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[0o-junebug-o0]

The eleventh doctor just has autistic friendship rizz

[0o-junebug-o0]

The enormity of my desire (disgusts me),

Very very early seasons (1 — start of 2) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT!! (and fluff, some angst in relation to Spencer’s past because it can never be too happy, we’re not allowed nice things here). first times & explorations of intimacy.

──── autistic spencer (it’s a central theme to the plot), reader is actually morally good (for once).

Warnings: sub spencer (what did u even expect?), heavy corruption kink, first time for Spencer (all i do is sit around and think about how i’d like to devirgin that genius), HEAAVY praise kink, very very inexperienced Spencer, slight? oral fixation, they’re both just rlly down bad (i told u i would write something light, i delivered), Reader is whipped, Spencer is sooo much worse. Biblical references, Religious imagery, i think i talk about math equations???? And random metaphors/complexes.

w.c: 4k

a/n: i rlly wanted to explore aspects of spencer that criminal minds swept under the rug (cough cough his undiagnosed autism, cough cough his social exclusion, cough cough his crippling fear of forever being alone). Next upload will prob be heavy angst/no smut post-prison spencer (god help me please, i must be a masochist for the way i make myself suffer)

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There’s a lot Spencer hasn’t done.

He knows he’s behind, that he never quite caught up when it came to the taboo of sex and intimacy. Everything, everything, he’s ever had has been centred around exclusion, alienation, he feels like he���s lived on pause. Frozen, never advancing, stuck on ‘go’. Touch isn’t easy for him, interpersonal relationships are worse. He’s different, god he’s heard that his entire life. ‘You’re not weird, you’re just… different’, but maybe he is weird. Maybe his whole existence is just one big cosmic fuck you, because he’s missed out on so much, so much that he can’t understand, comprehend, act out against. Falling behind; this is the only area of life where he continuously comes up short, inexperienced, naive, he’s not used to being incompetent.

He’s never experienced want the way others do. He could never just hook up, fall into the body of another, expose them to the vulnerable elements of his stature. Open himself up to scrutiny. He might be a genius, he might be intellectually advanced, accepted into a multitude of ivy leagues before he was old enough to vote, but there’s drawbacks to his success. Social awkwardness, an inability to blend, mould, be one of the crowd. Sometimes he wishes he was average, something grey and mundane, so far reduced from the person he is now— it would all be plainly simple.

But he’s not, he’s not. So, this is the weight he has to bare for the brain he never asked for.

Pyrrhic victory, he’ll always be renowned for his intelligence. ‘You’re going to change the world kid,’ maybe, but simultaneously, he’ll never get to experience said world. There’s a chance he’ll always be on the outside, watching normal people gravitate towards each other. Live dreary lives of domesticated simplicity. Stacked bills, arguments over money and parenting techniques. Going to bed angry, only to turn around, mid-night, and resolve it, to not sleep on bad blood. To take them off the couch, to settle into predestined sides of the mattress.

There’s not enough possessions in the world he’d sacrifice just to experience love.

Hedgehog dilemma, the challenges of human intimacy. The hedgehogs want to move closer, to preserve heat during cold. But, they are forced, biologically cursed to remain apart, in order to prevent themselves from harming each other. Spencer doesn’t want to be hurt, to hurt, it’s a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.

He thought he’d never get to experience the physical, carnal aspects of existence. And sure, he made peace with the notion, accepted the consequences of being born atypical. Learnt to live without.

But then, oh then there was you. Pretty, intellectual you who quite literally tipped his world on it’s axis. Upheaved the most stable of routines. New to the BAU, he wanted you to last. To stay around, endure the worst of the job. If only for his selfish benefit of orbiting in your presence.

He remembers how it all started: Detroit, another case, more budget cuts, forced proximity that sent you spiralling into a shared bed for the night.

“You’re my favourite person in the team.” you admitted, “And I know that’s dumb, because we’ve spoken the least, but… you’re just, so you. That’s a good thing by the way, a really really good thing.”

He couldn’t quite believe you were talking about him. Spencer, who spilt coffee, and slipped into ceaseless tangents about obscure information. Spencer, who walked into walls when you were around, stumbling over his sentences before deftly, very astutely, giving up, walking away mid-conversation. He wore sweater-vests and colourful mismatched socks, it’s not like he was going to be crowned ‘white boy of the month’.

“Not dumb.” Spencer had responded, shifting closer to tangle further into the warm mess of this accidental situation. “That’s good. I like being me.” he mumbled. “Sometimes…. sometimes it sucks. But that’s okay. I think it’s okay?”

He moved to press his face into the crook of your neck, but you were faster, gathering him by tousled hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.

Oh.

“Please. Please.” he whispered, breaking apart, fracturing, “Please like me. And more than in a weird, ‘just friends or coworkers’ way.”

You did. You do. He should’ve kissed you then, but maybe he was scared, maybe he couldn’t quite discern his feelings, separate the logic from the emotional. So he waited, waited, waited until now. Your third date, you take him to an exhibition within a science centre: replica models of the solar system, filling rooms up, papier-mâché sculptures illuminated by light.

Best date ever. You listen, even when he’s rambling about planets, when he’s pointing out that yes, Jupiter’s density is less than water. That, technically, it would float in a bathtub, if one was built to accommodate its size. You don’t care that he’s not exactly the staple-piece for conventionally attractive males. That he’s nerdish, and awkward, and so so inexperienced when it comes to this.

In his apartment, later, much later, he looks at you, looks at you like you’re the one who just solved the fucking Riemann hypothesis.

“What do you want the most? Like,… if you could ask for one thing.” you say, and god, Spencer loves when you pose these deep, hypothetical questions. When you make him think, because you, you are the biggest challenge to his intellect yet.

You. He wants to say. But he settles for ‘Being remembered,’ instead. He works to untangle layers of fabric, your scarf, your jacket, letting out an exasperated laugh when he meets your amused gaze. “Right now though? I think I’d settle for kissing you.”

You cup his jaw, tracing your fingers along the sharp curve, and god he has perfect anatomy. “Settle huh? You should be more appreciative.”

He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your lips. Drawing away for a moment, just to return because he’s never had this before. Because for the first time in his life, he gets it. He gets physical attraction, even if it took time. He’s kissed, been kissed, yes. But he could count those moments on one hand, and if you asked how many he truly enjoyed, he’d be left with no fingers raised.

“Believe me, i’m very appreciative…”

This isn’t like before, what he felt in the past; he expected something monotone, flighty, a brief fleeting moment of satisfaction. Means to an end. No, it’s actually the best thing he’s ever experienced, and he’s going to become so insufferable after this, because he’s just found out he is very very into kissing.

Correction: he’s very into kissing you.

In the moment between parting, and touching again, he assumes you to be divinity personified. Spencer has never been religious, but something of this magnitude should be canonised. He wants to ask you. Ask you when you became this beautiful. When you became the person he needs to kiss a second time, kiss a third time, kiss until his lips go numb.

A shaky inhale, a pause. “I hope… I hope that it was okay - I mean, it was good for me. Really, really good. Um—“ to be honest, he’s just glad he didn’t say thankyou.

“Yeah, Spence. That was… wow.” you draw your bottom lip between teeth, press into tissued flesh. Jesus Christ. “Wanna try again?”

Yes yes yes yes. He looks at you, pupils blown obscenely out of proportion. Part of him wants to say, ‘why didn’t we do this sooner?’ But that’s not fair; he’s only ready now. Now that he feels, now that he might be a little in love with you.

“Please,” is his answer, and then he’s catching your face in the palms of his hand, tugging your lips back to his, because admittedly, they have ached in the long, extensive period you were apart (53 seconds).

This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. It’s an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellar— and god, he’s relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word ‘virgin’ to his back and call it a day.

There’s soft little breathy sighs escaping his mouth now, bleeding into yours. And yeah, spontaneous combustion might be a real threat. Actually no, it would hardly be spontaneous; there’s a clear, clear cause, and it just so happens to be your ruinous lips.

This is an entirely new facet of the human experience. The kiss is electric; he’s always been partial toward physics, and right now his veins carry an alternating current.

You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.

You both stumble back back back until he’s hitting a wall, and yes, thankyou. He’s making all sorts of sounds he can’t justify, and it’s a supernova, an infinite black pool of— oh, he thinks he might die, ascend, transcend, when you press your thumb against his chin, hold your lips at just a little slant from his. Force him to wait there.

“Please,” he’s never been above begging. A worthy sacrifice, one he’ll certainly repeat again because you return to the kiss, and the world around him dissolves.

You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair. Tousled auburn, fingers sinking into strands, pushing all the way down to the root. The other is still cupping his face, keeping him close, keeping him selfishly close actually.

“Spence,” you murmur. And yes. Yes. He likes that. The way his name sounds rolling off your tongue, like it was destined to be there. Like he was destined to be yours.

His world is ending. So is yours. Fuck it, he presses himself against your thigh, and ohmygodohmygod. He’s being loud, he’s actually being so criminally loud right now because apparently he’s the most whorish virgin to ever exist.

“I lied, I lied,” he admits between messy kisses, “When you asked what I wanted the most? It’s not to be remembered, well it is, its on the list. But—“ he groans, kisses you again because talking interrupts matters that are more important. Like your lips.

“I wanna cum.”

Eloquent.

Spencer Reid being dirty? Oh, it’s hot, it’s so hot to reduce someone to such an obscene state. To reduce him, the boyish fumbling nerd (who just so happens to be the most beautiful person in existence) to such a degrading mess.

Still, there’s shock. Not because he said it (you greatly appreciate the indecent things falling from those pretty lips right now), but because—

“You’ve never? Haven’t even experienced it once? By yourself?”

He should be embarrassed, but his lips are red, his eyes are glassy, and the bulge in his pants is straining to be touched. “Never,” he sighs shakilly. “Never, and i’m— i’m starting to understand why it’s so popular.”

He whimpers, pushes himself against your thigh, because the friction, yes. “Is that weird? Please don’t think i’m weird. Because I’m really, really weird. Just maybe… not in that way?”

It’s never been enough. His body sometimes feels numb to the touch, and yet still so very overstimulated. Like he manually blocks himself from feeling, already prepared for the flinch. How does he explain that life hasn’t been kind to him? That he hates his body because of what people made it out to be when he was a child. Stripping him naked, tying him to a goalpost, always the underdog. The one to be targeted, tormented.

“It’s actually kinda hot,” you interrupt his thoughts, and just because you’re evil, corrupt, the worst, you press your thigh harder against his clothed cock, palm covering his mouth when a plethora of whiny sounds escape his mouth.

It’s performative, really. Alone in his apartment, there’s no need for noise control. So when your thumb slips between parted, swollen lips, he knows to suck. The average human hand has between 10,000 and 10 million bacteria, and Spencer does not actually give a fuck anymore.

“To think that you’ve never even felt what it’s like. That you’re gonna feel it with me for the first time. I get to see that shit— god, you’re going to look so fucking pretty for me.���

You draw your thumb out of his mouth, and he has the audacity to whine.

He’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. It’s all tertiary now. Only this matters.

“Please don’t praise me—“ he protests, “I’ll probably finish in my pants.”

“Praise kink, noted.”

You laugh, and he can only groan, curse existence for being this cruel to his overworked, undervalued body. “Don’t— don’t laugh. You’re not supposed to laugh, that can heighten performance anxiety. Increase insecurity, and…” he sighs, “You do not care. Sadistic tendencies, noted.”

“Shut up. Wanna see you.” you say, and he’s just muttering breathless mhm’s, too delirious to function; his body is betraying the last iota of self-control like the little whore it apparently is.

His sweater comes off first, then his top. Discarded fabric, his raised arms when you mutter a candid ‘up’, giving way to exposed skin. In response? Your pupils dilate. Spencer knows because he’s analysing, profiling. If you hate him like this, he’s fairly certain he’ll drag himself into a self-dug early grave. He wishes he was being melodramatic. That your approval didn’t have such a substantial impact on his carefully-constructed ego. But, oh, it does. It does.

Thin, with a long, defined torso, he blushes, rose blemished skin, when your hands drag across his stomach. He’d love to say he reacts sanely, suavely. Urbane to your touch. But that would be a total, discreditable lie. Instead, his back arches, seeking contact, following the path of your fingertips with pitiful desperation. He feels malleable, willing to bend and contort, if only to feel more.

“How can you not think you’re pretty, Spence?” His pants are gone next, then his stained boxers, fabric borderline sheer now, soaked through with pre-cum.

Spencer feels betrayed. His body never responds, not to his own hands, not to his own thoughts. And yet, the moment you’re on him, he’s a live-wire. It’s sick, heinous, double-crossing. Maybe it’s purposeful, done just to spite him. Figures.

“Holy shit, look at you. Look at how perfect you are.” Spencer wants to object, because he distinctly told you not to praise him. However,.. right now, the lights are on but nobody is home. Brain-death, he’s certainly in a vegetative state.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” he whimpers, because no amount of knowledge about human anatomy and physiology could prepare him for how he feels under your touch. No amount of education in the psychology of relationships could inform him of how viscerally wrong the way you look at him feels.

Because it’s not wrong, not all. It’s the most right he’s ever felt, and he’ll tell you that if you’ll just keep it up.

The sounds he’s making are phonographic, lewd, you’ve given up on trying to stifle them now. Where have you been hiding? Your eyes fall, and he wants to blush away from the exhibiting gaze, but he’s just…. too far gone; the thought of your touch outweighs any previous reticence. Then, oh then, you drop to your knees, and shit. He expected your thigh, maybe your hand if he was lucky, not—

This. Your mouth, your tongue, your pretty lips; god, god, is this a sin? Because if it is, he’ll take it.

“Please,” he whines, and he can’t look anymore because the sight alone is going to send him over the edge. He’s gripping the wall, scrambling scrambling for purchase, because he’s trying not to grip you, but how exactly does he keep this respectful?

He’s pretty sure they’re past that, considering your mouth is currently wrapped around his cock, and he’s debauched.

You want this, you want him, he feels like he’s transcended humanity, like he’s become someone, anyone and anything, that deserves the way you’re taking him apart, piece by piece. In the aftermath, he hopes you don’t leave a single ounce of him intact.

“Wanna kiss you. Oh— oh oh,” he’s sobbing now, “Come back here. Miss your mouth— even if it’s,” he looks down and that’s a mistake. “Please.”

Of course it would be Spencer to disrupt the best (and admittedly only) head of his life because he needs you closer.

You oblige, raising from your knees, and Spencer thinks it might be sacrilegious. But then again, he feels religion in your touch so it can’t be too profane. Maybe? He’s not sure, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter. Ethics and morality have long since disintegrated, sins are engrained into humankind. He almost wants to thank Eve for tearing into the apple, because it’s allowed this irreverence to occur.

Spencer blindly follows you through the apartment, stumbling and muttering until he can collapse against the bed. Baring his pretty neck as his head hits the bedframe. Tangled in sheets, draped over his lap, his deft fingers run across your waist, mapping out the structure of your frame. If only to remember, recite this act of blasphemy.

“Spence,” you whisper, and then his lips are crashing into yours, stealing breath, stealing sanity. He whimpers, murmurs a protest when you draw back, and you can only laugh. “Lets get you off, yeah? You wanna feel an orgasm, pretty boy?”

“Yes, yes please. That would uh— yes.” he’s not even sure how he’s conscious right now. His body, god his body, has endured more pleasure in the last hour than it has for the majority of his life. Your hands scathe, and Spencer is willing to indefinitely burn, if just to feel them one more time.

You only stop to take off your clothes, and surely there needs to be prep? To reaffirm, he knows anatomy, the correct procedure, how the transgression is supposed to occur. And yet, that’s from a clinical, objective mindset. Do this, do that, etc etc. Nothing works out like that in practice.

You’re so wet, panties stained through, he spares a moment to run his fingers across your thighs, hand slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. The moan that follows has him distracted, thumb tracing circlets, over and over until you’re pulling back to return the balance. The balance, which admittedly is skewed, tipped scales, you’re on top. He falls to the weight of your influence.

And yeah, he’s more than fine with that. Jesus, you drag your panties down, down your thighs, your legs, then they’re reaching your ankles, pooling there for a moment before they’re being discarded, tossed somewhere on his floor — leaving behind a souvenir that yes, yes this happened.

“I can’t,” he says, burying his face into your shoulder when you take him. It’s slow, sinking onto his cock like every inch of warmth will destroy him. Maybe it will. Maybe he doesn’t care, because he deserves this. He deserves to feel after so much repression.

Or maybe, maybe he’s just become the biggest slut known to mankind. Likely.

Your body presses against his, and he thinks he’s going to disintegrate, because he feels so good. He understands now, he understands why people do this. Why it’s integral to the function of most. This is the best day of his life. This. Is. The. Best. Day. Of. His. Life.

There’s this noise, this pathetically loud whimper when you start to roll your hips— and oh your body is wet against him, and you’re so tight, and it’s perfect because he doesn’t have to do anything.

He can just sit here, look pretty, and cry.

