly from a decade prior. If I took a tactical approach, he’d critique the psychological precedent. Last week, when I successfully talked down a paranoid hostage-taker in Des Moines, his only comment was, “Statistically, that approach has a 62% failure rate. You got lucky.” Lucky. My knuckles were white where I gripped my own case file.

“Listen up,” Emily’s voice cut through the engine noise. “We’re touching down in five. This unsub in Burlington is escalating - three victims in two weeks, all left in public parks with a single, specific wildflower on their chest. Garcia’s running the floral symbolism back home. Rossi, Tara, you’ve got the morgue. Luke, Matt, hit the latest crime scene. Reid, Y/N,” she said, and I felt my stomach drop. “You two are on witness duty. The second victim’s roommate came forward. She’s at her sister’s place on Elm Street.”

A collective, subtle shift went through the team. JJ hid a smile behind her coffee cup.

“Together?” Reid and I said in unison, then glared at each other.

“Is there a problem?” Emily asked, her tone leaving no room for debate.

“It’s just-” Reid began, adjusting his tie. “Given the delicate nature of witness psychology, perhaps a singular, less… confrontational presence would yield more coherent data.”

“What he’s trying to say,” I snapped, “is that he doesn’t want to work with me. The feeling is mutual.”

Emily pinched the bridge of her nose. “Save it for the unsub. You two are the only ones without a specific forensic or scene task. It’s final. Elm Street. Go.”

The car ride was a masterpiece of hostile silence. The interview with the witness, a skittish young woman named Chloe, was a tense ballet. Every question I asked, Reid would rephrase. Every observation he made, I’d counter with a practical consideration. We were circling each other like sharks, and poor Chloe looked more traumatized by us than by her roommate’s murder.

Back in the car afterward, it erupted. “You can’t just bombard a traumatized witness with rapid-fire logistical questions,” Reid argued, staring straight ahead at the rain-slicked road. “You need to build rapport through shared, calm understanding.”

“And you can’t spend forty minutes discussing the phylogenetic symbolism of Aquilegia canadensis with a grieving woman who just wants to know if her friend suffered!” I shot back. “We’re not all walking encyclopedias, Reid. Some of us operate on human instinct.”

“Instinct is statistically unreliable,” he muttered.

“Fuck you,” I breathed out, the words hot and sharp.

He finally turned his head, a flash of genuine irritation in his hazel eyes. “Really, Y/L/N? You’re acting childish.”

“Well, I’m thirteen years younger than you, Reid, so not surprising. Plus, you drive me insane all the time. So I would say, deal with it.” I crossed my arms, fuming, as he just rolled his eyes and drove us back to the local police station in stony silence.

Three days later, it was over. The unsub was in custody - a botanist. We were all running on caffeine and grit, too exhausted to fly back. Emily declared a mandatory decompression session at the only bar in town that wasn’t a total dive.

We were crammed around a sticky table, the buzz of conversation and relief palpable. Rossi was telling a story about a case in Sicily, the wine, the food… “And the cannoli,” he sighed wistfully. “They were sublime. Nothing like the stale, chocolate-dipped imposters you get here.”

“Oh, I love those,” I chimed in, leaning forward. “The ones from that little place in Georgetown? They’re amazing.”

“Actually,” Reid’s voice cut through the warm chatter like an ice pick. “The cannoli Rossi is referring to is a specific pastry from Palermo, characterized by its ricotta filling, candied fruit, and a fresh-rolled shell, never chocolate-dipped. The Georgetown version is, by definition, an ‘imposter,’ as Rossi just stated. It’s a completely different culinary tradition.”

The table went quiet. All eyes were on us.

“It’s a dessert, Reid,” I said, my voice low and tight. “Not a doctoral thesis.”

“Accuracy matters,” he insisted, his jaw set.

“What matters is you constantly, constantly needing to prove you’re the smartest person in the room! Even about fried dough!”

“I’m simply stating a fact! If you’d rather live in a world of pleasant inaccuracies-”

“Okay!” Luke’s voice boomed, cheerful but firm. He clapped a hand on Reid’s shoulder. “Spence, come help me carry the next round. I think we need a beer tower.” He gave Reid a significant look. After a tense second, Reid stood and followed him to the crowded bar.

“I need some air,” I muttered, pushing my chair back.

“You want company?” JJ asked softly.

“No. I just… need space.”

The back alley was a relief - dark, cold, and quiet, a world away from the noisy crowd out front. I leaned against the rough brick wall, the chill seeping through my blazer. I dragged my hands over my face, releasing a long, shuddering breath.

The door creaked open and snapped shut.

Of course. Of course.

Spencer stood there, silhouetted against the dim light from the bar’s high window.

“Of all the places you could show up,” I groaned, letting my head fall back against the wall.

“Well, sorry for wanting some air, princess,” he retorted, stepping fully into the gloom.

“I’m not a princess, so shut up.”

He took two deliberate steps closer. The space between us crackled. “Then stop acting like one. You challenge everything I say like it’s a personal insult. My work, my methods, my cannoli facts.”

“Because you treat me like I’m incompetent! Like my instincts, my experience, mean nothing next to your damn statistics!” I pushed off the wall, closing the distance myself now. “You look at me and you see a mistake Emily made in hiring.”

“That’s not-” he started, but I was on a roll.

“You’ve made it perfectly clear what you think of me from day one. I hate you.”

He was closer now, so close I could see the flecks of gold in his irritated eyes. The air left my lungs when he spoke, his voice a low, dangerous murmur. “You just want to kiss me real bad, huh?”

My brain short-circuited. “What-”

His lips cut off my gasp.

It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision - all the pent-up frustration, anger, and fierce, unwanted attraction of the last four months exploding into a single, searing point of contact. For a second, I froze, utterly bewildered. Then, understanding crashed over me, and I melted. My hands flew to his shoulders, then into his hair, pulling him closer as I kissed him back with equal fervor.

A low groan vibrated from his throat into mine. He grabbed my hips, pinning me fully against the brick wall. The cold was a shocking contrast to the heat flooding my skin. His mouth was relentless, his tongue sweeping past my lips, and I met him stroke for stroke, my fingers clutching at the fabric of his blazer.

His hands were everywhere - skimming my ribs, cupping my face, tangling in my hair. Mine were just as greedy, mapping the surprising strength in his shoulders, sliding under his blazer to feel the warm skin of his back. He broke the kiss to trail his lips down my jaw, to my neck, sucking a mark that made my knees buckle.

“Spencer,” I gasped, the word a plea and a revelation.

He answered by fumbling with the button of my jeans, then the zipper. His cool hand slid down, past the waistband of my underwear, and his touch was suddenly, exquisitely deliberate. The pad of his thumb found my clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles.

A broken moan escaped me, and I crushed my mouth back to his to swallow the sound. He pulled back just enough to look down at me, a smug, devastating smirk playing on his kiss-swollen lips. “Even though I love hearing your moans, princess,” he whispered, his fingers moving faster, “you’ve got to keep it down a bit. You don’t want to get caught now, do you? I’ve just started.” He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. “And if I’m right, which I always am, I think you want to come, huh?”

I could only nod frantically, my forehead falling against his shoulder. “Please,” I managed to whimper.

“Please, what?” he teased, but his fingers were already sliding lower, dipping inside me, curling upward.

“Please.”

That was all the permission he needed. He added a second finger, pumping into me fast and hard, his thumb still working my clit in a dizzying counter-rhythm. Every curl of his fingers was a lightning strike, hitting a spot deep inside that made me see stars. I bit down on the fabric of his sweater to stifle my cries, my nails digging into the muscles of his arms. The coil in my abdomen tightened unbearably, pleasure winding me up to a breaking point.

I grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him into a deep, messy kiss. He groaned into my mouth, the sound raw and needy. It pushed me over the edge.

“I’m cumming, please, I’m cumming, Spencer,” I chanted against his lips, the words barely coherent.

