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spencersmopbucket · 2 months ago

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The Way of an Agent | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: Years after resigning from the FBI, you and your husband Spencer Reid are raising two children together. While the kids know about their father’s work, you’ve kept your own FBI past hidden —especially the fact that you were the team’s muscle, the one who got your hands dirty when words weren’t enough. But when a situation forces your old instincts to surface, you’re left with no choice but to tell them the truth.

Years ago, you were in a van, dressed in all black with a bulletproof vest. Your hair was slicked back, a mask over your face, knives and guns hanging from your belt. Your wedding ring glinted in the dark, concealed by thick black gloves.

The unsub, a greasy man running a sex slave organization, was dangerous, his partner even more so. They had almost no regard for human life, especially the human life of a woman. It disgusted you. Well, it disgusted everyone — but especially you. They'd been running undetected for years, their victims never getting so much as a scream out before being smuggled to another location and being used by him and his partner. Then murdered.

The only information the BAU had for years were missing posters and general locations of disappearances. Until now. Until you.

You adjusted the mask over your mouth, eyes narrowing through the faint slit in your hood. Rage simmered under your skin, but you kept it contained, shoved deep where it needed to stay. You weren’t here to indulge in anger. You were here to bring them down.

Your ear piece vibrated against your ear before you heard a voice finally cut through.

"Remember. Left door. Be completely ready, we're not exactly sure what we're dealing with, Agent." Hotch murmured, sounding slightly out of breath. "I'm connecting you to Agent Reid and Agent Prentiss."

You pressed your back tighter against the wall, the cool bite of concrete seeping through your tactical gear. The weight of the knives at your thigh and the Glock at your hip was familiar, grounding.

The faint crackle of static brushed against your ear before Spencer's voice, clear and precise, slipped into the comm.

"Thermal imaging shows two heat signatures inside. The one closest to the door is pacing — heightened adrenaline, based on their movement pattern. Be careful, sweetheart."

You almost smiled at the soft edge in his voice, the way he couldn't quite scrub the worry out, even masked under the clinical facts. The pet name, too.

"Copy," you whispered, adjusting your grip on the weapon, boots silent against the ground. You shifted your stance, ready to breach.

"Remember," Spencer added, a little quicker this time, "the floorboards are unstable. Avoid the northwest corner."

You breathed out slowly, steadying yourself. "I’ve got this," you murmured, barely moving your lips.

A beat of silence. Then, softer than before: "I know you do."

The world narrowed to the rush of blood in your ears, the slight hum of Spencer's connection, the door handle cool beneath your glove. With a fluid movement, you breached — low, fast, controlled — slipping into the darkness with the ghostlike precision that had once made you the team’s most dangerous weapon. All Spencer, Hotch, and Prentiss heard was a groan. A crack. The clear misfire of a gun into the air, most likely the unsub. Some gurgling. And then silence for about 30 to 45 seconds. Following that, the sound of your boots on the concrete floor until they finally spotted you leaving the warehouse, your gloves glistening with a slight tint of blood.

In front of you, your fingers twisted around his arm, was the primary unsub. His face was twisted in pain, his eyes watery. His ankle was clearly broken — he couldn't put weight on it. His wrists were securely cuffed behind him.

"Where's the other one?" Hotch muttered, still watching you as you dragged the scummy man from the warehouse, a scowl on your face.

"Incapacitated, most likely. The thermal imaging showed us through his body language that he was the more aggressive perpetrator," Spencer explained. "He probably rushed her. You know how she operates. It didn't go well for him, it's safe to assume."

Hotch nodded once, almost to himself, and started toward you with long strides. Spencer’s voice, still in your ear, stayed low and steady:

"Are you okay?"

You tightened your grip on the unsub’s arm, yanking him forward when he tried to stumble back. “I’m fine,” you muttered under your breath, only loud enough for Spencer to catch through the comms.

The unsub groaned, letting a weak complaint fall from his lips.

"This isn't over, man. You'll wish you hadn't done this."

You raised an eyebrow under your mask, a snide smirk pulling at your lips.

"Man?" You questioned.

Shoving the man at Hotch, who caught him with strong arms, you pulled your gloves off, revealing manicured fingers with a glittering wedding ring. Next, you yanked your mask off

The man's eyes widened. You definitely weren't a man.

Your simmering e/c eyes narrowed as you leaned into the unsub's disgusting face.

"It would be unfair to let another man put you in prison to rot. This is a job for a woman." You hissed.

Through your earpiece, you heard it — just barely — Spencer's breath catching. Like even after everything, after years together, he still got a little starstruck when he saw you like this.

The unsub flinched back instinctively, his bravado crumbling to ash under the weight of your gaze. You watched the realization dawn in his greasy, fearful eyes — the slow, sickening understanding that the person who had taken him down, who had bested him so completely, wasn’t some towering agent he could excuse away.

It was you. A woman. And he had no power here. No ability to cause fear.

You straightened slowly, tugging off your hood and letting your hair fall free around your shoulders. Your skin glistened faintly with sweat, a testament to the fight, but your face was calm. Colder than death.

Hotch yanked the man back roughly, giving you the room you deserved — and the unsub the bruises he deserved.

"Take him," Hotch ordered curtly to the backup agents swarming the scene. His sharp gaze slid back to you, giving the briefest, almost imperceptible nod of respect before turning away.

The second unsub was found not long after, crumpled in a heap behind a set of rusted crates. Unconscious, but alive — just. A shallow, rasping breath, a broken arm, and a knife wound expertly placed between muscle and bone, enough pain to make moving impossible, but not enough to kill. You knew exactly where to cut.

"Secondary secure," Morgan called out, cuffing him with a harsh snap. "Remind me never to piss you off, kid."

Your hair stuck to your forehead with sweat, but your face was calm, cold. A mirror of what you had been trained to be — and what you had become all on your own.

Spencer caught up to you outside the warehouse, his Kevlar vest still tight across his chest, his weapon lowered but his body tense. His eyes scanned you immediately, flickering from your face to your arms to your gear, checking for blood that wasn’t the enemy’s.

When he saw none, his shoulders dropped a fraction, his hand brushing against your wrist in a fleeting, secret touch.

"You’re incredible," he whispered, too quiet for anyone but you to hear.

You gave him a crooked smile, exhaustion setting into your bones now that the adrenaline was bleeding out.

There were many nights like this. For years and years, your training had allowed you to be the BAU's muscle, their door kicker, their enforcer. You were lethal, especially when it came to the death or terrorization of women.

Eventually, though, your heart longed for more. You longed for a family. You wanted to be a mother, a homemaker, a wife more than a weapon.

After years of service for the FBI, you resigned. You paid your respects to the BAU and moved on.

After a year of working a desk job, you were pregnant. You were absolutely ecstatic. The night you'd taken the test, Spencer came home from work, tired and drained. But when he saw you standing in the doorway with the positive pregnancy test, he was immediately revived. He scooped you up into a tight hug, lifting you up and kissing you passionately.

You were finally going to become parents.

You genuinely couldn't have been happier.

Nine months later, you gave birth to a daughter. Aubrey Diana Reid.

She was beautiful. Spencer had bawled when he finally got to hold her, her little hand curling around his finger. He was instantly in love.

One year after Aubrey, you were pregnant again, as if things could get any better. Spencer was so excited he couldn't even fathom it. Aubrey was already a gift, her brown eyes and dark curly hair making her identical to her father. Another child? The two of you must've been dreaming.

You gave birth to a baby boy, Owen Spencer Reid.

In the early years of their lives, Aubrey and Owen had always been incredibly close, despite their very different personalities. Aubrey, with her sharp mind and a tendency to dissect everything around her, was a natural mimic of Spencer. Her eyes were full of curiosity, much like his, always asking questions about the world, the people around her, and how things worked. Spencer often found himself getting lost in deep explanations for her, the same way he had as a child. She took after him in more ways than one — academically brilliant, book smart, and a touch socially awkward. Yet, her confidence was undeniable, especially when it came to a subject she was passionate about.

She thrived in science and literature, following in Spencer's footsteps, but there was a subtle fierceness to her. She had a protective streak a mile wide, especially when it came to Owen. Aubrey didn't back down from a challenge, much like Spencer when it came to his work — a mixture of intellect and unrelenting focus.

Owen, on the other hand, was a different creature entirely. He was more like you — fiercely independent, with a bit of a rebellious streak. While Aubrey spent hours studying or quietly reading in her room, Owen preferred hands-on activities, much to your delight and sometimes your frustration. He didn’t always see the point of sitting in a classroom when the world was waiting for him to go out and explore it. He had an adventurous side, always running headfirst into trouble, sometimes without thinking, but there was an undeniable charm about him, much like you when you were his age. You often found yourself reminding him of your own youthful stubbornness and the consequences of diving in without a plan.

Spencer, being who he was, often provided the balance. He would sit down with Owen, using his usual calm and logical explanations to help him see the bigger picture, while you took on the role of the "bad cop," keeping him grounded in reality. That dynamic kept their personalities in check, but there were moments when the differences between Aubrey and Owen really showed. Aubrey was the planner, the one who thought before acting, while Owen often jumped straight into things — a mix of your energy and his father’s ability to talk his way out of sticky situations.

By the time they reached their teens, both kids had found their paths. Aubrey was excelling in school, leading science clubs, and even talking about possibly pursuing a career similar to Spencer’s, though she was leaning more toward teaching or research. Owen, on the other hand, had a natural talent for sports and was known to sneak into local competitions or push his physical limits when he wasn’t causing trouble.

Family dinners were a mix of debates, laughter, and the usual chaos, but underneath it all, there was an overwhelming sense of pride. Watching Aubrey and Owen grow, with all the knowledge they absorbed and the experiences they lived through, reminded you of just how far they’d come — how much they’d learned from both you and Spencer.

As Aubrey turned 16 and Owen 15, you saw glimpses of the people they would become. Aubrey, with Spencer’s brilliance and your tenacity, had the world at her feet. Owen, with your drive and Spencer’s charisma, was ready to take on whatever came his way — though you often had to remind him to slow down and think things through first.

In a quiet moment one evening, you caught Spencer looking at the two of them with a soft smile, eyes glimmering with pride. You shared a look, knowing that, while you may have been the one to step away from the FBI, your family — your children — had been raised to carry on both your legacies in their own way.

You'd successfully kept your past from their discovery for 16 years. In the eyes of your children, you were ever gentle, yet strict. You couldn't hurt a fly, but you could run a household. They could push the limits, as you were soft with your babies, but when they got a specific look, they knew the leniency was over.

Long story short, you were the stricter parent.

Every year that passed, you forgot more and more about what you were hiding from the kids. Your life was peaceful, happy.

Until one fall evening.

Aubrey had gone to a birthday party with her friends. According to her, it was just two blocks away, there would be no drinking, and she wouldn't be walking alone at night — she had her friend Lily with her. Not to mention, ever overprotective (similarly to his father) Owen walked her there and back.

In fact, that was the only way Spencer allowed her to walk.

That evening, as the house settled into the familiar rhythm of a quiet night, you were curled up on the couch, your eyes flicking between the book in your hands and the soft glow of the TV. Spencer had just finished his latest case, and though the fatigue was evident in his posture, his mind was always alert. His gaze occasionally flicked to the clock, to the door, as if checking the time and waiting for Aubrey’s return.

You yawned, closing your book.

Spencer's brown eyes fell onto you, a warm smile curling onto his lips.

"Tired, baby?"

You smiled softly, stretching as you set the book aside. "Yeah, a little. It’s been a long day."

Spencer nodded, his smile widening as he shifted closer on the couch, reaching over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was comforting, familiar, a gesture you both had come to cherish in the quiet moments.

"I know," he said, his voice low and soothing. "But the house feels empty without the kids running around, doesn’t it?" He glanced toward the clock again, his brows knitting slightly as he checked the time. "Aubrey should be back soon."

You followed his gaze, a soft sense of unease creeping up on you. "She’ll be fine. Owen's with her, after all."

Spencer nodded again, though the flicker of concern in his eyes never fully dissipated. "I know. It’s just hard to let go, even when I know she’s capable."

You chuckled lightly, resting your head on his shoulder. "She’s more than capable, Spencer. She’s got you in her blood."

His chest rumbled with a low laugh, his fingers gently brushing through your hair. "I guess she does," he admitted. "Just... can’t help but worry. She’s still our little girl."

You settled deeper into his side, taking comfort in his closeness. "I know. But she’s strong, and so is Owen. They’ve got each other, just like we had each other when we were their age."

Spencer sighed, his arm wrapping around you more securely. "True. And I’m proud of them. Both of them." He glanced back toward the door. "I just wish they didn’t have to grow up so fast."

You nodded, tracing small circles on his arm. "They’re not little anymore. But they’re still ours."

The quiet comfort of the moment settled over you both, and for a brief moment, you let yourself bask in the peacefulness, the warmth of the family you had built together. The thought of the kids growing up, stepping into their own lives, was bittersweet. You knew the future would come with its challenges, but you also knew they would face it with strength — the same strength that had been passed down through you and Spencer.

You had just started to doze, but then, the phone rang. You jolted awake, a sense of anxiety immediately coming over you. The contact "Aub" lit up your screen.

You and Spencer made tense eye contact. She hardly ever called, especially if she was with friends.

Immediately, you grabbed the phone, answering.

"Hi, sweetheart. What's up?" You answered, now wide awake.

You heard Aubrey's heavy breathing through the phone. You immediately tensed.

"Mom," She said, her voice a whisper, laced with fear. "I'm scared." She rushed out.

You felt your heart drop at the sound of her voice — strained, panicked. Spencer was already beside you, his expression hardening as he read the concern on your face. His hand found yours, a silent promise that you weren't alone in this.

"Aubrey?" you said softly, trying to calm your racing heart. "Sweetheart, what’s going on? Are you hurt? Where are you?"

You could hear her breathing shallowly, her words coming in quick bursts. "We were on our way back... from the party, and... and there was a man. He came out of nowhere. Following us. We— we ran, but I don’t know if he knows where we went." She paused, and you could hear her trying to steady herself. "Mom, I... I don't know what to do."

You exchanged a quick glance with Spencer. He was already moving toward the door, his hand on the edge of the knob, but you knew he was waiting for you to speak first. You needed to keep her calm.

"Aubrey, listen to me," you said, your voice firm yet soothing. "You're okay, you're safe. I need you to tell me exactly where you are, and I’ll come get you. I’m on my way, okay? Stay on the phone with me."

Spencer didn’t wait for further instructions. He was already pulling on his jacket, his movements sharp and deliberate. The calm before the storm had evaporated in an instant.

"I’m just two blocks away from the house," Aubrey said, her voice trembling, though she was clearly trying to sound composed. "I don’t think he followed, but I— I’m not sure."

You could feel your protective instincts flare to life. "You’re not alone, right?" you asked, needing the reassurance.

"I have Owen and Lily," she replied, her voice wavering just slightly. "They're-- they're staying with me."

Relief flooded you for a moment at the mention of Owen, but the anxiety remained. There was still something about the situation that felt off — the fact that Aubrey was even calling in the first place made it clear that this wasn’t something she’d take lightly. The way she had said "I'm scared" sent a cold shiver down your spine.

"Good," you said, keeping your voice as steady as you could. "Just stay close to him, and don’t leave the spot you’re at. We’re on our way, baby."

Spencer was already halfway to the door, keys in hand. You followed suit, grabbing your own jacket. "We’ll be there in five minutes, okay? Stay on the phone with me until we get there."

Aubrey let out a small, shaky breath. "Okay... okay, Mom. I’ll... I’ll wait for you."

Before she could say anything else, you heard a faint noise in the background, a voice you didn’t quite recognize — low and gruff, but too distant to make out clearly. Aubrey’s breath hitched again, and in that moment, you knew the fear in her voice wasn’t just from the man. Something else was wrong.

You moved quicker, your heart thundering in your chest. "Aubrey, stay with Owen. We’re almost there," you urged, your voice sharpening with every second.

But as you turned to head out the door, you heard her voice again, just barely above a whisper, almost drowned out by the distance between you.

"Mom... he’s still out there."

A cold wave of dread swept over you.

Without wasting another second, Spencer opened the door, and you both rushed out into the night, your footsteps rapid as your mind raced. Something had just shifted — something wasn’t right, and you could feel it deep in your bones.

And for the first time in sixteen years, you couldn’t hide from what was waiting in the shadows.

You felt it sink into your bones. The adrenaline you'd once had, the bulletproof vest, the gloves, the crack of bones, the sound of gunfire. Your fists squeezed together as Spencer went 30 over the speed limit, racing to the park Aubrey said they were hiding in.

You could feel Spencer's eyes on you every few seconds.

The car hummed with tension, the tires skimming the asphalt as Spencer’s hands gripped the wheel with a familiar intensity. The glow of the streetlights flickered past, casting fleeting shadows across his face. Every few seconds, his gaze would flick to you, and you could see the worry in his eyes — the same look he gave you when you’d worked cases together, when something dangerous was always lurking just ahead.

But this was different.

This wasn’t some cold case. This was your daughter.

And you knew exactly how dangerous this could be.

Your mind flashed back to everything you had kept buried for so long — the world of shadows, of criminals, of threats, of danger. The world that you thought you had left behind. You’d tried so hard to shield your family from it, to make sure they were safe, far from the chaos of your past. But now, in this moment, you could feel the threads pulling you back into it, into the place you thought you’d left for good.

Your fists tightened, nails digging into your palms, and you couldn't stop the wave of memories rushing at you. The feel of a gun’s cold weight in your hand, the thrill of a pursuit, the focus of a high-stakes situation. It had all become so second nature once, so automatic. But now, it was something foreign — and terrifying. The last thing you wanted was to drag Spencer back into that world, to risk what you had built, to risk them.

But Aubrey was in danger. Aubrey was your priority.

You swallowed hard, trying to ground yourself. The fear gnawed at you, but the instinct to protect kicked in, and with it came an almost involuntary calm.

“We’re almost there,” Spencer said, voice tight, but you could hear the focus in it.

You nodded, but you couldn’t stop the flood of thoughts. What if something had happened? What if they hadn’t made it to the park safely? What if the man had already found them? The world felt suddenly too small, too suffocating.

Spencer glanced at you again, his jaw set, eyes hard with concern. “You okay?”

You gave him a tight, almost imperceptible nod. “I’m fine. Just... just get us there, Spence.”

He didn’t need to hear any more. The way you said it — the edge in your voice — was enough for him. You could tell, in the way his knuckles whitened on the wheel, that he was pushing himself to go even faster, to get to them in time.

You glanced out the window, watching as the park finally came into view. You could see the shadow of the trees in the distance, a dark outline against the dim glow of the surrounding streetlights. There was no sign of them yet, no movement.

You didn’t even wait for Spencer to pull the car fully to a stop before you were out, your feet hitting the ground hard.

You were silent, running through the park. You didn't want to call out and reveal the position of the kids — your decade with the FBI gave you enough skill to find them.

You didn't have to search long, unfortunately. You heard a scream, undeniably your daughter's. Your blood ran cold, Spencer hot on your heels as you followed the sound.

When you reached the area, the scene you saw was enough to make the full transition into who you were before.

Everything went silent. There was a ringing in your ears. Aubrey, screaming on the ground with a man in ragged clothes perched above her. A knife in hand. Owen, a bruised eye, crouching behind a tree — clearly having tried his luck protecting his sister. Lily, hiding behind a park shrub, crying softly.

Your body moved on instinct, the years of training flooding back like muscle memory. The ringing in your ears faded as the world sharpened — everything slowing down around you, the adrenaline and focus taking over. Spencer's presence at your back was a reassurance, but this was your fight now.

You didn’t hesitate. Your eyes locked on the man, the glint of the knife reflecting the dim light. Aubrey's cry was still echoing in your mind, but it was drowned out by the pounding of your heart, by the pull of your muscles working with precision, as if your body knew what it had to do.

“Get away from her,” you growled, taking a step forward, your voice steady, cold.

The man, clearly startled, whipped his head around, the blade still hovering dangerously close to Aubrey’s throat. But there was no hesitation on your end. You knew what you had to do.

You lunged.

The first move was fluid, calculated, as you closed the distance between you and the man. His knife slashed through the air, but you dodged, narrowly missing the sharp edge. Your palm connected with his wrist in a swift motion, the crack of bone echoing through the park as you disarmed him with a force that surprised even you.

The knife fell to the ground with a sharp clatter.

His wide eyes locked with yours in shock, as if he hadn’t expected you to be this skilled. His next move was an instinctual, desperate grab for your throat — but you were already two steps ahead.

You spun, grabbing his arm, twisting it behind his back, leveraging your body weight and speed to slam him face-first into the ground. The impact reverberated through your limbs, but you didn’t stop. Your hand was around his neck before he could move, pinning him down as your knee dug into his back, the pressure enough to keep him there.

For a moment, the world seemed frozen. The sound of Aubrey’s ragged breathing, the rustle of leaves in the wind, the sniffles of Lily hiding — it all blurred together, background noise to the chaos of the moment.

Spencer was there now, pulling the knife away from the man’s reach, his eyes scanning the scene quickly. “Call the police,” you said, your voice grim but steady, protective instinct kicking in. “We need backup.”

You didn’t let your hold on the man waver. Your hand was tight around his neck, and you could feel the pulse of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. You wanted to keep him there, make sure he couldn’t hurt anyone again, but your gaze flicked to Aubrey and Owen — seeing them safe was all that mattered now.

Slowly, you released the man’s neck, pushing him off to the side. Spencer was already pulling out his phone, dialing the authorities. The sense of control you had been holding onto began to slip away as the reality of the situation hit you.

You turned to Aubrey first, crouching down in front of her. Her eyes were wide with shock, her breathing still erratic.

“You okay?” you asked gently, your voice soothing despite the tension in your chest.

Aubrey nodded, though her eyes were filled with a mix of fear and awe. “Mom... what... who are you?”

The question hung in the air like a weight you weren’t prepared for. You declined to answer.

“I’m someone who will always protect you,” you said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “No matter what.”

Spencer was standing beside you now, his expression unreadable, but there was no hiding the concern in his eyes. He could see the questions in Aubrey's mind, the unspoken confusion that was settling in.

“It’s okay,” Spencer said, placing a reassuring hand on Aubrey’s shoulder. “We’ll explain everything when we’re safe. You’re alright. That’s what matters now.”

But the weight of the situation was far from over. You could feel the sharp edge of fear creeping in again. You had just revealed something to them that you had kept hidden for years. The calm, gentle life you had worked so hard to build — the one you had shielded them from — had shattered in an instant.

Your past, your skills, your training... they were now part of their reality. And you knew things could never go back to the way they were before.

The distant wail of sirens grew louder, and you stepped back, pulling Aubrey into a tight hug. “We’re okay. You’re safe.”

Owen stepped forward, his eyes wide but full of relief. He reached for Aubrey’s hand, his grip tight. “I told you I’d protect you.”

You could see the pride in his eyes, the same protective instinct that had run through Spencer’s veins. For a moment, you let yourself bask in that small comfort. You’d done it. You’d protected them. And for tonight, that was enough.

But you knew the questions were coming. And soon, you'd have to face what you’d been hiding from them all these years.

The police arrived, but you stayed silent, letting Spencer handle the situation. You had done your part. Now, you just had to keep them safe — no matter what.

You went home that night, returning Lily to her parents and bringing your children home. Spencer held your hand tightly.

It was silent in the house. Tense. Full of unanswered questions.

With no words, refusing to address it, you gave Aubrey and Owen ice and medicine for their bumps and bruises. You made them change their dirty, mud covered clothes. You made them tomato soup with grilled cheese.

You did just about anything to distract yourself from the elephant in the room. But Aubrey? She wasn't going to let it go.

Aubrey had been unusually quiet at first, sitting at the table with her soup, her eyes scanning you as though trying to piece together the woman she’d seen fight a man off her brother just hours ago. But after a while, it became clear that she wouldn’t be able to hold back much longer.

“You’re not telling me something,” Aubrey said quietly, breaking the silence. She had been watching you from across the kitchen, the weight of her gaze heavy. “I know something’s wrong. What was that? Who are you?”

You froze for a moment, spoon halfway to your mouth, and then you forced yourself to swallow, keeping your face neutral. But inside, the panic was already setting in. You couldn't look at her, not yet.

“Aubrey, I told you, we’ll talk about it later,” you said softly, trying to keep your voice steady.

Owen, sitting beside his sister, cast a glance between the two of you, his brow furrowing as the tension became more palpable. Aubrey’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward, her voice cutting through the thick air.

“No. Now. I’m not stupid, Mom. I saw it. You — you did something. And it’s not the first time either, is it? You’re not the person I thought you were.”

Your stomach twisted as her words hit you, sharp and accusing, but you held your ground. “Aubrey, please. It’s complicated. Just eat your soup and—”

“No! You’re not going to dodge me, Mom.” Her voice rose, frustration lining every word. “You can’t just— that isn’t normal. What was all that back there? You fought him. And you were so— I don’t know— so calm. It was like you knew exactly what to do! Who are you?!”

The questioning kept coming, one after the other, no space to breathe in between.

You could feel the pressure mounting in your chest, the questions swirling, and a storm was building in your mind, a flood of emotion you couldn’t contain anymore. Your eyes were burning as you stood up abruptly from the table, knocking your chair back in the process. The force of your anger had been building, and it finally burst.

“Enough, Aubrey!” you snapped, your voice sharp, and for the first time in years, you let the edge of your old self spill through. You didn’t care about being gentle.

You took a step back, your breath coming fast, chest rising and falling as the weight of your words hung in the air. Aubrey’s mouth opened, but you cut her off before she could speak.

“Stop!” you shouted, a wave of frustration spilling over. “Stop asking questions. I’m your mother. And I will do anything to protect you. That's all you need to know."

Without another word, you turned on your heel, storming out of the kitchen, leaving a stunned Aubrey in your wake.

You heard the sound of Owen’s voice behind you, calling for you, but you couldn’t stop. You couldn’t stay.

You made it to your bedroom, slamming the door behind you, and the second the lock clicked into place, you collapsed onto the bed, your head buried in your hands. The tears you hadn’t allowed yourself to shed, the weight you hadn’t let yourself feel, finally broke free.

But just as quickly, the door creaked open. Spencer stepped inside, his presence immediately calming but heavy with the understanding that you were teetering on the edge of something you couldn’t control anymore.

You didn’t look up at him, still too ashamed of the storm you had just unleashed on your daughter. The silence between you both was thick, but it didn’t need words. Spencer knew.

“Let me talk to her,” he said quietly. “I’ll explain. I know you didn’t want them to know this, but they deserve to hear it, especially after the night they had.”

You nodded, feeling the exhaustion pull at your bones, the guilt gnawing at your insides.

Spencer sat down beside you, rubbing a hand over your back. "It's okay," he murmured softly. "We’ll get through this together."

You took a shuddering breath, your heart aching. “I just… I didn’t want them to see me like this. To see that part of me. I just wanted to protect them from the things I’ve done, the things I’ve become…”

“I know,” Spencer whispered. “But we’re both here, and we’ll handle it. You’re still the same person. And they need to know that, too.”

