virtualbabydevil

[virtualbabydevil]

House of the rising sun ˗ˏˋPart 7ˎˊ˗ S.R

‘Happy together’

pairing: Spencer Reid x AFAB Fem! with reader (no y/n)

‘When you’re with me, baby, the skies will be blue for all my life..Me and You and you and me, No matter how they toss the dice it had to be’ - The turtles

rating: MDNI, NSFW, Sexual Content 18+

synopsis: Awoken by Lucian and Cassian, you’re forced to reveal who they truly are, (kind of..) Their taunts sparking jealousy in Spencer. But when Lucian’s threat cuts too close to the man you’d just shared a bed with, you confront him and uncover the curse placed on Spencer. Desperate to protect him, you rush him to safety—knowing the only spell strong enough to break it is a dangerous, binding ritual of sex and blood.

wc: 13.4k

warnings: NSFW | Criminal minds level of violence | Mentions of murder | Vulgar language | witchcraft | Jealous induced sex | ritualistic Sex | Blood kink | Dom! spencer | dirty talk | p in v (unprotected) | Creampie | Rituals | slight dom reader if you squint.. | Rough |

Series masterlist masterlist Music

The sound was faint at first, almost like a cry carried on the wind, but when it sharpened into a strangled scream, both you and Spencer jolted awake.

Your hand flew to the blanket, pulling it up against your bare chest. Spencer’s arm instantly flung across you, his palm pressing firm against your ribs as if his body alone could shield you. His voice was still rough from sleep, but alert.

“What was that?” he whispered, eyes darting to yours.

You shook your head, heartbeat already quickening. “I don’t know.”

You slid out from under the blanket, hurriedly pulling your clothes from the floor, your hands clumsy with adrenaline. Spencer did the same, his movements less graceful, shirt half-buttoned in his haste.

Your fingers twitched when you pulled back the curtain. Just a sliver. The sky was bruised with dawn, not fully broken, and the world outside was still too dark, too uncertain. You pressed your body between the window and Spencer, instinctively protective.

Movement. Shadows bending unnaturally.

“Stay here,” you murmured, already moving toward the door.

But his hand shot out, wrapping gently but firmly around your wrist. His eyes found yours, searching, wide with concern. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “It’s okay.”

You weren’t sure, but you couldn’t let him step out first. Not with them.

The porch groaned under your bare feet. The air was damp, heavy with dew, carrying the metallic bite of something unnatural. You reached out—not with your hands, but with your energy—and yet, nothing. No signature you could cling to. Just…blankness, like they were masking themselves. But you knew.

“Show yourself,” you commanded, back against the cabin door, body a barrier between Spencer and whatever waited in the mist.

The shimmer came first, like heat off pavement. Then, the solid shapes materialized: Lucian, as smug as ever, and Cassian, taller, his grin lazy and sharp.

You didn’t flinch. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

“Again, Lucian?” Your tone dripped with disdain. “Was yesterday not enough for you?”

“Maybe I’m making it a habit,” Lucian drawled, grin flashing.

Cassian chuckled, his voice deeper, crueler. “I thought this was the Supreme’s little cabin. Not some…love-making shed.” His gaze flicked past you, predatory, as if he could smell the intimacy you’d shared only hours ago.

Your blood boiled. Both men had once been part of the coven—your coven—but years of bitterness had curdled them into something darker. Your old Supreme had cast them out, and they’d never forgiven it. They’d murdered Cora. They’d murdered innocents. They wore their sins like badges.

“Not love-making,” Lucian corrected with a grin so sharp it almost split his face. “She may be a love witch, but she fucks.”

Your chest heaved, not from shame but rage, and your voice came low, venomous. “What are you here for? There’s a nice stake right there.” You pointed to the scarecrow’s wooden pole across the field. “I’d be happy to fry both of you.”

But before either could respond, you felt the door shift behind you. Spencer hadn’t listened.

The door creaked open, slow, careful—and then he stepped out. His shirt hung half-fastened, hair tousled, but his expression was set. Defiant. His eyes narrowed on the two warlocks, shoulders squared.

“Man of the hour,” Lucian smirked, licking his teeth. “Finally let you between her legs, huh?”

Cassian barked a laugh, mocking. “Love witch or not, looks like you’re in her bed now.”

Heat flushed through you, anger and humiliation mixing, but you didn’t look at Spencer. You couldn’t take your eyes off the bastards in front of you. “Are you here just for a spectacle? Don’t think that after what you did, you can just walk onto these grounds.”

Cassian sneered. “What we did? We? No. What you and that god-awful old hag did to us. Banishing us. Insulting us.”

You scoffed. “This is all because of that? Boys and their egos.”

Lucian’s grin faltered, replaced with a snarl. “Cora deserved it. She was too powerful. Maybe even more than you. Power of resurgence? Now that would’ve been too helpful for you and your little witch bitches.”

Your throat tightened at Cora’s name, but you didn’t let it show.

Lucian stepped closer, his voice dropping, cruel. “Sweetheart, I meant what I said yesterday outside the bar. I’ll break you. And when I do…” He let the pause linger, the malice heavy in his grin. “Me and my brothers would love to see you under us.”

The words were so explicit, so vile, that you saw Spencer twitch beside you, a sharp inhale through his nose like he might actually lunge. You could feel his fury radiating through the thin space between your bodies.

You scoffed, though your hands curled into fists, nails biting into your palms. “Get out of here.”

Because you wanted to kill them. You wanted to burn them until there was nothing left but ash. But not here. Not in front of Spencer. Not when Lucian’s lingering words from the bar still haunted you—his threats of vengeance, the uncertainty of what fail-safe he’d built into this game. If you killed one, what would happen to Spencer? What had he done?

And you couldn’t risk it.

Not him.

Your voice cut through the fog like a blade, sharper than you intended.

“Get out of here before I kill you both.”

The words rang cold in the dawn air, and for a split second, even the morning birds stilled. You didn’t care that Spencer was behind you. You didn’t care that he was a federal agent, that you had just openly threatened murder.

Lucian only grinned, his teeth gleaming as though he fed on your rage. “You won’t kill us.”

Cassian’s chuckle was low, mocking. “Not yet anyway…”

And then Lucian’s voice dropped, crueler, dripping with venom as he tilted his head toward Spencer. “…not when something could happen to your sweet little fuck buddy.”

The words coiled around you like barbed wire. Your body tensed instinctively, your jaw locking tight. The desire to lash out—to rip the smugness from his mouth with fire and bone—burned so hot inside you that your hands shook.

“Go,” you ground out, each syllable heavy, final.

They didn’t move quickly. They wanted you to see the power in their leisure, their arrogance. Each step backward was punctuated by another vile comment, another jab meant to slice beneath your skin.

“Think he fucks her the way I did?” Lucian called, voice like a taunt from a nightmare.

The implication hit sharp, deliberate. You felt Spencer flinch beside you, though you didn’t let yourself turn.

Cassian’s laugh joined the dawn chorus, low and foul, before both men slowly faded into the thinning dusk, their shapes dissolving like smoke in the early light.

And then it was quiet again. The world waking. The sun climbing.

You hadn’t turned to him yet. Couldn’t. Not with your pulse still racing, not with Lucian’s words slithering through your head.

“Who…” Spencer’s voice broke the silence. Low, careful. “Who were they?”

Your shoulders sagged under the weight of it, the answer heavy on your tongue.

“Warlocks,” you said finally, the word carrying centuries of disdain.

He nodded once, lips pursed, mind already spinning. But the silence didn’t last.

“You…” He hesitated, his throat working as though it pained him. “And him. Them. And…he spoke to you yesterday too?”

His voice carried something you’d never heard from Spencer—jealousy. Faint, brittle, but there.

You turned, finally, meeting his eyes. His face was unreadable but his posture betrayed him—tense shoulders, clenched jaw, fingers twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“He practically ambushed me after I got into an…argument with Aria,” you explained, voice soft but steady. “And as for—”

“Is he your ex?” Spencer cut in, sharper than intended.

You froze. His tone wasn’t cruel, but the question sliced clean through you.

“No,” you said quickly, firmly. “God, no. He’s not.”

The relief that flickered across Spencer’s face was immediate, but fleeting, replaced by a storm of questions brimming behind his eyes. He didn’t voice them. Not yet. He tried to press them down, but his body betrayed him.

“The things…t-they said.” His voice faltered, breaking slightly, his gaze darting to the ground as though embarrassed to repeat it. He shook his head, curls falling over his forehead. “I don’t even know how to—how to process—”

You stepped closer, your hand rising almost instinctively. You cupped his face, gentle, tilting his gaze down until his eyes met yours. His skin was warm, his breath unsteady against your wrist.

“They lie,” you whispered, your thumb brushing the sharp line of his cheekbone. “They twist everything. That’s all they’ve ever done. Don’t let them inside your head.”

But you could see it in him—the way the words still gnawed. The image Lucian had painted, the implication of a past that wasn’t real, but felt real enough to stir something ugly inside him.

And then his voice came, quieter this time, rough at the edges.

“Why did it sound like he knew you…intimately?”

The question hung heavy, almost ashamed, as though he already regretted asking.

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t pull back. Instead, you leaned closer, brushing your forehead against his, forcing him to feel the steadiness in you.

“He doesn’t,” you whispered. “Not like that. Not like you.”

The words seemed to strike something deep in him. His breath hitched, the sound harsh in the morning quiet.

Spencer wasn’t the kind of man who usually let jealousy show, but here, with the taste of threat still in the air and the ghost of Lucian’s vulgar taunts clinging to both of you, it was raw. Vulnerable. His hands found your waist almost tentatively, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as though grounding himself.

“You don’t understand,” he murmured, his voice shaky but weighted. “The way he talked about you—like you were his possession. Like…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. His eyes burned into yours. “I hate that I even felt jealous. But I did. I do.”

Your lips parted, a mix of surprise and something deeper fluttering through your chest.

You tilted his face higher, your thumb brushing across his bottom lip, slow, deliberate. His mouth parted instinctively beneath your touch.

“Then let me remind you,” you whispered, your voice lower now, heavier, carrying that same pull you knew he couldn’t resist.

You kissed him softly at first. A balm against the harshness of the morning, the threat that still clung to your skin. But Spencer melted into it almost immediately, his long fingers pressing against your jaw, anchoring you there like he was terrified you’d vanish if he let go.

The kiss deepened in a heartbeat

It wasn’t soft anymore. It wasn’t tentative. It was desperate, hungry, both of you clawing to erase the shadows of what had just been said outside.

You barely managed to fumble the front door open without breaking the kiss, stumbling backward into the house as he followed, lips still locked with yours, hands gripping at your hips like he was starving.

Once inside, it became a battle.

He pushed you against the wall, chest hard against yours, mouth hot and demanding. You gasped into him, but instead of yielding, you shoved him back, flipping the weight of the kiss until it was you pinning him against the wall. His surprised grunt vibrated against your lips, and you couldn’t help but smile into the kiss.

Then he retaliated. Spencer surged forward, his arm braced against the wall above your head, spinning you so fast you hit another surface—something solid behind you, maybe the edge of a bookshelf. His mouth broke from yours just long enough to trail heat down your jaw, your neck, biting lightly as though testing.

Your breath hitched.

“What time is it?” His voice was muffled against your skin, hot and urgent.

Your eyes dragged, heavy, to the clock across the room. “Seven-twenty.”

He hummed against your throat, lips grazing the pulse there. “I’ve got…forty minutes…until my team needs me.” Each word was punctuated by a kiss, a lick, a small, deliberate nibble that made your knees weaken.

A low sound escaped you before you could help it, your hand tangling into his curls, tugging just enough to make him groan into your skin. “Forty minutes is very do-able,” you breathed, lips curling into a grin.

You felt him grin against your neck, that rare, crooked, boyish smile that was already ruined by the sharp edge of what he wanted. His teeth scraped against you as he whispered, “Plenty of time to remind you you’re mine.”

Your stomach twisted with heat, but you weren’t about to give in so easily.

“You sound confident,” you teased, tilting your head back to expose your neck further, only to immediately tug at his hair, forcing his mouth back to yours.

The kiss was brutal this time—messy, biting, neither of you willing to give the other control for more than a few seconds. He pressed his thigh between yours, forcing your legs apart against the wall, grinding just enough to make your body jolt, but you clawed down his back and pushed him again, turning so he hit the wall with a thud.

His laugh was breathless against your lips. “You’re…infuriating,” he muttered, even as his hands were already dragging up your thighs, squeezing like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to restrain you or worship you.

You smirked, rolling your hips against his thigh deliberately. “Takes one to know one.”

He cut off your words with another bruising kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a battle neither of you were willing to lose. His fingers slipped beneath your shirt, spreading wide against your ribs, hot and insistent, pulling you flush against him.

When you broke for air, both panting, his forehead rested against yours.

“Say it,” he murmured, voice rougher now, the edges fraying with urgency.

“Say what?” you asked breathlessly, feigning innocence just to hear him break.

His grip tightened on your waist, and when he spoke again, it was almost a growl. “That you’re mine. Not his. Not theirs. Mine.”

Your lips curved, heat racing through you at the rawness in his tone. “Then make me say it.”

His eyes darkened instantly. That was all it took.

In a blur, he shoved you back against the wall, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other slid down, dragging slow and deliberate over your body. His breath was hot against your ear, his voice low and commanding.

“You have no idea what you just asked for.”

Your thighs clenched together instinctively, but his knee was already between them, prying you open again.

“And if I don’t say it?” you taunted, even as your body trembled under his control.

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching against your ear. “Then I’ll make you beg for it instead.”

His free hand slid lower, over your stomach, teasing the waistband of your clothes, fingers dipping just beneath as his lips devoured the side of your throat again, each kiss harder, hungrier.

The clock ticked mercilessly on the wall. Thirty-eight minutes now.

Plenty of time.

You gave in to him.

Last night he’d shown you a side of himself you’d only guessed at, but this—this was different. It was sharper, hungrier. His jealousy was still simmering beneath his skin, igniting every movement, every word.

The wall was hard at your back, but his body pressing into yours erased any thought of discomfort. His hand gripped your wrists above your head, pinning you like he’d never let go, while his other hand dragged down your thigh, rough and claiming.

His mouth was on yours, kissing you so fiercely it felt more like a demand than affection. When he pulled back, his lips were swollen, his breath ragged.

“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice was rough, low. His eyes searched yours with a mix of lust and something darker—need, maybe. “The things they said out there…about you, about us—” He broke off, jaw tight. “I can’t stop hearing it.”

Your chest rose and fell quickly, heat pooling in your stomach. “Then drown it out,” you whispered.

Something broke in him.

His hand released your wrists only long enough to grab your hips and spin you, pressing your front against the wall. You gasped, palms splaying out flat against the surface. He leaned over you, his breath hot on the back of your neck.

“You think I’m just going to let that go?” His teeth grazed your ear. “You let him talk to you like that?”

“He ambushed me,” you shot back, even as your body pressed against his, needing him closer.

“Doesn’t matter,” he bit out, his hand sliding down your spine to grip your ass firmly, making you jolt. “You’re mine. Not his. Not anyone else’s.”

You turned your head just enough to smirk at him over your shoulder. “Then prove it, doctor.”

His groan was guttural, almost feral.

He shoved your legs apart with his knee, pressing between them, grinding up against you hard enough to make you moan. His hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back so your throat was exposed, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, each one edged with teeth.

“Say it,” he demanded against your skin.

“Say what?” you teased, breathless, trembling under the force of him.

“That you’re mine.” His hand left your hip long enough to slide between your thighs, rougher than usual, making you whimper. His voice dropped even lower. “Say it before I fuck it out of you.”

Your body arched against him, desperate, but your pride flared just as strong. “Make me.”

His laugh was dark, humorless. “Wrong answer.”

In a blur he spun you back around, lifting you onto the edge of a nearby table. The wood creaked under your weight as he shoved your knees apart and stepped between them, kissing you again—hard, messy, claiming. His hands dragged up your thighs, spreading you wider.

“You’re going to take it,” he muttered against your lips. “All of it. Every inch.” He bit your lower lip, tugging until you gasped. “And when I’m done, you won’t even remember his fucking name.”

You shivered, heat flooding every inch of you, but your smirk stayed. “Promises, promises…”

His eyes burned into yours, pupils blown wide. “Not a promise,” he growled, fumbling with his belt, the metallic click sharp in the quiet room. “A fact.”

They didn’t have long left. Thirty minutes, maybe less if he counted the walk.

You could see the calculation flicker across his face—the way his brain was already pulling apart the numbers, the time frame, the risk. But instead of walking away like he should have, Spencer shoved you back onto the table he’d sat you on earlier. His hands were frantic, unsteady in a way that betrayed how badly he needed you.

“Spread your legs,” he demanded, his voice low, breathless but sharp. “Now.”

The sheer authority in his tone made you obey before you even thought about it. The table’s edge bit into your thighs as you parted them, your breath quickening when he stepped between them.

“Fuck, you look—” His voice broke, his eyes sweeping down your body like he didn’t know where to touch first. But the clock was running, and the impatience in his grip betrayed him. He unbuckled his belt with jerky fingers, shoving his slacks down just enough to free himself.

Your gaze dropped, heat rushing through you at the sight of him—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. Spencer caught the way your lips parted, the hunger in your expression, and his mouth twisted into something dark.

“Yeah,” he muttered, wrapping a hand around his cock and stroking himself once, slow, teasing. “You want it. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathed, desperate, your hips already lifting toward him. “Please.”

His laugh was short, humorless. “Not begging. Not when I’m about to fuck you like this.”

And then he lined himself up and drove into you in one rough, unrelenting thrust. The force of it had you crying out, your hands flying to grip his shoulders as he bottomed out inside you, the stretch burning, perfect.

“God—” Spencer groaned against your neck, his hips grinding forward to bury himself deeper. “You’re so fucking tight—like you’re made for me.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust. His hips snapped back, then slammed forward again, hard enough to make the table groan under the force. Over and over, his cock dragged against your walls, each thrust sharp, precise, like he was trying to ruin you before the sun was even fully up.

“Spencer—” your voice cracked on a moan, your nails biting into his back through his shirt.

“Say it again.” His thrusts didn’t falter, his hand gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at him. His curls stuck damp to his forehead, his pupils blown wide with lust. “Say my name when I’m inside you.”

“Spencer—fuck—”

“That’s it,” he rasped, his thumb brushing against your lower lip before sliding it inside your mouth. “Suck.”

The command was sharp, and you obeyed, hollowing your cheeks around his thumb, eyes never leaving his. His groan was guttural, his hips stuttering as your tongue swirled over his skin.

“Jesus Christ—” he pulled his thumb free and gripped your throat, not choking, but holding you still, owning your every breath. “You love this, don’t you? Letting me use you before I have to go play the good agent.”

The filth of his words sent a rush of heat straight through you, your body clenching around him so tight he swore under his breath.

“Fuck—you’re squeezing me so hard—” His thrusts faltered, only for a second, then returned with brutal force. He bent closer, his mouth hot against your ear. “What’s the matter? You want me to come in you before I leave? You want to walk around dripping with me all day?”

You whimpered, your hips jerking against his with each thrust. “Yes—Spencer, yes—”

“Yeah?” he taunted, his hand sliding down between you, fingers finding your clit. He rubbed it harshly, matching the pace of his thrusts, and the sensation had your back arching, a cry tearing from your throat. “Say it. Say you want me to fill you up.”

“I want it—I want you to—fuck—”

“That’s my girl.” He kissed you then, messy, rough, biting your lower lip hard enough to sting. His thrusts grew erratic, the rhythm lost to sheer desperation as your walls fluttered around him. “Come for me—now—”

Your orgasm ripped through you with a violence that stole your breath. Your body clamped around him, your cry muffled against his mouth as you shook in his grip.

“Fuck—” Spencer groaned, his forehead pressing into yours, his thrusts uneven now. He slammed into you once, twice, then buried himself deep as he came, cock pulsing inside you, hot and heavy, filling you just like he promised. His groan vibrated against your throat, broken and raw, like he couldn’t hold back even if he tried.

For a moment, the only sound was your mingled breathing, heavy and ragged. His grip softened on your throat, sliding to cup your cheek instead, his thumb brushing over your flushed skin.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, voice rough, almost tender despite the filth of what just happened. “No idea what you do to me.”

And you believed him.

He didn’t pull out right away.

Instead, Spencer pressed his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your cheek, the sweet press of his lips so different from the pace he’d just set. Gentle, lingering, almost apologetic. His hand dragged up your side, shaky fingers brushing your damp skin before running through his longish hair to push it back from his flushed face.

“Are you okay?” His voice cracked slightly, softer now. Like the adrenaline had bled out of him and left only worry.

You smiled, still catching your breath. “I’m very okay…”

And it wasn’t a lie. You’d never been fucked like that before—jealousy-laced, rough, desperate. And the truth was? You loved it. Every bruise he left, every sharp word, every claim he staked in you.

But he had to leave. You both knew it.

When he finally pulled out, you hissed softly at the loss, his cum spilling down your thigh. Spencer swore under his breath, immediately glancing around like he could fix it. He spotted a paper towel roll on the counter and grabbed a handful, crouching between your legs without hesitation.

“I’m sorry—God, I should’ve slowed down—” he muttered, gently wiping you up with more care than you expected after how rough he’d been seconds ago. “Did I hurt you?”

The panic in his voice almost made you laugh. You reached down, curling your fingers under his chin to make him look at you. “Spencer. Stop apologizing. I liked it. A lot.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, relief loosening the tension in his shoulders. He leaned in and kissed the inside of your thigh softly before standing. “Good. Because… I don’t know if I could’ve stopped.”

That confession sat heavy in the air for a beat. Then, reluctantly, he tucked himself back in, pulling his slacks up, fumbling with his belt. You slid off the table, the cool air rushing over your still-sensitive skin as you found your clothes. He kept stealing glances at you—like if he looked away too long, he might forget how you looked like this.

Once you were both dressed, you smoothed your dress down, then reached for his hand. He hesitated a second, then twined his fingers with yours tightly, like he wasn’t ready to let you go yet.

You led him outside, through the threshold of the house and into the trees. The woods were damp with morning dew, sunlight threading lazily through the canopy. The path wasn’t long, but it wasn’t short either—and he didn’t let go of your hand once. His palm was warm, grounding, his thumb brushing little arcs across the back of your hand without him seeming to realize it.

“Won’t your team wonder why you’re wearing yesterday’s clothes?” you teased lightly, breaking the silence.

He blinked, his head tilting in that absent-minded way you’d come to recognize when his brain was running a thousand miles an hour. Then he gave a short, almost sheepish laugh. “Y-yeah, probably. I…didn’t think about that.”

You raised a brow at him, smirking. “That’s rare for you.”

He squeezed your hand, lips twitching into a half-smile. “Not when I’m distracted.” His eyes flicked to you, that same dark heat from earlier sparking behind them before he quickly looked back at the path.

Your chest tightened at the honesty, at the way he couldn’t quite hide it.

The closer you got to the clearing where his team would be, the quieter he became. His thumb still moved over your hand, but his jaw was set, his lips pressed in thought. You could almost hear the war in his head—duty versus desire, the guilt of sneaking away with you versus the pull he couldn’t resist.

And when the break in the trees came into view, his steps slowed just slightly, as if dragging out the last moments before he had to let you go.

Once the trees began to thin and the sound of distant voices reached your ears, you slowed your steps until you stopped completely. Spencer frowned, confusion pulling at his features as he glanced around.

“Why are you stopping?”

You smiled softly, tilting your head. “Doesn’t take a profiler to know that you may not want to be seen hand in hand with me by your team.”

The words made him flush instantly, his hand tightening in yours before he blurted, “I—what? No, it’s fine—”

You shook your head gently, freeing your hand and cupping his cheek instead. His stubble brushed against your palm, grounding you. “It’s okay, Spencer.” Your thumb stroked his skin, and his lips parted slightly, like he wanted to argue more but couldn’t find the words.

“I’ll see you very soon,” you promised.

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He clung to it, deepening it for just a heartbeat longer, but eventually he pulled back—reluctantly. His eyes searched yours, as if trying to memorize your face before he turned away.

Duty tugged at him harder than you could.

He gave you one last look, then squared his shoulders and kept walking, his figure fading into the light-dappled clearing ahead. The team and the case needed him.

Little did he know, that very morning he had already crossed paths with two of the “unsubs,” as he called them. Lucian and Cassian. And you couldn’t tell him. Not yet.

The ache in your chest deepened as his silhouette disappeared. The second he was out of sight, you whispered the words under your breath, the air around you folding in like rippling glass. With a blink, the forest shifted away, and you stood once again inside the wooden home—the Supremes’ hideaway.

The air was thick, still holding the heady tang of sex, sweat, and Spencer. Your thighs ached faintly, your skin still tingled, and for a moment you let yourself savor the memory.

But there was no time.

You headed upstairs, brushing your fingers along the railing until the familiar hum of magic tickled at your skin. Closing your eyes, you let your hand hover in the air, feeling the subtle pull. One step, another, until your palm pressed against the loose board in the corner. With a flick of your wrist, it gave way, and three old spell books slid free, heavy and warm with power.

You clutched them tightly, murmuring under your breath, “Got you.”

But you didn’t linger. Not after Lucian and Cassian’s appearance. The hideaway wasn’t safe anymore, and you could feel it in your bones. They weren’t strong enough to do this alone. They had help—plenty of it.

Which meant you needed yours.

With a crackle of energy and the scent of moss and iron, you transported yourself back to the swamp. The thick humidity wrapped around you instantly, the chorus of frogs and insects buzzing as your boots sank slightly in the damp earth.

