#Dr Spencer Reid

[kendracii]

”playing dangerous - spencer reid”

who?: spencer x unsub!reader

content warning!: mention of murder, normal cm stuff, crime scene photos, kinda mentions reader is petite but it really just a vibe! (also first post in awhile be nice)

w/c: 1.1k

summary: A brilliant girl with a spotless past is suspected of five brutal murders. But when Dr. Spencer Reid steps in, the interrogation turns into a deadly game of minds.

Interrogation Room B | Quantico, Virginia

It had been nearly four hours. The cold metal chair beneath you had long since lost any semblance of comfort, and the fluorescent light above hummed with an unrelenting flicker that could drive anyone to madness — if they weren’t already there.

Two officers had tried to break you. One slammed the table. The other tried to guilt you. Neither worked.

You played the part perfectly: wide-eyed, soft-spoken, demure. The girl who never got detention. The girl who brought cupcakes to school and volunteered at animal shelters. The girl who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But that girl? She didn’t exist.

The murders were messy. James Widec, Gary Bowe, Hardin Ross, Eric Mout, and Zachary Gubler. All fit, all former athletes, all with suspiciously sealed university records and bruised egos to match. The details were gruesome. Precise. Someone had wanted them to hurt — emotionally, psychologically, physically — and someone had made damn sure they did.

The BAU’s profile had been clean. Logical. A male unsub, probably mid-30s, with a violent record, no clear empathy, and definite antisocial tendencies.

That didn’t fit you. Not on paper.

No priors. No psychiatric red flags. GPA of 4.2. Varsity swim. Homecoming court. Perfect.

But all signs pointed here. To you. And now, finally, he walked in.

You knew who he was the second the door opened.

Doctor Spencer Reid.

The genius. The profiler. The prodigy with the mismatched cardigans and the thousand-yard stare. The one who solved impossible puzzles and recited obscure statistics like they were lullabies.

You watched him as he entered, slow and thoughtful, a man who noticed everything. His lips were pursed, brows drawn slightly in thought. His posture was stiff, but not unfriendly — like he wasn’t sure whether to approach you as a criminal, a puzzle, or maybe... something else entirely.

He sat across from you with a quiet sort of control. His eyes were steady. Observant. He didn’t speak immediately. He didn’t need to.

You smiled, tilted your head ever so slightly, and spoke first. “You can ask me anything you want,” you said sweetly. “Anything?”

Spencer studied you. Not your words — your cadence. Your breathing. Your lack of tension. You weren’t nervous. You weren’t lying badly. You weren’t lying at all.

You were performing.

“I’ll be taking over the questioning from now on,” he said simply, sliding a stack of crime scene photos onto the table like a dealer laying down cards. Your victims stared back at you in full color — mouths open, limbs bent in awkward, post-mortem shapes.

But you didn’t look. You looked at him.

Straight into those hazel eyes.

His voice was calm when he began. “You’re nineteen years old. No criminal record. You’re academically gifted, socially integrated, and by all accounts — emotionally stable. So why are you sitting in this chair?”

“Everybody knows I’m a good girl, officer,” you said softly, the corner of your mouth turning up just enough to spark suspicion. “No, I wouldn’t do a thing like that. That’s for sure...”

Spencer let out a quiet sigh, but you noticed the faintest flush in his cheeks.

Interesting.

After a few minutes of procedural questioning — Miranda rights, lawyer offers, yawn — he launched into something more cerebral, something verySpencer. About behavioral inconsistencies, a hypothesis regarding your relationship to the victims, a theory about displaced anger rooted in early trauma. You nodded along, wide-eyed, absorbing none of it.

Then, you leaned forward, your tone silkier now. “You got a girl?” You tilted your head, your lashes lowering like curtains over a scene.

“I don’t see a ring on your finger...”

The question caught him off guard. For a second — just one — his lips parted like he might answer.

He didn’t.

Instead, he blinked and looked down at the photos, clearly recalibrating. You didn’t miss the flicker of tension in his throat or the twitch of his fingers as they adjusted his sleeve.

“You know,” you continued, voice feather-light, “most guys would’ve jumped at that question. But you — you’re not like most guys, are you?”

He cleared his throat. “I’m here to ask you the questions.”

“But you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Your tone wasn’t accusatory. It was gentle. Like seduction in reverse — a weapon masquerading as affection. “Wondering what kind of girl it takes to make five men bleed out in abandoned places. Wondering if maybe you’ve been wrong before…”

Spencer shifted in his seat. He looked uncomfortable, but not repulsed. Intrigued. Curious.

That was always the beginning of the unraveling.

“I’ve profiled killers half your age,” he said quietly. “And twice your size. The body doesn't commit the murder — the mind does.”

You smiled.

“Oh, doctor, if you wanted to get inside my mind,” you said, leaning in just a breath closer, “you could’ve just asked me out to dinner.”

There it was.

The faintest smirk tugged at his lips before he blinked it away. He hated that you got to him. You could see it — the subtle tension in his jaw, the way he looked through you now instead of at you.

“I think you enjoy this,” he said suddenly, voice low, as if the thought had just materialized. “The game. The attention. Not because you're proud of what you’ve done, but because you want to see how long you can play the part before someone catches on.”

You said nothing, just tilted your head, that same disarming smile plastered on your lips.

“You’re not here to prove you’re innocent,” he said. “You’re here to see if I’m smart enough to prove you’re guilty.”

And finally, something changed in your eyes.

Not panic. Not fear. Just… interest.

“Well?” you asked, your voice still soft but your smile sharper now, like a knife behind a ribbon. “Are you?”

Spencer didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He just stared at you for a long, weighted moment.

And you knew then — he was the first one to make you nervous.

[goofygubegubler]

hi hi

reader gets period during sex (yes i know im a freak 🥲) and is very embarrassed but spencer is super sweet and cute… 😔

𝑯𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒍𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒖𝒖𝒖 (𝑺.𝑹)

wc: 1.2k | F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: Period Sex, Blood Mentions, Bodily Fluids, Explicit Sexual Content, Embarrassment/Shame (Resolved), Tender Aftercare, Bath Scene, Late-Season Spencer Reid Softness.

Spencer had been giving you exactly what you needed—those sharp, deep thrusts laced with the confidence and precision that only experience could bring. He moaned low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin as he leaned over you, holding one of your legs high against his chest to open you up just right. That angle. God, that angle. Your vision blurred at the edges, your thoughts flickering into static, your skull knocking lightly against the headboard with each powerful stroke.

"Spence," you whimpered, voice cracking with need. He was so deep you could barely think. So deep it felt like your bones had liquefied. You clenched around him involuntarily, and he gasped against your throat.

"You're so fucking tight," he groaned, lips dragging along your jaw. "Feels like you’re made for me."

You could only nod, trembling, nails digging into his back. Your body burned, a slow spiral of heat in your belly. His hips snapped forward again, and the pressure inside you swelled—

—and then he froze.

His brow furrowed. Not in discomfort. In concern.

"Wait—hold on," he whispered, voice tender now. He slowed his thrusts and eased back slightly, and your stomach plummeted at the change in his expression.

"What?" you asked, breathless. You tried to hide the panic in your voice, but your gut already twisted with embarrassment.

Spencer sat back on his heels, still inside you but gentle now. He looked down—

—and you saw it too. Red. A smear of it across your thighs. On him. On the sheets beneath you.

Your heart seized. You bolted upright with a strangled gasp, pulling the sheet around yourself like it could rewind the moment.

"Oh my God," you choked, horror flooding your system. "Oh my God, Spencer, I—I didn’t know, I didn’t feel—"

"Hey. Hey," he interrupted quickly, reaching for you with those steady hands, the same ones that had just been gripping you like lifelines. "Look at me."

You didn’t want to. You kept your face buried in your hands, burning with shame, but he wouldn’t let you disapp, notNot like this.

"Look at me, sweetheart. Please."

You finally glanced up through your fingers, and what you found in his eyes wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t revulsion. It was softness. Concern. Love.

"It’s okay," he said quietly, brushing your hair from your face. "You didn’t do anything wrong."

You tried to speak, but your throat locked. All you could do was shake your head, whispering, "I’m so sorry. That’s so gross—"

"Stop," he said, gently but firmly. "Don’t say that. It’s not gross. It’s just... your body. It’s natural. It happens. Actually—statistically—about 30% of people with periods have reported unexpected onset during intercourse due to a variety of physiological triggers."

You blinked, stunned into silence as he adjusted the sheet around your waist with the same care he used handling case files and fragile crime scene evidence. "Also, menstrual blood isn't harmful in any way. It’s composed of roughly 50% blood and 50% other natural bodily components, like cervical mucus and uterine tissue."

"Spencer," you said weakly, but there was a smile threatening the corners of your mouth now. "Are you... giving me a period TED Talk right now?"

He shrugged, a bashful grin touching his lips. "I have three PhDs. One of them includes human physiology. It's hard to turn it off."

You snorted, the embarrassment slowly starting to burn off into something else. Relief. Affection. Love.

And he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your shoulder, and whispered, "But we can stop if you're uncomfortable. Or..."

You looked at him, your heartbeat steadying. His eyes were still so full of want—tempered now with care.

"I want you to keep going," you whispered. "If you're okay with it."

He kissed your shoulder again, lower this time. Slower. More reverent.

"I'm more than okay with it," he murmured against your skin. "Let me make you feel good again."

And when he eased you back against the pillows and touched you like you were precious—still precious—every ounce of self-consciousness bled away.

He moved with care now, slow and deep, every thrust more of a caress than a claim. His hand held your cheek like he was grounding you, his mouth whispering soft nothings between kisses—your name, his name, stars, science, everything blurring together.

"You know, during arousal, the cervix actually elevates, which—" He groaned when you clenched around him, interrupting his own monologue with a breathless laugh. "Okay. Okay. No more stats right now. Just—God, you feel incredible."

You were trembling again, this time not from embarrassment but from how deeply he adored you. His lips found yours, and you melted into him, rocking together in that slow, aching rhythm that said this wasn't just about sex—it was about trust. About knowing you'd shown him a vulnerable part of you, and he had only drawn you closer.

You came with his name on your tongue, gasping into his shoulder, his arms wrapped around you like he wanted to shield you from the world. And he followed seconds later, groaning low, pressing deep before stilling, resting his forehead against yours.

Neither of you moved for a long moment. Just the soft sound of breathing, your heartbeat in your ears.

Eventually, he slipped out gently, kissed your knee, and murmured something soft against your skin. Then he was gone, padding quietly into the bathroom. You heard water running—first the faucet, then the tub.

A moment later, he returned with a warm, damp towel and knelt between your legs. His touch was gentle, reverent, as he cleaned you up, murmuring little apologies even though there was nothing to apologize for. You watched him, heart aching with something deep and fragile.

Then, with that same calm tenderness, he cleaned himself, tugged on a pair of boxers, and reached for your hand.

"Come on," he whispered. "I ran you a bath. Let’s get you comfortable."

The bathroom was filled with soft steam, the tub nearly full. He helped you in with both hands, steadying you like you were something sacred. The warm water enveloped you, and your muscles sighed with relief.

He brushed your hair back, tucked it behind your ears, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I’ll be right back," he said gently. "I’m just going to strip the bed, rinse the sheets, see if the stain will come out. Shouldn’t be too bad if I get to it quickly—oxidization is the real enemy with blood, you know."

You gave a small laugh through your exhaustion. Of course, Spencer Reid would think of everything.

But as he turned to go, you reached for his wrist with water-slick fingers.

"Spence," you mumbled, head tilted back against the porcelain. "Fuck the damn sheets. We can buy new ones. Just... get in with me. Please."

He blinked, halfway to the door, caught off guard by your voice—so soft and tired and raw. His shoulders relaxed, and a crooked smile tugged at his lips.

"Yeah?" he asked, toeing off his boxers again.

"Yeah," you breathed, watching the steam curl around his silhouette.

Spencer stepped into the tub behind you, easing down with a quiet groan of comfort. The water shifted, rising around your bodies, and then his arms were around you, tugging you back against his chest.

You exhaled, sinking into him completely.

"This okay?" he asked, lips brushing your temple.

"Perfect," you whispered.

He kissed your damp shoulder, then rested his chin in the crook of your neck. "Sheets can wait. Holding you can’t."

[spencestiel-michelle]

Emily: you seem…

*Reid six cups of coffee in, running back and forth between open books sprawled around the room, eyes wide, dark circles for days, reminds you of a feral raccoon* 

Emily: … dangerous. 

Reid: I THINK THE UNSUB MIGHT BE A WOMAN-

[push-the-heartbrake]

𝘼𝙣𝙠𝙡𝙚𝙨 // 𝙎.𝙍

𝘗𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘥, 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴. 𝘐’���� 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺.

Third instalment | Series masterlist

Summary: “Look at the poor boy, he’s got the unscratchable itch.” — or the one where you're overwhelmed and Spencer discovers he's an absolute munch.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader (she/her)

Word count: 13.3k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ♡ Virgin!Spencer is back and hornier than ever. Cums in his pants, again. Oral and fingering (fem! receiving). Slight discussion about reader having mommy issues and her past (read the prior parts and it'll make sense).

A/N: It took me forever but here's the third part to the 'Home For You' Universe! English is not my first language and this is not yet fully proof read! Please tell me what you think and if you have ideas or thoughts about the future of these two lovebirds. ♡

It had been raining when you woke up.

The soft, whispery kind. The kind that worked as a lullaby. The kind that made the whole city feel like it had collectively decided to sleep in.

The only reason you’d even stirred was because Spencer had moved—just enough to pull the blanket up over your bare shoulders sometime around 8 a.m. He hadn’t been fully awake either, just instinctively attuned to your comfort. You’d watched him through slitted eyes as he settled again, his profile soft in the dull morning light. 

Neither of you had said a word.

Instead, you’d nestled closer, one leg tangled between his, your face tucked into the crook of his neck. He’d made a little noise—one he always seemed to make when you burrowed in—a little half-asleep sigh out of pure contentment. 

And that’s how most of the day had gone.

The rain hadn’t let up, and neither had you. No alarms. No responsibilities. Just a tangle of sheets, long-winded conversations about nothing, and the kind of kisses that made no sound from how gentle they were. 

By the time afternoon rolled around, you’d only gotten out of bed three times—once to use the bathroom and get dressed, once for a late breakfast, and once more for another bathroom trip. Spencer had gotten up four times, the extra one to grab the Sunday newspaper from his mailbox.

You were draped across him like a sleepy cat, the sheets twisted around your legs, your chin resting on his chest. His fingers traced mindless patterns on your back, barely there, a touch just shy of tickling.

“Molecules move randomly, right?” you murmured suddenly, voice low from not having spoken in a while. 

The glow of a lamp flickered against the spines of his current bedside reads, casting their titles in blurry shadows. One book was yours, obnoxiously pink, wedged between dense academic texts like it belonged there. Like you belonged there. Spencer thought so, anyway. You watched his eyes linger on it for a second before he looked back at you, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. You infiltrated more of his life and home each day that passed. Even if it was as simple as an extra toothbrush on the sink or your Converse placed next to his in the entryway. 

“Yes, they do,” he answered softly. “Is there something on your mind?” 

You shrugged, shifting so that your cheek lay flat against him now, ear to his heartbeat. “Just something stupid a school class discussed when they visited the library.”

He didn’t press you. Just waited for you to say something. Like he always did.