You nodded again, wiping away the last of the tears as you looked up at him, eyes tired but filled with love. “Thank you. For always being here. For them.”

He kissed your forehead gently. “Always.”

You both knew this was just the beginning of a conversation that would change everything. But for now, you let Spencer go to talk to the kids, trusting him to bridge the gap between the past you were trying to bury and the family you’d fought so hard to build.

The house was eerily quiet when Spencer sat down with Aubrey and Owen. They were both sitting on the couch, eyes still wide with the aftermath of what had happened, the tension from earlier thick in the air. They hadn't said much since the confrontation — only whispers exchanged between them and glances that held more questions than answers.

Spencer knew it was time to do this, but his heart ached at the thought of having to explain a part of their mother’s past that he’d kept hidden for so long. A part of you that no one, not even Aubrey and Owen, had ever known about.

He cleared his throat, looking between them, before speaking gently, but with the weight of authority only a parent could have. "Aubrey, Owen... there’s something your mother and I need to explain to you. It’s not easy, and it’s not something she’s wanted you to know. But after what happened tonight, you deserve to hear it. All of it."

Aubrey, sitting up a little straighter, looked at him with a mix of curiosity and fear. "What do you mean, Dad? What happened tonight? What’s going on with Mom?"

Spencer glanced at her and then at Owen, who had a bruised eye but remained unusually still, his gaze serious. He could see that they were both holding back the storm of questions they wanted to ask, but they were waiting for him to start, to give them something.

"Your mom..." Spencer hesitated, his heart heavy. "She’s been through a lot before you two were born. A lot of things that she’s kept from you, kept from both of you, to protect you. I think it’s time you knew the truth. So, here it is."

He paused again, trying to choose his words carefully. He wasn’t sure how they would react, but he had to be honest, for all their sakes.

"Your mother used to be part of the FBI, just like me," he said, his voice low but steady. "A special agent. She was really good at what she did. But that life... it’s dangerous. It changes you."

Aubrey’s eyes narrowed, and Owen shifted uncomfortably, the weight of his father's words settling over them.

"What do you mean by 'dangerous'?" Aubrey asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Did she… kill people? Was she a killer?"

Spencer shook his head quickly, his gaze softening. "No. It wasn’t like that. She did things to protect people. But there were risks, and it wasn’t always clean. She didn’t have a choice sometimes. She had to make hard decisions, ones that I couldn’t protect her from."

Owen frowned, trying to process the information. "So, she was like… a cop? Or something else?"

"More than that," Spencer replied quietly. "She worked undercover. She tracked down criminals, got close to dangerous people. And sometimes, she had to fight her way out of situations. She was trained to handle threats, both physical and mental. But she left that all behind when you both were born. She walked away from it. For you. For us."

Aubrey’s eyes searched his face, confusion and fear mixing in her expression. "But why didn’t you ever tell us? Why didn’t Mom?"

Spencer sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. "Because she wanted to protect you. Protect us. From the things she had to do, from the people she had to face. She didn’t want you to know that side of her life. She wanted you to know her as your mom. Not someone who could fight, who could kill when necessary. She wanted to be your mother, not a stranger from her past."

"But… why did she freak out tonight?" Owen asked quietly. "Why did she get so angry?"

Spencer’s throat tightened, but he pushed through. "Tonight... Tonight, your mother had to step back into that part of her life. That side of her that she thought she could leave behind. She did what she had to do to protect you, Aubrey, to protect both of you. And when she saw you in danger, everything inside her came back. The instincts, the training... it all came rushing back."

Aubrey’s face twisted with understanding, but there was still something she needed to know. "And you... you let her do that? You knew what she was, what she used to do?"

Spencer nodded slowly, his voice thick with emotion. "I knew. But I loved her. I knew the risks, and I loved her anyway. And I always supported her. Because when she walked away from that life, she walked toward us. Toward this family."

There was silence for a moment as the weight of Spencer’s words hung in the air. The kids looked at each other, trying to piece together everything they had just heard, their minds spinning with new information. Spencer let the silence stretch, giving them time to absorb it.

Finally, Aubrey spoke up again, her voice small, but thoughtful. "So... Mom used to be like... a secret agent?"

Spencer nodded, his eyes softening. "Yes. But she’s also the person who loves you both more than anything in the world. She’s still your mom. She’s still the person who tucks you in at night and makes you breakfast. That’s who she wants you to know. But you can’t ignore the past. It’s always going to be a part of her, a part of our family."

Aubrey’s gaze softened, her voice trembling with emotion. "I just... I don’t want her to be angry at me. I don’t want her to be mad."

"She’s not mad at you," Spencer said firmly. "She’s scared. She’s scared for you, and she’s scared of the past catching up to her. But she’ll talk to you. When she’s ready."

Owen, who had been quiet the whole time, spoke up then. "Do you think she’ll be okay? After all of this? After... what happened?"

Spencer’s eyes flicked to the door of the bedroom where you were, the faint sound of muffled sobs slipping through. "We’ll be okay. We’re a family. And we’ll face whatever comes, together."

The kids were quiet again, each of them lost in their thoughts. It was a lot to take in. A lot to process. Spencer could see the storm brewing in their minds — questions without answers, fear of the unknown. But one thing was certain: they weren’t angry with you. They were just scared. Scared of the things they didn’t understand, of the secrets they didn’t know about you.

And Spencer thought, deep down, that with time, they would come to understand. He thought wrong. The understanding was almost immediate.

Spencer sat in silence for a moment, letting the quiet settle in. He could see the shift in the kids’ expressions. The tension that had gripped them was starting to fade, replaced by something else entirely. Aubrey and Owen were no longer frozen in confusion; instead, they were processing everything with a curiosity that bordered on awe.

Aubrey’s eyes sparkled slightly as she broke the silence. "So, like... Mom actually fought that guy. With her hands. That’s... that’s actually kind of awesome." She looked at Owen, a small grin tugging at her lips. "Like, she took him down all by herself!"

Owen nodded eagerly, his previously quiet demeanor gone. "Yeah! She was like, bam! One punch, and that guy was down. I didn’t even see her move. She was so fast, like a ninja or something." He added, his hands mimicking the swiftness of your movements. "I want to learn how to do that. Imagine how cool that would be."

Aubrey turned to Spencer, her eyes wide with admiration. "Dad, did you know she could do that? Like, before you told us all this? She’s a total badass." She leaned forward, her enthusiasm growing. "I bet she’s like, unstoppable."

Spencer couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and genuine despite the heaviness of the evening. His kids were taking this all in stride far better than he expected. It wasn’t quite the reaction he had anticipated, but it was a relief.

"I’ve seen it, yeah," Spencer said, chuckling softly. "Your mom’s always been capable of handling herself. I don’t think she’s ever fully realized just how... impressive it all is." He glanced at the bedroom door, then back at his kids, his smile widening. "But I don’t think she’d want you to think that part of her life is something to look up to. It’s dangerous. What she did, what she had to do... it wasn’t easy."

Aubrey shook her head, her grin not fading in the slightest. "I don’t know, Dad. I think it’s pretty cool. I mean, imagine having a mom who can totally kick some bad guy’s butt. It’s like... I don’t know, it makes her seem like a superhero or something."

Owen jumped in, his voice bubbling with excitement. "Yeah! I bet she’s got all sorts of crazy tricks up her sleeve. Like, she could probably disarm a whole bunch of people and still look cool doing it. I wonder what other stuff she’s done. What if she’s done some spy stuff too? That’d be awesome."

Spencer raised an eyebrow, laughing again. "I think you two might be getting a little carried away here. Your mom’s not exactly... James Bond material. She’d probably rather you forget all about her past life."

Aubrey crossed her arms, a playful smirk on her face. "Maybe. You never know when we might start asking more questions about how many bad guys she’s taken down." She grinned. "Maybe we can ask her to teach us a thing or two."

Spencer’s heart lightened as he saw the shift in his kids' attitudes. The tension, the fear, the unknown — it was starting to fade, replaced by a sense of pride and a new understanding of their mother. They were finding ways to admire you, even from a distance. It felt like a step toward healing, even if it was just the beginning.

"You know," Spencer said, standing up and brushing a hand through his hair, "if you really want to learn, you’d probably need to be in tip-top shape, just like your mom was. She trained hard for everything she did."

Aubrey raised her eyebrows, a playful challenge in her tone. "I’m in. You think we could set up some training sessions? I bet Owen would love it."

Owen grinned, nodding quickly. "Yeah! Let’s do it, Dad. Teach us some moves! We could totally take down anyone who messes with us."

Spencer chuckled, shaking his head. "I’m not sure your mom would go for that, but we’ll see." He paused for a moment, then added with a smile, "But just so you know, she didn’t get those skills by practicing on her own. It’s a lot harder than you think."

Aubrey leaned back on the couch, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Well, that’s a challenge we’re willing to take. We’re totally up for it."

Spencer looked at them, a mixture of amusement and pride on his face. His kids were resilient, stronger than he gave them credit for. Maybe, just maybe, they'd come to understand the complexities of the past in their own time. But for now, it was good to see that they were finding humor, pride, and curiosity in what had been a very difficult conversation.

"Alright," Spencer said, grinning as he walked toward the door. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, we can talk more about training... if your mom's up for it." He paused, adding with a wink, "But maybe don’t push her too hard on that one."

Aubrey laughed as she and Owen exchanged a look. "We’ll go easy, Dad. Promise."

As Spencer left the room, he couldn’t help but smile to himself. It wasn’t the conversation he had expected, but it was one he could live with. At least they weren’t afraid anymore.

The next day, of course, the kids didn't keep their word about being easy on you. They bombarded you with questions, comments, and jokes, but.. Surprisingly to you, they weren't scared.

They thought you were incredible.

The morning after everything went down, you were hoping for a quiet, calm day — a little time to recover, to heal from the intensity of the night before. But, of course, that wasn’t going to happen.

You expected silence, avoidance, and fear from the kids.

You were in the kitchen, making your usual cup of coffee when you heard the sounds of Owen and Aubrey in the other room, laughing louder than usual. You raised an eyebrow as you filled your mug, already suspecting that Spencer had something to do with their newfound enthusiasm.

You stepped into the living room just in time to hear Owen, completely serious, say, "So, Mom, if we were to get into a fight, like a real one, would you just knock the other person out with a single punch?"

Aubrey chimed in, her voice filled with admiration. "Yeah! Or what if you had to take down a whole group of bad guys? Could you do that too? I bet you’d have some crazy moves to pull out."

You stood there for a moment, frozen, coffee mug in hand, blinking at them in disbelief. Then, your gaze moved to Spencer, who was sitting on the couch, a grin on his face like he was watching some sort of comedy show unfold.

"Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me," you muttered under your breath.

Spencer looked up at you, his grin only growing wider. "What? I’m just telling them the truth. They asked, I answered."

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest as you walked into the room. "So, what, now you’re trying to make me out to be some kind of superhero?" You shot him a playful glare. "You know I didn’t want them thinking I’m some kind of action movie character."

Aubrey leaned forward, wide-eyed, clearly not backing down. "But, Mom, you're amazing! We didn’t know you could do stuff like that. It’s like you’re a ninja or something!"

Owen nodded eagerly. "Yeah, you just took that guy down like it was nothing. Do you have any other moves like that? Can you show us?"

You stared at them, your amusement growing but hiding behind your mock annoyance. "I don't know... maybe I should have kept the ‘secret agent’ thing to myself, huh?" You shot Spencer a look. "Now look what you’ve done."

Spencer raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I just told them the truth. You're amazing, and they’re proud of you. What's wrong with that?"

You smirked, your eyes narrowing playfully. "You're really pushing your luck, aren’t you? You're turning my children into little action movie fans."

"Don’t act like you don’t love it," Spencer teased, his tone light, clearly enjoying the way this was unfolding. "They’re just inspired by you."

Aubrey grinned, clearly not seeing the problem. "Well, we think it’s awesome. I mean, you could probably take down anyone who messes with us, right?"

You leaned down and poked her forehead. "First of all, I do not want you kids going around starting fights thinking I’ll bail you out. And second, I'm not some kind of superhero."

Owen raised an eyebrow. "But you are pretty awesome."

You sighed dramatically, then glanced at Spencer, who was still lounging on the couch, looking way too pleased with himself. "You’re encouraging them!" you said, your tone mock-exasperated.

He held up his hands innocently. "I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking."

You shook your head, rolling your eyes. "I bet you are. Next thing I know, you’ll have them signing up for some kind of ‘Mom's Action Hero Training Camp,’" you said, the sarcasm dripping from your words.

"That sounds great!" Aubrey said, practically bouncing in her seat. "Can we start today?"

You groaned, your fingers pinching the bridge of your nose. "You two are impossible."

Spencer chuckled, finally getting up from the couch and wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you toward him. "Hey, it’s not like they’re wrong. You’re one of a kind, and luckily, I married you."

You shot him a side-eye, still a little irritated, but the warmth of his embrace softened the edge of your annoyance.

"Maybe they'll slowly forget what you told them."

"Never," Spencer said, kissing the top of your head. "But if you want, I can help you with some training... I could probably teach them some moves too."

You pushed him away lightly with a smirk. "You’re a shithead, you know that?" But deep down, you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips.

As you made your way back to the kitchen to finish your coffee, the kids continued to chatter excitedly about their “action movie ideas,” with Spencer chuckling and nodding along. And despite your mock annoyance, you had to admit—there was something nice about hearing them talk like that. At least they weren’t scared of you anymore. They thought you were brave, unstoppable.

It was the first time you didn't feel ashamed.

#criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds fic #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #doctor spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #unsub #bau x reader #bau team #quantico #derek morgan x reader #fanfiction

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incognit0slut · 1 year ago

Text

Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

This isn’t a love story. This isn’t a fairytale. This is about a woman bent on setting the world on fire and the FBI agent assigned to her case, drawn to the very flame she ignites.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Unsub!Reader

Warnings: (18+) Typical CM violence, mentions of sexual assault and trauma, implied sex, fire/arson, and this is basically angst with no happy ending

A/n: For once, I am writing outside my comfort zone. This is heavily based on John Mayer’s song with the same title, Female Rage, and Megan Kane (she did nothing wrong!). Constructive criticism is welcome since I rarely write angst, but please be nice, it's my birthday🥺 (yes my birthday appreciation post is heartbreaking)

You wanted the world to burn.

You wanted to watch the ashes drift through the air. You wanted to smell the acid scent of smoke. You wanted to feel the heat envelop you, to wrap your body like a suffocating blanket. Because simply sitting in silence wasn’t enough for the rage that consumed you, the smoldering anger that craved the sound of the world cracking and crumbling under the force of your wrath.

You craved the chaos, but the man lying defeated before you was enough for now. His eyes, wide with horror, stared up at you—the look of a man who knew these were his final moments. He pleaded, his voice cracking in desperation, his hands bound tightly behind his back as you stood there, unfazed.

Please.

I have a family. Think of my children.

Just let me go—I'll disappear, you'll never have to see me again.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? How a man could beg for mercy, could invoke the sanctity of family only when facing his own end. How a man could think that running away could solve everything, believing that his disappearance would erase the past and the suffering he caused.

No, that was a choice you didn’t have. The luxury of forgetting, of escaping the shadows that clung to your every step. Not only was his pleading in vain, it was insulting, as if the depth of his misdeeds could be washed away by mere absence. You wanted him gone. You wanted him dead.

So you gave him a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. Your expression was serene, almost angelic, but it belied the reality of your intentions as your heels echoed through the empty warehouse, a jug of gasoline in hand.

He screamed. Your smile widened. It was useless—no other soul was near enough to hear his cries, too far away to save him. His desperation filled the empty space once again as you poured the gasoline around him, drenching him in its sharp, pungent scent.

Then you took a step back, your hand reaching for the lighter in your pocket. There was a moment of hesitation as you watched him struggle. Could you really do this? Could you cross this final line?

But then the memories surged forward, vivid and painful. He was one of them, one of the people who had taken advantage of your innocence when you were young and naive, who had shattered your trust and left you to pick up the pieces alone, leaving scars that never truly healed.

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

Your fingers tightened around the lighter. What a foolish man, who was he to think that a forced apology could undo the damage? With a steady hand, you flicked the lighter, the flame springing to life. His apologies continued, increasingly frantic, but they were nothing more than the desperate noise of a man who had run out of options, out of time.

You threw the lighter. The small flame sailed through the air, landing amidst the gasoline-soaked ground with a burst of fire. The flame caught instantly, erupting into a roaring blaze that engulfed him in a matter of seconds, drowning out his piercing scream.

You continued to watch his body burn, and perhaps for the very first time in your life, you felt a terrifying peace.

~*~

“This is the third body in a week,” Derek mentioned, stepping into the old factory as he slipped his sunglasses on top of his head, scanning the scene before him. It was disturbing. The stench of burnt flesh hung heavy in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood.

Spencer looked up from where he was crouched near what was left of the victim. “It’s getting more deliberate,” he observed. “The Unsub is trying to send a message.”

Derek moved closer, carefully stepping over a piece of evidence marked by the forensic team. “What are you thinking?”

He slowly stood up, his eyes assessing the place. There were actually a lot of things on his mind, and one of them being how this third victim seemed more calculated, more precise than the others. It was a stark contrast to the first victim, whose remains were found in a haphazard, chaotic state in that old warehouse.

But this one… everything was meticulously arranged, from the positioning of the body to the burn patterns that radiated outwards in a controlled manner. The Unsub was trying to perfect their methods in a short amount of time, and as much as Spencer hated to admit it, it was almost impressive.

“They want attention,” Spencer finally said, breaking the silence as he mulled over the crime scene. “They’re not just doing this for the sake of it; they’re communicating. Whatever message they’re trying to send, it’s getting closer with each victim.”

“You think they’re trying to tell us something?”

“No, I don’t think it’s aimed at us.” Spencer bit his bottom lip, his eyes narrowing in thought. “They’re trying to make a statement.”

“Like a public declaration?”

“Could be,” Spencer acknowledged, stepping back to view the scene from a different angle. “Or it could be a form of protest or revenge.”

“Burning people for revenge,” Derek mused, crossing his arms. “Now that’s a hell of a way to get a point across.”

“It’s deeply symbolic. Fire consumes everything, leaving nothing but ash. It’s final.” He looked up, his eyes meeting Derek’s. “Whoever is doing this is not just angry, they’re trying to erase their victims from existence.”

“Well, they’re doing a pretty good job at it, we haven’t identified any of them yet.”

Spencer frowned, his gaze dropping back to the scene in front of him. Identifying the first two victims had been nearly impossible due to the extent of the burns. The flames had consumed everything, leaving behind little more than brittle bones and ash. Dental records and DNA tests had been their only hope, and even those couldn’t identify the victims.

He continued to study the body, looking for anything that could help them. The burns were severe, almost total, but then something caught his eye. A faint mark, barely visible under the scorched skin. He leaned in closer, squinting to make out the details. There, peeking out from the blackened flesh on the victim’s forearm, partially obscured by the burns, was a small tattoo.

“I think we might have something,” he said, pointing to the mark.

Derek leaned in, his eyes widening slightly. “That looks like a tattoo.”

“You think we can get this to the lab?”

“We can,” Derek replied as he took out his phone and took a quick photo of it. “But we also have Garcia.”

Spencer watched as Derek quickly navigated through his contacts, his fingers moving with practiced ease. He tapped the screen, putting the phone close to his ear. It didn’t take long for the call to connect, and almost immediately, a familiar voice filled the brief silence through the speaker.

“I knew you couldn’t go a day without me,” Penelope’s unmistakable cheerful voice greeted him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this delightful interruption?”

Derek couldn’t help but crack a slight smile. “Garcia, we need your magic on a photo. There’s a partial tattoo on our latest victim, and we need to know if it matches anyone in the system.”

“Send it over and I’ll sprinkle some of my digital pixie dust on it.”

Derek attached the photo to a message and sent it directly to her. “It’s on its way.”

“Got it,” Penelope replied, her fingers already flying across her keyboard on the other end. “Okay, this might take a while, but I do have more information on our first victim, or I guess you can say, I have all the information that you need.”

“Our first John Doe is identified?”

“Rick Sullivan,” she confirmed. “He was reported missing a week ago by his wife. Turns out he has a bit of a past—multiple arrests for minor offenses, but nothing that would usually make him a target for this kind of violence.”

Spencer leaned closer to Derek’s phone. “Does he have any known associates or enemies that stand out?”

“Not on record,” Penelope said, her voice slightly muffled as she sifted through more files. “But listen to this, his bank transactions show some pretty hefty sums being spent regularly. Guess where most of it is going?”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

"To an exclusive strip club on the east side of town called The Velvet Curtain,” she revealed. “Seems our Mr. Sullivan was quite the regular spender there.”

Derek smiled, shaking his head slightly. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

“Not nearly enough,” she replied with a playful lilt in her voice. “Keep the compliments coming and maybe I’ll dig up even more dirt for you.”

“We’ll need all the dirt we can get. Thanks, Garcia.”

“Always a pleasure, gentlemen. I’ll keep you updated if I find anything else,” she said before ending the call.

Derek turned to Spencer as he slipped his phone back in his pocket. “Ready to see some strippers, Pretty Boy?”

Spencer glanced back at the charred remains. He’d seen too many bodies, too much senseless violence. There was nothing left that could shake him—not even the neon lights and dark corners of a strip club, or even the thought of being in a room surrounded by half-naked women. He could handle that. He could definitely handle that.

With a slight nod aimed at Derek, he followed him out of the building.

~*~

“Scarlett!” A voice rang through the dressing room. “You’re up in five!”

You swiped the red lipstick across your lips one last time, perfecting the bold arch that had become your signature look as your eyes swept over your reflection, eying the thin straps of your costume. The fabric was a deep, seductive red, almost the color of freshly drawn blood, and barely covered your skin. The material was sheer and see-through, leaving little to the imagination, something you preferred. Because the more skin you showed, the more you felt in control.

This was your armor, the persona you donned to hide the secrets buried beneath your glamorous exterior. As Scarlett, you were a siren. Untouchable. You had power and control, something your life outside these walls lacked.

“Scarlett!”

“I’m coming!” You snapped, capping the lipstick and placing it back in your makeup bag. You stood up, smoothing down your outfit, and made your way to the stage entrance.

The stage coordinator eyed you up and down. “No props for today?”

You shook your head, giving a confident smile. “Not today. I can manage without them.”

He nodded approvingly, moving to the side. “Alright, it's your cue."

You brushed past him and headed down the dimly lit corridor leading to the stage, the familiar rush of adrenaline surging through you. Taking one last deep breath, you finally stepped into the glow of the spotlight. The crowd's attention shifted to you, and you felt the power you had grown accustomed to, the control you desperately craved. The music pulsed through the air as you sauntered toward the pole at center stage.

You started to move.

Your fingers around the cold metal, and your body naturally found the beat as you began to dance seductively, letting the red fabric of your costume shimmer under the lights. A flirtatious smile played on your lips as you glanced around the room, locking eyes with a few patrons who watched. You slid down the pole, bending your knees and arching your back gracefully, biting back a smile as you heard the cheers and whistles from the crowd.

You took in the familiar faces and the usual gazes of admiration and desire, from the sleazy grins of regulars to the guilty looks of married men stealing away from home. But then, two men caught your attention, standing out starkly against the backdrop of the usual patrons.

One of them exuded confidence, his gaze steady and assessing as he watched your performance. The other, however, seemed out of place, his eyes darting around the room awkwardly. At first, he appeared uneasy, shifting uncomfortably on his feet and avoiding direct eye contact. But as you moved, dancing with the pole and letting your body sway to the rhythm, his gaze gradually settled on you.

You had never seen him before. He was unexpectedly handsome, with soft curls that danced along the edges of his face and soft features that made him beautiful, almost angelic. But there was something more about him that intrigued you. Maybe it was the way he seemed to blend in with the shadows, making him nearly invisible among the brasher, more excited crowd. His presence was so out of place and yet so focused on you that it spurred you on.

With a teasing smile, you tugged at the thin strap of your top, playing with it as you danced. His eyes followed the movement, his breath catching slightly as you slowly slid the strap down your shoulder. The fabric slipped further, revealing more of your skin as you twirled around the pole.

You then arched your back and bent low, the thin strap finally gave way, allowing your top to slide down your body, exposing your perky breasts to the crowd. His eyes widened slightly, but he couldn't look away. Neither could you. For a moment, it was just the two of you, locked in a silent exchange as the cheers and applause became a distant hum in the background.

You could see the conflict in his eyes—part fascination, part restraint—and it only made you bolder. You slipped the last piece of fabric down your legs, and with each sway of your hips, you drew him deeper into your world, determined to leave a mark on his memory.

~*~

“Just talked to the club owner,” Derek mentioned as he walked over to where Spencer stood, hiding in the corner of the room. “He gave us permission to question the dancers.”

Spencer nodded, but didn’t say anything. Derek raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m… fine.”

Derek gave him a knowing look. “Your first time being at a place like this?”

Spencer’s gaze lingered on the stage. That would be a good excuse for why he was acting this way, but it wasn’t the truth. He grew up in Las Vegas, after all. Even though he rarely found himself in these types of scenes, he knew what went behind the walls. He was aware of what happened inside clubs, the performers, and the whole spectrum of human behavior. But he had never seen someone so… mesmerizing.

His mind was still processing the way you moved, the way you commanded the room with such effortless confidence. The way you shamelessly captivated everyone’s attention, including his.

No, it wasn’t the setting that threw him off—it was you.

“Reid?”

Spencer cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m here,” he managed, snapping back to the present. “So the dancers?”

Derek nodded, sensing Spencer’s momentary distraction but choosing not to comment.

“Yeah, we need to start talking to them. With these many dancers, I think it’s better we split up.” His eyes scanned the room. “You take the bar out here, and I’ll handle the lounge area. If any of them seem to know more or are hesitant to talk in front of others, we can bring them aside for a more private conversation.”

“Got it,” Spencer agreed. He straightened his tie and took a deep breath as he made his way directly to the bar, nodding politely to the bartender before turning to address the group of dancers gathered nearby.

“Excuse me, uh, hi there,” he greeted, showing them his badge. “I’m Dr. Spencer Reid with the FBI. I’d appreciate it if I could ask you a few questions.”

The dancers exchanged glances as Spencer cleared his throat, trying to appear composed. One of them, a tall woman with striking pink hair, stepped forward. “What do you need to know, Handsome?”

Spencer felt a flush creep up his neck, momentarily flustered by the directness. “Have any of you noticed anything unusual or seen anyone acting suspiciously in the past few weeks?”

The pink-haired woman looked him up and down, taking in his crisp suit and tie with a playful smile. “Well, the only unusual thing I’ve seen lately is a handsome FBI agent in a place like this.”