“That’s it,” he growled, his pace never faltering. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

The world shattered into bright, silent fragments. My body convulsed around his hand, wave after wave of pure, mind-numbing pleasure tearing through me. He held me through it, his forehead pressed to mine, his breathing ragged, until the last tremor subsided and I was boneless against the wall, supported only by his body.

Slowly, carefully, he withdrew his hand. He brought his fingers to his mouth, never breaking eye contact, and sucked them clean. The obscene, deliberate gesture should have shocked me, but it only stoked the embers still glowing inside me.

He leaned in, capturing my lips in a kiss that was suddenly softer, exploratory. A quiet laugh bubbled out of me, giddy and disbelieving. He smiled against my mouth, a real, unguarded smile I’d never seen before.

“Hmm,” he hummed, nuzzling my cheek. “So all it took was some finger fucking in a dark alley for you to not argue with me?”

I swatted his chest, but there was no force behind it. I was tracing the lines of his face, this new, astonishing landscape. “Don’t get used to it,” I murmured, pulling him down for another kiss. “I fully intend to argue about your methodology tomorrow. And your driving. And probably your tie.”

He laughed, a warm, genuine sound that echoed in the quiet alley. “I’d expect nothing less.” He kissed me again, slow and sweet, before sighing. “We should probably go back in before they send a search party.”

“Probably.” I didn’t move.

He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his thumb lingering on my cheek. “For the record,” he said softly, “I never thought you were a mistake. I thought you were… a variable I couldn’t calculate. It terrified me.”

I looked up at him, at this brilliant, complicated man who had just unraveled me against a brick wall. “Well, Dr. Reid,” I said, finally fixing my jeans with trembling hands. “Maybe some things aren’t meant to be calculated.”

He took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. “A novel hypothesis,” he conceded, a new, playful light in his eyes. “One I’m very interested in testing further.” And together, we walked back toward the light, the argument forgotten, something entirely new and thrilling taking its place.

Part 2

[thirstforreid]

Look How Much You Love Them

Pairing: Spencer Reid x girlfriend!reader

Description: It starts as a harmless little test. It ends with Spencer Reid completely losing his mind.

Gener: Smut (MDNI)

Words: 2,110

Warnings: 18+, smut, established relationship, breast worship, praise kink, dirty talk, teasing, body worship, tit job, Spencer being obsessed, explicit sexual content, soft dominance, playful intimacy, affectionate/romantic smut (MDNI)

A/N: Celebrating weekend with a smut fic 😏🤤

The question had been a low, persistent hum in the back of my mind for three years. Three years of being with Spencer Reid - the brilliant, beautiful, endlessly surprising man who was, without a doubt, the most attentive and adoring boyfriend I could have ever dreamed of. Every man, I’d observed from friends’ anecdotes and pop culture, had a pronounced preference. An ass man or a tits guy. It was a silly, superficial thing, really. But with Spencer, whose mind was a labyrinth of complex, beautiful things, whose love was expressed in detailed, specific compliments about my intelligence, my kindness, the exact shade of my eyes in morning light, I found myself oddly fixated. I simply didn’t know.

He was the ultimate boyfriend. He told me I was beautiful every single day, not as a rote phrase but as a fresh discovery. He loved kissing me, slow and deep, like he was learning a new language each time. He had this habit of coming up behind me while I was washing dishes or reading, wrapping his arms around my waist, his chin on my shoulder, and whispering the sweetest, most poetic things into my ear - quotes from obscure novels, facts about the bonding habits of albatrosses that somehow felt like love sonnets. During sex, he was reverent and fervent. He’d murmur how good I felt, how hot I was, calling me his good girl, praising every sigh and shiver. His hands were everywhere, roaming, learning, claiming every curve and plane of my body. His mouth followed, kissing and licking from my temples to my ankles as if mapping a sacred geography. I loved it. I cherished it. And yet, the trivial mystery remained: where did his most primal, instinctive appreciation lie?

So, I decided to conduct an experiment. It was unscientific, biased, and utterly fun. The next time we were intimate, I decided to subtly shift the focus and observe his reactions. It started with kissing on the couch, his hands naturally settling on my hips. As things heated up, I shifted, arching my back to subtly emphasize the curve of my rear. His hands stayed, squeezing appreciatively, but his mouth traveled up to my neck, whispering, “God, you’re perfect.” Promising, but inconclusive. Later, in bed, I rolled onto my stomach. He nuzzled the back of my neck, his body covering mine, and I felt him hard against me. “I love this,” he breathed, his hands sliding down my sides. “Love having all of you under me.” Still, his attention felt evenly distributed.

The next test was more direct. I wore a particularly low-cut top on a casual day at home. I bent over unnecessarily in front of him to pick up a book, giving a clear view down my shirt. From the corner of my eye, I saw his gaze snap up from his own book. He didn’t stare; he watched, his eyes darkening for a fraction of a second before he smiled softly at me. “You dropped this,” he said, his voice a little rough. I sauntered over, and he pulled me into his lap, his face burying in the crook of my neck. “You smell incredible,” he mumbled, but his hands were splayed on my back, not venturing lower.

Finally, I went blatant. We were getting ready for bed, and I stood in just my panties, facing him. “Do you like this?” I asked, turning to give him a profile view of my backside. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, and he gave a warm, genuine smile.

“I like every single part of you,” he said, holding out his hand.

“I know,” I said, turning fully to face him again. “But if you had to choose… to look at, to touch…” I let my hands drift up to cup my own breasts, my thumbs brushing over the peaks. His gaze dropped instantly, locked onto the movement. His breath hitched, just slightly. The change was subtle but profound. The analytical gleam in his eyes softened into pure, unadulterated want. He didn’t just look; he devoured the sight.

“Come here,” he said, his voice no longer just warm, but thick with desire.

I walked over, standing between his knees. His hands came up, not to pull me down, but to gently replace mine. He held their weight, his long fingers spreading wide, his thumbs repeating the same tantalizing circles I had. A low groan escaped him. “These,” he whispered, almost to himself. “These are… a miracle of physics and beauty. The softest paradox.” He looked up at me, his eyes blazing. “Is that your answer?”

I grinned, my heart doing a victorious little flip. “I think it is.”

He pulled me down into a searing kiss. “I’m an everything-you-have guy,” he murmured against my lips. “But yes… God, yes. These.”

The day after my little discovery felt charged with a new, delicious electricity. I came home from work, my mind replaying the awed look on his face. Finding Spencer on the couch in our living room, a book open in his lap, was a pleasant surprise. Him reading was not rare; him having a weekday off from the BAU certainly was.

“Hey, you,” I said, toeing off my shoes.

He looked up, and that smile - the one that was just for me, that crinkled the corners of his eyes - bloomed across his face. “Hi. How was your day?”

“Better now,” I said, hanging my jacket and bag, dropping my keys into the ceramic bowl by the door with a familiar clink. I walked over to him, my movements purposeful. I’d chosen my outfit with care that morning: a simple, cream-colored button-down blouse that hugged my curves, the fabric straining just so across my chest. His gaze tracked me, and as I drew nearer, I saw his eyes dip. He licked his lips, a quick, unconscious gesture that sent a thrill straight through me.

Before I could say another word, his arm snaked out, his hand finding my waist and tugging gently. I stumbled forward, catching myself with my hands on his shoulders. He looked up at me, his eyes now dark and intent.

“I missed you,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

I smiled, leaning down to give him what was meant to be a soft, chaste, ‘I’m-home’ kiss. But the second my lips met his, he took control. One hand came up to cradle the back of my neck, holding me in place as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with a hunger that made my knees weak. A soft moan escaped me, and I shifted, moving to straddle his lap properly, the book forgotten and tumbling to the floor.

The friction of my core against the growing hardness in his pants was instinctual, a slow, grinding roll of my hips. He groaned into my mouth, the sound vibrating through both of us. I pulled back, just enough to see his face - flushed, lips kiss-swollen, eyes nearly black with desire.

“Someone’s happy to see me,” I whispered, my fingers going to the first button of my blouse.

His eyes followed my movements intently. “Always,” he breathed.

