millsmqy

[millsmqy]

what? oh sweetheart no, you're not weirding me out at all. you're weirding me in. keep talking, freak

[millsmqy]

me when im impatient and decide to read fanfics about a character from a show i havent finished yet and it contains the most jaw dropping spoiler known to man

[millsmqy]

In a world of AO3 warriors, I'm forever a Tumblr Trooper...

[millsmqy]

everyday i mourn the fact that i’m not a main character in a 2000s supernatural tv show like the vampire diaries

[millsmqy]

A CASE STUDY IN TERROR ࿔ spencer reid x reader

summary : all you said was " i love horror. " spencer reid took that as a challenge — and then turned it into a love language.

genre : fluff

w/c : 2.8k

tags/warnings : female reader, mentions of horror films / horror imagery, brief references to gore / violence ( in the context of film discussion ), first fic writing — let me know if i've missed any!!

a/n : first fic guys!! credits to @/ianrkives and @/cursed-carmine for the dividers. let’s also just pretend letterboxd came out earlier than it did! @woniesss read it first!! i lowk have probably forgot to edit a few things but oh well.

you hadn't meant to spark anything. you were just rambling — like always — half-asleep and curled into spencer's side on a lazy sunday morning, scrolling through your phone while he tried ( and failed ) to finish his book.

"there's this one film i always go back to when i'm in a bad mood," you murmured absently. "the descent."

spencer looked up like you'd just announced a fascination with cryptic hunting.

"the... cave movie?"

you nodded, grinning. "exactly. claustrophobia, monsters, betrayal — it's perfect."

he blinked. "i didn't know you were that into horror."

you shrugged. "it's my favourite genre."

now he really blinked. like, twice. "really?"

"why do you sound personally attacked?"

"i just... you like fluffy pyjamas and cartoons and say 'sorry' when you bump into doorways."

"i contain multitudes, spence," you said solemnly, and he couldn't help but laugh.

you didn't press the conversation — you rarely do. but you noticed the way he hummed thoughtfully, the way his fingers idly tapped the cover of his book, how his brain was clearly already somewhere else.

you'd planted a seed. and spencer reid doesn't know how to leave well enough alone.

═════════════════════

he doesn't sleep that night.

not because of the horror thing — not exactly. just because his brain doesn't stop when it gets curious, and now it's very curious.

that's how he ends up halfway through a 47-minute lecture on horror as a reflection of social anxiety, with seven browser tabs open and a notepad file titled "(horror?)" slowly filling with facts, director names, subgenres, psychological breakdowns, and thematic patterns by decade. he reads academic journals about fear conditioning in horror audiences. watches trailer compilations from the '70s through the 2000s. makes mental footnotes.

he learns about final girls. about jump scare fatigue. about the technical brilliance of the thing and the cultural relevance of night of the living dead. he even reads a texas chainsaw massacre retrospective at 4:12 a.m., nodding quietly to himself like it's a peer-reviewed study.

by the time the sun is up, he hasn't slept a minute.

but he has a comprehensive understanding of your favourite genre — and a thousand things he's suddenly desperate to talk to you about.

═════════════════════

in the morning, you're brushing your teeth and he's sitting on the edge of the bed, freshly showered and somehow too awake for 8:17 a.m., watching you in the mirror like he's waiting for his cue.

"what?" you ask around the foam.

"did you know the found footage subgenre started way before blair witch?" he says, casual. like he didn't just spend all night preparing this exact moment.

you squint at him, toothbrush hovering midair.

"...okay, go on."

he brightens.

"there's this film from 1980 called cannibal holocaust—"

"—oh my god, you watched cannibal holocaust?" you choke on your toothpaste.

"no, i read three synopses and a critical analysis," he says, deadpan. "i didn't feel like i needed to see it to understand its cultural impact. plus, it's technically illegal in a few countries, and i'd rather not be on a list."

you're not sure if you're more impressed or concerned, but you nod solemnly and spit into the sink. "fair."

later that day, you're curled up beside him on the couch, legs tossed lazily over his lap while he reads some book with a title you can't pronounce. you're scrolling through your letterboxd account, mumbling half-thoughts about which films to rewatch.

when you mention the thing, he doesn't even look up.