You absentmindedly rubbed your leg against his, your toes brushing against his calf as you talked. “There was a kid—one of those annoying twelve-year-old dweebs with a Justin Bieber haircut and permanent marinara sauce in the corners of his mouth—you know the type?” 

Spencer laughed, nodding in agreement. 

“And he tried to scare one of the girls by saying that since they move randomly, oxygen molecules could spontaneously assimilate in a singular spot in a room, suffocating anyone outside of it.” 

His brow lifted, bemused. “Were you the girl he tried to scare?” 

“No, no,” you defended, grinning,“I just thought you could maybe rationalize it for me.” 

Spencer wanted to reach out and grab you. Bite you, even.

Because he’d never seen anything as beautiful as you, lying there on his chest, curiosity burning in your eyes, waiting for him to ramble on about something that you knew got the gears in his brain turning. 

He’d thought you were pretty since the first time he saw you at the checkout counter at the library. But it had been fleeting, simply registering another beautiful human in passing. 

It was different now. So very different. Because he knew you, and he could read your behavior, your quirks and traits. The way your mind worked. The strange little questions and facts you collected—like air molecules grouping together to suffocate you. 

He knew that you had different laughs for different situations. He cherished them all and cataloged them like rare editions. 

1. The little snorts that would come out of your nose when he said something silly, usually a pun that bordered on criminally bad. 

2. The high-pitched giggles that wriggled out when his fingers skimmed over your sides, late at night when you were half-straddling him in bed and desperately trying not to wake the neighbors, making the giggles even more squeaky-sounding. 

3. The loud, from-the-stomach kind of laughter—the kind you couldn’t hold back even if you tried—just because something was so genuinely funny. Like when he accidentally turned all his white shirts a soft pink thanks to a rogue red sock, or when he tried to surprise you with breakfast in bed but ended up spilling orange juice all over the bedroom floor.

You let out one of the first snorts now as he explained, nose scrunching up adorably. Spencer was fairly certain you didn’t even notice you did it.

“It is possible, though,” he said, tone casual, trying not to sound too eager. “In theory at least. In a system of random motion, any arrangement of particles is technically possible, including extremely unlikely ones.” 

You squinted up at him, suspicious. “So… I could suffocate?”

“You can calculate the number of oxygen molecules and then find out the statistical probability, but I’m assuming you don’t really want to learn that?” Spencer suggested, his hand moving to his hair, shoving curls off his forehead. 

You found his hand as it landed back down on the bed, lifting it to lay next to you on his chest, your fingers intertwining with his own. 

You shook your head, and he felt your hair rustle, telling him that his assumption was right. “No… I just want to sleep at night without having nightmares about suffocating.”  

He gently squeezed your hand, looking down at you reassuringly. “We’re talking about hundreds of septillions of molecules that would have to randomly gather together.” 

Spencer knew you had a tough time sleeping already. Falling asleep wasn’t the issue; instead it was staying asleep. You would fall asleep at a reasonable hour (for someone who mostly worked late or even night shifts), but then after a while, you’d wake up and just lay there. You didn’t need the added stress of silly nightmares, but he sometimes got the feeling they already haunted you. 

“So the chance is, like, microscopically small?” 

“A septillion is a quadrillion billions.” 

You stared at him for a beat, eyes slightly wide as you tried to comprehend the number. You weren’t even sure what a quadrillion was. Occasionally you got the zeros confused even at a billion. The number was huge, at least. And that was comforting. 

Spencer watched as you thought about it, wanting to take a picture of your puzzled expression. “You’re more likely to shuffle a deck of cards and get them in a perfect order millions of times in a row than for all oxygen to group in one spot.”

You huffed out a little laugh before you mumbled, “I can’t even shuffle a deck of cards.” 

“That I can teach you. Much easier than Avogadro’s number.” 

“Avocado who?” 

“Amedeo Avogadro,” he corrected, laughing out loud. “Italian physicist. He’s the namesake for the constant used to calculate the number of particles in one mole.” 

With a slight head shake and a scrunch of your nose, you declared that math and physics weren’t something for you. “I’d rather learn how to shuffle cards and play strip poker with you.” 

You pressed a kiss to his neck before he even had a chance to react, feeling his pulse jump beneath your lips.

Spencer was blushing—because of course he was. You always knew when you got to him. When your dirty words made his IQ split in half. You’d said it was one of your favorite things—the stupid and surprised look on his face whenever it happened. Spencer was on board with agreeing, even if the blush made his cheeks hurt. 

Your lips brushed the edge of his jaw, and he let out a small, stunned huff. His hand instinctively rubbed your shoulder, your knitted cardigan slipping down from the motion, exposing the strap of your tank top—and the soft, maddening curve of your cleavage beneath it.

One (equally horrifying and fascinating) thing that Spencer had discovered about himself since being with you was that he was a boob guy. He hated to admit it—that something so primitively sexual appealed to him. But he was just a man at the end of the day. 

Since seeing and touching them for the first time, he’d become obsessed.

Maybe it was the fact that you’d sometimes let him sleep on your chest, and he could unabashedly feel them as he nuzzled closer. Maybe it was the fact that your skin was impossibly soft and that your breast were somehow the softest part, squeezable and malleable, cupped in the palms of his hands. Maybe it was the way they bounced when you were sat in his lap, your hips grinding down onto his clothed cock. 

Maybe that was it.

He was a boob guy. And not afraid to let his eyes linger as your cardigan fell down and your top got exposed as you pressed into the side of him. 

Your tank tops were his undoing. It was simply sadistic—the way that whatever clothing brand had designed most of the tops you wore. Thin and soft to the material, a lace trim along the square neckline, and, worst of all, a little silk bow placed right in the middle. It was an evil trick, Spencer was sure of it, to make him stare down the valley of your tits. 

Which he did. A lot.

He wasn’t sure if you’d noticed his little fixation, but you sure didn’t do anything to stop him from looking, almost on purpose making the tank top slide down a little as you lay on top of him, the cups of your bra now peeking out. 

The ample skin moved as you pushed yourself against him, your breasts bubbling out of their confinement. Perfectly biteable bubbles. Spencer imagined putting his fingertip to the swell, just to watch the skin jiggle.

Oh Lord. This was the kind of greed they warned about in the Bible. 

Despite all of this—despite Spencer staring you down like he wanted to eat you alive—you hadn’t had sex. Not yet. Spencer told himself it was a “yet.” Clung to that word like a little life raft. But he wasn’t sure how true it was.

Because you had a tendency to push him away. 

It wasn’t necessarily on purpose, which Spencer had noticed. You made out a lot, kissed him whenever you got the chance, usually for hours on end. Like horny teenagers, he assumed. It was routine at this point—to watch a movie, or read together, maybe have a lazy conversation in bed after a long day—and then by the end of it, you’d end up in his lap, hands in his hair and tongue down his throat. 

Spencer had gotten braver with how he dared to touch you, not always keeping his hand stiffly glued to his side. He loved to feel your skin between his fingers, whether it was your plush thighs or your soft waist. Boobs too, of course. 

If he was capable of keeping it together, he’d wait for some time alone to sort himself out in the bathroom afterwards. But on more occasions than one (five times and counting), you’d made him bust in his pants. And no matter how many times you said it was the hottest thing ever, Spencer still couldn’t help but feel embarrassed to the point of no return. 

And you… He’d only made you finish once. That first time on your couch on Valentine’s Day—when he’d rubbed your soaking clit with his fingers until you collapsed in his embrace. Only touched, not tasted, not penetrated. 

Spencer couldn’t help but want more. And it wasn’t because of his lack of experience or lack of willingness that there hadn’t happened again. 

You simply just didn’t let him close enough to even try. You didn’t show any signs of wanting him to help you out, and he was too scared to ask. 

Can I go down on you? or Do you want me to finger you? were not questions that Spencer had in his vocabulary. Although he thought about saying them more than what was probably healthy. He didn’t know if it was fear from your side, or guilt, or something darker, and he wasn’t going to push.

You would only smile like you’d accomplished what you wanted when he was a panting and blushing mess with a spreading stain on his trousers, and then you’d continue on with your evening like nothing was different. 

And you smiled in the same way now when you followed his eyesight straight to your cleavage. 

“Any plans for next week?” you asked, almost nonchalantly. 

“We’re consulting in California.” Spencer swallowed, forcing himself to stare at the ceiling. “Cold case that’s been reopened, something from when Rossi started out.” 

You hummed and nuzzled just a little closer, your nose brushing the edge of his shirt. If he hadn’t been wearing one, your lips would’ve been right over his heart. The little sound made his stomach flip, which was ridiculous because you did things like this all the time. Making sounds, that is. The very human thing that was noisemaking. 

“How long?” 

“Flying out tomorrow morning, then we’ll see. Maybe a week?”

A week. Seven days. Possibly more. He really should be used to this by now, but the idea of not seeing you for that long made something inside him wilt.

You exhaled through your nose—soft, but unmistakably disappointed—and your fingers loosened from his hand. They disappeared beneath the blanket instead, toying with the hem of his worn-out t-shirt. It had the Caltech logo on it and was slightly too tight on him. You’d jokingly called it a crop top once, and Spencer thought about tossing it out until you said it was sexy. A personal milestone since it was the first time he’d ever been called that. 

“What about you?” he asked, voice low. “Do you have anything planned while I’m gone?”

Now, your fingers brushed against the bare skin of his stomach. Just a featherlight touch. He tensed—he always tensed—but not out of discomfort. No, it was the opposite. It was the unbearable pleasure of being seen and wanted by you, and the helplessness of not knowing what to do with that feeling.

“Work. Sleep. Work some more,” you said, stretching your legs with a lazy yawn. “Help Edith set up her new TV. Maybe catch up with friends. Oh—and uh… lunch with my mother on Thursday.”

Spencer blinked, tilting his head. “She’s in town?”

“She technically lives here,” you said, pushing yourself up onto one elbow. “Unless she sold the place and moved full-time to Baltimore with her new man without telling me.”

He chuckled softly, but there was a strange ache creeping in at the edges of his laugh. You hadn’t let him meet her yet. You hadn’t let him meet anyone yet.

And he couldn’t figure out why.

He sometimes worried he had yet to meet the real you even. 

You fit in perfectly when he introduced you to the team. Socially adaptable was what Emily had called you, like she could somewhat see through that you were nervous and uncomfortable, but still doing your best to be likable. And they did like you, a lot, it seemed. Soon you’d be off on girls’ nights with them, leaving Spencer behind. He knew it. 

You sat up suddenly, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands. Spencer looked at you like you’d gone mad. Until you pointed at the alarm clock on his bedside table and he read the time. 

“3 o’clock,” you simply said. “I have to get to my place and get ready for work.” 

“Why?”

The question left Spencer like an exhale. He could already feel a coldness spread in his body from where your contact was now missing. You’d made him hate the laws of time. Every time he was alone with you, he dreaded the moment you’d be apart. And every time you were apart, he counted the hours until he would next see you. 

You laughed, turning to look at him with a raised brow. “You’re asking why I have to work?”

“No, I mean—” he floundered, “Why this late?” 

“Because the library is open at night?” you teased. “Where else would geeks like you spend their time?” 

“But there have to be other people available for the late shifts as well.” 

“I got hired because I like working nights,” you said, standing and stretching, tugging your cardigan back over your shoulders. “The qualified librarians signed up for nine-to-fives. They’ve got spouses and kids waiting for them.”

“You’ve got me,” he said, almost too quickly.

You paused mid-movement, glancing back over your shoulder at him. “Sometimes,” you said quietly. “Other times, you’re on the opposite side of the country.”

He winced. He didn’t mean to guilt you. That wasn’t fair. But you weren’t wrong.

Spencer stayed in his spot as you started to move around his bedroom, padding across the floor to his dresser where your bag and clothes were. He only shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to be able to keep his eyes on you.

The pajama pants you were wearing slipped off in one easy movement, exchanged for a pair of dark-wash jeans. You didn’t seem to care that he was watching, which somehow made it worse. That he could spot the see-through material of your underwear as you tugged the denim over your hips—doing that awkward (yet attractive) little jumping motion to get them on—made him wonder all over again about why you didn’t let him close. 

Since this didn’t seem to bother you, that is. 

Were you waiting for him to make a move?

He hated that his mind did that. He hated that he still didn’t know and that he was too scared to ask. 

“And I have picked up earlier shifts when I know you’re going to be in town. I’ve done it so much that Elizabeth complained,” you continued, arguing your case even though you had already won. 

You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, as you headed back to the bed to sit down to put on socks. Little white socks with lace trims. No one would see them, but he knew the mere fact of wearing them made you happy—how the lace peeked out from the top of your shoes. 

“Is Elizabeth the scary one with the owl necklace?” Spencer questioned, turning to you now that you were next to him. 

“Mhm,” you hummed. 

You smiled faintly and turned to pick something up from your bag. A tangle of headphones. An essential for you together with your iPod. You couldn’t go on a walk without them, needing the distraction of music blasting. 

Spencer watched as you struggled to untangle them, wordlessly reaching out to do it for you. Not because he thought you were incapable of doing it yourself, but because you’d asked him for help multiple times before and seemed to like the gesture of him helping you. 

He was more efficient with his fingers, anyway. 

“Hey,” you said, glancing down at him, “why don’t you enjoy being alone for the evening? Watch some foreign movie without having to translate it to me.”

“I was going to suggest Bergman’s Autumn Sonata,” he murmured, handing you the untangled headphones. 

Spencer watched your mouth press into a thin line, eyes flickering just slightly away from him. He didn’t understand why he mentioned the damn movie—like it would miraculously stop you from having work to do? No, it was just stupid.

He knew you loved Bergman. You talked about his work with the same kind of reverence he had for Russian literature. But you hadn’t seen Autumn Sonata. He hadn’t asked why. Not yet. But he made a mental note of it, filing it away in the ever-growing, completely normal, and definitely not obsessive folder of things about you that fascinated him.

Your fingers tightened around the headphone cord, twirling it between them as you quietly said, “I haven’t seen that one. And it’s got subtitles.” 

“I know, that’s why I wanted us to see it together.” 

You shook your head a little. “No, you can watch it and tell me what you think.” 

“You say that like you don’t already know that you’ll love it.” 

“…There’s a reason I haven’t seen that one, Spence.” 

His lips parted, a question already forming—but you kissed him before he could speak. It was soft but lingering, and he felt your fingers curl slightly against the back of his neck. His brain short-circuited because kissing was still something he was getting used to. He was very aware of every single movement, every shift of pressure, every tilt of your head. Was he doing it right? Was he too stiff? Should he be—oh, your tongue—

And then you pulled away, smiling at his dazed expression.

“Will you call me before the flight tomorrow?” you asked, your voice quieter now, stripped of any teasing edge. 

You simply wanted to hear from him. Like that wasn’t a totally insane thing to say. He couldn’t believe you expected him to behave normally in front of you. Or maybe you didn’t expect it, but it would get old quite quickly if he verbally, as well as mentally, freaked out every time you showed him affection—a certain need for him that you actually had and he still couldn’t grasp. 

But still—

“Of course,” he said, embarrassingly quick. 

You smiled, lingering just long enough to memorize the way he felt beneath you, before you straightened up again.

“Be safe. Have fun,” Spencer said, sitting up after you, closing the space you’d created. 

“Fun? At work?” You raised an eyebrow. 

“I have fun at the library all the time,” he teased, so close that you felt his lips against yours.

“Shut up.” You laughed into the kiss he pulled you back into, fingers curling into his hair, warmth spreading through his chest.