Her comment drew a few chuckles from the group, and Spencer felt a wave of awkwardness wash over him. He usually could handle a bit of teasing—he’d even interviewed sex workers who blatantly flirted with him before—but being surrounded by half-naked women, one of whom was actually topless, was making him feel distinctly out of place. His usual confidence was slipping away, replaced by a deep, uncomfortable blush.

Before he could respond, another dancer, this one with blue hair, joined in the teasing. “Aww, look at him blushing. Aren’t you just adorable?”

Spencer cleared his throat, trying to refocus. “I, uh, appreciate your… observations. But really, any information about unusual behavior could be very helpful.”

One of them, with a mischievous glint in her eye, leaned closer and asked in a flirty tone, “Would you like to find a private room for questioning, Doctor?”

His eyes widened. “W-What? No, no, I—”

“Ladies.”

Spencer turned around, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw you standing close to him, your sweet fragrance enveloping him. His heartbeat quickened, and he found it hard not to stare. You had changed from your performance attire into something slightly less revealing but no less captivating that Spencer had to remind himself to blink.

“Stop teasing the poor guy,” you said, addressing the dancers with a slight smirk.

“We were just being nice,” one of them protested, feigning innocence.

You rolled your eyes. “Come on, let’s give him some space.”

The rest of the dancers giggled, picking up their drinks and retreating to another part of the club. You watched them leave before turning back to Spencer and gracefully took a seat on a stool where one of them had been.

“So,” you began, crossing one leg over the other, and Spencer made a conscious effort not to focus on how the fabric rode up your thighs. “I can’t help but overhear you’re with the FBI. I’m Scarlett.”

He stared at your outstretched hand but made no effort to take it. “Dr. Spencer Reid.”

“Ah,” you said, retracting your hand and placing it on your lap. “You’re that type of guy.”

“What do you mean?”

You tilted your head slightly, a wry smile playing on your lips. “You know, the type who might think less of this kind of job, of people who work in places like this."

Spencer shook his head quickly. “No, it’s not that. I grew up in Las Vegas, places like this don't surprise me. It's just that—l don't do handshakes. Personal preference, not a judgment."

You raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“Well, studies show that handshakes transfer a significant amount of pathogens. It’s actually safer to kiss someone than to shake their hand.”

An amused smile played on your lips. “Is that your way of trying to kiss me, Dr. Reid?”

Spencer’s eyes widened, and a flush crept up his neck. “Uh, no, that’s not what I meant at all,” he stammered. “I just meant, scientifically speaking, it’s… safer.”

“Of course.” You chuckled, leaning back slightly. “So what brings the FBI here?”

Spencer cleared his throat. “We’re here to gather information about one of your customers.”

“Who?”

“Do you know anyone by the name Rick Sullivan?”

“Know him? He practically lives at the end of the bar some nights.” Your eyes swept over the empty seat where Rick usually occupied. “Although he hasn’t come here in a while, his wife probably decided to put her foot down."

“Do you remember anything unusual about his behavior or if he mentioned anything out of the ordinary recently?”

You thought for a moment, then shrugged. “He was always pretty quiet. But now that you mention it, a few weeks ago, he seemed more on edge than usual. Kept looking over his shoulder like he was expecting someone.”

“Did he ever talk to anyone in particular, or did anyone strange approach him?”

You shook your head. “Not that I noticed. But then again, it gets pretty busy here. Hard to keep track of every interaction.”

Spencer nodded at the information. “Is there anyone who seemed particularly close with him here?”

“I don’t think so. He’s friendly with some of the regulars, but no one stood out. He mostly keeps to himself unless he’s buying drinks for the dancers.” You watched him, noticing the way his brow furrowed slightly in thought and you couldn’t help but ask, “I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but don’t you have to write all this down?”

Spencer glanced at you, a small smile forming on his lips. "I have a good memory. I'll remember everything you've told me."

"Really? Do you have a photographic memory or something?"

"Eidetic, actually.”

Your eyebrows raised in surprise. “That’s impressive. So basically you’ll remember anything?”

Spencer nodded. “Yes, I can recall detailed images and information with high precision.”

“Alright, I want you to remember this then,” you said, leaning in slightly. You recited a series of numbers, your voice smooth and confident.

He looked genuinely confused. “What’s that?”

“My number.”

He blinked, clearly taken aback, but a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Oh.”

“There’s a rule against sharing personal information while working here,” you explained, leaning in a bit closer, “But you can save it under Y/N. That’s my real name.”

Spencer found himself momentarily mesmerized by your proximity, the scent of your perfume, and the intensity of your gaze. He blinked, trying to maintain his composure.

“Y/N,” he repeated softly, as if committing it to memory.

You smiled. “Exactly. Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t,” he assured you as you slipped off the stool and the space between you momentarily vanished. For a brief, unexpected second, your body lightly pressed against his. The contact was fleeting but there was an unspoken tension that seemed to pause the noise around you.

The closeness brought a rush of warmth, and your eyes locked with his. “Do you like jazz music, Dr. Reid?”

He frowned, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. “Um, I don’t really listen to music.”

“Well, that’s a pity,” you replied with a playful smile. “There’s a great spot not too far from here. They have live bands on the weekends.”

“What… what are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to ask you out on a date.”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly as he processed your words. “Oh,” he stammered, clearly taken aback by your boldness. He hesitated, his mind racing to catch up with the situation. “I, uh, I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

“Because you’re an FBI agent and I’m a stripper?”

He swallowed, looking a bit flustered. “It’s not that. It’s just… there are boundaries, and I’m supposed to remain professional.”

“Ah, I see. But if you decide to change your mind…” You moved closer, reaching out to fix his crooked tie, your fingers brushing lightly against the fabric. “I’ll be at the Blue Moon on Saturday around 9 p.m., sitting at the bar in a red dress with a drink in my hand.”

Spencer’s breath hitched slightly as he tensed but didn’t pull away, keeping his eyes locked on yours. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“I hope you do, Dr. Reid.” You took a step back, your hand lingering for a moment before you let go of his tie. “You know where to find me.”

And with that, you turned and walked away, leaving him standing there as he watched you blend into the crowd, conflicted and unexpectedly aroused.

~*~

You weren’t sure what you were trying to do. Asking an FBI agent out on a date went against every rule you had set for yourself. You were supposed to keep your distance, to remain anonymous and untouchable. It was safer that way, for both you and your secrets. Yet, here you were, sipping your drink as you waited for a man who represented everything you should be avoiding.

A part of you questioned your sanity. What was it about him that made you break your own rules? It was reckless, foolish even. Getting involved with someone like Spencer Reid could only complicate things.

But there was something about him. Maybe it was the curiosity in his eyes, the way he seemed both out of place and perfectly composed at the same time. Or perhaps it was the way he treated you with a respect and sincerity that you hadn’t felt in a long time. Whatever it was, it had been enough to make you take this risk.

But now, as you sat by the bar alone an hour later, you couldn’t help but wonder if it had all been a mistake. The minutes had ticked by slowly, and you tried to ignore the gnawing feeling that maybe you had misjudged him. Maybe he decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, and maybe that was for the best.

Just as you were about to give up and leave, the door to your side opened. You turned, not daring to hope, and there he was—looking slightly disheveled and out of breath, but undeniably there with a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

His eyes scanned the room until they landed on you, and a small, relieved smile crossed his face.

“Hi,” he said, a bit breathless. “I’m sorry I’m late, I got held up at work and I didn’t want to come empty handed, so…”

Your eyes drifted towards the simple bouquet of white lilies in his hand. “Are those for me?”

Spencer nodded, extending the flowers towards you. “Yes, they are,” he replied. “I didn’t know what you’d like, and I thought lilies are a safe choice because they’re elegant and not too overwhelming, but then I started thinking maybe roses would have been better, but then roses can be a bit too—”

You cut him off with a warm smile, gently taking the bouquet from him. “They’re perfect. Thank you.”

He let out a small sigh of relief. “I’m glad you like them.”

You placed the lilies on the bar and gestured to the seat beside you. “Come here, you look like you just ran a marathon.”

“It felt like it,” he admitted, taking the seat right next to you. “I really didn’t want to be late.”

“You’re here now, that’s what matters.” You slightly leaned back and studied him. “I’m actually surprised you changed your mind.”

Spencer glanced at you. “I… I guess I realized I didn’t want to miss the chance to get to know you.”

“Yeah?” You tilted your head, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “What do you want to know about me?”

There were so many things he wanted to know about you, actually. He wanted to know your story, why you chose your job, and who you were beneath this confident exterior. But that was all too much for a first date. Glancing around the room, he decided to start with something simpler and said, “Start with how you know this place.”

You smiled, looking around the familiar setting. “I found it a few years ago. I was walking aimlessly down the road one night after work and stumbled this place. It’s become my little escape since then.”

“I can see why." His eyes drifted towards the band playing live music and the few patrons mesmerized by the soft tune. "It’s definitely got a charm to it.”

You leaned in slightly. “Do you have any secret escapes?”

He looked back at you. “Not really. My escapes aren’t quite as charming. Mostly books and chess. They're not exactly thrilling.”

“Books and chess?” you asked, tapping your finger on the bar. “You really are a nerd.”

“I prefer to think of myself as a man of knowledge,” he replied with a shy yet proud smile.

“Well, intelligence is attractive, and not only that, it’s also very sexy." You laughed when you noticed him slightly squirming. “Do you have any other hidden talents I should know about?”

He tilted his head, thinking for a moment. “I’m actually pretty good at magic tricks. It’s something I picked up as a kid.”

“Now that’s a talent I didn’t expect,” you observed, your eyes lighting up. “You’ll have to show me sometime.”

“I’d be happy to,” he replied enthusiastically. “What about you? What’s your hidden talent?”

You grinned. “I can make a pretty mean lasagna. And I’m good at dancing, but you might have already guessed that.”

Spencer suddenly felt the warmth spreading along his face as he remembered your performance on stage the other day. His mind flashed back to the way you moved with such confidence, the undeniable sex appeal you exuded effortlessly, and he could feel his cheeks heating up.

“Yeah, I, uh, definitely noticed,” he admitted.

“I hope that means you were impressed.”

Spencer nodded, still a bit flustered but managing a smile. “Very impressed.”

“Why, thank you,” you noted, leaning closer to him. “How about you? Do you dance, Dr. Reid?”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly at the question. “I’m not nearly as skilled as you are,” he confessed. “My dance moves are more… theoretical. More of an exercise in coordination than something you’d want to see in action.”

The image of this authority figure awkwardly dancing in his suit made you smile.

“Now this I need to see.” Sliding off the stool, you extended your hand towards him. “Dance with me.”

Spencer hesitated for a moment, glancing around the room. “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “Trust me, it’ll be fun.”

You waited, half-expecting him to decline considering he didn’t even want to shake your hand the last time you saw him. But then, to your surprise, he took a deep breath and placed his hand in yours.

You couldn’t help but smile as he stood up and let you lead him to a small open space near the bar, slipping in between other couples swaying to the music as the band played a lively, upbeat tune.

“Okay, put your hand here,” you instructed, guiding his hand to rest lightly on your waist. You took his other hand in yours and began to sway gently to the rhythm, leading him in a basic two-step.

Spencer tried to follow, his movements slightly awkward at first. “I’m not sure I’m doing this right.”

“You’re doing fine,” you reassured him, smiling up at him. “Just trust your instinct.”

“My instinct is to find the nearest exit door.”

“No escaping tonight. You’re stuck with me,” you teased, your other hand holding onto his shoulder. “Besides, I think you’re doing pretty well for someone who claims to be bad at dancing.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow, his confidence growing slightly. “You think so?”

“Yep,” you replied, giving him a grin. “In fact, I’d say you’re almost a natural.”

“Almost?” he echoed, a teasing note in his voice. “What do I need to do to earn the proper title?”

“Maybe a spin?” You suggested, already positioning yourself lightly. With an encouraging nod, you prompted him, and he took the cue, lifting his arm and carefully guiding you into a smooth spin under his hold. You twirled gracefully and came back into his arms, beaming up at him.

“How was that?” He asked.

“Pretty impressive.”

He smiled, and a warmth spread through you, a sense of happiness you hadn’t felt in a long time. It was wrong, you knew that. You knew you were stepping into dangerous territory, blurring lines that should remain clear. But at that moment, all those concerns seemed distant and unimportant, especially when the music suddenly turned slower.

The soft, sultry notes of a saxophone filled the air as you moved closer to him, gently grabbing his hands before guiding them to rest behind your back.

“Now this,” you began, moving your arms around his neck. “Is how you dance to a slow song.”

Spencer smiled, a genuine, soft expression that made his whole features light up. He pulled you gently against his chest. “I think I prefer this type of dance better.”

You rested your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt. “Me too.”

You felt a hand press gently on your lower back, drawing you even closer as you took a deep breath, inhaling his scent. He smelled of fresh soap and something sweet, like vanilla or honey—a combination that you could easily find yourself getting addicted to.

The thought surprised you. For someone who loathed men, who had built a life around a cold, calculated revenge against them, you found Spencer oddly comforting. It was unsettling how natural it felt to be this close to him, how safe he made you feel.

You could almost laugh at the irony. Here you were, a woman fueled by a desire for vengeance, finding solace in the arms of a man. It was reckless. Dangerous. You needed to keep your head in the game. Allowing yourself to get distracted, to feel these warm, tender emotions, was a risk you couldn’t afford.

But as you pressed your face closer to the crook of his neck, it became increasingly difficult to push him away. You knew you had to be cautious. You knew you needed to keep your head clear, your focus sharp, and you promised yourself that you would.

But not now. Not when his touch made you feel something you hadn’t felt in years. For now, you allowed yourself to surrender to the moment, to the warmth of his embrace, to the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat against yours, and to the fleeting sense of peace that felt so foreign yet so desperately needed.

~*~

Spencer wasn’t sure what he was trying to do. He found himself awkwardly moving close to you, then pulling back, reaching out as if to take your hand, then stopping himself. The hesitation gnawed at him, torn between wanting to hold your hand and maintaining a respectful distance.

Was it too soon? Was there a rule about holding hands on the first date?

He mentally sifted through his limited experiences, trying to recall any useful advice or guidelines. But all he could think about was how natural it had felt to dance with you, to be close to you. He glanced over, catching the soft glow of the streetlights across your face. You looked serene, content, and he wished he could just follow his instincts without second-guessing every move.

“What?” You asked without looking at him. “Why are you staring at me?

He quickly directed his gaze away from you. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

You turned to him with a small, amused smile. “You’re not making me uncomfortable. I was just curious.”

He hesitated as you both continued to walk, the rhythmic sound of your footsteps blending with the quiet night. Finally, he decided to be honest. “I’ve been trying to figure out the right moment. I guess I’m not very good with this sort of thing.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I wanted to hold your hand,” he blurted, his face flushing slightly. “But I wasn’t sure if it was too soon. I didn’t want to seem too forward or make you uncomfortable. I’m sure there’s a whole rule to this that I don’t know about, and I’ve been overthinking it the entire walk.”

You chuckled softly. “Spencer, you don’t need to worry so much.”

He took a deep breath. “I guess what I’m trying to say is… can I hold your hand?”

“Of course, you can,” you replied. “I’d really like that.”

His face lit up as he reached out, his fingers gently intertwining with yours. You laughed at his boyish smile. “So this is why you’ve been silent this whole time?”

“I didn’t want to overstep any boundaries.”

“And here I thought you didn’t want to talk to me because you didn’t enjoy my company.”

Spencer’s eyes widened in surprise. “No, not at all! I was just worried about doing something wrong.”

“I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong tonight.”

He looked at you, relief washing over his face. “Really?”

“Well, except for making me wait for a whole hour.”

He winced at your words. “Sorry about that. I really didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

You squeezed his hand gently. “Don’t worry. The flowers were worth the wait,” you said, holding up the bouquet in your other hand. “And besides, I enjoyed dancing with you, I had a great time talking to you, and now you’re walking me home, which is definitely a bonus point.”

“So you’re keeping scores?” He asked, finding this conversation amusing. “What’s my score now?”

You pretended to think, a smile playing on your lips. “Well, punctuality could use some work, but excellent choice in flowers, charming dance skills, and chivalrous escort service? I’d say you’re doing quite well. Maybe an eight out of ten?”

“An eight? What happened to the last two points?”

“You need to earn them.”

“How?”

You slowed your pace, pulling him to a stop under a streetlight.

“Close your eyes,” you instructed. He hesitated for a moment, then complied, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he shut his eyes.

“Okay. Now what?”

You stood on your toes, trying to match his height, and leaned in close. Then, with a quick flutter of excitement, you pressed a soft kiss on his cheek.

His eyes widened in surprise. “I—uh, what—”

You just laughed, a light and carefree sound that cut through the night. “You just gained another point, Dr. Reid.”

Before he knew it, you turned and dashed away, your laughter trailing behind you playfully. He couldn't help but smile at the sound, and, almost without thinking, he started chasing after you.

Spencer wasn't sure why he was running, or even why this felt like the most natural thing to do, but he didn't care. Your laughter was infectious, and when he finally caught up, wrapping his arms around your waist, he couldn't stop laughing.

"Got you," he said, grinning as he met your gaze.

His eyes lingered on yours for a moment, taking in the way you looked up at him with those pretty eyes. There was a certain glow about you, a warmth that seemed to radiate across your face. His gaze then drifted down to your lips, slightly parted and still bearing the sweetest smile he had ever seen, and he felt an unfamiliar tug in his chest.

He liked seeing you like this. You always looked so confident and poised, but now you seemed... happy. There was a lightness in your eyes that he hadn't seen before, and like a moth to a flame, he wanted to bask in your warmth.

Without thinking, he slowly closed the gap between you, his eyes flicking down to your lips for a brief moment before meeting your gaze again. The world seemed to hold its breath as he leaned in, and then, gently, he kissed you.

Your lips were so soft.

He had imagined they would be, but not like this—not as delicate, not as perfectly in sync with his. The sensation was more than he had ever expected, more than he had allowed himself to hope for. His tongue gently traced your bottom lip, and the soft moan that escaped you urged him even further.

He pulled you closer, and you parted your lips to invite him in. The moment his tongue slipped inside your mouth, he was lost in the rush of flavors and sensations. Your tongues danced together, exploring, tasting, savoring every second while everything around him started to blur into shadows and muffled sounds.

He was so engrossed, so utterly consumed by the taste of you, that he completely forgot he was standing in the middle of a bustling sidewalk. It wasn't until he heard the distinct sound of a throat being cleared that reality snapped back into focus. Pulling slightly away, he turned his head towards the sound and met the stern gaze of an older woman passing by.

“Sorry,” he muttered, feeling incredibly flustered. The woman simply huffed and continued on her way, shaking her head.

You giggled as you reached up to wipe a smudge of lipstick from his mouth. “I thought you weren’t good with this sort of thing.”

“I’m not,” he assured you, his thumb gently brushing your sides. “This is... definitely a first for me.”

“Oh, really?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “So you’re saying you don’t usually make out with girls on busy sidewalks?”

The laugh he let out sounded almost ludicrous, as if the image of him kissing girls in public seemed completely out of character, out of place—until now, to his surprise.

“Nope, can’t say that I do.”

You smiled and tugged on his arm. “Come on.”

You walked together, and Spencer took your hand again. His grip tightened slightly, almost unconsciously, as if he wanted to imprint the way your hand felt into his memory. He was acutely aware of the warmth of your skin, the way your fingers fit perfectly with his. And this sense of wanting to hold onto you grew even stronger when you finally arrived at your building.

“This is me,” you said softly, turning to face him.

He looked down at your intertwined hands. “This is you.”

There was a brief, tense silence before you softly called out his name. He met your gaze, and dear god, how could he let go when you looked at him like that? He was mesmerized by the way your eyes sparkled under the light, the soft curve of your smile, the gentle confidence in your stance.

“Yes?”

“Aren’t you going to ask how you can earn your last point?”

He blinked, momentarily thrown off by your question, then a slow smile spread across his face. “Alright,” he said. “How can I earn my last point?”

Then he saw it, the same glint in your eyes that he had noticed when you were dancing on stage. It was a look filled with flirtation, exuding sex appeal and confidence. The way your eyes sparkled under the ambient light, the subtle but assured smile playing on your lips, all pointed to someone who knew exactly what they were doing and enjoyed the game just as much as the outcome.

“Well,” you started. “How about you come upstairs and we can figure it out together?”

Spencer’s heart raced at your words. He might not have had much experience when it came to dating, but he knew the look on your face all too well because he was sure he had the same expression. His eyes fell to your lips.

“I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

You gave him a knowing smile. “Because you’re trying to remain professional?” You asked, recalling his exact words the other night. “Spencer, I think you’ve long forgotten about that the moment you agreed to spend the evening with me.”

He felt a rush of warmth at your words, realizing just how right you were. The boundaries he usually upheld seemed irrelevant now, replaced by the desire to be closer to you. He sighed, the tension easing slightly as he admitted, “I guess you’re right.”

You stepped closer, your smile seductive. “So, how about we stop worrying about what’s appropriate and just enjoy ourselves?”

He was going to regret this.

“What do you have in mind?”

He was really going to regret this.

“I think you already know what I have in mind.”

Oh, screw it. If regret was the price he had to bear, then he was willing to pay it.

~*~

The crowd pulsed when you stepped out into the main area, heels clicking sharply against the floor. You took in the scene before you, passing sleazy men, some slipping tips to a dancer on stage, others getting lap dances in the dimly lit corners. A group of men in sharp suits whistled when they spotted you, and you winked at them, flipping your hair back with a playful gesture before continuing on.

You could feel heavy stares watching your every move, but despite being in a room full of men, there was only one man you had your eyes on.

You spotted him by the bar with a drink in his hand, and despite your meticulous planning to bring him back here to observe him, the sight of the man who ripped off your dreams as a naive sixteen-year-old girl never failed to ignite a burning rage within you. You wondered whether his memory was as vivid as yours, if he remembered the disgusting things he had done. But there was never any sign of recognition in his eyes, just as there hadn’t been in the eyes of the three before him.

They all thought you were just a woman trying to make ends meet, working every night in this dark place by taking your clothes off on stage. To them, you were just another pretty face, another body to gawk at. They believed you were just another girl trapped in the cycle of survival, oblivious to the deadly game you were playing.

You had crafted this persona carefully, every move, every word designed to lure them in, to make them feel comfortable, even powerful. They had no idea that you held their fate in your hands. You made them think they were taking advantage of a desperate woman, but in reality, they were the ones being manipulated, guided like pawns towards their inevitable downfall.

And tonight, it was his turn. The last of the men who had tainted your innocence.

You slipped into the empty stool beside him, a coy smile playing on your lips. “I thought I saw a familiar face.”

He turned towards you, his eyes lighting up. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” you replied, your voice a soft purr. The words were easy, almost natural.

“You’ve been quite the distraction for me,” he admitted. “Couldn’t stop thinking of you.”

You laughed lightly. “Good, because I aim to please.”

“And you’re very pleasing to look at,” he agreed, his eyes tracing the curve of your smile. “You have a way of captivating an audience.”

“Well, it’s nice to know I have such a dedicated fan.” You leaned loser so your shoulders brushed. “What brings you here tonight? A fight with the missus?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, nothing like that. She’s out of town.”

You knew that already. You knew his schedule as well as he did, if not better. But you feigned innocence, like you always did.

“Lucky me then,” you replied with a flirtatious tilt of your head. “It means I get to have you all to myself tonight.”

“That’s the idea,” he said, his eyes roaming over you with undisguised interest. “I really couldn’t stop thinking about you lately.”

You leaned in closer, your breath warm against his ear. “Really? What exactly have you been thinking?”

“I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to spend some real time with you. Away from the club.”

You arched an eyebrow, your lips curving into a playful smile. “Oh? And what exactly would we do with that time?”

His hand brushed against your thigh under the table, a bold move that was more telling than any words. “I think you know what I mean.”

You pulled back slightly, giving him a flirtatious look. “You know it’s against the rules to do anything too... personal here. The club has strict policies about that sort of thing.”

“That’s a shame. I was hoping for more than just a dance.”

You smiled slyly, your eyes locking onto his with a promise. “Who says we have to stay here?”

His grin widened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, brushing your fingers along his arm. “We could go somewhere else…” you murmured, your hand continuing a path up his shoulder, tracing the line of his suit jacket. “Somewhere we can really enjoy each other’s company.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued by your suggestion. “Like where?”

You let your lips brush his ear. “How about your place? Your wife isn't there, we can use it however we want.”

There was a pause as he considered your words. You could see the wheels turning, the temptation playing across his face. Sensing his uncertainty, you placed your hand gently on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart under your fingertips.

“Think about it,” you coaxed softly, your voice a seductive whisper. “Just you and me, no rules, no eyes watching...” Your body inched closer to his. “It’ll be our little secret.”

His eyes darkened with anticipation, the earlier reluctance fading away under your touch. “Alright,” he said after a brief pause. “Let’s go back to my place.”

You smiled triumphantly, standing up, brushing the nonexistent dust on his shoulders. “Meet me at the back exit in five. I need to grab my purse.”

He nodded excitedly as he watched you walk away, mesmerized by the confidence in the sway of your hips. But the moment you stepped into the dressing room, your façade cracked.

You closed the door behind you and leaned against it, taking a deep breath as you fought to keep your composure. The walls seemed to close in, the air thinning around you as if suffocating you under the weight of your own emotions. Your breath became shallow, the world spinning slightly as a wave of dizziness and anger overwhelmed you all at once.

You slowly forced yourself to move, your feet dragging you over towards the mirror. The reflection staring back at you was almost unrecognizable. The confident, seductive woman from moments was now replaced with a figure trembling under the weight of her memories.

Tears welled up in your eyes as the past rushed back in a wave of emotion. The image of the young girl you once were, the girl whose dreams had been shattered by the man waiting for you outside, seemed to blend itself over your reflection. The pain, the anger, the helplessness—it all came flooding back, threatening to overwhelm you.

But you couldn’t let it. Not now.

Wiping away the tears with the back of your hand, you straightened up, forcing yourself to take deep, steadying breaths. You grabbed your purse and checked its contents one last time, making sure everything was in place, and checked your phone.

There was a message.

Your eyes welled up with tears again as you saw the name glaring back at you.

Dr. Reid :)

Just seeing his name was breaking your heart. He had been trying to contact you for days now, ever since that night you spent together. The night that had been a brief, beautiful distraction from the dark path you were on. He was kind, gentle, and you couldn’t stop thinking of the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world.

Each message was harder to ignore than the last, and he wasn’t just reaching out; he was trying to reach in. His words were always kind, always thoughtful.

I had a great time. Can we meet again?

Just thinking about you. Hope you're okay.

Did you know sea otters hold hands when they sleep to keep from drifting apart?

His random messages of facts always made you smile because it was so authentically him—something you had never encountered before. And every time he tried to contact you, the walls you had carefully constructed around your heart began to crack. You longed to reach out to him, to relive those short moments of happiness that had brought a rare light into your life. But you knew that if you allowed yourself to see him again, it would only weaken your resolve.