He knows he’s a giver, that he’d bleed himself dry for you. It’s a curse, he supposes: so willing to bend backwards for the satisfaction of the people he trusts. But, this is foreign, and he wants to watch you, aimlessly stare, dumb and empty-headed as you wield his body like a weapon. Turn him into something perniciously yours.

Spencer has no reference for what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and yeah, he’s really good at guessing in these type of situations. Because he’s rolling his thumb over your clit again, and he wants to draw it into his mouth, to see you laid out across bedsheets, writhing, unable to do anything but suffocate him with your thighs.

You clench around him, back arched, releasing a series of strained moans. With one hand tangled in his dishevelled hair, the other pressed against his chest, your face contorts, your body stiffens. There’s no way his incessant whimpering just got you off?

Okay. So you like him desperate. Point taken.

“Please— please, wanna cum. Wanna feel it so bad,” he’s slurring over his words, sentences punctured by devastating whimpers. And look at him, asking for permission, waiting even though his body has been teetering on the edge for so long now.

“Shh, shh..” you press your forehead against his, and he melts. Reoccurring theme. His hand grips your jaw, thumb pushed firmly against your chin, keeping you close. “You wanna cum for me, baby? Gonna give me your first?”

“Mhm— mhm…” is all he can say. When you pick up your pace, he has to burrow his face into the crook of your neck, whimpers messy and broken off, suppressed against your warm skin.

“Oh. Oh…” he repeats, again. Like there’s anything else he could utter, because this is earth-shattering.

It’s the sun, and all eight planets combined, and the universe collapsing in on itself, and he’s bucking, squirming, releasing into you, spilling deep.

He sobs. Breaks down. Because it’s so so good, and he can’t believe he ever deprived his body of this.

Neediest whore to ever exist, apparently.

It takes him a while to come back. Longer to regain motor function, to sink into present day. Life, and expectations, and everything, everything, your touch eradicated.

“Just… just stay like this?” he asks, collapsing against your body after he’s drawn out of you. There’s mess, evidence of your ministrations, but cleanliness seems futile when he’s blissed out, caught in a post-orgasmic haze that yes yes yes he needed so badly.

You card your hands through his hair, watch the way he stares up at you, large, widened eyes, chin resting against your chest. “Hi,” he mutters dumbly.

“Spence,” Spence, Spence, Spence. He could drown himself in that nickname.

“Yeah?” he breathes out.

“You we’re so good—“

He rolls away from you, finding a home for his face in the pillow. “Stop. Stop.” he groans, “Don’t do that. You’re going to destroy me. I’m not… equipped for this, for you. Someone should just sedate me, put me out of my misery, a coma sounds like—“

He tilts his head to the side, relinquishing, “Okay. Sorry. Meltdown over. Can we shower? Then maybe do this again? Which will make the shower inconsequential, I suppose. There’s a new documentary I want to watch, and oh, you still haven’t seen the third Star Wars—“

He’s happy, content, over the fucking moon, to be silenced with your lips. “Yeah,” he murmurs, hand interlocking with yours as you both fall back against the mattress, “Let’s do this again.”

[0o-junebug-o0]

Luxury Reading Nights | SR

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

cw: fingering, free use, don quixote lines

Summary: Spencer calls you to provide some of your now rather popular services.

A/N: i missed spencer and i love free use!!

The most amazing part of the lifestyle you had chosen to lead was always the vast variety of men's sexual desires.

Some enjoyed getting a little rough, some dressing you in questionable outfits, some even were as far as to use you to serve them, all previously established, all with consent.

It was the wonder of 'free use', you were, at the end of the day, nothing but a tool. That's what made it so exciting.

But with Spencer, oh, Spencer, he was surely an odd one.

"Stop moving, I can't read" he ordered, his voice firm, but he was still polite about it.

He had you bent over his lap while he sat on the couch, your body was stripped naked the second you had entered the apartment. Your back was used as a book rest as he read.

His hand was the reason you were squirming so uncomfortably. You had been overstimulated for the past five minutes or so, and he kept torturing you, over and over.

It started with a call. He had a rough case and needed to unwind, which he often did with a good book. Soon, you were on his lap, kissing his lips and feeling his clothed groin against your wetness, and that's when it turned torturous.

No, he wasn't rough. Au contraire, he was extremely gentle. Annoyingly so. He began to massage your buttocks once you were across his lap, not once touching you where you were aching to have him inside.

"Ooh, I love this line" he suddenly blurted out "Too much sanity may be madness — and maddest of all: to see life as it is, and not as it should be." tilting his head, he tried to catch a glimpse of your face, womdering if you were as impressed by it as he was.

Little time did he give you, because his thumb began to run over your slit. It was slow and careful, like a caress.

You moaned in complaint. You needed more, so much more.

"You look beautiful like that." he praised, and it only heightened your arousal.

He went back to his book and his thumb kept up its pace, and it wasn't only when he reached half the book that, without warning, slid one of his fingers inside of you, while his thumb part-timed on your clit.

"I always thought Cervantes was a bit insane himself," he began to explain his theory "Takes a madman to write a madman." and without any further word, continued the assault on your cunt.

You couldn't speak from how delightful it felt. Despite reading a complex book, he was definitely paying attention to every movement of his hand, every crease of your insides, he was trying to find the one spot.

Minutes later he was kind enough to add another finger, this knuckles curling inside of you. But he was still going slow and that's when you figured: he was using your pussy as a stress ball. Not to your enjoyment but his, nonethless this was even more arousing.

His pace began to quicken as he turned on the pages, and you could tell he was reaching the end of the book, and you were reaching your limit. But it was on your terms and conditions that you only came when he said a certain word.

"...are even now tottering..." he had begun to recite near your ear what you assumed was the end of the book, but you weren't paying attention at all. You wanted to hear it. The word you needed the most as his fingers sped up their insertion. "...doubtless, doomed to fall forever." he continued.

There was something enchanting and sweet about his voice, as if he were telling you a lullaby.

"Farewell." he finally said.

Like thunder through the sky, a long moan resonated as you came. Knowing what he had done, his free hand quickly removed the book from your back. Old edition, he was not going to risk it getting soaked in your juices the same way his hand now was.

He continued to thrust, helping you get rid of the wave. "You okay?" he asked concernedly, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your naked back. "Sorry, I really wanted to finish the book." he apologized as he removed his fingers from inside of you.

You were still panting and flushed from the overstimulation, but you gave him a gentle nod "Are you feeling better?" you asked. You had noticed his tension since you arrived but decided to keep it quiet.

"I'm on cloud nine." he simply said with a handsome, gentle grin.

[0o-junebug-o0]

Doctor Who Doomsday | 2.13

[0o-junebug-o0]

[0o-junebug-o0]

falling flat | s.r.

in which you call Spencer for help with a flat tire, and he comes to help with you car troubles - and then some

margovember

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: allusions to the reaper, car trouble, blood, tetanus vaccine, kindergarten teacher!reader, flirting, protective!spencer, takes place following 5x22 "the internet is forever", hastily edited word count: 1.87k a/n: rahhhh an old prompt from may 2024 that ended up working for a margovember request rahhh.

The absolute last place you wanted to be was on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere Virginia, with a flat tire. You weren’t entirely helpless until your tire jack broke, sending metal flying everywhere and cutting your hand open.

You slumped down next to your car, pulling your phone from your pocket before calling the first people you could think of. Every single one of them ended up going to voicemail. Some of them didn’t even let it get past the first ring before declining your call—traitors.

With your thumb hovering over the call button, you thought of Spencer. He had a PhD in engineering, but you weren’t entirely sure that would come in handy in this instance. It was late, almost midnight, and you weren’t even sure he’d answer.

At this point, what choice did you have?

As the phone rang, part of you hoped he wouldn’t answer. When he asked you about it the next time you saw him, you’d wave it off as a butt dial and he’d be none the wiser.

“Hello,” he said through the phone, leaving your plans quashed.

This was awkward, you had been on four dates with the guy over the span of two months, and now you were calling him in the middle of the night. “This isn’t a booty call,” You blurted, cringing inwardly and banging your head back on the passenger door of your car.

Spencer laughed lightly, “I didn’t think it was, what’s going on?”

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” You asked, his job had a lot of long hours, and you didn’t want to bother him if he was catching up on sleep. If he was even home, “Wait, where are you?”

There was a rustling on his end of the call, “No, I wasn’t asleep, I’m at work. We just got off of a case.”

You let out a sigh of relief, at least you weren’t being a total nuisance. “Sorry, I don’t mean to bother you. I just… my tire blew out on the highway and my jack broke and no one else is answering their phone,” you told him, verging on rambling.

“You’re kind of cutting out, where are you?” He asked, he sounded concerned, and if there was a moment where you weren’t sure you still had feelings for him, it was fleeting.

Looking to either side of you for a mile marker, you stood up, looking at the ground so you didn’t step on any metal, “I don’t really know. There aren’t any signs, I’m somewhere on 28, I think?”

Spencer cleared his throat, “Do you have your location on your phone?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think I have enough service to check it,” you said, all you could see were trees.

You could hear him talking to someone, holding the receiver away from his mouth, “That’s fine, I’ll have someone look, just stay on the phone.”

It would seem that dating someone in the FBI does have its perks, “Oh, cool.” You overheard Spencer explaining your situation to someone, hearing the other person in the room say something about Reid’s girlfriend and you couldn’t help but smile. The two of you were very unofficially official.

“Hey, I’ll be there in half an hour,” An elevator dinged in the background. “Is that alright?”

You hummed, leaning your hip against the front of your car. “I mean, I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

Another ding of the elevator, “Will you do me a favor?”

In exchange for this? You’d do just about anything within the realm of legality, “Name it.”

“Get in your car and lock the doors,” he responded. “Turn your hazards on because right now you’re a sitting duck. If someone doesn’t see your car, they could hit you.”

As a favor, he was asking you to make sure you’re safe, “Okay, I’m getting in now, should I leave the car running?”

You heard the sound of a car lock disengaging through the phone, “As long as the cooling system on your car is in good shape, it shouldn’t be a problem to leave it running while you wait. Just remember what I told you about the hazards.”

Nodding despite the fact that he can’t see you, you got in the car, turning the key in the ignition before pushing the button for your hazard lights, “Okay, I’m in the car.”

“I can’t drive and be on the phone at the same time, but I’ll be there soon. Don’t unlock the doors for anyone except for me,” he told you, and you thanked him for his help before hanging up and settling yourself in your driver’s seat.

You pulled the hoodie you kept stashed in your car over your head, your school mascot—a panther—proudly displayed in the front, and made sure your car doors were locked. If you said you weren’t a little unnerved, you’d be lying to yourself.

Spencer had a worrisome job; it was something you were aware of before he ever asked you on that first date. It became alarmingly obvious to you when he revealed that he’d been shot a few months prior, which was an appropriate second-date conversation with an FBI agent. It made sense to you that he’d be concerned about you, in your idle car, on the side of the road, but you wondered if there was a case that he was thinking of. Someone with a flat tire who had met an untimely demise.

Shuddering, you turned up the heat in your car, flipping through radio stations until someone knocked on your window. You jumped at the noise, hitting your head against the roof of the car before looking outside to see Spencer. Sighing in relief, you unlocked your car door, and he opened it for you, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Is your head alright?”

You peered up at him, casually leaning over your car door. “You cut your hair,” you observed. You’d seen him just last week, where his hair still touched his shoulders, and now it was considerably shorter.

Self-consciously, he reached up a hand and thumbed one of the tendrils, “Yeah, it just got too long—and heavy.”

Resisting the urge to ruffle his hair, your head bobbed, “I like it. Did you do it yourself?”

“You can tell?” He asked, following you around the back of your car to your busted tire. Spencer sets his tire jack down before looking back at you, putting his hands on his hips.

Grinning at him, you shrugged, “I teach kindergarten, I’m basically a professional at noticing DIY haircuts.”

On a towel that you had previously set out, the two of you sat along the side of your car, and you tried to ignore the fact that Spencer still had his weapon holstered. It made sense, he’d come straight from work, but you wondered if there was a reason he didn’t leave it in his car. “Where’s your lug wrench?”

“I can change it myself,” you insisted, “I just needed a different car jack.” You gestured to the pieces of yours that were now all over the side of the road.

Alarm flashed on Spencer’s face, “Nothing fell on you, right?”

You shook your head, “No, just a cut from the metal.”

Holding out your hand, you let Spencer take a look at the cut on your palm. “When was your last tetanus shot?”

Blinking rapidly, you frowned at him, “Uh, when I was in college?”

“That might need stitches,” he responded, letting you take your hand back. “I’ll change your tire, I don’t want you using that hand for anything,” he informed you, pushing the hydraulic jack beneath your car.

Butterflies swarmed in your stomach as you watched him take your old tire off, muttering under his breath about how your old jack was practically an artifact, seeing how it literally fell apart under pressure. “How was your case?” You asked softly, fully aware that you were likely opening a can of worms by asking about work.

Spencer’s movements faltered slightly at your question, “It’s closed. We were in Boise,” he answered tactfully, leaving out any case details and cluing you into the fact that he didn’t want to talk about it. “What are you doing out here?”

You sighed, leaning back on your hands and watching him work, “I had a meeting with the other schools in our conference. It’s annual, and this year they happened to pick the school furthest away from mine.”

“Well, I suppose it worked out well that your tire blew out so close to me, then,” Spencer said, swapping out the busted tire for the donut and looking over at you. There was something nervous in his eyes, and you didn’t know if it was related to work or you.

Humming, you tried to watch the tire rather than just watching him, “Is there something bothering you?”

He was tightening the lug nuts on the spare tire, “Are you driving home after this?”

You furrowed your brows, “Yeah, where else could I be going?”

“It’s almost a two-hour drive to your place from here,” he reminded you, his tone laced with concern. “You won’t get home until almost one in the morning,” the displeasure in his voice was plain, but you don’t have anywhere else to go. “Plus, you really shouldn’t travel that far on a spare tire, they’re not made to travel far distances.”

Crossing your arms in front of your stomach, you let your shoulders slump forward, “So, what do you suggest I do? Get a hotel?”

Spencer mumbled something inaudibly, trying to finish tightening the bolts on the tire before sighing, “You can stay with me,” he blushes, a swipe of pink across his cheeks.

Your lips parted in surprise, “Uh, I don’t… I’m not…” you faltered. Utterly failing to come up with a good enough reason to tell him no, “I don’t want you to feel inclined. This isn’t what I was looking for when I called you for help.”

He let the car down, staying quiet while the two of you cleaned up, and Spencer swatted your hand away when you tried to pick things up. “So, you can come back to my place tonight. My work-issued first-aid kit has your name all over it,” he told you, eyes flickering down to the cut on your hand.

“Okay,” you breathed, unable to conjure a reason to refuse his hospitality.

He was grinning at you, hair just barely brushing his eyebrows, “So tomorrow, maybe we can get coffee and drop your car off to get a new tire?”

You smiled back at him, “That sounds great, date number five.”

“You know where you’re going, right?”

“Yeah,” you’d been to his place once to pick him up, “Hey, Spence?”

He turned around, fishing his car keys from his pocket. He looked ready to respond to you, but you pressed your lips to his before he had a chance to speak.

You kissed him softly, whispering against his mouth, “Thank you for coming.”

He chuckled lightly, gently resting a hand on your waist, “Thank you for calling.” 

[0o-junebug-o0]

mature content ; mdni

˖˚⊹ 𝓙’s note: post-prison spence is just sooo pent-up but also touch-starved during sex, someone sedate me pls

after everything, he’s finally back, and it’s almost unreal having him here again. spencer’s different now, though. prison’s left its mark on him.

maybe he thinks you’re the only part of him left that feels unsullied. he’s quieter, more intense, less of the nervous, endearing man who fumbled with his words and shyly avoided your gaze. instead, his eyes are locked on you, never drifting when he’s fucking you.

almost as if he’s lost pieces of himself in those walls and found something else he hadn’t known was there.

there’s a possessiveness to him now that wasn’t there before. the old spence was gentle, careful, almost timid in how he’d reach for you. but now, he is ravenous. even when the two of you were connected in the most physically intimate way possible—with him grinding his pelvis against yours and burying himself into the deepest parts of you, somehow it’s still not enough. his hands are tracing greedily across the planes of your skin, the curve of your spine, relearning the lines of your body. mapping you in a way that feels both familiar and foreign.

sometimes, the spencer you knew surfaces. his hips stutters—that tale-tell throb accompanied by the catch of his breath, you can feel the tremors running through his entire body as he clings to you, pressing his face into your shoulder. when you thread your fingers through his hair, tugging gently, he lets out a broken whimper as he spills himself inside of you.

there are also moments when you catch a glimpse of something darker in his eyes, a hardness that wasn’t there before. it unsettles you just as much as it thrills you, but even with that edge, he’s still your boy. your spence.

[0o-junebug-o0]

the limit does not exist!

how spencer helps college!reader understand a little calculus and therefore understand how he loves her.