I undid the first button, then the second, my eyes locked on his. His gaze dropped, watching the parted fabric reveal the lace edge of my bra. With each button, his breathing grew more shallow. When the last one was free, I shrugged the blouse off my shoulders and let it fall, tossing it behind me without a glance. His hands twitched on my hips, eager but letting me lead.

Reaching behind me, I unclasped my bra, letting the straps slide down my arms. I let it drop into his lap. For a moment, he just looked, his gaze hot and heavy, full of a reverence that took my breath away. “So beautiful,” he whispered, almost reverently.

Then his hands were on me, finally claiming what they’d been craving. He filled his palms with my breasts, his touch firm and possessive. A sharp gasp left my lips as his thumbs brushed over my nipples, already tight and aching for him.

“Spencer,” I sighed, arching into his touch.

“I dream about these,” he confessed, his voice ragged. He leaned forward, taking one peak into his mouth, his tongue laving it through the soft fabric of my shirt I still wore below. The wet heat made me cry out, my fingers tangling in his soft hair. “Taste like heaven. Feel like heaven.” He switched to the other, his hands never still, kneading and shaping, his touch leaving fire in its wake. “You figured me out, didn’t you?” he murmured against my skin, looking up at me through his lashes.

“Maybe,” I teased, grinding down on him again, feeling him jerk beneath me. “Wanted to be sure.”

“You’re sure now,” he said, a statement, not a question. He pulled my shirt over my head, leaving me bare from the waist up above him. His eyes drank me in. “Completely, utterly sure.”

I leaned down to kiss him, a messy, heated clash of tongues and teeth. His hands were everywhere - my back, my waist, cupping my face - but they always returned, magnetized, to my breasts. He pinched my nipples gently, then not so gently, pulling another moan from my throat.

“I need to feel you,” I panted, my hands fumbling with the button of his jeans. He helped me, lifting his hips so I could push his pants and boxers down just enough to free his erection. He was thick and hard, the tip already glistening. The sight, combined with the desperate look on his face, was incredibly powerful.

I wrapped one hand around his base, stroking him slowly as I shifted my position. Using my other hand, I pressed my breasts together, creating a soft, warm valley. I looked into his eyes, seeing the understanding and raw lust dawn there.

“Is this okay?” I asked, even as I guided the head of his cock between the swell of my flesh.

A strangled, “Fuck, yes,” was all he could manage, his head falling back against the couch.

I began to move, using my hand to stroke what wasn’t nestled between my breasts, using the pressure of my arms to squeeze around him. The slick sound of skin on skin, the feel of him, hot and velvety against my sensitive skin, was overwhelmingly erotic.

“Look at you,” I breathed, watching his face contort in pleasure. “Look how much you love them.”

His eyes flew open, blazing into mine. “I do. God, I do. You have no idea.” His hands came up to cover mine, helping me squeeze tighter, setting a faster pace. “You feel… so soft. So perfect. My perfect girl.”

“You gonna come for me, Spencer?” I whispered, leaning closer so my breasts pressed even tighter around him. “You gonna come all over my tits?”

His control shattered. “Yes-oh, God, yes.” His hips bucked up, meeting my rhythm. His moans were unfiltered, guttural sounds of pure ecstasy. “Right there, just like that… I’m close, so close…”

“Do it,” I urged, my own body singing with need, reveling in the power of his pleasure. “Mark them. Show me how much you love them.”

That was all it took. With a final, choked cry of my name, he came. Hot streaks of white painted my skin, over my breasts and collarbone. He pulsed in my hand, his body shuddering through the waves of his release, his eyes locked on the mess he’d made on my body, a look of awe and profound satisfaction on his face.

For a long moment, the only sounds were our ragged breaths. I slowly released him, sitting back on his thighs. I looked down at the evidence of his passion glistening on my skin. Holding his gaze, I brought my fingers to my chest, swiping through the warmth. I lifted them to my mouth and slowly, deliberately, licked them clean.

Spencer watched, utterly captivated, a fresh shiver running through him. He reached for me, his hands gentle now as they framed my face, pulling me into a deep, languid, post-coital kiss.

When we parted, he rested his forehead against mine, his eyes soft and sated. A slow, dazed smile spread across his face. “Honey,” he sighed, his voice hoarse and full of wonder. He glanced down at my chest once more, then back up to my eyes, his expression one of pure, defeated adoration. “You’re going to absolutely kill me with those tits.”

I laughed, a light, happy sound, and kissed him again. I had my answer, and it was better than I’d ever imagined.

[thirstforreid]

What’s Mine ⋆.˚ Last Part

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAUreader

Description: One jealous glance across a crowded bar is all it takes for Spencer to lose the careful control.

Gener: Smut (MDNI)

Words: 1,333

Warnings: smut, possessive/protective Spencer, jealousy, dirty talk, rough sex, spanking, hickeys/marking, praise & possessive language, couch sex, established relationship, dominant Spencer, emotional intimacy, light teasing, unprotected PIV (BE SAFE IF YOU DON’T WANT BABIES🤣) (MDNI)

A/N: LAST PART 👀🫶🏻

The low hum of conversation and the clink of glasses was the soundtrack to our victory. Another monster caged, another weight lifted. Around our usual corner booth at the bar, the BAU family was in full, relaxed force. Rossi held court with a story, Luke and Matt debated some obscure sports statistic, and Tara listened with an amused smile. JJ and Garcia were in a deep discussion about god-knows-what, their heads close together.

And then there was Spencer. My Spencer. His arm was draped over the back of the booth behind me, his long fingers occasionally brushing my shoulder. We’d been official for three months, and the team knowing - after our initial, mutual secrecy - felt like coming up for air. Garcia’s recent comment during a girls’ night, ”Imagine baby geniuses running around this place!” still made me blush.

“I’m parched. Another round?” Emily announced, sliding out of the booth.

“I’ll join you,” I said, following her to the crowded bar.

We placed our orders - another whiskey neat for Emily, a vodka soda for me. As we waited, we fell into easy chatter about the case, dissecting it now without the urgency that had fueled us for days.

That’s when he slid in. A guy in a too-tight button-down, smelling of cheap cologne and cheaper confidence.

“Well, hello,” he said, his gaze sliding over me like oil. “Haven’t seen you here before. You are… stunning. That dress is doing all the right things.”

I felt a spark, not of interest, but of opportunity. I caught Emily’s eye. She took one look at my face, smirked, picked up her freshly poured drink, and gave me a subtle wink before melting back toward our table. The stage was clear.

I turned a playful smile on the stranger. “Is that your best line?”

“Only if it’s working,” he countered, leaning an elbow on the bar. “What’s a beautiful woman like you doing drinking alone?”

“Who says I’m alone?” I purred, letting my eyes flicker toward our booth for just a second. I could feel the heat of a specific gaze from across the room, a laser focus I knew intimately.

The guy followed my look, dismissed it, and leaned closer. “Lucky guy, but he doesn’t seem to be paying you enough attention. I would.”

His breath was warm and beer-scented as he leaned in, his lips nearly brushing my ear. “I could show you a much better time than he ever could,” he whispered.

That was the final drop.

I didn’t need to look. I felt him approaching before I saw him. The air shifted, grew charged. Spencer appeared beside me, his posture deceptively calm, but the muscle in his jaw was ticking like a metronome set to fury.

“I believe you’re in my seat,” Spencer said, his voice low and even, but with an edge that could cut glass.

The guy straightened up, puffing out his chest. “We were just talking, man. No harm.”

Spencer didn’t blink. He simply stared, his dark eyes flat and assessing, stripping the man’s bravado away layer by layer with terrifying, silent efficiency. It was the Unsub-Stare, and it was devastatingly effective. The guy’s smirk faltered. He mumbled something, grabbed his beer, and scurried away into the crowd.

Then Spencer leaned down. His lips were a breath away from my ear, but his tone was pure, unadulterated possession. “We are leaving now, honey.”