And there they were.

Lena, June, and Aria, sitting in a loose circle near the water, the faint glow of candles at their feet. The sight almost calmed you—until Aria’s eyes lifted and hardened.

“Well, look what the cat drags in.” Her tone dripped with venom.

You wanted to scoff, but kept your voice even. “Are you still trying to fight with me, Aria?”

Her posture stiffened, and she rose slowly, eyes narrowing. “Let me guess—you were with your little boyfriend.”

You set the books down deliberately, the thud of old leather against wood punctuating your words. “Yes. But I also ran into Lucian and Cassian. And I know a lot now. I’m actually trying, Aria.”

“Trying?” she spat, stepping closer, her magic sparking faintly at her fingertips. “Are you saying I’m not?”

You exhaled sharply, forcing patience, then gestured toward the books. “Well, what are you doing but arguing with your new Supreme?”

Her lips curled into something halfway between a sneer and a snarl. “Supreme or not, you think sneaking around with him is helping us? You think fucking some fed makes you stronger?”

Lena flinched at the bluntness, June’s gaze flicking between you both nervously.

Heat flushed your skin, part fury, part embarrassment, but you refused to back down. You stepped closer, your voice low, dangerous. “Careful, Aria. Spencer Reid is not just ‘some fed.’ He’s the only thing standing between us and the BAU ripping our coven apart. And unlike you, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to protect us.”

Aria tilted her head, eyes glinting with that cruel satisfaction she always got when she thought she’d caught you out.

“You’re telling me you’re only fucking him to protect us?”

The words were a blade.

Your jaw tightened, but nothing came out. Because it wasn’t true—not even close. You liked him. You wanted him. You could still taste him on your tongue, still feel the dull ache he left inside you, and no amount of duty or denial could wash that away.

Aria scoffed, folding her arms like she’d just won a case in court. “Silence. Exactly what I thought.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose, temper straining. “I’ve spoken with Lucian twice. Cassian once—this morning.”

Her laugh was sharp, humorless. “And you didn’t kill them.”

The words dug into you like thorns. How could you explain that their threats hadn’t been against you, but against Spencer? That every moment you spent near them you could feel the danger circling him like wolves around a lamb?

So you covered. Smoothly, carefully. “We need them to find Caleb and Beau.”

Her eyes narrowed, searching you. “Did you even try?”

You bristled, then sighed, letting your chin lift with pride. “I showed him just how powerful I am.”

The statement silenced her for a moment, but Lena shifted uncomfortably at your side. You noticed instantly.

“Lena?” you prompted, softer now.

Her gaze flicked to yours, then fell to the moss at her feet. “It’s just… Lucian, when we were in our coven… I—”

Before she could finish, June reached out, covering her hand with her own. Her expression was tight, protective. “Same. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

The meaning was clear. You didn’t need the words filled in.

Your chest tightened. They had been charmed. Manipulated. Seduced into his bed under the illusion of choice, left to carry the guilt after what he’d done to Cora. After what they’d all done to her.

“They burned her,” you whispered, the memory slicing fresh again.

The swamp air seemed to grow heavier, the chorus of frogs silenced for a beat.

“He told me why he killed her,” you continued, voice sharp, deliberate. “Because she had the power of resurrection. Rare among non-supremes. So they killed her.”

The weight of it settled like fog, bitter and clinging.

Aria shook her head, her eyes cold. “You can resurrect people now. Why won’t they kill you?”

The words snapped in the air like a whip.

Your eyes narrowed instantly, fury flashing hot through your veins. You stepped closer, your voice dropping to a dangerous edge. “Excuse me?”

Aria didn’t flinch. She held her ground, chin lifted, as if daring you to strike.

“What makes you so special?” she pressed. “They slaughtered Cora for her gift, but you—you walk around with a pretty little fed in your bed and somehow they leave you alive. Doesn’t that make you wonder?”

Lena’s breath hitched, June shifted like she wanted to step between you, but neither moved. The swamp hummed with tension, the air thick with magic that prickled along your skin.

You let the silence stretch, your power coiling under your skin like a serpent ready to strike.

Finally, you leaned in, close enough that Aria would feel the heat of your breath against her ear.

“They don’t kill me,” you whispered, “because they know what I’d do to them if they tried.”

The candles around you flickered violently, one snuffing out with a hiss.

“Fine, But that fed will burn you any chance he gets.” Aria said and started to retreat into the surrounding woods.

You let Aria’s words fade into the air behind you as she stomped away, her boots clicking against the swamp’s muddy wooden walkways. She had made her point, but your work wasn’t done.

With a sweep of your hand, the spellbooks you carried were safely teleported to a hidden compartment beneath the floorboards of the cabin—a place so secure, not even Aria, Lena, or June would think to check. Satisfied, you stepped back outside, the humid afternoon air brushing against your skin.

The goal was clear. Lucian—or one of his lesser warlocks—needed answers. And answers weren’t going to come from your coven.

The alleyway ahead was quiet, the perfect stage. Shadowed and narrow, it seemed to press in around you. From the gloom, you saw him: a figure leaning against a car, cigarette smoke curling into the sun-dappled air. His energy hit you before his form fully revealed itself.

He grinned as you approached, voice low, teasing, and saturated with a slow, dangerous rhythm. “So… you came looking for me, baby. Figured it’d be the other way around, but I like a girl who hunts.”

You rolled your eyes, not letting his words unsettle you. “Lucian, we need to talk.”

He exhaled smoke, letting it curl around the space between you, fingers brushing his chin, his eyes glinting. “Talk?” he mused, voice thick but smooth. “We could… but talking’s boring. I was hoping maybe I could show you a little more… about what that fed was getting last night….And this morning…Lucky bastard.”

His words were heavy, sexual, insinuating in a way that made your blood heat—but you didn’t flinch. “Never gonna happen,” you said firmly.

He smirked, stepping closer, the gap narrowing dangerously. “Again,” he purred, voice low, just above a whisper.

“It’s never happened,” you replied, jaw tight, eyes locked on his.

Lucian let the silence stretch, that dangerous, teasing grin lingering. You scoffed. “I need to know why you threatened Spencer. What exactly did you put on him? And don’t think I won’t kill one of you if I find out.”

He took a long, deliberate drag of his cigarette, exhaling slowly, letting the ember glow in the dim light. “Miss Supreme… doesn’t know? Oh, that’s tragic,” he said, voice dipping, velvet-smooth and edged with amusement.

You felt a surge of irritation, heat crawling up your neck. “If you hurt him I—”

He leaned in closer, a predatory whisper brushing against your ear. “Do you really trust everyone in that little circle of yours? Aria… Lena… June?”

The words made your spine stiffen. How could he know?

“What’s your point?” you asked, voice steady but edged.

He tilted his head, lips near yours, eyes dark and glinting. “My point… baby, you want to kill me and my brothers. But what if the call… comes from inside the house?”

You narrowed your eyes, danger and warning colliding. “I want to kill you because you killed Cora… and all those innocent people.”

Lucian’s grin softened slightly, almost approving. “But as you’ve said so many times… we’re just warlocks, not very powerful. So how are we doing it then?” He leaned just a little closer, letting his breath warm your cheek, teasing.

You didn’t flinch. “Papa Legba,” you hissed, letting the weight of the words hang in the alley.

His grin widened, slow and deliberate, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “And you… contacted Papa Legba too? Whose brilliant little idea was that?”

You paused, the moment stretching, heat rising at the thought. “…Aria.”

Lucian chuckled softly, low and dangerous. “Ah… clever girl. Using your coven’s own little manipulations against them. Makes you even more… irresistible.” His gaze lingered on you, subtle but sharp, assessing, testing.

You stepped forward, letting your energy pulse, just enough to make him feel it. “I need answers. And I will get them. Don’t think your charm or those little insinuations about that fed will stop me.”

Lucian’s laugh was slow, a rumble that brushed against your skin, teasing and charged. “Oh, baby… I’m counting on you trying. Makes this little hunt… delicious.”

He stepped back slightly, letting the alley’s shadows swallow him again, but you stayed, feet planted firmly, eyes unyielding. The tension between you hummed, electric, dangerous—and the dance of power, sex, and knowledge had only just begun.

You didn’t let him slip away, not yet. Not when you could feel the threads of control he’d wrapped around Spencer like a leash, taunting, teasing, daring you. You stepped closer, closing the space between you, your energy bristling, dark and sharp. “Tell me,” you hissed, voice low and dangerous. “If you’re so powerful—and you’ve got witches helping you, because that’s clearly what you’re trying to make me believe—what have you put on him?”

Lucian’s grin stretched, sly and slow. “What’s the fun in just giving it to you, sweetheart?” he murmured, leaning in so close your breaths tangled. “Seems boring…predictable.”

Your patience snapped. Your hand flexed at your side, a dangerous pulse in your veins. “I’ll kill one of you to prove just how serious I am. No games,” you spat, voice steady but edged with venom. “Tell me now.”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting like a predator savoring a slow meal. “A small spell…a little hex,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from your face, letting his fingers linger a moment too long. “If harm comes to us…he won’t die. Oh no…that’d be too easy. It’s worse.” He leaned closer, letting the words drip into your ear, a whisper coated with smug amusement. “He’ll hate you.”

Your stomach dropped, and your hands clenched. “What…?” you breathed, barely able to process the weight of his words.

He smirked, delighting in your growing panic, voice low and deliberate. “He’ll never want to see your face again…” The whisper was intoxicating, mocking, and cruel. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Your chest tightened. Rage burned along your spine. You could practically see red, your hands trembling with the urge to strike. Lucian noticed the flare of your temper, and his grin only widened, the arrogance in his eyes sharp enough to draw blood.

“And if you try to take this off him…” he added, brushing a hand slowly over your cheek, fingers sliding along your skin in a touch that made your blood burn, “we’ll kill him.”

The hand was gone in an instant as you slapped it away, stepping back, chest heaving. “You’re going to fucking burn…” you hissed, voice low, dangerous, every word laced with lethal intent.

Lucian laughed softly, the sound dark and teasing, letting it hang in the alley. “Oh, baby, you don’t scare me…not yet,” he purred, stepping just close enough that the heat from his body brushed yours, the tension electric. “But I love it when you get like this.”

You ground your teeth together, fists clenching at your sides. “This isn’t about getting me riled, Lucian,” you growled. “This is about Spencer. And if anything happens to him—anything—you’re going to regret it.”

He tilted his head, eyes darkening with something sharper than amusement, almost admiration. “You really like him, don’t you?” he murmured, voice low, rougher now, letting the words press against your skin like heat. “That little fed’s got you all tangled up…makes my job so much more interesting.”

A shiver ran down your spine, not from fear, but from the intensity of it. You hated the thrill, hated the way his voice and presence worked against your control—but you couldn’t let it show. “I don’t care how interesting it is for you. Leave. And leave him the fuck alone,” you snapped, tone icy, dangerous.

Lucian laughed again, slow, teasing, letting the smoke curl from his lips in a thin haze between you. “Oh…we’ll see, baby. But don’t worry. I’m going to enjoy watching you try. Watching you squirm while you try to protect your little professor…” His smirk was sharp, predatory, sexual, as if he could taste the tension and wanted more.

Your hands sparked faintly at your sides, the urge to strike, to dominate, to protect Spencer flaring hotter than ever. “You don’t get to toy with him,” you hissed, voice low and dangerous, moving forward, eyes locked on his. “Not now, not ever. You hear me?”

Lucian’s grin softened just slightly, like he respected the fire but wanted to stoke it further. “Oh, I hear you, baby. Loud and clear.” His gaze lingered, slow, teasing, the alley tight around the two of you. “But hearing it doesn’t mean I’m going to stop…”

You could feel the energy shifting, the tension thick as the afternoon sun pressed against the walls of the alley, the smell of smoke and heat heavy between you. And though you were furious, part of you couldn’t deny the pulse of desire, the hunger for control and release, even as your mind screamed for focus, for strategy.

You stepped closer, chest almost brushing his, letting your presence radiate, dark and lethal. “I’m warning you, Lucian. One wrong move with him and I’ll end you. And you’ll never see it coming.”

He leaned closer, the heat of his body almost intoxicating, and whispered with a smirk, “Then let’s see, baby…let’s see just how far you’ll go.”

The alley seemed to shrink, the tension between you two crackling, electric, dangerous—and every word, every glance, every breath was a test of power, desire, and control.

You practically raced out of there—not from fear, but because the idea had struck you hard, like lightning, and you couldn’t waste a second. The warlocks’ words still echoed in your head, their smug little grins, the spell you could feel pulsing faintly around Spencer like an invisible thread. You had to fix it before it took root. Before it ruined everything.

The old wooden door of the police station creaked as you pushed inside, the coolness of the air conditioning hitting your heated skin. The chief looked up from behind the front desk, his hat pushed back as he offered you a familiar, polite smile.

“Hey, you,” he greeted warmly. He’d known you for years, watched you grow up in this town, but you didn’t have time for pleasantries.

“Spencer,” you said, voice sharp, urgent. “Where’s Spencer?”

His brows furrowed. “Uh—the Federal agent? I think he’s in the conference room…” He trailed off, concern flickering in his voice. “Honey, everything okay?”

You didn’t even stay long enough to hear the end of it. Your boots echoed sharply against the linoleum as you strode down the hallway, heart hammering. The glass walls of the conference room revealed him instantly—head bent, hair falling into his face as he scribbled notes furiously, pen scratching across paper. He was so focused, so consumed, that he didn’t even notice you at first.

Your eyes scanned the rest of the team clustered around the table. You only recognized one of them: Hotchner. His dark suit, stern posture, arms folded against his chest. He was exactly as you remembered from that night—the night he’d taken you and your coven out of the house after Cora’s body was found. Cold, standoffish, the opposite of Spencer’s quiet warmth that night.

You didn’t hesitate. You pushed the door open, the sharp sound making every head turn at once. Confusion flickered across their faces, whispers forming instantly—but Spencer’s head shot up, and his eyes found yours immediately.

The widening of his gaze told you he understood something was wrong before you even opened your mouth. “What’s wrong?” he asked, pen falling still.

You swallowed, breathless. “I’m sorry—sorry for barging in, but…” Your voice cracked under the weight of it. “Spencer, it’s urgent.”

Hotchner’s sharp gaze flicked between you and Spencer, clearly assuming this had to do with the case. Spencer, though, didn’t even glance at the rest of them. He turned to Hotch, voice steady but softer than usual. “Personal matter, Hotch. Is it…okay if I—”

Hotch gave a single, measured nod.

Relief surged through you, and you stepped back, waiting. Spencer pushed his chair back, gathering his notes without looking at anyone else. The door closed behind him with a quiet click, muting the buzz of the team inside.

You didn’t waste a second. The moment you were in the hall you grabbed his hand, tugging him with you.

His long fingers tightened around yours instinctively, brows drawn in confusion. “What’s wrong?” he asked again, his voice lower now, urgent.

“You’re in danger,” you whispered, eyes wide as you turned to him. “I—I need to keep you safe.”

His brows lifted, surprise breaking through. “What?”

You tried to slow your breathing, but your chest was tight. “This morning. The warlocks.”

You saw his jaw tense immediately, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He definitely remembered. Remembered the way they’d cornered you both this morning, the filth that had dripped off their tongues, their threats—how it had lit jealousy like wildfire in him until the only way he could silence it was to take you against the table until you were moaning his name into the air.

“Mhm,” he said carefully, voice thick.

You grabbed both of his hands this time, clutching them to anchor yourself, to ground both of you. “They put something on you,” you said desperately. “W-we—I can fix it, but we have to get away. Somewhere safe. Somewhere they can’t find you.”

His brows furrowed deeper, hazel eyes flicking rapidly over your face, searching for reason. He shook his head slightly. “I can’t just leave. I—the case is still ongoing—”

“Spencer,” you cut him off sharply, squeezing his hands. “You don’t understand.” You wanted to tell him everything, wanted to spill the warlock’s smug whisper—He’ll hate you, he’ll never want to see your face again—but the words locked in your throat. Not here. Not in a hallway where the walls had ears.

Instead you leaned closer, dropping your voice to a whisper that was almost a plea. “Trust me.”

The silence stretched between you. His lips parted like he wanted to argue, to question, but something in your eyes must have stopped him. Slowly, hesitantly, he nodded. “Okay…fine. Yes.”

Relief crashed over you, so strong you nearly sagged against him. You laced your fingers with his, holding tight, and led him down the hall, out of the police station’s heavy doors into the blazing light of afternoon.

The world outside felt too bright, too loud, but you didn’t stop moving. His hand stayed in yours, warm and solid, his long stride falling in step with your hurried pace.

“Where are we going?” he asked softly, his voice carrying that familiar thread of curiosity even in the middle of chaos.

You shook your head, scanning the street like eyes might be on you. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere they can’t touch you.”

“Safe from…spells?” His voice was laced with skepticism, but it wasn’t mocking—it was concern, the way he always tried to reason his way through things.

“Safe from them,” you corrected, tightening your grip on his hand. You glanced at him, unable to stop your gaze from lingering. His shirt was wrinkled, still untucked from the night before, his tie loose. He still smelled faintly of sex and your skin, like he’d carried you with him into the sterile walls of that conference room. And for a second, as his hazel eyes searched yours, your pulse jumped for an entirely different reason.

You swallowed hard, dragging your focus back. Later. First you had to keep him alive.

You’d taken him to the most secret place you knew, the one you never spoke of, the one you swore would die with you. Your mother’s old house. It had sat untouched for years, swallowed by the woods, hidden under a canopy of weeping willows and Spanish moss that draped like ghostly curtains over its roof. No one knew about it—not your coven, not Aria, not even the women you trusted with your life. It was safe. Or at least, you prayed it was.

The drive had been silent. Too silent. You’d felt the weight of his eyes on you sometimes, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look back. Every rustle in the woods made your stomach clench tighter, every bend in the winding dirt road made you press harder on the gas.

When you finally cut the headlights and let the car roll to a stop, the forest seemed to close around you both, suffocating in its silence. He climbed out beside you, his lanky frame brushing close, and when he looked at the sagging roofline through the veil of moss, he gave a small, awkward smile.

“Do you just…know every house in the middle of the forest?” he asked lightly, trying—always trying—to make you smile.

You did, but it still managed to tug the corner of your lips upward, even if only for a second. “It was my mother’s,” you murmured, more to the trees than to him.

You pushed the swollen wooden door, and it opened with more ease than you expected, like it remembered you. The smell of dust and old wood hit instantly, thick and sharp. You stepped inside, your boots sinking into the soft rot of the floorboards. When you shut the door, it felt heavier than it should, the lock clicking like a ward sealing shut. You exhaled, finally, letting out the breath you’d been holding since you left town.

The silence stretched between you, but then you felt him behind you. His warmth pressed against your back, his long arms circling your waist, pulling you into his chest. His lips brushed your shoulder, soft, grounding.

“Now,” he whispered, voice low, “tell me what’s going on.”

You swallowed hard, knowing there was no way to say it gently. So you did.

“I met…Lucian.”

You felt it instantly—the way his body went rigid against you. His breath caught, his arms tightened, and for a split second you weren’t sure if it was jealousy or anger—or both.

“In town,” you continued quickly. “I—I needed to know what he meant. He threatened me before. Said I can’t hurt or kill them—”

He cut you off sharply, stepping back just enough to look down at you. “Kill them? Y-you can’t kill them.” His voice snapped with the sharp edge of a federal agent, the profiler, the man who had lived his life by the weight of the law.

You sighed, tilting your head back to meet his gaze. “Spencer…just let me continue.”

His jaw worked, tension visible in every line of him. But after a long second, he gave the smallest nod. Reluctant. Maybe even afraid.

You took a shaky breath. “He said I can’t kill or hurt them because if I did…something would happen to you.” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your hands against his chest like you could anchor yourself there. “So I haven’t done anything. Not even when I wanted to. And that’s making Aria furious with me, making her push harder, and—and I had to get answers. So I went to speak with him.”

His hand lifted, hesitant, curling around your wrist. His eyes searched your face, pleading for you not to say what you were about to.

“And he told me…they cast a hex on you. If I hurt or kill any one of them…the curse is that you’ll hate me. Properly. That you won’t even be able to look at me. And if I try to remove it…” You paused, throat tight. “…they’ll kill you.”

The words spilled out like poison, and you finally broke, tears stinging at your eyes. You hated saying it aloud. Hated making it real.

For a moment he just stared, his lips parted, shock etched into his features.

“I—wow. I…” His voice was barely above a whisper. His hand moved instinctively, almost clumsy, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers.

Your eyes burned as you forced yourself to keep talking. “Do you get it now? Why I can’t—why I can’t fight them, why I’m so on edge? Because if I make the wrong move, if I choose wrong—you’ll…” Your voice cracked again, and the rest of the sentence dissolved into silence.

He shook his head, hazel eyes glassy. “You think I could ever hate you?” His voice was rough, desperate.

“It wouldn’t be you,” you whispered, broken. “That’s the point. They’d take that choice from you.”

He pulled you into him again, crushing you against his chest, his hands splayed against your back like he could shield you from the entire world. His lips pressed into your hair, his voice muffled but fierce. “No one takes my choices from me.”

The words should have comforted you, but they only made your chest ache worse. Because you knew Lucian. You knew the warlocks. And they would. They already had.

You felt his breath warm against your neck, and for a moment, just a moment, you let yourself melt into him. His lips brushed lower, the softness of them grazing the delicate skin just beneath your jaw.

“You’re trembling,” he whispered.

“Because I’m terrified,” you admitted.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hazel eyes dark, conflicted. His thumb brushed under your eye, catching the dampness there. His voice softened, and the profiler in him cracked wide open to reveal the man beneath. “You’re not alone in this. You know that, right?”

You nodded weakly, your lips parting to answer, but the words caught when you realized how close his mouth was. His breath ghosted over your lips, and the tension that had been building since you stormed into that conference room snapped taut between you.

“Spencer…” you whispered, unsure if it was a warning or a plea.

His lips hovered over yours, his restraint written all over his face. But his hand had already slipped lower on your back, his fingertips pressing against the curve of your hip like he couldn’t stop himself.

And when you finally closed the space, kissing him hard, it felt like breaking through the curse itself—desperate, terrified, and hungry all at once.

You broke the kiss just slightly, your lips still brushing against his, your voice spilling out like a desperate confession.

“I need to break the spell.”

His breath hitched, his hazel eyes flickering across your face. He nodded slowly, but there was a tremor in his chest when he spoke.

“They’ll…try to kill me,” he said, more a question than a statement, like he needed to hear it out loud.

You nodded, your forehead pressing against his, your exhale shaky. “Yes.”

The sound of his breath filled the small, rotting room, warm against your lips, uneven with nerves. “What…what can you do?” he asked softly. His eyes caught yours, wide and uncertain, and you could feel it—his fear, his hesitation, his need for you to anchor him.

“I can only think of a few spells…” you admitted, your voice thinning.

But he shook his head quickly, cutting you off. His hands tightened around your arms. “No. Let’s do one. I can’t—” His voice cracked, raw. “I can’t hate you. I won’t let them take that from me. I won’t let them make that choice for me.”

The words broke something inside you. You pressed harder into him, your foreheads still touching, your eyes fluttering shut against the rush of heat and terror in your chest.

“It’s…Spencer,” you whispered, your throat tight. “The spellbook you were guided to, the one you took from my room, back in my coven’s home…”

He blinked, nodding immediately. His grip on you never loosened. “What about it?”

God, he knew that book too well. You could see it in the flicker of his gaze, the flush rising on his pale skin. The illustrations had been explicit, detailed, designed to shock or entice—and you knew he had imagined you there, imagined himself between the pages, imagined things he’d never dared to say aloud. You could see it now, written all over him.

“One of them,” you continued, voice steadier now, “is a protection spell. It…intertwines us.”

You didn’t soften the words. You let them hang, heavy and true.

His lips parted, his breath sharp. “Intertwines,” he echoed, like he was testing the weight of it on his tongue.

“It would keep you safe,” you whispered, watching his eyes carefully. “But it isn’t small, Spencer. This isn’t binding a wrist with twine or carving symbols in wax. This is…more.”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His eyes searched your face like he was trying to memorize it, like he was terrified of losing it. “Do you—do you need the book? It’s—it’s back at my hotel,” he stammered, almost sheepish despite the gravity of the moment.

You shook your head, lifting your hand to trace your fingers lightly along his jaw. “No. I don’t need it.”

Something shifted in his face then—nervous still, but reverent, like he was standing at the edge of a precipice and choosing to jump. His voice came quieter, almost breaking.

“You want this?”

The question lingered, deeper than the words themselves.

You met his gaze, holding it, grounding him. “Do you?”

His hand slipped lower, intertwining with yours, his palm clammy and trembling but firm when he squeezed. His lips brushed yours again, barely there, as he breathed, “More than anything.”

You felt the pulse of it—something binding already, something snapping taut in the air around you. He laced your fingers tighter, pressing them against his chest, over his racing heartbeat.

“Me and you,” you whispered.

“You and me,” he echoed, his voice hoarse, breaking on the last syllable.

His lips found yours again, slower this time, hungrier, the weight of his decision bleeding through the kiss. His tongue brushed yours and he groaned softly against your mouth, like he couldn’t hold it in. His body pressed closer, his lean frame slotting against yours as his hands found your hips.

And for the first time since Lucian’s warning, you felt it—that maybe you weren’t powerless. Maybe you could fight back. Not with steel or fire, but with this. With him.

Your spell. Your tether. You broke the kiss, breath ragged, taking a step back. The sudden distance made his chest ache, but you steadied yourself, meeting his wide eyes.