MDNI | smut word count: 1931 warnings & tags & stuff: fem reader, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), lil bit of overstim hehe, pure unbridled affection, LOVE, FLUFF, hugging, reader cries, this was in fact meant to be written for spence's birthday... sorry about that school is kicking my butt lets just pretend it's october! author's note: this one is for my folks who HATE their calculus class and want spencer reid to give them head instead <3 maybe this can help you romanticize it a bit. i think this is classified as self indulgent…like REALLY self indulgent… hah... anyway i hope you enjoy! let me know your thoughts if u have any, i loveeeee you!! have a great day my hands are shaking posting this smut is so scary!!!!!

You sat in bed, staring down your notebook, eyes narrowed. Limits stared back at you. You were just about at your own limit, if you were being honest. 

Your brain, however sharp and witty it may be, is absolutely not one designed for calculus. A literary analysis essay? Done in half an hour. In depth scientific research project? Easiest months of your life. But there’s something about finding the instantaneous rate of change of a curve at one point in time by finding the slope of a tangent line that hasn't clicked yet. 

A slew of other papers- notes, practice worksheets printed from obscure websites, and formulas- surround you, a sea of unfinished thoughts from the past month of the semester.

You bite on the end of your pen, the little hope you had for a good grade in this class slipping further and further away with each passing moment, like the last ember dying in the remains of a fire.

What you really wanted to be doing was celebrating Spencer’s birthday with him right now. A chocolate cake lay on the kitchen counter and pasta simmers on the stove, but you and your boyfriend had agreed to do a solid hour of work before the celebrations ensued.

You were never particularly strong willed when it came to following through on such agreements.

“Teach me calculus,” you say, a very impressive three minutes later, flopping down on the couch. Your head makes its way to its forever resting spot, Spencer’s lap. He raises his eyebrows slightly, thumb reaching out to trace over the slope of your nose. His eyes flit between you and the file to the side of him. 

“I thought we agreed on an hour.”

“Yeah. But it wouldn’t be a very productive hour if I didn’t know how to do what I have to do. And I missed you.” 

He sighs quietly, closing the file next to him. 

“What do you not understand?” You smile at that, loving how quickly you won.

“Related rates. Like, conceptually.” 

Spencer hums in response.

��It’s October. You’re not even supposed to know related rates yet.”

“Fine. Then let's open presents,” you respond, smiley. His eyebrows get impossibly higher, hand stroking your cheek delicately.

“No. I want our night to be a little more stress free when we celebrate, okay? How about you think about that lovely cake you made for me. What if I decided to squash it so that the diameter would get bigger, going from…let’s say, 20 centimeters to 26 centimeters in 3 seconds, and the height would get smal-”

“That wouldn't be nice. It took me like four hours,” you interrupt, grumbling. He cracks a smile.

“For the sake of the example, let's say I was an awful boyfriend and really wanted to ruin all the hard work you put in for me.”

You roll your eyes.

“Hey,” he says, hand moving down to touch your jaw softly. “Don’t do that. Don’t be difficult. I’m helping you.”

“Sorry. I guess I need you to zoom out a little. I don’t really get why I’m learning this as a whole.” Spencer’s eyes pore into yours, staring down at you adoringly for a small moment as he comes up with an answer.

“Calculus helps us begin to explain the unexplainable by harnessing what we can,” Spencer says simply. “Einstein once said that, ‘Pure mathematics is, in its way, the poetry of logical ideas,’ which makes it simple in practice, but I actually like to think about it as the opposite philosophically. Trying to find logic in the more poetic ideas.”

You cuddle deeper in his lap.

“Think he would agree with that?” you ask. “I do answer to Einstein before you, unfortunately.” Spencer bends down to kiss your hair.

“I think so. He also had a really nice quote where he remarked that, ‘Gravitation cannot be held responsible for people falling in love.’ He said, ‘How on earth can you explain in terms of chemistry and physics so important a biological phenomenon as first love? Put your hand on a stove for a minute and it seems like an hour. Sit with that special girl for an hour and it seems like a minute. That's relativity.’”

Spencer takes a deep breath.

“Math doesn’t explain how I love you. It can’t. But I love the fact that it tries to. It kinda makes you wanna learn it as best you can.”

You process that for a long second and nod. He keeps talking.

… 

Presents get opened, and cake gets eaten before dinner. Of course.

You’re now in bed, on top of the covers, forcing Spencer to give you a fashion show of the new sweater vest and tie you got him. He turns to you after putting it on, and you beam. 

“I really like it. You look great. Do you like it?” you ask. He nods, smiling back at you.

“I’m gonna wear it to work tomorrow.” 

You beckon for Spencer to come closer, sitting up in bed. Your hands go out to the tie, tugging at the knot softly. He stares down at you until eventually interrupting your motions with a slow kiss, hands cupping your face.

“You’re so pretty,” he mutters.

He pulls away and finishes what you started, folding the tie neatly and setting it in the drawer. Then comes the vest, and soon enough, he’s just in his boxers.

“You’re the pretty one,” you say quietly. “Come to bed.” He crawls on next to you, tugging you into his arms. “Happy birthday, Spence. I love you.” He dips his forehead to your shoulder.

“I love you.”

Before you know it, he’s shifted on top of you, moving down. Fast. You blink, hard, trying to rid your head of the hazy endorphins as you register what he’s doing.

“What? No, I was gonna do that. It’s your birthday. You don’t have to,” you protest.

“But I really, really want to, darling girl,” he murmurs back, kissing your knee and softly pushing it to the side.

You fluster and Spencer just looks at you, fingers tracing shapes on your waist, waiting for you to be ready. 

“Well. Um. Okay. If you insist. I can’t really deny the birthday boy.” Your voice is small, and a little giddy smile grows on your face. Of course Spencer Reid would want to give you head on his birthday. 

He smiles a little against the bare skin of your hip where your top meets your shorts. Then he meets your eyes. 

“You know you can, though, right?” he asks, voice a little more serious. You reach out to touch his hair softly. 

“Yeah. I know.”

Fingers hook your shorts, gently pulling them down. He presses a kiss to your thigh, and then he suddenly looks down at it. 

“Soft,” he murmurs, like he’s making a mental note. He presses another, and another, incrementally going closer and closer to your soaked through underwear. His eyebrows scrunch when he sees the wet spot. “All this from a few kisses?” 

You blush, unable to respond. 

Spencer’s fingers hook a centimeter of your underwear. “These?” he checks.

“Yes, please,” you manage. He tugs them down, silently noticing the slickness of your sex, and exhales shakily.

“How many times on average does it take for a guy to call you pretty on a given day before you get annoyed?” he murmurs, soft smile playing on his face. You smile too, head cloudy from his words, but it immediately drops when his lips press directly against your pulsing clit, kissing it softly.

“Fuck,” you say (Spencer would argue moan) softly (loudly). You let out a content sigh, and he moves to suckle it, actions becoming less and less delicate. 

It’s not harsh, but incessant. Spencer knows what you can take. He knows exactly what you can take. You’re both quiet for a bit, save for your breathy moans. 

“Spencer,” you say softly, ripping you both out of your individually hazy and dirty and distracted minds. “You’re too far away.” He looks up to you, face parallel to your aching core, hair beautifully messy and mouth glistening.

After a second, he grabs your hips, gently pushing you up against the pillows so you’re propped up at a better angle. He then shifts his body up wordlessly so he’s more above you, dipping his head down to give you a soft kiss. You taste yourself, tongue darting out to lick your lips.

His hand takes over where his mouth was, sliding in between your folds with a practiced ease. Spencer looks down at you, eyes wide and flitting between yours, searching for a reaction.

You reach out and wrap your arms around him, holding him close. “Holy shit, I love you,” you murmur.

His fingers lightly graze your clit again before one slides into you. “Angel,” he breathes out, so quietly. “I love you too. This okay? Are you okay?”

You nod feverishly and lift your hips to meet his hand, always in a perpetual state of wanting more, to be closer. Your bodies are melded so close together, barely giving him room to push his hand into you. He doesn’t even bother to ask you to use your words or keep your hips down, like he might on a regular night.

He pulls his head back to watch as he pushes another finger into you, stretching you just a little. “There we go. You always feel like heaven around me.”

Your eyes flit up to his face as he says those words, now having a little more room to observe him. You focus on the slope of his nose and curve of his mouth. 

“You’re so perfect,” you say quietly, adoringly, before you even realize it was true.

You blink at that thought. Spencer Reid is perfect, despite whatever universal odds deeming that impossible.

Those graphs, those formulas, now laying discarded & crumpled on the ground. They click, a little bit. You understand why Albert Einstein wanted to spend his life developing theories of relativity.

This is how Spencer sees you? What he was talking about earlier?

This is how he sees you?

The thought is almost too much.

Spencer sees your face, and not knowing what's going on in your head, slides down his free hand from your cheek to your carotid, feeling your racing pulse. “Take a deep breath for me, okay? You're about to come, huh?”

You inhale and are met with peace. Then your orgasm hits you like a wave. You clench hard around his fingers, and he just watches it happen, fascinated. “Baby,” he coos softly at you.

It wasn’t just your sensitivity he’s currently maximizing on or the little kisses he dips down to leave on your neck that sealed the deal, but the very thought that you could be loved in a way that is so perfectly impossible.

You exhale breathily as Spencer pushes you through the last trails of your climax, fingers not caring one bit that you just had your world tilted on its axis. 

“Spencer. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” you say eventually, overstimulated.

“You’re okay. Did so good.” he murmurs, fingers slipping out of you. 

His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away a tear you didn't even realize was dripping down.

“Don’t cry, you always cry. It’s my birthday. Don’t cry on my birthday,” he whispers soothingly, affection lacing his voice.

“I’m not.” 

Another one falls. 

You reach and press out that perpetual little slope between his eyebrows with your thumb, gentle, like you might break him. “I’m not crying.”

Spencer lets you lie.

[0o-junebug-o0]

central nervous system | s.r.

in which you are drugged on what should've been a routine case

margovember

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst; hurt/comfort content warnings: being drugged, threatened sexual assault, season 10, blood, broken glass, in a bar but reader doesn't drink, jareau!reader. word count: 1.7k a/n: oh dear. this week was so eternally long. work was crazy busy i worked overtime and almost ended up in the hospital which all led up to me taking the lsat today. crazy shit, but margovember will prevail. also! i'm hoping to get masterlists updated tomorrow if that's something you've been waiting on.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before,” an unfamiliar voice intrudes on your private thoughts, looking around the bar that you had been planted in to see if you could catch your UnSub before he had the chance to attack someone else.

He sets a glass in front of you, and you drop some cash on the wooden surface, you shrug, “I’m in town on business.”

The bartender laughs heartily at your response before shaking his head, “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just—that’s a line I hear a lot.”

Your face warms at the recognition that the bartender was flirting with you, but this is a man who gets paid to be nice. You take his words at face value and sip at your drink, “Well, I have no reason to lie to you,” you squint at his name tag, “Jackson.”

He wipes down a spill, hooking the rag over the sink, and smiling at you, “Well, it’s nice to meet an honest woman.”

Following him with your eyes as he walks away, that last comment rubs you the wrong way, but Jackson Gleason was the bar manager, and Garcia had already cleared him from the suspect list.

You find yourself wishing Hotch had sent you into the bar with an earbud to communicate with the team, but instead, you were handed a phone, preprogrammed to alert the team if you hit the power button. There was a plainclothes officer somewhere in a corner to keep an eye on you, and the rest of the team was at the precinct or in an unmarked van outside.

Kate had coached you to the best of her abilities, but this wasn’t your first time going undercover. Catching serial rapists was more her speed, but she was pregnant, which immediately took her out of the running. Sipping from the thin straw in your glass, you let your eyes wander around the bar, antique posters and advertisements are littered across the walls, and someone just started playing Radiohead on the jukebox.

Eyeing the phone in your purse, you sigh, stirring the ice in your cup listlessly.

“Can I get you another? Maybe something stronger?” The manager offers, returning from the employees-only door with a new package of straws to restock the bar.

You shake your head, holding your empty glass out of him to take, “The same thing is fine.” Ignoring the fact that you don’t drink—you couldn’t drink on the job; all you’d been given was a coke.

He raises his eyebrows at that, “Suit yourself,” he says, ignoring the fact that you were trying to hand off your already dirtied glass to him and filling a clean cup with ice and coke.

Brushing it off as company policy, you thank him for the drink, placing another few dollars on the bar and smiling at him. Over your shoulder, you glance at the plainclothes officer, engaging in an animated conversation with another patron over whatever sports game is playing on the TV. You suspect he’s a little too good at pretending to be off the clock.

You make a face at the straw in your glass, and the bartender notices, “Sorry, just ran out of plastic.”

Taken aback, you use the paper straw anyway, sipping at your drink while you still can—knowing the straw will inevitably disintegrate.

It doesn’t take long for you to notice something wrong, a dull ache in your chest exacerbated by a slight rise in your body temperature. Your fingertips feel hot like they would after coming inside from the cold. You look down to find the emergency phone in your purse, but your head droops with your eyes, every controlled movement before a struggle.

“Hey,” Gleason says, jutting his chin in your direction, “You don’t look so great.”

A different version of yourself would’ve given him snark in return, but that different version of yourself would’ve been able to feel her extremities. “Woah,” You breathe, trying to swing your legs off of the stool only to find that you’re much higher from the ground than you initially thought.

When you lift your head again, whipping it back so hard you’re afraid it might fly off, he’s standing directly in front of you, “Why don’t I take you out back? You can get some fresh air,” the offer is innocent enough, but it rubs you the wrong way. His hand is on your waist, at the very least you know that’s wrong—you have a boyfriend, and it’s not this guy.

No, your boyfriend is outside of the bar in a van, waiting for your signal because you’re… oh. “No,” you whisper, trying to get your breathing under control. “I’m— Where’s my phone?” You’re digging through your purse as he stands you up and guides you to the back of the bar, closer to a large exit sign.

Sirens are going off in your head, but even they sound separated from your situation. “I can call a cab for you,” he assures you, leading you by your arm and closer to the back door.

“No,” you say again, “I really need my phone…” his grip tightens on your wrist, practically dragging you out of the bar while you use your free hand to find your phone, pushing the power button before it slips out of your hand, clattering to the ground. “That really hurts,” you tell him, now able to give more of your focus to evading the man who was most decidedly not Jackson Gleason.

Pulling your arm back, you manage to break free from him, the momentum from your struggle sends your hand flying into a picture frame, shattering the glass and causing the UnSub to spin on his heel. “Look at what you did,” he seethes, gripping your hair at the back of your head and forcing you to look at the shattered glass.

Your mouth gapes at the sensation of your hair being pulled until there’s a rush of cold air and he pushes you forward, into the waiting arms of someone else, “Woah, hey, I’ve got you,” Spencer says, keeping you off of the floor and, with the help of someone else, carrying your dead weight over to one of the booths.

Spencer clambers into the booth seat first, seating you in front of him so that your back is pressing against his chest. You let out a low groan when he wraps an arm around your waist, keeping your body from flopping onto the sticky hardwood.

“Do you know what you took?” He asks, pressing his face into your hair so that the two of you can keep your voices down.

Vaguely aware of the way his fingers are pressing into the pulse point on your wrist, you shake your head, “I didn’t take anything.”

He hums in response, “You were drugged. I— I’m so sorry we didn’t realize who it was sooner. By the time we realized there was a discrepancy in Jackson Gleason’s file, you had already pushed the alert button,” he tells you, being careful not to move around too much. “Can you lift your head for me? It’ll help your breathing.”

With tremendous effort—and some help from Spencer—you lift your head, letting it rest on him. Now, you can see that the majority of the bar has cleared out, Rossi watches you nervously from the bar, telling Spencer something about paramedics. You huff, “Where’s JJ?”

“She’ll meet us at the hospital, love,” he answers you, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your head.

Trying to adjust yourself, you shake your head indeterminably, “No, it’s… I need my sister. I need my sister.” Somewhere—a past version of yourself, perhaps—you knew that JJ was at the hospital, speaking with one of the survivors.

Spencer speaks with someone that you can’t see, they’re standing in your periphery, a mangled blur of a person. Moments later, something cold is pressed to your face, and the sensation makes you jump, “Ow,” you whine, though it doesn’t hurt.

“Ducky?” Your sister’s voice rings through the phone, and you’re surprised to hear her using your nickname. Although, your status as JJ’s little sister tends to come through when you’re hurt.

You hum into the receiver, “Hi, J,” you greet wearily.

A sigh of relief is her next response, “Hey, Derek said you’re waiting for the paramedics to take you to the hospital, and I’ll be here to greet you when you arrive. Does that sound alright?”

“It’s cold in here,” you mumble, wondering if Derek is the blurry shape remaining in your periphery.

There’s a pause on her end before she speaks up again, “I’m sorry, Ducky.” There it was again. “You’ll be okay though; you just have to wait it out.”

You nod as a jacket is laid out on your lap; Spencer must’ve heard you mention being cold to your sister. Your boyfriend whispers something to you, “Spencer says the paramedics are here and I can’t talk to you anymore.”