A thrill shot straight down my spine. I smirked up at him, all innocent mischief. He didn’t smile back. His hand found mine, his grip firm, and we returned to the table for a hasty goodbye. Garcia’s eyebrows nearly hit her hairline, JJ smiled knowingly, and Rossi just chuckled into his scotch. Outside, Spencer called a cab, his arm a steel band around my waist.

In the back of the taxi, his hand rested high on my thigh, his thumb stroking possessive circles through the fabric of my dress. He didn’t speak. The silence was thick, heavy with promise. He paid the driver and guided me to my apartment building, walking so close behind me I could feel the heat of his body with every step.

At my door, as I fumbled with my keys, my hands trembling slightly, he moved. He pressed me gently against the door, his body caging mine. His lips found the sensitive spot just below my ear, kissing, then nipping lightly.

“Having trouble, sweetheart?” he murmured against my skin, his voice a dark velvet. “All that confidence at the bar seems to have vanished.”

“You’re… distracting me,” I breathed, my head falling back against his shoulder.

“Good.”

He took the keys from my shaking hands, unlocked the door, and propelled us inside. The second the door clicked shut, the careful control snapped.

We were a tangle of desperate hands and hungry mouths. His blazer hit the floor, my dress was pushed from my shoulders. Moans filled the dim space of my entryway, ours, mingled and urgent. He walked me backward, never breaking the searing kiss, until the backs of my knees hit the couch.

“Spencer,” I gasped as his mouth traveled down my throat, over my collarbone.

“That guy,” he growled against my skin, his hands gripping my hips. “Touching you with his eyes. Thinking he could talk to you like that.” He punctuated each phrase with a kiss that was closer to a brand. “You wanted a reaction? You got one.”

He spun me around, bending me over the back of the couch. The cool leather met my flushed chest. His hands ran down my sides, over the curve of my ass, still covered by my lace panties. Then his palm connected with a sharp, stinging slap.

I cried out, arching into the contact. “Again,” I pleaded, the heat spreading through me.

He delivered another, then another, each spank melting my bones into liquid fire. He leaned over me, his body covering mine, his mouth at my ear. “Gonna mark you up with so many hickeys that no guy will try flirting with you again,” he vowed, his voice raw with passion and possession. “Because they are not allowed to look at what’s mine.”

His fingers hooked into my panties and tore them aside. He was freed from his trousers, hard and insistent, and with one powerful thrust, he was inside me. We both groaned, a deep, shattered sound. He set a relentless, punishing pace, each drive of his hips pushing a cry from my lips. His hands were everywhere - gripping my waist, tangling in my hair, skimming over the heated skin of my ass he’d just reddened.

“You’re mine,” he chanted, his rhythm faltering as his own pleasure coiled tight. “Every brilliant, beautiful, infuriating part of you. Mine.”

His words tipped me over the edge. My climax ripped through me, blinding and violent, my muscles clamping around him. With a final, deep thrust and a groan muffled in my shoulder, he followed, spilling himself inside me, his body shuddering against mine.

We collapsed onto the couch, a breathless, sweaty heap of limbs. He shifted us so I was half on top of him, his arms locked around me. In the quiet, our breathing slowly returned to normal. He traced the marks he’d left on my neck and shoulders, his touch now infinitely tender.

“I hated it,” he whispered into my hair. “Seeing him near you.”

“I know,” I whispered back, kissing his chest. “I’m sorry. I just… I love when you lose control. When it’s just for me.”

He sighed, a sound of fond exasperation. “You are a dangerous woman.” He tilted my chin up, his eyes soft in the moonlight filtering through the window. “My dangerous woman.”

As I drifted to sleep curled into his side, the phantom sting on my skin and the solid weight of his arm around me, I knew no bar flirtation, no possessive claim, could ever compare to this quiet, certain truth. He was mine, and I was his, in every wild and gentle way.

[thirstforreid]

What’s Mine ⋆.˚ Part 5

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAUreader

Description: The morning after changes everything. What was once hidden in lingering glances and stolen touches is suddenly impossible to miss - especially when Spencer walks into the BAU wearing the evidence on his neck.

Gener: More fluff/Slow-burn/a bit humor

Words: 1,047

Warnings: Established relationship, post-smut fluff, hickeys/love bites, teasing from the BAU team, possessive themes, emotional intimacy, soft domestic moments, coworkers-to-lovers vibes, light humiliation/embarrassment, Spencer being secretly proud about everyone knowing

A/N: Next part will be the last one 🫶🏻

The first thing I become aware of is the weight of an arm draped across my waist. The second is the scent - clean cotton, old books, and something uniquely, comfortingly Spencer. I don’t open my eyes. I just breathe it in, cataloging the solid warmth of his chest against my back, the slow, even rhythm of his breathing stirring my hair.

We’d crossed a line last night. A line we’d been toeing for years, through whispered conversations in jet galleys, through shared looks over crime scene photos, through the quiet, steady build of something that had survived prison, trauma, and the daily darkness of our work. And we’d crossed it here, in his apartment, surrounded by towers of books and the soft glow of a single lamp.

I finally shift, turning in his arms. His eyes are open, watching me, a soft, unguarded expression on his face that makes my heart do a slow, delicious flip.

“Hi,” he murmurs, his voice sleep-rough.

“Hi,” I whisper back.

There’s no awkwardness. No second-guessing. There’s just a profound, settling rightness, as if a crucial, missing piece has finally clicked into place. We talk in hushed tones over coffee, our knees touching under his small kitchen table. He recites a random fact about the chemical composition of coffee beans, and I laugh, not at the fact, but at the sheer, wonderful normality of it. Of him. Of us.

Getting ready for work is a new, intimate dance. We pass the toothpaste back and forth in his bathroom. I borrow a sweater of his because the morning is cooler than I’d expected. He carefully, deliberately, fastens the necklace I’d taken off last night, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck and sending a shiver down my spine.

We arrive at the BAU together, walking into the bullpen side-by-side. His hand brushes mine, a fleeting, electric contact. I’m so hyper-aware of him, of the new space we occupy, that I miss the obvious.

It isn’t until we’re in the conference room, settling into chairs beside each other for the morning briefing, that I see it. I glance over at him as he’s pulling a file from his bag, and there, just above the collar of his shirt, are two faint, but unmistakable, purplish marks on the pale skin of his neck.

Hickeys.

From me.

A hot wave of mortification, immediately chased by a surge of possessive pride, floods me. My eyes snap down to the polished table in front of me. I press my lips together, hard, fighting a grin so wide it feels like it might crack my face. I focus on the grain of the wood, on my own hands folded in my lap, on anything but the evidence of last night displayed so plainly on Spencer Reid.

The team filters in, one by one, and the awareness spreads like a gentle shockwave.

Tara is first. Her eyes sweep over us, a knowing, gentle smile touching her lips before she takes her seat, saying nothing. She just gives me a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Emily and JJ come in together. Emily’s sharp eyes land on Spencer’s neck, then flick to my deliberately downcast face. A slow, triumphant smile spreads across her features. She shares a look with JJ, who shakes her head, her expression fond and exasperated.

“Finally,” Emily says, the word loaded with years of unspoken observation. JJ just echoes it with a soft sigh. “Finally.”

Rossi is less subtle. He claps a hand on Spencer’s shoulder as he passes behind our chairs. “Well, well, Dr. Reid,” he booms, his voice rich with amusement. “Someone’s been doing some… field research.”

I keep my gaze locked on the table, my cheeks burning. This is it. Spencer will stammer. He’ll turn beet red. He’ll launch into a frantic, factual explanation about dermal capillaries.

But he doesn’t.

He just leans back in his chair, a new, quiet confidence in his posture - a confidence forged in fire and hardship, one that hadn’t been there before. He looks up at Rossi, a faint, unapologetic smile on his face. “The data was… overwhelmingly conclusive, David.”

Rossi barks out a laugh, delighted. “Attaboy.”