“Okay…we do this,” you whispered, heart racing. “But we need to do this right. I—uh…this is going to be intense. Please don’t think this is crazy.”

His lips quirked, the faintest laugh escaping him. “This is all bonkers,” he admitted, shaking his head, curls brushing his cheekbones. But then he softened, the weight in his tone unmistakable. “But I don’t think anything you do is crazy.”

That reassurance hit you deeper than you wanted to admit. You swallowed hard, nodding.

“Talk me through it,” he added, always the analyst, always the one who needed the pieces laid out.

So you did. “We need to do this outside…a circle of lit candles. And I mean—we’ve had sex before…” your voice trailed off, a heat rising in your chest, “…it’s just that, but with some extra steps.”

You crossed the room quickly, reaching where you knew your mother used to hide supplies. Sure enough, untouched, you found the long-stem candles. New, unmarked. Perfect.

“Extra steps?” he repeated, raising a brow, suspicion curling his lips.

You avoided his gaze as you busied your hands. “Just some…On my end. It’s fine.”

But you could feel his eyes on you, sharp as scalpels, unconvinced.

“Stop pacing around. Tell me.” His voice was still gentle, but firm enough to cut through your stalling.

You froze, fingers trembling slightly on the candle wax. “…Just some words. Spell-wise.” You hesitated. “Maybe…some blood. It’s nothing to be worried about.”

He nodded slowly, too slowly. His gaze never left your face.

“Then why are you so nervous?”

The question made you stop dead. Your chest tightened. You turned, meeting his steady hazel eyes.

“You’re just…okay with that?” you asked, surprised at his composure.

He nodded once, sure. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Blood?” you pressed, half-expecting him to falter.

But instead, he shook his head. “Uh…it’s fine. Trust me.”

You didn’t know that he couldn’t tell you the truth—that he’d already seen this spell, back when he first opened your book. That he’d memorized every sketched curve of the figures intertwined, the annotations describing flesh, desire, and binding. He’d imagined it more than once—himself in the position of offering blood, of being tied to you in every way. Now he was about to get it.

You didn’t ask. You only nodded. He was on board. That was enough.

“Follow me.”

You opened the door and stepped into the night, the air thick with the hum of cicadas and the sway of willow branches. The forest was darker now, the sky black velvet split with stars.

You knelt, placing the candles in a wide circle on the mossy earth, big enough to hold you both. The silence around you felt heavier here, like the woods themselves were listening.

When you stepped into the circle, you turned, beckoning him. “Inside.”

He obeyed, cautious, his long limbs awkward as he crossed into the ring.

“We need to…strip,” you said, steadying your tone.

His brows arched, and he glanced around nervously. “Won’t people see?”

You shook your head, scanning the shadows. “This isn’t on any trail. It’s not on any map. If someone’s out here, I’d be super surprised. It’s okay.”

He hesitated only a beat longer, then nodded, fingers going to his shirt buttons. You did the same, shrugging off your clothes piece by piece.

The night air wrapped cool against your bare skin, but the way his eyes trailed over you—slow, reverent, hungry—set you burning all over again. His hands shook slightly as he undid his belt, but when his trousers fell, there was no denying the rigid strain of his cock, flushed and heavy, already aching for you.

You flicked your wrist, a silent spell, and each candle burst into flame. The circle bloomed golden around you, light dancing against his pale skin. He blinked, breathless, never quite getting used to that—how easily you bent the world.

You stepped closer, your fingers grazing his wrist. “You’re nervous,” you murmured.

“Of course I’m nervous,” he admitted quickly, his voice rasping. “I mean—we—we had sex this morning. And last night. And I still feel like I might—” His words cut off with a soft laugh, self-conscious, “…like I might forget how to breathe when you look at me like that.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. Instead, you leaned in, pressing your body against his. The heat of him radiated through you, his erection nudging against your stomach as your fingers slid over his chest.

You drew back slightly, forcing yourself to keep focus. “Listen to me. I’m going to talk you through what’s going to happen.”

He nodded, swallowing hard, eyes glued to yours.

“This is sex, Spencer,” you said softly. “But it’s also spellwork. I’ll need…certain words. Certain focus. Maybe blood.” Your eyes flicked down, then back up. “But it’s just us. It’s always just us.”

His hands flexed at your hips, gripping lightly. “Tell me what to do,” he whispered.

And God, he meant it. Every nerve in him was strung tight, but he trusted you completely—body, blood, soul.

You leaned down, your lips brushing against his ear, your voice a whisper meant only for him.

“I have to ride you…lay down, please.”

The words hit him harder than a shove. He nearly buckled right there, his knees threatening to give out. But he did as you told him, lowering himself onto the mossy ground inside the circle of firelight. His curls fanned out beneath him, eyes locked on yours, chest rising and falling fast.

You climbed over him, straddling his hips, your bare thighs pressing to his skin. His cock was hot and thick against your folds, so close, but you didn’t sink onto him yet. You wanted his full attention.

“The first part,” you whispered, your palms pressed to his chest, feeling his heartbeat hammer beneath. “It’s just sex. Then…” you hesitated, meeting his eyes, “I’m going to make you bleed. I’ll do the same to myself. Then you just follow me. Okay?”

He nodded instantly. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. He didn’t need you to know how much this mirrored the very page he’d stared at for hours in your book. He remembered every detail of the sketch, every inked curve of the instructions. He’d tried to imagine how it would feel. And now he was here—living it.

You shifted your hips, lifting yourself slightly before guiding him into you. The stretch pulled a gasp from your lungs, a soft moan tearing free as you sank down, slow but unrelenting, until he was fully inside you.

“Fuck—” Spencer���s voice broke, his hands flying to your hips, holding you like he was grounding himself. His eyes squeezed shut for just a second before fluttering back open, glassy with arousal.

You gave yourself a moment to adjust, to breathe, before rolling your hips. The movement sent a hot spike of pleasure through your body, and the sound that fell from your lips was half-moan, half-prayer.

The candles roared higher, their flames dancing violently, reacting to your energy. The circle glowed brighter, the air shimmering with heat and power. Spencer noticed—of course he did—but he didn’t look away from you. He watched, enraptured, every detail of your face as you moved on him.

“Just like that,” he rasped, his voice low, as if afraid to speak too loud inside the circle.

Your pace picked up, slow grind giving way to harder, more desperate rolls of your hips. Each thrust had him groaning beneath you, his hands gripping you tighter.

And then—you began. Softly at first, barely more than a hum, the words of the chant slipped past your lips. Spencer’s brows furrowed, eyes flicking to your mouth, watching, listening. His lips parted like he wanted to join in but wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

You reached blindly beside you, fingers curling around the small ritual knife you’d laid in the grass. Still riding him, still moaning through the spell, you lifted it. The glint of the blade caught the candlelight.

Spencer’s eyes widened, but he didn’t stop you. His hands trembled slightly where they clung to your hips, though his cock twitched inside you, betraying how much the intensity was undoing him.

You took his palm first, holding it steady. “Trust me,” you whispered, even as the words of the chant still rolled through your throat. With one sure motion, you dragged the blade across his skin—just deep enough to draw crimson.

His breath hitched, his body jerking, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he held your gaze, pupils blown wide. The sting lit fire in his nerves, and he moaned—quiet, unguarded.

You did the same to your palm without hesitation, wincing, but your hips never stopped moving on him. The blood welled hot and thick.

“Fuck,” you gasped, but kept chanting.

Together, you pressed your bleeding palms to each other’s chests, smearing the warmth across skin, marking him, marking yourself. The smell of iron mingled with sweat and sex, filling the circle.

Spencer’s lips moved then, repeating your words—like he already knew. Like he’d read them before. His voice shook at first, but then grew steadier, rising in sync with yours.

His hips snapped up suddenly, thrusting into you, his control fracturing under the heat of the ritual and the sight of your blood on him. “God—” he groaned, the word strangled, “you feel—” His hands slid to your waist, guiding you harder, matching your rhythm.

The candles blazed higher, flames licking tall and furious, as though the woods themselves bore witness.

You threw your head back, the chant breaking into moans, every movement of your body driving the spell deeper, louder, more potent. He followed you perfectly, his body and voice falling into rhythm with yours, until you were no longer just fucking—you were binding.

His blood, your blood. His breath, your breath. The magic between you spiraled, hot and consuming, threading through every nerve.

He was losing control. You could feel it in the way his hips jolted upward, harder, faster, each thrust knocking a broken sound from your throat. And you welcomed it, your body meeting his with just as much need.

Your palm was slick with blood, hot and sticky between your fingers. You lifted it, pressing it to his mouth, dragging crimson across his lips. His eyes darkened instantly, his breath catching as you smeared it over him.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your skin, his tongue darting out to taste. He didn’t hesitate—he pressed his own bleeding hand to your mouth, painting you with the same red.

The taste of iron coated your tongue, sharp, metallic, and intoxicating. You leaned down before either of you could second-guess it, crushing your lips to his. The kiss was violent, wet, blood mixing between your mouths. He kissed you back just as desperately, groaning into you as if he couldn’t get close enough.

The circle of candles flared, flames snapping high, their heat licking against your skin. The woods themselves seemed to breathe with you.

His hands tightened on your waist, knuckles white as he adjusted your angle, dragging you down harder onto his cock. “God, you feel—” His voice broke into a gasp as he thrust up into you, rougher now, his rhythm abandoning restraint.

“Spencer—” your moan cracked, part plea, part worship, your nails digging into his chest.

He kissed you again, hard, teeth clashing, both of you tasting blood and sweat and sex. When he pulled back, his lips were swollen and red, smeared with you. “You taste like fire,” he panted, thrusting up so deep it stole your breath.

Your head fell back, the chant spilling from your throat again, ragged now, broken by moans. He followed, repeating the words with you—his voice low, shaky, but clear. The ritual wanted more. It demanded everything.

Your body slammed against his with every movement, the sound of skin on skin blending with the crackle of flames and the rustle of leaves. The air was charged, humming, your magic wrapping tighter and tighter.

His hand slid up, bloody fingers gripping the back of your neck as he pulled you down into another kiss, his cock driving into you relentlessly. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop,” he begged against your lips, his voice frayed.

“I won’t,” you gasped, rocking harder, chasing the spiral tightening in your stomach.

The flames roared higher still, almost blinding, heat prickling every inch of your bare skin. You could feel it—the climax of the spell winding with the climax of your body, both surging toward the same violent end.

“Say it with me,” you moaned, words breaking as your body clenched around him. “Say it—”

He did, perfectly, voice strangled but precise, every syllable etched into his memory. His thrusts turned frantic, hips snapping, the sound of his groans raw and unguarded as he moved inside you.

The world around you blurred, firelight consuming the darkness, the taste of blood sharp in your mouth, his body hot beneath yours. You were so close, trembling, gasping his name like it was the only word you knew.

“Fuck—I’m—” he broke off, head pressing back into the earth as his rhythm stuttered, his body straining under you.

“Now—Spencer—now,” you moaned, and as you shattered around him, the final words of the ritual ripped from your throat. He followed, his voice joining yours, breaking as his orgasm tore through him.

Your bloodied chests pressed together, your bodies locked as the magic exploded outward. The flames flared high and then steadied, forming a perfect circle around you both, unbroken.

Something snapped tight inside you—an invisible thread pulled taut, binding you. You felt it in the marrow of your bones, in the pounding of his heart against yours.

He was still moving inside you, soft thrusts dragging out the last of it, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temples. His lips brushed yours, smeared with blood, as he whispered, breathless and stunned,

“…It worked.”

And you knew—he was no longer just yours by choice. He was bound.

Taglist: (DM me or comment to be added to taglist :p)

@superbeaglewitch @diaryofareader @jazzy-217 @ratravioli @salt-recs @xxmooxmooxx x @deltamoon666 @daayydrreeaammeerr @nanfandan @fandom-fanatix @spencerreidforreal

[virtualbabydevil]

Hello and welcome back to me screaming. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

House of the rising sun ִ ࣪𖤐 part 6 ִ ࣪𖤐 S.R

‘I put a spell on you’

pairing: Spencer Reid x AFAB Fem! Witch reader (no y/n)

‘I put a spell on you, because your mine..Stop the things you do. Watch out, i ain’t lyin’ Yeah, i can’t stand no running around…i can’t stand No put me down. I put a spell on you…Because you’re mine.”

rating: MDNI, NSFW, Sexual Content 18+

synopsis: There is a riff amongst you and a certain member of your coven, Which leads you to run into Lucian…who seems to be very focused on you and spencer’s ‘relationship’. you also get to show off just how powerful you’ve become. To keep spencer safe you take him to a safe house deep in the forest where things finally boil over.

wc: 9.6k (Jesus soz :p )

warnings: NSFW | Mentions of murder | Criminal minds level of violence | Unprotected p in v | Creampie | Dirty talk | Vulgar language | Smoking | witchcraft | slow burn |

Series Masterlist Music 🎶

The bar smelled of sweat, stale beer, and cigarette smoke. Its wood-paneled walls were dark with age, the air heavy with the kind of silence that only comes when everyone knows better than to ask questions. You sat at the booth with your sisters, the empty glass sweating in your hand as the cheap whiskey scorched your throat. The world outside might not have shifted, but inside you knew—everything had.

The confirmation of Lucian’s betrayal and the others’ cruelty sat like a stone in your stomach. They hadn’t just killed Cora, they’d dug their claws into the fragile threads of your coven, pulling until everyone was fraying apart. It wasn’t just about blood anymore; it was about survival, about legacy.

Aria’s voice broke the stillness. She stared into the rim of her glass before finally lifting it, her tone tight.

“They deserved to be burned… after burning Cora? I-it’s just—”

Her voice caught and cracked, the sharpness folding into grief. She couldn’t finish, but Lena reached across, squeezing her wrist.

“They won’t get away with this… right?” Lena’s wide eyes landed on you, her voice carrying both hope and fear.

You straightened, spine rigid, words sharp with finality.

“They will be handled.”

Aria scoffed into her glass, the sound biting. “Are you going to tell your little boyfriend?”

Your head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing. “Boyfriend? Spencer is not my boyfriend, Aria.”

The weight in your tone carried your authority, reminding her that you weren’t just her sister—you were Supreme, whether you liked it or not.

“He’s a distraction.” She muttered, lifting her drink again.

Before you could respond, Lena and June shared a glance, clearly unwilling to sit between two brewing storms. They stood, their voices careful.

“We’re going to head back…”

You exhaled slowly, forcing your expression softer as you looked up at them.

“Stay safe.”

They slipped away, the booth suddenly emptier, leaving only you and Aria across from one another. Her gaze was sharp, unwavering, daggers in the dim light. You set your glass down with a dull thud.

“What is it, Aria? Spit it out.”

She didn’t hesitate.

“You’ve been distracted by a man… a federal agent.”

You scoffed, dragging your fingers over the rim of your glass, masking the way her accusation dug deeper than you wanted to admit.

“I haven’t. I’ve been trying to deal with this.”

Her expression was unimpressed, eyes narrowed like a hunter watching prey.

“You’re acting like a lovesick dog. You took us with you to help him and his team, and we left Cora. And she died.”

Your jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

“Do not blame Cora’s death on me. The only ones to blame are Lucian and his warlock brothers.”

Aria shook her head, leaning in.

“Maybe they lit the match, but you let it happen.”

The venom in her words cut sharper than any blade. She finished her drink in one bitter swallow, slammed the empty glass on the table, and stood abruptly.

The scrape of her chair echoed louder than the low jukebox hum. Then she was gone, leaving you with the bitter taste of whiskey, smoke, and guilt.

You sat there a moment longer, breathing slow, before sliding out of the booth. Every inch of you felt heavier—your chest, your hands, even your magic. The transition of power wasn’t clean. Supremacy wasn’t a mantle anyone prepared you for. No handbook, no rules, just raw strength with no guide. And already you felt like you were failing them.

Outside, the night wrapped itself around you. The street was mostly deserted, save for the orange haze spilling from the lampposts overhead. The cracked pavement glistened faintly from earlier rain, the air thick with dampness and the faint smell of earth.

You leaned against the rough brick wall, digging a cigarette from your bag with shaky fingers. The flame sparked, the burn of tobacco filling your lungs, calming, grounding.

Then—

A voice. Smooth. Too familiar.

“Got a light?”

Your chest went cold. You hadn’t heard him approach. No footsteps, no shift in the air, no tell-tale brush of presence. Just… there. Like the shadow had always been waiting.

That voice. You didn’t need to look to know.

Lucian.

“I’m sure you have one.” You exhaled smoke, still not turning toward him. The audacity of it—he burned your sister alive and now he asked for fire? Sadistic. Predictable.

He chuckled, deep and pleased with himself, and you finally glanced his way. He was leaning in the glow of the streetlight, his sharp features cast half in shadow. That smug grin—the same one that convinced your sisters once upon a time to spread their legs, to bow to his false charm—was still plastered on his face.

“Is that any way to talk to an old friend?”

Your lip curled. “You and I were never friends, Lucian.”

He tilted his head, stepping closer, the shine of his boots clicking against pavement. His eyes flickered over you slowly, possessively, like he thought he still had some claim to you.

“Don’t say that. We shared a circle once. We shared power… pleasure.” His voice dropped, mocking intimacy lacing the words. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

Your stomach twisted, rage bubbling hot beneath your calm surface. “I don’t forget betrayal. I don’t forget blood.”

His grin only widened, predatory. He leaned against the wall beside you, too close, the heat of him crawling over your skin.

“Betrayal? Or just ambition? You never did understand me. But Spencer…” He smirked, saying his name like a knife pressed to your throat. “He does. He feels it too. That pull. Do you think that’s you? Your power? Or do you think it’s me whispering in his ear?”

You turned, eyes burning into his, your cigarette burning low between your fingers.

“If you think you’re going to twist him against me, you’ll end up like Cora. Ashes.”

Lucian’s laugh was low, cruel, almost aroused.

“There’s that fire. That’s why I liked you best.” He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “But you’re wasting it on the wrong man. A federal agent? Really? Do you moan for him in the swamp? Or just in his dreams?”

Your magic surged unbidden, a pulse under your skin, begging to lash out. You wanted to tear him apart right there on the cracked pavement, to show him what a real witch could do. But you held back. Timing mattered. And Lucian thrived on your rage—feeding it, savoring it.

Instead, you let a slow smile curve your lips, masking your fury.

“Keep talking, Lucian. Every word digs your grave deeper.”

He smirked again, undeterred.

“Can’t wait to see what you’ll do to me then.”

You let the smoke curl from your lips as you scoffed, your voice sharp with disdain.

“What do you even mean by you whispering in Spencer’s ear? You don’t have enough power to do that… is it fun playing pretend?”

Lucian’s grin stretched wide, hungry and cruel, like he had been waiting for you to ask.

“Well, I got him to think you cast a cute little love spell on him… got him to stumble across your very sexually graphic spell book.” His tongue flicked over his teeth. “The one I loved so dearly.”

Your eyes narrowed. That book. Private, sacred, laced with desire and power. He had no right to even mention it. You rolled your eyes anyway, refusing to give him the reaction he craved.

“You used Papa Legba. That’s cheating.”

Your tone was mocking, deliberately matching his, and it landed exactly the way you expected. He tilted his head, his grin widening as if he found it delicious.

“Feisty.” He leaned his shoulder lazily against the brick wall, body too close to yours, the smoke from your cigarette curling between you both. “But Aria is right, you know… You’re acting all needy and desperate. It’s not a good look.”

He paused, gaze dragging down the length of your body, slow, deliberate, the way a man sizes up prey before tearing it apart. His voice dropped lower, intimate and sharp at once. “To me… well, it’s gorgeous. I just wish you’d been like that over me.”

Heat flared in your chest—rage, humiliation, maybe something darker you refused to acknowledge. You scoffed again, flicking ash to the ground. “You were watching us?”

His smirk told you the answer before he spoke.

“Mmh. A little.” His eyes glimmered with wicked delight. “Enough to know you’re failing as the new Supreme already.”

You clenched your jaw, nails digging into the filter of your cigarette before you steadied yourself.

“I’m not the Supreme yet.”

Lucian laughed, the sound low, mocking, and terribly amused.

“That old bat is still alive, sure… but not for much longer. You’re glowing, sweetheart. I can feel the power radiating off you. May I say—” His eyes darkened, dragging slowly back up to yours. “It’s… attractive.”

The way he said it wasn’t admiration. It was hunger.

You took another drag, blowing the smoke into his face like poison.

“I’m going to kill you. And your pathetic little warlock brothers.”

His grin widened, sharp and wolfish. “You won’t. Not yet anyway.”

He leaned in closer, close enough that the scent of him—woodsmoke, iron, and something old, rotten, wrong—filled your lungs. His voice was a purr.

“Because Aria is right… you like Spencer too much.”

Your brows furrowed before you could stop yourself, trying to read the weight of his implication. “…What did you do?”

Lucian didn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifted his hand, the back of his fingers trailing down your cheek with obscene intimacy. His skin was cold, almost burning against yours, the gesture infuriating in its tenderness.

“Nothing yet.” His whisper slid against your skin like a blade. “But if one of us dies… or goes missing… none of us will hesitate to offer him to Papa Legba. A gift. A bargain. Your boy, carved up on an altar, just to kill you.”

Your breath caught for a second, the image he painted vivid and vile. You forced your expression back into steel, your words venom-soft.

“You’re a sick son of a bitch.”

Lucian’s grin sharpened, his eyes gleaming like firelight on glass. He leaned closer until his lips almost brushed the corner of your mouth, his breath tasting of whiskey and smoke.

“I know.”

For a moment, the silence thickened around you, suffocating. His presence was overwhelming, deliberately invasive, every movement meant to provoke. His voice dropped again, taunting, sultry in its cruelty.

“Tell me—when he fucks you, does he fuck you like I would’ve? Hard, rough, until you scream? Or does your little federal agent still treat you like glass?”

You froze, pulse spiking. He was baiting you, dangling lust and violence in the same breath. His smirk widened at the flicker in your eyes.

“Ah. There it is. You’re thinking about it.” He brushed his mouth close to your ear, not quite kissing, just hovering. “You’d look so beautiful underneath me, Supreme. Writhing, begging, choking on my name instead of his.”

Every muscle in your body trembled—not with desire, but with the sheer effort of restraint. He wanted you to lash out. He wanted your magic to flare, to prove you were unstable, to confirm his words.

But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Instead, you let your lips curl into a slow, dangerous smile, your voice low and steady.

“You’re not going to break me with cheap tricks and dirty words, Lucian.”

His laugh was low, rich, crawling under your skin.

“Who said I wanted to break you? I just want to watch you unravel.”

You bristle at his words. He could see it, the subtle shift in your expression, the tension in your hand as you gripped the cigarette tighter between your fingers. You hated that he was right about one thing—your body didn’t want him. No part of you ever wanted Lucian. It wanted Spencer. Only Spencer.

And yet that hadn’t happened. Not fully. Not yet.

Lucian leaned closer, his voice low, a mockery of sweetness edged with venom.

“But… yet he hasn’t fucked you, has he? He hasn’t touched you…” His tone sharpened into a condescending drawl. “Not the way you need. Not the way you ache for.”

Your eyes narrowed, your gaze cutting into his like steel. “You’re sounding desperate, Lucian.”

The grin that split across his face was obscene. “For you? Maybe.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t let the flicker of disgust cross your features. He thrived on reactions—on feeding from them—and you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Tell me, up-and-coming Supreme…” His voice dripped with mock reverence, like the title itself was a dirty word in his mouth. “Can you read my thoughts?”

You took a drag of your cigarette, exhaling smoke through your nose, unbothered.

“No.”

He smiled like the answer pleased him, teeth white and predatory under the glow of the streetlight.

“Good,” he said smoothly. “They’re far too dirty for you.”

You scoffed, flicking the ash to the ground at his feet. “What are you trying to do, Lucian? All this—” you gestured with your cigarette, your eyes sharp and unforgiving “—is pointless. You’re wasting breath you soon won’t have.”

Lucian clutched his chest with mock hurt, his voice pitching into playful theatrics. “Ouch. Right in the heart. You wound me, Supreme.”

You rolled your eyes and took another drag, but he wasn’t finished. He leaned closer again, closing the space until his shoulder brushed yours against the brick wall, his voice a whisper meant only for you.

“Or maybe…” he purred, “I’m distracting you. Proving little miss Aria’s point. How when it comes to men…” His breath ghosted against the shell of your ear. “…you get sidetracked.”

You felt your jaw tighten. “Distract? From what?”

The grin that spread across his lips this time was darker, stripped of humor. It curved slow and sinister, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“From the fact,” he murmured, each word deliberate, “that while you’re standing here, playing Supreme, playing in control… my brothers are moving. They’re watching. And they’re closer than you think.”

Your heart gave a single sharp thud, but you masked it with another slow drag of your cigarette, your gaze steady.

“Then let them come.”

Lucian chuckled low in his chest, the sound crawling under your skin. He pressed in closer, his body heat suffocating, his words thick with suggestion.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Four of us at once, pinning you down… tearing through that attitude until you can’t even remember his name.” His smirk was wicked. “Spencer. Sweet little Spencer. So careful with you. So gentle.”

He tilted his head, voice dropping lower, filthier.

“But I’d split you open. I’d make you scream until the whole swamp heard you. I’d make sure your precious coven knew exactly what you sounded like when you broke.”

The cigarette trembled slightly between your fingers. Not out of desire, but fury. His words dripped into your mind like poison, trying to coil themselves around your weakest parts.

You turned your head slowly, your lips curving into something cold, dangerous. “You talk too much.”