"rob bottin did all the creature effects. he was 22 years old. it's still considered one of the most impressive practical fx achievements in film history."

your mouth hangs open slightly.

spencer, still not looking up: "why do you look like that?"

"you memorized that for me," you accuse, but your voice is too soft to be anything but enamoured.

"i did," he admits, shrugging one shoulder. "i like... knowing what you like."

your stomach flips. you think you might be melting into the cushions.

═════════════════════

by dinner, he's full-blown performing.

you're plating spaghetti while he's pacing slowly behind you, hands gesturing like a lecture hall is waiting.

"—and while mainstream horror was leaning toward gore and jump scares in the early 2000s, it's interesting how some indie films were already leaning back into that pre-2000s slow burn tension. take the others, for example—"

"—spencer," you gasp, genuinely breathless with laughter. "how do you even know this much already?"

he doesn't answer immediately. just walks up behind you and wraps his arms around you waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

"didn't like the idea of you being passionate about something i didn't understand," he says simply. "so i fixed it."

your heart doesn't just flutter — it full-blown combusts.

you turn in his arms, nose brushing his, eyes shining.

"you're so ridiculous."

"and now i know why the others freaked you out more than saw," he says, lips quirking.

you blink.

"...wait, why?"

"because saw is physical— pain, panic, choices. but the others?" he pauses. "it's about grief. being stuck in it. she's scared not because of ghosts... but because she's alone. and doesn't know how to move on."

you don't say anything for a moment, stunned.

and then: "okay, now you're just showing off."

he smiles. not smug. not gloating. just happy. happy that he got it right. that he understands you — even the scary parts.

you pull him in by the collar, kiss his cheek, and murmur, "i love you."

"i know," he says, grinning. "i've got the data to back it up."

═════════════════════

THE BOOKSTORE

you're not even there to look for anything. just killing time before dinner, browsing shelves like it's a sport. you wander over to horror — half out of habit, half hoping to find a battered old copy of house of leaves — when spencer appears at your side, hands still tucked into his coat.

he glances at the shelf and hums, like he's judging it. "they always stock pet sematary but never the tommyknockers. which is ironic, considering the latter deals more directly with cosmic horror."

you blink at him.

"i mean—" he starts to wave it off, but you're already staring, intrigued.

"no, keep going."

he flushes faintly but continues. "cosmic horror, or lovecraftian horror, is less about gore or violence and more about confronting the idea that we are small, insignificant... powerless. it's existential. quietly terrifying."

you stare at him like he just opened a portal. "you're hot when you talk like that."

he short-circuits for a full three seconds. "i— um. thank you."

you grin and grab his hand, dragging him to the checkout with the one book he just recommended. "you're reading it with me."

═════════════════════

DINNER WITH FRIENDS

it starts with someone offhandedly complaining about jump scares, which naturally leads into a half-mumbled comment about scream being "kinda overrated," and spencer — who'd mostly been quiet all evening, sipping his drink and letting you do most of the social lifting — finally chimes in.

"no, actually, scream revitalised the slasher genre," he says, casually folding his napkin. "it came out at a time when horror was stagnating—early '90s box office fatigue. wes craven took the classic tropes and turned them self-aware, almost postmodern. that kind of meta-commentary hadn't really been done like that before, at least not successfully."

the table goes quiet, a little stunned.

you look at him, like he just grew wings. "okay, professor."

he immediately starts to backpedal. "i mean—i just—sorry. i didn't mean to—"

"no," you interrupt, smile wide. "please continue. i'm loving this."

one of your friends leans in, half-joking. "where did he come from?"

you grin, leaning into spencer's side. "he downloaded the entire history of horror for me. you should hear what he has to say about texas chainsaw massacre."

he flushes slightly, mumbling, "only if asked."

you squeeze his thigh under the table. "i'm always asking."