The door swings open for Garcia. She takes in the scene - Rossi laughing, Emily and JJ smirking, Tara smiling, me trying to become one with the conference table, and Spencer, sitting there with his evidence plain to see. Her eyes widen behind her glasses. She points a trembling finger between Spencer and me, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly for a moment before she squeals, a high-pitched sound of pure joy.

“I knew it! I knew it! The quantum entanglement of your pheromonal signatures! The statistical probability was off the charts!” She does a little victory dance in the doorway. “Do you realize what this means? My shipping chart is validated! This is better than winning the Powerball! This is winning the cosmic lottery!”

Matt and Luke walk in on her celebration. Luke follows Garcia’s pointing finger, sees the marks on Spencer’s neck, and lets out a low, good-natured chuckle, shaking his head. Matt grins, clapping Spencer on the back as he takes the seat beside him. “Way to go, Reid.”

Throughout it all, Spencer remains calm. He meets their teasing with a slight smile, a shrug of his shoulders that says more than words ever could. He’s not embarrassed. He’s… proud. And that realization makes my heart swell so much it feels too big for my chest.

Under the table, hidden from view, his hand finds mine. His fingers lace through my own, a solid, anchoring pressure. I finally dare to look up at him. He’s not looking at the team, not at Rossi or a celebrating Garcia. He’s looking right at me. His thumb strokes the back of my hand, and in his eyes, there’s no trace of the morning’s shyness, only a steady, certain warmth.

The case files are opened. The lights dim for a profile. The world of violence and shadows reclaims the room. But here, in this space between our two chairs, connected by our clasped hands, is something entirely new. Something bright, and ours, and finally, gloriously real. And the faint marks on his neck are just a quiet, delicious secret we let the whole world see.

LAST PART

[thirstforreid]

What’s Mine ⋆.˚ Part 4

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAUreader

Description: They gave in. And they don’t stop.

Gener: Smut (MDNI)

Words: 1,165

Warnings: first time together, oral sex (both giving and receiving), unprotected PIV (be safe irl), praise/light possessive behavior (consensual), emotional intimacy, strong language (MDNI)

A/N: This was supposed to be uploaded yesterday 😫 But been so tired lately, and have so much stuff in school, and on top of everything I had problem with my internet connection yesterday 🙄

The last shred of his restraint vanished the moment the words left my lips. “Don’t stop.”

Something in him snapped. I felt it in the sudden, possessive tightening of his hands - one splayed on my waist, the other curling firmly at the nape of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and swimming with something raw I’d never seen before. His breathing was ragged, his voice unsteady. “Say it again.”

I didn’t hesitate. “Don’t stop.”

It was all it took.

His mouth crashed back onto mine, harder this time, a complete surrender to the hunger we’d both been carefully banked for so long. There was no hesitation, no careful academic restraint. Every unspoken fear, every longing glance in the bullpen, every quiet moment of want poured into one breathless, consuming kiss. He pushed me back into the couch, his lean body following mine, covering me completely. The world narrowed to the feel of him, the taste of him, the sound of his ragged breath.

“God,” he breathed against my lips, the word a hot, desperate puff of air. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

A thrill shot through me. I arched against him, teasing.

“Stop talking, Spence. Just do something instead.”

He pulled back, just an inch. A slow, wicked smirk spread across his kiss-swollen lips, transforming his face from beautifully earnest to devastatingly sensual. “You like when I talk,” he stated, his voice a low, confident rumble that vibrated straight through me. His thumb traced my lower lip. “I could seduce you with interesting scientific facts, and I know you’d crumble. The psychological and physiological responses are identical to arousal. But tonight…” He dipped his head, nipping at my jaw. “Tonight, I think I’ll use more direct methods.”

In one fluid motion, he stood, pulling me up with him. Our kiss never broke as he walked us backwards, a clumsy, passionate stumble down the short hall to his bedroom. The back of my knees hit the mattress, and I fell, pulling him down with me.

He took his time here, his earlier urgency transforming into a focused, tantalizing worship. Carefully undressing both of us. He then kissed down my stomach, his hands hooking under my knees, spreading me open. His gaze was hot and heavy on me. “So perfect,” he murmured, before his mouth was on me.

His tongue was a flat, slow stroke that made my back bow off the bed. A high, broken moan tore from my throat. He hummed against me, the vibration shooting sparks up my spine. “I’ve theorized about this sound for so long,” he said, his voice muffled against my skin. “The data doesn’t do it justice.”

He licked and sucked with a scholar’s dedication and a lover’s passion, his fingers soon joining, first one, then two, curling inside me with unerring accuracy. I was a writhing, pleading mess beneath him, my hands fisted in his soft hair.

“Spencer… please…”

“Please what?” he asked, lifting his head, his chin glistening. His fingers never stopped their slow, maddening rhythm.

“More. I need more.”

“You have me,” he said, his smirk returning. “All of me.”

He lowered his head again, his tongue replacing his fingers, then sucking deeply as his fingers curled back inside, faster now. The dual sensation was too much. I shattered with a sharp cry, my body clamping around his hand as he coaxed me through it with soft, praising words against my thigh.

Before I could even come down, he was moving up my body, kissing my stomach, my ribs, the valley between my breasts. He was gloriously bare, and I reached for him, wrapping my hand around his length. He was hard and hot, velvet over steel. A guttural groan escaped him.

“Your turn,” I whispered, pushing him onto his back. I kissed my way down his torso, tasting the salt on his skin. When I took him into my mouth, his whole body jerked. A string of curses, beautifully incoherent, fell from his lips.

“Yes… just like that. God, your mouth.” His hands cradled my head, not pushing, just holding. His hips gave shallow thrusts. “Look at me. Please.”

I glanced up, meeting his blown-wide, hazy eyes. The sight of him, so utterly undone, so Spencer yet so wild, spurred me on. I took him deeper, using my tongue the way he’d used his on me.

“I’m not… I can’t last,” he warned, his voice strained. “You’re too good. Too perfect.” He came with a choked-off shout, my name a prayer on his lips as I swallowed every drop.

He pulled me up immediately, kissing me deeply, sharing his own taste. He rolled us over, his body settling between my thighs. The head of his cock nudged at my entrance, both of us gasping at the contact. He paused, forehead against mine.

“I need you,” I breathed, wrapping my legs around his hips. “Fuck me, Spencer.”

He pushed in, a slow, inexorable slide that stole the air from my lungs. We both moaned, a ragged duet. He filled me completely, a perfect, breathtaking fit. For a moment, he just stayed there, buried to the hilt, his eyes searching mine.

Then he began to move. Long, deep, punishing strokes that hit a spot inside me that made me see stars. The room filled with the sound of skin on skin, our ragged breaths, and low, filthy praise.

“You feel… incredible. So tight. Clenching around me like you’ll never let go.”

“Harder,” I begged, nails scraping down his back. “Fuck me hard.”

A growl ripped from his throat. He hooked my leg over his arm, changing the angle, and drove into me with new, relentless force. Each thrust jolted through me, building a coil of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. I was babbling, chanting his name, begging for more, for everything.

His pace became frantic, his control fraying. Sweat slicked his skin, and his beautiful mind was reduced to a single, driving need. He pressed his mouth to my ear, his breath scorching. “Come for me. Let go. I need to feel you come.”

His words were the final key. The coil snapped. My climax ripped through me, a violent, blinding wave that clenched around him, pulling a ragged shout from his chest as he followed me over the edge. He spilled deep inside me, his body shuddering through the aftershocks as he collapsed, carefully, onto his side, taking me with him.

We lay tangled, breathing in sync, hearts hammering against each other. After a few moments, he nuzzled into my neck, placing a soft, open-mouthed kiss there.

“So,” he whispered, his voice hoarse but laced with familiar, teasing warmth. “Still think I talk too much?”

I laughed, a breathless, happy sound, and turned my head to kiss him. “Never. But your… direct methods? Highly effective. Peer-reviewed.”

He grinned against my lips. “I’ll have to write a paper.”

PART 5

[thirstforreid]

What’s Mine ⋆.˚ Part 3

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAUreader

Description: They said the dam had broken. They were wrong. It only took distance, silence, and one confrontation to finally let everything spill.