So you had been avoiding him, giving excuses about being busy or not feeling well. His presence had a way of grounding you, and you couldn’t afford that now, not when you were so close to the end.

Your eyes fell to your phone again. Despite the knot tightening in your stomach, despite knowing how much it would hurt, you clicked open the message.

Can I see you tonight?

The words on the screen blurred as your grip tightened. A part of you wanted to see him again, to have his arms wrapped around your body, to feel the rhythm of his heartbeat against yours. But surrendering to these desires would only put you in danger. It was only a matter of time until he saw through your act, and until then, you needed to move fast.

Because you knew that if you let him in, if you opened that door, you wouldn't be able to follow through with your plan. The plan that had consumed you for so long, and now with the final act right in front of you, you couldn't afford any distractions.

So you took a deep breath and crafted another lie.

I have work tonight. I'm sorry.

~*~

Spencer stared at the message, a frown creasing his forehead. Had he done something wrong?

He couldn't shake the feeling that you were avoiding him. He replayed the evening in his mind, analyzing every detail, every word exchanged. It had felt perfect to him—the connection, the chemistry. But now, your constant excuses and distant responses gnawed at him. Had he misread everything? Had he been too forward, or was there something he had missed?

"Reid?" Derek's voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality.

“Sorry,” Spencer mumbled, slipping his phone into his pocket. “You were saying?”

Derek opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Penelope entered the conference room with a laptop in her hand. "You guys are gonna love me," she sang, setting the device down.

“You found anything?” Derek asked.

“Remember that blurry picture of the tattoo you sent me a few days ago?” she turned her laptop screen towards them, showing a detailed emblem that was now clearly visible. "This isn't just any tattoo—it's mandatory for the members of a local club known for their… exclusive membership.”

“What kind of club?”

Penelope clicked through a few more screens, bringing up information she had compiled. “It’s a bit underground, not your typical social club. It appears to be part social, part cultural, but there are hints of something more... let's just say, illegal activities.”

“And all members have this tattoo?”

“Yep, it’s like a symbol of loyalty, almost like a badge of honor.”

Spencer felt a knot tightening in his stomach. “Is it… The Velvet Curtain?”

Penelope shook her head, typing quickly to bring up a comparison on her screen.

“No, The Velvet Curtain is just a fancy, exclusive strip club. This one, on the other hand…” She paused, her fingers hovering over the keyboard as she chose her words carefully, “...is much more secretive and, from what I can tell, much more dangerous. Think less about glamour and more about power and control."

“What kind of activities are we talking about?”

“Oh, you know, just the usual gambling and trafficking,” Penelope said dryly, scrolling through her screen. “I think you guys should check this out after we wrap up the case.”

Derek ignored her jab and crossed his arms. “So our victim can be anyone, which doesn't narrow it down much.” He turned to Penelope. “How many members are we talking about?”

“Over three hundred registered members.”

He let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of numbers.”

“Have you tried cross-referencing the members with Rick Sullivan?" Spencer suggested. "He might be our best lead.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Penelope’s fingers flew over the keyboard as she pulled up new data. After a few moments, she exclaimed, “Got it!”

Derek leaned in. “We have a name?”

Penelope quickly brought up a profile. “James Dalton, went to college with Rick. Mid-30s, a manager at a tech firm, lives in the suburbs with his family…” She trailed off, her eyes widening. “...and was reported missing a week ago.”

Spencer frowned, piecing it together. “He could be our John Doe.”

Penelope nodded, already typing away. “I’m cross-referencing his dental records and fingerprints as we speak.”

“You can do that?”

“You underestimate me, pretty boy,” she quipped with a smirk, her fingers flying over the keyboard. It didn't take long for her screen to flash with the confirmation she needed. “It’s a match. James Dalton is our John Doe. The dental records line up perfectly.”

The room fell into a heavy silence as they absorbed the news. Derek ran a hand over his face, breaking the silence with a sigh. “Did Rick and James ever contact each other after college?”

Penelope shook her head, scrolling through her data. “No, there’s no evidence of any recent communications. It looks like they hadn't been in touch for years until... well, until whatever pulled them back together recently.”

Spencer leaned closer to get a better view of Penelope’s screen. “Can you check his bank records? There could be any mutual transactions between them.”

“Pulling up his financials now,” she said, her eyes scanning the data that populated her screen. Moments later, she pointed at a series of numbers. “There are no mutual transactions… oh wow.”

“What is it?”

“He spent a lot of money over the past few months,” Penelope continued, her eyes wide with surprise. “We’re talking significant amounts.”

“Where?”

She looked up at him. “The Velvet Curtain.”

Spencer felt the blood drain from his body. It was as if a heavy, sinking feeling took hold, the kind that grips the stomach and pulls down hard. At first, he thought of your safety. The club you worked at was linked to the case, and worse, even directly to the victims. This connection sent chills down his spine, filling him with dread.

But the more he thought about it, especially when his mind replayed how you had been avoiding him lately, the worse his feelings grew. His concern turned into suspicion, and then that suspicion morphed into a sense of betrayal. Were you involved in this? Were you hiding something from him?

He shook his head. No, he couldn’t let his mind go there. You wouldn’t do that. You couldn’t. You were too kind, too genuine. There had to be another explanation.

“Reid, let’s go.”

Spencer looked up to see Derek standing by the door. “Where?”

“We need to go back there,” Derek said firmly. “We’re missing something.”

Spencer’s badge felt heavier than usual, the gun on his hip weighing him down. His mind was clouded with doubt, his heart pounding with anxiety. He always considered himself as someone who was confident when it came to his job, a man of knowledge who could win an argument with facts and logic. But now the lines of right and wrong seemed to blurred and he found himself questioning even his own judgment.

He let out a heavy breath. There was nothing else he could do but to follow Derek out of the room. He needed to see this through, for justice, for his peace of mind, and perhaps, for your innocence he hoped to prove.

~*~

You weren’t here.

I have work tonight, I’m sorry.

You weren’t here.

Spencer was trying to come up with excuses for your disappearance. Maybe you got sick. Maybe there was an emergency. His mind went through plausible scenarios, but none seemed to fit quite right, and his curiosity continued to gnaw at him. He braced himself and approached the club owner, hoping to gain some information under the pretense of connecting you as a witness.

The man, with a burly frame, salt-and-pepper hair, and a scowl etched on his face, barely let Spencer get the words out.

“She was here,” the owner grumbled. “Her set was half an hour ago and I haven’t seen her since. If I find out she’s skipping out on work again…” He trailed off, shaking his head in frustration.

Spencer felt his heart sank. “Again?”

He nodded gruffly. “Yeah, she’s been a bit unreliable lately. Shows up late, leaves early. It’s becoming a problem.”

“Did she mention anything to you?”

“She never says much. Keeps to herself mostly. If she’s in some kind of trouble, she’s not talking about it.” He gave Spencer a once-over. “You know her personally?”

Caught off-guard, Spencer quickly shook his head. “No. I’ve just heard she might have some useful information on the case we’re working on.”

The owner seemed to accept this, nodding slightly. “Well, good luck with that. If you find her, tell her she’s got some explaining to do.”

Spencer nodded, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him even more. The pressure in his chest was almost suffocating. He knew he needed to focus on trying to find out anything about James Dalton, but his mind kept turning to you, unable to shake the fear that something terrible had happened, or worse, or worse, that you might somehow be involved.

“What was that all about?”

He looked up to see Derek watching him closely. “Nothing.”

Derek studied him for a moment, noting the slight shift in his demeanor, the way his eyes darted away. “Reid, is everything okay?”

“I’m fine."

“You know you can talk to me if something’s up, right?”

“I know,” he snapped. Then he sighed, his expression softening. “I’m fine, really. Let’s just focus on the case.”

Derek studied him for a moment longer, wanting to press further, but was stopped when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, saw Penelope’s name, and quickly switched it to speaker.

“Found something new?” Derek asked.

“Yes,” Penelope's voice came through with urgency. “Have you found anything interesting yet?”

“No, nothing solid on our end,” Derek replied, glancing at Spencer who remained focused but visibly tense. “What did you find?"

“I think you should take this somewhere private,” Penelope suggested cautiously.

Derek nodded, catching Spencer’s eye and motioning for him to follow. They navigated through the bustling backstage area, moving past busy staff and performers until they spotted an empty dressing room. He ushered Spencer inside and shut the door behind them.

“We’re out of earshot,” Derek confirmed, his tone low. “Go ahead.”

“Alright, listen,” Penelope began, her voice serious. “I’ve been digging into the pasts of the two victims we identified and I found something disturbing that was buried deep in their college history. It took a lot of digging because it was almost completely erased from the public record.”

“What did you find?”

“There were reports of a group of men, including Sullivan and Dalton, who were accused of sexually assaulting a high school student who was a minor. The details were sketchy and it seems there was a significant effort to cover it up. The case never went to trial, the reports were sealed.”

“How many men were involved?”

“Four. Sullivan, Dalton, Mark Eldridge, and Robert Lawson.” There were some clicking noises in the background before Penelope continued, “Mark Eldridge was reportedly missing a few days ago, and I cross-checked his dental records with our second John Doe—it was a match.”

Derek let out a sigh. “This looks like some kind of revenge plot.” He ran a hand over his face, the weight of the situation sinking in. “What can you tell us about Lawson?”

Penelope quickly typed in a few commands. “Robert Lawson lives on the outskirts of town. He’s maintained a low profile over the years, but nothing in his recent history suggests he’s aware of the danger he might be in.”

Derek nodded, absorbing the information. “Alright, send us his address. We need to get to him before the Unsub does.”

“Sending it now,” Penelope confirmed.

“Garcia?”

Derek looked up to see Spencer standing at the edge of the room, staring blankly at a spot on the wall. His posture was tense, his face pale, and his breathing uneven. It was the most uncharacteristic of him Derek had ever seen.

“Who was the victim?” Spencer asked, his voice low, almost strained.

There was a brief pause as Penelope searched through her files. “Y/N L/N,” she answered quietly. “She was a high school student at the time, just sixteen. The case was buried deep, but it’s all here—she was threatened, her family was paid off, and the whole thing was hushed up.”

Derek felt a chill run down his spine. “And where is she now?”

Another pause, this one more tense, as Penelope gathered the final piece of information.

“She’s a dancer at The Velvet Curtain.”

Spencer felt his world tilt. The realization hit him like a freight train, his heart dropping like a stone into the depths of his stomach. It was as if the ground beneath his feet had turned to ice, sending him slipping into a dizzying spin of shock and disbelief. The pieces clicked together with the painful precision of a knife twisting in his gut. All the clues that had seemed disconnected before suddenly formed a clear, devastating picture.

“Reid.”

He couldn’t breathe, his chest tight with a constricting panic. The room closed in around him, the walls seeming to press closer with each labored breath.

“Reid.”

The reality made him feel sick.

“Reid!”

He needed to get out of here.

His feet carried him toward the door, pushing him outside to breathe. The fresh air hit his face, but it did little to ease the heaviness in his lungs.

“Reid, I need you to talk to me,” Derek’s voice followed behind him.

Spencer leaned against the cool brick wall, trying to steady his racing heart and chaotic thoughts. He struggled to find the words, the horror of the situation crashing over him like a relentless wave.

“What happened?”

He stared at Derek through blurry eyes. “It’s her,” he managed to choke out. “I-I didn’t know it was her…”

“Reid.” Derek stepped closer, gripping his shoulders. “Breathe.”

Spencer looked up at him, the pain suffocating his chest, building up inside until he couldn’t hold it back any longer. The words began tumbling out of his lips.

He told him everything. How you approached him that first night they came to the club, how you stood out in the crowd. He described the spark in your eyes when you had asked him out on a date and how hesitant he was at first until his curiosity got the better of him.

He recalled that night, how he felt a connection he hadn't known was missing. He told Derek about the conversations you shared, the laughter between you, and how deeply fulfilling it felt to be with someone who seemed to truly get him, a happiness he hadn't known before.

Derek stared at him when he finished. There was no judgment in his eyes, far from it, but what Spencer saw was even worse—it was pity.

“Reid…”

Spencer shook his head, trying to dismiss Derek’s sympathy that made him feel so exposed. “I know what this looks like,” he cut in quickly. “But you have to understand, it felt—everything with her felt real.”

“I know, I know. I believe you, man, it’s just—”Derek sighed. “You’re too involved in this.”

Spencer met his gaze. “I never wanted to be this involved.”

Derek let out another sigh, something he couldn’t stop doing when the person he considered as his little brother was going through so much pain. He took out his phone from his pocket. “Look, let me call Hotch and tell him to send someone else—”

Spencer quickly grabbed Derek’s arm, stopping him from dialing. “No,” he insisted. “I need to do this. I want to see her.”

“I don’t think—“

“I have to,” Spencer pleaded. “I need to. I can’t… I just… I need to see her.”

“Reid, she’s dangerous. She’s killed three men before, and there’s a chance she might do the same to you.”

Spencer shook his head. “What she’s doing is for revenge, you said that yourself. She won’t hurt me.”

“But—“

“Morgan, please,” Spencer interrupted, the desperation clear in his voice. “Let me talk to her. This might be my only chance.”

Derek watched him closely, seeing the pain and determination in his eyes. It was clear Spencer wasn’t going to back down, and understanding this, he finally gave in.

“Fine. But we’re taking every precaution, okay? You’re not going in alone.” Spencer nodded gratefully. “And I’m still calling for backup.”

“Of course,” he agreed, watching Derek turn around.

Spencer silently followed him back to the car as he replayed every moment without you. He tried to search for any clues he might have missed, wondering how he had been so blind, so caught up in his feelings. The thought of you being the one behind those murders was too much for him to bear, yet he knew he had to confront you. He had to know why you did it. He had to know whether any of those moments you shared together was as magical for you as it was for him, even though he was scared of the answers, of this new, cruel reality.

He just had to see you, no matter how painful it might be.

~*~

Your last victim was the easiest. You’d think he would have struggled a bit, or maybe he’d see right through your act. After all, this wasn’t the first time he had seen you, and sure, you might have looked different, but you still had the same features from when you were young. Your eyes. Your smile. You were still you, just older.

But he never noticed, because as soon as you started to seduce him, he was just like the others. All they sought was your body, or the thought of it, the fantasy they spun so easily in their minds. You realized that another thing that hadn’t changed was their disgusting perception of you, not as a person, but as an object for their desires.

Despite their oblivious nature, it came to your benefit. It was easy to put the drug in his drink, not much, but enough to make him drowsy. Enough for his body to go limp so you could tie his hands behind his back easily. You could see his brows creasing as he struggled to keep his eyes open. You knew the sedative was starting to get to his brain.

You managed to drag his body to his study. You had pulled him by his feet, his head occasionally bumping along the floor. He groaned but didn’t do much, not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t. His eyes, heavy and confused, flickered with a dim recognition of his state, a useless attempt to grasp the situation that was slowly escaping his control.

And you loved it.

“W-What…” He closed his eyes, then opened them again. “…help…”

You left him there to struggle as you grabbed the can of gasoline from his backyard, which you had hidden there that morning when he was at work. You wondered briefly if he had noticed it when he came back home, but just like the others, he was oblivious. It was still right where you left it.

You carried it back into the study and noticed his eyes widening slightly, a fear starting to seep through his confusion. You unscrewed the cap, the pungent smell filling the room, and stared down at him.

That was when you heard the ringing.

It was a loud, jarring noise and your eyes settled onto the house phone sitting on his desk. The sound was out of place, cutting through the tension-filled silence like a knife as you waited for it to stop. It kept on going, on and on, until the answering machine clicked on, and a familiar voice cut through the room, calling out your name.

You let out a cry. The sound of Spencer’s unmistakable voice echoed in your ears, the voice you had hoped to avoid was now invading this moment.

“Pick up the phone,” he pleaded. “Please.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not when his voice was already starting to shake your defenses.

The call ended not long after that. You took a deep, shaky breath, trying to regain your composure. But then the phone rang again. This time, his message was more desperate.

“Talk to me, please, I know what you’ve been through... I just want to help.”

The gasoline can shook in your grip. Help was the last thing you needed. “I don't want any help," you muttered to yourself, the words barely audible over his voice cutting through the answering machine.

“I-I’ll be here if you need me, you don't have to go through this alone.”

"I don't want any help.”

But he kept on, his voice calm yet insistent. "I know you're in pain, but this—this isn't the way to solve things. Answer me, please, let me help—“

It was your last straw. You finally snatched up the phone. "I don't want any help!"

You were met with a stunned silence on the other end. It was deafening, stretching out long enough for the reality of who was on the other end to sink in.

“…Spencer?”

“I’m here,” he replied softly. “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

Hearing his voice, so familiar and filled with genuine care, made you pause. For a split second, the walls you had built around your heart trembled. You wanted to scream at him, to push him away, but a part of you longed for his presence.

“Why?” you whispered. “Why are you not going anywhere?”

“Because I…” There was a pause. “Because I care about you.”

Your heart felt like it was going to burst. “You do?”

“I do,” he confessed. “More than I should have.”

You sniffed, gently placing the gasoline on top of the wooden surface of the desk. “Because you’re an FBI agent and I’m a stripper?” You wondered, recalling the same question you had asked him days ago.

“You know it was never about that,” he said. “But you’re smart enough to know the real reason.”

You glanced back at the man lying on the floor, barely conscious, his breaths shallow and labored. Spencer’s voice rang in your ears again.

“Don’t do this… please.”

You swallowed, your heart beating fast. “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t.”

“I’ll give you three,” he responded quickly. “One, you’re not a bad person.”

Your grip on the phone tightened.

“Two, you deserve a chance to find real peace.”

Your eyes welled up with tears, the resolve in your heart wavering.

“And three,” Spencer’s voice softened. “Because I want to dance with you again.”

The memory of that night, the connection you felt, rushed back, overwhelming your rage that you couldn’t help but laugh through your tears. “Yeah?”

“I want you to teach me again,” he said, a hint of a smile in his voice. “I’m still not very good at it.”

The image of the two of you dancing at the bar brought a bittersweet ache to your heart. But it wasn’t enough to overwhelm the anger, the deep-seated rage that had driven you for so long.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into the phone, the words escaping in a breath so faint it was almost swallowed by the silence of the room.

Spencer heard it, though. “Don’t say that. It’s not over,” he pleaded. “We can still have more nights out, more dances.”

“Spencer, stop.”

“Think about it,” he continued, his voice softening as he tried a different approach. “Your family, they would rather take the money than fight for you. They left you to fend for yourself when you needed them the most.”

“Spencer…”

“And you’ve carried that weight for so long. You’ve been so strong, but now you’re not alone, you have me. So don’t let their choices define you,” he muttered. “You’re better than this.”

His words struck a nerve.

“Better than this?” You suddenly snapped, anger flaring up again. “You don’t know me. Just because we had one date, it doesn’t mean you understand what I’ve been through.”

“I don’t know everything you’ve been through,” Spencer admitted. “But I know pain. I know what it’s like to feel abandoned and betrayed.”

He paused, the line silent for a moment before he continued with a heavy sigh.

“When I was in school, a girl asked me to meet her by the school field one day… only for the football team to show up instead. They tied me up to a goalpost and stripped me naked in front of all the students.” He took a deep breath. “Everyone laughed and stared, and no one did anything to stop them.”

You knew what he was trying to do. And partly, it worked. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity for him. You imagined how sad it must have been for him, how traumatic and devastating that experience must have been. It was heartbreaking to picture him in that situation. But despite your sympathy, it didn’t suppress the anger inside you.

As painful as his story sounded, you knew you’d rather take his place instead of enduring what you had experienced.

“Spencer, it’s not the same,” you said, your voice trembling. “What they did to you was horrible, but what happened to me… it destroyed everything.”

“I know it’s not the same,” he replied quietly. “But pain is pain. And it doesn’t have to define us. We can choose—“

“Pain is pain?” You cried, finally letting go of the tears you had been holding back. “You know what’s painful? Hearing your story and the first thing that came up to my mind was how I’d rather take your place, because unlike you, those men didn’t stop after they stripped me naked.”

The anger boiled over, and you couldn't stop yourself, tears streamed down your face as raw, unfiltered pain poured out in your words.

"Do you know what it feels like to be young and helpless? To have four men twice your size assault you?" You screamed, losing any semblance of control you had left. "Do you fucking know how it feels to see these disgusting men get away with everything while you have to endure the nightmares, the flashbacks, the fear every single day?"

Your voice broke, heavy sobs wracking your body.

"Do you know how it feels to be broken, to be so destroyed that you can't even look at yourself in the mirror without hating what you see?”

Silence fell, your heavy breathing the only sound in the aftermath of your outburst. Spencer's voice was gentle when he finally spoke. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course, you didn’t. Because you’re a man, after all.” You picked up the gasoline again, the weight heavy in your hand. “You’re just like them… all you want to do is to save them.”

“That’s not what I—”

“And you’re fucking wasting my time.”

You slammed the phone down, cutting off the connection.

You moved on instinct. You looked down at the man on the floor, his eyes half-open, barely conscious. You regarded him one last time before you poured the gasoline over his body. The fumes rose in the air as you spread the liquid around the room, creating a trail that led to the door. At some point, one of your heels cracked, and you kicked them off, feeling the cold ground beneath your feet. It was a minor inconvenience, nothing compared to the gravity of what you were about to do.

When you finally reached a safe distance from the house, you paused, taking one last deep breath, throwing the empty can onto the ground. The weight of your past, your pain, and your anger all converged in this single moment. You took out the lighter, your hands trembling as the reality of what you were about to do settled in.

You flicked the lighter, the small flame dancing in the night air. For a moment, you were transfixed by it, the flickering light a stark contrast to the darkness surrounding you. Everything you had endured, everything that had brought you to this point, seemed to hinge on this tiny flame.

With a flick of your hand, you let it fall to the ground.

The flame kissed the trail of gasoline, igniting it instantly. The fire took life, racing along the path with a hunger that matched your own rage. It moved back toward the house, consuming everything it touched, fueled by the fume and your deep-seated desire for retribution.

The flames grew and the fire roared louder, its crackling sound filling the silence of the night. The house began to catch, the flames eagerly climbing the walls. The sight was mesmerizing yet horrifying, and you stood rooted to the spot, the fire reflecting in your eyes, casting light on the tears that streaked down your face.

You felt a smile forming on your lips.

So this was what it felt like, to watch the ashes drift through the air. To smell the acid scent of smoke. To feel the heat envelop you, wrapping your body like a suffocating blanket. To hear the sound of the world cracking and crumbling under the force of your wrath. It was beautiful, and you were mesmerized by the flames, the destruction—they were your creation, your justice.

But deep down, it was so much more than that. This wasn’t just for you, but for everyone else who had been silenced, who couldn’t do anything. You realized your anger was more than just a personal vendetta. It was a voice for the voiceless, a stand against those who had used their power to hurt and destroy.

You thought of all the others who had been through the same hell, who had been left to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives alone, who had been dismissed by a system that should have protected them.

The fire was for them, too.

You continued to watch the flame dance through the night sky, and that was when you heard it, the distant sound of vehicles approaching you. The crunch of gravel under tires grew louder and you stayed rooted where you were.

There was no running from this, no escaping what was to come. You had chosen this path, you had already accepted the consequences long before the first match was struck.

As you turned around, a group of people in FBI vests came rushing out, some frantically calling for backup as they watched the fire consume the house, while a few others pointed their weapons towards you. But your eyes were fixed on the man who had given you a glimpse of hope, the man who had tried to save you.

You felt tears streaming down your face as Spencer approached you, and you sobbed uncontrollably, the reality of what you had done sinking in.

“I’m sorry,” you cried, your voice breaking. “I-I had to do it.”

“Reid.”

An older FBI agent standing close called him, his tone a clear warning, but Derek, the other agent who you had also seen at the club, placed a hand on his shoulder. The older agent hesitated, then remained silent, allowing Spencer to approach you.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Spencer’s eyes took in your appearance. The confident woman he had always known was nowhere to be found, replaced by this version of you—vulnerable, sad, and angry at the world. The sight of you barefoot, the dirt and grime clinging to your skin, made it even more heartbreaking. Your hair was disheveled, your face was streaked with tears. The raw emotion in your eyes tore at his heart.

“I—I’m sorry too,” he whispered.

You let out a choked sob. “I… I-I really had fun that night.”

Spencer nodded helplessly. “It was the best night of my life.”

Your sobs grew louder, feeling the air restrict your lungs. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get to do it again.”

He shook his head. “We could.”

“You know well we couldn’t,” you murmured. The pain in his eyes after those words left your mouth was too much—that raw, unguarded hurt—and you had to close your eyes, not wanting to see it.

In that brief darkness you wondered what would have happened if you had never gone through with any of this. Would you still have crossed his path? Would things have been different? But no, your rage was too consuming, too deep-seated for you to second guess the path you had chosen.

His soft voice whispered your name, and you blinked your eyes open, noticing his outstretched arm.

“Dance with me.”

You let out a painful cry. “Spencer… don’t make it harder than it already is.”

“Please, I… I just want to hold you.” You stared at his hand trembling under the firelight. “Please.”

You had never felt so much pain, a crushing weight on your heart, and against your better judgment, you took his hand. He pulled you gently into his arms, holding you close as if trying to memorize every detail of your body pressed against his.

The world seemed to pause. You let your mind be happy for a while, you let it travel to the simple, mundane things you wished you could do with him—walking hand in hand through a park, sharing quiet breakfasts, laughing together over something silly, and feeling his comforting presence beside you during the small, quiet times in bed.

You dreamed of a life where your past didn’t haunt you, where the weight of your decisions didn’t crush your spirit. You dreamed of waking up to his smile, of whispered conversations in the dark, of his naked body pressed against yours as he whispered sweet nothings to your ear. You allowed yourself to fantasize of a life filled with those ordinary, beautiful moments, a life that felt so achingly close yet so painfully out of reach.

But the fire’s glow around you was a reminder of the reality you couldn’t escape. Still, for a few moments, the night around you seemed to fade, the chaos and destruction reduced to a distant backdrop. His hands were gentle on your back, holding you as if you were something precious, something to be cherished, someone to be loved.

“I’m sorry for everything,” he murmured into your hair.

You pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes, those deep brown eyes you knew you were going to miss. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

The sorrow there was mirrored in your own, a mutual recognition of the pain you both felt. His gaze held yours, intense and searching, as if trying to commit every detail to memory. The color of your eyes, the feel of your skin, the sound of your voice. He wanted to remember you for a lifetime.

With tears streaming down your face, you leaned into him, savoring the bittersweet moment. You ignored everything around you. The noise, the chaos, the destruction—all of it faded into the background. It was just the two of you, as if nothing else mattered.

And nothing else did.

So you danced for the last time, holding on to each other desperately, each step a silent prayer, each turn a tender goodbye, as the world continued to burn.

~*~

“Can't seem to hold you like I want to,

So I can feel you in my arms.

Nobody's gonna come and save you,

We pulled too many false alarms.”