Lucian’s grin widened, unfazed. He leaned closer, his mouth hovering by yours without closing the distance, his whisper a mockery of intimacy.

“Maybe. But I’ve got you listening, don’t I?”

Your eyes burned into his, a storm of power threatening to crack beneath the surface. He was goading you, deliberately. Testing how far he could push before you snapped.

And as his breath slid across your mouth, his grin daring you to strike, you realized he wanted one of two things:

—to fuck you, in some twisted, violent act of dominance.

—or to die by your hands, taking you down with him.

You lean in, your lips brushing dangerously close to his ear, your voice low and venomous.

“In your dreams, Lucian. When I fuck Spencer, I’ll make sure to tap into that weak… feeble mind of yours. Let you feel it. Let you know just how good he is.”

You pull back slowly, savoring the sight. For the first time, his grin falters. Not gone, not completely, but fractured—like you had pressed a thumb into a bruise he didn’t want anyone to see.

It was satisfying.

“That’s if I let you near him,” he tried, his voice edged with forced confidence, like he could patch over the crack.

You scoffed, your cigarette burning down between your fingers as you blew the smoke right in his face.

“You don’t understand just how powerful I am now, Lucian.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you. His eyes searched yours, and then he smirked, slipping back into that cocky arrogance you loathed.

“Then show me.”

You should have walked away. Should have turned your back and left him standing there, rotting in his own ego. Why waste the effort on him?

But there was a part of you—a dark, hungry part—that wanted him afraid. Wanted him to choke on the same fear he loved to dish out.

So you did.

You reached inside, tugged at the thread of power that lived under your skin, and with a mere flick of your will, you slipped into the cracks of his mind. His body jerked, his arm lifting against his will, and his palm cracked hard across his own cheek.

The sound echoed down the empty street.

You laughed, light and sharp, the kind of laugh meant to cut. “Ouch,” you mocked, tilting your head. “Looks like that one stung.”

Lucian’s cheek was already red, the outline of his hand visible against his pale skin. His jaw clenched as he rubbed it, covering the slip with a small, bitter laugh.

“What the f—” He cut himself off, trying to regain composure, lips twisting into something between amusement and fury. “You think that’s funny? So what? You can make me slap myself in the face.”

He spat the words, but there was a flicker in his eyes—something he didn’t want you to see.

You didn’t let up. Your gaze slid across the street, locking on a rusted trash can under the orange glow of the lamppost. You lifted your hand lazily, like it was nothing, and the metal erupted into flames. Fire curled and twisted upward, licking at the night sky with a hungry hiss.

The reflection of the fire painted both of you in violent shades of red.

You stepped closer, your voice low, intimate, a whisper meant to crawl under his skin. “I can’t wait until I do this to you.”

His grin returned, but it was different now—too wide, too tight, his bravado cracked at the edges. He tried to play it off, chuckling like the sting on his cheek and the fire across the street didn’t rattle him.

“Fuck… you really are glowing, aren’t you?” His eyes roved over you, lingering in places that made your skin crawl, though you held his gaze with calculated indifference. “I’d say it turns me on, but truth is, it always has.”

He stepped into the glow of the fire, closer again, his voice dropping into a husky, filthy murmur.

“Imagine it. That power of yours pinning me down instead of a trash can. Making me do whatever you want. You could fuck me with nothing but a thought, couldn’t you? I’d let you. I’d beg for it.”

The smirk on your lips was cold, cruel, deliberate “You’d beg either way.”

That struck. His nostrils flared, his jaw twitching. He masked it by leaning in, so close his lips nearly brushed your cheek, his words a hiss.

“One day, Supreme, you’ll find out the line between hate and want is razor thin. And when you finally snap—when that sweet little agent of yours can’t keep up—” His teeth grazed the air just beside your ear, his voice filthy with suggestion. “You’ll come crawling to me.”

You exhaled slowly, your cigarette nothing but a glowing ember now, and turned your face toward his just enough to let your lips ghost past his.

“Or maybe,” you whispered, “I’ll just burn you alive.”

The fire in the trash can roared higher as if echoing your words.

Lucian’s grin faltered again, and for a fleeting second, you knew he believed you.

You laughed when you caught the faltering of his grin, a sharp, humorless sound.

“You think I won’t burn you alive for what you did to Cora?” Your voice dropped, edged like a blade pressed to his throat. You stepped closer, your whisper a confession of venom. “If I ever found myself wanting you, Lucian, I’d burn myself alive… for being weak. For being a traitor.”

The words left your lips like poison, and when you pulled back, his grin was gone. What remained was darker—something dangerous, something cold.

“Safe to say I tried,” he muttered, voice stripped of its earlier mockery. “Whatever happens next… that’s on you.”

You tilted your head, cigarette dangling between your fingers as you smiled thinly. “No. It’s on you. Don’t blame me for your terrible actions.”

The cigarette hissed as you crushed it beneath your black heel, the sound sharp in the silence. You turned to leave, but his voice followed.

“Business to attend to?” he asked, trying for casual, failing.

“Yes.”

“Fucking that fed?”

You shrugged, letting your lips curl faintly, deliberately dismissive. “Maybe.”

His jaw tightened, rage flickering behind his eyes. You didn’t stop walking. Your shoulder brushed his as you passed, and you let the heat of the trash can fire light your exit. The air reeked of smoke and burnt metal as you left him behind—with humiliation, with the threat of death hanging over him like a noose.

Half walking, half transmuting, you pulled yourself closer to where you needed to be. The police station glowed in the night, sterile, unwelcoming, but you felt the tug in your chest—Spencer was inside. You didn’t want to risk pulling at your magic to get in past the eyes of uniformed officers. No, this was better. You would wait.

And you did.

Minutes stretched, marked only by the flicker of a streetlight overhead. Then the doors opened, and he stepped out—Spencer. Relief sparked warm and unexpected in your chest, though it was quickly shadowed by the sight of a blonde woman at his side.

Your brows furrowed slightly before you caught yourself. She was pretty, sure—bright smile, steady gaze—but she wasn’t you. Jealousy was pointless. Still, you lingered just out of sight, watching the two of them talk.

JJ, that was her name.

You had no reason to be jealous. None.

And then he turned, almost by accident, and saw you. His body froze. JJ followed his gaze, her head tilting.

“Do you know her?” she asked.

Spencer swallowed, nodding quickly.

“Uh, yeah… give me a moment.”

He left her standing under the glow of the entrance and slowly made his way toward you. His movements were awkward, uncertain, the way they always were when he wasn’t entirely sure if he was stepping into danger—or something else.

“U-uh… hey,” he said, voice soft, nervous.

You gave him the faintest smile.

“We need to talk.”

His throat bobbed as he nodded, leaning in slightly so JJ wouldn’t overhear.

You didn’t waste time.

“It was Papa Legba,” you said quickly, urgently. “He manipulated me. You. My coven. Turned us against each other. I didn’t cast a spell on you, I swear. And I know now—you and your team had nothing to do with Cora’s death. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly, his gaze dropping. “I knew you didn’t…” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

But there was more—more he needed to hear, whether he wanted to or not.

“And….The dream, Spencer…”

He stiffened instantly. His eyes darted to the glass doors where JJ still lingered, then back to you.

“Uh—what dream?” His voice cracked slightly.

You gave him a look, sharp but not cruel. “I went into your dream. That was real. It’s… a new power. I wasn’t trying to perv on you, I swear, but I—” you lowered your voice to a whisper, close enough that only he could hear, “—I saw you.”

Color rushed into his face, his ears, his throat.

“I—I said a lot,” he stammered, his hands twitching like he wanted to hide them in his pockets. “Oh god. I—I was—” He cut himself off, choking on the word.

“Hard?” you supplied softly, lips curving.

He made a sound—half-groan, half-whimper.

“And after…” you added, letting the silence stretch.

His eyes widened. His whole body froze. “A-after… you—you know about after?”

You nodded once, calm.

His hands flew up to cover his face, his voice muffled by embarrassment. “God—I—I’m so—so sorry. I didn’t—I wasn’t—fuck, I’m sorry.”

You tilted your head, really looking at him. His blush burned through the night, his body trembling with nerves. You stepped closer, lowering your voice into something intimate, smoky, cruel and kind all at once.

“Sorry? Why are you sorry?”

His hands dropped just enough for his wide eyes to meet yours.

Because the truth sat between you like something heavy, undeniable. You liked it. You liked the way he wanted you so desperately he couldn’t hold it in. You liked that he thought about you when you weren’t there, that his body betrayed him even when his mind tried not to.

And you weren’t about to let him hide behind apologies.

You ran a hand through your hair, still watching him as he shifted under your gaze. “Are you done for the night?”

Spencer cleared his throat, trying desperately to reign in the embarrassment still flushing up his neck. “U–I–um… yes, yes I am. Why?” He blinked at you like he was terrified of giving the wrong answer.

You tilted your head, lips pulling faintly at the corner. “Because we have a lot to talk about, and it’s not really safe here.” Your eyes flicked to the trees, their shadows jagged in the orange wash of the streetlights. Too many places for something — or someone — to hide. The thought of Lucian lurking made your jaw tense.

He followed your line of sight and nodded slightly, chewing his lip. “Where?”

You exhaled through your nose, looking back at him. “Somewhere safe. I need to make sure you’re safe.” Your words came out lower, edged with a seriousness that made his Adam’s apple bob.

His voice softened, cautious but earnest. “Do you… know a place?”

You nodded once. “I do. But I need to know… do you trust me?”

He looked at you for a long moment, searching your face, as if your eyes might give him some hidden equation he could solve. His chest rose and fell faster than it should have. “I–I think I do,” he said finally, voice catching.

That was enough. “Then let’s go.”

Without hesitation, you slipped your hand into his. He startled at the contact, but his long fingers curled tentatively around yours, warm and trembling. The air between you felt charged, too heavy for the simple act of walking. You led him away from the street and toward the forest, half walking, half slipping through the edges of your magic to shorten the distance.

After a while, you broke the silence. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, Spencer. I didn’t mean—”

He cut you off sharply, shaking his head. “N-no, I’m sorry. It’s just—god— I’ve never been that… affected by anyone before. That’s why I thought it must be a spell.” His voice cracked and he dropped his eyes to the ground, shame bleeding through his words. “I’m sorry for thinking that.”

You gave him a small smile, softer than you meant to. “It’s okay.”

You walked together through the dense path, the sound of leaves crunching under your boots and his shoes filling the silence. He adjusted his stride to match yours.

Then, in a quieter, almost guilty tone, he asked, “S–so, uh… what did you see?”

Your lips twitched. You could feel the heat of his curiosity tangled with dread. “Um… I saw a lot.”

You hadn’t said it cruelly, just matter-of-fact, and his face burned scarlet. “Jesus—like, you saw me—” His voice broke and he glanced at you, mortified.

“Yes,” you said simply.

He inhaled sharply, shoulders stiffening. “God.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his words tumbling over one another. “You saw me—doing that, to the— to you, and—oh god.”

“I told you,” you cut in gently, “don’t worry too much about it.”

But he couldn’t stop. “Y–you’re not uncomfortable I did that? To you? To the idea of us?”

You shook your head. “Not at all.”

That should have reassured him, but it only made him more restless. His chest rose and fell fast, his curls sticking slightly to his forehead. “I can’t even explain why I’m like this with you. I–I’ve never… been like this with anyone.” His voice cracked again and he swallowed, the words tumbling out faster. “And I don’t even know you, not really. I know you’re a witch, and that’s… that’s about it.”

You turned your head to look at him as you both walked, your eyes lingering on the sharp slope of his cheekbones and the pink flush at the tops of his ears. “What would you like to know?”

He stopped walking for a second, forcing you both to pause in the middle of the darkened path. His lips parted, soft and unsure, but his eyes were intense. “Everything.”

You gave a small laugh, but your heart clenched. “More specifically?”

He looked down, his hands flexing nervously at his sides before meeting your eyes again. “Who’s your favorite singer?”

The question was so innocent, so awkwardly mundane, that it disarmed you. You smiled. “I really like… The Beatles.”

His lips quirked faintly, like he’d caught a glimpse of you he hadn’t expected. “Of course you do.”

“And you?” you asked, brushing your arm lightly against his sleeve as you resumed walking.

He cleared his throat. “Uh… I like classical music. Debussy. Or Mozart.”

Of course he did.

“What’s your favorite book?” he asked quickly, almost tripping over his own words.

You smirked. “I could give you a list as long as your arm.”

He gave a breathy laugh through his nose. “Try me.”

But you noticed his gaze flicker down to your lips when you spoke, lingering just a second too long. His voice may have been casual, but the tension in his body betrayed him. Every step you took deeper into the woods felt like winding a coil tighter and tighter between you both, pulling it to the point of breaking.

You answered his questions with ease — small truths, fragments of yourself you hadn’t shared in years. It was sweet, the way he asked, as though he genuinely wanted to gather every piece of you. He wasn’t interrogating like a profiler, he was curious. Hungry in a different way.

The forest thickened as you both walked deeper, trees hemming in close on either side. His hand stayed in yours, long fingers clasping a little tighter when the branches snapped underfoot. He didn’t even realize he was holding you so firmly, and the thought made your chest ache — reassurance for him, reassurance for yourself.

“The case…” he sighed eventually, breaking the silence. His voice had the weight of defeat in it. “We hit a dead end.”

You glanced at him, at the slump of his shoulders and the crease between his brows. It stung that you couldn’t tell him exactly what you knew, couldn’t just hand him the truth. “What are you all going to do?” you asked carefully.

He shrugged, though it looked heavier than that. “Hotch says if there isn’t any new evidence soon, the higher-ups want to class it as unsolved already. The media is—” He huffed a humorless laugh. “—having a field day.”

You hated the guilt rising in your chest, hated that you were part of the reason he felt this pressure. “I’m sure you’ll find something,” you said softly, giving his hand a little squeeze.

He gave you a faint smile in return, though the weight didn’t leave his eyes.

The trees opened suddenly into a wide clearing. At the center stood a two-story wooden house, aged but standing strong. A fence enclosed a sprawling garden, the soil rich and dark, guarded by a scarecrow that watched silently over crops that hadn’t withered despite the passage of time.

Spencer stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth falling open. “H–how is this even standing?”

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “It belongs to my Supreme. Since I’m the new Supreme, I’ve taken over ownership… slightly. She’s out of state anyway.”

You led him to the gate, pushed it open, and ushered him inside before closing it behind you. His head swiveled constantly, trying to take in every detail. He was always cataloging, memorizing, but here his awe softened him.

The porch creaked under your steps. You flicked your hand at the door and it unlocked, opening wide with a whisper of old wood.

His breath caught.

Inside, the air was still, thick with age and faint traces of herbs. You lifted your hand and with another flick, the candles scattered around the room flared to life, warm golden light spilling across the walls.

“Cozy,” you murmured, though your eyes stayed on him.

“Y–you just—” His voice cracked, his eyes wide like a child seeing magic for the first time.

You smiled knowingly. “I did.”

He followed you deeper into the room, his long strides hesitant, like he was afraid to disturb something sacred. You sat down on the couch and, of course, he settled beside you — too close, not close enough. His thigh brushed against yours and he stiffened but didn’t move.

“What did you… need to talk about?” he asked, almost whispering.

You nodded, reminding yourself of the purpose. “I just… I needed to tell you that your dream. Your confession. The way you told me how you think of me…” You inhaled slowly, the admission heavy. “…It hasn’t left me.”

Color flushed high in his cheeks. He ducked his head for a moment, his hand twitching against his thigh.

You leaned closer, your voice softer, more deliberate. “I like you too, Spencer.”

His eyes widened, lashes fluttering as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d heard you correctly. “Y–you… you do?”

“I do.”

His lips parted, and for once, words didn’t come immediately. His throat worked as he swallowed, his gaze flicking over your face — your mouth, your eyes, then back to your mouth again. His breath quickened, shallow, like his chest couldn’t keep up.

“I—” His voice cracked. “I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything.”

Silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It pulsed between you, thick and humming with want. You could feel it in the way his thigh pressed against yours, in the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to touch you but didn’t dare.

Finally, he whispered, “I’ve never… felt this before. Not like this. It’s like my body reacts before I can even think.” His cheeks burned crimson, but he didn’t stop. His voice dropped lower, rawer. “It’s humiliating, how much I want you.”

You tilted your head, letting the words curl around you, letting them ignite that spark low in your belly. “Humiliating?”

He nodded quickly, his curls bouncing. “Y–yeah, because I can’t hide it. Not from you. You already saw everything. You saw how I—” His voice cracked again, and his cock twitched visibly against the fabric of his slacks. He noticed it too, and groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “God, I’m sorry.”

You caught his wrist, pulling his hand gently away. “Don’t apologize.”

Your voice was firm, commanding, and it made his pupils dilate.

“You want me, Spencer?” you asked, low and deliberate.

His mouth dropped open, and he nodded before he could think better of it. “Y–yes. More than I should.”

You smiled faintly, leaning closer until your lips hovered just inches from his ear. “Then show me.”

He trembled, a quiet whimper slipping out before he bit down on it. His hands flexed uselessly at his thighs, as if he didn’t know where to put them. His arousal pressed hard against his slacks now, straining, twitching.

Your hand trailed deliberately down his forearm, over his wrist, until your fingers brushed over his thigh. His whole body shuddered.

“You’re shaking,” you teased softly.

“I—” His voice was thin, strangled. “I can’t help it.”

“C-can I… I-i kiss you?” His voice trembled, eyes darting nervously between your lips and your eyes, as though the question itself terrified him.

You nodded slowly, leaning in, mirroring the same hesitancy but giving him permission. “Mhm…”

His hand moved tentatively to the side of your face, thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. When his lips finally met yours, a soft, involuntary groan slipped out from him. You kissed him back, slow, deliberate, letting your hands trail to the nape of his neck, threading through his curls as your body shifted.

Without breaking the connection, you straddled his lap, feeling the hard press of his hard cock against you. He whimpered softly into the kiss, small tremors running through him as his hands moved hesitantly to your hips, gripping as though anchoring himself to reality.

Your tongues met, exploring carefully at first, teasing, tasting, letting the heat build between you. Each motion was deliberate, slowing down to savor every reaction. You broke the kiss after a long, charged moment, pressing your forehead to his, feeling the warm flush of his skin and the quickened pulse beneath his temple.

“I… I can feel how hard you are…” you whispered, voice low, intimate.

He whimpered again, burying his face slightly against yours. “I’m sorry…”

You smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Why are you sorry? I think I’d be offended if you weren’t.”

A faint, embarrassed smile spread across his lips. He kissed you again, but this time it was more urgent, more desperate, teeth occasionally grazing your bottom lip, tongues entwining hungrily. His hips moved, pressing into yours, and a low, involuntary moan escaped from your throat.

“Spencer…” you murmured against his lips, letting the sound trail into a shiver.

He whimpered again, gripping your hips tighter. “I… I don’t… I’ve never… felt like this before…”

You leaned closer, letting your hands roam lower, caressing the curve of his back, feeling the shiver of his spine beneath your fingertips. “Neither have I,” you whispered, the admission low, almost a tease, almost a promise.

His lips left yours for a moment, and his forehead rested against yours again, breath ragged. “I don’t… I don’t want to… mess this up,” he admitted, voice thick with desire and vulnerability.

“You’re not messing anything up,” you said softly, letting your hands squeeze gently, reassuring him. “I want this too, Spencer.”

That admission seemed to unlock something in him. His lips found yours with renewed urgency, more demanding, more desperate. His hips pressed harder, rolling up to yours with each movement, coaxing small, muffled gasps from your lips.

“I… I can’t… I shouldn’t…” he murmured against your mouth, voice breaking, but he didn’t pull away. His hands roamed your back, his fingers gripping, kneading, anchoring himself to your body.

“Shhh…” you whispered, tilting your head so your lips pressed to his jaw, trailing down to the curve of his neck. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

A shiver ran through him, his hands moving more boldly over your body, clutching at your hips, your back, pulling you impossibly closer. The heat of him against you, the slick friction, made your core thrum with need.

He groaned into your ear, voice low and ragged, “I… I don’t know how… how I’m… this… with you…”

“You’re here now,” you murmured, grinding just slightly against him, letting him feel every pulse. “That’s enough.”

His eyes fluttered closed, lips parted, and a low moan escaped as his hands gripped you tighter. Every brush, every press, every sound was amplified, building tension thick and unrelenting between you.

“God… you’re driving me insane,” he whispered, voice breaking, the raw desire in it unfiltered.

“And you like it,” you teased, lips brushing against his ear, teeth grazing the lobe, sending a shiver down his spine.

He whimpered, unable to form words, hands pressing into your hips as if holding on for dear life, body trembling from need and anticipation.

“You’re mine, Spencer,” you murmured, letting your dominance edge through the words, your hands gripping the curve of his shoulders. “Right now. Only mine.”

His eyes opened, wide and glossy, lips parted, and a small, desperate laugh slipped out. “Y-yes… yes… god… I… I want… I want you…”

You needed him and he needed you. That truth vibrated through your skin, heavy and electric.

Without warning, Spencer wrapped his arms around you and flipped you onto your back on the couch, your body sinking into the cushions as he loomed over you. His chest pressed against yours, curls brushing your face, his eyes wide but burning.

“I—please… I-I need to be inside you,” he whimpered, his voice cracking with desperation. His lips hovered over yours, breath shaky. “C-can I… please?”

The sound of him begging made your chest ache and your body pulse. You nodded quickly, breathless, voice low and certain. “Mhm… please. Yes.”

That was all the permission he needed. Clothes came off in a flurry—fabric pulled, buttons popped, hands fumbling, helping each other undress like it was a million degrees in the room. His mouth was everywhere, hot and wet, trailing down your neck, across your chest. His lips latched onto your nipple, tongue circling, sucking gently.

“God… you’re so beautiful,” he murmured into your skin, his voice ragged, almost broken, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You arched up into his mouth, your hands in his curls, tugging as he sucked harder, his teeth grazing lightly. The soft, sweet boy you’d gotten glimpses of was gone—his gaze darkened with hunger, a raw need you hadn’t seen in him before.

He pushed his boxers down just enough for his cock to spring free, flushed and thick, the tip already slick with precum. His hand trembled as he held himself, eyes darting nervously up to yours.

“D-do you, uh… have a condom?” he asked, his voice wavering, the careful part of him breaking through the haze of lust.

You shook your head. “I’m clean… a-are you?”

His breath hitched as he nodded quickly. “Y-yes, of course—yes.”

You smiled softly, cupping his cheek with your hand. “Then it’s okay…”

That reassurance seemed to ground him. His jaw set slightly, his nerves replaced by something darker, more assured. He leaned down, kissed you hungrily, and then lowered his body, the head of his cock pressing against your soaked entrance.

Spencer let out a trembling exhale, his voice a choked whisper. “Fuck—” He pushed into you slowly, carefully at first, until the head slipped past your tight walls. His lips parted, eyes fluttering shut as he gasped. “Oh my god… you’re—so fucking tight.”

You moaned beneath him, clutching at his back as he eased deeper inch by inch, stretching you open. “Spencer…”

He buried his face in your neck, groaning through clenched teeth as your heat swallowed him. “I-I can’t—fuck, you feel like you were made for me.”

When he bottomed out, he stayed still for a moment, trembling, trying to steady himself. His cock throbbed inside you, every muscle in his body taut with restraint.

“You okay?” he whispered, breath hot against your ear.

You nodded, voice weak but sure. “More than okay… move, please.”

That broke him. His hips pulled back before thrusting forward again, the first snap of his cock inside you making you moan loud into his shoulder. He gasped at the sound, hips rutting into you again, faster this time.

“Shit—fuck—I can’t… I can’t go slow, I need you too much,” he whined, his words tumbling out unfiltered. His rhythm grew rougher, his cock driving deep, the couch creaking beneath you both.

Your nails dragged down his back, making him shudder. “Yes, Spencer—just like that.”

He lifted his head, eyes wide, glassy, his curls sticking to his damp forehead. “You like it? You… you want me to fuck you harder?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your hips bucking to meet his. “Harder, Please.”

He groaned, the sound guttural, animalistic, and his thrusts deepened, hips snapping hard against yours. Each movement hit something devastating inside you, forcing cries from your lips.

“Oh my god—you’re squeezing me so tight,” he panted, his words slipping into a filthy rush. “I-I can feel every inch—fuck, you’re gonna make me lose my mind.”

You moaned shamelessly beneath him, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him even deeper. “I want you to.”

His pace faltered for half a second, eyes locking onto yours with a mix of awe and disbelief. “You’re gonna—fuck—you’re gonna kill me.” His lips crashed to yours, kissing you hungrily, teeth clashing as he groaned into your mouth.

When he pulled back, his voice was hoarse, breathless. “You’re so fucking wet for me… soaking me. You like how deep I am? H-how good I’m fucking you?”

“Yes, Spencer—god yes.” Your voice broke into a cry as his hips drove into you again, rougher, relentless.

“I can’t stop—I can’t stop fucking you,” he babbled, whimpering with each thrust, his cock pounding into you hard enough to make your body rock against the cushions. “You feel too good—I need you, I need you so bad.”

Every word, every desperate thrust, every trembling groan wrapped around you like a spell of its own, binding you to him in heat and hunger.

He kept going, hips snapping harder, faster, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the candlelit room. His thrusts were deep, relentless, every push of his cock making your body jolt against the couch cushions. His mouth fell open, broken moans spilling from him as his hand slid between your bodies, fingers trembling at first before finding your swollen clit.

“F-fuck—” he groaned, his voice wrecked, “I need you to come for me. Please, I’m so—so close but I need you to finish first.” His thumb circled you in quick, messy strokes, desperate to pull you over the edge.