Seconds later you were gone. The door clicked softly shut behind you. The sound echoed in the quiet apartment like a pin dropped. 

Spencer stared at the space where you’d been, his hands still half-curled, like he was holding onto the shape of you in the air. His shirt smelled like your skin—soft and floral, and a little like the soap he had in his shower. The sheets were still warm where you’d laid, rumpled and twisted, half falling off the bed.

He let himself collapse back against the mattress with a sigh, one arm thrown over his eyes. Your absence was growing inside of him, starting from his chest and spidering out like a nervous system drawn in light. A slow, luminous burn.

And he was terrified—utterly terrified—that this feeling consumed him far more than it ever would you.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The case in California was… a weird one, and not the usual type of weird. Because that was a measurable thing for the team. A normal amount of weird, an abnormal amount of weird, and then thirdly—the weird kind they’d never encountered before. 

This was the third kind. Not because of blood, death, and gore. It was stranger than that. Stranger because it was stale.

A forgotten cold case dumped on their laps like an aging puzzle missing half the pieces. Files yellowed with time, reports handwritten in blue ink fading under the fluorescent lights. Evidence stuffed in mismatched cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly in a converted conference room at the local PD—each one covered in decades worth of dust. 

If this was one of those TV series about agents solving crimes and catching killers in the act, this would be the episode where everyone unanimously decided to stop watching because the show wasn’t worth it anymore. 

No progress was being made. At all. 

It was partly because the old detective was territorial and proud—only really letting in the help from Rossi—and partly because the leads went nowhere anyway. 

They were most likely dealing with a copycat. It was one singular murder that had a slight connection to a series of murders committed in the eighties. The connection was: same small town in California that didn’t see many murders and the same M.O. used. Asphyxiation with a barbed wire. 

They hadn’t had any reasonable suspects in the eighties, and the pool of people to look into now was even smaller. Or way too big, depending on how you looked at it. People handling barbed wire in a small farming town was a large amount. 

When Thursday rolled around, they’d spent four days with this going-nowhere thing. Stuck in the conference room with their boxes, pestering old witnesses and relatives by bringing up bad memories, and at the M.E., looking at the new corpse for too long. 

Maybe they would have to give up. 

It was far more usual than what Spencer wanted to admit, but they couldn’t spend forever on one case when they had other ones waiting. 

Rossi had gone with the detective to look at the crime scene once more. Hotch was outside of the conference room, possibly speaking with Strauss by the strained look on his face. Derek and JJ had gone on a coffee run, and Spencer and Emily were left in the conference room. 

He wasn’t sure if Emily was even awake—sat quiet and still in a corner with her file covering her face for over half an hour. 

Spencer had gone from standing to sitting to standing again. 

He flipped open yet another file, scanning the interview transcript, but his eyes weren’t really absorbing it. Not fully. Not when his phone was sitting face-up on the table beside him, untouched since breakfast. The screen annoyingly black and the sound eerily silent. 

You were supposed to have called by now.

Lunch with your mother couldn’t be a simple thing—he knew that much. He’d heard the tone in your voice whenever you mentioned her. A tightness that suggested years of subtle warfare and passive aggressiveness layered under polite smiles. Still, even the most drawn-out emotional lunches didn’t usually last past two o’clock. Unless things had gone wrong, and you were currently trapped in some kind of emotional gladiator battle over a Caesar salad.

Spencer checked his watch. 2:14 p.m.

You were never late without saying something. Not unless something had gone wrong. Which meant something had to have gone wrong. 

The door creaked open, and he looked up automatically. Derek stepped in, carrying coffee and a half-eaten bagel. JJ trailed behind him, flipping through a folder.

Derek clocked Spencer’s expression immediately. “Look at the poor boy,” he muttered to JJ. “He’s got the unscratchable itch.”

Spencer froze mid-step. He’d been pacing, subconsciously. He whirled around. “I’m not in love with her.”

Derek smirked, taking a seat in his chair, leaning back. The exact kind of smirk that let Spencer know he had walked into a trap. “I wasn’t talking about love, pretty boy. But it’s very telling that you think I was.”

Spencer opened his mouth, then promptly closed it. His face burned. Heat crawled up his neck and pooled somewhere just under his collarbone.

JJ gave him a soft, knowing look. “Then what’s wrong, Spencer?”

He inhaled sharply. “She’s not answering her phone.”

There. Said out loud, it sounded ridiculous. But now he was committed. He pressed on, pacing again.

“She said she would call me after she had lunch with her mother, and it’s now 2:16 p.m. That’s a reasonable time for lunch to be over, right? I mean, unless they got a twelve-course tasting menu at a Michelin-starred restaurant, in which case I would understand the delay, but they didn’t! Because they go to the same café every time, and it’s not a place that serves twelve-course meals, unless you count uncomfortable conversations as a course, which, in that case, I’d argue that—” 

JJ cut in gently, “Maybe they just lost track of time? Had a lot to talk about?”

“But she doesn’t like her mother. Or maybe she does. It’s complicated—”

Emily, who’d been eavesdropping at the far end of the room, didn’t even glance up from her file as she interrupted, “No girl likes their mother.” 

Spencer stopped mid-ramble. “That’s not true. I mean, statistically—”

Emily held up a finger, ticking off points as she spoke. “They might love their mothers. Unconditionally, even. But like? Like requires compatibility. And most mothers either carry a sadness that their daughters became something they never did, or they carry disappointment that their daughters became less than they expected.”

Spencer was momentarily thrown. He had a degree in psychology. He had read hundreds of case studies on maternal relationships. And yet, somehow, Emily Prentiss casually dropping this into the conversation like it was an immutable law of the universe had his brain short-circuiting.

The conference room went silent. A metaphorical tumbleweed rolled by.

Spencer stared.

JJ blinked. “Jesus, Emily.”

Emily took a sip of her coffee, utterly unbothered. “What? It’s not rocket science. It’s like if the Electra complex was actually useful and not just about male-centered attention. There’s a rivalry between mothers and daughters over everything.”

Spencer opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

“But,” he managed after a moment, “that still doesn’t explain why she won’t answer her phone.”

JJ muttered under her breath, “Who would’ve guessed boy genius’s kryptonite would be love?”

“I already said I’m not—”

“Reid, take a breather,” Hotch’s voice cut in from the doorway, sharp as ever. “The rest of you, back to work. We need someone to go to the crime scene again. ”

Spencer huffed, reluctantly collapsing into his seat. He stared down at his phone, holding it between both hands like it might sprout legs and run off. His knee bounced under the table. He tried to focus—on witness statements, on timeline inconsistencies, anything—but his mind kept looping back to one thing:

You hadn’t called.

Logically, he knew there were perfectly rational explanations for why you hadn’t called. But his gut—which had been trained by years of profiling and reinforced by knowing you—was telling him something wasn’t right.

He hadn’t ever thought of it like that, the simplicity in the words. How like could be stronger than love—because you choose what you like, and you are somewhat predestined to love. At least when it came to family. 

Gathering their things, Spencer and Derek got ready to leave the conference room and join Rossi at the crime scene. 

He heard Derek mutter something under his breath about how they possibly couldn’t gather any more information from looking at the same bloody barn again. Spencer wasn’t unusually cynical, but with this case, it was growing on him like moss. 

At 2:21 p.m. his phone rang. A quick beeping tone, signaling a text message. It wasn’t often he received those. Everyone stopped in their tracks when they heard it. 

Spencer’s eyes hesitantly scanned the screen. 

He was right; it was a text. A short one too. 

That was it? No Sorry, I forgot; no Lunch was a nightmare, please send a SWAT team, just a quick, impersonal abbreviation. Spencer squinted at the letters, blurring together. He still wasn’t entirely confident about texting as a method of communication. He had once typed out ’See you later’in a message, and somehow autocorrect had changed it to ’Seal utters’. He did not trust this medium, nor his ability to decipher abbreviations. 

Across the table, Derek raised an eyebrow. His voice was lower now, as if he suspected Hotch to still be in the hallway listening. “So… did she answer?”

“No, but she sent a text,” Spencer muttered, “Got called in to work, ttyl.”

“Talk to you later,” JJ translated. “See? It wasn’t something worth getting upset over.”

Spencer slumped, staring at the message like it personally offended him. You weren’t supposed to work until 9 tonight. You had a night shift. You couldn’t possibly work from 2 p.m. all through the night. You were… lying. 

“I still feel like something’s wrong,” he said under his breath as he put his phone in his pocket. Biting his lip, forcing him to not think of why you were lying. He had to focus on other things now. Such as… a bloody barn. 

Emily, yet again, didn’t look up from her notes as she spoke, “Well, the faster that big brain of yours helps us solve this case, the faster you’ll find out if you’re right.”

Spencer sighed. She wasn’t wrong. But that didn’t mean he could stop worrying.

. . . . . . 

The bloody barn didn’t tell them anything new. As evening fell over the little town, it had been decided that they were going home. The old murders would remain cold and the new case would be handled by the local police. It could probably lead to something. It just wasn’t enough to grant them being there for longer. 

Spencer was torn inside if it was the right or wrong thing to do. But there would always be another case, always be another murder. They couldn’t get them all. 

The team boarded the jet in silence. None of them had anything left to say. 

On the plane ride home, Spencer did something he maybe shouldn’t have done. Or maybe this was exactly what you had wanted. He borrowed Emily’s laptop and downloaded Autumn Sonata, watching it all in one sweep, not taking his eyes off the screen for even a second. Emily had looked at him with worry—calling it ’Mommy issues, the movie’. 

And that was what it was. Autumn Sonata unfolded like a violin string pulled taut over the little laptop screen. A mother and daughter dissecting decades of buried wounds in soft lighting and whispered monologues. It was 93 minutes of waiting for a rubber band to snap—either breaking clean or lashing back hard enough to scar.

“The mother’s injuries are to be handed down to the daughter. The mother’s failures are to be paid for by the daughter. The mother’s unhappiness is to be the daughter’s unhappiness—it’s as if the umbilical cord had never been cut.” 

When it ended, Spencer sat very still, the cabin quiet except for the low hum of the engines. He understood why you hadn’t called. 

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

It hadn’t stopped raining for almost a week.

From the Sunday morning Spencer left for California to this very moment—early Friday at six in the morning, with your shoes squelching every other step and the sky still weeping as if the clouds had lost the will to hold anything back.

You had lost that will too.

You usually liked rain. Found it calming. Romantic, even. But right now? Your socks were soaked through your Converse, the sleeves of your coat clung cold and damp against your arms, and your jeans had turned several shades darker than when you'd left the apartment last night. Rain was not romantic. Rain was not poetic. Rain was miserable.

You looked like something dragged from a pond. Not a lot of people were awake to see you in this state, which was a saving grace of working the graveyard shift. That, and the fact that most of your mascara had been rubbed off by staying awake at the checkout desk all night, so you didn’t have to worry about looking like a melting member of the band KISS. Everything else was still miserable, though. 

You climbed the stairs, keys jangling, counting each tired breath. All you wanted was to crawl into bed, cocoon yourself in something dry, and sleep until the world stopped being soggy.

It was all you had wanted to do since 2 p.m. yesterday—when you had gotten home from lunch with your mother, lied to Spencer about why you hadn’t called, and then fallen asleep until your night shift. 

You had wanted to call in sick. But you weren’t sick. Just tired. 

So you suffered through it. Helping a few stressed students, organizing the current popular books, and drinking so much tea your taste buds still felt burned. 

But now, you were seconds from falling asleep on your welcome mat, even just seeing it outside your front door. A little bristly thing saying ’come back with a warrant’ in Pinterest-esque cursive writing. You had told yourself it was funny when you bought it. 

However, the moment you unlocked the door and stepped inside, you stopped dead in your tracks, your cocoon of blankets having to wait just a little longer. 

Because there was a light on.

The vintage Tiffany lamp on your hallway table, seeping light through its stained glass. You definitely hadn’t left it on before leaving yesterday. 

With a quick turn of your head, you saw the shape of a man sitting on your couch. Alone there in the darkness. 

“Spencer?” 

He stood up quickly, startled.

“What are you—” 

Your words got stuck in your throat at the sight of him. The man in front of you looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Spencer’s shoulders slumped forward, the crisp lines of his usual attire replaced with something wrinkled and weary—his sweater and tie gone, shirt half-untucked. Disheveled curls clung to his forehead. And his eyes… His eyes flicked from the floor to your face like they couldn’t decide what was safer.

“Edith let me in,” he said hurriedly, like he’d rehearsed it. “I—she had the spare key you gave her, and I just… I needed to see you.”

You placed your soaked bag by the door, the water from your coat already beginning to drop onto the floor. “You weren’t supposed to be here until tonight.”

“I understand if you don’t want me here—” he said quietly, eyes lowered, “Actually, I do not understand, not fully, because you won’t tell me anything.”

You blinked at him, shivering now that you were standing still. “How long have you been here?”

“We landed around midnight. I took a cab straight here.” His voice cracked at the edges. “I thought maybe if I saw you in person, you'd actually talk to me instead of… abbreviating everything.”

A pause.

“T-T-Y-L,” he repeated bitterly, “Is that really how we communicate now?”

You winced. “Spencer…”

He didn’t flinch exactly, but his shoulders rose—defensive, folded in. “You can throw me out headfirst if that’s what you want, but you should know that’s the opposite of what I want.” 

For a moment, just a flicker, he laughed—something small and tired and helpless. But it disappeared fast. His face crumpled into something far too raw for someone trying to act composed. A dull, terrified shine behind his eyes. Like he was seconds from breaking again. Like he'd been bracing for you to become the next person to walk out on him.

You should’ve known he would catch you in your lie. He wasn’t easy to fool. It wasn’t that you had wanted to lie to him. You just hadn’t wanted to talk about…it. About anything, really. You couldn’t face yourself, let alone him. And you knew that Spencer could force it out of you by just looking at you in the right way, the walls of your façade coming crumbling down. 

That was a terrifying thing. 

“I’m just…” you exhaled, bringing the sleeve of your coat up to your cheek to wipe lingering raindrops away. “I’m so tired, Spencer.” 

A similar little helpless laugh escaped your lips. Spencer dared to step closer to you. 

“I can see that,” he said with a slight smile, just inches away. 

But when his hand came forward to touch your arm, you tensed up, unthinking. It wasn’t that you had wanted to shy away. It just…happened. 

Spencer stopped in his tracks, his hand suspended in the space between you, looking at you with a perplexed expression. “Why won’t you let me touch you?”

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even frustrated. He asked it like someone who was hurting—like someone who’d been waiting far too long to understand why they were being kept at arm’s length.

“Because I—” you faltered. The words had come so easily to the front of your mind, but saying them out loud was a different thing. 

“Because I’m terrified, Spencer,” you finally whispered. “I’m terrified of being too much for you and making you uncomfortable. Because if we start, I’m scared of taking it too far. I always do.” 

Spencer’s brows pulled together. 

You’d had this discussion before. You thought you were too much; he didn’t realize that he was enough. An evil spiral of sorts. Maybe he’d thought you’d gotten out of it, hence the confusion. But you hadn’t. Or it had at least returned, in full force, like a hurricane sweeping by and taking everything with it. 

“When are you going to realize that I will tell you if I am uncomfortable?” 

The look in Spencer’s eyes was now the closest thing you’d seen to anger. It frustrated him. The walls you put up around yourself, thinking you were protecting him, hindering him from being close to you—they frustrated him. Because now he knew the reason. 