~*~

A/n: If you managed to make it to the end, I applaud you! Thank you from taking the time to read this fic. I’m very self conscious about this because not only does it have 14k words, the plot is also very heavy. But I’m happy with how it turned out and I hope you liked it too. Also, I could go on and on about why I chose this specific plot, but I’d be talking too much here. So if you want to further discuss this story, feel free to send me asks. I’ll gladly reply to them <3

#lou’s birthday party🎉#unsub reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid fem!reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #angst #dark fic #angst with no happy ending

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reidsdimples · 11 months ago

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Doctor, Stalker, Special Agent

Spencer Reid x BAU!Reader

18+❤️‍🔥 MDNI‼️

TW: Unhinged/stalker/unraveling Spencer, smut, stalking

Too far, Spencer had gone too far and he knew it. But he was too far gone now to turn back. You were consuming him.

Click

You remove your shirt

Click

You remove your pants

He licks his lips and adjusts the lens on his camera. You are an absolute masterpiece. He can’t get enough of you.

Click

You stretch out like you always say after a long day. You bend over and touch your toes, giving him and your open window a full view of your perfect ass.

Click

You had driven him crazy all day. It was like you knew what you were doing to him- leaning down so your breasts peak out of your shirt right in his face. Grazing your ass against his thigh to walk past him in the bullpen. You even snatched his apple that day and bit it before tossing it back to him. He relished eating after you. He knew he wasn’t being himself.

He waited for you to finish stretching, pressing a palm against his aching cock to keep his need at bay. Finally you stepped into the bathroom and tossed your underwear and bra onto the floor outside the bathroom door.

He was quick, easing into the room as stealthily as possible. He snatched the sinful white lace panties off the floor and slid them into his back pocket with a smirk.

You wouldn’t miss them.

Maybe.

He inhaled the smell of your shampoo wafting from the other side of the slightly ajar bathroom door. He couldn’t get enough of your unique sent, even moaning as it engulfed him.

He finally decides to leave through the window which he came, slowly and with all his strength turning away from the object of his desire -naked and wet- just feet away.

“Oh fuck,” you mewl. Stopping him in his tracks as your angelic voice carries into the bedroom. “Dr.Reid-“

He couldn’t be hearing this correctly. There’s no way.

“Harder, right there,” you moan.

He gets closer the bathroom and can hear the sounds of you finger fucking yourself in the shower. Lewd squelching and moans have his dick standing at attention once more.

“Reid fuck!” You exclaim as you cum.

He braces himself against the wall, nearly exploding in his pants at the heavenly sound.

He had to go. Now.

So he did, he hurried out of the window and crashed into the drivers seat of his car-panting. He couldn’t help it, he pulled out his cock and pumped himself a few times until he finished while biting into your underwear.

—

“Coffee! Yay!” You squeak as Garcia hands one to you and Prentiss.

“No major case to brief on right now, Hotch wants everyone working their statements and files today,” JJ informs.

“Sweet,” Morgan snatches a donut from the counter and scoots out of the break area.

“Whoa what happened to you pretty boy?” Morgan whoops as Dr. Reid enters the bullpen looking particular sleep deprived.

“Long night,” he sighs.

You try not to watch him take those long strides to his desk, try not to focus on his disheveled hair and five o clock shadow. And was his tie crooked?

“Wonder what his deal is,” Prentiss frowns. You and Garcia shrug as he approaches for coffee.

“Morning Reid,” you beam like usual. His eyes dart to yours then immediately search for something else to look at. He offers you a flat smile.

“What’s up?” JJ tries to perk him up by smiling and elbowing him.

“Oh I know! You watched the Doctor Who marathon didn’t you!” Garcia points at him. “I told you you’d get sucked in and forget to sleep again.”

“I wish. I just couldn’t sleep,” he stirs his coffee and heads back to his desk.

“He’s been acting weird lately,” Prentiss notes.

“Foreal,” JJ agrees.

—

“Do you have that file on Roger West?” You peak over your desk to Reid’s.

He searches his stack and you find yourself licking your lips at watching his deft fingers work.

“No I think Morgan does,” he answers simply.

“Are you okay?” You walk over to his desk and lean against the edge of it.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat. You notice his cheeks turn red.

You reach over to scruff his hair like you’ve done playfully in the past but he captures your wrist. The electricity that jolts between the two of you is undeniable as he stares into your eyes.

There’s a silent acknowledgment of the heat between the two of you and he releases your wrist.

“I gotta- I need to find… I’ll be back,” he awkwardly dismisses himself.

You huff out a shakey breath and contemplate following him. When he doesn’t return in a few minutes, you head down the hallway he took.

“Reid?” You find him sitting at an empty desk in an empty office with his head in his hands

“You shouldn’t be in here,” he grumbles.

“Why? What’s going on with you?” You enter the office anyway and shut the door to give you two some privacy.

“I’m just having a problem, okay?” He shifts in his seat.

“What kind of problem?” You move towards the desk in a way that makes your tits jump. His eyes lock in on them and he throws his head back in frustration.

“You- it’s- you’re driving me crazy,” he breathes. He pushes his hair back from his eyes. When you smirk he tilts his head at you.

“What am I doing?” You play dumb and place your palms on the desk, leaning down and eyeing him.

He adjusts himself again, tugging at the fabric of his pants around what you can only guess is his hard cock. The desk hides it. He exhales a shakey breath.

“Does it hurt?” You glance downward and pout your lip.

“Yes,” he doesn’t hide it.

“And I did that?” You move around the desk.

He looks up at you with pleading puppy dog eyes but then he nods.

“I wanna see it,” you admit as arousal pools between your legs.

“What- I…”

“Please Reid,” you bat your eyelashes and park your ass on the desk in front of his chair. You spread your legs and rest your heels on either armrest.

He is physically shaking, he’s so turned on. You kind of wish you had wore a shorter skirt. But this one still gave him a nice look as your silk clad cunt.

He slowly undoes his zipper while you gently roll your skirt up… up… up. His eyes are fixated on the thin material covering your pussy. He isn’t aware of it but he’s licking his lips.

He pulls his hard cock free, his large hand almost able to wrap around the girth completely. The pink tip is angry and needy and he pumps it as you drag a finger up your core to tease him.

“So pretty, Reid,” you hum and circle your clit.

You buck your hips up and slowly remove your panties while he watches, whimpering and speechless. You slide them into his cardigan pocket.

You place one leg over his shoulder and slide him towards you.

“Do you want it?” You ask him.

“Yes please,” he begs.

“Then be a good boy and make me cum,” you pull him closer until your legs are on his shoulders.

He doesn’t hesitate to drag your hips closer to him, forcing you down on your back as he buries his face in your cunt. He moans into you and he drags his tongue from your entrance to your clit and sucks hard.

“Ah,” you moan softly.

It’s more to an he could have dreamed of, your taste, your moans, he could do this for hours.

He’s pumping his cock while he eats your pussy, greedily shoving his tongue into you and nuzzling against you with his entire face. You find yourself grinding against him, holding his head still while he devours you. His tongue flicks wildly over your clit until you’re biting back your moans.

When you think you can’t take it anymore he puts his cock in his left hand and slides two fingers into your cunt. He curls up while he eats you and works your G-spot. He moans in pleasure as he approaches his own climax.

“Gonna cum while eating me out Dr. Reid?” He grunts into you and focuses on bringing you to your orgasm.

“Fuck baby!” You pant as your stomach muscles tighten.

Then you’re shaking violently as you orgasm onto his face, clenching around his fingers which don’t stop fucking into you.

That’s it for him, he rolls the chair back and you watch as hot ropes of cum shoot from his cock. He bites his lip and throws his head back as he finishes himself with a series of lewd moans.

He eyes you as you roll your skirt down and he pushes himself back into his pants. Neither of you speak for a moment and you come down from your orgasms. His cheeks are red and his hair is messy, you reach over and wipe the sides of his mouth.

“My place, eight o clock tonight,” you say and walk towards the door.

He nearly stumbles coming after you.

“Okay, good, yeah,” he stammers awkwardly.

You turn and take his face in your hands, fixing his hair gently.

“It was about time we did something about this,” you smirk and grip his softening cock through his pants. He jolts and lets out a breathy laugh.

You kiss him gently and he returns with a needy sort of passion as he pulls you into him.

The office door opens and you stumble back off of him.

“Woah! Working overtime huh guys?” Morgan laughs.

“It’s not what it looks like!” Reid lies.

“Come on, we got a case,” he shakes his head.

Spencer follows you and Morgan back to the bullpen, he watches your hips sway, watches your hair move as you walk. You have no idea what you had just awoken in him.

Now that he got a taste of you, he wouldn’t be without it again. He checks his wallet to ensure that photo of you sleeping was still safe and sound behind his ID and smiles wickedly to himself.

“Reid? You coming?” You turn and ask.

“Yep!” He slides his wallet back into his pocket and hurries to the round table room.

#spencer reid #mgg #criminal minds #mgg pics #dr reid #spencer reid one shots #spicy spencer reid #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x bau!reader #spencer reid x you #unsub spencer reid

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writeshite · 2 months ago

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“I wish I knew how to quit you” - Annie Proulx, Brokeback Mountain.

Spencer’s voice was muffled against your hand, he’s confused and almost scared then unfortunately relieved when you tilt your head forward for him to see. Your hair was shorter, and your clothes non-descriptive, God knows how long you’d been waiting in his home. “What are you doing here?”

His question was met with a chaste kiss from you, which turned deeper as you press your body to his and push him to the wall. You draw back and place another chaste kiss to his lips, “I missed you.” You respond finally, cupping his face.

Spencer shouldn’t lean into the palm of your hand, nor should he keenly tilt his head side to side as you check him over for any recent injuries. “I should skin Phillip Dowd for this,” you remarked, thumb gently grazing over the bruise that marred the side of Spencer’s face.

“He’s dead,” he tried to assure you, “I shot him in the head. Also how did you know about him?”

You snorted, kissing his head, “I never take my eyes off you, pet.”

A morbid comfort. Spencer was familiar with your profile—notorious and dangerous—yet he never raised the alarm. Enjoying your company to an intimate degree, he remembers when you chose to meet him. Cornerning him publicly, "No sudden movements, Doctor Reid," you'd whispered, stood by him in the line as though you were a couple ordering a coffee together.

"Did he hurt you anywhere else?" You worried, checking his arms next, then his torso. Spencer winced lightly, while Hotch's kicks were comparable to a nine-year-old girl throwing a tantrum, they still left some bruising. Not that he'd say that. He hardly needed another reason for you to justify going after the man. You grumbled in displeasure, the bruising was superficial and would heal soon-ish, “Do you need painkillers?”

“No, I—I’m fine,” Spencer won’t lie he enjoyed being cared for.

You cast a glance of disbelief, “Bubble bath it is then.” Your tone held a finality to it and Spencer follows as he guided to the bathroom.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x male reader #UnSub Reader #I Hate That I Love You AU #reader is on the run his crime was morally justified by lawfully a crime I fear 😔✌🏾 or it was bad and spencer kinda into the crazyness #reader is older than Spencer. there is an age gap here #obsessed and possessive reader :3 #typed this on my iPhone so if you see any errors it’s autocorrect’s fault 😒#saw someone say they wanted secret boyfriend trope for Spencer hope this counts 💀 also surprised I haven’t seen any UnSub readers??? 😭#i'm back to criminal minds rewatching from season 1 instead of continuing where i left off lmfao #criminal minds imagine

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pinkglittergelpenink · 1 year ago

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the team whenever Spencer talks:

#that one episode when blake basically asked if he was autistic #and one from the first season when the unsub says ‘‘the autistic leanings of dr spencer reid’’#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds

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maybaankk · 7 months ago

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⠀ roses n thorns ⠀⠀﹒⠀　a.h x reader

this work includes / may include : rossi!reader, age gap (8 years), reader was born in 1979, aaron was born in 1971, reader is heavily italian, reader works at the bau, angst, rude!aaron because hes a sucker and doesnt know how to come to terms that he likes Y/N, fluff at the end, canon typical violence, fem!afab reader, reader is literally a ball of sunshine, religion mentions.

summary : when Y/N Rossi joins the bau at the recommendation of her father; aaron hotchner cant possibly see past the fact that she is far too happy to be in this field.

wc: 11.2k

The first thing aaron hotchner notices about Y/N is the smile plastered on her face and the box of canolis’ in her hands as she greets her new coworkers; he stares from his office window, arms crossed over his chest.

When the girl makes a b-line for his office a heavy grumble leaves his chest, he expects her to barge right in, but instead; she knocks and waits there patiently, holding the box of canolis’ in her hands.

He answers the door and she looks up to meet his gaze, that same sickly sweet smile plastered on her face, it makes his stomach turn and his chest feels like thousands of thorns are encircling it; he had only ever felt this way about Haley, and that was when he was in private school.

“Ah! SSA Hotchner right? my father said you’re the boss of this place.. he also told me that you like his canoli recipe.. so i uh, prepared a box of them last night” She smiles, and he can recognise that heavy twinge of italian in her voice, much like he can her fathers.

“Yes. That’s me, and you’re Y/N Rossi, correct?” He grumbles, and she notices how uncomfortable he looks, her brain flooding with thoughts before she stops herself; she’s not even been in the building an hour and she’s already accidentally profiled her new boss.

“Yes sir, that’s me.. where should i place these?” She squeaks, almost nervously, the confidence she once carried herself with dissipating into nothing, the smile also dropping from her face, in exchange for a nervous bite of her lip.

“The break room fridge, agent. it’s down the mezzanine to the left.” His arms still crossed over his chest, his eyes scanning the woman in front of him; watching as she walks away.

“Thankyou sir, i’ll be on my way now, goodbye” She mutters, and he could wear he heard her voice crack as she left.

He starts to feel bad, but he can’t place his finger on why, but when you leave, the thorns in his chest slowly unwind themself, and he’s at ease once more.

In the roundtable room, you take your seat inbetween your father and your newfound friend Emily Prentiss, you engage in friendly chatter as everyone filters in; and eventually the brightly and beautifully dressed tech analyst, Penelope takes the remote, clicking it to show the photos of 4 men, all without their eyes and a cross carved into their left thighs.

“These men were found in alleyways all over arkansas last week; the local PD didn’t think much of it until they got.. this letter” She pauses before a note on worn lined paper flashes up, an intricate rose stamped onto it.

You speak up, gesturing to the crosses on the men’s thighs; your father looking at you approvingly; “Those aren’t christian crosses.. they’re upside down those are petrine crosses, more recently dubbed the saint peters cross, it’s possible the killer believes he’s not high enough next to god to carve a christian cross; as peter crucified himself upside down because he believed he wasn’t as worthy as jesus..”

Hotch only stares as Spencer nods at youe statement, chiming in “Y/N is correct; he may believe that these killings are for god, and that they’re messages.”

And then penelope shows something else on screen; “Well.. it gets so much worse, my religious geniuses, because their eyes were found near them with bronze chains next to them..”

Hotch finally pipes up, asking the table for input and he rolls his eyes when you pipe up again.

“That’s similar to Jeremiah 39:7.. Zedekiah watched his sons be put to death and then his eyes were put out where he was bound with bronze chains and he was dragged to babylon..” You wince at the cold eyes of hotch as you look at Emily; she only shrugs her shoulders.

When you and Emily arrive at the latest crime scene of the victim, you lift the tape; stepping under it and holding it for your partner, you greet the local detective at the scene.

“Hello i’m Agent Y/N Rossi, and this is Agent Emily prentiss..” you smile, though it’s not as bright as the ones you extended to your coworkers, afterall you’re at the resting place of a victim.

“Detective Peter Warner, Fayetteville PD.” The slightly shorter man speaks as he shakes your hand.

“Do you know anything about who found the body, and when? we weren’t briefed on that..” Emily asks, and you nod, crouching down at one of the evidence cards, shifting one of the bronze chains, your eyes widening.

“Emily! cmere look, theres.. theres a- oh holy fuck!!” You jump when you realise what you had touched was a slab of skin, specifically with a rose tattoo on it.

“What?! oh what the.. is that the victims skin??” She crouches next to you, picking up the dirt and pebble covered flesh in her hands.

“Yeah- it it’s.. wait a second; let me call up the office real quick..” You mutter, stepping back to make a call as emily requests an ice bag.

“This is SSA Derek morgan, what’s poppin’ sweetcheeks?” His voice rings out, and you roll your eyes softly.

“Ha-ha Derek.. anyway, do you know if any slices of flesh where found at the crime scene.. or if any of the victims had rose tattoos?” You ask, looking back as Emily holds up the bag with the flesh in, you grimace.

“Uhh.. yeah; they all had rose tattoos.. why’d ya ask?” Derek chimes over the phone, you can hear the chatter of the department over the phone.

“Well me and Emily just found a piece of flesh from the victim, with a rose tattoo on it.. i believe this might mean something to the unsub, maybe something religious again.. we’ll be back at the station soon” You walk back over to Emily, sighing softly as you get back into the SUV.

Back at the station you lean over the files, biting your lip softly; staring at the tattoos of the victims, all cut off with a razor blade.

“Hey, papa can you come over here for a second?” You call out to your father, and it feels like recently everywhere your father goes that pertains to you and the case, Hotch follows.

“Which bible verse was about roses and brides.. was it Song of Solomon 2:1-2?” You mutter softly, tapping the end of your pen on your lip.

“Why yes Picolla Mia; it does.. the bride replies-”

“I am the rose of Sharon and lily of the valley..” You cut him off, immediately dialling up Penleope; your brows knitted together tightly as you exhale.

“Office of Unfettered Omniscience. Penelope Garcia is in. Speak, oh fortunate one.” Penelope Answers, and a small giggle escapes your mouth.

“Hiya penny it’s Y/N.. can you search the names of the wives of all four men for me?” You speak, hearing her hum in approval.

“Sunshine, I can run marriage certificates from here and still participate in simultaneous Tetris tournaments.” She hums, you snicker again.

“Okay.. are any of them named Sharon and Lily?” You ask, and Garcia gasps.

“Oh my god what a freaky coincidence.. yes- All of them are named Sharon and lily..” She sounds scared, and you look at the brooding figure of your boss behind you.

“and where they married for number’s with 1 & 2 in them?” Your voice quavers softly, writing it down quickly in your cursive handwriting.

“yes.. victim one- Hector Mariposa was married to Sharon Mariposa for 21 years.. victim two- Nikita Ivan was married to Lily Ivan for 12 years.. victim three- vitores fausto was married to Sharon Lily Fausto for 1 and 2 months at his time of death. and victim four- Abram Katz, to his wife Lily for 12 years..” She sounds like shes going to puke.

After 6 more gruellingly tension, religious and gore filled days you finally caught the unsub, Brian Vitores; a schizophrenic tattoo artist and ordained officiant.

He would tattoo the men he killed, and them weasel his way into the lives, and he had in turn ended up officiating their weddings, because he was close to them; at first it was a coincidence they all had rose tattoos and wives named Sharon and Lily, and their dates contained the numbers 1 and 2.

But when his religious psychosis began, he believed he should kill them for god, because only god would bless them with such wives.

On the plane back home, you slumped into your seat, staring at the roof as you hear Hotch over the other side of the plane, you frown softly as he seems so free and happy with the others.

You stand and pour yourself a glass of red wine, sitting back in your seat as you sip on it, starting to read your book with your headphones in.

And before you knew it, you had landed; you pick up your bags, but not before Hotch stops you, you look up at him, not with the same smile you once had during your first encounter.

“Agent Y/N, we need to talk about your workplace condcut. you cannot be laughing during such a serious moment, especially not in the middle of the station.” He says to you, and you feel tears well in your eyes, you dab them away subtly.

“Yes sir, I apologise.” You speak solomnly, and you push past him, walking to your car in the parking lot, quickly sliding into the seat, turning it on and beginning the drive home.

In your head you can’t tell yourself why your boss seems to dislike you so much, you can feel your phone buzzing in the cup holder, it’s JJ.

“Hiya JJ- i’m on my way home, what’s wrong?” You sigh, pulling up into the driveway of your home, locking your car as you sit and talk to JJ.

“We were going to invite you out for drinks, me and rest of the team but we couldn’t find you anywhere.. are you okay?” She asks, her voice concerned and confused.

“Y-yeah.. i just, had a bad encounter with Hotch on the plain, he uhm. doesn’t seem to like me all too much.” You whimper, tears smudging your mascara down your face.

“Yeah.. me, em and spence noticed that, i’m not sure what he’s doing at all.. i’m so sorry girl..” She say’s empathetically.

“I don’t know either, but he got quite angry that i laughed at how penelope answers her phone so i just left without a word..”

At your fathers house, it’s a pasta night and everyone from the BAU is gathered in the kitchen, you however already know how to cook this meal, and so you’re upstairs getting ready for the night.

You walk down the stairs, adorned in your designer attire, your hair curled, everyone’s eyes land on you as you pad over to stand next to Penleope.

By the time everyone has finished the pasta and a the glasses of whiskey and wine are flowing, you can only fees his eyes on you, and by his you mean aaron.

Being followed to the bathroom and cornered by him was also not on tonights bingo card but here he is, cornering you in a hallway.

“Listen Y/N you’re driving me crazy and i- i wanted to apologise for how horrible i’ve been toward you..” he mutters, his big hands moving to yours.

“It’s quite alright sir-” You mutter, desperately avoiding the eye contact he’s trying to engage in.

“Please, call me aaron..” He speaks, his voice softer now, he squeezes your hand gently too.

“I haven’t felt this way since i was a dumb teenager in private school.. and by this way i mean that i like you, Y/N Rossi.” He blurts out, and that makes you look at him now.

“I- i’m inclined to say i like you too, aaron.. you’re extremely handsome..” you admit, blush coating your face in a deep red tone.

“If you’ll allow me.. i’d like to take you on a date soon.. possibly wednesday, next week.” Aaron speaks, now holding your waist, his hands bigger than your waist by a long shot.

“Yes- i’d love to go on a date with you, Aaron.. wednesday sounds perfect.” You smile, and then it was set, you figured out why your boss hated you, he didn’t, he was just lovesick and confused.

Authors note: Hello my lovelies, this is my second fanfic in two days.. i’m finally out of writers block; so here’s something for my coworker enemies to lovers fans and my aaron fans :3

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trampleddoves · 2 months ago

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Marionette, Unbound - Series Masterlist

A genius once revered, the agent he fancies his doll, and the struggle over puppeteer strings. If ruination is the price for justice, who would be willing to pay?

Pairing: unsub!Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader Warnings: Minors do not interact. Explicit content and mature themes including but not limited to: depictions of violence, sexual content, questionable character actions, obsession, and PTSD. More warnings will be tagged for each part; heed them and proceed with caution. (If they get too dark or contain particularly triggering subject matter, please don't hesitate to prioritize your mental health and click off.) S13 team and roles, but alternate universe. Non canon compliant.

o. interrogations on uneven footing [A prologue of sorts - contains non-con!]

Quotes used: - The Erl-King by Angela Carter - Ode to the Apple by Pablo Neruda

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #unsub spencer reid #unsub spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x self insert #dark spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fan fiction #criminal minds au #criminal minds x you

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seasprincess · 3 months ago

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Puppy eyes

Spencer Reid x reader

wc:1.3k

warnings: smut, this is sweet smut, sub/switch spencer, oral and fingering(f), handjob (m receiving), pet names, spencer’s pathetic and whiney x

♡₊˚ ・₊ ♪ ✧ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ♡₊˚ ・₊ ♪ ✧ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

Spencer Reid knows he’s pathetic at the best of times.

So he definitely knows he’s pathetic as he sits on the bed in front of you. Looking up with those big brown puppy dog eyes. A little pout on his lips as his hands hold your hips in place. Making sure you can’t leave. He doesn’t want you to leave. Not yet.

“Do you have to go right now?” Spencer’s voice is soft as his eyes stare into yours. Scared that if he looks away you’ll disappear.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been called in.” You don’t have a happy look on your face as you play with the curls of the guy you’re looking down on. He’s not happy about this. That much is clear.

“But I might have to go away today. We were supposed to have the morning together.” Spencer’s fingers play with yours.

“I’m sorry baby.” You say as your hand comes up to his cheek and rubs it. Your thumb gently stroking as he leans into it. The pout still on his face.

Spencer’s hand comes to your lower back as he starts to rub. He looks up at you before gently placing a kiss to your inner palm which was once in his cheek.

“You got a bit of time before you go though?” He asks before looking at you with a certain look in his eyes. His hand on your lower back. The slow kisses. It’s very clear what he wants as a parting gift.

“I do.” You smile as your fingers tangle in his curls once again. His smile is soft. Those puppy eyes coming back as he asks the next question.

“I need you.” It almost comes out as a whine. He’s begging for you. He’s begging for your touch. And begging for you to let him touch you.

You smirk down at him as both your hands come to your cheeks as you stroke them with your thumb. The sunlight through the blinds highlights all the features of his face.

You walk forward before sitting on his lap and placing your lips on his. Softly. Sensually.

Your lips move against his as Spencer’s hands start to move over your body. The loose shirt and pyjama bottoms give him any access he chooses.

Spencer smiles against you before pulling away.

“Can I make you feel good baby? Please.” Even when he’s trying to be all nice he’s all pathetic. Begging for you to let him do something. Anything at this point. His dick is so hard in his pyjamas just from kissing.

You nod your head and he wastes no time to gently place you back on the bed and get in between your legs. He looks up for consent. Making sure you want to.

You smile to give him that reassurance and his hands come to your waistband, pulling it down and exposing your bare cunt to him.

And he is a happy man to say the least. He’s practically drooling at the sight. Placing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. He wants to be slow. To be sensual. This might be the last time he gets to taste you for a while and he is going to make the most of it. Right now he doesn’t care if you’re late for work. All he cares about is his sweet girl that’s in front of him.

Spencer’s kisses get closer and closer until finally reaching the heat between your legs.

Your mouth falls open as you let out a little sigh. Spencer’s ears practically perk up at the noise. Any noise, name or word that comes out of your mouth when he’s touching you makes something inside him twist. He loves it. He loves you.

Spencer’s hand comes to your lower stomach and rests there. He knows your one to arch your back when he goes down on you. And he wants to make sure that doesn’t happen.

He can’t hold back though as his tongue leaves his mouth and licks a strip up your slit. He practically groans at your taste as you moan. Hands finding his hair again.

“Spencer.” You moan out as he starts to kiss and suck on your clit. He can’t help but let out a noise. A mix of a whine and a moan at you saying his name and pulling his hair. “Spencer baby. Please.”

He keeps going. Eyes closing as he keeps sucking. The feeling of you shaking slightly and the moans in his heaven. It even crossed his mind that he might be dreaming. That he hasn’t even woken up yet.

His two fingers find your entrance and rub in a circle. Collecting the wetness he knows he’s created. And it makes him happy. Evident by the way he’s smiling slightly against your pussy.

His fingers slowly enter you, curling and moving just the way you like it. His memory comes in handy here. He knows everything you like, don’t like. What makes you moan the loudest.