═════════════════════

it starts with a quiet kind of vulnerability.

you're curled up together on the couch, rain drumming against the windows, the soft lull of wind turning the world outside to background noise. the kind of night that asks for something — tea, a film, a reason to stay a little closer under the blanket.

spencer shifts beside you. "can i ask you something?"

you pause your scrolling. "always."

he hesitates. then : "would you want to watch a horror film with me?"

you blink. "wait. you mean... like a real one? no historical documentaries disguised as thrillers?"

"i want to try one you love," he says, his voice quiet. "one that matters to you."

you turn toward him, searching his face. "are you sure?"

"i've been reading," he adds, almost sheepish. "i think i'm ready."

a grin slowly pulls at your mouth. "okay, spence. let's start simple. you get bonus points for meta-awareness, so... scream."

"wes craven," he nods, already proving he's done the homework. "subversive slasher, commentary on genre rules, 1996."

"did you just date scream like it's a scientific discovery?"

"was i wrong?" he asks, eyes wide and innocent.

you kiss his cheek. "you're impossible. press play."

by the time the opening scene is done, spencer's tense beside you — not in fear, but in focus. you can feel his thoughts building in real time.

he lasts maybe thirty minutes before he cracks.

"this entire structure is commentary," he says suddenly. "it deconstructs its own formula while still following it. craven's directing the film and the audience at the same time."

you glance over, grinning. "you just needed me to open the floodgates, huh?"

he shrugs, but there's a light in his eyes. "it's smart. self-aware without losing suspense. the kitchen scene? that's a thesis."

"exactly," you nod, eyes bright. "it's satire and sincerity. it knows it's a horror film. it just wants you to admit you like it anyway."

he turns toward you — really looks at you. "you've thought about this a lot."

"too much," you admit. "i used to write horror essays just for fun. breakdown themes, decode structure, defend my favourites. i loved picking them apart."

spencer stares at you like he's cataloguing everything you just said.

"i love the way your brain works," he says, voice soft.

the film keeps playing, but he barely looks at it now.

"i thought you were watching the film," you whisper.

"i am," he murmurs, eyes still on you. "i'm watching all the parts you love."

═════════════════════

you come home late — long day, shoes kicked off at the door, already expecting to collapse onto the couch when —

"spence?" you call out. "you home?"

"bedroom!" he calls back, cheerful.

you follow the sound of him, confused... until you spot what's waiting on the bed.

a hardcover book : "men, women, and chain saws : gender in the modern horror film.”

a small, sealed film box-set : the scream franchise in full.

and resting on top of both : a tiny, funko-style figure of carrie, bloodied prom dress and all.

you’re surprised.

“what is—?”

“i thought you might want to rewatch the scream sequels,” spencer says as he walks in from the bathroom, drying his hands. “and you mentioned that carol clover book once, and it’s out of print in a few places, but i found one through a seller in vermont. and i saw the carrie figure while checking out.”

you’re still staring.

he shrugs a little. “it’s not much, but—“

you cross the room and kiss him before he can finish. his hands hover awkwardly, like he wasn’t expecting it, but then they settle warm on your back.

“are you trying to ruin me?” you whisper against his lips.

“no,” he says with a smile, brushing a hand over your cheek. “just trying to speak your language.”

and that’s what it feels like. like he’s learning every word of what makes you feel seen, and fluent in it already.

═════════════════════

the cabin of the jet is calm, quiet—files flipping, coffee sipping, thoughts turning over like clockwork. until spencer breaks the silence.

“you know," he says, eyes still on the case folder, "this reminds me of the strangers."

morgan looks up from his own file. "the horror movie?"

"yeah. 2008. directed by bryan bertino," spencer replies, already winding up. "it's actually based loosely on a few real-life incidents, including the keddie cabin murders and the manson family killings, but what's interesting is the psychological framework behind the narrative-"

"oh boy," morgan mutters, but he leans back with a grin. "here we go."