Gener: Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Slow burn

Words: 1,065

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, unresolved feelings, emotional confrontation, mention of prison trauma, jealousy/possessiveness (non-toxic, discussed), crying/emotional distress, intense kissing, pre-smut tension

A/N: Are we ready for smut in the next part? 😏

The silence between us had become a physical thing, a third person in every room we shared. I’d thought that night - the kiss that tasted like coffee and exhaustion, the three words I’d whispered like a secret against his lips, the quiet dinner that followed - had broken the dam. I was a fool.

We didn’t talk about it. Not a word. We just went back to work, to side-by-side at round tables and in jet cabins, profiling monsters while ignoring the one beautiful, terrifying thing we’d created between us. The sadness was a dull ache. The anger was a live wire.

Then Emily made the announcement, cool and professional. “Dr. Reid will be on a two-week leave, effective immediately. He needs some time.” My blood went cold. Time away. From the job? From me? I kept my face a placid mask, my fingers curled so tightly my nails bit half-moons into my palms. How can he just leave like that?

Two brutal cases later, the team finally got a break. The first night off, I stared at my ceiling. The second night, I couldn’t breathe around the pressure in my chest. I drove to his apartment on autopilot.

Standing before his door, I felt unmoored. I rang the bell. I heard the shuffle of footsteps, the pause of someone looking through the peephole. The door swung open.

He was in sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, his hair a mess of curls. His eyes, wide, held pure shock. “Hey,” he breathed.

“Can I come in?”

He blinked, then stepped back silently. I walked into the familiar space, all books and soft light, and stood awkwardly in the center of the living room. The silence screamed.

“Do you… want some coffee?” he asked, his voice tentative.

It was the mundane kindness of it that snapped the last thread. The anger, hot and bitter, flooded my veins.

“Coffee? Really, Reid?!” My voice cracked. “We haven’t talked! Not once since that night! We’ve just… worked. You left for two weeks. You didn’t call, you didn’t text, and now you’re offering me coffee?”

He flinched, but then his own frustration surfaced, his jaw tightening. “What did you want me to do? What was I supposed to say?”

“Anything!” I stepped closer, my chest almost touching his. “Something! ‘That was a mistake,’ or ‘Let’s forget it,’ or ‘I feel it too!’ Anything but this nothing!”

“You think this is easy for me?” he shot back, his voice rising. “You think I know how to do this?”

“I think you’re a coward!” The words were out, harsh and ugly. “I think you’d rather run away than risk actually being with me. Maybe we just… shouldn’t be together at all. Maybe I was wrong.”

The effect was instantaneous. All the fight drained from his body. His face crumpled, and he stumbled back as if I’d struck him, collapsing onto the couch. He dropped his head into his hands, and a raw, choked sob broke from him.

My anger evaporated, replaced by a wave of instant, crushing remorse. “Spencer… God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m so sorry.” I rushed over, sinking down beside him. I didn’t touch him, just hovered close. “But we have to talk. If this… if we have any future, we have to.”

It took a long time for his sobs to quiet into shaky breaths. He didn’t look at me, his voice muffled by his hands.

“Prison… it changed the wiring in my brain. I see threats everywhere. And now… now the biggest threat is every case, every unsub, every time you walk out of my sight.” He finally lifted his head, his eyes red and devastated. “I get these… intrusive thoughts. Vivid images of something happening to you. And it’s paralyzing.”

He took off his reading glasses, wiping his eyes. “And it’s not just that. I see Garcia hug you, and it’s fine. I see Luke clap you on the shoulder, and it’s fine. But if a male agent from another office looks at you for too long, or a witness smiles at you… I feel this possessive, jealous rage that scares me. It’s irrational. It’s too much.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “And at the same time, I feel like I’m… not enough. Not whole anymore. Too damaged for you. A genius who can’t figure out how to love someone without being terrified of losing them or scaring them away.”

I listened to every fractured confession, my heart breaking and mending with each word. When he fell silent, spent, I reached out, gently turning his face toward mine.

“Spencer, look at me. The fear? We’ll handle it. Together. We’re BAU, we profile fear for a living. We’ll learn.” I brushed a tear from his cheek. “The jealousy? It’s just a feeling. We’ll talk about it, like we’re talking now. And you listen to me: you are not too much. You could never be too much for me. And you are more than enough. You’re everything. Prison, the fear, the obsession… it’s all part of you. And I want all of it.”

My voice dropped to a whisper, absolute in its certainty. “I don’t want someone else, Spencer. I only want you.”

For a second, there was no sound but our shared breath.

Then, something shifted in his eyes - a surrender, a decision. His hand came up, curling around the nape of my neck, and he pulled me to him.

The kiss was nothing like the first. That had been a question. This was an answer. It was heavy with two months of frustrated silence, salted with the tears on our cheeks, and burning with a desperate, hopeful longing. It was a confession and a claim all at once.

A sound, half-sob, half-relief, escaped me. My hands fisted in his shirt, his tangled in my hair. We were a tangle of grasping hands and seeking lips, breathing turning heavy and starved, as if making up for all the air we’d lost in the silence.

He tore his mouth from mine, resting his forehead against me, his breath hot and ragged against my lips. His voice was a dark, shaky rasp. “If we do this… there’s no more running. For either of us.”

I chased his lips, sealing my promise against them in another searing kiss before pulling back just enough to meet his stormy gaze.

“Don’t stop.”

PART 4

[thirstforreid]

What’s Mine ⋆.˚ Part 2

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAUreader

Description: Three weeks of silence, stolen glances, and everything left unsaid. It only takes one moment for the distance between you and Spencer to finally collapse.

Gener: Angst/Hurt-Comfort/Slow burn

Words: 917

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, panic attack/post-prison trauma, emotional distress, unresolved tension, eventual comfort, use of ”I love you”

A/N: Part 2 became a bit shorter than I hoped, and my self-critical brain is playing tricks with me.

But I hope y’all still love it 🥺

The rain was a relentless drum against the windows of the BAU bullpen, a steady rhythm that matched the low hum of my own exhaustion. It was past ten, and the only light came from my desk lamp and the one over Spencer’s, casting two lonely pools of illumination in the vast, dark space. We were the last ones, again.

Somewhere down the hallway, a cleaner moved with a cart, the distant squeak of wheels the only other sound.

For nearly three weeks, this had been our new normal. A normal where everything felt charged, where the air between us was thick with something unspoken. It started after he’d said those words to me in the old office, his voice raw: because I don’t want them looking at what’s mine. Since then, we’d performed a delicate, agonizing ballet. Professional at work. Brief, clipped conversations. But our fingers would brush when passing a file, and the contact would send a jolt up my spine. I’d catch him staring during briefings, his eyes lingering on me before he’d quickly look down at his notes. And these late nights, just us, felt unbearable. The silence wasn’t quiet; it was full of yearning.

The team noticed. Emily’s knowing glances were subtle but unmistakable. JJ had asked me twice if everything was okay. And Garcia, bless her, had leaned over my desk yesterday and whispered, “Sweetheart, the unresolved yearning in this bullpen is making my monitors fog. I’m considering installing a dehumidifier.”

But what none of us knew, what I was only beginning to see, was the cost Spencer was paying. The dark circles under his eyes were deepening. He’d zone out mid-conversation, lost in some thought that made his jaw tighten. He was more jumpy, flinching at sudden noises. I saw it, but I didn’t know how to bridge the gap we’d created. Every “How are you?” felt too invasive, every “Can I help?” too presumptuous.

Tonight, the tension was a live wire. We’d been working on separate reports for over an hour, not a word exchanged. The rain poured harder.

Then, a sharp, echoing SLAM reverberated through the hallway and into the bullpen. The cleaner had let the heavy stairwell door swing shut.

The sound was metallic, final, and deafening.

I looked up from my screen.

Spencer had frozen. His pen dropped, clattering on the desk. His breath hitched, then came in short, ragged gasps. His hands gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles white. His eyes were wide, unseeing, fixed on nothing but some terrible memory. It was the sound of a cell door slamming shut. The guards. The isolation.