Your legs shake slightly as he begins to speed up. Feeling more and more confident Spencer got this boost.

“I’m gonna cum.” You whine out as he keeps going. Fingers moving in and out. In and out. His warm breath on your cunt just adds to the situation. You can’t last much longer. Not with the combination of his tongue and his fingers. It’s just not possible.

So to his pleasure you cum. And he doesn’t waste any of it. Licking it up like a desperate man. Actually, not like. He is a desperate man. He’s desperate for you. He’s desperate to make you feel good all the time.

“Did I do okay?” Spencer asks as he pulls his head out from in between your legs. He likes to know he’s done well. Makes him feel good inside. He likes the praise.

“Yeah honey. Really good.” You breathe out and smile. Leaning back against the pillows and letting your high calm down.

Spencer smiles at your confirmation, feeling all warm inside. And also feeling hard. Very hard.

“So what can I do for you?” You ask as you look down at him. And something in Spencer’s brain finally switches and he turns into the subby guy you know.

You know that look and all you do is pull your pants back up, sit back down next to him and place your hand over his bulge.

He lets out a little whine, looking at you back with those puppy dog eyes. He’s so far gone he would let you do anything. Like anything. He just wants you.

You start to rub as he starts whining and moaning. His eyes closing. Just wanting to feel you.

Your hands pull his pants down. Spencer lifts his hood to help you of course.

His dick springs out and that earns a smile from you and a whine from him. But as he was so nice to you you decided to be nice to him.

Your hands wrap around length and start to stroke.

And of course he’s gripping your thigh. Moaning as you smile at him. He really needed this apparently. He hadn’t had a release in over a week and it’s got to him.

“Please please.” He whimpers as you place a kiss on his lips and smile. Hand continuing your movements as he kissed you back. This whole event has been slow and sensual. And he loves that. He loves having you and being sweet.

“You gonna cum for me baby?”

All Spencer can do is nod. Words lost as he mains again.

It doesn’t take a lot for him to cum. And he’s breathing hard and he’s trying to slow it down. Trying.

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

a/n: i’m backkkk. I don’t know how long for but i need to write again. This isn’t period read and i’m falling asleep writing this x

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magewritesstories · 1 year ago

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i made a shitty quality thing

#criminal minds #spencer reid #prison spencer reid #prison reid #unsub spencer reid #unsub spencer #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid angst #criminal minds x reader #bau #bau team

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reiding-writing · 1 year ago

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hi author your writing is great btw i just wanted to see when you would post part 2 of copycat??

copycat [ s.r ] | 2 |

The replication of a disturbing 2004 serial murder case calls for the BAU to get involved with the assistance of none other than the original killer themself. And whilst Spencer didn't work the original case, he was eager to learn every detail about it, including its offender.

WARNINGS: relationship between spencer and reader is not inherently romantic, sociopathic reader, graphic details of murder, graphic eye descriptions, mentions of spencer’s addiction and overdose, morgan and reader really don’t like each other, child abuse, childhood addiction, death by overdose, suicide

s3!spencer/gn!unsub!reader || mystery || 14.3k || masterlist!!

part one !! , part two !!

unsub!reader masterlist!!

a/n: after a whole 22 days of writing this, it’s finally finished 😭 sorry for making you all wait for so long this one was a nightmare to finish-

taglist (slashed blogs couldn’t be tagged): @devilsadvcte @marvellover98 @evvy96 @arlovesper @h3rt8k @pathologicalreid @sideshow-b0b @sunflowersndpeaches @mera3luna @madameparkerreid @fandom-mania @melaninsugababy @meyaareads

“Let’s go Doctor. I’m ready to get out of this beige abomination.”

You push yourself off the table and leave out of the same door that Morgan had, Spencer following closely behind you.

He was oddly grateful about your decency to respect his title, and it only made him want to read you like a book even more.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The coroner's office, whilst not as bland and beige as the police station was still extremely muted, with light grey walls and a smooth tiled floor that was so shiny you're sure you could see your face in it if you focused enough.

“The second I see a change in your features I am booting you out of the mortuary understood?” Morgan’s tone held nothing but contempt for you as he walked step in step with you like you’d disappear if he looked away for more than a second.

“You keep speaking to me like that and I’ll shove the next rose I get down your throat.”

“Did you just threaten me?” Morgan’s contempt fizzled into a rising frustration, his eyebrows knitted into a tight line and his arms crossed tightly over his chest as if trying to puff himself out like a peacock to look more intimidating.

“Threats hold no value,”

“We should go inside now,” Spencer’s voice was much less confident than either yours or Morgan’s, but it held enough volume to be heard over your argument.

He was seriously beginning to question whether inviting you to come along was a good idea. He knew Morgan despised you, and yet he’d asked you to come along anyway out of his own selfish want to crack open your brain like a book and read your neuron pathways like pages.

He just hoped you’d actually find something valuable in the victim’s autopsy so that all of your arguing with Morgan wasn’t in vain.

“Ah, you must be the agents working on the case, I’m Dr. Toth,” The doctor introduced herself politely as Spencer opened the mortuary door, and Spencer gave her a small nod of recognition as the three of you entered.

“That’s right, thank you for allowing us here,”

“Of course,” The doctor walked her way around the autopsy table, where you assumed the body of the most recent victim was lying, covered by a blue sheet from head to toe and leaving only the silhouette in its place. “I should warn you in advance, due to the damage caused to the eyes whilst removing the rose stems, we had to excise them from the body during the autopsy,”

“Do you still have them?” Your question seems to strike a nerve with Morgan, probably thinking that you want to see the victim’s eyes as a part of a sick fantasy running through your mind, but he bites his tongue to keep his mouth shut so that he doesn’t accidentally air the fact that they’d brought a serial killer into a coroner’s office and freak out the pathologist they’re talking to.

“We do yes, they were professionally removed and placed in hypothermic storage, I can retrieve them for you if you’d like,”

“That won’t be necessary for now,” Morgan’s interjection elicits a roll of your eyes. You weren’t interested in seeing them because it would get you off or whatever, you wanted to see what kind of damage they went through to the point where they had to be fully removed from the victim’s body.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, but if you need my assistance please don’t hesitate to ask,”

“Thank you,” Spencer, the peacekeeper that he is, gives the doctor a polite smile as he picks up a pair of latex gloves and pulls them over his hands, and you and Morgan follow suit after him as he takes place at the end of the autopsy table.

“You’re looking for differences, not entertainment.”

“Yes yes, I get it, Jesus Christ.” You scoff at Morgan’s tone, tugging the sheet down from the victim’s head until it was halfway down his torso.

“His name was Alexander Youlier, age 22, died of blood loss with the roses believed to be inserted post-mortem,” Spencer read through the autopsy file as you examined the boy’s face.

He was pale, much too pale for a normal person, but you suppose that’s what happens when you barely have any blood in your body, and the blood that he did have completely lacked oxygen. His cheeks were sunken, his lips almost blue from the lack of oxygen, and of course, in place of where his eyes would be, there were instead two holes lined with a dark reddish pink muscle that made it look like the cavity was much deeper than physically possible.

The minute you looked at his face you felt like you were going to throw up. So much for being ‘entertained’.

“Oi.” Morgan’s voice ripped you from your state of disassociation. “What did I just say, you’re here to identify the differences not get off to the victim’s body in your head.” He turned his attention towards Spencer with a disapproving look. “I told you we shouldn’t’ve brought them here,”

You didn’t respond to Morgan’s chastising with anything more than a tiny twitch of your eyebrows as you tore your eyes away from Youlier’s face.

“Are you okay?” Spencer’s voice was considerably softer than Morgan's, his eyes big and round, glistening with worry underneath the overhead light in the room, and his eyebrows furrowed in concern at the way you’d suddenly shut down.

“I don’t want to be here anymore.” The end of your sentence is marked by you tearing the gloves from your hands and leaving them in balls on the floor as you retreat to the door of the room.

“What do you think you’re doing? You’re not allowed to just leave. You wanted to be here. You chose to be here. So you’ll do your goddamn job.” Morgan’s anger falls unrecognised as you open the door and slam it behind you after you leave, and he begins to follow after you only to be stopped by Spencer at the door.

“I’ve got it,”

Morgan’s glance is unconvinced, and Spencer reiterates himself once more. “I’ve got it, I promise, they’re less likely to get angry if it’s me and not you,”

Morgan doesn’t get the chance to argue before Spencer runs off down the hallway to catch up to you, leaving him alone in the mortuary to continue his analysis of the autopsy by himself.

“Hey!” Spencer calls out to you as he jogs in your direction, catching you right as you open the door to leave the coroner’s office. “Wait up a second-” You don’t stop at his callings, but he can tell that you’re also not trying to deliberately get away from him, your pace slow and even as you leave the coroner’s office with him hot on your tail.

He’s very clearly out of breath by the time he reaches your side, but he pays no attention to his lungs’ cry for him to take a second to breathe and supply them with more oxygen as he begins questioning you. “Are you okay?”

“I‘m fine,”

He’s not at all convinced by your statement despite your tone conveying genuity. You looked paler than usual, any natural flush was gone from your cheeks and your lips, and you were absentmindedly picking at the nail bed of your thumb with your middle finger, something he assumes is a self-soothing act for you.

People getting disturbed at the sight of a freshly dead body wasn’t exactly something for Spencer to be astounded at. It was a natural human reaction to the incomprehensible knowledge of death that your brain desperately tried to work out with no results.

But you didn’t exactly fit the definition of ‘normal’. You were a sociopath. So for you to be put off by the sight of a dead body was something for Spencer to be astounded at.

Sure he was aware that sociopaths could still feel things like dread and fear of the unknown, but you weren’t just a sociopath. You were a sociopath who killed eighteen people.

You’d seen your fair share of dead people, manic episode or not. So why was this body making you react like you were?

He supposes it’s just another layer he’ll have to peel from your mind like the skin of an onion.

“Did you know that sociopaths have heightened emotional pathways? Every emotion sociopaths experience is allegedly 3 times stronger in intensity than that of someone without it,” He didn’t exactly know what to say to you considering you’d shut down any attempt to talk about how you were doing emotionally, and so he fell back on what he always did, niche facts and statistics.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Your hardened expression didn’t falter, nor did the underlying monotony in your tone, but you did finally look him in the eye.

“I always feel more at ease when I fully understand whatever I’m dealing with,” Spencer smiles at you softly with a shrug of his shoulders, attempting to empathise with you the best he could.

“I already knew that fact,” You take a seat on the small half-wall lining the outside of the coroner’s office, gripping the edge of the brick with your hands. “And it doesn’t make me feel any different,”

“Well…” Spencer purses his lips slightly as he takes a seat next to you, running through things in his head that might hold some sort of value to you. “Did you know that roses symbolise different things based off of their colour?”

He was definitely grasping at straws now, but he didn’t want to end your conversation yet. He wanted to know what had you so perturbed that you felt the need to leave the minute you got a close look at the victim’s body.

If anything he’d expected you to follow Morgan’s accusation about getting some sick gratification from the body, not actually feeling sick because of it.

“Why do you think I used white roses? I’m not stupid you know,”

He’d never thought of that. “You used white roses for a specific reason?”

You shrug, swinging your legs back and forth over the edge of the wall. “When I was younger we had a dog, and when it died my parents planted a white rose bush over where they buried it,”

Your tone is rather emotionally removed as you divulge this little snippet of your past to him, like you were recounting something you’d read from a fictional story rather than an event that most children would find extremely distressing. “Mom said that the roses were white because they symbolised mourning and new beginnings, something about how it would help him pass over into heaven or whatever, and I guess even in my episode I held that knowledge subconsciously,”

“You don’t believe in heaven?” Spencer’s eyes scanned your face as he tried to decipher your micro-expressions, noting the small softening of your eyes once you brought up your parents. Looks like you did indeed still have some humanity.

“Do you believe in heaven Dr. Reid?”

No. Maybe? He knew that once your brain functions stopped working your consciousness was permanently ended and that was it. “I thought I saw the other side once,” His admission shocked himself more than it shocked you. Great, he was spilling his traumas to a sociopath he’d known for less than a week. What a riveting social life he had.

He could see the flicker of intrigue in your eyes at his sentence, and he pursed his lips into a line before deciding to continue. “I uh- 11 months ago I was kidnapped and forcefully injected with Dilaudid, and I- was overdosed…”

He could see the cogs turning in your head as you connected the fragments of earlier conversations with him in your mind to form a cohesive story, and you nodded at him as if encouraging him to continue with his story.

“I blacked out first, but it felt… warm? and I could see the beginnings of a light and I honestly still don’t know what to think of it,” He could feel himself squirming from the recollection. He was a man of science. Someone who only believed in what he could physically see and test. But that brief moment where he was sure that he’d died and was experiencing an afterlife that he didn’t think existed had carved a hole into his brain and settled itself into the back of his mind.

“I hope there’s an afterlife,” Your tone continues to carry that same monotonous drawl, but he can see the genuity in your eyes and the way your hands clench around the edge of the brick wall.

“Me too…”

It’d be easy for Spencer to forget you were a serial killer in moments like this. Sure you were still extremely emotionally stunted, but you felt human. And he’s sure that that’s the real difference between a sociopath and a psychopath.

Psychopaths were born without human ‘defects’. Sociopaths were made.

“Were your parents good to you?” Spencer’s question was full of hesitation. He didn’t want to assume anything, after all, your parents were the one topic you seemed to treat with genuine care in your words, but he knew something had to have happened. Something had to have made you the way that you are.

“My parents were perfect.” Your eyebrows knit into a small line, as if defensive at the fact that Spencer would suggest your parents were anything other than the perfect model of what two caregivers should be.

“What about your biological parents?” He could feel himself retreating back into his own mind the further he pressed for answers out of you, his conscience begging him to just stop talking before he accidentally crossed a line and ruined any branch of communication he’d formed.

“I don’t remember them,” You shrug lightly and your expression cements your nonchalance.

“You’ve never wanted to… seek them out?” It wasn’t entirely surprising that you don’t remember your biological parents. Most children who get adopted really young don’t.

“They’re dead.”

Oh.

Right.

Spencer’s eyes widen slightly at the revelation.

By this point, he’s completely forgotten about the fact that he’s supposed to be convincing you to go back into the mortuary to continue looking at the victim.

You had a great adoptive family and a pair of dead biological parents. Was that what broke you? Was them dying what caused your mental state to shatter and rebuild itself as a fragmented version of its previous state?

Maybe that’s why you didn’t remember them. Maybe your brain had built a wall in your memories to protect you from your own trauma of losing your parents. But he wasn’t sure it was enough for you to have a mental break like you did. There had to be something more.

“I can do some digging on them if you want,” He airs the suggestion like he’s not going to do it even if you say no.

“I have no interest in learning about them,”

Oh well. He’d get Garcia to do it anyway. Maybe you’d find more interest in the topic once there was actually something for you to learn.

“Are you- feeling alright now?” Spencer knew he was going to have to bring up the topic eventually. They couldn’t stay out here for too long both for the sake of the investigation and because if they did Morgan would probably jump to the conclusion that you’d killed Spencer and run off somewhere.

“I told you I was fine,”

“I don’t think I believe you,” Spencer could see the small shift in your expression at his hesitant accusation. But it wasn’t anger this time, it was something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “Something caused you discomfort, and in order for you to be able to help us we need you to be relaxed,”

You turned your face away from Spencer as he spoke, eyes fixed on a bird flying overhead and then on the cloud that was behind it.

“What was it that caused you to feel like you didn’t want to be there anymore?” There was clear caution in Spencer’s tone as he questioned you, although that had essentially become a staple of every conversation you had with him by this point. “We can fix it,”

Spencer’s compassion for you left you feeling a little confused. You were a spree murderer. He was supposed to dislike you for that. That’s how the human mind works is it not? People are supposed to have a distaste for those who break the moral codes of society, and you did it 18 times over.

“I… don’t know,” It felt like every second you allowed yourself to be confused the feeling multiplied tenfold until you weren’t even sure that you could remember your own name if somebody asked you for it.

Your emotions were written all over your face, not like you really had the capacity to hide them even if you wanted to, but it was clear as day just how internally confused you were with your own feelings about the situation at hand.

“Let me help you figure it out then,” Spencer’s tone continued to carry that gentle compassion in it and it wasn’t helping you sort out your thoughts.

“I don’t need your help, I can figure it out on my own,” You knew enough about Psychology to be able to figure out your own thinking processes. At least you thought so. You didn’t go through three laborious years at university wishing during every hour of it to be doing something else to not even get anything useful out of it at the end.

Spencer took that as a direct invitation to shut his mouth and just let you think to yourself, although his eyes continued to scan your expression and your body language as he waited for you to come to your own conclusion on how you were currently feeling and what exactly made you feel that way.

“Will you stop staring at me?” Despite your gaze focused downwards towards the pavement your frustration at his lingering gaze made it sound like he was making direct eye contact with you.

“Sorry,” Spencer averted his eyes from you immediately after your order, flickering them around the parking lot of the coroner’s office and absentmindedly reading all of the number plates he could see from a distance so that he didn’t frustrate you anymore than he already had.

You gave up psychoanalysing your own mind after a few minutes, partly because it was an effort you didn’t want to expend and partly because it felt safer for you to just lock your emotions behind a wall of glass and leave them for another day.

Instead, you turned your gaze back to the doctor sitting next to you and watched him as he watched his surroundings.

“Your eyes are very alive,”

It’s an odd thing to say Spencer thinks. The concept of his eyes being ‘alive’. Of course, he’d heard the term ‘dead eyes’ before in reference to the lack of emotion shown on someone's face. He’d consider you to have rather dead eyes if he was thinking about it. Although he’s not sure if you’re referring to his eyes in terms of expressiveness or genuinely being ‘alive’ in a physical sense.

“Alive?”

You give him a short nod. “They have a lot of life in them,”

“Thank you?” He chooses to take your odd statement as a sort of compliment. Surely having ‘alive eyes’ couldn’t be a negative thing, right?

Now that he’s thinking about it you really did seem to have some sort of fixation on people's eyes. You constantly chased eye contact with the people you spoke to. You apparently had a habit of studying people’s eyes and how ‘alive’ they were. You pierced roses into the eyes of your victims.

Spencer’s gaze focused on you as he came to the conclusion in his head. You’d become uncomfortable in the mortuary because you couldn’t see the victim’s eyes. Because instead of being able to judge him based off of the look in his eyes you were instead greeted with a blank slate where they were supposed to be.

But why? Why was your judgement of somebody based off of what you could see in their eyes? Something had to have caused it.

“Why did you put roses in your victims’ eyes?” He could see the flicker of intrigue in your expression at his question, although he was unsure whether it was conscious or not.

From the way you’d spoken earlier about your discomfort, it seemed that your apparent fixation was unknown to even you, a subconscious thought process that even you were unaware of for whatever reason.

“I told you this already, I held subconscious knowledge about what they represented.” You furrow your eyebrows at his question, one that you’d answered a little over five minutes ago. Why was he asking you again? “I thought you had an eidetic memory.”

“I do-” Spencer’s not sure whether to be surprised that you remembered that small snippet of information or not. “I mean, why did you put them… you know, in their eyes specifically?”

A small amount of discomfort seeped into Spencer’s tone as he asked the question. As much as he’d become desensitised to the gruesomeness of what his job held, actively thinking about having somebody’s eyes being physically pierced with a blunt object was something that anyone with two functioning eyeballs would feel uncomfortable about.

“I don’t know, I just did,”

So it was subconscious. Something that the dark void in the back of your mind was aware of but wouldn’t let your conscious self have any knowledge of.

“Would you like to help me analyse the victim’s eyes? The pathologist said they were still being stored,” Your eyebrows turn from furrowed to raised, clearly confused by Spencer’s sudden fixation on eye-related things.

“They could be a useful asset to the investigation,” Spencer shrugged softly, lips pressed into a line, an awkward smile present on his face as if his suggestion was completely unrelated to the conversation.

You found yourself agreeing to Spencer’s suggestion despite that lingering discomfort in the back of your mind, and as the two of you stood up to re-enter the coroner’s office, Spencer pulled out his phone to send an email to Morgan.

‘Cover the victim’s face.’

Morgan had clearly read the message before the two of you arrived back at the mortuary, shooting Spencer a glance of confusion as you entered the room ahead of him, eyes already locked on Youlier’s body as if you were drawn to it by some unexplainable force.

Of course, with the blue sheet now placed back over the victim’s head, you couldn’t actually see anything, but you still had the image of his face in your head, causing a sense of unease to remain in your stomach, although not as bad as when you were originally presented with it.

Spencer gave Morgan a small shake of his head as if to shut down this conversation for later, leaving your side to seek out the pathologist so she could retrieve Youlier’s eyes from storage.

He returned not two minutes later, freshly gloved with a glass jar in hand, two vaguely spherical shaped objects floating inside it.

Morgan saw them before you did, his expression widening and then furrowing at the sight of just how ripped up these eyes seemed to be. “How on earth did they end up like that?”

Morgan’s question is enough to pique your curiosity and rip your gaze away from the victim's covered-up face, walking up behind Spencer to look at the jar over his shoulder.

“Dr Toth said the damage was from the thorns on the roses,”

You examine the jar as Spencer explains how they ended up in the state they were in, and you had to agree that Morgan’s bewilderment was right.

They barely even looked like a pair of eyes anymore. They were more ovular than spherical, with two gaping holes where the pupil and iris should be, and countless tear lines all over the scleras, presumably where the killer had struggled to push the stems through the eyes from the resistance of the thorns. Although, you couldn’t deny that seeing them somehow ailed any lingering discomfort in your stomach.

“Well that’s just stupid,”

Spencer jumped from your statement like he hadn’t even realised you were standing behind him, almost fumbling the jar out of his hands in the process.

“…maybe you’re just stupid…” Morgan’s muttering doesn’t go unnoticed, and you shoot a glare in his direction that he mirrors right back at you with just as much venom.

“What’s stupid?” It takes Spencer a second to regain his bearings, but once he does he turns his attention to you with round eyes and a slightly tilted head, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly.

He watches as your focus shifts back and forth between the eyes in the jar and his own as if you were trying to visualise what he’d look like with the ripped-up excuse for a pair of eyes instead of the ones he currently had.

“Obviously you should de-thorn the roses first,” Your tone carried your phrase like you were telling him that you shouldn’t put metal in a microwave rather than de-thorning a rose before piercing someone’s eye with it. “This guy’s on what, their fifth victim? You would’ve thought they’d figured that out by now,”

You take the jar from Spencer’s hand to get a closer look at the remnants of the victim’s eyes from a better vantage point.

“I mean come on, I figured it out after my first try,” You’re edging into a rant about the intricacies of how to most productively pierce somebodies eyes with rose stems now, and it was beginning to remind Spencer that you had in fact actually done all of these things and it wasn’t just hypothetical. “It literally takes like ten seconds per rose if you know what you’re doing and then saves you five minutes of effort,”

Morgan takes the jar from you like you’re a child with a bottle of bleach, a scowl still etched on his face as you give him an incredulous look.

“I’m not going to like eat them or whatever, god-”

“Knowing your track record I wouldn’t be surprised if you did,” Morgan places the jar down on the small table by where the victim is lying.

“One, that’s disgusting, two, what the fuck?” Spencer finds your bewilderment at Morgan’s suggestion that you might eat the victim’s eyes quite amusing on a surface level, your response sounding like something a high schooler would say rather than a prolific serial killer.

“What? You’re the type of sick bastard that would probably get off on that sort of thing,” Morgan shrugs his shoulders as he turns back around to face you once more.

“I was experiencing a manic episode, I’m not some weird sadist who has a fetish for eyeballs,”

‘Not a fetish, but something,’ Spencer chooses to keep to himself during your squabble this time, walking over to the autopsy table to hike up the blue cover sheet and check for other injuries lower down on the body.

There’s nothing truly substantial, with no defence wounds courtesy of the blow to the back of his head before the attack, another staple of your spree to keep your victims complacent. The only thing of note was the two gashes across each wrist, severing both radial arteries, the source of the bleeding-out portion of his death.

He had to give you props on that part. The average time it took somebody to bleed out was only 3 and a half minutes, meaning it was a pretty effective way to kill somebody with minimal effort and ensure they were completely dead before any first responders might have time to arrive even if they were called immediately after the gashes were made.

It was very controlled, much more of an execution than a murder if he was to really think about it, especially considering all of your victims were unconscious when it happened and therefore probably didn’t even feel anything aside from the original blow to the head.

For a serial killer, it was actually very humane. Even if you did go out of your way to desecrate their eyes afterwards. But was the real harm in that, they were already dead anyway, it’s not like they felt it.

It ruled out any sort of sadism from your spree, one of the reasons he thinks your story of a manic episode was so easily accepted in court. You weren’t killing people for the fun of it. You didn’t drag it out or make it unnecessarily painful. It was like you were just following the steps of how to kill somebody with as minimal effort as possible to satisfy whatever violent urges you had in your head at the time and then fulfilling the apparent subconscious fixation you had with eyes by covering them with roses.

“Wow, this guy really has no idea what he’s doing-” You again cause Spencer to almost jump out of his skin as you appear behind him once more, looking at the gashes over his shoulder.

You reach out to touch one of them, stopped by a harsh hand on your wrist from Morgan, who continues to glare at you like you’d set his house on fire. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Checking out the shitty incision work from this stupid ass copycat?”

“Put some gloves on you idiot,” Morgan drops your wrist with a scoff, walking across the room to pull out a pair of latex gloves from one of the boxes and shoving them into your palms.

You roll your eyes at his attitude but tug on the gloves anyway, making a show of raising your hands up in his face once you had them on. “Happy now?”

With a swat of your wrist away from his face Morgan concedes to stop antagonising you for now and let you focus on whatever you were originally doing, which you turn to do immediately like you’d completely forgotten about Morgan’s existence as soon as he exited your peripheral vision.

“What is it?” Spencer’s eyes follow yours down to the victim’s left wrist, and he watches as you prod at the gash with your gloved fingers as if trying to pry it back open.

“This is probably the shittiest attempt at bleeding someone out I’ve ever seen,” You bend down with narrowed eyes as you examine the wound. “It’d probably take like 20 minutes from a cut this shallow,”

Spencer can’t help but agree with your assessment. The cut was extremely shallow, so much so he’s sure that this victim probably could’ve survived it if he’d gotten immediate medical attention. He checks the other wrist just to be sure, and he’s granted with the same sight, an extremely shallow cut for somebody actively trying to kill people.

“So, what? He just sat around for twenty minutes whilst Youlier bled out so he could put the roses in his eyes?” Morgan furrowed his eyebrows at the revelation. “What sense does that make?”

Can they be sure that they were inserted post-mortem?

Spencer walked around the table towards the autopsy report to re-read the file in case he’d somehow missed that detail whilst reading it the first time.

Alexander Youlier. Age 22. Died of blood loss with the roses believed to be inserted post-mortem.