JJ laughs slightly on the phone, “I’ll see you when you get here, okay?”

“Yeah, J,” you whisper, letting someone take the phone from you. You frown at Spencer, “I don’t feel quite right.”

Helping you get on the gurney, Spencer holds your hand while an EMT wraps a blood pressure cuff around your arm, “He likely gave you a central nervous system inhibitor.”

You nod slowly, wrinkling your nose when the other paramedic shines a light in your eyes, “I am nervous,” you answer. Trying to listen to the medical personnel as they explain what’s going on, but it all goes in one ear and out the other. One of them crudely wraps a cut on your hand to staunch the bleeding, but you couldn’t even remember when it started to bleed.

Anxiously, you pull your bottom lip between your teeth. “Don’t bite down on your lip,” Spencer instructs, “You could bite right through it and not even realize.”

Releasing your lip, your eyes widen at him while he pulls a blanket over your shoulders. “That’s scary,” you whisper.

“I agree,” he says, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, “It is scary.”

[0o-junebug-o0]

Just To Hear Her Voice

Here's my first Criminal Minds fic!

summary: In the aftermath of Emily's death, Spencer starts calling and texting her number to cope as his life spirals down around him. He has no idea that halfway across the world, Emily is listening.

content: drug addiction, grief/mourning, angst, hurt/comfort, near relapse, angst with a happy ending

word count: 3.2k

Spencer calls Emily for the first time a week after her death. He’s sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest on the floor of his apartment, pressed between a chair and the wall, rocking forward and backward. He holds the phone to his ear and sobs when he hears Emily’s voice.

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

The dial tone sounds. Spencer chokes on a sob and hangs up. He redials the number. 

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

He hangs up before the tone and calls again. 

He only speaks on the sixth call. 

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

The dial tone sounds and Spencer takes a deep, shaky breath. “H-hi, Emily. I, um, I don’t know why I’m calling you. It’s– it’s not like you’re going to answer. You’re dead. I helped carry your coffin. It—” A sob pushes up his throat and cuts him off. “It was so heavy,” he whispers. 

He bows his head and presses his knees against his face, he can feel the tears seeping through the fabric of his slacks. “I just– I really miss you. It doesn’t feel real, none of this feels real. I’m sorry. I—” Spencer cuts himself off with a wet chuckle. “I should go eat something.”

Spencer pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up. He doesn’t push himself off the floor for another three hours and when he does he goes straight to his room.

He calls her again three days later just to hear her voice. He doesn’t speak.

Spencer lays on the floor of a Nashville hotel room four weeks and six days after Emily’s death and dials her number. 

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.” 

He waits for the tone.

“I saw someone that looks like you today,” he says weakly. He breathes deeply and stares at the ceiling, tracing the perimeter of the room with his eyes. “It was uncanny. I, um, I really thought she was you. I was with Rossi, heading back to the Nashville police station, we’re on our first case since—” he pauses unable to finish the sentence. “It was good he was there. I might have called your name if he wasn’t. It feels wrong without you here.” Unable to think of anything else to say, Spencer hangs up. 

He doesn’t know that halfway across the world his voicemails are transferred from one phone to another and Emily Prentiss, newly arrived in Paris, listens to them and cries.

After the case in Nashville, calling Emily becomes a part of Spencer’s routine. Most of the time he doesn’t talk, unable to force himself to speak, and just listens to her voice. On those days he goes over to JJ’s house once he hangs up and cries in her arms. 

Emily receives records of those calls too, the times and dates are sent to her new phone and she stares at them when they arrive, hoping that she’s not the only person Spencer is talking to.

After three months he shifts from leaving messages to texting because it’s easier than talking. He still calls to listen to her voice but always hangs up before the tone. He texts her about his day, about the cases they’re working on without giving away any details, about how much he misses her. He still goes to JJ’s house at least once a week, he feels safer there on bad days.

Five months and thirteen days after her death, Spencer calls Emily’s number and yells.

“You should have told us! We could have helped you! We’re family, Emily! It’s our job to take care of each other.” Spencer's voice cracks and he lets out a screaming sob as he grabs a plate from the sink and throws it to the floor. “And now you’re dead! You’re dead and there’s nothing we can do about it! You’re so fucking stupid, Emily! We– we could have helped you! I hate you! I hate you! Why’d you have to leave?” He falls to the floor and trails off into uncontrollable sobs, not caring that the ceramic shards dig into his knees and the palm of his hand. He leans against the cabinets next to him and sobs, painfully and violently. He knows he’s being loud, loud enough that his neighbors can probably hear him but he can’t bring himself to care, not when he feels like he’s dying. He slams his head against the cabinet and the pain of it combined with the pain of the ceramic stuck in his skin helps ground him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice wet with tears. “I’m sorry, I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you. I’m so sorry. I could never hate you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He repeats those two words until his phone dies in his hand eleven minutes later.

Halfway across the world, Emily Prentiss sits in her Paris apartment, listens to the voicemail, and cries.

Spencer doesn’t call or text for twenty-four days after that. He knows she’s dead. He knows she can’t hear or see what he says to her, but he feels painfully guilty for his last voicemail. The kind of guilt that burrows into his chest and stays there, squeezing tight around his heart and lungs whenever he thinks about it. 

He lays awake in a hotel bed in Sedona, Arizona staring at the ceiling. With a sigh, he rolls onto his side, grabs his phone from the nightstand, and opens his text conversation with Emily. 

“I don’t know why I’m still doing this,” he types. Spencer squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “I know you’re not going to see this, but I want to say I’m sorry again for when I last called. I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you. I was just angry and sad and didn’t know what to do. I don’t know why I still feel so stuck. Obviously, everyone else is still sad but they seem to be moving on while I’m still here.” He sends the message and pauses for a moment. “I’ve been craving again, ever since you died. It’s getting worse the longer it’s been. I don’t know why. I thought it would get easier but it’s just getting harder. I’m scared, Emily.” His finger hovers over the send button before he changes his mind and deletes the message. He’s not going to tell anyone that, not even someone dead. Emily doesn’t deserve that. “I miss you,” he writes. He hits send and puts his phone back on the nightstand, curling into a ball with the comforter pulled up to his chin.

He squeezes his eyes shut and wraps his arms around his chest, trying not to scratch at the crook of his arm and trying not to think about getting high. 

The next two weeks pass in a haze and Spencer can feel himself getting worse. He calls and texts Emily’s number more frequently and visits JJ’s house nearly every other day. Being around Henry is the only thing keeping him from contacting his old dealer. He would never bring that shit into their home, he would never even think of being high around his godson. 

Spencer sits curled in on himself between a chair and the wall of his apartment with his phone pressed to his ear.

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

The tone sounds. “I miss you, Emily,” he says, his voice weak around the lump in his throat. “It’s not getting easier, but I’m alright.” That’s a lie. He doesn’t know why he’s lying. Emily’s dead. She’s not going to hear it anyway. But he just can’t bring himself to say it. He hangs up.

Three days later, Spencer calls JJ to ask if he can come over. She apologizes and tells him that Henry has the flu and passed it on to Will. He tells her it’s okay and hangs up.

Forty-five hours later he calls a number he deleted from his contacts years ago.

Sixteen hours later Spencer is curled up on his couch, staring at the unopened vial of Dilaudid sitting on his coffee table next to a packaged needle. 

He knows he shouldn’t do this. He doesn’t want to. But he needs it.

He feels frozen, his whole body is shaking. He rubs his eyes hard and continues to stare at the vial. He knows he should call someone but he’s scared and ashamed. He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this.

His hand shakes violently as he reaches for his phone and selects Emily’s contact. She’s dead. He can call her. She won’t know and maybe calling will give him the courage to dump it down the drain. 

The first ring startles him and he waits silently, tears streaming down his cheeks as the phone continues to ring.

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

The tone sounds and Spencer speaks.

______

Emily's phone pings as a new voicemail is transferred to her phone. She looks at her phone with surprise. It’s eight am in Paris and two am in DC. It’s much later than Spencer usually calls.

She turns her volume on and selects the voice message.

The first thing she hears is a shaky sob she’s become painfully familiar with.

“Hi, Emily. I don’t know why I’m calling,” Spencer mutters. His voice sounds completely broken and almost dead. “Actually, that’s– that’s not true. I know why I’m calling.” There’s a pause and all she can hear is the shaky sound of Spencer breathing and crying softly. “I can’t call anyone else.” He sighs. “I’m, um, I’m sitting in my living room in– in front of a needle and a vial of Dilaudid.” Emily’s stomach drops and she shoots to her feet. A broken sob plays from her phone. Panic builds rapidly in her chest and she hopes, prays, that Spencer hasn’t taken any yet. She’s pulled from her thoughts when he starts to speak again. “I don’t want to,” he whispers. “I promise I don’t want to. It’s just too much, I—” his voice breaks. “I need it, Em.” Emily raises her hand to cover her mouth as tears stream down her cheeks. This is her fault. This is all her fault. She should’ve told everyone. 

“I’m so sorry, Em. I just– I really miss you. I-I didn’t even get to say goodbye.” 

The playback ends and Emily immediately rushes to the toilet to vomit because that sounded horrifyingly like a suicide note. She coughs violently and spits into the toilet. She doesn’t even take the time to flush it before she clicks on Spencer’s number and her phone is ringing.

Halfway across the world, Spencer sobs as he rolls up his sleeve and wraps his belt around his upper arm. The sterile plastic crinkles as he removes the needle. He holds it and wishes he wasn’t like this. Wishes he was a better, stronger person. He reaches to grab the vial but as the tips of his fingers touch the cool class his phone rings. 

He startles, almost dropping the needle. Too large a part of him is glad he didn’t drop it because that means it’s still clean and he can still use it. He slips the needle back into the plastic packaging and sets it back down on the coffee table but he doesn’t undo the belt around his arm. His hand shakes violently as he picks up his phone.

He stares at the screen for a moment, it’s a number he doesn’t recognize with a Paris area code. He doesn’t know why but he answers it.

“Spencer!” Emily’s voice gasps through his phone. 

Spencer stares wide-eyed at the phone without responding. This isn’t happening, this isn’t real. She’s dead. He must be having a schizophrenic break, he’s the right age for it and he’s hearing the voice of his dead friend.

“Spencer!” the voice says again. He refuses to think of it as Emily’s voice. It’s not her voice, it can’t be because if it is that means she’s alive. That means that she and Hotch and who knows how many other members of his team have been lying to him for months. That means she heard and read all his messages. That means she heard him say that he bought Dilaudid and is about to shoot up. “Please, Spencer! Please answer me. Oh, God.”

“E-Emily?” he asks, his voice breaking. He hates that part of him believes it might actually be her.

“Yes, fuck. Yes, it’s me, Spencer, please tell me you’re okay,” she gasps. Spencer can hear her crying.

“Is–is this real? I’m not having a schizophrenic break?”

“No, I mean yes, I mean this is real!” Emily stutters. “I’m real. I’m alive. I’m so so sorry. But please, Spencer, tell me you haven’t done anything.”

Spencer doesn’t respond, just staring in disbelief at his phone. A moment later his phone beeps and a button appears at the bottom of the screen. Without thinking he presses it and immediately Emily’s face fills his screen. Her face is pale and her hair is all over the place and she looks terrified. She stares at him with wide eyes. In the bottom right corner is himself, and for the first time in sixty-one hours and twenty-three minutes, Spencer looks at himself. His face is red and blotchy and the bags under his eyes look like bruises. His hair is greasy and knotted. His shirt is buttoned incorrectly, his right sleeve is rolled up, and he can see the belt cinched around his arm.

“Spencer?” Emily asks, and her lips move on his phone as she speaks. “Did you—”

He cuts her off with a shake of the head and with a shaking hand, undoes the belt around his arm and lets it fall to the floor. “I was— I was about to,” he admits, his voice weak and wet. “I took out the needle. You called right— right as I grabbed the bottle.”

Spencer can see the panic fade from Emily’s face. “Okay, okay,” she says, her voice breathy with relief. “Thank God. Okay. Spencer, I need you to listen to me, okay?”

He nods and says nothing. 

“I need you to pick up the bottle and dump it.”

Spencer immediately bursts into tears. “I-I can’t, Em. I can’t!” he cries. “I want to but I can’t. You were dead. I helped carry your coffin! I can’t! It was so bad. I need it! I need to not feel!” He knows he’s not making any sense but by the look of her face, he can tell Emily understands.

“I know,” she says softly. “I know. But I need you to do this for me. Please, Spencer.”

He bows his head and sobs ugly and violent sobs. 

“You’re going to be okay, Spencer. I’m right here. I’ll always be right here.”

“But you weren’t!” he screams, the anger in his chest finally boiling over. “You weren’t here! You left! You lied! You let us believe you were dead! You let us mourn you! I hate you, Emily! I fucking hate you!” 

Spencer looks up at the phone when Emily doesn’t respond and freezes when he sees the tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“I–I’m sorry,” he says, panicked. “I don’t know why I said that. I don’t hate you. I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you! Please, Emily, please. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I— fuck!” Spencer drops his phone on the couch and pushes himself to his feet, grabbing the needle and vial of Dilaudid as he stands. 

“Spencer? Spencer!” Emily cries frantically through his phone. He doesn’t respond and practically sprints into his kitchen. Quickly, before he can regret it, he breaks off the tip of the needle and stabs it into a banana to make it safe and throws it and the rest of the needle in the trash. He unscrews the cap of the vial and dumps it down the kitchen sink. He sobs as he watches the liquid flow down the drain. The vial slips from his fingertips and he sinks to the floor. He says there until he’s sure all of the drug is gone before shakily pushing himself up, rinsing out the vial with water, and throwing it in the trash with the broken needle.

He stumbles back into the living room and picks up his phone to see Emily panicking. She opens her mouth to speak but Spencer interrupts her. “I dumped it,” he says weakly.

“Oh thank, God,” Emily sighs with relief. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, Spencer.”

“Who knew?” he demands. 

“What?”

“Who knew you were alive?”

“Just– just Hotch and JJ. But don’t be mad at them, please. I had no choice. Hotch knows because he’s Unit Chief and JJ only knows because she was assigned to making me disappear. It was too much of a risk to tell anyone else.”

Spencer scoffs. “What? You didn’t trust us? You don’t think we can keep a secret as important as this?”

A pained look crosses Emily’s face. “No,” she insists. “No that’s not it at all. I know all of you would have kept this a secret. I trust all of you with my life. But I couldn’t risk you knowing because it would put you in danger. Doyle will do anything to get to me. I wish even JJ and Hotch didn’t know, but I didn’t get a say in that. But I did get one in protecting you. You don’t– you don’t have to forgive me, or– or even be okay with it, but please—” a small sob cuts her off. “Please, I just need you to understand.”

Spencer stares at her for a while before slowly nodding. “I understand,” he whispers. “I hate it and I’m mad and I don’t forgive you yet but I understand.”

“Thank you,” Emily sighs weakly. “That’s all I ask. I just want you to be safe, that’s why I called, even though I have been ordered not to contact any of you. I couldn’t– I couldn’t let you relapse.”

Spencer nods weakly.

“I just need you to be okay,” she sobs softly.

“I’m not okay,” he admits, another sob forces its way up his throat. “I need help, Em. I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m going to call JJ, okay? And she’s going to come pick you up. I'm so proud of you.”

Spencer nods. “I love you, Emily.”

“I love you too, Spence. I’ll stay on the line until she gets here. I’m not leaving you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If anyone wants to be tagged in future fics, just let me know! Also if you have something you'd like me to write, my requests are always open!

[0o-junebug-o0]

could you possibly write a smut where its spencer and autistic!f!reader’s first time? reader has a hard time relaxing and being present in their body, and is really nervous but spence is so gentle and understanding and they take it slow. it’s so mushy and tender it’s almost sick how in love those idiots are!!!!

First Time

Here you go!!! I had a lot of fun writing this one haha

genre: fluff and smut

cw: 18+ mdni! kinda fem! kinda gn!reader (reader's gender is not specified but is described as having afab anatomy, including having breasts and wearing bra), nervous reader, first times, crying during sex, fingering (r!receiving), protected p in v sex, no use of y/n, autistic!reader, autistic!spencer (because every spencer is autistic!spencer), cuddling, they're just so in love

wordcount: 2.2k

Your whole body feels fuzzy. Not in a bad way. It’s just weird. 

“Hey, come back to me,” Spencer mutters, cupping your face and rubbing his thumb over your cheek.

“Hmm?” You blink a couple of times and focus your attention back on him. You’re both sitting on the edge of your bed, Spencer had suggested that the familiar location might help you feel less nervous. You’re both still fully clothed.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want you,” Spencer says softly. He shifts away slightly and lowers his hand like he’s trying to give you the space to tell him what you’re thinking.

“No, I—I want to,” you insist. You lower your gaze to your lap and run your hands over your thighs, picking at the hem of your shorts. “I’m just—“ You pause for a moment trying to find the best way to describe your feelings. “I think I’m nervous. Yes. I’m nervous.” You look back up at him to gauge his reaction.