And quite frankly, the reason was stupid. You both knew it. 

You couldn’t hide from affection in a relationship. Because you were terrified of it leading somewhere further? That defied the entire purpose of your relationship. It was a support system, a center of gravity. It couldn’t develop if you were scared of that exact thing. 

Spencer exhaled loudly, shaking his head. “You always just… assume that I’m uncomfortable. For once, let me make up my own mind. ” 

“You sort of… look uncomfortable.” You twisted, arms coming up to fold over your chest. 

“I think that’s just my face,” he deadpanned. 

You huffed a quiet laugh—half relief, half disbelief.

“But you never make the first move,” you said softly. “You’re never the one to kiss me first. Never the one to—” 

He moved.

Quick, certain, finally—he closed the last of the space between you, and before you could get another word out, you felt your back hit the door. Not hard, just enough to steal your breath. And then his mouth was on yours.

His hands braced beside your head, then slipped down, anchoring you at your waist. It wasn’t rushed or messy. Just certain. Very certain that this was what you both wanted. Needed. 

Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer and not caring if you got him wet. You could taste the coffee he must’ve had hours ago. The slight salt of your own skin where the rain had dried between your lips. His breath shook when he finally pulled away just enough to speak.

“Is that better?” Spencer whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

“I’ve been waiting for you to tell me what you want,” he explained. 

You should’ve caught on to what he was doing. For him to suddenly become all confident in matters of… love (?) was something you simply dreamt of. Maybe you needed to help him along the way, even though your stupid brain kept telling you that it would make him view you as a burden. As someone too much, too eager, too loud with feelings he hadn’t asked for.

Yet here he was… actually asking for it. 

“What I want…” Your hands slid up his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm, ticking impossibly fast. That gave you courage. “…is for you to want me.” 

“I do want you,” he said. “Painfully so.” 

“I need to hear you say it,” you whispered. Then, a small smile. “Or show it. Pushing me against the wall is… a good start.”

“I believe we’ve established precedent,” he said, returning the smile. 

You laughed, light but wrecked, and for a second everything felt okay again. And then you shivered. A cold, involuntary tremble you couldn’t hide. The wetness of your coat and jeans clinging to your skin returned to the forefront of your mind. 

Spencer noticed it too. You couldn’t help the way your teeth chattered. He smoothed a hand gently down your arm, concern flitting through his features. “Why don’t you go get out of these wet clothes and lie on the bed for me?” 

In seconds you saw the fear in his eyes, noticing what he’d actually said out loud. Intended innuendo or not. Spencer stumbled over his next words, hurried and ashamed. “If that’s okay, I mean—” 

You continued to smile. An awfully content smile, like you were just waiting for him to notice that he’d done exactly what you wished for.

With a loud thud, you had shaken your coat off your shoulders, sneaking past him further down the hallway, saying a little sing-song, “Already on my way, Spence.” 

You didn’t look back as you walked toward your bedroom. But you could hear him exhale—something long and full of relief. 

Your bedroom was a sanctuary, always had been. Peeling off your soaked socks with your toes, you moved through the dim space, switching on the bedside lamp and the soft glow of fairy lights tracing the ceiling’s edge.

You sat down on your bed as you got there, struggling with the button of your jeans. It got even worse as you dragged the denim down your legs, the wet material sticking to your skin as your hands tried their best to get a good grip.

It wasn’t the rain slicking your hands anymore. It was a nervous sweat. 

“You got here too quick,” you said as you heard his footsteps near the door. “I’m not done yet.” 

Spencer lingered in the doorway, simply observing you on the bed, jeans pooling around your ankles. 

“Jeans are difficult to get off when they’re wet.” You huffed out a little laughter as you pulled them off completely, tossing them to your hamper, landing on the floor. You should’ve hung them to dry immediately. But Spencer was more important. 

Pantless, you realized your state of undress, reminding yourself that it was what he’d asked for. He wouldn’t be standing in the doorway if he didn’t want to see it. 

You tried to decipher his expression. Soft smile, even softer eyes. 

“Is that my shirt?” he quietly asked, walking into the room. His feet stopped when he was standing plainly in front of you. 

You looked down at what you were wearing. Peeking out from your sweater were the edges of a pink dress shirt. One that he’d accidentally dyed pink in the wash. Spencer had wanted to throw them all out until you said that you liked the color pink. In general, but especially on him. 

You could only nod at his question. There was no denying it. Looking back up, you caught a glimpse of an uncontrollable smile, where he had to fight the corners of his mouth from perking upwards too much, too noticeable. 

“You wore my shirt all day? To work? To lunch with your mom?” Spencer asked. 

You shrugged, lifting your rain-soaked sweater over your head, messing up your wet hair even further in the process. Spencer took it in his hands, throwing it over to where the jeans had landed. 

“It smells like you,” you said, lifting the pink poplin to your nose. “Or it used to. I’m afraid it smells like me now.” 

It was a comfort thing, you realized as you did it. Why you had worn it. Wanting a part of him near you, even subconsciously. 

Spencer’s gaze moved slowly across your body, not greedy. Your thighs flattened out against the mattress, the skin in contrast to the rose-colored shirt. You felt his eyes on you as he took you in. He was good at watching, bad at talking—you concluded. 

“Stand up?” he asked softly.

A little surprised, you obeyed, rising slowly from the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking beneath you. Spencer stepped a little closer and let his hands rest gently on your waist, fingers brushing the fabric of the shirt—his shirt. His warm palms wandered down to your hips, brushing the hem of the fabric and the tops of your thighs in an easy movement. 

He didn’t rush. Not even a little. 

Not even as his fingers started to unbutton the shirt. He could’ve ripped it open in seconds, but he began gently with the lowest button. 

You could feel his breath on your skin as he leaned in, eyes still focused on the buttons up the center of your stomach. His fingers moved with quiet precision, undoing one, then another, then another—his knuckles grazing your skin, warm and steady.

When he reached the last few buttons, right over your breasts, he looked up at you. Waiting for something. Your nod. Something saying yes, yes, yes. 

With the last button undone, you let the shirt fall to the floor.

Stood there on bare feet in nothing but your underwear—your worn-out, simple white bra and a pair of cotton panties where the elastic had started to fray—you couldn’t help but feel the nerves settling in again. Steady and heavy, like a weight on your chest. 

The air was still cold on your damp skin, but his hands were warm when they skimmed your sides. Spencer snuck his arms behind you, fingers ghosting over the clasp of your bra, waiting again, always waiting for the yes without asking it aloud.

And then, with two quick movements…

“Do I ask how you did that so well?” you asked, blinking as the straps slipped off your shoulders.

“I’m efficient with my fingers,” he said absentmindedly, still focused, eyes gentle but studious. 

You blinked once, bit your lip. He didn’t even realize the double meaning—of course he didn’t. In his mind, “efficient with his fingers” meant things like… moving chess pieces or untangling cords.

But the way Spencer’s knuckles dragged along your arms as he slid your bra down made you sure that he wasn’t completely innocent or unaware of his actions. He caught the garment in his hands before tossing it on the floor too, his hands quickly back holding your hips.

You reached up and touched the side of his face. “Come closer.”

Spencer looked at you briefly. You knew the spots where his eyes wanted to linger. Then, he pulled his own shirt over his head, putting it aside. You weren’t entirely used to him shirtless yet, his pale, lean yet strong build hypnotizing to you. His arms wrapped around you, skin to skin, almost pulling your feet off the floor as he embraced you. His chest was warm against yours, and you buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in.

“You still smell like you, at least,” you whispered.

Spencer smiled against your hair. “That’s good.”

He was gentle as he led you towards the bed, the back of your knees bucking as you hit the mattress. In a brief moment of disconnect, you shuffled to lie on the bed, sighing as your head hit your mountain of pillows. 

With one leg propped onto the bed, Spencer waited a moment before he joined you. He loved seeing your skin. As simple as it was. He could get lost as his eyes trailed the texture of it. Scars, bumps, bruises, and birthmarks. Almost completely naked too. He wasn’t just a boob guy—he was a you guy. That was easier to get on board with than the simple stereotype that boobs were just great. 

Spencer got in beside you, a slight touch of his fingers all the way from your ankle up to your shoulder as he settled on top of the covers. On his side, his body cradling yours. 

His palm rested flatly on your stomach, moving with your heavy breathing up and down. You didn’t say anything but turned your head to meet his, lazily adjusting forward to kiss him. Kissing him was all you needed to feel safe. To feel that it was true. 

With a soft, open-mouthed trail, Spencer left kisses all over your face, down your neck, and chest. His hands started to roam as well, carefully gripping at your skin. 

“Let me take care of you, angel,” he whispered as his mouth landed in the valley between your breasts. He looked up at you with golden warm eyes. 

“Angel? That’s new,” you whispered back. Once his fingers dared to wander so low that he could run them over the fabric of your panties, feeling your arousal that had soaked through, you audibly hitched your breath. “I— I like it.” 

Spencer moved his body to hover over you, lowering down between your legs as you purposefully spread them apart. He was a scrawny mess of limbs most of the time, but somehow felt natural crouching together at the edge of your bed to face your most desperate parts. 

“Tell me what you want,” Spencer said, his hands touching over the soft swell of your stomach, down to your hips, but hesitant when they came back up, nudging the underside of your breasts. His nerves were finally showing. “And I’ll do my best.”  

You intertwined your fingers with him, making sure to have eye contact as you teased, “All bark, no bite, huh?” 

Spencer was flustered. You’d seen through his confident act since it began, but you enjoyed watching him try. He opened his mouth to say something, shutting it just as fast as he overthought. It was like you could see his decision-making happening, the signals connecting in his brain. 

“Do you want me to explore instead? Trial and error?” he finally asked, tilting his head slightly with a boyish grin. He took small breaths that you could feel against your stomach, waiting for an answer. “Because I have a few ideas I’d like to try.” 

You couldn’t wait to pick his brain, wondering exactly where he had gotten his ideas from. He was an anomaly as is. It wouldn’t be from an adult film or magazine. Knowing Spencer, it was something scientifically proven or from literature written centuries ago. 

“You—you can try,” you breathed out, running a hand over your face, feeling the warmth from your own cheeks. He could fluster you too. “Y’know that you don’t have to, like—you can stop immediately if you don’t like it—” 

He cut you off. “Let me try before you decide for me.”

Assertive. That was new. 

With the same warm eyes from before, he sought you out as his fingers found the hem of your underwear. You nodded eagerly, lower lip lodged between your teeth. 

You wanted to help him—rip the fabric off in seconds. But he took his time. Agonizingly slow as he bunched the sides up between his hands and started to pull them down your legs, shifting your hips slightly upwards to ease the process. 

You kicked them onto the floor with the help of your foot as soon as you were able. There was something desperate growing inside of you as Spencer found his place between your legs again. 

He was big with his movements first, heating your skin up—your stomach and thighs—using the warmth from his palms. Softly cupping your boobs, he pushed them together as his thumbs toyed with the nipples. Then he was gentle, with smaller movements. As Spencer’s fingers slid all the way to your pussy, slowly spreading your lips apart with pressure on each side. 

His thumb was first to touch your clit. Barely any pressure, just to watch your reaction to it. He pulled away, to see your wetness cling to his skin, before he gently swiped over it again. 

Spencer looked at you in a way you weren’t sure you’d experienced before—with a certain awe or fascination. Really took in the view of you naked, like he had all the time in the world. It felt intimate in a weird way. But not necessarily uncomfortable. You cursed yourself for being used to guys who fucked you with the lights turned off or under blankets, not someone who would drink in the sight of you aroused. 

On Valentine’s Day, when the first piece of your sexual puzzle together had been laid, you almost hadn’t had the time to feel nervous. You’d been too focused on Spencer and on his pleasure. When he had wanted to get you off with his fingers after your little dry humping session, you’d let him do it in a (desperate) heartbeat. That you hadn’t shaved or that no one had seen you naked in close to three years wasn’t at the forefront of your mind then. 

It was painfully obvious to you now, though. An outgrown little thatch of hair, your leaking entrance clenching around nothing, and your skin… flawed. 

Resting his cheek on your thigh, Spencer tilted his head to look up at you, his finger inches away from tapping your clit again. 

“I don’t tell you enough how pretty you are.” 

He said it simply. Easy. No qualms. 

Your brain shut off for a moment when you saw him lick his lips as he touched your pussy again, your eyes squeezing shut at the tingling pleasure. 

You truly did look pretty through Spencer’s eyes. Angelic even, the accidental pet name he had used suited you perfectly. With your damp hair clinging to you, your skin still slightly cold to the touch, your nipples pebbled like peaks.

“Can I—” 

Spencer couldn’t finish the question, the words stuck in his throat. Slightly mesmerized by the view in front of him, he teased the pad of his index finger around your clit, down towards the entrance, gathering your wetness along his digit. 

“You can finger me—yes, Spencer.” 

With a low groan, you hummed in agreement as he began to push the finger inside of you.

It slipped in easily, even though it was noticeably bigger than what you were used to. Your own fingers would do nothing after this. He was tentative at first, like he took in the feeling of your cunt, warm and tight, around his finger.

“Is this—Am I doing it right?” 

He sounded slightly worried but just as he asked it, he curled his finger upward, touching a spot deep inside of you. 

“Oh, uhmf—” you gasped. “Right-fucking-there. You’re good at this.” 

“I’m a virgin, not a monk.” 

“Could’ve fooled me—”

With the building wetness, Spencer slipped his ring finger inside of you too, catching you off guard. He never took his eyes off of you, though, in case you would change your mind. But you didn’t. You couldn’t when it felt this good. A surprised curse left your already open mouth together with a ringing laughter, “Oh f-fuck you.”  

Just the thought of you made his painfully hard cock leak in his boxers. Your taste, however, would send Spencer over the moon. You reached down to push the curls off his forehead as he finally delved in, leaving a series of kisses and nibbles on your inner thighs before you felt his tongue between your folds, his hands helping your legs up to spread apart even further. 

“You’re sweet,” he mumbled. Just as quickly as he had said it, his mouth was back on you. 

Tentative, again. But observing. Tuned into your body. Your reactions, your sounds. To every little touch he made. He tried out different methods, switching from gentle kissing and sucking of your clit to using all of his tongue to lap you up. 

Your thighs closed around his head when he did it, your cunt tightening around his fingers as he continued to work them in and out of you, sucking even harder and longer on your clit. Spencer could easily piece together that it was your favorite part—the long, repetitive suckling. Together with his fingers touching that special spot deep inside of you. That was what brought the most mind-blowing little moans from your mouth, staggered and breathy. His observing nature made him a natural… and a mess, face glistening from your slick. 

Spencer’s hair felt silky in your grip, tugging slightly as you settled into the pleasure he was giving you. You couldn’t help it as you started to rock your hips against his mouth, his nose pressing at your most sensitive part. Spencer choked out a groan as he realized what you were doing, the vibrations from it going straight into you. 

Disguised behind your own cries, you heard him time and time again. Spencer’s sounds vibrated against your skin, sending jolts of added stimulation. He was moaning into you, clearly lost in the moment, just as much as you were. When you looked down, his hips were rutting hard into the mattress, desperate to rub his aching cock against anything, desperate for relief as he ate you like he was losing control.

“I’m close, Spence,” you gasped, shuddering, the grip his hands had on your hips only getting tighter. “That’s—right there, please, I’m gonna cum.” 