He hadn’t missed anything. But then that didn’t make sense. There was no way that the killer would just wait around for almost half an hour for somebody to bleed themselves dry, especially considering that Youlier was found under an open gazebo in a dog park. That would just be reckless. For it to work the roses would have had to be inserted whilst he was still alive.

“Having an epiphany over there or something?” Spencer turns his eyes upwards at your comment, leaving the report on the side table as he walks into Dr Toth’s side office without giving you an answer.

You and Morgan share a glance at his sudden departure, probably the most civil interaction the two of you had ever had, fuelled by the joined want to know what was running through Spencer’s mind.

The door of the office opened less than a minute later, Dr. Toth leaving her office with Spencer hot on her trail. “-reports from the main office so that you can cross-reference them all,”

You only catch the end of their conversation as they enter back into the mortuary, and Dr Toth leaves the room to assumedly go and gather whatever ‘reports’ she was on about from the main office, leaving you and Morgan blankly staring in Spencer’s direction with confused expressions.

“I think that our unsub might be inserting the roses into the victim’s eyes whilst they’re still alive,”

The revelation that the unsub was purposefully dragging out the death of their victims made the team have to rebuild the profile from the bottom up.

Spencer took the opportunity to do some digging. Or more accurately have Garcia do some digging.

He had her pull everything humanly possible regarding your biological parents, their life, their death, and most importantly, how they treated you.

They were 29 and 32 when they died, you having been born when your mother was only 23. They both had a history of substance abuse, and according to their autopsies, both of them had lethal levels of diazepam in their bloodstreams at their time of death.

What was interesting about their deaths though was that they were dead for three days before they were found, rotting in their own house with a six-year-old left living with them. Now that was something that could cause a mental break. A six-year-old, left for three days with the corpses of their dead parents and only found when the neighbours complained about the smell.

The file Garcia had faxed over also happened to have images from the scene when the bodies were recovered, and they were just as disgusting as he’d imagined they’d be. The two were sat paired on a couch, skin pale and turning slightly grey with the beginning signs of decay, small insects roaming on their skin, and the clothes they were wearing.

But the selling point for Spencer was their eyes. Wide open and staring blankly into open space with clouded pupils and ruptured irises. It freaked him out and he was looking at it through a piece of paper. He couldn’t imagine how it made a six-year-old child who lived with them like that for three days feel.

There was the origin of your eye fixation, and he honestly couldn’t blame you for covering the dead stare of your victims so you wouldn’t have to relive that.

The more he read the more devastating the report seemed to be. When asked why you didn’t call for any help from neighbours or the police you stated that you “just wanted them to sleep for a while,” and that your mother would “give me the sleepy pills when she wanted me to go to sleep, so I did the same for her and daddy,”

In an effort to get your parents to go to sleep so they would stop presumably treating you horribly, you’d unintentionally overdosed them both.

You were in a paediatric rehabilitation centre for almost four months after you were recovered from the house. A six-year-old. Being rehabilitated for an addiction to diazepam because your parents would solve any blip in your behaviour by feeding you sleeping pills instead of treating you like the child you were.

All of a sudden forming an addiction at 25 didn’t seem all that detrimental anymore.

He supposes that’s how you knew right off the bat. Addiction recognises addiction and all that. Although by the look of it, you’d made a full healthy recovery by the time you were adopted into your new family.

You’d been diagnosed with ASD after you were removed from the house, and Spencer is surprised by the fact that the mental impact it had on you only seemed to be acute, although, he’s sure that in hindsight the psychiatrist that diagnosed you would’ve made sure to be more thorough in their examination of your mental state.

Still, what happened had happened, and although Spencer nor anyone else could do anything to change that, he could form a greater understanding of who you were and why you did what you did.

Except he still didn’t really know why, he knew the origins, but what was the trigger that caused you to deteriorate mentally until you were back at your lowest possible point?

That wasn’t important right now.

He needed to focus on the actual case at hand and not the closed case of a serial killer from four years ago. It didn’t matter how much of a fascination he’d formed with your psychology, he needed to focus so that no one else had to die.

It was insane to think about, just how distracted he’d get with uncovering your past like it was a mystery novel that required the reader’s involvement to solve.

But now he really needed to knuckle down and actually put his intelligence forward to help the team find the unsub they were looking for or else earn a chastising from Hotch and up to 13 more victims if they followed your pattern to a T.

Why you though? Why was this unsub following your crimes specifically? Sure some people were mentally deranged enough to want to gain the same notoriety as the killers they replicated, but your case was in a small city and didn’t even make national news. Not only that, it was new. Really new.

Most copycat killers replicated national or even international-level crimes that had decades to form a legacy and settle into the back of people's minds. Your case wasn’t like that. Not to the full extent anyway. The state of California had recognised you as a prolific killer but in any other state your name was unknown.

So why you?

Spencer watched intently as the team scribbled down notes and ideas on the whiteboards taking up most of the room, leaving him sitting at the head of the conference table with his files on your background and you engaging yourself in the pass-time of making origami cranes out of discarded bits of paper to stop yourself from getting bored.

A serial killer replicating your crimes almost step by step. Bleed out the victims, put roses in their eyes, move on. Same victim pattern. Same time frame. But still with distinct differences.

This unsub bled their victims out considerably slower than you did. They used red roses instead of white roses like you did. They left the thorns on the rose stems when you pruned them beforehand.

Why did this unsub not de-thorn the roses first? After five separate murders, why would they not make their process easier by discarding the thorns to stop them from tearing up the victim’s eyes?

‘I figured it out after my first try.’

“Hey uh-” Spencer turns his head up towards you, tapping his pen absentmindedly against the table. “Do you remember what happened to your first victim? After your parents?”

“What?” You furrow and then raise one of your eyebrows at his sudden question, especially because he’d been sitting in his own little cocoon for the last thirty minutes.

It was quite a long shot of a question if you had been experiencing mania at the time, but you seemed to be remembering select details about your spree, so your first victim surely should be present in your mind at least somewhat.

“How did you… You know-” Spencer’s roundabout question was half amusing and half frustrating from your viewpoint, and you take a break from your paper crafts to indulge in it.

“Well…” You drag out the word and you divert your eyes from him to stare upwards towards the ceiling like it’ll aid your memory. “I incapacitated her first, with a… brick I think? It might’ve been a regular rock I’m not sure-”

“Him.” Morgan’s venom seeps into his correction of your account. “You killed eighteen people and you don’t even have the decency to remember the gender of your first victim? Seriously?”

“I do know my own victim pattern thank you very much,” You override Morgan’s correction with just as much ferocity. “ And it was definitely a woman. I chose her specifically because she’d be easy.”

“That’s not what our files say.”

“Then your files are wrong? What do you want me to do about it?”

Spencer runs over your victims in his head. Your first filed victim’s name was John Brandy, found lifeless on a park bench after a woman walking her dog called it in to the police.

He tried to remember any other things he’d read about your case that might indicate that Brandy wasn’t your first victim. Nothing. John Brandy was the only thing he could affiliate with the identity of the first victim from your spree. And most notably, Brandy was very male.

“…What did you do after you incapacitated her?” Spencer slowly edges his way back into a conversation between you and Morgan, mind on full alert as it continues to run through all of the details he knows about you and your case.

“I moved her against the like wall of the street we were down and then did the rest of it,” You shrug your shoulders in mild scepticism of Spencer’s sudden interest in this specific kill of yours. “You know, cut the wrists, wait a few minutes, then stick in the roses. Although I’m pretty sure I got one rose like half in because the thorns were being difficult and I gave up when she started twitching,”

You exhale exasperatedly. ”That’s probably why she’s not ‘in your files’, because the rose I did try and do wasn’t even fully inserted and probably just fell out or something,” You glare pointedly at Morgan, tilting your head back and forth in condescension. “It was my first time alright? Everyone’s gotta start somewhere.”

Sure everyone’s gotta start somewhere. When it comes to working a job or starting a hobby. You don’t usually ‘start somewhere’ when it comes to murdering people.

It’s the fact that you say it so nonchalantly that gets to him, talking about your murder spree of eighteen people like it was you learning how to bake a cake. Nineteen people. You’d actually killed nineteen people in your spree, and your poor first victim probably didn’t even get given the light of day that the rest of your victims did when it came to justice.

“Morgan,” Hotch’s voice proved to pull Spencer out of yet another spiral consisting of endless questions surrounding your psychology, even if not directed at him. “Call Garcia and have her pull up any unsolved murder cases that involved two slit wrists and trauma to the eyes in Malibu during the time they were active as a killer,”

“On it,” Honestly, Morgan would’ve taken any excuse to get out of your presence for a few minutes, feeling the overwhelming urge to punch you square in your face grow stronger with every snippet of information about yourself that you shared out loud without a single care in the world.

Did it have anything significant to catching this copycat? No. But that victim deserved just as much justice as any of your others.

One profiler down, the rest of the team turned back to fleshing out the profile, and you turned back to your half-finished paper crane, muttering to yourself under your breath about something that Spencer couldn’t quite hear.

“Okay, so we’ve ruled out mania as a possible cause of the kills because of how long it took for them to bleed out, we’ve ruled out paranoia because of the victim pattern following the original to a T instead of being random, it could be some form of ASD but that doesn’t really make sense with the rest of the profile-” Emily scans over the notes of the whiteboard as she speaks, picking absentmindedly on the red polish covering her nails and leaving small flakes of it all over the table by where you’re sitting.

“Would you stop doing that?” You make a show of wiping the table with your hand, and Emily doesn’t respond to you with more than a glance as she stuffs her hands in her pockets.

“Alright babygirl thank you,” Morgan sends a kiss through the phone before hanging it up and putting it away in his pocket and you swear you almost gag at the sight of it.

“Nothing,” Morgan shrugs his shoulders half out of resignation and half out of frustration as he takes a seat opposite you on the table. “There are no unsolved murders matching the description you gave us,”

He glares into your eyes like he’s trying to burn them right out of your eye sockets. “So? What is it? You get a kick out of lying or what?”

“Do I look like the type of person who makes the effort to lie? Because news flash, I don’t, it’s not like saying I killed one more person than I actually did benefits me in any way,” You furrow your expression with a scoff, leaning back in your chair to rest your ankles on the table.

“Right, sure, because someone like you totally doesn’t care about how they’re perceived by other people,”

“Why would I want to say I’ve killed more people than I actually have, it just makes me look more crazy than you already think I am-” You weren’t backing down on this. You were adamant that this person was your first victim and that you weren’t lying to him.

“Then why isn’t there any file of her whatsoever?”

“What if she’s still alive?” It’s like all of the puzzle pieces fall into Spencer’s mind at once, and he interrupts your arguing with Morgan yet again, except this time it’s not about keeping the peace.

“You said you gave up because ‘the thorns were being difficult and she started twitching’, was she alive when you tried to put the rose in her eye?” Spencer turns his gaze towards you, a completely different air surrounding his expression than the mildly awkward and apprehensive one you’d gotten used to.

“I don’t know, maybe?” You shrug like his question was absurd, watching as he stands from his seat to look over the whiteboard detailing the autopsies of each of the victims.

“Reid?” Hotch’s raised eyebrow asked a hundred different questions, and Spencer answered every single one of them with a single phrase muttered under his breath.

“…PTSD by proxy-”

He takes a second to study the photos on the board before continuing. “It’s a psychological disorder where victims of PTSD will project their trauma onto others,”

He pulls a few of the images from the board to lay them out on the conference table. “Of those who develop PTSD from traumatic incidents, roughly 2% then go on to try and satiate their trauma by projecting it onto other people,”

“If what you remember about your first victim was true and she survived, then there’s a high chance that the new killer we’re looking for is that first victim,” He arranges the autopsy photos in two groups, with one of the wrist gashes and the other of the eye damage.

“The victims bled out slowly, which in a lot of cases with first-time murder or murder attempts happens unintentionally because the killer doesn’t know how deep a cut like that has to be for it to be fatal,” He points towards the photos on the left first.

“And then the eyes would be pretty self-explanatory,” He turns one of the photos towards where you and Hotch are sitting. “If your first victim was in fact alive when you tried to pierce her eyes then that could explain why these victims were also still alive when the roses were inserted,”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Emily chimes in with her two cents as Spencer gives his explanation. “We’re in a completely different city,”

“And it’s been three years since the original spree,” Rossi swirls the coffee in his mug with a furrowed expression.

“Well Las Flores is only an hour's drive from Malibu,” Spencer moves from the table to go back over to the annotated map on one of the boards, marking an invisible line with his fingers. “Maybe she decided she needed to get away from her trauma, 46% of individuals who experience life-changing trauma do,”

“But why now?”

Spencer’s eyes turn back towards you at Rossi’s question, as if you held all the answers to what the stressor was for this sudden murder spree. Your answer of course was nothing more than a shrug and an expression that asked ‘How am I supposed to know?’, which put a halt to Spencer’s theory.

That, and the fact that they hadn’t even confirmed if this woman was still alive let alone living in Las Flores.

“Alright,” Hotch cut through the team’s conversation with a wave of his hand. “Morgan, ask Garcia to track down women who went into the hospital for ocular injuries three years ago and have moved to Las Flores since then,”

Morgan gives him a determined nod as he leaves the room once more, Hotch then turning his attention towards you.

“What have you done in the last few months that would’ve been told to the public?”

“I don’t know?” You give him an exasperated expression and raise your hands in a defensive manner. “Why would I know that? It’s not like I have someone telling me when I’m on the news,”

Hotch furrowed his eyebrow at your immediate defensiveness, reminding himself to be patient and bear with your short fuse because it technically wasn’t your fault.

Although it didn’t make it any less frustrating either way.

He turned his eyes towards Spencer, gesturing towards the door and then towards you as a silent order for him to speak to you privately outside.

If anyone was going to be able to get a piece of information out of you, consciously or subconsciously, it would be Spencer.

It took him a few seconds to compute Hotch’s message, but as soon as he did he stood from his seat, mug in hand.

“I’m going to make some more coffee, do you want some?” Spencer gives you a small and slightly awkward smile as he looks at you, and you raise an eyebrow in his direction.

“You don’t know how to make my coffee,”

“You can show me,” Spencer raises his eyebrows enthusiastically, lips pressed taut into a line as he silently prays for you to take the bait. And you do.

You don’t respond with more than pushing your chair away from the table to stand, but Spencer follows after you as you leave the meeting room nonetheless, gaining a small nod from Hotch that he returns with one of his own.

In the break room, Spencer watches you prepare your coffee, taking mental notes of the precise amount of creamer and sugar you add. He's careful to keep the conversation casual, asking about your preferences and subtly steering you towards the topic of recent events.

"I got a new therapist a few months ago," you admit, stirring your coffee. "She recommended having me moved into psychiatric care." The implication hangs clearly in the air.

"Psychiatric care?" Spencer echoes, his mind eagerly piecing together the information.

“Mhm,” You give him a small nod and you leave the teaspoon on the counter, taking a sip of your coffee.

Now that was something that might’ve been made public. If you had been recommended by a specialist to be moved out of a high-security prison and into a psychiatric institute the local news was bound to know about it.

"You being moved to a psychiatric facility would definitely make the news," Spencer mutters, drawing your attention back to him. "That could be the trigger point for our unsub,"

“Me going to a hospital? Seriously?” You scoff like that being a motive is pathetic.

“Yes, seriously,” Spencer replies, his expression serious. “It could signify a turning point, a change in your situation that the unsub might interpret as you escaping justice. It could be the catalyst that pushed them into action.”

He abandons his coffee mug on the counter as he ushers you back into the meeting room with the rest of the team, and all it takes is Hotch getting a single glance at Spencer’s expression to know that there was indeed a trigger for this murder spree.

“A few months ago, their therapist recommended moving them to a psychiatric facility," Spencer shares the information as soon as you both re-enter the room, "That could have been publicised, potentially triggering our unsub-”

“We found her,” Morgan interrupts Spencer’s explanation as he hurries into the room, phone still pressed against his ear as he reaches over to scribble down the name and address Garcia had recovered.

Louise Nueves, aged 29 was born and raised in Malibu, never having left the city for more than a week her entire life. That was, until she was hospitalised for three days for a severe ocular injury to her left eye.

She left the city less than a week after she was discharged, and supposedly never returned as she settled down in Las Flores instead.

She settled down, got married, started working in a small bakery, and overall just seemed to have a well-rounded and stable life after the trauma that she had endured back in her home town.

Morgan knocked harshly on the front door of her house, gun held firmly in his hand just in case Nueves deemed the threat of their presence as an incentive to act violently. “Louise Nueves, this is the FBI,”

The silence from the other side of the door seemed only to heighten the adrenaline running through the veins of the team.

It didn’t take long before Morgan was looking for permission to force the door open, and once he gained a nod from Hotch that’s exactly what he did, kicking the door handle loose and forcing the door open as the team filtered into the house to search for their suspect.

You were an exception of course, being confined to the entranceway with Spencer as your personal babysitter in case you managed to get yourself into any trouble or think about running off.

You hear an echo of ‘clear’s from the group as they sweep the house, seemingly completely devoid of any human presence outside of the FBI team. Until…

“You guys might wanna come see this,”

Emily’s voice sounded from upstairs, and she backed out into the stairway as she gestured for the team to join her up the stairs.

You give Spencer a look before walking over to the stairs, and his curiosity overrides his need to try and keep you in the entrance as he follows after you with the rest of the team following closely behind.

“This little bitch-“ The sight you were greeted with would’ve been extremely disturbing under normal circumstances, a corpse of a man - presumably Nueves’ husband - lying in its first stage of decay on the bed of the house’s master bedroom, a red rose resting on his chest.

Instead, your response was more angry at the blatant lack of originality in the way he was killed.

"Copying my kills is one thing," you spat out, your eyes burning with rage. "But having no innovation or creativity of their own? That's just pathetic." You crossed your arms over your chest, your gaze fixed on the lifeless body in front of you.

"Unique or not, it proves our hypothesis of who the copycat is," Morgan retorted, his gaze hardening at your callous words.

You rolled your eyes, huffing in annoyance. "Great."

Ignoring your sarcasm, Hotch spoke up, "We need to find Nueves before she kills again. Morgan, Reid, you're with me. We'll check her workplace. Rossi and JJ I want you to track down some of her friends, maybe they've noticed something off."

As they left, Emily turned to you, her eyes scrutinising. "What about them, Hotch? Do we just leave them at the station?"

"No," Hotch replied without missing a beat. "They’ll stay with you as you monitor the area. Keep an eye on them. We don't know how they might react now that their 'legacy' is being threatened."

With that, they left you in the company of Emily, the silence in the room amplifying the eerie sight of the corpse on the bed.

The tension was still very apparent despite you and Emily having no previous background, and you could tell that she wasn’t exactly thrilled with your company as the two of you left the house just as the authorities arrived, presumably called by Hotch as they left the scene.

“How does it feel to babysit a grown adult instead of doing something important?”

Emily shot you a sideways glance, her lips forming a thin line. "I'd like to think that keeping an eye on a serial killer counts as important, don't you?" she retorted, her voice icy.

“You’re supposed to be finding a serial killer, I haven’t done anything in years, what makes you think that I’m the threat?” You can’t help but scoff at her intonation as she speaks to you, it feeling oddly derogatory considering that you couldn’t even remember what her name was. “That’s some audacity alright,”

Emily narrowed her eyes at you, a flicker of annoyance crossing her features. "You may not think so, but your presence here is still a potential risk," she said, her tone sharp. "And until we know more, I'm not taking any chances."

She quickened her pace, leaving you to catch up as you followed her out of the residential area and into a nearby public park. Emily’s eyes scanned the area like a hawk as she walked, making you roll your eyes. “You really think she’s just going to be hanging around right next to her own house?”

Emily's gaze flickered toward you, her expression unyielding. "We're not looking for Nueves herself. We're looking for any clues, any signs of her recent activity or whereabouts," she explained tersely. "Every detail matters in a case like this."

She continued to lead the way through the park, her pace steady and purposeful. Despite your scepticism, you couldn't deny the intensity in her demeanour, the determination to solve the case weighing heavily in the air between you as you reluctantly tailed her like a toddler on a leash.

As you walked, Emily suddenly halted, her eyes narrowing as she caught sight of a lone figure sat on one of the park benches with their back to the two of you.

“Oh come on, it’s the middle of the day, of course there are people in the park.”

“Be quiet.” Emily approached the individual with her words barked out between her teeth. As you drew closer, you could see the figure was a woman, her head bowed and shoulders slumped. Emily called out to her, her voice firm yet cautious. "Excuse me, ma'am. Are you alright?"

The woman looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and filled with tears. "I-I'm fine," she stammered, quickly wiping at her cheeks. "Just... just having a moment." Her eyes seemed to flicker downwards towards Emily’s vest in confusion but she didn’t make any move to mention it.

Emily studied her for a moment longer before nodding, her hand slowly retracting from her weapon. “Alright. Just be careful out here, okay?” she advised before motioning for you to follow as she continued on the path.

You glanced back at the woman, her eyes following you in a mix of her previous sadness and confusion, seemingly unsure of how she should feel at an apparent FBI agent approaching her out of nowhere and then advising her to ‘be careful’.

“It’s you.” The new voice turns both of your heads in its direction.

Standing a few feet away was a woman and her dog, her demeanour tense yet strangely familiar. She looked at you with a mixture of surprise and recognition, her eyes lingering on Emily’s vest for a moment before returning to you.

“Excuse me?” You raise an eyebrow at the bluntness of her recognition of who you were, furrowing your eyebrows dismissively like she didn’t have the right to have recognised you in whatever way she had.

“You don’t know me?” Her tone carried a clear betrayal, as did the furrow in her eyebrows as she took a step towards you, one which Emily retaliated to by forcing you behind her with a heavy grip on your arm, one which you did not appreciate whatsoever as you pulled yourself from her grasp.

“Mrs Nueves?” Emily’s voice held a mix of apprehension and concern as she spoke, and she reached into her back pocket to thrust her phone into your hand before holding her fingers ready over her gun holster.

“You don’t remember me, do you? The woman ignored Emily completely, her voice tinged with bitterness as she stared at you, her features filled with betrayal as she realised you weren’t even looking at her, too preoccupied with trying to figure out why Emily had given you her phone.

“Mrs Nueves, my name’s Emily, I’m with the FBI, I understand that what you’re going through right now is extremely difficult but-”

“Shut up!” Nueves’ voice was harsh and drenched in ice as she spoke, holding her hand up dismissively. “I don’t care about you or your FBI friends-”

You had your back to the two by this point, and after a message had come through from Spencer about Nueves not being at her workplace you figured that the reason Emily as given you the phone was to get backup from the team.

oh. Right.

‘shes in the park by her house’

Of course she was. Because she was continually proving to be one of the stupidest people you’d ever encountered. Who decides to take their dog for a walk in the park two minutes from their house whilst being actively pursued by the police? Stupid people, that’s who. God, couldn’t the person copying your crimes at least be a competent one?

‘We’ll be there in ten minutes. Hold tight.’

“Look at me!” Nueves’ raised voice caused multiple heads to turn from the people wandering the park, including your own, and you turn your eyes away from the phone screen with a furrowed expression of annoyance.

“Do you have any idea what you did to me? How much I suffered because of what you did?” Nueves’ outbreak was very quickly garnering an audience from passersby, and could could practically feel the tension rolling off of Emily in waves as she tried to figure out what to do.

“You lived, get over it,” You were not helping.

The look on Nueves’ face at your words was almost incomprehensible, like she didn’t know what emotion she was supposed to be feeling at your nonchalance about what happened. Like you hadn’t ruined her entire life and caused her eternal suffering.

“Get over it? Look what you did to me!” Nueves barked out her words as she brought her left hand up to her eye, pulling at it until the sclera fell into the palm of her hand, leaving a dark pink void in its wake.

Your eyes immediately widened at the action, eyebrows furrowed in clear distaste for what you’d witnessed and that uncomfortable feeling that you’d experienced in the coroner’s office rising in your stomach the longer you looked at her.

“This is my life now.” She held up the piece of glass in her hand. “This is what I have to live with because of you.”

“Mrs Nueves-” Emily took a small step forward in her direction with both hands raised to appear as not threatening as possible.

“Don’t move-” Nueves dropped her dog’s leash at Emily’s advance to pull a small kitchen knife from her pocket, similar to one that would be used to cut vegetables or peel a potato.

Emily’s shoulders tense at the emergence of the weapon lips pursed into a tight line, and you’re sure that you might’ve been mildly concerned yourself if the knife blade wasn’t smaller than its handle. It didn’t make her look as intimidating as you assume she thinks she is, more like a teenager who carries around a switchblade in an attempt to make themself look tougher than they actually are.

Then again, this woman had actually killed people. Just not very well.

Still, if she thought that was a ‘big’ knife then her husband must’ve not been very satisfactory when it came to the bedroom.

"Put the knife down, Louise," Emily's voice was stern yet calm, her gaze unwavering. "We can talk about this, help you get the help you need. But first, you need to put the knife down."

Nueves seemed to consider this for a moment, her grip on the knife wavering. But then, her expression hardened, her eyes filled with a cold determination. "No," she stated firmly, "I won't."

“Mrs. Nueves,” Emily tried again, her voice laced with a calm authority, “you're not a killer. You're a victim, and we want to help you.”

Nueves let out a bitter laugh at this, her gaze never leaving Emily's. “A victim?” she echoed, her voice filled with scorn. “I stopped being a victim the moment I stopped letting them control my life.” She thrusts her arm forward with the knife in hand to point it in your direction, thankfully too far away for it to actually be anywhere near harming you. “You left me alive and it ruined everything.”

“I had to live with the pain, the nightmares, the constant fear. I had to watch my life fall apart while you just moved on to your next victim and left me without so much as a footnote in your confession." Nueves continued, her voice shaking with barely suppressed rage. "You think I'm the one who needs help? You're the monster, not me!”

“You had a hard time. Boo-hoo. But guess what? You're not the only one who's had to deal with shit. You're not special, Nueves.” You replied, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

Nueves' eyes flashed with anger at your dismissive words. "You don't get to talk to me like that. You don't get to belittle my pain. You don't get to decide how I should react to what you did to me."

"Actually, I do," you retorted, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'm the one who put you in this position. I'm the one who made you who you are today. And you know what? I'm not sorry. Because without me your life would’ve been completely insignificant.”

“Maybe I am a monster. But you, Nueves, are just a sad, pathetic little girl pretending to be a serial killer.” Nueves' face twisted with rage at your words, her grip on the knife tightening. But before she could react, Emily stepped in, her voice calm and authoritative.

“Enough,” she commanded, her gaze fixed on Nueves. “This isn't helping anyone. We're here to bring you in, Louise. To make sure you get the help you need.”

“I don't want your help,” Nueves spat back, her eyes still fixed on you with burning hatred. “I just want them to pay for what they did.”

“They are Louise, they’re paying for their actions every single day in a high-security prison,” Emily stated, her gaze unwavering as she shook her head gently. “They’re getting their punishment, you don’t have to do this, please, just put down the knife…” Emily’s eyes caught the SUV that parked on the side of the road as she talked. Looks like she’d managed to buy enough time for backup to arrive.