Spencer smiles sweetly at you and holds out his hand. You take it and squeeze. He squeezes back and you feel more settled in your body, more at ease. “Nervous is okay,” he says. “Nervous is normal. But I don’t want you to make yourself feel bad for my sake.”

You shake your head and smile at him in a way you hope is reassuring. “I’m not. I don’t feel bad. Just fuzzy. Nervous fuzzy.”

Spencer chuckles. “I love you, you know that?”

Your smile grows and you nod. “I love you too.”

Spencer’s eyes dart from your own to your lips. “Can I kiss you again?”

You nod and climb farther onto the bed, pressing your free hand to the back of his neck and pulling him toward you. The kiss is soft and sweet and you’re both smiling into it in a way that makes your teeth knock together every so often. 

Spencer rests the hand not holding yours on your hip and gently, leaving you room not to follow, pulls you into his lap. You can feel how hard he is beneath you and your whole body feels like it’s on fire. The kiss increases in intensity and you remove your hand from his to curl it into his hair.

Spencer gasps weakly into your mouth and brings his other hand to your hip as well. He toys with the hem of your shirt, his fingertips brushing lightly against the skin of your waist and stomach in a way that would otherwise be ticklish but right now just electricity shooting through your body.

He pulls away, panting heavily. “C-can I take your shirt off, honey?”

The fuzziness returns and you pause for a moment before nodding. “Only if yours comes off too.”

Spencer smiles and presses a brief kiss to your lips. “Of course.”

His hands slip under your shirt and he slowly starts to push it up. His hands leave trails of heat that shoot straight between your legs as they glide up across your body. The feeling is so wonderful and overwhelming you have to brace your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself. His hands glide over your chest and you can’t help but arch into his touch.

He chuckles and passes his thumbs over your nipples a couple of times through your bra until your head bows forward and you’re gasping. 

He finally pulls the shirt over your head and guides it off of your arms before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss right below your ear. “So sensitive,” he whispers, unclasping your bra and carefully removing it, discarding it along with your shirt. 

You nod, too overwhelmed to respond in any other way. You tug on his shirt in a way that makes Spencer laugh, and he quickly removes it. You take in his bare chest for a moment, running your hands up and down it. He’s beautiful. You’ve seen him shirtless before but this feels completely different. 

“You’re so pretty,” you mutter.

Spencer smiles and softly says. “Thank you, baby. So are you.” He leans in to kiss you again with a soft intensity, gently cupping the back of your head. As you kiss, he slowly guides you down until you’re lying on the bed with your head resting on the pillows and he’s kneeling between your legs, propping himself up on one arm.

He breaks the kiss and your heart feels like it’s about to beat out of your chest as you look up at him. And heat pools between your legs when you glance down and notice how hard he is. 

His hands slowly glide down your sides until they reach the hem of your shorts and suddenly the fuzzy feeling is back. Spencer cocks his head slightly and rubs gentle circles into your hips. “You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod, but there must be some expression on your face because Spencer asks, “Nervous?”

You feel your cheeks warm in embarrassment. You nod and mutter a quick, “Sorry.”

“Hey, hey, there’s nothing to be sorry about, okay?” Spencer says. “Nothing at all. Being nervous is completely normal. And everything we do is at your pace. I just want you to feel good.”

You nod, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

Spencer lifts a hand from your hip to cup your face. “We really don’t have to do this. We can stop here. I won’t be upset.”

You shake your head. “I want to keep going. I–I want to feel you.”

A little groan escapes Spencer’s lips. “Fuck, baby, you can’t just say that. You’re going to drive me crazy.”

You bring your hands up to grip his waist with a laugh. “Isn’t that my job?”

Spencer leans down to press a kiss to the valley between your breasts, making you gasp. “And you’re very good at it.”

He slowly kisses lower and lower as you writhe beneath him until he reaches your shorts. He carefully hooks his fingers under the waistband and looks up at you in a way that sends heat pooling between your legs and you realize you desperately want him to touch you. “Can I take these off?” he asks softly.

You nod frantically and lift your hips with an eagerness that makes Spencer chuckle. 

“Just shorts? Or shorts and underwear?”

“B–both, please,” you gasp.

Spencer smiles and moves from between your legs to sit beside you and slowly slides your shorts and underwear off. He tosses them to the side and, gripping your upper thigh with one hand, presses a series of gentle kisses to your stomach and hips that make you squirm and pant. Your hands shoot up to curl into his hair and you can feel your arousal sticking to your thighs. “You’re so beautiful,” he mutters between kisses. “I’m so lucky I get to see you like this. I’m so lucky.”

His kisses move slightly lower and his hand slightly higher and you moan, your hips bucking involuntarily. 

“Sp–Spencer,” you gasp and he pulls away with a smile.

“Yes?”

“Pl–please. Wa-wanna feel you.”

He moves up to press a brief kiss to your lips and pulls a condom from his pocket before pushing his pants and boxers down his legs with one motion and kicking them aside. You can’t help but stare at his cock as he rolls the condom onto it. He’s what you assume is an average size for his height but you can’t help the nervousness that starts to make a reappearance. That’s going to go inside you? 

“Spence–” you start, though you’re unsure of what to say.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says kindly as he climbs back between your legs, sensing your anxiety. “I know it can be intimidating, but don’t worry, I’m not going to just put it inside you, alright?”

You nod, feeling relieved and still a bit nervous, but incredibly turned on.

“Can I touch you, sweetheart? Spencer whispers, his hands mere inches away from where you want him.

You nod again and then a moan rips from your chest as Spencer’s thumb presses against your clit and starts to rub gentle circles into it. Your whole body feels fuzzy again but you’re not nervous anymore, you feel amazing. It’s like the pleasure is frying your brain.

You gasp and moan as Spencer’s thumb works over your clit. His other hand presses a gentle and grounding grip into your thigh that somehow heightens the pleasure you’re feeling. With the hand on your thigh, he guides your legs apart and the movement of his thumb stops. You whine in disappointment at the loss of sensation but then you feel the tip of his finger pressing ever so slightly inside of you. Your eyes slip shut from the pleasure and you moan loudly.

“This okay?” Spencer asks, his arousal apparent in his voice. 

You nod without opening your eyes and Spencer’s finger slips the rest of the way inside of you. It’s a strange but wonderful sensation that has you gasping for air between moans. His finger curls slightly, pressing against different spots inside of you, and then suddenly a wave of pleasure slams into you, making you cry out. 

“There it is,” Spencer mutters to himself, pressing his finger into that spot over and over again. You’re so overwhelmed with pleasure you barely notice when he slips a second and then a third finger inside of you. 

But then his fingers are pulling out of you and you whine in disapproval. You open your eyes and stare up at him with a pout.

“Shh, i-it’s okay, baby,” he murmurs, his voice cracking slightly with pleasure as he gently strokes his cock. “You think you’re ready?”

You nod frantically, desperate to feel him inside of you, and hold out your hand. Spencer smiles at you and laces his fingers with yours before lining himself up and gently pressing inside of you with a moan.

Though you expected it, you still gasp at the sudden and ever so slightly painful stretch, and grip Spencer’s hand tightly. He pauses only halfway inside of you to allow you time to adjust. It doesn’t take long for you to get used to the sensation and you wrap your legs around Spencer’s waist and pull him closer until he’s all the way inside you.

Spencer’s head hangs forward as he pants and you admire just how beautiful he looks like this. 

“C-can I move?” he gasps weakly.

You nod and Spencer pulls his hips back slightly before rocking them back forward.

You moan in tandem at the feeling and your eyes slip shut. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced and he isn’t even hitting that spot he’d found with his fingers. With every thrust of his hips, Spencer adjusts the angle until he’s once again hitting that spot that makes you see stars. Each movement of his hips has you gasping and writhing and you feel an overwhelming surge of emotions and a desire to be even closer.

You wrap your free arm around Spencer’s back and pull him down until his chest is pressed against yours, with his head buried in your neck, and you’re both holding each other. The pressure of his body against yours is soothing and grounding and helps you feel present in the amazing sensations your body is experiencing that might otherwise be overwhelming. 

Spencer gasps your name and “I love you” between moans and you cling to him as you moan in response, unable to form words. Heat climbs up your spine and you can feel yourself getting close. Tears well in your eyes and start to slip down your face but you can’t bring yourself to care because you just feel so good and so loved. The heat rises to your neck and burns in your stomach and you cum with a cry.

Spencer talks you through it but you’re too overwhelmed with pleasure to understand him. He thrusts a few more times before stilling with a moan of your name as he cums into the condom. His body goes limp against yours for a moment and the only movement is the rise and fall of both of your chests. Spencer slowly pulls out and the strange feeling makes you whine and causes more tears to slip unbidden from your eyes. He removes his hand from yours and you can hear him moving but then he goes still and whispers your name with clear concern.

You open your eyes and look at him to see a scared and almost horrified look on his face.

He reaches up with one hand, setting the tied-off condom aside with the other, and cups your cheek. He wipes away a tear with his thumb. 

“A-are you alright? Di-did I hurt you?” he asks gently. He looks so worried.

You immediately shake your head. “Good tears,” you mutter. “Happy tears.”

“Oh, thank God,” Spencer whispers, letting out a relieved sigh. He lies down beside you and pulls you into his chest, pressing a brief kiss to your head. “You worried me there for a second.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You smile and turn your head to look at him. You cup the back of his head and kiss him softly. “I’m very okay,” you mutter against his lips. 

Spencer kisses you back for a moment before pulling away and pressing his forehead against yours. 

“That was amazing,” you whisper. “I love you.”

Spencer smiles. “I love you too.”

_____

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[0o-junebug-o0]

There will be more fics eventually! I promise! I’ve just been too busy to write with classes, grad school apps, and working on my thesis. And when I do have free time I’m too out of it. 😫 but I will write again as soon as I can!

[0o-junebug-o0]

Doctor Who is so funny because his companion will be like "yeah! He's called The Doctor, he takes me all over space and time, he's super smart, you just gotta meet him!" And then The Doctor is the most autistic stick person you've ever seen

[0o-junebug-o0]

Sin To Win

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x Female Reader

Summary: You are a budding FBI agent, Emily is a professional dominatrix twice your age. The stakes are high.

Genre: Smut, (legal age difference, mommy kink, dom/sub dynamics, coercion, teasing in public, bondage, smoking, spanking, fingering, face sitting, pet names, praise kink, mentions of guns, orgasm control, mild degradation, masturbation), not suitable for minors.

Word Count: 3.3k.

This piece is for day 9 of kinktober under the 'age difference' prompt.

A/N: Assume that safe words, negotiation and boundaries have been discussed in the transition between the two separated scenes.

More works from me here. || Masterlist here. || Kinktober 2024 Masterlist here.

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The bar had closed, its last patrons scrambling onto the street, pale moonlight peering out from a starless sky. It had been eerily quiet for a Saturday, the occasional rumble of a vehicle, the distant wail of a siren. You had nowhere to be, no sense of urgency, a cigarette pressed to your lips, affording yourself a moment more to relish in the solitude. And then, the distinct sound of a thumb against the spark wheel of a lighter, a stifled curse not too far behind it.

“For fuck’s sake,” the voice flared and before you had the chance to establish its owner, the clicking of heels approached, her face surfacing amongst the fizzling smoke. “You got a light?”

Wordlessly, you buried your hand into your pocket and offered it out, your gaze raking over her with overt fascination. She was older, alluringly so, her form shrouded in a full-length fur coat with a trace of black leather peeping from behind an open top button. And beneath the moonlight her silver strands dazzled like they were born from it. 

“Hey, you!”

The disembodied exclamation perforated the silence, a hulking male figure stomping into view, an accusatory finger extended outwards, face disgruntled in anger, though you soon realised that it was not directed at you. The nameless woman widened the distance between you, controlled as she raced to halt him in his tracks, almost as if it was a measure to protect you.

“You never called me back, Emily,” he shot, furiously, his movement thwarted by the emergence of her hand pushed to his chest, though it did not deter him as he thrashed against her resistance. “Too busy with all those other johns, huh? Is that what it is?”

Instinctively, your hand slid to make contact with your gun, still holstered, merely waiting in case of an escalation. Emily appeared to be unperturbed, a stirring feeling that this was not her first dealing with this man and likely not the last. 

“Go home, Brian,” she demanded, her voice low, unyielding. “You’re wasted, I can smell it on you.”

“But-“

“You know the rules,” she stated, flatly, his bubbling anger gradually ebbing out until it transformed into something else, his head drooping in defeat, in shame. “Go, now.”

Reluctantly, Brian shook off his bruised ego and trudged away with a huff and your grip on your gun released itself, relieved. With no apparent reason to linger, you had expected Emily to vanish into the night, but she surprised you, her audible footfalls returning.

“These streets aren’t safe for a pretty, young girl like you,” she uttered, smoke trailing from her lips. “You should get out of here.”

A wry chuckle rumbled from you as you flicked the stump of your cigarette to the ground, amused by how misguided her assumptions of you had been. Though, the fact that she had cared enough to caution you did not go unnoticed. 

“I can hold my own,” you assured, a simper blossoming. “And when I can’t, I always have back up.”

Emily’s confusion cleared the second you flashed her a glimpse of the gun at your hip, her expression visibly cloaking itself with something you could not yet fathom.

“You’re a cop?” She ascertained, a certain guardedness finding home in her voice, thrust into a state of unease at the prospect. 

“FBI,” you corrected, coolly and Emily released a short burst of musing laughter. 

“With a sweet little face like that,” she began, biting back a smirk as she stepped forward, her body heat permeating the minimal chasm that remained between you. “I bet they put the cuffs on themselves, don’t they?”

The weight of her compliment embedded itself in the pit of your stomach, a pang of excitement reverberating until a familiar heat burned deeply into your face. You had hoped that your flustered condition had been masked enough to ignore, though when Emily’s smirk escaped to possess her entirely, you knew that you had been made. Her head tilted slightly as she admired the handiwork that had subsequently painted your cheeks in a glaring pink hue. 

“It’s never that easy,” you redirected, quickly, clearing your throat as subtly as you could manage as not to draw further attention. 

Nimble fingers sneaked below the leather you had caught sight of earlier, a small business card procured and outstretched in your direction. 

“Interested?” She winked, suggestively, parting the fur of her jacket slightly to offer a glimpse of the temptation that lay beneath. 

The writing on the card had not yet occurred to you, forsaken to be unread as your eyes fixated solely on the racy black bodysuit that enshrouded her silhouette. Curiosity tugged without relent, your roaming gaze intent on exploring more of her, diving lower until she stymied your efforts and resealed her jacket once more. She knew what she was doing, knew that it would not be long until the faux composure was left in shreds and replaced with a lust bound to be actioned. 

Logic eluded you, the image of her cleavage cemented in your brain until it was the only thought you could seem to land upon. Emily had infected you so effortlessly and you did not have the wherewithal to refute her, to complain, nor protest. Your eyes scanned the card, adrenaline ricocheting. 

“Professional dominatrix services?” You questioned, nervously, rendered bashful in light of the new revelation.

“It’s all above board,” she reassured, adamantly, her thumb smoothing across your wrist and quickly willing away any looming qualms. “I’ll even scrub the fee for your troubles, Agent,” she purred, her lips inching closer until they ghosted the shell of your ear and elicited a shiver. “This one is all for me, sweet girl, I need to have you.”

The ability to function, to speak was instantly stolen, the dizzying feeling of soft kisses against your neck awakening your craving, an icy palm pressed to your cheek for leverage. A pitiful whimper escaped you, craning to permit further access, to will her touch more forcibly against you. Emily hummed, the vibration spreading until it settled between your thighs. 

“What will you do to me?” You mouthed, and if it weren’t for the suffocating proximities, you were certain that the faint volume that exuded from you would be left unheard. 

A sinister chuckle emanated, her mouth resuming its unruly assault upon your skin, her teeth occasionally pricking at its surface. 

“First, I’ll tie you to the bed,” she revealed, her voice sultry, unwavering, “make sure you can’t escape while I take my precious time with you.”

“Fuck.”

“Maybe I’ll spank you until you’re red,” she mused, her tongue flickering to smooth over the bite marks she had etched. “Until you’re soaking and pathetic, begging for my touch.”

Emily retracted to examine your reaction, enthused to find your self-control tearing at the seams. Her dark irises were hypnotic, her touch addictive as you reached out in search of her and she did not disappoint. She forced you against her, a wandering hand caressing your pussy with the slightest of pressures. It was nowhere near enough to placate you, her sadistic intention blatant as she simpered proudly in response to the tortured sounds that spilled into the night. 

“Then… then, what?”

She paused her motion, feigning contemplation until her thumb rubbed at your clit with intent, the pace gaining further traction, your arms knotted around her neck to prevent yourself from toppling over. And, suddenly her free hand was groping at your breast, the occasional tweaking of your nipples between her fingers propelling you towards the crest of something more. 

“Then I’ll play with that desperate little pussy of yours,” she divulged, her eyes alight. “If you’re a good girl for me, maybe I’ll even let you cum, hm?”