He was drowning.

I didn’t think. I just moved. In seconds, I was beside him, kneeling next to his chair so I wasn’t towering over him.

“Hey,” I said, my voice soft but firm. “It’s me. You’re here, not there, Spencer. You’re at the BAU. It’s just a door.”

He tried to pull away, shaking his head, his body trembling. “Don’t,” he choked out, the words strained. “You shouldn’t… you shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

A flare of frustration, born from weeks of helpless worry, shot through me. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” I said, my voice snapping with a tenderness that held an edge. I reached out, placing my hand gently over his clenched fist on the desk. “You don’t get to push me away because you’re hurting.”

His eyes finally focused on mine, filled with a storm of panic and shame.

The words I’d held for so long, through his arrest, his trial, his incarceration, through every brush of fingers and every silent night, finally broke free. They fell into the quiet bullpen, simple and absolute.

“I love you, Spencer. I have for a long time. You going to prison didn’t scare me away. You don’t scare me now.”

The confession hung between us. His breathing slowed, the panic receding like a tide, leaving behind a raw, vulnerable exhaustion. He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.

Then, he leaned in.

It wasn’t rough. It was desperate, emotional. His lips captured mine, and he was trembling - not from fear now, but from the release of a weight held too long. My hand came up to cradle his jaw, to steady him, to anchor us both. The kiss was a confession in itself, a silent answer to every unspoken question of the last three weeks. It was a homecoming.

When we pulled apart, his eyes were clearer, though still shadowed. A faint, genuine smile touched his lips, the first real one I’d seen from him in weeks.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispered, his voice hushed with awe.

The rain continued outside, but the storm inside had quieted. I smiled back, wiping a stray tear from his cheek with my thumb. “We should get out of here,” I said softly. “Neither of us had dinner. There’s that cafe that stays open late.”

He nodded, a new lightness in his movement. We packed up our things in a now-comfortable silence. As we walked toward the elevator, Spencer reached out and took my hand, his fingers lacing securely through mine. He looked down at our joined hands, then at me.

“I’m glad you decided for me,” he said, his smile growing a little brighter. He pulled me gently toward the elevator, our steps synchronized, the echo of the slammed door finally replaced by the quiet promise of a shared beginning.

PART 3

Tag: @reidssoulmate

[thirstforreid]

What’s Mine ⋆.˚ PART 1

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAUreader

Description: You fall for Spencer Reid slowly, quietly, and all at once. Then prison takes him away. When he comes back, so do all the questions you never stopped asking.

Gener: Angst/Hurt-Comfort/Slow burn

Words: 1,366

Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, prison/incarceration themes, emotional distress, miscommunication/emotional misunderstanding, slow burn/unresolved romantic tension

A/N: NEW SERIES 🤍 Expect angst and smut in future parts 😏

The first time I heard Spencer Reid speak, I knew I was in trouble. It wasn’t the content - a rapid-fire dissertation on the statistical improbability of the crime pattern we were reviewing - but the delivery. The cadence of his voice, the way his mind seemed to operate on a plane just above everyone else’s, yet he was trying so earnestly to bring us along. I joined the BAU a year before his arrest, a fresh-faced 27-year-old trying to prove I belonged among these legends. He was 36, a genius, a veteran. The age gap felt like a canyon. But within five months, listening to his rambles about Fibonacci sequences in art history or the chemical composition of tears, I realized the canyon wasn’t about age or intellect. It was about the terrifying, quiet realization that I was falling for him.

The year before his arrest was a blur of learning and longing. I got used to him. Used to the way he’d hover by my desk when he had a new fact to share, used to the slight, shy smile he’d offer when I asked a question that genuinely intrigued him. We saw eye to eye on cases, on analyses. There was a silent understanding, a rhythm. I thought, maybe, given enough time, that rhythm could become something more.

Then the world shattered.

His arrest wasn’t just a professional shock; it was a personal earthquake. Watching him being handcuffed, his face pale and confused, felt like a violation of every natural law I believed in. The team mobilized. Emily became a force of nature, her phone permanently attached to her ear, her eyes burning with a furious determination to prove his innocence. JJ’s worry was a constant, palpable presence - she’d stare at empty chairs during briefings, her mind clearly in that detention center. Rossi carried a heavier silence, his paternal concern manifesting in relentless background checks and legal consultations. Garcia’s brightness dimmed, replaced by a frantic, digital sleuthing. Matt and Luke, the newer additions like me, worked with a grim, focused energy, trying to hold the unit together.

But my feeling was a private, consuming storm. I performed my duties. I analyzed profiles, went on raids, wrote reports. But at night, in hotel rooms on cases or in my own apartment, the storm broke. I’d lie in bed, the darkness pressing down, and cry. Not just tears of sympathy or professional outrage, but tears of a specific, aching fear. What was happening to him in there? Was he scared? Was he cold? Was anyone hurting him? The image of Spencer - my Spencer, with his books and his kindness and his awkward brilliance - in a prison cell was a cognitive dissonance that ripped at my sanity.

The sentence announcement was a collective blow. We stood in the court room, the news echoing through the room. A stunned silence, then a surge of disbelief. Emily’s jaw tightened so hard I thought it might crack. JJ turned away, a hand over her mouth. Rossi muttered a curse in Italian. But inside me, something fractured. It felt physical, a sharp pain behind my ribs. The formal, legal confirmation of his imprisonment made the nightmare real and permanent.

Garcia, in her infinite, loving wisdom, created a visitation schedule. For one and a half months, it was my anchor. Every scheduled visit was a beacon. Preparing for it was a ritual: choosing clothes that were professional but not intimidating, rehearsing things to talk about - case developments, new books, harmless team gossip. Seeing him was both a relief and a new kind of pain. He was thinner. Paler. A haunted shadow lingered in his eyes, though he tried to hide it with facts and forced smiles. Our conversations were careful, dancing around the horror of his reality. I’d leave each visit with a renewed determination and a heavier heart.

Then, without warning, the anchor was ripped away.

Emily approached me in the hallway one afternoon, her expression unreadable. “He took you off the list,” she said, her voice flat.

I stared at her. “What? Why?”

“I don’t know,” Emily replied, and the genuine confusion in her eyes was worse than any bad news. 

Emily Prentiss usually knew everything. “I asked. He just said it was his decision. He didn’t explain.”

The confusion curdled into a hot, sickening hurt. “He didn’t… he didn’t say anything to me? No message?”

“No. Just the instruction to the facility.”

I walked away, my vision blurring. It felt like a betrayal. Not just a professional snub, but a deep, personal rejection. We had always seen eye to eye. We had a connection, a trust. Had I misread it all? Did he see me as just another colleague, one so disposable he could cut me off without a word? The questions tormented me. Does he not like me? Does he not want me on the team? The heartbreak was quiet and constant, a dull ache that throbbed behind every work task, every empty chair in the briefing room.

1,5 months later, he was released. The celebration was muted but profound. We got the call, and a collective breath, held for so long, was finally exhaled. But he didn’t come back. Emily wisely begged him to take time, to decompress, to relearn the feeling of freedom. I understood, but the absence now felt different. He was out, but he wasn’t here. And the silence between us - the unanswered question of the visitation list - hung in that absence, unresolved.

Life at the BAU resumed its brutal, demanding rhythm. Cases came and went. We saved lives, we lost some. The machine functioned, but with a ghost limb.

Then, on a Wednesday morning, everything changed.

The bullpen was buzzing with the usual pre-case energy. Matt and Luke were discussing a sports game. Rossi was sipping his coffee, reading a file. JJ and Garcia were sharing a quiet laugh. 

Around an hour into the new workday, I was the last to enter the briefing room, carrying a fresh stack of case preliminaries from my desk. As I looked up to find my seat, my heart performed a skipping beat. 

There he was.

Spencer Reid. Standing near Emily, being enveloped in a hug by JJ. Garcia was next, squeezing him tightly, tears in her eyes. Rossi gave him a firm, heartfelt pat on the back. Matt and Luke offered warm, welcoming smiles.