He wrapped his hands around your thighs, pulling you closer than you thought was possible, continuing to whisper sweet nothings into your cunt, telling you to let it all go. 

With one last curl inside of you and a couple of lazy kisses to your clit, stars began to form behind your eyelids as Spencer held you down by your hips. Your hands flew from his hair to your face, covering your cheeks as you came. 

Spencer had noticed, even in non-sexual situations, that you were innocently shy about your own pleasure. Shy of taking, shy of enjoying. You probably always had been. But as he slid his fingers slowly out of you as you climaxed all up in his face, you were everything but shy. Your stomach tensing, your breathing stopping—and the sound, god what a sound. Deep from your throat, louder than he’d ever heard you. 

With a curious gaze, he watched your pussy clench around nothing, twitching as you rode the very last second of your orgasm out. Slowly licking, he cleaned the slick from between your folds, around your cunt, before returning his focus to your face. 

“Y’know, the  female orgasm can last for up to 60 seconds, sometimes even longer.” 

With your hands still glued to your cheeks, feeling nothing but burning heat, you malfunctioned a little as he spoke. “Why are you—oh my god, Spence. ” 

He came up to lie beside you as you were still nothing but a panting mess. Of course that would be the first thing he’d say to you. 

“Explains the aftershocks.” 

You guessed it did. You’d be reeling from this feeling for days. 

Spencer’s non-sticky hand gently took one of yours, removing it so you couldn’t hide your face. Intertwined, they rested on your stomach, still heaving irrationally from your breathing. You looked down at yourself, and at Spencer. Lovingly, almost. There were crescent-shaped indents on your thighs from his fingernails, your soft skin having spilled out between his fingers as he had pressed close to you. 

He breathed heavily beside you too, still catching his breath. You had almost expected it to happen, but you still smiled like a fool when you realized it. The dark stain on his soft gray trousers. His bulge not so prominent, but still a sign of what had happened. 

“Don’t mention it,” Spencer said, like through closed lips. 

Catching his sight, you shook your head with a little laughter, “I’ll take it as compliment.” 

And it was. Truly. To not always be the giver, but the receiver. And to have someone enjoy you receiving pleasure so much that it ends up bringing them their own pleasure. Again, you were ruined by men (boys, really) who were so focused on their own cocks reaching the final destination that you were only really there as a vessel for their own orgasms. You didn’t know the last time someone offered to go down on you, and for it not to be the result of you asking, making you feel like a burden for wanting it.  

Turning to your side, you laid your head on Spencer’s chest, letting out a breath that felt like it’d been lodged in your ribs for hours. Your legs tangled with his instinctively, and you sank into the heat of him, body finally relaxing in the aftermath. It took about five seconds for the awareness to hit: you, naked, skin to his still clothed legs, with nothing but the slight stick of sweat and something more lingering between you. 

One of Spencer’s arms curled around you automatically. The other hovered awkwardly in the air, like he wasn’t sure what to do with it—just a few inches above the sheets.

“Sticky fingers?” you asked, amused. 

“Y’know, it’s not as sticky as I first thought it would be. It’s more… wet—” 

As Spencer explained, you grabbed his hand without thinking, looking up into his eyes for any sort of intel but being met with a mostly blank stare as you guided the two fingers he’d used into your mouth, swirling your tongue around them slowly. Lazily, curious if it would short-circuit his brain as easily as you suspected.

You were not disappointed.

“Jesus C-Christ—” Spencer’s whole body tensed beneath you, mouth parting in a sharp gasp.

A slight giggle was your only response. Lifting your head, your cheek had left a faint pink imprint across his chest. Truth be told, the entirety of Spencer was flushed. Face, neck, stomach. He was a study in pale skin turned soft rose. 

“It’s like I can hear you overthinking,” you murmured, your voice rough around the edges, the way it always was when you were soft and…coming down.“And you really don’t have to.”

He hesitated, then shyly whispered, “Was I… Was that any good?” 

The corners of your mouth lifted, lazy and genuine. “It was really good, Spence. Did you enjoy it?” 

You felt him tense beneath your fingertips. He didn’t answer right away, too busy internally dissecting the phrasing—really good? As opposed to just good? Or better than expected? But before his thoughts could spiral, you kept talking. Doing what you always did: catching him before he fell too far into his own head, usually with something crude. 

“You’re better than most men by principle,” you said, casual and completely sincere. “You know where the clit is.”

Spencer groaned, dragging his arm over his face. “You really have no filter, do you?”

You laughed—low, warm, the kind that curled around his mind and stayed there. “Is that a bad thing?”

His voice came muffled through the crook of his elbow. “No. I love you for it.”

You stilled—just for a second. You didn’t say anything, but he felt the shift. The way your breath caught. The way your eyes lifted to look at him again, just to make sure you’d heard him right.

“You love me… for it?” 

It wasn’t the first time you’d thought about what this was, what it meant. Part of you had worried once that maybe Spencer only loved you because he could. Because you were the first person to touch him like this, see him like this. That he was falling in love with the intimacy itself—not with you.

But that fear didn’t live here. Not in the quiet way he touched you. Not in the way he listened. Not in the way he waited—for you, for your pace, for your yes.

You knew, somewhere deeper than your mind, that this wasn’t a performance. Not a conquest. Not the story of the virgin who loved the first person who said “stay.” The stupid virgin who fell in love with the person they had given up everything to. (It wasn’t everything. Far from it, actually).

As you had grown to know him, you realized how foolish you’d been to ever think that. He’d never wanted this to be one-sided. He was doing it all for you. The two of you. The us. Because if it wasn’t mutual, it wouldn’t be worth it to him at all.

“Mhm,” Spencer answered seconds later, muffled but still easily understood. Then, after a breath, “Should we take a shower?” 

Smoothly swerving the subject. 

Your head tilted slightly. “Like…together?” 

He nodded like it was obvious. “Yes, is that so weird?” 

You grinned. “I’ve never seen you naked.”

Spencer blinked. “I—yes, that’s true. Technically. That feels… unbalanced.”

“Let’s even the playing field then.”

You pulled the sheet with you as you sat up, tossing him a wink over your shoulder. Spencer groaned under his breath—somewhere between overwhelmed and entirely thrilled, watching as your naked body slipped out of the room. 

And in the quiet trail of your footsteps heading toward the bathroom, he found himself smiling so hard it almost hurt.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The water had already begun to fog the mirror by the time you stepped in, first wiping off the last of your makeup and letting Spencer quietly undress. 

He stood beneath the showerhead, letting the stream beat down on his back and shoulders. His hair, flattened against his forehead, dripped steadily along his jaw. He’d slicked it back once, instinctively, and now little rivulets trailed down the line of his spine. The tips had already begun to curl again, wet and weightless, plastered to the nape of his neck. 

Spencer wasn’t cold—he didn’t think he could be, not with the heat of the water and the anticipation of you coming in behind him. 

Not nervous. Not exactly.

Just… aware. Aware of what this meant. Of how rare it felt to be so bare in front of someone and not feel the instinct to cover up.

He didn’t turn around when he heard the glass door open. Not right away. He just felt it—the slight change in the air, the extra warmth, the soft whisper of your breath as you stepped in behind him, saying a little hi.

Then your forehead pressed gently against his back.

That broke him a little.

Because it wasn’t a sexy thing, or even a performative one. It was grounding. A small gesture of trust. Your skin was slick against his, arms resting loosely at your sides, the crown of your head nestled between his shoulder blades like you belonged there.

Maybe you did. 

He turned around slowly, and you looked at him like you’d been looking all along.

Maybe you had. 

Your body was graceful in the low light, water gleaming as it slipped across your collarbones and traced down the dip of your stomach. Steam clung to your lashes, droplets staying on your cheeks. Spencer couldn’t decide what part of you to look at first. Your eyes always won.

He reached for the soap absently, trying not to fumble it. Jasmine.

The scent brought something up in him—unexpected and nostalgic. A low green bush outside his childhood home in Nevada. White, almost yellowing little flowers. His mother’s garden, where she’d hum Debussy and dig her hands into the dirt, fingers stained and nails wrecked but proud all the same. He remembered helping her water the jasmine in the summer, his small hands never quite strong enough to carry the big watering cans. 

Now, years later, that same scent lingered in your hair. On your skin. Tied to you. Beneath his hands as he lathered the soap over your shoulders and along your upper back. He worked slowly, deliberately. Partly because he didn’t know what to do, partly because he wanted to feel all of you against his hands. 

“That feels good,” you said, voice quiet with his hands running over your shoulder blades. 

“Efficient fingers,” he said without a hint of irony.

You laughed, resting your forehead against his chest, water cascading down between you. “You still don’t realize how that sounds.”

He tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. “How what sounds?”

You didn’t explain. You just kissed the spot over his heart.

The water pelted the top of your head gently as silence filled the gaps between words. It wasn’t awkward. Not at all. Domestic, even. He thought maybe this was what safety felt like. This quiet comfort. 

Spencer washed your back with care like you were something delicate and revered, and when he stepped behind you and wrapped his arms around your middle, you leaned into him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Eventually, though, the quiet gave way.

His voice was soft against your temple. “Do you want to talk about why you shut me out yesterday?” 

A pause. Seconds long. 

“No,” you admitted. “Not really.” 

“That’s okay.” He tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear, brushing a droplet from your cheek. “I just… I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. For not answering me. Or for being short.”

You met his gaze. “How you made me feel isn’t the issue.”

“Okay,” he said, carefully. “Then what is?”

Your eyes flicked toward the fogged glass of the shower door. You watched a droplet race another down the pane. “The younger version of myself still stuck inside. Constantly screaming that I don’t deserve this.”

Spencer’s face softened, his breath catching in his chest. “Deserve what?” 

“Being with you,” you shrugged. You tried to make it feel simple. “Being loved by you. Being in love with you.” 

He wasn’t worried that you hadn’t said it back in the bedroom, because he deep down knew—past his own insecurities—that you loved him back. But he hadn’t thought about your insecurities in the same way, how they formed like thick brick walls in front of you and hindered your capability of showing affection. 

Spencer’s throat tightened. “Did your mother bring out these thoughts? That you’re not deserving of love?” 

You didn’t answer, not with words. But your silence thudded between you.

“She’s a…” you started, then bit the words off in frustration.

“You’re allowed to say it.” 

“A bitch, Spencer,” you whispered, uncharacteristic of you to care about cursing. “She’s like comically bad.” 

He didn’t laugh, even though he knew you meant to ease the weight. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours. The water streamed around you, washing the ache away in some way. 

“You are deserving of love,” he murmured. “It would be terrible if you weren’t. Because I love loving you. And I honestly don’t know what I’d do with all of this love if you didn’t let me in to show it to you.”

Your fingertips curled at his chest, right where his heart lived. Then, you reached up to kiss him. Softly, sweetly. Your inhale was shaky as you pulled away, but your voice was clear. 

“I love being in love with you too.” 

After a few more minutes under the spray, you turned the water off, steam wrapping around your shoulders like a blanket. The silence that followed was almost startling—thick and filled with your shared breathing, the kind of quiet that felt sacred.

Spencer moved first, reaching for one of the larger towels hanging on the hook. You didn’t even bother drying off fully before wrapping it around your chest like a makeshift dress.

He grabbed another towel and rubbed it through his hair—quick, automatic motions. But his eyes kept drifting back to you.

You wiped at the foggy mirror with the flat of your hand, revealing just enough to see the two of you reflected back— naked, wet, soft around the edges with fluffy towels in the low light of your bathroom.

Spencer stood there for a moment, drying himself with his towel, just looking at you. Damp hair, glowing cheeks, a surprisingly big smile. 

“I know we’re having a sweet and sappy moment right now,” you began, trying to keep your tone even, “but I have to say—” 

He squinted, seeing mischief in your eyes. “Oh no.”

“You were lying when you said it was five inches soft, Spencer.” 

“Oh my—” He made an absolutely strangled sound—halfway between a laugh and a groan—burying his face in the towel while simultaneously trying to shield what was more than five inches, apparently. Maybe he’d been humble. “Don’t ever change.” 

You grinned into the mirror, entirely smug and still somehow the softest thing in the world.

In a moment of courage, and maybe as a slight comeback, he reached for your hand, laced his fingers with yours, and tugged you gently toward the bedroom.

The bedroom was dim, the morning sun barely sneaking in through the slats of the blinds, casting golden lines across the unmade bed. The covers were still tangled where you'd left them, half-slipped onto the floor.

You paused near the edge of the bed, still towel-wrapped, while Spencer rummaged through his travel bag. He emerged with a button-down and a pair of boxers in hand, the shirt rumpled from being folded too long. It was another pink one. You could tell without smelling it that it hadn’t been washed since he wore it last. California, probably.

“Here,” he said, holding it up. “Arms out.”

You blinked. “You’re dressing me now?”

He gave a small shrug, lips twitching. “If you want me to.”

You rolled your eyes, but they softened as you raised your arms. The towel dropped silently to the floor, pooling at your feet like a sigh. Spencer didn’t react—didn’t flinch or look away.

Spencer stepped in close, his own towel hanging dangerously low on his hips. The shirt slid down over your arms slowly, the fabric catching slightly on damp skin. The hem fell mid-thigh. He only buttoned two buttons, in the middle of your stomach, leaving the rest undone and revealing most of what was underneath anyway. 

But it smelled like him, and that was the sole purpose. You pressed your nose to the collar without even thinking.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, towel abandoned, bare thighs brushing the soft sheets. Spencer stood in front of you, pulling his boxers on beneath his towel before he too abandoned his in the pile of laundry gathered on the floor. 

He didn’t say anything as he moved to your closet, opening a drawer you always kept a little messily organized. Underwear. You wondered if he panicked over the selection—if you would’ve judged him for grabbing a hot pink lace thong or the floral granny panties. 

He settled on a safe pair in black cotton, just cheeky enough. Spencer handed them to you, and you giggled as you slipped them on. It seemed you still had to dress some parts of yourself. 

Spencer then knelt slightly, just enough to be level with you, and placed one warm hand on your bare knee. “Now,” he said softly, “do we eat breakfast, or do we go back to bed?”

You looked toward the window, then back at him with a raised brow. “Spence, it’s 8 a.m.”

He just shrugged. “There are no rules. If you’re hungry, we eat. If you’re tired, we sleep.”

You considered it for half a breath, then leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“Both,” you said into his shoulder. “I wanna do both.”

“Then we’ll do both, angel.” He leaned in to kiss your forehead. 

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think ♡ Title and lyrics are from Ankles by Lucy Dacus.

౨ৎ [ masterlist ]

[elliet1ou]

i need that nerd bad !!!!

[minswriting]

BACK OF THE CAR - S.R x READER

About: You give Spencer a handjob in the back of the BAU SUV.

Warnings: NSFW, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, public sex, handjobs

Word Count: 1.0k

A/N: Hello pookies! I hope you all enjoy this one shot that I lowkey pulled out of my ass 😭😭. The request was by @notlongtolove my pookie wookie heehee. Border was made by @cafekitsune and thank you to @beenreidingaboutyou for proofreading it for me!!

The team had just gotten back into Virginia after a case in Seattle, Washington. It had been a long case about people getting murdered in the mountains there in such a brutal way. But the case ended successfully with the unsub arrested and the team had saved the latest victim from being murdered. And now, the team was in the SUV, driving from the airport. This SUV was a bit different than the others as it had three rows of seats rather than the usual two. Hotch was driving with Rossi in the front seat next to him. In the middle seats was JJ, Morgan, and Emily. And in the way back of the car, it was you and Spencer.