The perpetual torment of her words did no favours in staving off your lurking orgasm as you writhed to break free of her to no avail. Instead, she held you steady, deliberately, her fingers teasing your clit with no sign of letting up. 

“You’re close, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Emily guessed, knowingly as you peered at her helplessly through half-lidded eyes. 

You nodded, ardently, knuckles paling as you anchored yourself in place with an unrelenting grip upon her shoulders. 

“You’d better not cum, pretty girl,” she insisted, forcefully, this newfound tone kindling fear within you. “Good girls don’t cum without permission.”

The threat hung in the silence, ragged breaths and hums of amusement falling into the air as you wrangled to maintain your obedience. Emily’s expert manoeuvres did not cease, no, they merely surged, resolute in their endeavour to debase you. 

“Please, Mommy.”

In a nanosecond, her touch was withdrawn, your body trembling in the wake of her action and screaming out for her immediate return. Emily pursed her lips as a means of camouflaging the widened beam that had begun to upturn her mouth. The shame of your pliability was quick to encompass you, averting your gaze until she nudged a finger below your chin and forced you into relinquishing to her unspoken demand.

“Mommy?” She echoed, an eyebrow quirked, though she appeared to be impressed, an air of intrigue cascading. “So, that’s what you like, sweetheart?” She smirked, thoroughly amused by the humiliation that visibly flooded you. “I guess I can work with that.”

The tension that lingered was so palpable that it was overwhelming, cursed by the way this woman had such a miraculous affect upon you. It was too late to rescind your interest, too late to rid your mind and body of the sensations she had inflicted. 

“So, what will it be?” She asked, curiously, her tongue poking out from the corner of her mouth. “You want to play with Mommy?”

“Yes,” you acceded, breathily, entranced by her. “Please.”

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And, Emily had not lied when she had laid out her plan of action, if anything, she had played it out in exact chronology thus far. The instant you had stepped over the threshold of her apartment, you were stripped bare, your ankles and wrists bound by cuffs that, at first glance, were tucked inconspicuously below the mattress. And, truthfully, you could not deny the enjoyment that filled you knowing that you were at her mercy, entirely, wholly. 

Emily shedded her fur coat, the true extent of her magnificence revealed as you gawked in silence. An innate urge to fight against the restraints and fall to your knees before her racked over your consciousness, hindered by the lack of give the metal established. She chortled in response to your struggle, though your eyes remained transfixed by the lace trimmed stockings that clung around her thighs. 

Saliva flooded in abundance, so enamoured by her sensuality that it began to spill out from you until you were noticeably drooling. The bed shifted below you, Emily’s form pinning you in position as she straddled you, her body scorching as it melted into your own. 

“Aww,” she cooed, mockingly, lurching forward until her face hovered above yours, your jaw firmly betwixt her hand. “Such a cute little thing drooling for Mommy. Too bad you can’t touch me, hm?”

Daringly, you launched upwards in a tenacious attempt to capture her lips, though Emily impeded your advance with a forceful shove, bouncing back against the mattress, empty-handed. 

“Naughty girl,” she chastised, disapprovingly, shaking her head slowly in reiteration. “Mommy will have to punish you for that, sweetheart, you know that, don’t you?”

You could not have cared less, your brain racing with thoughts so impure that you were willing to do anything for her, to feel anything, face any consequence that she deemed fit as long as it was done at her hands. 

“Yes, Mommy,” you responded, mindlessly, your vision glazed over in the purest kind of desire, your periphery illuminated by the silver-grey of her hair. 

“Oh, I know exactly how to punish you, pretty girl,” Emily ribbed, tauntingly, suddenly withdrawing from you, the black bodysuit promptly peeled from her frame until she mirrored your nakedness, a smirk materialising. “And I don’t want to hear a word from you.”

A foreboding feeling enveloped, a muffled whine fleeing from your pursed lips. Emily’s glare was unforgiving, her hand settling between her legs as she displayed her wetness to you and you could tell that she was wholly enthralled by the torture she was about to subject you to. 

As hard as you tried, you could not draw your eyes away from her exposed flesh, her motions painstaking, hypnotising as she stroked her clit with two fingers. 

“Keep your eyes on me, sweetheart,” she urged, softly, through the flickers of pleasure that claimed her were barely concealed in her voice. “You’re going to be a good girl and watch while Mommy gets off.”

Emily’s mouth fell agape, composed breaths slipping in and out, her eyes darkening with every dancing movement her fingertips delivered. The scene before you only maddened you further, writhing against the restraints like a woman possessed, no heed paid to the consequences that you were sure to find thereafter. 

“Oh, pretty girl,” she crooned, an eyebrow raised in objection, a pang of fear striking. “You just can’t seem to behave, can you?”

Her efforts suddenly grew in zeal, in intent, the pace increasing as she circled and stroked and pinched at her clit. Through long, black eyelashes she held your gaze, her lip pinned between her teeth as she fought valiantly to repress the moans that so desperately wanted to exude. And then, she jumped from her position, crawling until she had planted herself on your chest, her soaking pussy in reach of your mouth. 

“Since you’re not allowed to talk,” she began, a smirk fused to her lips. “It’s only fair that Mommy makes use of that mouth, hm?”

Emily sank down upon your face, an all-encompassing tremble taking her under as she felt your tongue sliding against her clit. The irony existed in the way her punishment was everything you had ever desired, determined to explore every available inch of her, have her taste infiltrating your mouth until you were intoxicated by it.

And, it didn’t take long at all. Her hips rutted firmly, each manoeuvre depleting your oxygen as her pussy suffocated you, your lips sucking with unrivalled fervour until she let out a sound that could not be hidden, nor denied. 

Her palms clasped over your cheeks as you drank in the beautiful sight of her breasts from below, jolting with every bolt of pleasure that struck with intensity. And then she shook, violently atop you before falling away and leaving you empty. 

“Such a good girl for Mommy,” she praised, breathlessly, the craving that lurked in her irises now dissipating, safely quelled by your action. “I think it’s time I had a little fun of my own, sweetheart."

The sound of jingling metal edged into existence and you soon realised that Emily was freeing you of your bindings, the cuffs slackening until each limb had regained function. 

“On your stomach for me, pretty girl,” Emily growled, resolute in her demand. “Don’t make me wait.”

Gentle hands smoothed the skin of your spine, the swell of your ass, each touch inciting the emergence of fire, a shiver clawing its way over your entirety. It was evident that she had something planned, something imminent, unable to submit to the false sense of security that you were certain she was trying to instil.

Curiosity festered until you could not endure the suspense any longer, your head craning enough to catch a fleeting glimpse of something black that was held tightly inside of her enclosed fist. Guessing was futile, a sturdy hand placed upon the back of your neck and forcing you flat against the mattress, your faculties thwarted, the silence deafening. 

The unidentified object soon burst into clarity, a brutal blow to your ass draining the air from your lungs as you wrangled for breath. It was useless, the sizzling sensation ebbing out into a deepened pleasure, your pussy twitching in response. Emily did not offer the chance of composure, nor a flitting epoch of tranquility, another callous strike joining the one that went before it. 

“Fuck, Mommy,” you squealed, helplessly, a callous chuckle emitting from behind you and you could only imagine the expression that Emily was sporting. “More-“

“Dirty girl likes the paddle, hm?” Emily mused, slapping it down ruthlessly against the back of your thigh, humming in excitement as you startled. “Such a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

With fistfuls of bedclothes scrunched into your hands, you braced for the next reckless assault and Emily did not disappoint. The paddle seared into you with an audible crack, its sound echoing like the pain that incurred as a result, walking the line between pain and pleasure until everything seemed to blur. 

A probing finger slipped inside of you from behind, a sigh of disappointment springing from her lips as you angled to will in more of her to no avail.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” she ruled with a tut, another strike to your ass punctuating her decision. “Mommy’s gonna make you red first.”

The methodic pulsation that possessed you only intensified until it was perpetual, aching, her denial of you thrusting you to the limits of self-control. You could have bucked against the mattress, took whatever pitiful pleasure it would have offered but nothing compared to the idea of having her hands on you. 

Her laughter reigned on through the beatings, your skin aflame, destined to leave markings behind and you would welcome it. Anything to remember the libidinous torture that she had induced, branding you with her touch. 

“Please, Mommy,” you sobbed out, the stinging pain overbearing now, the need to be subdued of this neediness filling your mind without respite. “Please, please.”

“So pretty when you beg, sweetheart,” she extolled, the sudden emergence of hands across your ass calming you in an instant. “So red for Mommy.”

“I need you, Mommy,” you rasped, your body weakened significantly as you tried and failed to sneak from her grasp, to claw away from her unyielding force. “Please.”

Dexterous fingers sought refuge against your pussy once more, her motive instantaneously revealed as she buried her digits to the hilt and pumped avidly. For a moment, you were grateful for the alleviation, the ache finally subsiding, though the pace that Emily had set was nothing short of merciless. 

Your hands slammed against the mattress as she drove into you, rapid, unabashed, your wetness spilling out and flecking the skin of your thighs in the wake of her. 

“Cum for Mommy, sweetheart,” she riled with enthusiasm. “Cum on Mommy’s fingers like a good little slut.”

It was as if your body was hers to control, autonomy stripped from you as you felt yourself toppling over the precipice, all semblance of strength relinquished as she rocked you into oblivion. 

“Mommy!”

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Blaring rays of light pierced you awake, a nauseating feeling creeping in to take ahold when you realised where you were, what you had done. The woman had done a number on you, so much that you must have fell into slumber the moment your body had succumbed to her. Emily was nowhere to be found, your eyes scanning the room for any sign that she had existed at all. And for a second, you had wondered whether you had hallucinated the entire ordeal. 

You clambered out of the bed in haste, quick to gather your clothes that she had rid you of last night. And on the top of your perfectly folded garments, a note.

“See you soon,” you read aloud, shaking off the unsettling feeling as you pulled your shirt on over your head.

And, as you unravelled your jeans in preparation to make a rapid exit, an FBI badge flung to the floor, a sound you had never made prior suddenly echoing out into the room. Soft footfalls approached, Emily peering over the threshold with a widened grin, slowly closing the distance between you. Her hand stretched out.

“Emily Prentiss,” she introduced, proudly, observing as your face fell flat. “FBI.”

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@ionlylikemarvelforthewomen ♡ @agenderrat ♡ @i-write-sometimes-maybe ♡ @sugaryspiciness ♡ @chiefemilyprentiss ♡

[0o-junebug-o0]

spotted spencer reid in the bookstore (likely place for him to be)

[0o-junebug-o0]

is one of the job requirements of being unit chief to look extremely gay because jj didn't play around

[0o-junebug-o0]

hysteria | s.r.

in which the BAU is called into a case in rural Appalachia when bodies start showing up in an abandoned insane asylum

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst (horror?) content warnings: hanging (staged suicide), enucleation, established relationship, ghosts, insane asylum, rope burn, premonition in dreams, death, pov switches, "the green ribbon", lobotomies, abduction, corporeal vs spirit form, CPR, hospitals, painkillers, first aid word count: 8.8k a/n: hey guys i am literally not one to beg for interaction but like if you could send an ask or gimme a reblog if you liked this it would probably make my day. this fic is just an excuse for me to tell ghost stories! and just like that, margotober is over. man, it sure would be a shame if i had something planned for november!

night one

“This is a joke, right?” You asked, eyeing the rest of the team as they observed the property before you. The dilapidated building that stood in front of you was previously completely abandoned, and now you weren’t entirely sure if the yellow police line was new or if the tattered plastic was a result of a crime of the past.

It looked like one of the haunted houses that Spencer would drag you to, one with a much too high budget that would leave you feeling like you needed to scrub cobwebs from your skin. You were waiting for the sheriff to make his way up the hill that the asylum was perched on, the BAU had made it up in SUVs, but the locals elected to hoof it.

Tugging the sleeves of your FBI jacket over your hands, you tapped your heel impatiently and observed the scenery. The fall foliage was in peak season, orange and red leaves fluttered in the wind, falling from the trees until they hit the ground. To the left was the town, small and hidden within a river valley, and to the right was a field of gravestones. Each life lost in the asylum whittled down to a number, hundreds of weathered rocks marked where a body was buried. Even after all of your years with the BAU, the sight still made you sick to your stomach.

The death count on this property had gone up by twelve recently, a group of college kids had found the first body hanging from the staircase, and it seemed like a semi-routine suicide until the local cops did a full sweep of the building and found eleven other bodies, each hanging in a different room.

It wasn’t until the medical examiner looked at them that they realized they were out of their depth, the oldest of the bodies had been dead before they were hung, which told you that hanging the bodies was the intention of the killer and he was beginning to perfect his M.O. Even more than that, the last two bodies had been enucleated post-mortem.

Being grateful for the method by which a person had their eyeballs destroyed wasn’t an emotion you felt frequently, and it was an odd thing to admit to yourself as you consciously blinked.

Over the curve of the hill, you watched as a couple of locals made their appearance, each of them equipped with a flashlight. The sun was beginning to set. Emily had made the executive decision that this case couldn’t wait until morning, so you took off in the middle of the day. Glancing over your shoulder, you found Spencer’s eyes and he gave you one of his patented half-smiles before you looked back at the foreboding building.

The structure had electrical issues, leading to lights flickering all over the crumbling brick walls. The flashes were starting to play tricks on your eyes because you would’ve sworn that you saw a woman in one of the windows, in a long white dress as she looked down at you and your team.

“You must be the BAU,” the sheriff greeted once he was close enough to your group, he waved before huffing impatiently. “Sheriff Shawn Greenbaum, this here is Deputy Conrad Perkins,” he introduced himself and the man with him. You studied them, trying to gauge information about them based on appearance alone.

Emily nodded, reaching her hand out for him to shake and introducing herself before making the rounds with the rest of the team. “Agents Simmons and Lewis are already at the station getting settled, but the rest of us are interested in getting in the building and taking a look around.”

Greenbaum placed both of his hands on his hips before clearing his throat, “That’s not a problem at all. We’ve got a lock up on those front doors to try and keep people out, we’re hoping it’ll put a halt on any more crime.”

Kicking mud off of your boot, you and JJ shared a dubious look. In your line of work, where there’s a will there’s a way—a padlock would do very little to help keep your killer out of the asylum. Even so, you all followed the sheriff as he produced a key from his belt, leading the way to the front doors. They were made of rotting wood. If someone really wanted to get past the lock, they could probably kick them in.

The smell hit you before you stepped foot inside the building, the stench of mildew wafting through the air made you crinkle your nose as you closely followed JJ into the building. A gentle touch to the small of your back told you that Spencer was behind you, each of you shuffling in single file behind the sheriff.

“The first body was found hanging over there,” the deputy, Perkins pointed straight ahead toward the winding staircase. You studied the peeling wallpaper and looked at the faded signs above the different hallways, barely able to make out the words tuberculosis and adolescent as you strolled through the main lobby.

Since they’d initially assumed it was a suicide, the body had been taken down, so even though you had twelve bodies to start your profile with, you didn’t have a fresh crime scene anywhere. In fact, you’d wager a guess and say there’s nothing fresh about this building.

Cringing as you walked over a pile of wet paper, you listened to Emily as she gave everyone jobs, “Reid and I will keep talking to the sheriff, Rossi and JJ, why don’t the two of you check out this wing here with the deputy, and Luke and Y/N can take the upstairs.”

You looked up and found Luke, following him to the staircase and ducking under the noose to go up the stairs, hesitant to use the handrail as you made your way to the second floor, knowing there was plenty of building for the two of you to explore. Pulling your flashlight from your belt for additional lighting, the sight in front of you was worse than what you had seen downstairs. “Watch your step,” you said absentmindedly, bypassing a bucket filled with what you sincerely hoped was water.

“When was this place built again?” Luke asked you, knowing you had done preliminary research with Spencer on the jet. He produced his own light, slipping his cell phone from his pocket and using the flashlight function.

You checked the ceiling, wondering where the beams were and if any bodies had been found in the hallways, “The 1860s,” you responded, keeping your voice soft so you didn’t disturb anything in the building—living or otherwise. You found yourself wanting to walk to the window you had seen that woman in earlier.

Alvez made a disgusted noise at something, and you refrained from looking back at it, knowing you likely didn’t want to know. “And what patients did they predominantly treat?”

Fiddling with the door handle, you nudged the door open with your knee, coughing at the puff of dust that met you on the other side. “They started with a little bit of everything. The elderly, children, adolescents, epileptics, TB patients,” you listed off. “We even found records of people accused of ‘excessive self-satisfaction,’” you continued, finding the window in question. The only thing you found was the same flickering sconce you had seen from the outside.

“Self-satisfaction?” Luke repeated the phrase curiously.

You tapped the sconce with the end of your flashlight, getting it to stop flickering before you clarified, “Masturbation.”

Expectedly, Luke chuckled lightly at your answer, “How exactly would one quantify excessive masturbation?”