You gasped loudly, hips bucking against his hand. “Oh god, Spencer—”

He whined at the sound, his thrusts losing some of their rhythm as his cock throbbed inside you, fighting his own orgasm back. “You feel—shit—you feel so good around me. I can’t—I can’t believe I’m inside you.” His forehead pressed against yours, curls sticking to his damp skin as he panted raggedly. “You’re squeezing me so fucking tight, I can barely think.”

You moaned louder when he circled your clit harder, rougher now. He could feel the way you fluttered around him, your body starting to give in. “That’s it—yeah, fuck—just like that,” he babbled, his tone almost pleading. “Come for me—please, I need to feel it. I need to feel you come all over my cock.”

Your nails dug into his back, dragging down with every thrust as your body arched up beneath him. The sensation built fast, sharp and overwhelming, his cock slamming into that perfect spot inside you while his thumb worked your clit mercilessly.

“I-I’m gonna—Spencer, I’m gonna—”

“Yes, yes, please,” he begged, his voice high, broken. His hips stuttered but he didn’t stop, driving into you harder, his hand working faster. “Come on me, come on me—fuck, I want to feel it—”

Your orgasm hit like lightning. You cried out, legs tightening around his waist as your body clenched down on him violently, your pussy spasming around his cock. The wave rolled through you, hot and unbearable, your voice breaking as you screamed his name.

He lost it. The second he felt you clamp around him, his own control snapped. “Oh—oh my god, I—fuck—I can’t hold it—” He buried himself as deep as he could go, cock twitching inside you as he came hard, groaning into your neck. His hips jerked helplessly, spilling into you in thick, hot pulses.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” he whined, biting down on his lip to stop himself from sobbing as he emptied everything into you. “You’re—oh god—you’re milking me dry.”

You held onto him, nails biting into his shoulders, your body still trembling with aftershocks as he thrust weakly a few more times, trying to ride it out. His face was buried against your skin, his breath hot and desperate, his whole body shaking with the force of it.

When it finally slowed, he stayed inside you, cock still pulsing as he slumped against you, utterly wrecked. His voice was small now, soft and shaky. “I’ve never—” he gasped for breath, “—that was the most intense thing I’ve ever felt.”

You stroked his damp curls, kissing the side of his head. “Me too.”

He shifted slightly, still deep inside you, groaning at the sensitivity. His hand smoothed over your waist, his voice still trembling. “I didn’t mean to—inside you like that. I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop.”

You cupped his cheek, making him look at you. “Spencer. It’s okay. I wanted it.”

His eyes softened, still blown wide from the high, and he kissed you again, slow and lingering this time, as if to anchor himself back into your arms.

He slowly and reluctantly pulled out of you, both of you gasping at the sensitivity. You winced faintly at the sudden emptiness, and his eyes darted down just in time to see the thick trail of cum spilling out of you and down onto the couch cushions. He froze, swallowing hard, visibly trying not to groan at the sight. His cock twitched against his thigh, still red and slick, betraying how much it affected him.

“J-Jesus Christ…” he whispered, voice hoarse, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe what he’d just done.

He shifted, glancing around the room like a man desperate for a distraction, for something to do with his hands. “I—I should get you something, uh, to clean up. Do you—do you have, um, towels? Or tissues? I—”

You reached out and stopped him with a hand to his wrist, tugging him back toward you. “It’s fine, Spence. Really.”

“But—” he started, frowning, looking almost pained at the thought of leaving you messy.

You shook your head gently, smiling despite your exhaustion. “I don’t care. Just… stay with me.”

That was all it took. His shoulders softened, his nervous energy breaking apart into something vulnerable. He slid back down beside you, gathering you against his chest without hesitation. Naked skin pressed to naked skin, his long arms wrapping around you so securely it almost felt like he was afraid you’d slip away.

His nose buried in your hair, lips brushing your temple as he breathed you in. His heartbeat was still racing, thudding against your ear where your cheek rested against his chest. For a long moment, the only sounds were your breathing, still uneven, and the faint crackle of candlelight in the room.

“Are you okay?” he finally whispered, voice trembling. He pulled back just enough to search your face, his brow creased with worry. “I didn’t—I wasn’t too rough? I didn’t hurt you?”

You cupped his cheek, forcing his frantic eyes to stay on yours. “Spencer. You didn’t hurt me. Not even close.”

His expression cracked, some of the tension falling away, but not all. He exhaled shakily, his lips parting like he wanted to say more but couldn’t quite find the words. Instead, he kissed you—soft, slow, a complete contrast to the frantic hunger from earlier. He kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he needed the reassurance of feeling you melt into him.

When he pulled back, his thumb traced your bottom lip gently. “You’re…you’re unbelievable. I’ve never—” He broke off, shaking his head slightly, laughing under his breath like he couldn’t believe it. “That was the most intense thing I’ve ever felt. And now all I can think about is…making sure you’re okay.”

Your chest warmed at the honesty in his voice, at how utterly sincere he was. “I feel more than okay.”

He pressed his forehead against yours, eyes closing. “Good. Because the last thing I ever want is for you to think I don’t…care. I know it probably sounded desperate but—I need you to feel safe with me. Always.”

You kissed him again, slowly, and he hummed softly against your mouth, melting back into the couch with you tangled together. His hand rubbed soothing circles over your back, fingers gentle now, like you were fragile glass.

After a moment, he broke the silence, his voice quieter than ever. “You know I meant what I said earlier, right? About…how I think of you. It wasn’t just something I said in the heat of it. I meant it.”

You brushed your nose against his. “I know. And I meant it when I said I like you too.”

His lips curved into the softest smile against your mouth, and he kissed you again, lingering this time, as though that was the only way he knew how to say thank you.

And then he just held you, tighter, his whole body curled around yours like he wanted to shield you from the world.

He shifted reluctantly, only sitting up just long enough to snag the small blanket folded over the back of the couch. He shook it out and draped it over you both, then immediately slid back down, pulling you into his chest like he couldn’t stand the thought of not touching you for even a second. The fabric was scratchy compared to the warmth of his skin, but neither of you cared—it was about closeness, not comfort.

His arm looped tight around your waist, the long line of his body curved perfectly against yours. He buried his face in your hair again, pressing a soft, lazy kiss to the crown of your head.

He was tired—you could feel it in the heaviness of his body against you, the way his breaths kept slowing, his eyelids fluttering shut between every kiss. But he refused to drift off just yet. Maybe he didn’t want to, afraid he’d wake up and discover this was a dream.

“Spence…” you murmured softly, running your fingers over his arm where it circled your waist.

“Mhm?” His voice was already thick with sleep, low and warm in your ear.

“You’re holding me like you’ll never let go.”

He smiled faintly against your skin, lips brushing your temple. “That’s because I don’t want to.” A pause, his chest rising against your back. “…Maybe I’m afraid if I let go, you’ll vanish.”

You turned slightly to look at him, your noses brushing. He looked dazed, a little drunk on exhaustion and endorphins, his hair messy, lips swollen from kissing. And yet, even half-asleep, he couldn’t stop studying you like you were something he needed to memorize.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, brushing your lips over his in a lazy kiss.

He sighed against your mouth, almost relieved, and returned it softly. “Good… because I don’t think I could handle losing you.” His hand slid under the blanket, not for anything lewd, just to splay wide over your bare stomach, grounding himself in the heat of your body. “You feel so… safe.”

You smiled, eyelids drooping. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing.”

He chuckled, a weak little sound, more breath than laughter. “Safe isn’t usually the word people use with me.”

“Then they don’t know you,” you murmured.

He kissed you again, slower this time, lingering, his lips dragging gently across yours as if he couldn’t get enough of the softness. When he pulled back, his eyes were heavy-lidded but earnest. “You’re unbelievable. Beautiful. Smarter than me, which—” his lips curved faintly, “—is saying something.”

You laughed softly, and he kissed the sound right off your lips, humming into the kiss like it soothed him.

The warmth of his body, the steady thrum of his heart beneath your ear, the way his hand rubbed lazy circles over your hip—it all pulled you deeper into that foggy place between waking and sleep.

“Stay like this?” you whispered.

“Forever,” he breathed, kissing your forehead.

Neither of you said anything after that. The silence stretched comfortably, only broken by the faint crackle of candlelight and the sync of your breathing as it evened out together. You both drifted, tangled under the blanket, surrounded by the soft glow of magic and the unspoken promise that whatever darkness waited outside, here—right here—was untouchable.

And finally, blissfully, you both gave in to sleep.

taglist -

@superbeaglewitch @diaryofareader @jazzy-217 @daayydrreeaammeerr @nanfandan @yokaimoon @blacksnake13 @shinygivergalaxy @kimiantonelliismyhusband @salt-recs @xxmooxmooxx @deltamoon666 @ratravioli

[virtualbabydevil]

How I feel after immediately going onto tumblr after watching a movie/series

[virtualbabydevil]

Me twice in the last 6 months 😭

[virtualbabydevil]

𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛

A/N- man I've been working on this fic every day for months and this is the third time I've rewritten it completely. I'm also hoping to have the first chapter of 'Summer Lovin'' out in the next week :)

W.C.- 1.5k

"It's all romanticism, nonsense, rottenness, art." -Ivan Turgenev.

A rare Saturday with nothing to do caused Juniper to find herself inside an art gallery. Though she'd lived in the city for almost a year, she'd never explored what it had to offer in the way of experiences. Footsteps and hushed conversations filled the air as she aimlessly wandered around, but she found herself enjoying the almost silence. As her work days had become consumed with violence and noise, she began to find comfort in the opposite. It helped slow the racing thoughts she'd become so accustomed to. Stood in front of a piece titled Harlem Street with Church, her eyes studied the muted colours and took in every line. 

Juniper heard footsteps approach, paying them no mind, even as she felt a presence by her side. "Did you know the Egyptians first used relief printing to print fabric, circa five hundred BC? Chinese artists would also use stone to make seals for the purpose of signing their artworks. Only ethnic groups without access to wood, generally speaking, would use stone, however." 

The voice was familiar. Looking to her left, Juniper saw Spencer standing beside her. Returning her gaze to the work displayed on the wall, she inhaled deeply, "are you stalking me, Reid?" 

"Absolutely not. This exhibit is only open for a few more days, and I haven't had time to come until now; that is," amusement intertwined with his words. 

Juniper moved on to another piece, Off to War, Spencer trailing not far behind her. "Screenprinting was found to have originated during the Song Dynasty era of China. Japan, however, was one of the first Asian countries to start making recognizable forms of screenprinting. They used stencils cut from paper and mesh woven from human hair to create imagery on fabric." His ramble was quiet, absent-minded as he studied the work alongside his colleague. Silence hung between the pair, making the male slightly uncomfortable. "Are you listening to me?" 

"I'm listening," Juniper assured. "I'm just not paying attention." 

Spencer furrowed his eyebrows as he looked at Juniper, who kept her focus on the print in front of them. "Are you mad at me or something?" 

Looking to her colleague for a moment, Juniper dropped him a questioning expression, "why would I be mad?" 

"You're just being...hostile."

Juniper scoffed, amused by the irony. "Spencer, you've been nothing but combative with me since I first started. Why do you think I would be interested in spending one of my only free days listening to you tell me facts I already know? Even if you have been off of work for getting shot."

"I figured we could at least try and be civil," he admitted, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

"No, sorry, you don't get the be an asshole to me for months, then suddenly grow a conscious while you're off on leave." Looking at him once more, Juniper could see the frustration on his features. "I want to be friends, but until you can treat me like an equal, inside and outside of work, there is no chance of us getting along. Ball's in your court."

With the conclusion of her statement, Juniper left the exhibition space and moved on to view some of the other art the gallery had to offer. She tried not to ponder the exchange, even as she returned home. But she was unable to stop the thoughts from creeping back in when her mind had a moment to spare. 

She got to work later than usual on Monday, struggling to carry the two cup trays in her hands; coffee threatening to burn her at any given moment. Every member of the BAU had a cup waiting for them, made to their liking. A perk of an eidetic memory. 

"You even went to the good coffee place," Emily commented before taking one of the trays. 

"I would have brought food, too, but carrying eight cups of coffee was a battle in of itself," Juniper laughed, sitting in her chair. 

Spencer looked at his cup before looking over at the two women, "are you trying to win brownie points or something?" 

"C'mon, Reid. Just say thank you," Emily said, giving her colleague a disappointed expression. 

He rolled his eyes. "Thank you," his words coming out as a mutter as he turned to start his work. 

The two women rolled their eyes in unison before laughing amongst themselves. Emily retreated to her desk, leaving Juniper to sit in the tension. 

It was approaching evening. A lull in productivity found Juniper perched on the corner of her desk, talking with a member of the Cyber Safety division. He was slender with black hair, horn-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. The tall male had caught Juniper's eye a handful of times, but it was the first time he'd ever approached her. Their conversation had started about filing, slowly morphing into weekend plans. She honestly wasn't sure how they'd made it there, what she did know, however, was that he was very charming.

She sat with her back to Spencer, giving him a prime view of their colleague. He couldn't help but notice their physical similarities, but he also couldn't help comparing his lack of charisma, the male in front of Juniper clearly having little issue conversing with women. Spencer had overheard their conversation. Slowly, as the two continued, he found it harder to concentrate. A laugh from Juniper was his final straw. He turned to the pair, still in his seat, and cleared his throat.

Looking over at her colleague, an annoyed expression plastered over her face, Juniper responded, "problem?"

He raised his brows, "I'd appreciate it if you'd stop flirting and finish the paperwork of yours I'm waiting on."

"I'm not flirting. I'm having a conversation," her retort was followed by her turning back to the male in front of her.

"You've straightened your posture, which shows attentiveness, and perched yourself on your desk because you believe it helps accentuate your figure. The pitch of your voice has increased to reflect a more submissive nature and appeal to the part of men's brains that finds women with higher-pitched voices as more attractive due to their peak fertility. And you keep pushing your hair behind your shoulders, attempting to flaunt your facial structure."

Both Juniper and the male colleague turned to look at Spencer once he was finished speaking. The colleague looked from Spencer to Juniper, muttering something about needing to return to work, before walking off with a brisk pace. Juniper rolled her eyes before standing, collecting a file from her desk, and rounding the divider. The folder landed on the wood with a slap.

Instead of returning to her desk, the blonde sat on an empty space of Spencer's and crossed one of her legs over the other. Spencer reached for the folder without looking, but accidentally knocked it onto the floor instead. A deep sigh left his mouth as he reached down to collect the scattered papers. As Spencer straightened his posture, he couldn't help but rake his eyes up Juniper's frame. A tight skirt and a fitted blouse, with the top few buttons popped, accentuated her curves, even more highlighted by her poise on his desk. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" he asked, breaking his stare from her body to finally look her in the eyes.

Juniper clutched the edge of the desk in both hands before leaning towards her colleague, "like you want to fuck me. People might get the wrong idea."

"They'd be completely wrong," Spencer muttered to himself before turning to the main space of his desk. 

"Mhm," her retort teasing. Spencer cleared his throat. He was surprised, however, when he felt fingertips gently graze across his shoulder blades. Tensing under Juniper's touch, he did his best not to shift in his seat, not wanting to give his colleague the satisfaction of watching him squirm. "Just tell me a time and place, Reid. I'll be there," mischief laced with her words.

"Why do you always have to push my buttons?" he wondered, his eyes trailing her figure as she rounded the divider.

Juniper leaned on her desk, keeping her voice low, seductive, as she spoke, "because I love watching you slowly lose control." Spencer raised his brows in response. He opened his mouth to object, but the words seemed to get stuck in his throat. He cleared it instead, choosing to try and refocus on his task, but Juniper's voice caught his attention once more. "I know that you want me. You’re not very subtle about it, Reid. But next time, keep your jealousy to yourself. "

"That—that's not what...I am not jealous," he stuttered, struggling to keep his heart from racing.

"Really? Because you did the same thing in Atlanta not long after I started when that detective asked me out to dinner. And when we last went to the bar as a team? That guy asked for my number and you started quoting statistics to him about the link between steroid abuse and small dicks," her arms now folded over her chest as she stared him directly in the eyes.

Spencer hesitated. "Those examples are not correlated."

"Sure, Spencer," Juniper's tone sarcastic. "Because the examples I provided are just evidence of you trying to help me with my dating life. Got it."

[virtualbabydevil]

Reblogging cause I've edited a few chapters and also made a cute ass divider so would appreciate anyone who has read the first three chapters to reread :) 

𝕬 𝕾𝖎𝖌𝖓 𝕱𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝕲𝖔𝖉

T/W- show adjacent violence (mentions of murder, physical violence) & swearing.

W.C.- 1.3k

𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎

"You won't ever find the answers to the actions of horrible people who only want to hurt others, and do you know why? Because you're not them." -K.B.

The air was silent as the pack of SUVs rolled up the lone house, lights off as they approached. Trees lined the long, gravel driveway, protecting the shack from outside disturbances. Tension hung thick in the cab of the SUV as Juniper prepared herself for what lay ahead. They'd discovered the unsub, Oliver Green, due to his increasing paranoia and weaning impulse control. He'd drawn attention while luring another boy from a local park, forgetting people would take down his licence plate details. Which led the team to a house that he shared with his father, whom was bedridden, riddled with bone cancer. 

Everyone was given a position, a point of entry, or a space to search, still needing to find the boys and apprehend their suspect. Juniper had been instructed to enter through a side door. Once the signal to begin had been given, the blonde crept her way around the house; gun drawn. The rickety, torn-mesh door squeaked lightly as she pulled it open, leading her into the laundry room. Her steps were slow, trying to avoid her boots making noise against the scuffed linoleum floor. Shoulders tense, she cocked her head to the side, cracking the stiffness that had formed. She rounded the corner into the short hallway swiftly. The passage was empty, however, the light from the kitchen spilling into the enclosed space. 

To her left, Juniper heard a door close. Realising the implication, the blonde ran through the kitchen and out the same door. "He's gone out the back. Following on foot," she informed everyone over her walkie. 

"Just be careful. We don't know if he's armed," Agent Hotchner warned her. 

Following the unsub down a hill, Juniper was careful not to slip on the mud while trying not to compromise her speed. The tree line backed up onto the bottom of the hill, obstructing her view of exactly where Green had gone. She was quick to retrieve her flashlight to navigate through the darkness. "Oliver Green, I'm with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. If you give yourself up and tell us where Nicholas is, I'm sure we can work something out," voice drifting through the wilderness. 

A twig snapped. Juniper turned, shining her light in the direct line of her vision. She heard the shout before she felt his body slam into her side. Knocked into a tree, Juniper's brain lagged for a moment, the impact of the shove taking her by surprise. She watched him raise an axe but ducked to a crouch to avoid his swig. Using her stance to her advantage, she swept her leg into the male's; causing him to stumble to the side. With the blade of his axe lodged in the tree, Oliver had no choice but to throw a punch, his whole weight behind the blow as he his fist connected with Juniper's face. The strike was enough to cause the blonde to drop her gun, but not enough to knock her down. A swift kick to the male's gut caused him to stumble once more. Rage filled his features as he raised his fist. The attempt at another punch, however, was blocked by the smaller woman's forearm. A spinhook kick to his shin followed, rendering the man to his knees. Multiple sets of footsteps sounded from the treeline, lights disturbing the surrounding darkness. 

"You move, I shoot," Emily warned, having positioned herself to his side. 

"Oliver Green, you're under arrest for the kidnappings and murders of Jacob Dawes, Owen Price, Luca Weldon, and Martin Cross," Agent Hotchner informed the man as he tightened the handcuffs onto his wrists. 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Juniper reached down to retrieve her pistol from where it had landed in the bed of leaves. Her chest and throat burned as adrenalin mixed with the crisp, cool air. She began her retreat from the wooded area, but heard Emily call out, "Pierce, you're bleeding." 

Using the back of her hand, she wiped blood from under her nose. "He got me good, I'll give him that," she half heartedly joked. 

Reid was already watching Juniper as she approached his position at the back of the pack. Keeping her face neutral as she passed by him, their bodies almost brushed against one another. As she hiked back up the hill, she spat out some blood that had managed to pool in her mouth. Out the front of the house, she observed a brunet boy sitting in the back of the ambulance; the latest victim. He was dirty, but otherwise appeared unharmed. Rossi forced the young female to get assessed by an EMT to rule out any chance of a broken nose or concussion. Thankfully, everything was in the clear. So, once everyone was clear to leave, Juniper rode back to the hotel with Emily and Reid. Every so often, she would catch Spencer looking at her, however, he'd look away as soon as he was caught. 

Emily pulled into the motel parking lot and cut the engine. The three agents exited the vehicle before Emily split off to turn in for the night. Leaving Juniper and Spencer alone. Tension suffocated the cool, night air as it swept through the empty lot. Juniper had decided she was also going to go to her room, but as she started to walk away, Spencer grabbed hold of her bicep, "you haven't even been on the team for a week, and you're already putting yourself in unsafe situations."

"Would you have preferred I let him get away?" annoyance present on her face. 

"We're a team, so if you want to stay on it, I suggest you be a team player," his face in his usual stone-cold expression.

Juniper rolled her eyes. "Sorry, Hotch. I'll wait for your permission to initiate a pursuit next time."

Spencer rolled his eyes in retaliation, "what if he'd managed to stab you? Or worse."

"Then I'd be in hospital with a stab wound, Reid. I know what I signed up for. But tonight, I did my job. We apprehended the unsub, and that's all that should matter," her words curt as she pulled her bicep from his grasp. 

"Your impulsive decisions don't only affect you, they affect all of us. Just...be careful next time," Spencer advised as he crossed his arms over his chest. 

Mirroring his stance, Juniper inhaled a sharp, exasperated inhale, "how about a 'good job, Pierce'? 'Are you okay'?"

The taller male went to speak but cut himself off, breathing deeply as his eyes closed, "are you okay?" he wondered as his eyes opened once more. 

"Fine," Juniper retorted before abruptly ending the conversation. 

The walk to her room was only a few feet from where Emily had parked. Fumbling with the keycard, she looked over to the brunet. He was still watching, his stance unchanged as he observed her movements. The blonde scoffed to herself as she managed to work the lock. The room was silent, light already on as she took solace inside the confines of the four walls. She wanted to be happy, proud of her achievement, but the events had been undermined by her colleague. 

Her appearance was confronting as she studied herself in the bathroom mirror. Blood had dried against her pale skin, causing the red to stand out even more, and a bruise had begun to appear. A trophy from her first case. The scolding water from the motel shower assisted with relaxing her muscles as she let the water fall over her body. 

By the next morning, the bruise had peaked. Red, yellow, and purple discoloration spanned from her inner eyes to the outer corners, then down to just below the tops of her cheeks. "Oh my god, Pierce," Morgan chuckled in surprise as the blonde joined the team for breakfast. 

"It hurts so bad," she commented, taking a seat beside Rossi. "I couldn't even put makeup on, it's so tender."

"While, typically, more severe business can last for around two weeks, with an injury such as yours, I'd be worried about a Septal Hematoma. If left untreated, a Septal Hematoma can cause tissue necrosis, life-threatening infections, or deformity," Spencer rambled as he stared directly at his colleague. 

Rubbing her temples, Juniper responded, "And if you don't stop talking, you're going to give me a Subdural Hematoma."

[virtualbabydevil]

Reblogging cause I've edited a few chapters and also made a cute ass divider so would appreciate anyone who has read the first three chapters to reread :) 

𝕬 𝕾𝖎𝖌𝖓 𝕱𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝕲𝖔𝖉

T/W- show adjacent violence (mentions of murder, mentions of acts done to victims, mentions of real-life cases, physical violence) & swearing.

𝚝𝚠𝚘

"Please don't expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand." - Sylvia Plath.

As Juniper watched the scenery race past, she couldn't help but ponder how surreal her life was. Not only had she been given the position she'd been working towards for years, but she was on the way to her first crime scene. As Derek drove, Spencer combed through his paper files from the passenger seat; leaving Juniper to examine the crime scene photos on her tablet from the back seat. The parallels between this case and the one from West Memphis couldn't be denied, but the blonde felt self-conscious about her theory.  

"So, Pierce, what made you want to join the BAU?" Derek wondered aloud; ripping Juniper from her focus. 

Shrugging, she answered, "there was a careers day when I started college, and Agent Gideon was there. We spoke about the correlation of childhood home lives to the predisposition of being an unsub, and after that, I just knew this is what I wanted to do."

"While it is present in most cases, there haven't been any scientific studies to prove a hypothesis like that," Spencer interjected. 

"Have you ever heard the phrase, correlation doesn't equal causation, Reid?" frustration intertwined with her words.  

Turning in his seat so her could face her better, Spencer furrowed his eyebrows together, "if you wanted to make that argument, you'd probably have more luck with evidence of frontal lobe trauma."

Juniper narrowed her eyes and stared at her colleague for a moment, "I actually wrote my dissertation on the MacDonald triad and how those behaviours are more indicative of dysfunctional home dynamics. But also that extreme abuse and frontal lobe trauma are way more prevalent and better indicators of antisocial behaviours like homicide and sex crimes. Since these things rewire the brain and aren't just behaviours that are exhibited by a vast net of children and adolescents."

The brunet didn't have a response, he just turned back in his seat and reengaged with his files. Juniper was unsure of what she had done to encourage the tension between the pair. Emily had briefly explained that the male didn't handle change the best, but he hadn't even known the blonde for six hours, so the animosity was perplexing. The youngest team member had a couple of theories, but none that she was able to pinpoint at that point in time. She'd already had a good rapport with everyone, but Spencer was proving to be harder to crack. 