He looked… like Spencer. Not the pale, haunted version from the visits, but our Spencer. He was dressed in dark gray trousers and a pink shirt - a color so unexpectedly soft it made my throat tighten. His hair was neat, his posture straight, though a new wariness lived in the set of his shoulders.

His eyes found me across the room. He gave me a small, tentative smile. Then he calmly walked over, navigating the space between us as if crossing a bridge he’d long studied.

“Hi,” he said, his voice a familiar, gentle sound I’d missed so desperately.

“Hi,” I managed, my own voice thin.

We hugged. It was brief, professional, but the contact was electric. I felt the solidity of his frame, the warmth through his shirt. “Welcome back,” I whispered into the space near his ear.

“Thank you,” he murmured back.

The team settled into their chairs. I took my usual seat, but my focus was shattered. I kept sneaking glances at him. He was listening to Emily, nodding occasionally. The pink shirt against his skin, the way his hands rested on the table - they were details I drank in greedily. He was just as handsome as always, but the handsomeness was now layered with a harder, more complex texture. Prison had changed him, but it hadn’t broken the core. That core was still brilliantly, attractively there.

Emily began the briefing formally. “First, it’s my great pleasure to officially welcome Dr. Spencer Reid back to the BAU.” A round of genuine, warm applause echoed in the room. Spencer ducked his head slightly, a humble gesture. “As part of his reintegration,” Emily continued, “there will be a modified schedule. For every hundred days in the field, Spencer will take a mandatory thirty-day leave. This is non-negotiable, for his well-being and the team’s long-term health.”

Spencer nodded. “I understand. And while I wish I could come back at one hundred percent capacity immediately, I’m… I’m really happy to be here. Thank you, all of you, for everything.”

His gratitude was sincere, heavy. We all felt its weight.

Then Emily pivoted. “Now, we have a new case. A series of abductions in Cleveland, Ohio. The pattern suggests a highly organized, ritualistic offender.” She distributed files. I took mine, my eyes scanning the text, but my mind was only half-present. The other half was anchored to the man in the pink shirt across the table.

The briefing concluded with logistics. Wheels up in forty minutes. We all stood, the room filling with the movement of bodies gathering files, tablets, and gear.

I needed a moment. The emotional whiplash of seeing him, the residual hurt from the visitation list, the sheer intensity of his presence - it all coalesced into a need for a few seconds of solitude. I headed for the bathroom down the hall.

I was almost at the door when a hand closed gently but firmly around my arm.

I turned, and it was Spencer.

Without a word, he guided me, not with force but with undeniable intent, away from the bathroom and toward a forgotten side corridor. He pushed open a door I’d rarely noticed - an old, empty office used for storage years ago, now largely ignored by everyone.

He pulled me inside and closed the door. The room was dim, lit only by the daylight filtering through a dusty window. Boxes were stacked against one wall. The air was still and cool.

I was stunned. “Spencer, what are you doing? We have to get to the plane.”

He stood before me, his expression serious, his eyes intense. “How have you been holding up?” he asked, his voice low.

Something in me, something that had been simmering for months - the worry, the fear, the heartbreak, the confusion - bubbled up violently. The calm professionalism I’d maintained shattered.

“How have I been holding up?” I echoed, my tone sharp. “I’ve been working. I’ve been analyzing crime scenes. I’ve been trying not to think about you in a cell every night. I’ve been fine, Reid. Just fine.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but I didn’t let him.

“And then,” I continued, the words rushing out like a flood, “all of a sudden you take me off the visitation list? Like, seriously, Reid? I’ve known you for way more than a year now. How the fuck do you think that feels for me? Not being able to visit you in there? Knowing you were suffering? And then I had to hear it from Emily? I didn’t even get an explanation? It makes me feel like you don’t like me. Like you don’t want me as a colleague. Like you don’t even want me on the team!”

I was breathing heavily, my hands clenched at my sides. The confession of my deeper fear - that his action meant he rejected my very presence - hung in the dusty air.

Spencer stared at me. His eyes, usually so bright with intelligence, were dark, clouded with something I couldn’t name. He didn’t look angry. He looked… hurt.

“Oh,” he said slowly, his voice a low rasp. “You want to know why I suddenly took you off the list?”

The irritation in my voice was pure, unfiltered. “Go on, Reid. Tell me.”

He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he began, each word deliberate. “Not in there. Not… diminished. Not suffering. Every time you visited, I saw the look in your eyes. The pity. The worry. It was… it was a mirror of my own degradation, and I couldn’t stand you holding that mirror.”

He stepped closer, his breathing becoming heavier, his voice growing more raspy. “And I didn’t want… the other inmates… looking at you.” A muscle in his jaw tightened. “You walk in there, and you’re… you’re light. You’re life. You’re everything that place isn’t. They look at women who come in, and they don’t see colleagues or friends. They see… objects. Possibilities. I didn’t want their eyes on you. I didn’t want you to be a kind of meat in their world.”

I shook my head, the anger still fueling me. “It wouldn’t be my first time in a prison, Spencer. I’ve been to dozens for interviews, for transfers. I can handle inmates’ stares. I have handled them.”

I stared right into his eyes, challenging him.

His response was not verbal at first. He took two long, sudden steps towards me. The movement was so swift and purposeful that I instinctively backed up until my shoulders met the cold wall of the old office. He raised his hand, not to touch me, but to place it flat against the wall beside my head, caging me in his space. He leaned in, his body close, his gaze locking onto mine from a mere foot away.

He was breathing heavily, the air from his lungs warm against my face. Then he leaned in even closer, his voice dropping to a whisper so low it was almost a vibration. “Oh, I know you can handle that,” he whispered. “I know you’re capable. But if I had caught them staring at you… with want in their eyes…” He paused, his dark eyes burning. “I wouldn’t have held back.”

My heart was hammering against my ribs. The proximity, the intensity, the raw confession in his words - it was overwhelming. I tilted my head up further, resting it back against the wall, squinting my eyes as I stared up at him. The challenge remained in my voice, but it was now mixed with a desperate curiosity. “Why? You’ve seen inmates stare before, Reid. At JJ, at Emily, at Garcia when she visits. Why wouldn’t you hold back now?”

He leaned in closer still. His lips were near my ear now, his whisper so low it felt like a secret being etched into my soul. “Because, darling,” he breathed, the word ‘darling’ hitting me with a force that stole my breath. “Prison changes a man. It strips away the… the civilized layers. It exposes the raw core. And in that raw core, I found something I didn’t know was so possessive, so violent.”

He pulled back just enough to look directly into my eyes again, his own gaze blazing with a fierce, unprotected truth. “I wouldn’t have held back,” he repeated, “because I don’t want them looking at what’s mine.”

The words hung in the silent, dusty room.

What’s mine.

They weren’t a question. They weren’t a speculation. They were a declaration, forged in the darkness of his incarceration, brought into the light now against this wall.

All the anger, the hurt, the confusion - it melted, not into nothing, but into a new, terrifying, exhilarating understanding. The removal from the list wasn’t rejection. It was a brutal, flawed, desperate form of protection. A protection born from a feeling he hadn’t named before, a feeling that prison had crystallized into a stark, possessive certainty.

I stared at him, my mouth slightly open, no words forming.

He watched me process it. The fierce intensity in his eyes softened slightly, replaced by a vulnerable uncertainty. He had laid something bare that he could not retract.

The sound of distant voices and footsteps in the hall broke the spell. The team was mobilizing for the plane.

Spencer slowly lowered his hand from the wall. He didn’t step back, but his posture relaxed a fraction. “We have to go,” he said quietly, his voice now just its normal, gentle rasp.

I nodded, still speechless.

He turned and opened the door, allowing the brighter light from the hallway to flood in. He looked back at me, waiting.

I moved, my legs feeling unsteady. I walked past him into the hall, and we joined the flow of our team heading towards the elevator and the waiting jet.

PART 2