You and Spencer had a bet going on. Being in a secret relationship and still exploring one another sexually, your bet was to see who could do the wildest thing to the other. And today, you decided it was your turn to do the wild thing.

You looked at your boyfriend who glanced at you as he felt your eyes on him. He gave you a soft smile before turning his gaze back out the window. You placed a hand on Spencer’s thigh, causing him to glance down at your hand. It was a seemingly innocent gesture but as Spencer met your gaze, he knew there was something more behind it. And the smirk on your lips told him you had another agenda. He quirked an eyebrow at you, causing you to tilt your head in false innocence.

Spencer simply furrowed his eyes in amusement before looking away, going back to staring out the car window. You inched your hand up Spencer’s thigh, lightly grazing his crotch. Spencer couldn’t help the gasp at the feeling, his cock instantly hardening underneath your touch.

Hotch glanced in the rearview mirror, looking directly at Spencer. “Everything alright, Reid?” He spoke up.

“I-uh-” Spencer glanced at you and then at the front. “Yes,” He licked his lips. “I just saw a 1941 Stearman PT-17 airplane and got excited.”

Nice save, Spencer.

Hotch didn’t respond as he put his attention back on the road.

Spencer glanced at you, giving you a small glare but he didn’t bother to remove your hand. Your lips still held the smirk as you began gently palming Spencer through his slacks. His lips parted slightly as his breath hitched. “What-” he whispered but you gave him a look that stopped him from speaking, not wanting to attract any attention.

You glanced down at Spencer’s cock, seeing the erect outline through his pants. You glanced at Spencer, subtly asking for permission. He licked his lips, nodding his head slightly. And with that, you moved your fingers to unbutton his pants and unzip them. You slipped your hand into Spencer’s pants and beneath his underwear.

Your thumb swirled the tip of Spencer’s cock, causing his hips to buck from your touch. You bit your lip, a smile on your lips at Spencer’s reaction. He was usually so whiny, never shying away from making noises as he relished in the pleasures you gave him. So seeing him trying to keep himself composed as to not alert anyone to what the two of you were doing most certainly made your thighs clench.

You wrapped your hand around his length and began stroking him slowly. Spencer brought his hand to his face, the back of his hand facing his mouth as he bit down on his knuckle, trying to restrain himself. The fact that you were giving Spencer a handjob in a government owned vehicle, practically in front of all of your coworkers was extremely risky. And if Spencer let out even a peep, the two of you would be caught and likely fired for sexual misconduct.

Your movements sped up as you gained a rhythm. You knew exactly how to move your hand to get Spencer to cum the quickest which ultimately, was your goal. Spencer’s cheeks were flushed from the heat of the situation. All of his concentration was on not making a peep. It was embarrassing how hot and bothered he was as he knew he wasn’t going to last much longer.

Spencer’s breathing quickened, careful to not make it loud or noticeable by those in front of the two of you. As you stroked Spencer’s cock, you could tell he was getting close with the way his thighs began tensing. You moved your hand faster, helping Spencer reach his goal.

Spencer bit his lip harshly, hard enough to draw out a metallic taste as he tried his hardest not to moan. His cock stiffened in your hand as he bucked his hips slightly, cumming in his pants. You were careful not to get much on your hand, not wanting to explain to anyone why your hand was wet and sticky. Just as Spencer finished, the car came to a stop, signaling that you were back at the Bureau. You removed your hand from Spencer’s pants, giving him a wink as everyone began to get out of the car.

Spencer was trying to control his breathing as he zipped his pants and buttoned them back up. As soon as everyone had gotten out of the car and grabbed their go-bags from the trunk, you began walking to your car to go home, Spencer following you. “That was not cool,” He whispered into your ear.

“Oh please,” You murmured, stopping in your tracks to look at Spencer. “You secretly adored it.”

Spencer pouted. “I’m sure the whole team knows now,” He exclaimed.

“Good,” You grinned. “Now we don’t need to tell everyone.”

“You know, payback is a bitch, right?” Spencer whispered.

You chuckled, nodding your head. “And I’m looking forward to it, hot stuff,” You winked. “I’ll see you tomorrow, hot stuff,” you exclaimed before walking away, heading to your car.

And the following week, Spencer lived up to his phrase of “payback is a bitch” as he fingered you in the jet with a blanket over your lap, right in front of your boss who had been sitting across from you.

[mywilltodie]

Prentiss: If Reid and I were drowning, who would you save?

Hotch: You two can’t swim?

Prentiss: It’s a hypothetical question, Hotch! Who would you save?

Hotch: My time and effort.

[gghostwriter]

Pressure Points

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: After a traumatic event, Spencer coaxes you back to the land of the living, right by his side. Trope: Comfort w.c: 1.6k a/n: TRIGGER WARNING FOR TALKS OF MASS CASUALITY DESCRIPTIONS. Not proofread. No use of Y/N, instead Spencer calls reader as ‘angel’. Recently been watching ‘The Pitt’ so you can definitely see where this was inspired from. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

Spencer knew right away that something was terribly wrong.

Keys rattling as they settle on the hook by the apartment entrance, the only sound that greeted him was running water from the ajar bathroom door. Its’ fluorescent light streamed across the living room, leaving a streak of path for him to follow.

“Angel, I’m home,” he called out worriedly, aligning his outside shoes by your scuffed and bloodied sneakers. 

Silence.

Garcia was the first to share the devastating news as the team was backing up to go back home from a case well done. Truthfully, he was done with his and was busy theorizing the launch of his film canister all the while Morgan was busy teasing Emily with the sleazy police officer from the most recent case that tried to flirt with her.

“Someone opened fired at the Fairfax Music Festival,” Garcia informed to the few agents available on the floor.

Spencer felt his breath lodge in his throat, he knew geography like the back of his hand. The park where the festival had been situated was included in the zone of your chosen hospital residency. 

Hands blindly reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone to send a message before quickly shutting it close. No, you’d be busy by then, he rationalized. You’d be safe as its protocol that the local police and SWAT establish safety and protection to hospitals receiving casualties.

As the hours ticked by on the clock, the more Spencer could feel his worry and unease rising. The lack of updates regarding the situation, specifically yours, heightened his consciousness to all the possibilities of the shooter heading your way. Einstein’s theory of relativity had made him acutely aware of how right the physicist was in his belief that times moves relative to its’ observer. An object moving fast experiences time slower than the rest and that was exactly what he felt as his foot tapped from agitation, waiting for the train ride back home.

He breathed a small sigh of relief, spotting your sneakers propped haphazardly on the shoe cabinet. You were home, physically safe yes, but mentally was another delicate subject.

The faint metallic scent of coppery blood wafted through as he pushed the bathroom door open and there you were, standing under the scalding shower head still in your intimates, staring at the green tiled walls as if they weren’t completely there at all. 

Dissociation.

Shock.

“Angel,” he softly muttered, not wanting to scare you back to reality.

There was no flash of recognition in your eyes.

Spencer reached across to shut off the pulsing water, your skin already turning pink from the temperature. Quickly chucking off his satchel and clothing, leaving him in a set of checkered boxers, he maneuvered your unresponsive body to sit up on the bench, against the wall in the shower, set the water temperature into a warm and aimed the nozzle over your titled head, making sure the rivulets don’t run on your blank face.

“It’s alright, Angel. I’ve got you,” he repeated over and over again. Grabbing hold of your wash cloth and body wash, he cleansed away the dried splatters of blood your scrubs didn’t catch and massaged the scalps of your hair, hoping to revive you back to reality.

“Spencer?” You hoarsely muttered in confusion, vacant eyes meeting his.

“I’m here,” he replied. “I’ve got you. Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

You slowly nodded, eyes closing. The film clouding your brain dissipated further as his gentle presence warmed the cold remnants of death you’ve seen in the emergency room. 

The never ending gurneys being wield in, the multitude of wrist bands all meaning injured—some knocking on death’s door while a few were already in death’s presence. Red blood splattered on the white tiled floor and hospital workers sprinting from one patient to the next. 

You shuddered, it was a view you wouldn’t wish for anyone to see.

Thinking your reaction was from the shower, Spencer shut off the water and guided you to your feet. He made sure you were stable before wrapping you in a clean fluffy towel and drying you off.

Gingerly, he assisted you to sit on the foot of the bed, uncaring of the droplets of water along the wooden floor, all he cared about was making you feel better.

Spencer padded back to your side, a cup of warm tea and a bar of chocolate on hand. 

“Drink it slowly, angel,” he coaxed you, nodding his head in approval as you silently followed his instructions.

You assessed your boyfriend as he enclosed your other hand in his and started massaging.

“Did you know that there’s 8 pressure points on our hands?” He asked. “Although acupressure lacks the backing of scientific studies, people still rely on these due to limited side effects and ability to promote relaxation. Perhaps it’s actually a psychological aspect—they believing it would work and in return, it does. A placebo but I believe it still has its uses—” his thumb and pointed finger pressing in the valley point between yours. “—like grounding you to the present.” 

The corners of your lips quirked into a small smile. “Is that what you’re doing with me?”

“Is it working?”

“Yeah. A little bit, Spence,” you breathed out, feeling completely grateful for the kind of man Spencer Reid had become. Perhaps you should send Diana a bouquet of flowers and a rare book as a thank you for her son or perhaps to the rest of his team that guided him, and is still guiding him, to the right path? 

A different kind of pressure halted your train of thought.

“Oh,” you groaned out, eyes opening to the sight of Spencer pressing kisses to your palm and then to each of your knuckles.

“I love you, Angel.”

You hummed in reply. “Thank you for helping me tonight.”

“I’ll always be here to catch you when you falter, I promise.” 

Placing the empty cup back on the tray beside the slowly melting chocolate, you cupped is his cheeks into your warm hands, the subtle nudges from his nose melting you into a puddle of vulnerability and intimacy.

“There was so much blood, Spence. So many patients who could have made it should they have come in any other day. We even had to ration our supply of blood and I—I joined medicine to save as many lives as I could and there is a lot of that in day to day, but I can’t help but wish these casualty days come few and far between, better yet if none at all. I want to work in the ER, I really do, but sometimes I end up thinking if I’m not cut out for it, if I’m better off somewhere else.”

His thumb drawing abstract patterns on your smooth cheek, Spencer understood where you were coming from. During the beginning of his journey as an FBI agent, he was plagued with those thoughts of never feeling like he belonged, like he was a puzzle piece from a different set trying to fit in. Always trying, always an outsider, he once believed. 

“Angel, it’s alright to have those thoughts. We’re only human, after all. If I could give you the same advice as many of my mentors have said to young me, I’d tell you that those voices in your head, questioning your worth and direction just mean you’re in the right path. No correct way comes easy, just know I’d be behind you every step of the way—run back to me for strength if you have to, it doesn’t make you weak. In truth, it makes you smart and strong in my eyes.” 

You nodded, his words easing this pressure from today’s events inside of you. It was as if the knots in yourself, the disappointment and regret of not having saved one more patient started to fade away.

“Now, I know I can’t always be here during your bad days at work but if I am, just let me know. Text me or call me and I’ll try my very best to come running.”

“But Spence, your job is as demanding as mine is—”

He shushed you gently.

“I know that but you come first in my list, okay?”

You sat there dumbfounded with his offering running again and again in your mind. It was something no one had given to you before. Being born as the eldest, you had to be the pillar—the strong one your siblings and sometimes even your parents could lean on. Never had another being offered their back to shelter you from the bouts of weakness and yet, here was one in Spencer Reid. There was no need to always be tough, he was telling you that. 

“Okay,” you whispered. “I understand.”

He pressed kisses to your forehead and cheeks. “Good, that’s good. I love you, there’s no need to be embarrassed about needing me by your side. I’m your partner, through thick and thin, okay?”

You nodded, the lump on your throat lodging itself further in. You briefly wondered why this perfect specimen of a man had decided to fall in love with you, how had no one come before you to see all the good he had to offer. 

“Do you need to cry, Angel?”

Your tears had started to escape, creating a clear path down your pink stained cheeks.

“Then go ahead and cry. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.”

And you wept. 

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

[g1rld1ary]

Ohhh, Hotch's Daughter x Spencer is my FAVOURITE. Anything forbidden, etc. My vision is that they're on a case in Readers' hometown, and they meet up and maybe some smut? Almost getting caught in the act type stuff? Some awkward Spencer 😬

prev

wc: 2093

cw: making out and tits out, almost getting caught

me: thank u sm for this request gorg! i didn't do full smut coz i just Could Not but i hope u enjoy!! sorry this has taken so long it has been a crazy crazy month in gia land! i love this world so requests r still more than welcome! in my head this takes place quite a bit after the first two parts; a lot has taken place in the interim

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

It was weird enough being back in your hometown for the holidays after moving interstate for college, then your big girl job. Being back at your mother’s always gave you a weird feeling of detachment, being in a place that used to be home but didn’t carry the same weight anymore.

What was weirder, though, was the text you got from Aaron as you sat on the tree swing outside, reading.

Are you with your Mom? We have a case near you right now. Dinner when we finish?

You laughed at his proper spelling and grammar, texting back to tell him you would love to. The coincidence was uncanny, but you weren’t in any position to complain about seeing him.

Your mother was shockingly excited, going so far as to insist that you invite the whole team over for dinner on the night they closed the case. It certainly wasn’t the reaction you were expecting given the whole secret baby thing she’d done for two decades, but you thought it was sweet that she was enthusiastic about your relationship with your dad.

That was why you were at your local police precinct, alerted by your father that the case was wrapping up and would be finished by the evening.

“Miss me?” You walked through the door into the meeting room the BAU had obviously been delegated to. The team all looked up in surprise, except your dad.

“Baby Hotch, what are you doing here?” Morgan grinned, standing to give you a quick hug.

“I grew up here,” You replied, returning Rossi’s wave of greeting. “But here, here? I come with invitations. My mom insists that you all come for dinner tonight, as soon as you’ve wrapped up the case… and maybe had some showers. Not to be rude, but it is not smelling like heaven in here.” You were glad the team got your joke, what with half of them being covered in bruises or blood. You didn’t know what had gone down in the case, and you didn’t think you wanted to.

You stuck around as the team wrapped up the administrative parts of the case, exhaustion clear on their faces. Still, the promise of a home-cooked meal (and a glimpse into Hotch’s past and your private life) kept them going, spirits not too shabby.

“Alright, shall we say meet at your mom’s place in an hour and a half? That way, everyone has time to get cleaned up and you have time to go hide anything embarrassing in your childhood bedroom because you know they’ll all charm their way in,” Hotch said with a tiny glint of humour in his eye, the look he tended to save for his children. You nodded dutifully, jokingly saluting as you fished your mom’s car keys from the depths of your coat pocket.

The BAU all peeled off into the SUVs, ready for a hot shower and a change of clothes. You were just unlocking the doors to your own vehicle when the precinct doors opened and out stepped a very familiar face.

“Doctor Reid,” You said, voice full of mocking, “What a complete surprise!”

“You know, I was stuck taking witness interviews today so I’m not in any desperate need for a shower…” He matched your faux innocence, letting himself into the passenger seat.

Safely inside a car with tinted windows, you leant over the centre console to press your lips to his.

“Hi, Spencie,” You giggled, putting the car into drive. Reid pulled a face at the nickname, but let his hand fall to rest on your thigh regardless.