The rest of the drive was silent. Pulling up at the crime scene, police and other related professionals were swarming the area. Juniper's assessment of the scene was cut short when she noticed someone about to cut the bindings on one of the boys. "Hey! Don't cut that!" she shouted after jumping out of the car as fast as she could. "I need to look at those knots."

The person stepped back, allowing her to breathe a huge sigh of relief. Grabbing a pair of gloves from a pop-up table, the young woman put them on as she approached the victims. Morgan could be heard talking to the lead investigator while she got as close as she could to examine the hogties. The wrists to ankles were consistent, as were the knots used. Looking down at the boys, a sinking feeling washed over the young woman. 

She'd seen cadavers before, even her mother's body at her funeral, but these were children. Two lives full of new experiences taken in the blink of an eye. Their skin, which should have been showing signs of life, was pale with splotches of blue. Faces that should have been filled with childhood wonder looked as if both boys were cold, but sleeping. In that moment, as she watched over the boys, sorrow for their families crashed into her. The blonde crouched down next to Luca and gently, with two of her fingers, brushed the hair from his closed eyes. Standing abruptly, Juniper took a deep breath and swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat.

"Have any of the boys' belongings been recovered?" she asked the lead investigator, who was standing with Morgan and Reid.  

"Uh, yeah. They were stabbed to the bottom of the creek using sharpened sticks," he answered. 

Approaching the men, she informed them, "it's not a complete replication, but there are enough similarities that I can confidently say our unsub is trying to replicate the West Memphis murders." 

Juniper tore off her gloves as she made her way past the men and around to the opposite side of the SUV. Resting her hands on her hips, the blonde leant forward slightly and took a deep inhale. As she felt the tears sting her eyes, she looked towards the sky, forbidding them from falling. She'd been prepared, well aware of what the job entailed, but seeing it in person, kids, for the first time, still shocked the woman to the core. "Hey kid, you okay?" Derek asked quietly as he stood at the boot of the car. 

Nodding, Juniper pressed her lips together, taking another deep breath before responding, "I'm okay. Just...confronting when you see it all in person. Ya know?" 

With sympathy on his face, Derek placed a hand on the younger woman's shoulder, "take your time, okay? We've all been here once. Just remember, we're here to help those kids and to stop this from happening again." 

Nodding once more, Juniper offered her colleague a weak smile. Derek smiled back, patting her on the shoulder before returning to work. The trio was at the scene for a few hours, gathering evidence and notes for their profile, before they met the others at the station. When they arrived, an evidence board had already been started. Perfect. 

"What did you find?" Agent Hotchner enquired. 

"We could be dealing with a copycat," Morgan revealed. 

Grabbing two of the close-up printouts of the knots, Juniper pinned them to the board, "Luca's knots were exactly the same as the four two half-hitches found on Christopher Byers. But the nail in the coffin for me was that Martin had two square knots, a four half-hitch, and a three half-hitch. The same knots found on Michael Moore."

"Their belongings had been anchored to the bottom of the creek with sharpened sticks that matched the surrounding trees. So our unsub either spent a lot of time at the crime scene before or after the murders to prepare the sticks," Spencer added as he sat in a chair at the table. 

"If I were going to kill two young boys, and I knew where I was going to dump their bodies, I'd prepare that area ahead of time so I could do what I needed to do and get out of there," Juniper advised as she examined the board. "I wouldn't want to be caught with two deceased ten-year-olds."

Derek sat at the table and grabbed one of the files, "there was no blood at the scene, which means that this was strictly the disposal site." 

"Which means he's organized," Hotch concluded. 

The team spent the rest of the day reviewing the evidence and compiling the profile. They'd concluded the unsub was likely raised in or around West Memphis, possibly around ten when the murders took place, making him mid to late twenties. What they hadn't figured out, yet, was the motive and the stressor. And they had to figure that out quickly, or more boys would go missing.

[virtualbabydevil]

Reblogging cause I've edited a few chapters and also made a cute ass divider so would appreciate anyone who has read the first three chapters to reread :)

𝕬 𝕾𝖎𝖌𝖓 𝕱𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝕲𝖔𝖉

A/N-Hi everyone! This is my first Spencer Reid fic, so please be kind to me. Also, the first time I've posted my work in like 10 years. I do hope that you enjoy. I will also have the Wattpad linked at the end if you'd prefer to read there :)

T/W- show adjacent violence (mentions of murder, mentions of acts done to victims, mentions of real-life cases, physical violence) & swearing.

W.C.-1.6k

one

"Ten years from now, make sure you can say that you chose your life, you didn't settle for it." - Mary Hale. 

Today was a new day. Nervous, Juniper continued to primp and preen in the reflection staring back at her until she saw the time. Having accounted for the traffic, the blonde was still half an hour early. She was only lucky her ID badge had been made the week before, as no security officers had been around when she made her way up. Low, classical music played on the elevator speakers, which only made the ride more tense. With a deep breath as the bell dinged, Juniper prepared herself for what she was about to walk into. It was never easy to start a new job. Let alone a job catching serial killers, kidnappers, and just plain and simple, terrible people. But the office was relatively quiet; only a few bodies buzzing around doing work. No one paid attention to her as she made her way to Agent Hotchner's office. 

His office light was on, and the door was open.  Agent Hotchner was engrossed in whatever paperwork he was dealing with while he sat at his desk. Preparing to knock, Agent Hotchner took the chance from the blonde, raising his gaze, "Ah, Juniper, come in." 

A, apparently, rare smile graced his face as Juniper nervously took a seat and placed her stationary box in the empty space of her lap. "I know I've said it before, but thank you so much for choosing me out of all the candidates. I've wanted to work for the BAU since I learned about the department in collage," nerves making her voice slightly shaky. 

"That makes me feel old, but of course. We always need another resident genius to fill in the gaps," his words reassuring, never breaking eye contact. "The team will be meeting shortly as we have a case. Feel free to make yourself a coffee or start setting up your desk. Do you have your go bag?"

"Always," she smiled, then stood. 

He nodded but didn't stand, "well, we showed you around last week. Do you think you can navigate your way around?" 

Taking a moment to think, "I have an eidetic memory and an IQ of one hundred and seventy-five, I'm sure if I can't, I can ask someone," was all she came out with. 

"I think you're going to get along very well with Doctor Reid," was all Agent Hotchner advised before returning to his work.

Taking her time, Juniper ensured her coffee was exactly to her liking before deciding to unload the box into her desk.  As she approached, she noticed a male sitting at the desk on the other side of her own and two women with him. 

"So you saw her?" a lanky male asked as Juniper approached. 

"Only briefly," a dark-haired woman answered. 

"Yes! So pretty and I've heard she's like you," a blonde cut in. 

The male looked confused, "like me?"

"I saw her file. Ph.D.'s in Psychology, Sociology, and Philosophy, plus B.A.s in Criminal Justice and Medical Studies. And she knows like four languages. Wicked smart. An IQ of one hundred and sixty-seven or something like that," her ramble coming to an end. 

Juniper couldn't help but walk over, "judging by the information you just divulged, I'm going to assume you're talking about me." The three faced her, the blonde looking the most shocked, "I also have an IQ of one hundred and seventy-five...just so we're on the same page."

Her lips were pressed together while her eyes shuffled between them as she waited for a response. "I'm so sorry. I'm Penelope," the blonde apologised, one hand on her chest while the other extended for a shake. 

"Juniper," she replied and offered a small smile as she shook Penelope's hand. 

"I'm Emily," the dark-haired woman interjected. They looked to the male, but he stayed silent, "and this is Spencer. Our local boy genius."

"It's really nice to meet you," the space fell quiet after she was finished speaking. 

Feeling the tension, Juniper decided to start unpacking her things. The three stayed silent until the two ladies excused themselves. While she sorted through her things, Juniper could feel eyes on her frame. Using the peripherals of her vision, she caught Spencer staring straight at her. "Were you aware that, depending on the taxonomy, between fifty and sixty-five species of Juniperus are widely distributed throughout the Northern Hemisphere," he piped up suddenly. 

"I was actually. The highest-known juniper forest occurs at an altitude of four thousand, nine hundred metres in southeastern Tibet and the northern Himalayas. But they can also be found throughout Asian, Central America, the Arctic, and south to tropic Africa," his face stayed neutral as the blonde rambled. "Juniper was my mom's favourite plant." 

Silence continued. Giving her new colleague one last pass over, Juniper turned in her chair to continue unloading her things. Agent Hotchner suddenly called for the team; squashing any chance there was to try and find common ground with Spencer in that moment. Not that Juniper particularly minded, she was there to work, not make friends. Even if getting along with your coworkers always made your job easier. Following Spencer and Emily into the conference room, Juniper took a seat opposite Spencer. Their gazes met for a second before his redirected to the screen. A few more people filed in and took their seats before Agent Hotchner closed the door, "everyone, this is Juniper Pierce, our new addition to the team."

Derek, JJ, and Rossi introduced themselves before attention was rerouted to Penelope, "so, two hours ago, these two eight-year-old boys, Martin Cross and Luca Weldon, were abducted walking to their bus stop," she began. 

"Why weren't we called to come in early this morning?" Derek wondered. 

"Well, only an hour after they were abducted, their bodies were found next to Cascade Creek in Minnesota; wrists and ankles hog tied," Penelope switched the photo on the screen from one of the boys together to a picture of their bodies. Leaning forward, Juniper examined the photo, "obviously, an autopsy hasn't been performed yet, but Luca appears to have been castrated."

Agent Hotchner picked up where Penelope left off, "initially, the Rochester police thought this was an isolated incident, but from what they have found, it seems to be connected to the abductions of two five-year-old boys almost a year ago. Both boys were abducted separately from different grocery stores in broad daylight; only twelve hours apart. When their bodies were found, they were hog-tied in the same way as our current victims." 

He went to speak again, but Juniper cut in, "I'd have to see the bodies in person, but this is very reminiscent of the West Memphis Three murders. Christopher Byers was thought to have been castrated with a knife, but it was later revealed in court that the injuries were most likely caused by post-mortem animal predation. The hog ties also seem to be similar to how the boys were tied."

"If we're dealing with the same unsub, he could be on the move or possibly looking for his next victims. Wheels up in thirty," Agent Hotchner announced before standing. 

As she went to leave the room, Juniper noticed Spencer discreetly looking at her again. She contemplated trying to talk to him again, but decided against it as she needed to prove herself to the rest of the team. And it was obvious he was already starting to form a somewhat negative opinion of his colleague. Retrieving the go bag from the boot of her car, Juniper took a second to take it all in. Everything that she had worked so hard for was finally coming to fruition. 

It was so surreal stepping onto the jet for the first time. Taking a seat next to JJ, Juniper went over the case notes on the tablet she'd been issued. So many things raced through her mind as she examined all the evidence that was available at the time. Once everyone was aboard, the team started their flight to Rochester. 

"Why this time of year? Is it just a coincidence, or is Spring significant to this unsub?" Derek asked; ripping Juniper from her thoughts. 

"I know it's probably nothing," starting her train of thought. "But the West Memphis boys were murdered in May of ninety three. If the unsub wasn't directly linked to that case, they could be working up to recreating the case, but from what was portrayed in the media when the case first happened."

"The West Memphis victims were three boys, though," Spencer interrupted. 

Kind of annoyed, Juniper looked him in the eyes directly, "that's why I said working up to. A theory from the original case was that it was committed by two unsubs. It would be hard to subdue three eight-year-old boys, even if they were already in the woods. The suspected first victims of this unsub were abducted separately. Easy enough for a first timer. They could have felt remorse after the first set of murders; that's why it took almost a year to perpetrate a second set of murders. Abducting two boys walking to their bus stop together is an escalation, but still not on the same level as imprisoning three boys in the woods."

The tall male seemed annoyed by Juniper's hypothesis, but said nothing in protest. What was his issue? The conversation bounced from person to person, who added their tidbits until Agent Hotchner began assigning tasks, "Pierce, I want you, Morgan, and Reid to go to the crime scene to see if you can identify any other parallels to the West Memphis murders. Rossi and Prentiss go to the suspected first crime scene to see if you can find anything. JJ, you and I will go to the precinct and set up interviews with the families." 

[virtualbabydevil]

Hello, and welcome back to me screaming. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

TRUTHS ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader

🚨‼️ warning!! make sure u read “head rush” & “lies” first before proceeding!!

summary: spencer shows up at your door with irrefutable proof you’ve been lying — to him and to yourself — but that doesn’t stop you from trying to deny it anyway. what follows is a late-night reckoning: small truths, careful boundaries, and the soft kind of honesty you usually run from.

genre: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, a very long-awaited honest conversation, reader admits she’s a lying liar who lies, reader has a lotttt of fear and anxiety around love/dating, understanding sweetheart spencer reid, confession of feelings, an almost kiss, they are sooo down bad for each other, no use of y/n

a/n: heyyy 🤭 told you I wouldn’t make you suffer for long 🥰 enjoy xo | GIF credit to the wonderful eva @reidgif !

greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀

You tell yourself you ended it in the stairwell.

You tell yourself you were merciful about it, even — a clean incision, no jagged edges for him to catch on. It doesn’t matter that your hands were shaking when you left. It doesn’t matter that you felt the floor tilt when he said your name like a plea. You said what you had to say, and you did what you had to do.

On the drive home from Quantico you rehearse new rules: No more staying late together. No more coffees. No more letting his voice settle under your skin like a lullaby. No more staring at his hands or his mouth or his soft curls. You will be professional, and distant, and sharp, and boring. You will make it so easy for him to forget you.

Once you walk into your apartment, you do the ritual things that make you feel like you’re in control of your life: lights on, chain lock slid, boots off, jacket tossed around the back of a chair you never sit in. You scrub your hands too long and wipe down an already clean counter before briefly considering pouring a glass of whiskey. You ultimately choose water, which feels like a smart decision but tastes like a punishment.

By ten o’clock the adrenaline is gone and the ache sets in, low and mean. You imagine him locked away behind his own set of rules, filing you into a folder marked case closed. You tell yourself that’s good. You tell yourself that’s what you wanted.

Liar.

You don’t see the moment he finds your secret stash of his doodles and messages, but you can feel it retroactively, like a bruise surfacing: the bullpen gone quiet, the top-right drawer stuck an inch open, him doing the polite thing of nudging it shut, the catch, the tug. Brown cardboard. Rubber band. His handwriting. One still, stunned breath. Rushed movement. Elevator. Metro. Cab. The one sleeve he stole burning a hole in his jacket pocket all the way to your neighborhood.

The knock at your door comes measured — three beats that sound like he practiced them in his head and then forgot how to breathe.

Who the fuck could that be, you groan internally. You leave the chain lock as it is and open the door the few inches it allows, prepared to tell whoever’s there to fuck off because you do not, under any circumstances, want to talk about Jesus or your internet bundle at 11pm.

But it’s not a salesman or a Jehovah’s Witness. Not even close — it’s Spencer. One hand leaning against the door frame, breathing ragged, tie loosened, hair pushed wrong by wind or worry.

“Reid,” you start, sounding flustered. “Why are you so out of breath? Did you run all the way here from fucking Quantico? What are you doing here?”

He lifts what’s in his right hand a few inches, and now it’s you who’s forgotten how to breathe.

A coffee sleeve. One of your coffee sleeves. Or, more appropriately, one of his.

Your stomach drops through the floor, takes the express route to hell, and sends back a postcard that says: shit.

“I tried to leave it where it was,” he says, voice rough at the edges. “I couldn’t.”

“You went through my desk?!”

“The drawer was open a couple inches,” he counters. “I tried to fix it, but it was stuck. I—” He stops. “Can we not do this while I’m still in the hall?”

Your mouth opens to say no, and then you hear yourself sighing fine. You close the door to unlatch the chain and take a long, measured breath before opening it again and stepping back to let him in.

“Do you know what snooping is, Reid?” you ask, heading for the kitchen because tea kettles are a socially acceptable delay tactic. “I’m pretty sure the definition includes rifling through coworkers’ drawers without their permission for, what? Recyclables?”

“I didn’t rifle,” he protests. “I was trying to be polite and close the drawer for you. I wasn’t looking for anything. I didn’t even know you’d been saving them.” He sets the sleeve on your counter. “If it’s just a recyclable to you, why’d you keep it?”

You fix your eyes on the kettle, which you realize you haven’t even turned on yet. You light the burner and offer him a shrug. “I keep things. Ticket stubs. CVS receipts. Postcards. Those little wire cork cages from champagne bottles.” You reach for mugs you don’t really intend to drink from. “Congratulations, you’ve outed your coworker as a closeted hoarder.”

His breath finally evens out. “This isn’t hoarding. You sorted them,” he says, not unkind. “Oldest to newest. And rubber-banded them together. That’s purposeful.”

“It’s called organization,” you snap, then wince at your own volume. “Guess what? I color-code my field notes, too. Big reveal.”

Steam whistles out of the spout — too fast, too loud. You kill the flame and busy your hands with teabags — yeah, the stupidly perfect ones he gave you when you were sick — because if you don’t hold something you’ll shake.

“You told me in the stairwell it was only physical for you,” he says, and the quiet in his voice hurts more than anger would. “If that’s true, tell me to throw this away.”

“Please don’t,” you say, before your brain can draft something smarter.

He watches you. “I can't pretend this is nothing while you're saving proof of it."

You turn then. He's standing there, trying very hard to look calm.

"Proof of what, exactly?" you ask.

He doesn't blink. "Of me," he says. "Of this. Of us, even if you won't call it that out loud."

A beat stretches. The apartment hums with the kind of silence that feels like pressure.

“I’m not here to catch you in a lie,” he adds. “I’m here because I can’t pretend any longer that the past few weeks didn’t hurt. And because this,” —his glance drops to the sleeve— “tells me I wasn’t the only one pretending.”

You lean your hip against the counter to pin yourself to earth. The smart play is more denial. You can hear the lines queuing up: they’re just souvenirs; I simply forgot to bring them down to the recycling room; you’re overreacting. The words taste bitter before you’ve even said them.

“Bold move, barging into my apartment this late,” you say, skirting the subject of the sleeves altogether.

He shakes his head once. “I didn’t barge. I asked to come in,” he says, eyes steady. “‘Bold’ would’ve been kissing you at the gun range or in the stairwell. I didn’t, even though I wanted to.” A breath. “I’m not here to take anything. I’m just here to ask for the truth.”

You try not to exhibit a physical reaction to his words, but your body betrays you with shaking hands as you pour the hot water into two mugs. The teabags bloom like something alive and then go limp.

“They’re just—” you start, and your mouth fails you. You stare at the sleeve he brought, eyes trained on the crooked little Möbius strip. You remember the morning your thumb traced it while you waited for Hotch to assign tasks and thought: keep this one, keep this one, keep this one.

When you look up, he’s watching your face with soft, hopeful eyes. That alone undoes you more efficiently than begging ever could.

“Don’t,” you say, softer than you mean to. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“How am I supposed to look at you?” he asks, and it isn’t a challenge — it’s a real question. He’s infuriating that way.

He waits, sees the retort forming on your mouth, and something in him snaps.

“No,” he says, sharper than you’ve ever heard from him. His voice comes out loud, frayed with frustration and exasperation. “Dammit, don’t pivot! Don’t make a joke or change the subject. You told me it was nothing, and then I found out you’ve been cataloging evidence of us for months, hiding it in your desk where no one else can see. You push me away while keeping proof of me caring for you. You tell me not to read into things, and then you—”

His voice cracks. “I’m not a mind reader. I don’t know what you’re thinking or what you want. But I’m good at recognizing patterns, and the pattern I see here is that you have feelings and keep punishing yourself for it. I…I can live with you deciding you don’t want me, but I can’t live with you lying to me about it.” He takes a tight breath, eyes bright with hurt. “So stop. Just stop. For once, tell me the truth.”

It shocks you — the volume, the edge. Spencer doesn’t usually have any edges with you. The mug clinks against the counter because your hand isn’t steady.

“I’m just trying to protect you!” you fire back, louder than you meant to. “From me. From the part of me that ruins things. I don’t want to break you just because I—”

The words jam in your throat, but you force them out anyway:

“Just because I want you. And it fucking terrifies me, Spencer, because I’m not used to wanting anything the way I want you. I don’t let anyone get close to me, but somehow you managed to find a way in, and now it’s turned into a complete mess, and I have no fucking clue what to do about it.”

The room goes very, very still. He swallows, recalibrating, and when he speaks again, his voice is soft but unwavering. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I…I’m sorry for pushing so hard. But we need to have a real conversation about this.”

You exhale all the air you forgot you were holding. You could lie again. It would be cleaner. It would also hurt him even more, and you hate yourself a little for even considering it.

“Spencer,” you whisper in surrender. “I can’t… fight fair when I’m scared.”

“I know,” he says softly. “You don’t have to be scared. And this doesn’t have to be a fight.”

“I don’t—” The words skid and spark and catch in your throat. You take a breath and start over. “I don’t actually hoard things. I’m not usually… sentimental.”

It’s an ugly and enormous truth. Something in his shoulders loosens a millimeter — but he doesn’t smile, doesn’t gloat. He just nods.

You close your eyes for a second because they’re trying to commit treason. When you open them, the sleeve is still on your counter, quiet and damning. You pick it up because it’s safer than reaching for him, and because you’re not ready to give it back.

“We should probably sit down for this,” you suggest quietly.

For a moment, he just stares at you, processing the fact that you’re actually offering him a conversation — the truth — for the first time since meeting you. He collects himself with a small nod before he wills his vocal cords to work again. “Tell me where to sit, and I’ll sit. Whatever you need.”

Your mouth twists. “Couch,” you decide. “And if you touch anything other than the sleeve or the mug, I won’t hesitate to tase you.”

He huffs something that almost resembles a laugh. You set the sleeve on the coffee table and gesture at the sofa like you’re assigning seating in a classroom, but he doesn’t sit yet. He waits for you to pick your spot first so he can give you the physical distance he knows you need — the kind of courtesy that makes you want to cry and kick him in equal measure.

You lower yourself onto the couch and stare at the exposed bricks over his shoulder until the lines blur. “Ask me a real question, and I’ll be honest,” you say. “And don't feel like you have to sugarcoat it.”

Spencer looks at the sleeve on the table as he sits, then back at you. “Why did you start keeping them?”

Your heart does that small, embarrassing rabbit-thump it does whenever he’s this gentle with you. You tip the truth onto your tongue and dare it to stay.

“I don’t really know why I started, to be honest. I guess I just liked the way that first one — the one that just said ‘Bullseye’ — felt like an inside joke between us.” You pause to clear your throat, then continue. “I didn’t really feel like a real part of the team yet, but when you spent that whole night at O’Keefe’s hanging out with me and then showed up with a personalized coffee cup to cure my hangover the next day, I felt… I dunno, I felt like you actually wanted me there. And I guess I decided that if I kept it, the way I felt in that moment would stay real.”

He takes that in without blinking. “And the rest of them?”

“They became… receipts,” you say, hating how soft the word sounds in your mouth. “For feeling good. For the way you see all of me. Proof that there was someone genuinely kind in my life that I somehow hadn’t scared away by being me. Holding onto them felt like the only way I could let myself have you.”

He swallows, eyes tipping down to the sleeve and back. “This is going to sound juvenile, but… does that mean you… like me?”

You blink, surprised by how young the question makes you feel. It knocks something loose in your chest — ridiculous, schoolgirl-crush nerves bubbling up in a grown woman. “Yeah, Spencer,” you say. “I like you. Who you are, and who I am when I’m with you.”

He looks relieved and a little wrecked, throat bobbing as he swallows down more nerves. “Why’d you tell me earlier that it was only physical, then?”

You look down at your tea and sigh softly. “Because if I admitted it was more, you’d expect me to act like it was more.” Your voice thins like a wire under tension. “And I don’t trust who I become when I want things. I break them. I break me. I’m not good at this. I was… trying to shield you from that. I know it was a cruel thing to say, and I’m sorry, but it was the safest option I could think of.”

He nods, slow. “So you preemptively broke it yourself.”

You sigh. “I guess so. At least that way, I’m still in control of the ending.”

“What are you so afraid of? Truly?”

You could hand him the safe answers — policy, optics, Hotch, the thousand ways your job eats softness — and he’d nod because they’d all be technically true. They’re also decoys. The real thing is smaller and meaner: you don’t usually survive wanting anything this much. Want turns you into a girl who waits by doors and believes in love. You hate her. You also miss her.

You stare at the sleeve instead of his face. “Needing you,” you say, too honestly. “You knowing how much I actually do. Hurting you. Ruining you. And then all the normal things — being soft and getting punished for it, the team finding out before I’m ready, you seeing the real me without all my armor and deciding you don’t want that version, the way losing you would feel. You finish quietly: “The way it would kill me.”

He lets the silence stretch for a long moment before responding, as if he’s taking note of all your fears and already searching for ways to heal each one.

“What do you want right now?” he asks eventually.

“Things I shouldn’t,” you say. It comes out fast. “And also time. A little bit of space to figure this out. As little pressure as possible.”

“I can do that.” He shifts, not closer — just squaring to you, facing you head on. “We’ll go slow, as long as we’re honest about it.” He pauses for a moment, and you can almost see the wheels in his brain turning before he decides what to say next. “How about this: No more secret kisses after midnight. No drunk confessions. No lies about how we feel and what we can handle. When you need space, ask for it with words, not a disappearing act. And the whole time, we try. In small ways.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What do the small ways look like?”