Raising your eyebrows, you studied a strange mark on the cement floor, “I assure you; I have no clue.” You turned around, expecting to see Luke right in front of you. “Luke?” You called out his name, confused when you didn’t see him in your line of sight, you flashed your light around the room, wondering if he had found something. “Ah!” You yelped when a hand touched your shoulder, causing you to drop your flashlight.

Luke cackled from his place behind a bookshelf, “It’s gonna be a long case if you’re that tightly wound the entire time.”

You swatted at him with the sleeves of your jacket, “Asshole,” you muttered, taking the practical joke mostly in stride.

“Y/N?” Spencer called from the first floor. Your voice must have carried down the stairs, or they heard the flashlight fall to the ground.

Glaring at Luke, you shouted back, “I’m fine!” You crouched to pick up your flashlight, blowing dust off of it before you tightened your grip around it, “Grow up, Alvez.”

He rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, so what did they do after they took in a little bit of everyone?”

You hummed, stepping back out into the hallway, and looking into what you assumed were offices—most of the patients would’ve lived on the first floor. “They started to focus on patients with mental disorders in the 1970s. Around the same time that medicine in psychiatry started to make advancements,” you kicked at a piece of cloth on the ground. “It closed down in the early nineties when people finally started acknowledging that things like lobotomies and electroshock are inhumane.”

Luke picked the next room, wiggling the doorknob before he used his shoulder to push the door open, “Woah.”

Stepping in behind him, you saw what he was looking at. Along the wall was a mural of sorts, a landscape that featured a caricature of the sun. Next to it, the words ‘let the sun shine in’ were scrawled in black paint.The colors were eerily vibrant for the age of the building, “Well that’s…” You let your voice trail off, looking at the size of the furniture in the room and ascertaining that it was likely designed as a treatment space for children.

“Do you hear that?” Luke asked, shining his flashlight around the room and looking for the source of the noise.

Fortunately, you weren’t that gullible, “Yeah, right.” You scoffed, turning back and seeing Spencer at the top of the staircase, “Hey,” you said, tilting your head to the side curiously.

He smiled at you softly, “Hey, it looks like it’s about to rain, so Emily’s having all of us head back to the precinct. We can look at the M.E. reports knowing what we know now about the crime scene.”

You nodded, looking into the room to find Luke, still shining his phone in every corner, “Luke, it’s probably just a rat or a tree branch tapping on the side of the building.”

Luke’s eyebrows were pinched together in concern, but he followed your footsteps into the hallway, falling to the back of the group as the three of you walked downstairs, meeting the rest of the team in front of the asylum.

“It’s kind of weird,” you said mostly to yourself, though you were entirely aware of the people who were surrounding you.

Spencer hummed curiously, making sure the sheriff wasn’t watching before he adjusted the collar of your jacket, “What’s weird?” He asked, mimicking the soft tone of your voice.

You looked back at the window where the light had started flickering again, “How all of these people were forced into the asylum by their loved ones, and now the word has an entirely different meaning.”

Holding your mug in both hands, you listened carefully to the crackling fire in the lobby of the hotel. Matt stood up from where he was sitting so that Spencer could sit next to you, and you absentmindedly slung your legs over his lap, thinking about the case. More specifically, you were thinking about the scene.

Spencer set a hand on your pajama-covered thigh, using his other hand to hold his book open as you listened to the other noises in the lobby. There was a storm going on outside, and a certain level of unease blanketed the team, leading to a convening in the hotel. Emily and Tara were going over case files, Matt and JJ were on the phone with their families, Rossi was playing Tetris on his phone, Luke was on the phone with someone, and you were just observing.

Eventually, Luke spoke up to everyone, “Hey guys, listen to this,” he said, holding his phone out and clicking the speakerphone button, “Okay, go ahead Garcia.”

Your eyebrows raised in amusement at the revelation that he was on the phone with Penelope, but you were still grateful to hear her voice coming through the speaker.

“I hope you’re all cozy by the fire because I have found a story about your crime scene that will chill you to your bones,” she prefaced, and you smiled slightly at her embellishments. “Catherine Pence was admitted to the Barnham Asylum for the Mentally Ill in 1978 at the age of 53. She lived a totally normal and insignificant life until she was 50 years old and her mother passed away, at which point, the people in Catherine’s life said she started to behave strangely.”

Snapping his book closed, Spencer set the novel in your lap before pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, “Strangely, how?”

Penelope cleared her throat, “I’m glad you asked, Dr. Reid. She was convinced that her mother was still with her. In fact, she would frequently be confused when other people told her that they couldn’t see her mom. Eventually, she started showing other concerning symptoms, so her husband brought her to Barnham.”

You frowned, sharing a glance with JJ, who had hung up the phone, “What kinds of other symptoms?”

“The file I got my hands on specifically cites paranoid thoughts, but that’s not even the spookiest part,” she continued. “When the doctors did their first examination of Catherine, they decided that whatever she was dealing with wouldn’t be amenable to any sort of treatment. She was a very calm patient who periodically had conversations with her dead mother and voiced paranoid thoughts, but they put her in Block D.”

Block D was the section of the hospital set aside for patients in need of around-the-clock care, which seemed a bit extreme for Catherine.

There was a clicking on Penelope’s end of the call before she resumed, “Anyway, Block D had sixteen rooms and there was always some form of supervision, usually a nurse. All of the doors were locked and there were bars on the window, so it was impossible to get anywhere without someone noticing, or so you would think.”

You settled further into the couch cushions, and Spencer instinctively squeezed your thigh.

“On December 1st, 1978, when the nurse went into Catherine’s room with her breakfast tray, she found the room in absolute tatters. I mean, the bedding was shredded, there was broken glass, everything was scattered around the room, and Catherine was missing.” Penelope said, emphasizing the last word.

Luke, who had previously seemed bored by the story, leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees, “What happened to her?”

Penelope hummed, knowing she had sucked everyone into the story, “The search started immediately. You don’t just have someone escape an inescapable room and move on with your day. The windows, walls, and floor in Block D were completely intact and there was no sign of tampering with the door. No one could figure out how she got out, much less where she was.”

She didn’t wait for anyone to speak before she continued, “Catherine’s nurse said that she was unusually moody and had been for weeks. She completely stopped speaking and showed no reactions when people spoke to her and it was apparently very sudden, but that didn’t really provide any insight into where she could be. The staff searched the surrounding area thoroughly, but there were no leads. Eventually, they notified her relatives and the residents of the town in case she had somehow gotten out of the hospital.”

Then, on January 12th, 1979, a group of men that the asylum hired to do repair work on the second floor found that there was a door locked from the inside.” Garcia cleared her throat before resuming the story, “They also discovered an unpleasant smell emanating from the room, and when they finally got into the room, there was Catherine Pence.”

You wrinkled your nose in disgust, simply just imagining the smell of the room.

“Her clothes were removed and neatly folded next to her and her arms were crossed over her chest, one below the other,” Penelope continued. “Mysteriously, when her body was removed and taken to the morgue, there was a trace left on the concrete floor that corresponded exactly to the figure of Catherine. No matter how many times or what they’ve tried, they can’t get the mark out of the concrete.”

Your blood ran cold at the memory of the strange shape you’d seen in the asylum, “What?”

Penelope hummed, “The medical examiner considered hypothermia as a potential cause of death, but apparently that winter was unseasonably warm, so he settled on a heart attack.”

“Did they ever consider homicide?” Rossi asked, attempting to seem uninterested.

There was a chuckle on the other end of the call, “Yes, they did, but they never found anything else to support that theory. At that point, the room Catherine was found in hadn’t been opened since 1976 when it was used to contain patients with a contagious infectious disease. Since then, the room remained locked.” You could practically hear Penelope’s smile as she divulged the final detail, “Residents of the town say that, sometimes, you can hear cries for help coming from the building. There are even reports of Catherine’s ghost being seen in the window of the room where she died, she just stands there and stares out the window.”

Everyone sat around in silence for a moment before Luke grabbed the phone off of the coffee table, “Yeah, alright, thanks, Garcia.”

“Sleep well, my pretties,” she crooned through the phone before the call ended.

You felt heavy as if there had been a weight placed on your chest, and in an attempt to rectify it, you handed Spencer his book, “I’m headed to bed.”

He looked up at you curiously, eyes studying yours before he nodded, “Alright, I’ll be up in a little while,” he assured you.

Your body carried you to the hotel room, using the key to unlock the door and somehow making it to the bed even after your mind had completely turned itself off. You didn’t remember falling asleep, but you remembered waking up.

As you sat up in bed, you were having trouble holding your head up, finding that you couldn’t turn your neck to see if Spencer had made it to bed. More than that, the room was pitch black when the two of you usually leave the bathroom light on in hotels. Opening your mouth, no words came out.

Small puffs of air escaped your lips, but nothing else came out. You couldn’t move your hands to your neck—you couldn’t move at all. You wanted to call out for Spencer, and even though no sound came out of your mouth, you saw him before you.

Your eyes widened at his sudden appearance, suspiciously illuminated in the otherwise dark room.

Tantalizingly slowly, his hand reached out for you, touching the skin of your neck with his fingertips before pulling. It felt like he was pulling at a thread, and all you could do was watch as his hand came back with a piece of twine pinched between his fingers and your disembodied head fell to the floor.

You gasped for air, holding your hand to your chest and panting, unable to figure out how to get air into your lungs when you so desperately needed it. There were other hands on you, gently placed on your hip and upper back, the latter rubbing small circles as you choked on nothing but air.

“Hey,” Spencer whispered, continuing his ministrations on your back. “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he comforted you, trying to get you to even out your breathing.

Carefully, his hand reached up to your neck, sweeping hair behind your shoulder, but as soon as you felt his hand on the side of your neck, you flinched away from him, nearly toppling off of the double bed.

He pulled you back as gently as he could, “Y/N,” he said, his voice stern this time as he turned to flick the lamp on. “What happened?”

You shook your head, appreciating how secure it felt to the rest of your body, before pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. “It was just a nightmare,” you answered, the sound of your own voice felt disconnected from your body.

“You don’t usually call out my name in your nightmares,” Spencer observed softly, trying to get you to open up more to him, “And you’ve definitely never pulled away from me like that.”

He was right, you had your general recurring nightmares—mostly work related—but you’ve never had anything like this before. You didn’t know how to explain it to him, because how would you explain to your rational, genius boyfriend that you thought you were seeing ghosts?

night two

You felt his eyes on you, Spencer’s big, brown eyes were boring right into yours as you looked at the foreboding structure in front of you. You weren’t even sure how long you’d been watching the stained-glass window, waiting for something to happen, waiting for the ghost to come back.

Sighing, you leaned back in the passenger seat of the car, thinking about the now-cold coffee that you had sitting in the cup holder and wondering if it would be worth the caffeine if it meant you had to pee in the woods at some point in the night.

“You should’ve stayed at the hotel tonight,” Spencer said, his eyes still focused on you.

You pursed your lips, watching the light flicker in the window, “We have a job to do.” That should’ve been enough for him, it had to be enough for you, knowing that at the end of the day, this was just a case and you’d be going home once you found whoever was doing this.

Finally turning his head, Spencer huffed in frustration as he faced the front door of the asylum. “I know you didn’t get back to sleep last night, so you have to be exhausted now,” he told you.

It was nearly midnight now, and you indeed hadn’t gone back to sleep after waking up at two in the morning, but you still agreed to a stakeout when Emily suggested it. Spencer called you out on it then, similarly to what he was doing now, and you were sure he had something to do with you being paired up together. If you ever found out he had voiced a concern about you to Emily, you were going to have issues.

The cool glow of the waning gibbous moon reflected off of the building, the effect only building the eerie feeling in your stomach, winding itself up like a ball of yarn.

With the morning came another body, and it became clear to Emily and the locals that the camera surveillance that had been set up along the perimeter wasn’t doing anything to bring you closer to closing the case. So, she had you and Spencer sitting in a car at the front entrance, each of you armed and on high alert, no matter what your boyfriend thought.

On the other side of the building, Luke and Tara were in another vehicle, keeping an eye on a back entrance that had the potential to be an access point for the UnSub.

Keeping an eye on your window, you squinted as if you could somehow summon Catherine Pence’s ghost. You wished you’d been paired up with Luke again, who at least had seen the mark on the floor, but instead, you had Spencer, who had meddled with your work out of concern for you.

You sighed, reminding yourself that he only did it out of concern for you, wondering how to approach the issue when an all-too-familiar figure appeared in that second-floor window, “Do you see that?” You blurted the question before you could even think about what you were saying.

Instinctively, Spencer placed a hand on his weapon while looking through the windshield of the car, “See what?”

You furrowed your brows, pointing as plainly as you possibly could to the second-floor window where you saw the woman, “On the second floor. Off to the right,” you said desperately, wanting him to see it, wanting him to believe you. “Don’t you see her?”

Spencer’s hand dropped as his gaze went from the building and back to you, “Honey.” You tried to ignore the emotion-filled tone that he gave you, flooding the pet name with an apt amount of concern.

Sitting back in the car seat, “Never mind, I didn’t—” you cut yourself off, “I just thought I saw something.” You tried to play it off, crossing your ankles one over the other and shifting in the seat, trying to keep your ass from going numb.

His eyes were still trained on you, and you tried to ignore him even as he locked the passenger door from the inside. The car remained absolutely silent until you heard a voice come in from the radio, “This is the Death Star calling for the Bat Mobile, over.”

You rolled your eyes at the sound of Luke’s voice, “Don’t call this car the Bat Mobile,” you told Spencer as he lifted the radio to his mouth.

“This is the Bat Mobile, we can hear you loud and clear Death Star, over,” Spencer responded, grinning at the way you groaned in response. The poltergeist of it all nearly forgotten for just a moment.

Placing your head in your hands in frustration as you waited for Luke’s response, Spencer reached over and smoothed your hair back, the gesture feeling oddly domestic for a stakeout. Maybe that was why Emily never paired the two of you together. “Yeah, we aren’t seeing anything out here, are you clear on your end?”

Spencer’s ministrations on your hair faltered for just a moment before he answered, “No, we haven’t seen anything.”

“Tara just got off the phone with Emily, they got the lab results back on those tools we found by the latest victim,” he informed you, “The blood on it was a match.”

You pressed your lips together in a thin line and shared a look with Spencer. Part of you was grateful to finally feel like you’d made some semblance of progress with the case, but the other part of you felt physically ill knowing that the latest victim had been enucleated using an orbitoclast. Her eyes and sockets were pulverized by a lobotomy pick, and it almost made you feel like you needed a word stronger than sadist.

“Did the medical examiner say the injuries matched the patterns of the other two enucleated victims?” Spencer asked into the radio, holding it close to his mouth as he spoke.

There was a pause before Luke responded, “Uh, kind of.”

You frowned, “What do you mean ‘kind of?’”

Another pause, “The M.E. concluded that the wound patterns are the same on the three latest victims, but the injuries on the most recent one were inflicted antemortem,” Luke explained.

Your eyes widened as the weight of Luke’s words joined the pit in your stomach, her eyes had been pulverized while she was still alive. The M.E.’s conclusion matched the one you had proposed when you saw the blood spatter this morning. You held your breath to stop a sound of disgust from escaping your lips, but you knew Spencer saw it on your face.

“Thanks for the update,” Spencer said, turning down the volume on the radio slightly before setting it on the dashboard.

Swallowing thickly, you placed both of your hands in your lap, studying them as if you’ve never seen them before, “Have you ever gotten the feeling that a case isn’t going to end well?”

You caught him while he was about to take a sip of his coffee, his movement paused for a moment before he took a swig anyway, setting the cup in the cup holder and nodding, “Yeah,” he answered, his voice raspy before he cleared his throat, “I have.”

Running your tongue over your molars, you raised your eyebrows at him in curiosity, “What usually happens?”

Spencer sighed, going back to facing the asylum before he held his hand out for you to take, you obliged, setting your intertwined fingers on the center console. “The case usually doesn’t end well,” he admitted.

“When are you going to tell me what your nightmare was about?” Spencer asked, squeezing your hand as he made conversation, trying to keep the two of you awake through the night.

Leaning your head back, you looked through the sunroof of the car, thrilled to see the sun beginning to rise over the tiny town. “I don’t think it really matters, it was just a bad dream,” you told him, clearly aware of why it mattered.

You even knew why it mattered to him. You’d never pushed him away like that before, but as soon as his hand had gone near your neck, you’d completely lost control of your body. “Look, I know I don’t believe in dream analysis—”

“Oh,” you scoffed, cutting him off. “Yes, you do,” you corrected him, “You do this all the time, you talk about dream analysis, and you claim that you don’t believe in it but then you actually get into it, and you admit that you just don’t like what Freud has to say about it. Then you’ll list everyone who has discredited him before you tell me ‘Jung still has his merits.’”

Spencer was quiet, and you immediately regretted your interjection.

Sighing, you wished you could melt into the passenger seat of the car, “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I don’t think that analyzing my dream right now will do any good, but I just… I’m sorry.”

He was still silent.

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you turned your body as best you could in the vehicle, “Do you believe in the afterlife?”