"—because the killers don't have a motive. not in a conventional sense. the victims weren't targeted for something they did or who they were. they were chosen at random. the infamous line—‘because you were home’—it's not just scary, it's existential. it's about proximity, not cause. the idea that violence isn't always personal, but arbitrary. senseless. that's what makes it horrifying. it strips away the illusion of safety."

rossi peers over at him.

"we call that thursday."

spencer waves a hand, not breaking pace. "sure, in a clinical sense. but in cultural horror, that randomness taps into a deep human fear : that safety is performative. you can lock your doors, set your alarms, know your neighbours— and none of it actually matters. because someone might just knock."

garcia, lounging across from him with her laptop, smirks without looking up. "and someone's been watching movies again."

spencer's eyes flick to her, briefly flustered. "it's relevant. there's a parallel here— our unsub doesn’t follow a victimology. he waits for an opening. the opportunity is the motive.”

morgan whistles low. “you hear this, garcia? kid’s quoting horror movies like he’s on letterboxd.”

"i am loving this era of spencer reid," she says, typing rapidly. "what is it? goth girlfriend awakening? horror thesis boyfriend arc?"

"shut up," spencer mutters, but he's not mad-just pink in the ears.

morgan grins, sensing blood in the water. "nah, man, don't stop now. tell us more about the socio-psychological terror of masked intruders."

spencer tries to go back to his notes, but it's too late.

derek's in full teasing mode.

"bet you've got a letterboxd now," morgan goads.

"username's probably something wild. like... @scaredyspence."

garcia snorts. "no, no— he'd go cerebral. @epistemicdread."

"actually, letterboxd has some very well-written analysis—“ spencer starts, then freezes. "i mean—i don't have an account, i was just...looking."

morgan leans over dramatically. "my man's in deep. next thing we know, you'll be out here rating hellraiser like it's film noir.”

spencer looks at him flatly. "clive barker did take significant influence from mid-century noir aesthetics, actually."

rossi laughs aloud. "he walked right into that one." garcia turns to morgan, mock-whispering, "so how long before he invites her to a horror marathon?"

morgan grins. "he probably already has. he's just trying to learn enough so he doesn't embarrass himself."

spencer, quietly: "i'm not trying to—“

morgan, cutting him off : "reid, if i ever hear you describe texas chainsaw massacre as a 'raw meditation on class alienation, i'm gonna have to take you aside."

spencer mutters something about auteur theory and goes back to his notes. the blush in his cheeks doesn't fade for ten minutes.

═════════════════════

“i’m just saying,” you start, stirring your iced latte, “if you’re telling me it’s weird to want a chucky doll in your kitchen, then you’re not my real friend.”

“i would never shame you for that,” garcia says, dead serious. “in fact, i already found one on etsy for you. it’s holding a knife and everything.”

you light up. “god, i love you.”

she sips from her drink, then leans forward, eyes suddenly glinting. “speaking of people who love you.”

you pause. “…what?”

garcia looks far too smug. “guess who was on the jet quoting the strangers to rossi and morgan like a little film studies professor.”

your eyes go wide. “no.”

“oh, yes. pretty boy. doctor spencer reid.” she giggles. “my man was comparing real-world behavioural patterns to slasher tropes with the confidence of someone who just wrote a dissertation titled ‘final girls & forensics : a psychological inquiry.’”

you nearly choke on your drink. “you’re lying.”

“he used the phrase ‘it's not just scary, it's existential,’” garcia says, hand on her heart. “and morgan didn’t even say anything for a solid five seconds."

your face is warm now — all heat and disbelief. “no he didn’t.”

“word for word.” garcia takes another sip and hums. “you broke his brain, babe.”

“i just told him i liked horror,” you say, mouth falling open in wonder. “that was it. one time.”

garcia shrugs. “and then he spent two weeks watching the omen, the strangers, and like six hours of horror theory youtube videos. he doesn’t even like movies, honey. i had to explain what a ‘final girl’ was in 2006.”

you bury your face in your hands, laughing. “oh my god.”

she’s grinning now, wide and proud. “you are so in.”

thank you so much for reading!! please give me any tips and advice, this is my first fic. bye!!