“We… spend time together, at least once a week, one on one. Not…not like actual dates, because I know you aren’t ready for that, but… we hang out in some capacity and get a feel for what this could look like. We’re honest with one another about where our heads are at. And… we tell each other one true thing a day,” he says, almost apologetic for how earnest it all sounds out loud. “Doesn’t have to be big. ‘I wanted to text you and didn’t.’ ‘I hated being brave today.’ ‘I thought about your laugh before I went to sleep.’”

You sit with that. “And if I fail at it? The truth part?”

“Then you tell me you failed, and we try again the next day,” he says. “I don’t need you to be perfect. I know you, you know.”

He does. He knows you.

You exhale, long and relieved. “Okay,” you say, to the ceiling first and then to him. “One true thing now?”

He nods.

“Remember the book you lent me last month?”

He nods again.

“I lied when I told you I hadn’t finished it yet. I have — three times. It’s sitting on my nightstand right now. I re-read your annotations at night when I can’t sleep because your voice in the margins is the only thing that shuts all the noise up.”

He closes his eyes for a half second. When he opens them, they’re wet at the edges and steadier than yours. “One true thing back?” he asks.

You wait.

“I was terrified in Dayton. And not just about you hitting your head.” He swallows. “I was terrified because kissing you felt like stepping into a version of my life I didn’t think was possible for me to have, and it made every other version feel wrong. I didn’t know how to live with that.”

Something like a tidal wave thrashes in your chest. You let it crest and recede before you can breathe.

“If you decide this can’t be anything, I’ll step back,” he promises. “I meant what I said earlier — I’ll be kind and distant and stick to being just your coworker. But if it can be something, no matter how small or slow, I’d…like the chance to try.”

You look down at your hands. “It can be something,” you say quietly, and the words surprise you both by not killing you the second you speak them aloud. “I’m not promising a timeline, or any real level of commitment. I have no idea what this looks like. I can’t promise I won’t panic and make it weird. But I can promise I’ll stop pretending it means nothing to me, and I can do my best to try.”

He breathes out, shaky enough that you hear it. “Okay,” he says. “Then we start with small true things. And boundaries we actually say out loud.”

“God,” you mumble, shaking your head. “You’re hot when you talk protocol and logistics.”

His breath stutters and his mouth tilts. “Is that, um, another true thing? That you think I’m… hot?”

“Don’t get cocky,” you tease, but there’s no teeth in it. You reach for the sleeve on the coffee table just to give your hands something safe to do, but your fingers bump his in the process, because apparently he had the same idea. Neither of you pull away.

You don’t lace fingers, but you do leave your hand there for one breath, then two.

He’s the one who shifts first, sliding the sleeve gently back toward you. “Chain of custody,” he says, voice gone a little husky. “It belongs with you.”

You set it upright against your mug. “I’m not hiding it tonight,” you say. “I don’t want to.”

He bites back a smile, and for a second you let yourself look at him the way you’ve been refusing to for the past two weeks: directly, warmly, like a person who knows what she wants and hasn’t run from it.

The room goes quiet again, but it’s a different quiet. Not pressure — potential. You tuck your legs under you and lean your side into the cushions, body angled toward him.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmur.

He nods.

“What happens if I say I need space and then regret asking for it fifteen minutes later?”

“Then you call me and tell me you regret it,” he replies without hesitation. “And I’ll come find you and… give you the opposite of space.”

You feel your cheeks heat up.

“Okay,” you say, mostly to yourself. “Okay. That’s… that's good.” The words come out embarrassingly flustered.

The familiar throb of adrenaline kicks once, twice. You reach for your mug and end up knocking it clumsily. The ceramic wobbles; tea slops toward the lip.

He’s already moving. A hand catches the mug, the other finds your wrist. Warm fingers, a sure grip, one small anchor in a room melting around you.

“Hey,” he says. “Breathe.”

You do, because apparently you listen to him now. In for four. Hold. Slow exhale. You didn’t realize you were shivering until you feel how steady his hands are.

“I’m fine,” you lie, out of habit and muscle memory.

“I know,” he says gently, which somehow translates to but you don’t have to be.

He doesn’t let go right away. Neither do you.

You watch his fingers around your wrist like they belong to a previous life where you weren’t constantly choosing to bolt. You could tell him to back up. You could make a joke and break the moment clean.

Instead you say, too low, “Opposite of space?”

His eyes flick to yours. “Is that a request?”

You nod because words feel clumsy and because you hate how much you want what you’re asking for.

He moves slowly, like he’s approaching a skittish animal he hopes will eat from his hand. One arm goes around your shoulders; the other hovers and then commits at your waist. You fit against him like the couch had this configuration in mind all along. The first second is a little awkward, but then your bodies solve the geometry between you and it’s… easy. Ridiculously, catastrophically easy.

You can feel his pulse where his wrist rests near your ribs. It’s too fast, but so is yours.

“Breathe,” he murmurs again. You do it. He does too. Your shoulders drop at roughly the same time.

“This okay?” he asks into your hair.

“Dangerously so,” you whisper, which is your version of god, yes, stolen from a text he sent you once when describing your drunken charm.

You don’t talk for a while. Your face finds the hollow below his collarbone, and the knot behind your sternum loosens a notch you didn’t know it could loosen. Your fingers, traitorously, hook lightly in the collar of his shirt. His hand answers by sliding up your spine to the nape of your neck, resting there.

You tilt your head up to look at him and realize he’s already looking down at you, his mouth only a breath away. His pupils are enormous. The room tilts toward the inevitable like it’s been waiting weeks to do it. He shifts a fraction closer, and your lips brush up against the idea of kissing without quite touching it — heat, breath, gravity, the smallest misalignment in the world.

“Spencer,” you whisper, which is both his name and a request.

He stills. For one suspended second, you swear the air itself is holding you apart. Then, very quietly, he says, “It’s after midnight.”

You blink. “Are you planning on turning into a pumpkin, Doctor Reid?”

“No,” he says, smiling. “Just trying not to become a hypocrite in record time.”

The rule he’d set earlier sits between you — no kissing after midnight. It’s absurd how much you love that he could see past the heat between you and remember it, that he’s choosing to wait for whatever version of you he might get tomorrow, respecting the boundaries he put in place to help you feel safe.

“Right,” you say, exhaling into a laugh. “Our rules.”

He doesn’t kiss you, but he also doesn’t retreat. His forehead finds yours, a soft press that feels even more intimate than a kiss would’ve been. Eyes closed, same square of air.

“This,” he says, barely a sound, “we can have.”

You nod against him. “I like this,” you admit, which is somehow harder to get out than any confession you’ve made so far.

“Me too,” he whispers. His hand traces your forearm once, feather-light, and the moment stretches.

After a few minutes suspended like that, he breaks the silence that’s fallen between you. “I am, for the record, profoundly unsure about where to put my hands in situations like this,” he confesses, which is the funniest possible thing he could’ve said while holding you exactly right.

“You’re doing profoundly fine,” you murmur, and it feels unreasonably good to soothe him. You shift closer on principle, chest to chest, his heartbeat reorganizing yours. A quiet, involuntary sound leaves him — smaller than a sigh, but enough to feel in a place you shouldn’t.

Time turns elastic. You could stay here like this until morning, pretending you’re a person who gives affection away this easily. At some point you realize your thumb is stroking the tendon at his wrist like a worry stone. He doesn’t mention it. He just breathes with you, patient and kind.

“We should…” you start, then don’t finish, because finishing would require choosing between desire and practicality.

He saves you from the choice. “I should probably go,” he says. He pulls back a half inch, just enough to open his eyes and look down at you. “Leave while I still can.”

You could ask him to stay, and you’re positive he’d say yes. Fuck the rules, you think to yourself. You want to ask him to stay. That want is loud and written all over your face and burning between your thighs.

“Text me one more true thing when you get home,” you force yourself to say instead.

“I will,” he vows. “You send one back.”

Reluctantly, you separate. He stands and offers you a hand up, because of course he does.

At the door, he hesitates like he might do something reckless.

“No secret kisses after midnight,” you remind him.

“Tragic,” he agrees, opening your door. “But probably smart.”

You roll your eyes. “Goodnight, Spencer.”

He dips and breathes a smile against your skin as he presses a soft, barely-there kiss to your hairline. He looks at your mouth like he’s practicing how not to be an idiot, then meets your eyes like a man keeping a promise.

“Sweet dreams,” he says, and steps into the hall.

The door clicks. The apartment exhales. You stand there with your palm still warm from his and the sleeve still upright against your mug like a ridiculous little flag. Your phone hums a minute later. Silly, eager man, you think to yourself. He’s barely out of your building yet, let alone home.

[text, 12:34am]

Dr. Reid: One true thing: I didn’t run all the way to your place from Quantico. But I would’ve if I had to.

You stare at it until your own thumbs remember how to work.

[text, 12:38am]

you: one true thing: i almost asked you to stay.

You put the phone face down, take the coffee sleeve in your hand, and finally let yourself laugh over a rule you’ll hate until morning. You sit there with the ghost of his breath at your temple and another brand-new rule you did not expect to like: one true thing a day.

ᝰ.ᐟ

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ICYMI: I'm hosting an event I've very affectionately dubbed “whisper week” to celebrate hitting 1k followers! details on whisper week and how to submit requests for it can be found here 💜 ily

[virtualbabydevil]

The second pic has me FERAL!!!!

Thinking about him with a mullet lately

[virtualbabydevil]

Post-prison!Spencer doesn’t know how to say he’s scared you don’t want him anymore, so he shows up at your apartment with a foreign film. He thinks you’re pulling away, that you found someone else.

(fem!reader, art conservator!reader, hand kink adjacent, fingering, p in v, loooooooove)

The pages snapped in his hands like brittle wings, the newspaper tired from being folded and worried over, over and over again.

Spencer had read the same line three times, a column analyzing the city’s influx of young professionals into gentrified neighborhoods, but the words wouldn’t stick. His eyes skimmed graphs and numbers, parsing them automatically. He could recite them back if asked, but the words were insignificant, as if printed on another world that you weren’t a part of.

The sidewalk was alive and loud with movement; the scuff of rubber soles, the clipped percussion of boots, the uneven stagger of someone too rushed or too distracted. 

Each time, his head snapped up, searching, stupidly hopeful, and each time, it wasn’t you.

He knew the rhythm of your steps the way he knew cadences in speech or patterns in music: heel to toe, the careful tap and shuffle as you navigated debris, the soft, sudden pop of your work-worn flats lifting off your heel, and the brief pause as you pressed back in before continuing.

He waited for those sounds, hyper-attuned to every footfall, though his eyes pretended to follow the printed page.

The corner of the DVD case, the one he’d unceremoniously brought for you, pressed into his thigh as he spun the top edge between his fingers. The hard plastic bit into his skin on purpose, a small pain to counter the mental litany he’d been running for hours.

When footsteps neared again, he went ramrod straight; listening, measuring weight, distance, the angle of approach. His chest tightened at the possibility it was you.

He looked up so fast it hurt, already picturing the way you’d round the corner.

Still not you.

It was a middle-aged woman, a grocery bag cutting into her wrist, a food stain darkening her shirt. Likely a mother. She looked at him just long enough to offer the practiced, perfunctory smile of the city, gone in less than a heartbeat.

Spencer managed a tight-lipped smile in return, his eyes distant. When his gaze fell back to the paper, the numbers dissolved into static.

She doesn’t wa-- He drove the corner in harder, shaking his head until strands fell loose across his forehead, anything to cut the thought off. She wants som-- He pressed again and again and again. 

He thought of your smile instead. How it always pulled crooked before it opened wide and beautiful, an asymmetry that made it totally unforgettable. 

He hadn’t seen it in almost a week.

Stress had chased it away, and he’d heard the proof again earlier on the phone when you called to cancel plans, explaining you had to stay late; a damaged varnish layer needed stabilizing before it set wrong. Spencer heard it immediately: every syllable pulled a little too tight, your usual warmth pressed flat beneath the pressure.

Even the new job showed in your posture, shoulders caved as if carrying weight you couldn’t put down, fingers antsy at your sides as though still reaching for a brush or scalpel, or the fine lines of concentration etched deeper around your mouth than they’d been months ago.

The paper rustled as he folded it again, a meaningless task for hands that wanted something softer to touch. He wished for yours instantly, so nimble and precise, paint-dusted and steady. Imagining pressing his lips to your pulse points at the wrist, where your artisan’s hands begin. How your fingertips might feel dragging lightly over his chest, through his hair.

Instead, all he could do was wait.

The light shifted as he waited, sunlight peeling back from his shoes, inch by inch across the pavement. He followed its retreat the way others might follow the ticking of a watch.

Another minute had passed, tracked by the shadow’s march over the curb. Then, sound preceded sight: the faint pattern he knew better than his own heartbeat - heel to toe, heel to toe. Distinct, lighter than the others. 

You.

Science made it uncanny that footsteps could be reduced to data, patterns, predictable repetition, but love made it terrifying. That a sound alone could obliterate his concentration, could tell him it was you without his eyes.

He rose, spine uncoiling as he slid the paper under his arm, the DVD case balanced in his hand. His chest was too tight, but he drew himself tall anyway. An easily shatterable kind of dignity, as if posture alone could keep longing from showing in his face.

And then you appeared, rounding the corner, and suddenly, you were everything in view. The only thing.

The first thing he noticed was the shirt. A short-sleeved button-up, the fabric puffing at the shoulders. Then the pants: black dress slacks, a size too big, cinched awkwardly at the waist. 

Even so, he liked you best this way, with your clothes having been a little off, as though your mind had been elsewhere, wrapped entirely in your work. 

Imperfect, and somehow more beautiful because of it.

Guilty relief washed over him, because the exhaustion in your face was proof. Work had claimed you, not anyone else. You were alone, and you were coming home.

Your brows were knit, thoughts turned inward where he couldn’t follow. The white cord rose from your pocket in a clean line to your ears, carrying the buzz music he couldn't make out, but imagined suited you perfectly. It wasn’t fast enough for rock, not rigid enough for electronic. Maybe something more mellow, mild enough to match the way you stepped around cigarette butts on the pavement.

You never lifted your eyes, your mouth pressed flat, museful and far away.

Spencer’s lips curved slightly. He knew this version of you. The one who never looked up, who’d stumbled into doorframes and signposts more times than you cared to confess. Absorbed, careful, careless. All at once, impossibly.

At the moment you drew near, he subtly and calculatedly adjusted his stance, placing himself squarely in your way.

Your shoulder clipped his chest, the slight impact making you jolt.

Your hands caught his forearms before you could think, fingers curling tight. The warmth of your palms burned through his shirt. He let himself have it, just for a moment, the closeness of your face, the soft drag of your breath, the shock in your eyes as they met his.

It was selfish technically, to crave your attention so completely, to want you pulled out of thought and sound and tethered only to him. 

Only to Spencer selfishness didn’t quite feel like sin anymore, it felt a lot more like survival.

“Spencer,” You gasped, “Hi, hi.”

The press of your lips to his was rushed and a little frazzled, and the spark of it climbed through his chest. His heart stuttered, then leapt, and he was already leaning forward again, chasing you for another kiss, unwilling to let the first vanish so quickly.

A hum escaped him as your hands fisted the front of his shirt, the sound vibrating against his ribs. When he drew back, his eyes flicked over your face, hungry to read every line of it. 

The street, the windows, the world around you both barely registered. All he saw was you.

Your lips glistened faintly from the kiss, a swift lick catching the last trace of it before you looked up. Your head tilted in that familiar way, just slightly, the same degree every time. 

“What’re you doing here?” You asked with amusement tinged with weariness, words weaving awkwardly through the spill of music in your ears. He lifted a hand, ready to slip the earbuds free himself, but you got there first, tugging them out with a sheepish motion. “Sorry.”

The stifled guitar and hushed vocals lingered, the sound fitting neatly with the evidence your steps had already offered. Indie folk, probably Iron & Wine. 

Spencer smiled, holding up the DVD so the light caught the embossed foreign letters.

“I thought you might like to watch this,” He said calmly, though his pulse betrayed him. “I brought it for you.”

He’d bought it two weeks ago, holding onto it like a secret. Waiting for the night you’d finally have time to curl into him on the couch at his place, when he could press play and surprise you.

Now it’d became something else. An excuse to stand there.

He didn’t expect you to ask him to stay, but he stepped a little closer anyway, hoping your body might answer before your mouth could decide.

You reached out and took the DVD from his hand, flipping it once, twice, like you didn’t quite know what to say. Your eyes scanned the cover, then lifted to his with a surprised little puff.

“La…Atalante?” You tried, mangling the French halfway through. Your lips twisted with a self-conscious smile. “I butchered that.” 

“L’Atalanté,” He murmured gently, the pronunciation precise and affectionate.

With a huff of embarrassment, you said, “Yes, that. Thank you, Spencer.” Quiter, “Thank you.”

You shifted, just slightly, weight rocking from foot to foot, lashes blinking too fast to be nothing. Your gaze pinged between him and the case in your hands, like you were waiting for the words to rise of their own accord.

Spencer didn’t press, didn’t even speak, just watched the DVD turn delicately in your hands. Your fingers slid across the case in small, infinity-shaped movements, and he felt every one like a touch. It was as if your fingertip had brushed the back of his neck, at that strip of skin just below his hairline, and he exhaled without meaning to.

Like you were kissing him right then, and your fingertips had wandered there, dragging slowly, just sharp enough to leave a trail of goosebumps down his back.

Spencer’s chest tightened in that familiar, delicious ache.

“Would you want to stay and watch it with me? It’s okay if not.” Your gaze dropped. “I know I sort of ruined the plans we had, but I…I’d like to end the day with you.”

The pause stretched between you two, delicate as blown glass. He felt it in his limbs, that greedy warmth that came from being wanted, from being invited into your space. It wasn’t the art exhibit you both planned for the evening, all muted lighting and plinths standing politely apart, but it was yours to offer. 

Spencer let a flicker of confidence expand in his chest. He wasn’t a hopeful man. Not by nature and not by training. For you, though, he’d made an exception, and he’d been right to wait. Right to hope.

“Yes,” He said unwaveringly, the answer had been waiting on his tongue all evening.

The hint of relief softened your features, a light exhale slipping past your lips. Even from a few steps away, Spencer saw the way your shoulders dropped. Not all the way, but enough. Like his yes had peeled back just one layer of the day’s weight.

He took your hand in his, thumb brushing over the waxy residue still clinging to your skin that you hadn’t had time to scrub away fully.

At the apartment’s vestibule door, Spencer paused, arm arcing to hold it open. You passed beneath it, a glide beneath the crook of his elbow. Hands still linked, a binding neither of you wanted to release. The hinge responded with a shudder, registering along his tricep.  

“Did that consult wrap up okay today?” You’d asked it lowly, voice just above a whisper as you both passed the lobby mailboxes. 

It wasn’t out of fear someone might hear, no one would’ve cared, rather out of some instinctive gentleness. An act that settled silkily against him, like a drop of mercy spilled across the floor of Cannae.

He lifted his free hand, reaching to press the elevator button. 

He didn’t look at you when he said, “We got through it,” Then he added, “That’s as close to ‘resolved’ as I expect these days.”

Your hand squeezed his.

It was the kind of consult where everyone lied just enough to sound like they were telling the truth. Spencer didn’t bother chasing sincerity anymore, not at work.

With you, he didn’t have to chase it. You never made him.

He squeezed your hand back.

The elevator arrived. As Spencer and you stepped in, and two men already occupied the space, young, tanned, arms thick from labor, the scent of fresh soil faint on their clothes. 

Spencer shifted casually, body angling between the men and you as you stepped in, creating a narrow buffer. 

Still holding your hand, he kept his posture relaxed and casual, but protective. A shield of flesh and bone against the harmless threat of comparison. Ridiculous, yes, but there all the same. They didn’t even know how lucky they were to stand beside you.

Spencer knew for them.

The ride wasn’t silent, not with the faint shudder of the elevator’s ascent, the metallic squeaks of cables pulling upward, or the discussion of powered augers, soil depth, and dogwoods.

The two men stepped off at level two, and as the elevator resumed its climb, Spencer’s sight locked to the numbers above the door, watching them blink by so slowly, too slowly. His thumb rubbed loops into the back of your hand. 

Another floor, then another. 

The scent hit him first, your perfume. Amber resin and labdanum, with a trace of vetiver beneath it all. Dry, green, a little wild. It hovered at his side, drew him in without trying. He inhaled without thought, the aroma seeping into his bloodstream, altering him molecule by molecule.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow, a little prod against his ribs. 

“Did Penelope, um… ever mention anything about that blueprint?” Your voice was quiet, almost like you didn’t want to sound too eager. “The one with the studio add-ons? For my building?”

He cleared his throat before answering, though a sudden rasp surprised him. 

“She’s still checking,” Then added knowing how much this meant to you. How the soft northern light, the ventilation, the double doors wide enough for stretcher frames felt just out of reach. “But I looked into the city registry last night. There’s something about a fire code variance, but I couldn’t access the old permit logs.” A crease formed between his brows. “Penelope’s better at wrangling locked databases than I am.”

A sharp cough broke loose, trying to rid the rasp that still lingered. He brought a hand to his mouth, eyes darting away, the flush of vulnerability flared before he could stop it.

“Are you alright?” You asked earnestly.

“Yes,” He hesitated, brushing his fingers across his lips and down the line of his jaw. “Just-- my throat. Dry air, maybe.” His eyes tipped to yours, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a smile so slight it could have been imagined. “She’ll figure it out.”

One more level.

You nodded, accepting the answer, and turned to face forward again.

Spencer didn’t.

His gaze lingered on your profile; the curve of your lips, the dip of your nose, the slow rise and fall of your chest.

His mind flickered out of reality for a fraction of a second, to the thought of your back against the wall, his mouth at the slope of your neck. Just above your collarbone, where your warmth always pooled. He’d trace it with his tongue.

To hear you whine, I need you, Spencer. Just you. I don’t want anyone else, I swear. Please.

He swallowed hard, blinked it away.

But it came back so swiftly, a bittersweet disobedience. 

Your hand slipping past the hem of his button-down, brushing down the fine hairs on his stomach, slower than it needed to be, thumbs teasing just beneath the band of his trousers. You pressed your lips just beneath his jaw--

Ding.

The elevator announced the floor like a warning shot.

You didn’t say anything, just gave his hand the smallest tug, already halfway into the hallway.

He followed instantly, like you’d summoned him. Like his desire had been infused into the marrow of his bones, moving him toward you with every step. Slow-burning and older than it had any right to be.

The door at the end of the hallway might as well have been salvation, or surrender, or both.

Every step was another test of control. He counted them.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

You reached into your bag, and he knew the pattern - the way your fingers always missed the key the first time, then swept past wrappers and receipts as you fished the brass out.

Ten. Eleven.

The key slid into the lock.

Twelve.

The bolt clicked. 

You stepped into the darkness like someone returning to a dream, and for one silent, gut-deep second, Spencer feared it was his dream you’d returned to.

Your hand slipped from his, and you felt fatally distant. Like the kind of angelic ghost that haunted him behind bars, the one kindness he allowed himself to survive the viciousness. Something he reached for when his fear grew teeth and talons, something he let himself believe in, just long enough to fall asleep. 

He still couldn’t believe that something followed him home.

Spencer stepped inside, then froze.

The door latched behind him with a deafening thud, the kind that echoes in cathedrals and courtrooms.

His shallow breath hovered.

Then light tore sharply across the room, and Spencer blinked once, then twice before his vision adjusted, finding you in pieces at first. The outline of your shoulders, the movement of your hand, the thump of your purse as you dropped it on the spindled stool you’d painted ivory, snapdragons curling like spirited sentries along the legs. 

Your kitchen counter was an extension of your exhaustion: torn envelopes strewn between tubes of paint, the bills snared in place by half-used bottles turned to paperweights.

He watched you move through the kitchen like you hadn’t forgotten he was there, but you didn’t look back either. A cabinet opened, hinges squeaked. The clink of glass against the granite countertop. The trickle of water.

Spencer stood unabatingly still, just inside the threshold of your home, feeling every inch of himself suddenly. The weight of his body, the architecture of his frame, the damp heat still gathered at his collar.

You didn’t ask if he wanted water. You just brought it to him, holding the glass out.

Whatever passed across his face, you met it evenly. “For your throat,” You said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Thank you.” He said as his fingers wrapped around the glass, the water mercifully cold.

Your eyes tracked over him absentmindedly…maybe, or maybe not. A sweep that paused somewhere near his stomach, where his shirt was still tucked too neatly into his slacks. There was a stutter in your fingers, like they’d considered reaching for something and changed their mind.

He felt it like heat behind his sternum, desperate to cool himself down with a chug of water that was no longer mercifully cold. 

“I’m gonna go change,” You said tentatively, turning toward the bedroom. “You can too, if you want?”

He tensely nodded.

“Sure,” He croaked, the word clung thickly to his tongue. “Okay.”

You disappeared into the bedroom, but he didn’t follow just yet. First he had to order his limbs to obey him, like a soldier dropped into a world spun from sugar and sketches. 

He finally moved, each step purposeful and heavy.

When he reached the bedroom door, the lamp was already on, all fuzzy and golden, spilling out across the hallway floor like a welcome mat.

You were facing away. One foot bare, the other clad in a yellow sock, and already changed into a baggy t-shirt and loose pajama shorts.

He stopped. An unbidden, selfish disappointment pounded against his skull. He’d missed it. Missed the moment where fabric peeled from your skin, missed the wisp of cloth slipping over curves he wanted to touch, if only with his eyes.

Spencer’s hands clasped behind his back. His fingers found the flesh at the inside of his wrist and pinched. A sharp little reprimand. She’s tired. She’s kind, always so kind, and you’re lucky to be here at all.