“You’re incorrigible.” He squeezed your leg lightly.

Your mom was busy in the kitchen when you both arrived, trying to knock each other off the path up to your front door like children.

“Hey, Mom. This is Doctor Reid from Dad’s team. He’s gonna hang out until the rest of the team gets here.”

“Spencer,” Reid corrected, waving from beside you. “Thank you so much for inviting us over, ma’am. The team is very fond of your daughter.”

“I see,” Your mom replied, shooting you a look that said he’s cute. Knowing Reid, he absolutely caught it. “It’s nice to meet you too, Spencer. Dinner won’t be for a while, you two go hang out.”

“Are you sure we can’t help out?” Reid asked at the same time you exclaimed, “We’re not thirteen!”

“Thirteen?” Reid asked with a laugh as you led him up the stairs to your childhood bedroom.

“Shut up,” You groaned, “It just sounded like she was gonna tell us to go play Monopoly, or she was excited for me to have my first kiss.” Spencer shook his head, laughing again at your ridiculousness. He liked your mom already.

“So, you don’t want to kiss me?” He asked with frankly highly effective puppy eyes, moving closer to loop his arms around your waist.

You only got a peck from the genius before he’d caught a glance of the bedroom behind you, spinning you quickly so he could snoop inside.

You stood in the centre of the room, sinking into the pink fluffy rug, as Spencer darted about the room, taking in every fragment of your life before college.

“Is this a tape deck?” He asked, immediately flipping through your collection of cassettes.

“Yeah, my parents refused to buy me a CD player, so it was my darkest secret in high school that I was still listening to cassettes. I’ve got a good collection, though. Now, can you please help me hide anything too embarrassing from Morgan?” Reid popped in a tape, Duran Duran’s Rio album, and got to work, but not without commenting on how embarrassing it was that you were into Duran Duran as a teen.

“Debate team?” He asked, pointing at the certificates pinned to your wall. You stared at them for a moment with squinted eyes, scrutinising.

“Leave them. At least I was good at debating. Take down the math olympiad participation prize next to it, that’s the line, I think.”

“I did math olympiads!”

“Exactly.” Spencer rolled his eyes playfully but took down the certificate nonetheless, putting it in the storage tub you’d allocated to anything you didn’t want seen.

You went about in peace for a while, you cleaning and Spencer snooping amongst your things.

“Is this actually you?” He broke the silence, holding up a small photo book.

“Oh my god,” You moaned, covering your face with your hands. The photos were from your senior year of college, when you and your friends spent spring break down by the beach. The photos were absolutely mortifying, capturing you drunk, messy, and in far too few clothes. You weren’t even that many years into the workforce, and you already couldn’t believe you were ever wearing those itty-bitty bikinis out in public. “I haven’t looked at tequila the same way since.”

“You look really great, you should wear that again sometime,” Spencer said, a light blush on his cheeks.

“Alright, perv,” You laughed, taking the photo book from his hands, “That’s definitely going in the box.” You bent over to put the album away when Spencer’s hands landed warm on your hips, spinning you around and pulling you flush against him.

“I’m serious,” He murmured, lips brushing against yours, “You’re so beautiful.”

Before you could reply, Spencer was kissing up and down your neck, a contented sigh escaping from your lips.

You led him blindly to your childhood single bed, falling onto it as the back of your knees hit the bed frame. You pulled Spencer up to your lips in a desperate kiss, running your fingers through his hair as he worked on getting his buttoned shirt undone.

He pulled away so you could get your own shirt off, his eye catching on one of your stuffed animals sitting snugly next to your pillow.

“Who’s this guy?” He asked with a small laugh, and you huffed.

“For your information, that’s Mister Stripes.” You succeeded in unfastening your bra, “And hello? More important things to be focusing on? We have to be quick.”

Spencer immediately turned his attention back to you, hands going straight to palm your tits, drawing a gentle sigh from you. You attacked his neck with kisses, sucking on his pulse point to hear the pretty moans he made.

You’d just popped the button of his slacks when you heard boisterous laughter from the kitchen, voices that were definitely not your mother’s. Spencer’s eyes snapped up from where his tongue was on your nipple, both of you freezing in your tracks. If the BAU were already in your house, it was only a matter of moments before they would find their way into your bedroom. You really did not want them finding you and Spencer getting hot and heavy… especially as none of them knew you were even close.

Spencer launched across the room over to your old wardrobe, pulling his shirt over his shoulders and doing the buttons with record speed. You heard your name being called from the bottom of the stairs.

“You up there?” Hotch called, and your eyes widened more than you thought possible.

“Uh, yeah! I’ll be down in a sec! Spencer too,” You added after a moment, hoping it would seem less suspicious if you were upfront about his presence.

“No way, I need to see her childhood bedroom.” You heard Morgan say, accompanied by heavy footsteps getting closer.

“Fuck!” You hissed, giving up on the possibility of getting your bra back on with your fingers anxiously shaking, kicking it furiously under your bed and pulling a sweater over your head to lessen the damage.

You brushed through your hair with your fingers as the door creaked open and the rest of the BAU let themselves in.

“Hey, Dad,” You greeted him with a smile you hoped was confident, giving him a quick hug.

“Hey, Honey. And Reid.”

“Doctor Reid got here a little early, I was just showing him around my room,” You cut in before he could say anything.

“She was a champion debater,” Spencer added with his signature awkward smile, pointing over to the certificates by the door. That got everyone’s attention onto the various memorabilia and memories scattered around your room and off of you.

You and Spencer made eye contact, identical sighs of relief making you giggle.

“Hey, Pretty Boy,” Morgan said as you were explaining a framed photo to the rest of the group, “Better do up that last button before Hotch notices the hickey on your neck.” Spencer almost jumped out of his skin, hands flying to cover up the mark. He did just that, trying to casually pass by your mirror and ensure his shirt covered everything indecent.

Your mother called you all down to eat minutes later, which saved you both from the persisting anxiety of having been almost caught. Spencer was seated far from you, but you both spent the meal stealing looks and small smiles.

Dinner with the BAU was everything you thought it would be: loud, chaotic and full of love. You enjoyed hearing stories of your Dad at work, it helped piece together the puzzle of someone you’d spent so long wishing to get to know.

As the night drew to a close, you found yourself dreading the team having to leave, feeling at home amongst the banter and teasing.

When it did officially become too late and even Hotch was refusing drink refills, you and your mom followed the team to the front door, making everyone promise to return for another meal the next time they were in the state. Hotch even suggested that you should do something as a three: him, you and your mom, which made you beam.

On the way out the door, Spencer gave your hand a squeeze. Soft, simple, something otherwise unnoticeable. But he couldn’t kiss you, couldn’t tell you to call him later or update him on the book you were reading. So he gave your hand a gentle squeeze to tell you he’d be thinking of you on the plane ride home.

[darkmatilda]

𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you're going through a tough time after being forced to kill someone for the first time, and spencer decides to talk to you about it. the problem is, he approaches it in the most wrong way possible—driving you to fury.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, argument (omg you have no idea how much i love writing fight scenes), mention that the reader shot an unsub during the case, reader copes by working a lot

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.1k

𝐚/𝐧: anon's request

Spencer reached for his coat, but before he could throw it over his shoulders and head for the exit, someone’s hand tapped him playfully on the arm.

“Hey, man,” Morgan greeted him.

Well, greeted might not have been the most accurate term. After all, they’d spent almost the entire day together, working on a case that fortunately ended successfully, and now, on this early Friday evening, they were both heading for the door in pretty good spirits. So, it would’ve been more fitting to say he stopped him. He stopped him with a slight grin on his face and his hands casually placed in the pockets of his black leather jacket. He stopped him because, most likely, he had something to ask— a question, or a suggestion, a request, or an offer, maybe even all of the above in one.

To clarify, it wasn’t like Morgan only started a conversation when he wanted something. Of course not, they were friends after all. It was just that his posture in that particular moment suggested he was about to speak to him with some specific intent.

Spencer shook his head. After spending the entire day deeply focused on analyzing every tiny detail of the case and interrogating people, his mind was working on such efficient gears that he couldn’t shake himself out of that state.

“Hi,” he replied simply, tossing his purple scarf around his neck.

"Any plans for the evening? Got anything interesting planned?"

"Actually, yes," Spencer replied, unable to hide the hint of excitement that crept into his voice. Derek raised his eyebrows, showing interest as he waited for what Spencer was about to say. He adjusted his scarf, tucking the loose end under his coat. "I’m planning to watch an online conference I missed on the use of iPS cells in treating neurodegenerative diseases."

His friend simply nodded, accepting the answer. Some might have thought it was a joke, but Derek had long since gotten used to it.

"Being friends with you, Reid, I constantly have to remind myself that we all have different definitions of the word interesting," he muttered, without malice or sarcasm in his voice. Slowly, they both headed toward the elevator, waiting for it to stop at their floor. "Have fun, then. But if you happen to be in the mood for something else, join us. Just a regular night out at the bar, nothing fancy, but at least with good company." 

Normally, he wouldn’t have given the offer a second thought. I mean, he might have considered it for a fraction of a second, then immediately rejected it, simply because he’d prefer to spend the evening doing something else. However, for some reason, Morgan’s words stayed with him for much longer than just a fraction of a second.

“In good company,” he repeated, before he could bite his tongue. The elevator doors opened in front of them, and they both stepped inside. “You mean our team?”

“Yeah. As I said, nothing fancy.”

“I know, it’s just... no one else? Like Will, Kevin, other friends...?”

Morgan’s eyes widened, just like his mouth, which curved into an amused grin. He pointed a finger at him.

“I know what you're getting at.”

Spencer exaggeratedly shrugged his shoulders.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I just asked.”

“Sure. Oh, come on, Reid. Be a big boy and just ask directly.”

“I don’t have anything to ask directly, and, furthermore, I have no idea what you’re even talking about—”

“Dear Derek,” Morgan started, putting in embarrassingly little effort to mimic Spencer’s voice, which made him sound more like Penelope after inhaling a helium balloon. “Would you be so kind as to tell me if your dazzlingly beautiful and slightly sassy lab friend will be joining you guys as well? Because if so, I might change my mind.”

His mouth opened when something came out of it that he would never have said, and it wasn’t even his original intention! He just wanted to start a conversation and learn more about his friends' plans, that’s all. Whether Morgan’s dazzlingly beautiful and slightly sassy lab friend was going to be there or not didn’t interest him at all. And it definitely wouldn’t change his mind.

After the initial shock, which only caused Derek even more amusement, he let out an exaggerated snort. His friend always liked to make up things and suggest that he was head over heels for every attractive woman who crossed his path, just to embarrass him. Spencer seriously hated it and had no idea how to correct him, didn’t even think it was possible.

So, he just rolled his eyes, as if deeply exhausted by how irritating his conversation partner was.

“If you think I’d skip the conference for her, you’re deeply mistaken,” he stated briefly, in a defensive tone.

Morgan stared at him silently for a moment, piercingly. For all the mysteries of the universe, why was this elevator moving so slowly...

“Well, let’s say I believe you,” he began slowly. “But in any case, that’s not a choice for you tonight. Because she won’t be there. She was still in the lab when I went to invite her, and there was no sign she was planning to leave early. Again.”

The last word again was said with a slight sigh. Spencer felt his shoulders stiffen slightly, his brows furrowing as he looked at Derek in confusion.

“Still in the lab at this hour? She?”

The impression he always had of her was that she maintained almost perfect balance at work between her duties, rest, and fun. She did her job excellently but never arrived early or stayed later than required. Well, the only exception was when they were working on something truly urgent, but Spencer didn’t know anything about a situation like that. 

“I mean, she didn’t want to go out with us recently either,” Morgan explained. “Which is worrying when it comes to her. You know, Reid, maybe you could talk to her.”

He glanced over his shoulder, as if someone named Reid were standing behind him. There wasn’t. But the request seemed almost ridiculous to Spencer.

“Why me?” he asked “I’d like to remind you that she’s your friend. And you’re the one who’s worried about her.”

“And you’re not?”

“I—” Spencer stopped, because the whole conversation and its course didn’t make much sense in his head.

Before he could respond or find a way to dodge answering a question he honestly couldn’t answer, Morgan beat him to it.

“I just thought you might reach her somehow, because I couldn’t. And if not, maybe at least you’ll annoy her enough that she’ll leave the lab on her own, not wanting to spend another second there with you. As they say, no way is the right way, but the result…” 

The elevator finally stopped. Morgan was the first to step out, giving Spencer a nod as a farewell.

“I don’t think anyone says that,” Spencer mumbled, still not moving from his spot.

“Have a good evening, Reid.”

He didn’t know what drove him, but the thought of the conference he’d been so eager to watch seemed to have vanished. Or maybe it was still there, but not strong enough to stop him from pressing the elevator button with the intention of heading to the lab, not knowing yet what he was even doing. 

*

She was there when he stopped right in the doorway, but bent over a microscope and some scattered papers, she didn’t even notice his arrival.

That, however, gave him the chance to look at her.

Well, when Spencer decided to come here, he expected her to look…noticeably worse.

Although he hadn’t mentioned it to Morgan, he had a pretty good idea of what might’ve caused her sudden withdrawal from social life, along with the way she’d started taking on more and more work. Those were fairly common ways in which trauma quietly echoed through someone’s life.

Though, if he asked her, she probably wouldn’t even call it trauma. She likely felt she had no right to feel bad about killing a man who had planned to do something far, far worse. She knew she had done the right thing— which was exactly why her own emotional response, the guilt that didn’t quite make sense, probably created a whirlwind of confusion in her mind.

At least, that was the assumption he’d built in his head back in the elevator—before he saw her. Once he did, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Because, as he had just observed, she looked… exactly the same.

Spencer didn’t know what he had expected—maybe dark circles under her eyes, a tired face, messier hair, clothes that didn’t quite match. Something that would clash with who she usually was, some outward sign that something inside her wasn’t right.

But he found nothing like that.

“Admiring the view?” she asked, without even lifting her head or pausing what she was doing.

Because of the strange tone in her voice, he wasn’t sure for a second what she’d actually said. It was stripped of its usual bite, its usual rhythm. Not weak, not quiet—just…drained of something.

“You’re still here?” he stepped closer to her workstation, positioning himself across from her, though still keeping a fair amount of distance—one that only shrank when she leaned forward over whatever she was working on.

She didn’t rush to respond, but it wasn’t like she was deliberately delaying either.

“As you can see,” she replied.

He often claimed to absolutely hate the fact that she always had to have a sharp—really sharp—comeback ready for everything he said, but in that moment, he would’ve loved to hear one from her.

“You’re being nice, and it’s… concerning.”

“I’m being nice?”

“For you, yeah. I expected something more like, Well, if you still have to ask even though I’m sitting right in front of you, maybe invest in some glasses, because clearly your eyesight isn’t doing great. And then you’d add something like…”

“Wow,” she scoffed. “You really think highly of me.”

“That was pretty passive-aggressive.”

“Which, as we all know, is usually your territory, so don’t be a hypocrite and call me out on it. Do you want something? Need something?” She straightened up in her seat, resting her elbows on the desk and finally fixing her gaze on him—barely blinking. “Because I really don’t have time right now to argue with you over basically nothing. So if it’s nothing important, just do me a favor and leave.”

For a moment, they locked eyes in silence—she was clearly waiting for a response or a move, like him walking out. But when he didn’t budge, she only let out an irritated sigh and returned to her work, apparently deciding to just ignore his presence.