That got his attention. Spencer turned his head to you, concern etched into his face, “Why are you asking me this?”

You couldn’t tell him. You’d break his heart if you told him that throughout the duration of this case, you’d developed a pit in your stomach and started having dreams about dying. “In my dream, it was like… like I was paralyzed, and I couldn’t move my head. I couldn’t speak or anything and when I thought about calling for you, you appeared.” You sniffled slightly, “You reached out for my neck and your hand came back with a piece of twine, and then my head fell to the ground—completely detached from my body.”

The lack of judgment in his expression was what finally triggered the first tear to fall from your eye, but you didn’t wipe it away. Spencer moved his hand and deftly wiped at your tears with his fingertips, cupping your face in his hands, “You’re not going to die.”

“Spence,” you said, your voice strained by emotion.

He shook his head gently, “Nope, not as long as I’m around. You’re not going to die on this case.”

Your chest ached as your eyes studied his, “Okay.”

“But,” he continued, “I want you to take a step back on this one. No more volunteering for stakeouts, no wandering to the second floor of the asylum, and no listening to any more of Penelope’s ghost stories.”

Nodding, you silently agreed to his conditions, holding out your pinky and waiting for him to present his. Interlocking your small fingers, you each kissed your hands, and you took a deep breath. “What do you think we’re looking at, Spence? Is it another witch hunt?”

Names and faces of people like Leland Duncan and James Heathridge flashed in your memory, but if there was an overlap there, you haven’t seen it.

You didn’t feel like the BAU had a very good track record in Appalachia, Shane Wyland and the still unnamed ‘Mountain Man’ were proof enough of that, but you hoped that Wyland was long dead by now, and these crimes were too organized for the Mountain Man.

“I don’t know, baby,” Spencer admitted, and you knew that it hurt him to say that to you, especially now.

Looking out the window, your eyes caught on Luke and Tara as they made their way over to your car. Spencer unlocked the doors as you hurriedly wiped beneath your eyes, trying to hide any evidence of your upset before reconvening with the team.

Luke waggled his eyebrows at the two of you, “Good morning, how was your night?”

Groaning, you stretched out your neck, “Ultimately uneventful,” you told him, knowing that if anything of real interest had happened, Luke and Tara would’ve been the first people you notified.

“Prentiss asked us if we’d do a quick sweep of the inside before heading back to the precinct,” Tara said, jutting her chin in the direction of the building.

You and Spencer shared a look, but now that you were grouped within your team, you felt comfortable enough to slip your hand in his as the four of you approached the building. Squeezing his hand, your eyes flickered up to the second-story window, and seeing nothing, you stepped into the building.

The smell hit you. The strong tang of blood mixed with that of isopropyl alcohol burned at your nostrils as Tara swore at the sight in front of all of you. A body hanging from the stairwell, eyes completely destroyed, and while the body was covered in blood, the floor was completely void of any red.

“She’s cleaning up,” you observed, stepping closer to Spencer and looking at the streak marks that a rag had made on the floor.

Luke raised his eyebrows, “She?” He asked, confused about the sudden change in pronouns while Tara immediately went to call Emily.

Spencer nodded, agreeing with you as the three of you watched the body turn in the glow of the sunrise, “A man wouldn’t care about the mess he’s leaving behind.”

This revelation left you more confused than anything, you had no idea how anyone could lift that much dead weight, night after night. “Oh,” you breathed, blood draining from your face as you looked up at Spencer and Luke. “We were watching the building all night,” you reminded them. “We never saw anyone enter, but we never saw them leave.”

night three

“Alright,” Emily started, fully equipped in her Kevlar, she looked around the entryway of the asylum, “Rossi and Tara will keep an eye out front in case anyone tries to make a run for it. Reid and JJ will take the tunnels beneath the west wing, Simmons and I will take the east wing, Alvez and Sheriff Greenbaum will head north, and Y/N and Deputy Perkins will stay here in the foyer in case anyone calls for backup.”

In the dark building, Spencer gave your hand a squeeze before everyone turned on their flashlights. “Let’s end this,” Rossi said, earning a hum of agreement as everyone split off into their respective directions.

You wished Emily had done you the kindness of letting you be paired with Spencer again, but twice in the span of a single case was seemingly too much to ask for. “You ever seen something like this?” Deputy Perkins asked you, shuffling his feet across the floor.

Shaking your head, your eyes focused on where the newest body had been found that morning. The body was cleared out and the cause of death was blunt force trauma, but once the realization that the killer had been in the building the entire time settled in, the team got to work on figuring out some of the logistics.

That was when the sheriff brought up the possibility of the killer using a long-abandoned tunnel system. The town had assumed they caved in years ago, but a bit of sleuthing had revealed that there were still a select number of tunnels for her to use.

As long as I stay in the foyer, you reminded yourself, no wandering.

The stench of isopropyl alcohol still floated through the air; it had likely sept into the porous flooring that had been underneath the body. You made note of the flickering lights in the surrounding area, making sure not to get any of them mixed up as you rested a hand on your firearm.

“Did you hear that?” Deputy Perkins asked you, looking up the stairs and shining his flashlight on them, trying to see if he could find anything in the eerie abyss of darkness.

Swallowing thickly, you shook your head in response, “No,” you told him, looking to the left and right of you, wondering if one of the pairs that had been sent off was returning. You hadn’t heard anything coming from the upstairs.

He hummed, taking a step closer to the staircase and setting off alarm bells in your head, “I’m sure I heard a shuffling coming from upstairs.” The pit in your stomach reformed as he planted a foot on the staircase and waved you over, “Come on, we should check it out.”

You hesitated, “We’re supposed to be here if someone needs backup,” you reminded him, nearly pleading with him not to abandon his post.

Perkins shrugged at you before taking another step. “I’m going to check it out, and there’s safety in numbers,” he countered before ascending the steps, making it to the first landing before your feet finally moved.

“Fuck,” you muttered as you followed him up the stairs, taking careful steps so that they didn’t creak beneath you. You reached the second-floor seconds after him, but you shone your flashlight around without any sign of him, beaming the light into the familiar room, “Deputy Perkins?”

You stepped into the room, placing a hand on your firearm as you tapped on the flickering sconce again and looked behind you. Your breathing hitched at the sight of the deputy in front of you, he was crumpled to the floor, his legs folded unnaturally, and there was a lobotomy pick that went straight through his head.

Next to him stood a woman, her clothes were tattered and stained with blood, and she came at you, shoving you to the ground and leaving your gun and flashlight scattered on the hardwood. The force of the impact knocked the wind out of you, and you got yourself out from under her while she frantically searched for a missing piece of the puzzle.

She’d used her pick to take out the deputy, leaving her with nothing to gouge your eyes out. You weren’t sure if you should feel grateful as you rolled over and grabbed the closest thing you could, wrapping your fingers around your flashlight and swinging it aimlessly against your attacker.

“No!” She screamed a high-pitched, blood-curdling sound rang out as you hit her on the side with your law enforcement issue flashlight. The object slipped out of your fingers as you sat up and tried to reorient yourself with your surroundings, you couldn’t see your gun, searching for it as she flung your flashlight back at you, the edge of it catching on your forehead as you fell back.

The UnSub straddled your waist, keeping a firm hold on your throat as she held the pick to your eye, having pulled it from the deputy’s head so that she could complete her ritual, “Don’t,” you gasped, “Think—” your voice broke off as vomit rose in your throat. “Think of the mess,” you told her. “You used all the rubbing alcohol,” you reminded her, pleading with her not to take your eyes.

She was seething, very nearly foaming at the mouth above you as instead of stabbing you with the pick, she used the butt of it to crack against your skull. “You took my friends!” She raged, referring to the people that she had murdered, she was collecting them to keep her company.

“No,” you wheezed, shaking your head even through the blinding pain, “I set them free,” you challenged her, resigning yourself to an untimely demise and crying out when she sat you up.

You tried to claw at her, a weak attempt at saving your own life that received a laugh from the UnSub, an almost childlike giggle. “You can be my friend,” she offered, grabbing an already prepared rope from the floor and looping it around your neck before she slung it around an exposed beam, creating a makeshift rig and pulling on it.

Immediately, your hands flew to your neck, trying to stop the rope from suffocating you completely, and it worked for a little while before your feet lifted off of the ground.

After that, you were gone, left standing off to the side as you watched your body hang from the ceiling while the UnSub who would always remain an UnSub to you watched, cackling as she did so. She cackled up until the moment JJ put a bullet in her brain, the sudden death of your attacker leaving your body to drop to the hardwood floor, the hit softened by Spencer and Emily as they caught.

Tossing the rope to the side, Spencer laid you out on the floor and ducked his head to your chest, listening for breathing sounds. He was listening for anything, any sign of life at all.

There was nothing, so he put his hands on your corporeal form’s chest and started CPR, pushing down on your chest in steady motions.

You knelt down to him, watching tears fall from his face as JJ did her best to keep your airway open and Emily frantically radioed for an ambulance, continuously repeating that Y/N is down.

Assuming your hand would go right through him, you placed a hand on Spencer’s back, surprised to find that he was still solid to you. In a sort of daze, you watched him as he tried to save your life, repeating the same three words over and over again, “Come on, baby.” The mantra continued, tears falling onto your shirt.

You felt like you were on fire as if your body was physically burning while you watched life-saving measures be performed on yourself, “Oh, Spencer,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry,” you said to no one but yourself, knowing that he couldn’t hear you.

Looking to your side, you saw her again. The spirit form of Catherine Pence was watching you die in real-time, and you took a shuddering breath as she knelt next to you, expecting her to impart some sort of spiritual wisdom onto you.

Instead, she placed one of her ethereal hands on the back of your head and slammed both of your forms together. The entire world went dark after that, but you could still hear everything going on, searing pain ran through your entire body, from a throbbing in your ankle to an ache in your ribs to a pulsing in your head, but there was no more pressure on your chest.

“Is she…?” You heard JJ’s voice first, and as badly as you wanted to open your eyes, you just couldn’t gather the strength to do so.

There was heavy breathing and a soft weight on your shoulder, two fingers pressed into the pulse point on your wrist, “She’s breathing. She’s alive,” Spencer answered, out of breath. “Oh, my angel.”

A low groan was the only thing you could muster up.

Spencer shushed you, keeping his head on your shoulder and his fingers on your wrist, “It’s okay, don’t try to talk,” he cooed. “You’re going to be okay, the paramedics are here,” he lifted his head then. “I just want to stay with her.”

aftermath

It was far too bright for you, and the low keening sound that you expelled from your throat was the only way you could think to express that feeling. Whoever was in the room with you understood, turning the brightness down for you, earning a hum of approval from you.

“Hey,” Spencer whispered, his voice barely audible as he tried to keep his voice as low as possible.

The universe was taking pity on you, you knew it because you couldn’t feel any pain, which either meant you had finally kicked it or the hospital you were in had given you painkillers.

Your eyes felt like they were stuck together, the way that they get when you wake up from a perfect nap, and it took a surprising amount of energy to part your lips, expelling a deep breath out of your mouth. The action led to a pinching pain in your chest, causing your breathing to hitch, “Ow.”

“Sorry,” Spencer said, though you couldn’t imagine what he was apologizing for. “Can you open your eyes? How are you feeling?”

A grunt was all he received in response, the single noise begging him to slow down. Your eyes opened just slightly, looking at him through slivers as he smiled softly at you. His eyes were red and there was a box of Kleenex on the table next to him, accompanied by his phone and a cup of water.

He sighed in relief once he noticed that your eyes were opening, “Hey,” he repeated, “You look good,” he lied to you.

You rolled your eyes at him and his smile only grew, “Hi,” you croaked, your throat swollen and dry as you tried to reorient yourself. You were in a hospital, but the view outside of your window was of a city, not the tiny town that you had just been in.

Noticing your confusion, Spencer reached out to adjust your nasal cannula, “They transported you to a hospital in a city. The local hospital just didn’t have the capacity to treat you,” he explained. “I’ve been with you,” he reassured you, “The entire time.”

“I’m sorry,” you rasped, but he waved you off instantly.

Spencer grabbed the Styrofoam water cup from your bedside table and held it to you, bending the straw so that you could get some water.

Noting his silence, you tilted your head to the side, ignoring the way your brain felt like it had been scrambled, “Are you okay?”

He pursed his lips while setting the cup back down, “I just remember thinking about how I promised you that you weren’t going to die.”

The antiseptic air made you cringe, your body becoming more and more conscious as time went on, “I wandered,” you reminded him, making sure he knew that you broke your promise first.

“That wasn’t your idea,” Spencer challenged, knowing you well enough to say that without having experienced it himself. His fingers nimbly adjusted the blanket on your hospital bed, “You followed the deputy upstairs, it wasn’t your choice.”

In your current state, Spencer wouldn’t let you take any of the responsibility for what had happened in the asylum and even though you knew the answer, you asked him anyway, “Is she dead?”

Nodding softly, he took your hand in his, “She’s dead, and someday I’ll let you know her name and read the rest of the case, but today is not that day.” He skimmed his thumb over your knuckles, each of them cracked and bloodied from your fight with the UnSub.

You sighed in relief, a single tear receding into your hairline as you closed your eyes again, “How long have I been sleeping?” You asked, squinting over at your patient care whiteboard.

“Two days,” Spencer answered gently, dragging his fingers up and down your forearm, “You were tired, and your body had a lot of healing to do. It still does,” he added the last part, not wanting you to claim being healed. “Everyone’s still here, waiting for you to be discharged,” he continued, “I should message Emily, actually.”

“And Penelope,” you added, knowing she’d rather hear it directly from him than through Emily.

Spencer chuckled lightly, a sound that was as curative as any medicine you could be given, “I’m sure she’ll be waiting for us at the tarmac in Quantico.”

A small smile sprouted on your face, “She’ll be the one landing the plane,” you laughed slightly, interrupted by a fit of coughing. You placed a hand on your chest and winced, inhaling sharply before trying to breathe through the pain.

“What do you need?” He asked you carefully, setting his phone back down after sending his texts.

You shook your head, “Nothin’, just you.”

It was an action that would’ve previously earned a few stares from the team, and at least one wolf whistle from Luke, you and Spencer slipping into the galley together and closing the curtain behind you. Now it was simply the easiest place for you to get some semblance of privacy as Spencer snipped at the old bandaged around your neck.

Your hair was secured atop your head, keeping it out of the ointment as Spencer used his fingertips to carefully cover the rope burn that had been left around your neck. “Does it hurt?” He asked, eyes focused on his canvas while coating the hollow of your throat.

Shaking your head minutely, you closed your eyes, “No,” you told him, a slight rasp still peeking through your tone.

He hummed in response, giving you a small smile as he went back to the tube, putting more ointment on his fingers, “Liar.”

Opening your eyes again, you looked up at him as your face warmed, “Only a little bit,” you altered your answer. At this point, the worst part about the burn was that the nurses recommended keeping it covered, and Spencer was taking his job as caretaker very seriously.

He checked his phone for something before going back to his prior actions, “I think it’s getting better,” he observed, furrowing his brows as he wiped excess ointment from his fingers.

You took his word for it, having been avoiding looking in a mirror at all costs. Seeing the bruises all over your body was more than enough for you. You flinched when someone else slipped into your oasis, Emily shut the curtain behind her, holding out a pack of non-adhesive Telfa pads for Spencer to use on your neck.

“Hey,” you said nervously, wondering if she had another purpose or if she was simply bringing you some first-aid.

Emily smiled nervously; her eyes studied the marks on your throat as Spencer covered them. You expected her to speak, but she just watched in complete silence.

Raising your eyebrows, you looked from her to Spencer, and back to her again. “You should see the other guy,” you joked, earning the slightest smile from the both of them.

“I just wanted to let you know that however much time you decide to take off, it’s yours,” she offered to you, watching as Spencer unwrapped another packet of gauze.

You hummed, “I’m really alright, Em,” you assured her, more than comfortable with the automatic six weeks that you were granted by the bureau. It was the standard set for all agents unless there was an extenuating circumstance that prevented them from returning to work.

Emily’s nervous smile returned, “It wasn’t a suggestion,” she informed you, letting you know that she was more or less forcing you to take the extended time off.

Peering at your boyfriend, you frowned, “You put her up to this.”

Spencer shook his head, “I didn’t. Stop moving so much,” he urged you, trying to stretch the number of Telfa pads he had before he had the chance to go to a pharmacy.

“He didn’t,” Emily iterated, “But he could’ve, and I still wouldn’t tell you,” she added. “We’ll talk more—both of you. For now, I don’t want to see you around the BAU for a while.”

You sighed when she left the galley, Spencer finished his last placement before stepping back. “How do I look?” You asked him, keeping your question mostly rhetorical.

His smile was so gentle that it cracked at your resolve, “Good.”

Looking up at him doubtfully, you leaned against the counter, “You’re a really bad liar.”

“Hey,” he said, carefully wrapping his arms around you and letting you rest the unmarred side of your head on his chest, “You look alive, and that’s good enough for me.”