For a moment, it looked like Nueves might actually consider following Emily’s suggestion. But then she glanced back at you, her gaze hardening at your stare of indifference. “No,” she said, her voice filled with determination. “I won't let them get away with this. I won’t let them have control of how I live my life anymore.”

Nueves’ ramble deemed her oblivious to the agents approaching her from behind, ushering the few lingering witnesses to a safe distance away so that they could contain the area, and your eyes caught Dr Reid carefully scooping up the leashed dachshund into his arms after it’d scampered away from Nueves in her fit of rage.

“You don’t remember me?” Her eyes turned from seething to desperate in the split second she looked at you, voice raised as she tried to force your attention back onto her from your seeming uninterest in the confrontation. “You will.”

Morgan didn’t even have time to un-holster his gun before Nueves utilised the knife in her hand. Not on Emily, nor on you, but on herself, impaling the blade of the knife directly into her operational eye and forcing it deeper by slamming the palm of her hand into the wooden handle until it was almost completely encapsulated into her eye socket.

The sight was ghastly, blood spurting out of her eye as she fell onto the ground, convulsing from the pain and shock. You watched, a morbid fascination in your eyes as Emily quickly called for medical attention, her gaze flitting between you and the dying woman on the ground.

As the medics rushed to stabilise Nueves, Emily looked at you, her face pale. “You-” She said, her voice barely a whisper, “stay here.” She then hurriedly joined the medics, leaving you behind. You watched as the medics tried to recover her, but it was clear that her chances were slim. The sight of her writhing in pain, the blood pooling around her, was oddly satisfying to watch. A small, twisted part of you felt a sense of triumph at the confrontation's results, if not a little discontented with just how dramatic this woman proved to be.

The rest of the team moved to properly secure the area now that it was officially a crime scene as Emily, still with the medics, was applying pressure to Nueves' wound, her hands smeared with blood.

As you watched the scene unfold, a bizarre sense of calm washed over you. This chaos, this pain, was a result of your actions, your legacy, and despite the horrific circumstances, you couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction.

From a distance, you could see Hotch talking to Emily, his expression unreadable. Emily nodded, her eyes briefly meeting yours before diverting away. She looked shaken, the dark red of Nueves’ quickly oxidising blood on her hands a stark contrast against her pale skin.

You tried to imagine the emotions she was grappling with. After all, she was a part of a team that had sworn to protect innocents from people like you. And now, because of you, she had blood on her hands.

The medics finally lifted Nueves onto a stretcher, rushing her towards the waiting ambulance. Emily stood there for a moment longer, watching as the ambulance sped away, before finally turning her eyes towards you, unfocused on how Morgan was gently trying to usher her towards another pair of EMTs so that she could be checked over.

There was zero chance Nueves was going to make it to the hospital in time.

Emily’s gaze was hard, filled with a mixture of anger, confusion, and something you couldn't quite place. Fear, perhaps? Or maybe disappointment? Regardless, it was clear that the events of the day had left a deep impact on her.

As you watched them walk away, the satisfaction from earlier began to fade, replaced by a strange emptiness. You were alone again, left with nothing but the aftermath of your actions. And as you stared at the spot where Nueves had fallen, the blood still fresh on the grass, you couldn't help but wonder if this was all worth it.

But then, you remembered the look on Nueves’ face, the horror in her expression at her own pain. And you knew, without a doubt, that it was. Maybe she was right, you just might remember her for that stunt she pulled, although most definitely not in a positive light.

“Are you alright?” The ever-calm voice of Spencer Reid pulled you away from mulling over your own feelings, and you give him an animated sway of your head back and forth as a silent communication of you not falling in either emotional direction.

It truly was fascinating how removed you were from everything, and as twisted and convoluted as it might sound, Spencer wasn’t looking forward to your departure from accompanying the team. It meant that he didn’t get to speak to you anymore. Didn’t get to slowly peel away the layers of protection you’d built over your psyche so that he could pry at your inner workings.

And he didn’t exactly mind having you around. But that was something he was going to keep to himself for a multitude of reasons.

“It’s all too over the top for my taste,” You shrug your shoulders nonchalantly, stretching your arms above your head. “Here, it’s the one with the ponytail’s,” You hold the cell phone out between your thumb and index finger like it might give you a disease if you hold it properly.

“Why-” Spencer starts his question and is immediately interrupted by your answer. “She gave it to me to message one of you where we were,”

So it was you who’d messaged him then. He thought the punctuation was different.

“Right, that makes sense,” He takes the phone from you with an awkward smile as he puts it away in his back pocket. “Thank you,”

You give him a short hum in reply, crossing your arms over your torso and leaning back and forth on the balls of your feet like you were becoming bored with just standing around. You’d just been a potential hostage at knife point and then watched someone graphically commit suicide specifically to gain your attention and less than five minutes after it was over you were looking for something new to capture your attention.

It utterly fascinated him. You were fascinating.

And you were leaving.

Literally.

You were walking away, obviously having had enough of Spencer’s silence and wandering off to find Hotch and maybe experience something more enticing.

“Hey-” Spencer called out to you as you began to walk away, and you stopped with a glance over your shoulder and a raised eyebrow. “What are you feeling right now?”

You stuff your hands in your pockets at his question, turning 180 degrees to face him once more with a slightly furrowed expression as you tried to figure out the motive behind his question.

“I wonder if she saw the afterlife.”

Spencer’s shoulders drop at your admission, his expression morphing into a mix of understanding and confusion, contradiction written all over his features.

You seemed more objectively curious than humanly concerned, but you still were curious nonetheless.

That was another fascinating part about you, or just about sociopaths in general, he supposes. But he wasn’t speaking to every sociopath in existence, he was speaking to you. So it was less about sociopathy and more about you specifically.

“Do you think she saw the afterlife?”

“Logically, she didn’t have any eyes so she wasn’t ‘seeing’ anything, but metaphorically I’d like to believe so,”

Spencer has to stifle a surprised laugh at your morbid joke about Nueves’ condition, pressing his lips into a tight line with a small nod as he tried to focus on the second part of your statement. “Me too,”

There was a small sense of deja vu surrounding your conversation as the two of you fell into a mutual silence, hastily interrupted by Hotch calling the two of you to gather with the rest of the team now that the case was officially over.

You noticed the distaste in Emily’s gaze immediately, looks like you’ve gained yourself another detractor. She and Morgan stood side by side with matching expressions as the two of you joined them, although neither had time to make any comments as the team loaded up in the SUVs to head back to the station.

It was rather hard to believe it’d only been six days in Las Flores, but dates don’t lie, and by the time you stepped back onto the BAU’s private jet, it felt like you’d only left it for a matter of hours.

Nueves’ face was fading from your mind by now, as was her name, and as you plopped yourself down on the same seat you’d occupied on your flight from Quantico, you’d almost forgotten that she even existed.

Your mind was more preoccupied with what was going to happen next. You were going to fly back to Quantico, be recovered by California state officials, and taken back to the concrete hell of the California Correctional Institution until your appeal to be moved to an inpatient psychiatric care facility was considered and ultimately rejected because they still deemed you ‘too dangerous’ to be around vulnerable individuals despite sharing mental issues with a lot of them.

Spencer gave you an awkward wave as he walked down the aisle of the cabin and stopped at the seat opposite you, hoping the movement would grab your attention.

“Do you-” He half gestures to the seat facing you with his hand, and you dismissively wave him into it as you return your attention to the window. “Thanks…”

You give him a hum at his politeness but otherwise remain uninterested in his presence, fastening the seat belt over your lap as the jet pilots prepare for the five-hour flight back to Quantico.

“What’re you thinking about?” Spencer abandons his original plan to sleep through the entire flight the second he sees the pondering in your expression.

You glanced at Spencer, contemplating whether to confide in him about your concerns. Out of everyone, he was probably the one person you’d met on the team who seemed genuinely interested in your experiences. He was one of the few who could understand the complexities of your situation. With a sigh, you decided to open up a little, "Just thinking about what happens now. Back to the concrete hell of my enclosure I guess.”

“I thought you were appealing the decision? That’s why you agreed to help, isn’t it? So the officials are more likely to accept your appeal?” Spencer tilts his head slightly in your direction, raising an eyebrow in your direction as he curled his legs under him in his chair.

“You really think that it’s actually going to do anything?” Your voice is dripping in sarcasm as you let your head fall back against the seat. “They’re seething enough that I didn’t get the death penalty, there’s no way they’re going to cut my sentence,”

“I don’t see why they shouldn’t,” Spencer blinks at you with a mildly furrowed expression. “You’re not an active threat to anybody, and having the help that you need could greatly improve your quality of life,”

“Yeah well you’re not the person who’s going to be analysing my case, so your opinion doesn’t really matter in the greater span of things does it, Dr. Reid?” Your tone carries no malice in your statement, although it comes off much more rude than he’s sure you mean it to be.

His opinion could matter. He knows that as a part of the evaluation you’ll have to go through Hotch will have to write a report on how you acted during the case. Maybe he could put in a few extra things he’d experienced with you. He’s sure that the psychiatrist assessing whether you were actively violent would benefit from knowing how much you adored your parents, how you wondered if your childhood pet was in the afterlife and how you engaged in a genuine emotional conversation with him despite all of your social stunts from your disorder.

You obviously still had your humanity, so he didn’t see why they wouldn’t allow you to have the facilities to improve your mental state to a point where one day you could possibly be a functioning member of society, or at least be in a position to help researchers understand more about your condition.

“Having optimism about an upcoming situation has proved to actually affect the outcome of said situation, with 36% of people who had been optimistic about negative situations physically affecting the outcome of those situations based on their outlook alone,” Spencer presses his lips into a line, another one of those awkward smiles that you’d become used to over your time with him.

“I prefer realism, but I suppose I’ll take that into account,”

“That’s all I can ask,” Spencer gives a soft exhale at your inadvertent agreement to take his advice, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “I’ll visit you once your appeal has gone through,” The statement fell out of his mouth without any real thought behind it, simply a reflection of his brain deciding he wasn’t quite done with your company yet despite the case officially being over.

“Of course you will,”

Spencer gives a short laugh of mild embarrassment. “Of course I will.”

#unsub!reader ᝰ.ᐟ #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid angst #criminal minds angst #asks 🫶#mgg

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strawbeerossi · 2 years ago

Text

Blade

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Ghostface!Spencer Reid x Ghostface!Elle Greenaway

Description: It’s Halloween night and the streets of Washington DC are a ghost town because of the new curfew put into place after the sudden uprise in murders. Unbeknownst to you, the two people who are on a spree are planning on trick-or-treating tonight. Their treat? You

Content/Warnings: Noncon/dubcon (not sure which one applies cause I’m new to this tbh), knife play, blood, spitting, ffm threesome, crying, fuck-or-die scenario (if you squint), penetration with foreign object, oral (f + m receiving), face sitting, face fucking, unprotected sex (have you ever noticed how I never write protected sex?), breeding kink, creampie

Word Count: 3.6K

Kinktober Day Fourteen: Knife Kink

Navigation || Kinktober Masterlist || AO3

The streets of Washington DC were empty, an eerie fog picking up within the night. Halloween night was usually far different, the many parties going on for adults or the children trick-or-treating and lighting up the dimly lit neighborhoods scattered across the city. This year, fear suffocated the city, a masked killer haunting the area while brutally murdering people and showing absolutely no remorse.

The BAU was working days on end, every lead being buried so deep that not even the brilliant mind of Penelope Garcia could dig them up. Every phone call made could never be traced, no voice recognition because of the device concealing the true voice of the culprit and changing the tone. The hopes weren’t high, the best bet was waiting for this person to get sloppy. It was just a shame because this man knew exactly what he was doing.

None of you had even begun to think of the possibility of it being a team, the kills all perfectly aligned to the point that it had to be a coordinated unsub who’d planned this. The team has been sent home for the night, knowing that you all needed sleep over anything else. It was easier said than done, especially whenever you couldn’t manage to lay down without hearing some bump that had you shooting right back up. Even in an apartment where numerous sounds were normal, you were on the highest of alert.

You had just finished a brief phone call with Spencer, entrusting your closest friend and coworker in your struggles to sleep. He’d commented that he understood and was going through the same issues, telling you numerous things to try and relax yourself enough to sleep. You told him you’d call him later, opting to take a shower before bed in hopes it would relax your tensed muscles.

Little did you know, you gave him just what he wanted.

Your hands were moving to slowly turn the water of the shower head off, a sigh leaving your lips as you felt comfortable. That was what you needed. As your hand dipped out of the shower curtain, you were retrieving the towel hanging on the hanger beside you. Before you could attempt to dry yourself, you were groaning whenever the power had been flipped off. It was storming outside, so you assumed it had to do with the weather. As peaceful as the sounds of rain were, you hated some of the after effects due to the downpour. After using the towel to wrap around yourself, you pulled back the shower curtain.

You had a bad feeling. You weren’t sure exactly why but there was just an uneasy feeling filling your stomach. Maybe it was because of the dark? Your hand was grabbing your phone from the counter, turning on the device’s flashlight before you were approaching your bedroom door. For once in the night, there was silence. Maybe your noisy neighbors finally went down for the night.

The spooky ambience really added on to the Halloween feel, however you weren’t too fond of it tonight. Even in the safety of your apartment, you felt like someone was watching you. Using the handy flashlight feature and safely navigating back to your bedroom, you were contemplating for a few moments before closing your bedroom door, locking it for another sense of security.

Taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm yourself, you were trying to convince yourself that you were nervous for no reason. Nobody could get in. You locked the front door and now your bedroom door, you were safe.

“It’s probably a good thing you locked the door. Could you imagine who can come in at any time?” A disguised voice sounded from the other side of the room, making your heart fall to your stomach. “For an FBI profiler, you aren’t very observant.” You didn’t dare turn around, body paralyzed in fear. “You’re gonna kill me, aren’t you?” You asked, voice as steady as you could get it when there was a laugh behind you. “No. I’m not gonna kill you. Not if you listen to everything you’re told.” Your eyes were squeezed tightly shut from fear.

“Now,” The feeling of the gloved hand against your back made you flinch, however it was like the delicate touch was attempting to soothe you. “Turn around and look at me, hmm? Let me see that pretty face.” You had the mind to deny it, to say no and try and attempt to run, even if you wouldn’t get far. However, you wanted to stay alive, so your body was slowly turning around. “There she is.” The masked figure sighed in content, right hand gripping a blade as the opposite was coming up to pull the mask off.

Your eyes widened, the tears still pouring from the corners and soaking your face. Elle Greenaway was standing in front of you, looking at you with an undeniable hunger in her eye.

You hadn’t seen her in years, not after she lost her job and she was forced out. “Is this a joke?” You asked first and foremost. Surely it was an unfunny practical joke that your ex coworker was putting on. However she made it painfully clear that it wasn’t when the blade in her hand was brought to your neck. “Wait!” You rushed, still frozen from fear while you could hear shuffling from another area of your apartment. This was beyond your bedroom door. “He takes forever. Fuck. He almost missed the fun!” Elle commented, now using her knife to nick your flesh while watching the slow stream of blood trickle down your skin, smiling with satisfaction before leaning forward. You didn’t know what to expect but when you felt her tongue lap over the crimson fluid from your skin, you could feel your cheeks flushing.

Were you really turned on right now?

You didn’t have much time to question it as the woman took the opportunity of you being lost in your own thoughts to move you and unlock your bedroom door. “About time,” She scoffed, making the masked figure stop as he realized she had taken her mask off. “What the hell?” He asked immediately, not having time to stop Elle from yanking the mask off of his head as well.

You could’ve expected anyone else in the world but when you saw Spencer’s wide eyes from beyond the mask, you could feel your blood run cold. You’d told Spencer all of your plans for tonight just for him to make plans to break into your apartment? You could only assume he was going to kill you and the amount of betrayal that consumed you was enough to throw you into the pits of hell without needing to be murdered first. “Look at her! We can’t hurt her. Besides, she’s already so graciously agreed to celebrate the holiday with us tonight. I feel like we deserve a trick-or-treat break.” She began while smirking as the dots were soon being connected by Spencer as he nodded slowly. “Are we sure this is a good idea? Keeping her alive keeps a giant target on our backs since you got the bright idea to show our faces.” He grumbled. “I’ve been to prison once before and I promise you that I would rather die than end up in there again.” He said in a simple tone, making his partner wave him off. “I don’t think we will have a problem with her. Besides, the goal was to catch her in the shower but someone showed up too late.”

You were silent as you’d realized your vulnerable state, wrapped up in only a towel that you’d managed to squeeze tighter around your body. This was insane. “You two are fucking nuts.” As quickly as you found your voice, you were losing it again the moment you had the blade pressed against your throat again. “Watch your fucking mouth.” Elle spat while her intense gaze had you squeezing your thighs together. Being with two profilers, albeit one former, it wasn’t hard for them to notice the way your pupils were blown out, face flushed, the way your grip on the towel was turning your knuckles white.

“Are you really turned on right now?” Spencer asked, a thick tension clouding the room as he was moving closer to you, eyes trailing to the knife in Elle’s hand while he was pulling his out soon after. Holding it up in front of your face, he raised an eyebrow. “You like the idea of getting fucked by people trying to kill you?” He was amused, making you blush from embarrassment. “She’s a whore. You should’ve seen her reaction when I licked her neck earlier.” Elle added soon after, both of their intense gazes making you want to fall to your knees.

As the woman in front of you dragged the tip of the knife from your neck to your shoulder, she sighed in content. “Try it. It’s fun. I think she gets off on the idea of you cutting her, marking her like she’s only ours.” She hummed, watching as Spencer nodded, although his blade was rested under your chin, using a light push to tilt your head up to face him. “You like my knife? Even though I could kill you with it?” He asked, his honey colored eyes hidden behind the cloud of lust overshadowing the beautiful irises. As he let the blade trail from your chin to your neck, his eyes were fixated on your face, watching as you let your eyes flutter shut.

“What kind of slut likes this shit? You really are a whore.” He spat. This wasn’t a side of Spencer that you ever thought you’d see, however you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it. He applied more pressure, the blade breaking the skin as he ran it down your neck to your shoulder. It wasn’t deep enough to scar, however the sight of your blood covering your skin had his cock stirring in his pants. Like Elle, Spencer had leaned forward to lap up the metallic fluid. He did something a little different though. “Open your mouth.” He grumbled, the mix of your blood and his spit sitting on his tongue. You obliged, mouth open as you had stuck your tongue out as well, which earned a chuckle from the woman watching the scene.

Spencer spit the mixture into your mouth, his free hand forcing your mouth closed while giving you no choice but to swallow it. The act had your cunt clenching around nothing, arousal building in your stomach. “She listens well. We might have to keep her alive after all.” The woman mused while the man in front of you was putting the handle weapon in his mouth, quickly ripping the towel off of your exposed body while grinning around the black handle. Taking it from his mouth, the knife was soon back in Spencer’s hand and running down the valley of your breasts, your breathing picking up from the adrenaline.

He really could gut you like a fish right now but here he is, dragging the knife over your flushed flesh while smirking. Your pussy was glistening from how wet you’d been from this whole encounter.

The knife was dragging down your stomach, then dropping to your thighs as he traced it over your inner thigh. Your mouth was agape, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Let’s see how good that cunt is, hmm?” Elle finally commented, getting bored of only watching as she was flipping her knife around, hand moving to hold the blade while she was dropping to her knees in front of you. “She’s soaking wet, Spencer. Look at this.” The woman taunted, the male dropping to his knees as well while leaving you blushing.

You were anticipating what move they would make next. What you weren’t expecting was for the blunt handle of the knife to tap against your swollen clit, making your eyes widen. “It’s not that big.” Elle commented, laughing as her free hand was moving to spread your labia apart, looking at your desperate hole attempting to clench around nothing as she sighed in content.

“Let’s give that greedy pussy what she wants.” She’d commented, pushing the end of the knife into your cunt, a grin on your face as your desperate hole was eagerly sucking the weapon in. As her hand was moving slowly to fuck you with the knife, you were left to be a whining mess. This was fucked. You should’ve been terrified, ready to fight back even though you knew you’d die. Instead, you were getting pounded with the handle of a knife while being reduced to a moaning and whining mess. The unholy sounds of your pussy squelching around the knife was enough to make things progress quite quickly.

Cruelly, Elle was taking stopping her actions and ultimately tossing the knife on the floor, a huff of displeasure leaving your lips from the emptiness. “Don’t you huff at me. You know, you don’t deserve this.” She spat, her head moving closer to your core as her tongue swiped over your clit with a soft hum, grinning once you’d gripped her hair. “That’s right. Gonna fuck this desperate cunt with my tongue, bet you want that so bad.” Her words were low, her hands resting against your thighs as her tongue was sliding along your slit, collecting every ounce of your essence that you were happy to let her drink up and savor.

“Oh fuck,” You panted, feeling the woman waste no time as her tongue was pistoning your slick hole with no remorse, as if you were the piece of candy she’d gotten for wearing such a clever costume tonight. Spencer had already discarded his robe by that point, palming his hard cock in his pants as he watched the scene go down in front of him.

Her tongue was massaging your inner walls, your moans in sync as she was slurping and sucking at your desperate cunt. She knew exactly what she was doing, her attention moving to your clit while she was sliding two fingers into your cunt without warning. It was enough to make you grip her hair and attempt to shove her face deeper. With her middle and ring fingers, she was scissoring your cunt as she curled them deep inside of you, your walls spasming around her fingers as you could feel your arousal building. The first orgasm you had was powerful, the way you gripped tightly onto Elle while desperately rocking your hips and whimpering softly.

Spencer was humming as he glanced at the woman beside him, her mouth wet with your cum and arousal as she was pulling back after licking up your mess from your cunt and thighs. “Alright. I feel like it’s my turn. That’s fair, right?” He questioned, although he wasn’t delving into your cunt, no, he was pushing himself to stand. “On your knees.” He murmured, hands working on his belt before undoing it, eventually pushing his pants down his legs as he kicked them off. You were mesmerized, seeing the outline of his cock that was being constricted in his boxers.

He hadn’t forgotten about your love of his knife though, kneeling down briefly to retrieve it while slowly running it down your cheek. “You don’t deserve to get fucked by me yet.” He murmured, eyebrows raised as you were seemingly not even listening to him, your hands moving to the waistband of his boxers to tug them down. Watching his cock slap against his stomach had an involuntary moan falling from your lips. “Yeah, figured you’d be a cockslut. Go on then.” He murmured, hand gripping your hair as he was leading you to his cock that was standing at attention. As soon as the tip was pushed past your lips, Spencer gave you a few seconds to get a rhythm going as you were sucking at his dick. However, he was frustrated at just how slow paced you were. That was when he took matters into his own hands, keeping his tight grip on your hair as he was roughly thrusting into your mouth.

The sudden intrusion had you gagging, tears brimming your eyes while you were staring up at Spencer through your eyelashes. “Fuck. That’s right. You look so fucking sexy with my cock in your mouth. Take it like a champ.” He grunted, hips snapping as you were reduced to gagging, moaning, and whining while attempting to bob your head in time with his thrusts. It didn’t work out that way. Spencer craved control, that was why he even worked with Elle in the first place. He’d spent years being the shy guy who had no idea what to do or wanted to hold back. Now however, he had no remorse as he had you crying from him fucking your throat raw. Much to your dismay, you were being roughly yanked off of his cock by your hair.

“There’s no way in hell that I’m wasting my cum in your mouth. You’re gonna have to take it in that desperate little pussy of yours. Bet you’d like the idea of me filling you up, marking you as mine. You know.. I bet you’d like me to fuck my load deep inside of you, get you pregnant? Then what would you do? You’d be stuck with me.” He smirked. He did like the idea of that. The idea of you being quiet and keeping him and Elle safe due to the fact you were filled with his child? It was enough to make his cock twitch.

“Get up. Get on the bed.” He ordered. He could order you around but he knew Elle wouldn’t follow his instructions. “Why don’t you sit on her face? Keep her whore mouth shut so the neighbors don’t think she’s getting murdered in here.” He suggested, the woman not needing to be told twice as she was shedding off her robe along with her pants and panties, not wasting any time to roughly shove your body back into your bed. “Gonna suffocate you with my pussy. I bet you would like that, wouldn’t you? To go out desperately licking and sucking on my cunt?” Elle and Spencer were both filthy talkers. That was for damn sure.

With your body falling against the plush mattress, you barely had time to react before the other woman was setting herself over your face. “I can’t wait to make a mess out of that pretty face.” She mused, waiting for Spencer to get situated before the two shared a glance while the male was getting between your legs, his hand coming down to give your pussy a smack while eliciting a squeak out of you. The sting hurt a little too good, the male taking note as he gave two more smacks before his hand was gripping his cock. He gave himself a few lazy tugs before getting situated, his cock slowly pushing into you. As much as he would’ve loved to split you open, he wasn’t planning on killing you nor seriously hurting you. His generosity was appreciated, even if that generosity didn’t last all too long.

The minute you had Elle’s soaked cunt hovering over your face, your hands were gripping her thighs as your tongue was flicking over her clit, relishing in the hint of her sweet essence. It wasn’t too long for her to take control though, all her weight being put onto your face as she was rolling her hips against your mouth, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as Spencer had pulled out and roughly slammed into your pussy again.

Both of the people you feared so much earlier were using you like a fuck toy, Spencer pounding deep into your cunt while Elle was riding your tongue as you attempted to tongue fuck her, however the moans being muffled into her warmth from the assault on your pussy made it just a little difficult to focus. “Fuck. I think we may have to keep her locked up. Use this little whore for whatever we need her for. Especially after these stressful fucking days.” Spencer panted out.

Your body was nothing more than a toy, begging to be used and abused by the two psychopaths who seemingly pulled you into their spell.

Your second and final orgasm of the night was building with each rough thrust that Spencer granted you with, your face a mess from the sounds of you licking and sucking at Elle’s desperate pussy, the other woman moaning and demanding more out of you, as if that were possible. “Fuck. Wanna be filled with my cum, slut? I promise that you’re gonna be mine. Gonna mark you the only way I know how.” The feeling of your pussy clenching tightly around his cock was all he needed, ropes or his cum painting your inner walls, you were pretty sure he painted your womb just as much. Pulling his softening cock out of you, he was inspecting the damage. Your pretty cunt was glistening, cum just begging to come out as it ran down your inner thighs and onto your bedsheets.

As your tongue was lapping and desperately sucking at the woman’s clit, it wasn’t long until you could feel her creamy arousal paint your mouth area, even rubbing down to your neck as she was pushing her body off of you to fall back against the mattress. You were beyond fucked out, eyes closing as your chest rose and fell at an unsteady pace as you made an effort to catch your breath. “You know..” Elle began while glancing at Spencer, who’d already been pulling his clothes back on.

“I feel like you’re onto something with us taking her.” She commented, the two looking down at you as if they were predators and you were their helpless prey.

“Oh. She’s definitely coming with us.”

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