Reid cleared his throat, clearly not intending to grant her that wish.

“That’s a lot,” he noted, glancing at what she was working on. “And you’re planning to do it all by yourself? I mean, you have your team too. Why aren’t they…”

“Because I sent them home,” she cut in. “And besides—my team, not your business.”

“You sent them home,” he repeated, keeping his voice even, not letting it sound even slightly annoyed. And that calmness, in turn, seemed to irritate her. But that was the truth. He wasn’t annoyed with her—not since he started to suspect what might be behind her behavior. In fact, it felt like the angrier she got with him, the more honest she was willing to be. And he really hoped he was right about that. He really didn’t want to end up with something acidic thrown in his face.

He pushed the image out of his mind and kept going, following his theory.

“...right when there’s this much work. What’s the logic in that?”

She rolled her eyes, like it should’ve been obvious.

“The logic is that sometimes, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”

“Or maybe the logic is that taking all this work on yourself is the perfect excuse to isolate without having to explain it to anyone.”

He felt the weight of his words hit like a quiet bomb—its blast radius making her go completely still for a moment. Her whole body froze. Just for a second—a very short one.

Spencer had to pull in a breath before he could keep going.

“Because no one really questions it when you just say you don’t have time. Or maybe it’s an excuse for yourself, too—because the more work you pile on, the less time, and eventually the less energy, you have left to think about…”

“Stop.” She cut him off sharply, pulling her hand off the desk.

He still caught the way it clenched into a fist.

“Oh, so I’m wrong?” he asked, not really waiting for her answer.

Still, he eased up a little, softened his tone—figuring he’d already pushed her far enough.

“Listen, I get what this is about. Morgan told me today you’ve been acting a little off—or, well, not like you. Not going out with the others…”

“Wow, God forbid a woman wants to spend her time doing something other than parties and nights out…”

“We both know this isn't about what you suddenly decided you wanted to do,” he sighed, unable to suppress the frustration that caused another crack in his calm exterior. This time, though, he didn’t give himself a moment to breathe before continuing. “It’s about what happened, the unsub you shot, and that you weren’t ready for how much it would affect you…”

“What are you trying to achieve here, Reid?” she asked, suddenly rising from her seat. Her arms crossed over her body, not in a casual posture, but almost in a defensive, distancing gesture. The question wasn’t laced with a scoff, only a subtle irritation, which, however, still made it sound like the calmest thing she’d said to him all day. “You came here to what? To push me until, for some of your sick satisfaction I admit yes, fuck yes, it was hard for me, shooting someone in the head? Fine, I said it! So, now what?” She spread both arms wide, a questioning gesture.

Spencer opened his mouth to say something, even began shaking his head, wanting to make it clear that he wasn’t trying to pressure her. But then, he realized—well, he was. But not to make her feel bad, or, as she’d said, for some sick satisfaction. He just needed her to admit it to herself. And it seemed like that’s exactly what happened, because suddenly, she fell silent too, her gaze dropping. He noticed the irregular rhythm of her breath rising and falling.

“Do you really...do you really think I’m doing this for my sick satisfaction?” he asked incredulously, watching closely as she shrugged at his question. “Did it ever occur to you that I might, I don’t know, want to help you?”

“Oh, look, here comes the savior,” she scoffed, suddenly bursting into sarcastic laughter, gently shaking her head from side to side. “Well, you’ve really nailed it, haven’t you? So empathetic and understanding…”

“If I were trying to be empathetic and understanding, you wouldn’t even look at me, still buried in those papers, pretending like you don’t care what I’m talking about,” Reid pointed out, forcing himself to fully believe in the rightness of what he had done. Because when he saw her reaction, some doubts crossed his mind. Had he really approached this in the worst possible way? He exhaled, shaking off the thought. “Or you’d laugh at me, because that’s what you usually do. So stop pretending like I’ve hurt you so badly, because we both know that’s not true.”

She must have realized the truth in his words, as she only pressed her lips tighter instead of immediately firing back with a response. Spencer only then realized that the lab was completely silent. Before, he had felt like he was in the middle of a crowded office, where hundreds of voices were shouting over each other, and around them, there was a tense, almost buzzing atmosphere.

"Actually, yes. I think you're doing this for your sick satisfaction," she admitted after a prolonged moment of silence. Very quietly, and very sharply. As if it had been brewing inside her for a long time and was now finally spilling out with its sharpness.

Spencer couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes, wanting to say that he already explained it, and there was no point in continuing this line of discussion. She, however, felt differently.

"Isn't that what your job is all about, huh, Mr. Profiler? You all get off on these psychological games. Bursting into someone's head when they don't want you there, trying to psychoanalyze them when they never asked for it," she began, listing off the points with a vacant stare locked onto him. Her expression remained the same—cold, unchanging. Only by the last few words did her voice slightly tremble, something she immediately swallowed down. "You can play those games with serial killers, fine, you might even be of use to all of us in doing so. But don't think for a second that I'm going to let you try anything like that with me."

After her last words settled, she held their gaze for a moment before breaking it with a certain dignity, beginning to gather all her papers into a tight stack, which she then grasped firmly. Spencer watched her movements, his words lingering, but he remained silent.

Why had he even come here? Was he fooling himself into thinking he could help her? Or had he known from the beginning that she didn’t need his help, but showed up anyway, driven by some kind of guilt because it was in his defense that she shot that man? Maybe, at first, there had been some concern. But now, he felt none of that.

Lost in his thoughts for a moment, he only then realized she was looking at him expectantly.

“It would be nice if you left,” she said, nodding toward the exit. “I need to lock up the lab.”

Spencer had always considered heightened politeness to be a form of ultimate anger. The kind that strikes directly at the shield it’s aimed at, double-edged and precise.

It was the kind of tone that only made him nod curtly and do exactly what she asked—leave.

post-reading author’s note: my personal headcanon, which you can accept or not, is that she left the lab and went to meet her friends 😆 so derek was right, and spencer did manage to annoy her enough that she left the lab on her own so kinda a win lol

[hereforhalstead]

‘Fuck the polic-‘ A GIRL IS TRYING HER BEST OVER HERE

[inkwelldesires]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝙻𝚒𝚗𝚎

“𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖.”

“𝚂𝚘 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙰𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚁𝚎𝚒𝚍—”

“Y𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊 𝚝𝚒𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝.”

─────────────────

✨𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚛✨

𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚁𝚎𝚒𝚍 𝚡 𝙵𝚎𝚖!𝚄𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚋

𝚁𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝙼

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: ~𝟾.𝟽𝚔

𝙲𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝙲𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎/𝙼𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚢 | 𝙿𝚜𝚢𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛 | 𝚂𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝙱𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚁𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎

𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢:

𝙸𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛—𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙰𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗… 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

─────────────────

Part One: The Map of Patterns

Quantico, 9:03 AM — BAU Briefing Room

The overhead projector clicked on, casting a grainy map across the room in hues of cold gray. Colored pins dotted the state of Missouri—five cities, twelve victims, and a trail that stretched like a noose tightening around a central point.

“St. Louis,” Emily said, tapping her pen to the red circle on the map. “That’s where the last body dropped.”

Spencer sat forward, fingers laced together, elbows pressed into the table. His brow furrowed beneath the soft fall of his hair. His mind had already connected the victims: ages 18 to 32, mixed gender, all former addicts either in recovery or reportedly clean for months before their deaths. OD on paper—clean kills in practice.

“The tox screens are too clean,” Spencer said. “The levels are inconsistent with street overdose patterns. These were tailored—controlled dosages with pharmaceutical precision.”

JJ flipped through the case files. “The dealers aren’t talking, but word on the street says there’s a new player in town. Someone operating under the radar. A woman. They call her ’The Chemist.’”

Spencer’s eyes flicked up. “Creative.”

“Deadly,” Rossi corrected, voice gravelly. “Whoever she is, she’s cleaning up competition by baiting users back into relapse and watching them drop. She’s building dependency, cutting off supply chains, and tightening control. That’s not just business. That’s strategy.”

“I’ve been compiling the geographic data from the crime scenes,” Spencer added, pulling a page of printed coordinates and statistical models from his folder. “If you consider the timing of the overdoses in relation to transit points and supply routes, it suggests a deliberate triangulation. She’s anchoring her network in St. Louis, but the epicenter seems to fluctuate based on activity—like a moving pulse.”

Hotch nodded. “Pack your bags. Wheels up in an hour. We’ll coordinate with the local field office, but keep in mind—whoever this woman is, she’s organized, intelligent, and methodical. We don’t profile drug lords the same way we profile serial killers. But this case? It’s starting to feel like both.”

—

St. Louis, 4:47 PM — The Next Day

The bookstore was old, tucked between a laundromat and a boarded-up cafe on a narrow street that still smelled like rain. It wasn’t on any map. He’d found it by accident—chasing a lead in a medical journal referenced in one of the victims’ histories.

The bell above the door jingled as Spencer stepped inside. A small black cat darted across the hardwood floor. The scent of paper, dust, and something faintly sweet curled through the air like incense.

There were only three people in the entire place—an elderly man asleep behind the register, a teenage girl in combat boots reading Dune, and a woman near the back, crouched in front of the pharmacology section, her fingers ghosting over spines with practiced ease.

He moved toward the shelf quietly. The book he needed—Neurochemical Dependency and Psychoactive Metabolites—was nestled high, too high. He reached for it.

So did she.

Their hands nearly touched.

“Sorry,” she said, pulling her hand back first. Her voice was smooth and unbothered, but an edge of amusement was tucked inside it.

Spencer cleared his throat. “No, it’s—uh—go ahead. I just—this is the only place in the area that carries a first edition.”

Her brows lifted slightly. “You’re looking for that book?”

“Yes.” He hesitated, then offered, “Are you… also interested in neurochemical dependencies?”

A flash of something behind her eyes. Not surprise. Something sharper. “I have a thing for altered states,” she said. “Psychologically speaking.”

Spencer’s brain stumbled.

I should walk away. But I can’t. She’s disarming. In that rare, slow-burn way, that doesn’t quite hit until you realize you’re already leaning in.

“I’m with a research team,” he said quickly. “Studying trends in urban addiction patterns. Your understanding seems… advanced.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “And you seem too well-dressed for field research.”

“I, um… travel light.”

She smiled. “You’re not local.”

“Neither are you.”

That hung in the air.

He should have noticed the warning bells in his gut. The slight twitch in her fingers, like someone used to pulling triggers without flinching. But instead, all he saw was clarity behind her gaze. The kind of clarity you only get when you know people better than they know themselves.

“I’m Spencer,” he said because he couldn’t help it.

She didn’t give her name. Just arched a brow and said, “You can have the book, Spencer. But if you want help understanding it…” She paused, reaching into her coat pocket and producing a card. “Call me. Sometimes, it’s easier to see the whole picture when you’re not too close to it.”

He stared at the card as she walked away. There was no name. Just a number. And a symbol.

A chemical structure.

Spencer swallowed.

Why didn’t I ask her name?

Why didn’t she give it?

—

St. Louis Field Office — 9:36 AM

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the coffee in Spencer’s cup had long since gone cold. Maps were pinned to cork boards. Timelines stretched across walls. But Spencer wasn’t looking at any of them.

He was staring at the card.

No name. Just a ten-digit number and a chemical structure he’d memorized in three seconds flat.

Benzoylecgonine.

The primary metabolite of cocaine.

Of course she didn’t leave a name. Of course she left that.

“What’s got you so deep in thought, pretty boy?”

Morgan dropped into the seat beside him, coffee in hand, looking far too awake for someone who’d slept less than four hours.

“Nothing. Just…” Spencer flipped the card over, blank side up. “Analyzing.”

Morgan smirked. “You always are.”

Spencer felt his cheeks flush. He quickly busied himself with his tablet.

Across the room, Garcia’s voice filtered in over speakerphone. “Okay, my loves—so get this. Four of the twelve victims had bank accounts tied to the same shell company. And guess what? That company owns the lease to a whole block of buildings in South City—including an abandoned church, a bar, and—you’ll like this, Reid—a bookstore.”

Spencer’s head snapped up. “Which one?”

She rattled off the address. It was the same bookstore. His heart stuttered.

Hotch turned from the evidence board. “Reid, you know it?”

“I… might’ve stopped in there yesterday.” His voice was too casual. Too careful. “They carry niche medical texts. I was hoping to find one referenced in the victim’s file.”

“Alone?” JJ asked, raising a brow.

He nodded. “Didn’t seem relevant at the time.”

Morgan studied him with that annoyingly perceptive gaze. “You find anything besides a book?”

Yes. A ghost with brown eyes who reads chemical pathways like poetry.

“No,” Spencer said tightly. “Just… a lead.”

—

That Night — Hotel Room, 11:14 PM

He stared at the card again, then at his phone.

This was a mistake.

He knew that.

But mistakes don’t come wrapped in curiosity like this. Mistakes don’t leave you wondering if you were the one being profiled in a conversation that felt like seduction disguised as science.

He dialed the number before he could talk himself out of it.

Three rings.

Then her voice.

“I was starting to think you’d never call.”

He froze. “You expected me to?”

“I profiled you, remember?”

Spencer sat on the edge of the bed, voice low. “Then you already know this is a professional call.”

“Of course.” She sounded amused. “Strictly business. Tell me, Agent Reid… how close are you to figuring out who I am?”

His throat went dry. “I didn’t tell you I’m an agent.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence stretched between them like a drawn wire.

Then she said softly, “You’re not the only one who studies patterns. I just use mine for different reasons.”

He should’ve hung up. Every part of him screamed it.

But instead, he said, “We’re building a profile. High intelligence. Scientific precision. Deep understanding of dependency, both psychological and chemical. The unsub manipulates her clients like a puppeteer. No chaos. Just… control.”

“I like that,” she said. “Control.”

Spencer’s fingers dug into the bedspread. “Why are you talking to me?”

“You wanted answers. Maybe I wanted something too.”

He couldn’t breathe. “Which is?”

“Insight.” She paused. “You see people for what they are, not what they pretend to be. I find that fascinating.”

He stood, walking to the window, the lights of the city sprawling beneath him like static.

“I don’t know who you are,” he whispered. “But I know you’re dangerous.”

Her voice was velvet. “And yet you still called.”

Click.

The line went dead.

—

The Next Morning — St. Louis Field Office, 7:12 AM

Spencer arrived before anyone else.

He was halfway through mapping the cross-referenced building ownerships when Emily stepped in, holding a bagel and eyeing him like a hawk.

“You’re here early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Mm.” She leaned over, reading his scribbled notes. “You ever think maybe you’re a little too good at connecting dots?”

“Sometimes I wish I wasn’t,” he said honestly.

Because the dots were leading him straight back to her.

(Part Two will be posted soon) 💭

[beahotchner]

The kissing scene… season one

He was just so cute I adore him

“I’m supposed to protect you …

[akinsadores]

Flower picking date , with Spencer Reid

Cardigan Spencer Reid X femOc!reader

To kiss in cars and downtown bars . Was all we needed You drew stars around my scars , But now I'm bleedin'…

Author notes : I can’t get that line outta my head

My work is found on Pinterest

Divider By @strangergraphics 

[reidmarieprentiss]

guys i have just been writing so many little scenes for life with spencer like literally whenever i get a chance and there are SO MANY and it's so domestic i want to cry and just UGHHHH why isn't he real and sitting next to me giggling that i would write such a cheesy scene --- anyway part two could easily come out today or tomorrow !!!!