“Here,” You said, holding out a folded bundle of clothes. “I’ll start the movie. Do you want something to eat? I have a Cadbury bar. No more apples, they went mushy. Hmm…I still have some trail mix or sunflower seeds?”

“No, it’s okay.” He said reflexively, but the way you offered, so gently and naturally made him want to give something back. “Actually, the chocolate sounds good. If we share it.”

“Okay,” You said with the beginnings of a smile rising, but it faded before it reached your cheeks. “I’ll go grab it.”

He watched you turn and leave the room, the door frame swallowing you. Like it was the most ordinary thing, like people did this all the time; shared chocolate and changed clothes without glamour and left the man who loved them just standing there, barely breathing.

You’d shifted his entire internal tide, leaving him to absorb the aftershock in silence as he undressed in your absence. 

Spencer stepped into the main room that wasn’t quite a living room, not quite a kitchen, just a single box-shaped space with its boundaries marked by thrifted furniture and stray canvases. His fingers fussed with the hem of the shirt. Rolled from too many trips through the wash, the cotton twisting where it met his skin.

You were already curled up in the cushions, knees drawn to your chest, the glow of the screen waiting patiently.

He crossed the room, meek steps over wooden floors, and sat beside you. Your shoulder bumped his, a tiny nudge, as you passed him the chocolate, fingers brushing his for a second longer than necessary.

Then, with a flick of the remote, the film began.

L’Atalanté opened with fog bleeding over a canal, the black hull of a barge splitting the water. Spencer’s brain stored the images, filed them in some distant drawer. 

He’d caught you, out of the corner of his eye, letting the chocolate melt on your tongue slowly…intamiately. 

Spencer placed a square piece in his mouth, intently focused on the texture: processed cocoa fat, soy lecithin, too-smooth grain. It made his tongue sit too heavy with its cloying taste, and a sharp crack echoed in his jaw as he bit down roughly.

Too sweet, it was too much.

He couldn't finish it. He set the rest of his half on the coffee table, eyes fixed on the screen but vision completely unfocused.

He’d gone without your mouth for a little over a week, and maybe that was punishment enough.

But the thought that someone else might’ve known and learned its sweetness, maybe those seemingly normal and strong men in the elevator, made his throat dry out all over again.

“This came out before the New Wave, right? Godard and all that?”

He didn’t even try to suppress his grin. He couldn’t. You were coaxing him back to you, away from himself, and not subtly.

He said with no tiny amount of confidence, “Twenty-five years before. Vigo was practically inventing poetic realism, using symbolism instead of structure. Most people didn’t appreciate it until decades later.”

You hummed, pleased as punch, and said, “Knew you’d know.”

Both of you watched in silence for a while.

Or rather, you watched, and Spencer drifted. In and out of the visuals - the screen washed in smoke-gray and river-green, of curtains fluttering in pale silhouettes.

Mostly, he noticed you. The way your hand flexed in your lap, rubbing slowly at the muscles between your thumb and forefinger.

He knew it meant your hands were sore. The kind fatigue that lived deep in the flexor tendons, and he knew how to ease it. Where to press, how long to hold, how not to overwork the tissue. He’d researched it once, after the first time he’d seen you curl your hand like that.

He shifted slightly, angling toward you before you could downplay it again. He turned his palm up and laid it on his thigh. His fingers twitched once, then stopped.

“Let me do it,” His voice low, tight with something stronger than want. Something like redshift, that stretch in the light when what you love moves just a little too far away. “Please.”

There was tension in the way his shadow wavered over you, cast by the flickering television light, like he was already reaching for you without moving, like not touching you might ruin him.

You offered your hand so simply, like it was the most natural thing, and he cupped it as if it were breakable. The pads of his fingers found each strained place, thumb brushing the tenderest part with affection and slight pressure. You didn’t look at him, but he knew you were letting him care for you, allowing him to be gentle. 

It meant more than he could ever say aloud.

Spencer didn’t pretend to keep watching the movie anymore. Your hand, resting in his, was its own kind of cinema. 

His thumb moved in slow spheres, skimming the base of your thumb, brushing the calloused ridge near the joint.

He’d dreamed of these fingers. Not just wrapped around him, though he had…more times than he’d ever admit, but doing what they were meant for. Making torn things whole, coaxing beauty from near extinction, restoring what time tried to take.

He couldn’t imagine what it felt like, to be trusted by history that way.

Hands like that didn’t belong touching men like him, and yet, there they were; willingly cradled in his.

Spencer couldn’t help himself, he brought your hand to his mouth reverently. Kissed kissed kissed so softly, so slowly. Absolutely starving.

His lips dragged along each knuckle, mouth parting just enough to warm the skin beneath. He could feel everything; the faint abrasion of dried solvents near your nails, the ridged microtextures where glove seams had pressed, the invisible histories your hands carried in their creases.

He pressed your fingertips to his lips one by one, as if your prints might burn into his mouth and brand him yours.

He kissed your ring finger last, longer than the rest. Teeth only just grazing, enough to make heat gather beneath your skin.

Once he started, he couldn’t stop.

His mouth wouldn’t leave your ring finger. No longer just kissing it, he nuzzled it. The bridge of his nose brushing against your knuckle. Lips parted as he nipped too gently to call it a bite, but with his desperation, there was nothing else to call it.

Then he heard it, that stifled pitched sound. It shot straight through him, arresting everything. He pulled back instantly, panic edging out pleasure. Struck with the sudden fear he’d hurt you.

“Spencer,” You whined, and it truly did sound like want, but he froze nonetheless. 

He worried he’d read it wrong. Afraid of hurting something that trusted him.

He didn’t move, he just pressed your hand to his cheek as he whispered, “Did I hurt you?”

 “No, no,” You admitted, thumb stroking his cheek. “Not at all, I promise. I just--” Your voice dipped, the rest of the words washed down with a nervous gulp.

He finally looked at you then.

His gaze moved over your face, searching for what you meant to say. Like he needed to know what you wanted more than he needed air.

He leaned in slightly, his body betraying what he wouldn’t dare speak aloud. 

You hid in his neck, suddenly bashful, and dotted a kiss so sweet it nearly wrung his heart out. His blood surged all at once, like it was trying to get closer, gather under your lips, trying belong to you.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered with another kiss. “I just missed you a lot. In a lot of ways.”

Spencer kissed the side of your head, soft as the belly of a moth. “You don’t have to be sorry,” He said, voice scarcely more than a tremble. “Just tell me what you need.”

You tried to speak but faltered, so you pressed your mouth to his neck again.

“I need you.” You confessed, the words muffled, but he heard them, or maybe just felt them.

His breath hitched. It lit every nerve in him.

He guided you into his lap, never breaking contact, his hand steady at your back. The other cupped your face, thumb brushing your cheek like he was afraid you might vanish if he blinked.

“Tell me,” He murmured, eyes searching yours. “Tell me what you need - from me.”

He couldn’t just guess with you, because if he assumed, if he rushed, and that wasn’t what you meant or wanted, then the voice that haunted him most would be his own. It wouldn’t just be a mistake, it would be a desecration of your trust and of everything he loved in you enough to fear deserving.

Your gaze dropped, lashes low, the way they always were when you were feeling more than you could say. He felt it before your head even tilted. His hands shifted instinctively, thumbs brushing higher to catch the motion before it finished. He tilted your face back up, and you met it. 

Your eyes stayed on his then, pupils dilated and indisputably clear with longing. “I want - need - you to…” You leaned your forehead into his, a heavenly bridge between thoughts, like you were trying to share all the things you couldn’t quite say. “To touch me, please.” 

“Where?” 

“Everywhere.” 

He kissed you like he remembered it from another life, like he'd searched lifetimes for the shape of your mouth against his. His lips moved with yours in slow, aching glides. It was tender, then deeper, then tender again. He didn’t know if he should be worshiping you or begging.

Every press of his mouth said more more more.

Each kiss turned breathier, wetter, more desperate from how severely he missed you. His breath caught between kisses, panting through the closeness like the air couldn’t reach his lungs unless it passed through your mouth first.

“I missed you,” He whispered into the corner of your lips, not pulling away, just grazing. “I missed you so much.” One hand stayed at your jaw, the other found the back of your head. His fingers tightened just enough to press you into him, as if the closeness could make up for lost time. “Thought maybe you didn’t want me anymore. I told myself not to take it personal, but I did. A little.”

Your expression faltered. It downright crumpled, and he could sense that something inside you caught and tore. Mouth parted, but no words came out. Your eyes scanned his face instead, wide and pained and full of unshed apology.

You drew back only slightly, far enough to see him clearly. Spencer didn’t chase the space between you that time. He didn’t even try to mask the sadness pooling in his eyes. It was all there, unarmed and honest and splintered. The months of wondering if maybe you’d grown tired of needing him, the week he fretted he wasn’t worthy to smile at.

So you kissed him. Once at his temple, in the hollow of his cheek, then once at the spot just beneath his eye where the worry had collected in his dark circles, intensifying them.

“I missed you while restoring that manuscript, the one with the tiny constellations. I kept hearing your voice saying them in Latin.” You murmured against his skin. Another kiss. “I missed you every time the tea water boiled and you weren’t there to remind me I left it on.” Another. “And I kept wearing your shirt to bed." Your lips brushed his jaw. "But I couldn’t sleep in it. Every time, I’d end up pulling it off…it made me miss you too much, made me want your hands on me instead.”

Spencer didn’t speak. There were no words, not a single one, that could support what he felt.

He only looked at you, stunned and devoted, as his thoughts melted away and rearranged the shape of his heart.

Before you could place the next kiss, he angled your mouth to his. There was a twinkle in your eyes, a nearly-smile that was quickly cut off as you leaned in. The first kiss was sweet, tender, and careful. His mouth was trying to say thank you in the only way it could, without breaking the moment.

He kissed you harder, his tongue sliding against the seam of your lips, pleading to be let in.

Your tongue met his, and at the same time, you sank forward - hips to hips, heat to heat. The motion dragged a chasmic groan from him. His hand locked at your waist like muscle memory, like your body had always belonged in his arms.

No one else’s. Just his.

His teeth caught your bottom lip, just enough to make you sigh in the shape of his name. Then he let it go, breathing against your mouth.

“I need to know,” He said hoarsely, his voice shaking with restraint. “That you want me. Only me.”

There was flagrant jealousy in his words, the kind that came from loving someone so wholly, it terrified him to imagine being anyone less to you. The need to belong to you and be belonged to even pressed just beneath his fingernails, like he might scratch the world away if it meant getting closer to your heart. 

Your bottom lip caught between your teeth, pressure-seeking. To replace what his mouth had taken from you a moment before.

Your voice was quiet, rhythmically broken, “Just you. Only you, forever and always.”

He exhaled sharply, and the next one came through his nose.

“Say it again,” He said, voice thistledown.

“You’re mine, Spencer. I’m yours.”

His hips bucked helplessly, involuntarily. The thick line of his arousal pressing into the soft heat between your inner thigh and center, right where your legs parted just slightly above him. Not quite where he needed to be, but close enough to make his blood rush wildly.

His spine curved like you’d pulled a string inside him, drawing him forward into your space, into your claim. One hand gripped your waist tight while the other slipped up your back, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt.

You shifted in his lap, the friction drawing another low sound from him. His forehead dropped to your shoulder.

His hips rocked once more, slowly that time, testing permission.

Your fingers fisted the front of his shirt as an unintentional gasp was ripped from you. It came the moment your hips lifted just enough to meet him, and the head of his cock brushed right over your clit through the thin barrier of your cotton shorts.

Spencer felt the sound it tore from you. The subtle tremble in your legs, the way your nails flexed against his chest like you'd been electrocuted by pleasure.

He knew how sensitive you were. His body was just as starved, just as close to breaking.

A needy sound rose in his throat, full of both arousal and adoration like his soul had tripped over itself on the way to worship.

He pressed his mouth to your neck, just below your jaw, right against your pulse. His hand moved slowly, so achingly slow, fingers brushing down the outside of your thigh until he found the hem of your pajama shorts.

He slipped under the fabric so gently it was almost maddening.

The backs of his fingers skimmed first, petal-soft against your skin, knuckles barely grazing the crease where your leg met your center. He didn’t touch you there yet, even though every part of him begged to press harder, to give in.

His fingertips spread over your upper thigh, soft and doughy and perfect beneath his palm. He squeezed, then his thumb moved in careful circles, so close to your core.

“You’re--” He couldn’t finish the thought, so he tried another, “You’re so--I don’t deserve you.”

His lips pressed between your brows, to the bridge of your nose, the curve of your upper lip.

He hadn’t meant to change the pattern, but as his thumb drifted inward, the shape evolved on its own. The spiral he traced was instinctive at first, then he recognized it. The Fibonacci curve. Nature’s most efficient expression of beauty. Flowers, waves, galaxies, and then you.

Spencer’s chest barely rose as he pulled back just enough to see.

His hand stayed beneath the soft fabric of your shorts, thumb circling so close to your core, and his eyes dropped. He needed to watch you fall apart because a man in love needs to witness what no one else gets to, the unraveling meant only for him.

With a high, breathy keen, your hand shot down to grip his wrist. His whole body stilled.

His thumb froze in place, fingers curling instinctively as if bracing himself to let go, but you didn’t move him. Didn’t tug or push or flinch. You just held him there, your palm tight over the bones of his wrist.

He looked up at you.

When your wide and glassy eyes met his, pleading without shame, his hesitation dissolved.

“You can,” You whispered, barely audible. “Please.”

As he nodded, he eased your hand from his wrist, kissed your knuckles gently, and then kept moving.

His touch drifted inward, and where your panties curved with your leg, he nudged the fabric aside.

He couldn’t make out every detail, not with the TV’s pale glow flattening color into shadows, but he could still see the parting of you, the slick shimmer catching just enough light to make him moan. A desperate sound, shorn from the walls of his lungs. 

His hand shook from the strain of trying to give you everything; time, space, reverence, a choice. Even if every part of him screamed to touch every part of you.

But your body was so tight with need that he could feel it in the way your hips twitched forward, in the scrunch and release of your calves, the quiver running up your torso.

So, when his fingers finally brushed your bare heat, you whimpered, stripped of sweetness or control.

“I know,” Spencer crooned, his thumb never stopped stroking with tender insistence over your clit. “I know.” 

The bundle of nerves swelled slightly as he moved over it - turgid, hypersensitive, reacting to even the lightest pressure. He adjusted his touch, easing from featherlight to a deeper press, then softening again until your nails bit into his skin.

Eventually, you shook your head, and not because you meant to say no.

It was too much, and Spencer could see that. The way your climax crept up on you, unfairly fast and overwhelming, like a wave cresting up your spine. He saw it in the way your feet dug into the cushion. The way your hand found his wrist again with an ironclad grip, fingers squeezing with something like desperation.

You were trying to slow it down, to hold back, but your body didn’t want to listen.

Maybe Spencer wasn’t listening either because his hand kept moving, his fingers soaked, sliding through the heat of you with such care.

You timorously said, “More. I want more.”

He truly thought he understood, so he pressed a single finger inside, letting his palm rock against your clit with each movement.

You yelped so suddenly, gasping against his neck. Your mouth found him there, lips and teeth sinking into the side of his throat in shock. 

Your other hand moved, sliding down to wrap above the one already clutching his wrist. Both your hands were stacked there, holding him, your body shaking.

Spencer stopped immediately.

“Are you okay? Did I--?” 

Before he could finish, your mouth kissed his.

“I’m okay,” You said reassuringly against his lips. “I want your…I- I just need more than your fingers.”

Realization hit like a thunderclap. His finger stilled inside you, but his eyes never left yours.

You shifted in his lap, more instinct than thought, hips bracing like you meant to rise, legs gathering beneath you. 

Spencer didn’t let you go. His fingers spread against the nape of your neck, forearm rested your shoulder, wordless in his plea.

He wanted you right there. Not in the bedroom. Not later.

It had been months since he’d felt you like that, so warm and eager, all your softness angled toward him instead of away. He knew the way distance could sneak in, how silence could calcify, how long it could take to find each other again when the days pulled too hard and for too long.

There had been moments, too many, when you were the only calm in his overcrowded and overloaded world. You'd been there when his hours bled together, when the inside of his head was louder than anything outside it.

He hadn’t forgotten that. He never could.

He’d always find you, the way particles stay entangled across impossible distances, the way two halves remember each other no matter how many universes lie between. There was no version of the world where you weren’t his.

He knew you’d always find him too.

Spencer didn’t speak, but he didn’t have to. Not when his eyes were hooded and star-dusted had said everything he wasn’t able to: Stay. I want to give you myself right here.

You paused, then relaxed. Practically melted as you nestled your body back down into his. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, the press of your fingers sending sparks through the tendons of his neck. Your hips lifted just slightly as an invitation. 

He felt it like a yes.

His nose nudged yours sweetly. His fingers lingered a heartbeat longer before slipping from your center, then his hand slid between your bodies, and he freed himself. The weight of his cock strained between you, hard and slick with anticipation, pressing up against your heat.

“I missed touching you,” He whispered, his voice uneven as his hand found the edge of your shorts again. “I missed every inch of you.” His fingers hooked into the fabric and pushed it aside again, baring you to him once more.

His hands steadily curled beneath your thighs, and he lifted you a little higher, so you could come down onto him at your own pace.

He lined himself up, the thick head of him brushing over you, and his voice was nothing but air:

“You’re sure?” He whispered, eyes only on you. “You’re not doing this just for me?”

You smiled with the smallest, truest curve of your lips, like something had soothed inside you. A knot finally unspooling. He felt the smile before he fully saw it, sensed it in your pulse, in the way your breath licked warmth against his cheek.

“I want this just as much as you do.” You promised, cheeks rounding even more. “If not more.”

Spencer hadn’t known when he’d see that smile again, and that uncertainty alone had scorched something cavernous within him, some soft place he rarely let anything touch. In the synaptic cleft where affection lived without theory for him.

There you were, beaming at him, and it felt like light spilt across bare skin. Awakening goosebumps as it passed.

His hands gripped your hips, holding you as you slowly lowered yourself onto him until the thick heat of him finally pushed past your entrance, stretching you in the most intimate silence he’d ever known.

His mouth fell open as he just watched your face. Watched for any sign of pain, discomfort, anything that might make him stop.

There was none.

Only the way your lashes fluttered, and the way your hand held onto the back of his neck, and the way that smile, that absurdly precious, soul-deep smile, stayed.

You were moving above him, rhythm steady as your body wrapped around him so perfectly it made him dizzy. His eyes were heavy-lidded as his gaze shot downward, transfixed where your bodies met like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

His jaw went slack.

Every time you sank down, he had to remind himself not to fall apart. But he was close, already.

He tried to focus on the stretch of your neck, the curve of your shoulder, the sounds you made, anything but the delicious drag of your body around him, but he knew you knew. That you saw it written all over him; the way his eyes fluttered, the jitter of his knee, bouncing once before going taut, the subtle flex of his fingers as his climax tried to rise without permission.

The moment you reached between your legs, Spencer’s breath staggered, chest lurching.

Your fingers, those wickedly perfect fingers, slipped between your folds, and started to circle your clit.

“W-wait--” His voice cracked, hoarse with panic and pleasure, “Don’t--if you--if you keep touching yourself like that I--”

It was too late.

You moaned softly, hips still rocking, and the sight of your fingers bringing yourself to the edge while he was inside you, feeling your muscles contract, it destroyed him. In the best and worst way.

The best: His orgasm hit like a shudder through his entire spine. A long, low moan pressed into the crook of your neck as he emptied into you, holding you so tightly he worried he might never let go.

The worst: Guilt.

He wanted you to finish before him. How he’d been so close, so reverent, and still, your pleasure hadn’t come first.

“I’m sorry,” He hurried, kissing the edge of your mouth. “I didn’t mean to-- I didn’t want to finish before you.”

You just kissed him back. Held him like he wasn’t broken or made of missteps and mistakes.

He needed to give you more. He had to. So, Spencer kissed you again, and eased you back onto the sofa, his hands so gentle on your hips, your waist, your quivering thighs. 

“Let me make it right.” He whispered-pleaded, already sliding between your legs.

His mouth lowered, his arms hooked under your upper legs, and he settled between them like it was home.

[virtualbabydevil]

Reblog if you want your followers to anonymously ask you one thing they want to know about you.

[virtualbabydevil]

Could you please do a fix where Spencer and reader return home after he's released from prison and she allows him to bite her and mark her all over because they both missed each other so much and she knows he needs something to be his again, after three months of having nothing?

Home Bound

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader MDNI Masterlist CW: Smut, Angst, Biting Kink, Marking, Rough Sex, Restraints, Oral Sex (R rec), Finger Fucking, Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Aftercare, Emotions. WC: 11,237 Unofficial Part 2 for Homesick. (Not Proof Read) Updated Aug 28 2025

The apartment feels impossibly quiet, the kind of silence that presses against the skin, heavy and anticipatory. You’re curled into the couch, knees pulled up to your chest, heart thrumming with a tension that’s been building for months. Every small sound outside makes you flinch, every creak in the building a potential herald of his return. Three months of absence have left you wired, a taut thread strung tight, ready to unravel at the first touch. The lock clicks and your whole body reacts before your mind can catch up. You sit forward, breath caught somewhere high in your chest, and then he’s there. Spencer steps inside with the kind of careful quiet that has nothing to do with stealth and everything to do with fragility, as though the moment itself might shatter if he moves too suddenly.

You don’t rise to meet him. For a heartbeat you can’t. It’s too much all at once—the sight of him, the realness of him here in your space, the rush of grief and relief colliding in your chest. He drops the bag from his hand, forgotten, and then he’s kneeling in front of the couch, reaching for you with hands that hesitate at the last second.

That hesitation breaks you. You launch forward, arms circling him, pressing your face into his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt rough against your skin. He lets out a sound that is neither sigh nor sob, just a release of something held too long, and then he’s clutching you back, fingers tangled in your shirt, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

Neither of you speak at first. Words feel too thin for the swell of what crashes between you. You breathe him in, the smell of his skin, his hair, the faint trace of cold air that clings to him. His lips press against the crown of your head in a frantic pattern, as if trying to anchor himself with the shape of you.

“I thought about this,” he whispers at last, voice hoarse, as if it hasn’t been used in days. “Every night. I thought if I could just hold on long enough, I’d get back to you.” His hands tighten at your waist, almost shaking. “But nothing came close to this. Not even in my head.”

Your throat burns. You shift just enough to look at him, your palms framing his face, and he leans into your touch with a desperation that steals your breath. His eyes are wet, red at the edges, but burning with something rawer, deeper. He presses his forehead to yours, and the quiet stretches again, heavy but alive now, filled with heartbeats and the fragile miracle of him being here, with you.

When he kisses you it’s not careful. It’s messy, clashing, a collision of hunger and grief and need. Your hands clutch at him, trying to pull him closer when he’s already pressed against you. His breath hitches, breaking against your mouth, and you taste salt, taste him, taste the months of absence unravelling into something feverish and unstoppable.

The kiss deepens, and with it comes a hunger that has been caged for too long. Spencer’s mouth moves over yours with a rough insistence, almost clumsy in its urgency, but it only makes your chest ache harder, because it’s him, it’s real, it’s everything you’ve missed.

You tug at his jacket, fingers fumbling, frustrated by the barrier of fabric. He catches your hands for only a second, as though he might slow you, but then he lets go, ripping the jacket off with a jerky motion, tossing it to the floor.

Your shirt is next, his fingers catching on the hem, pulling it upward, and you lift your arms without breaking the kiss. The shirt lands somewhere behind the couch, forgotten.

His hands are everywhere, clutching your waist, sliding up your back, pulling you closer until there is no space left to close. You tug at his shirt, desperate, the fabric refusing to move fast enough, and he breaks away only long enough to strip it over his head before crashing back into you.

You rise from the couch together, clinging, stumbling, his lips never straying far from yours. It’s messy, hurried, the kind of collision born from months of longing sharpened into something raw. He pushes you against the hallway wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding against the heat of your skin.

You gasp into his mouth and he drinks it in, lips tracing down to your jaw, your throat, biting harder than he ever has before.

You let out a sound you didn’t mean to, raw and sharp, and his grip tightens at your hip as if that sound alone could undo him.

He kisses like a man starved, like someone trying to reclaim not just your body but every day he spent without it, without you. Your back thuds against the bedroom door, and with a frantic twist he pushes it open, guiding you through without letting you go.

There’s no neatness to it, no grace, only the heat of stripping away months of separation with each layer shed. His mouth finds yours again and again, desperate, as though kissing you is the only way to prove he’s free, that he’s home.

By the time you reach the bed, shoes, clothes, pieces of both of you are scattered in a trail across the floor, the apartment marked by your reunion.

He pushes you back onto the mattress, breath ragged, eyes dark and alive in a way you haven’t seen in months. He hovers there for just a moment, staring down at you, his chest heaving, and you see it—how close he is to breaking, how much he needs this, how much he needs you.

He hovers above you, chest heaving, lips hovering close but not touching. His gaze roves over your skin like he’s already imagining what he’ll leave behind, the bruises, the marks, the evidence. When he dips his head, his teeth catch at your throat, sharp enough to sting, and you gasp, your wrists tightening instinctively in the sheets. He pulls back just enough for you to see the faint curl at his mouth.

“You’re mine,” he says suddenly, voice rough, almost broken, not even directed at you so much as dragged out of him, like a truth he’s been chewing on in the dark for too long. His gaze moves over you, fevered, frantic. “I need—everyone needs to see. To know. You’re mine.”

The words send a shiver through you, not frightening, but sharp and real. His lips fall to your neck, biting down hard again making you gasp, as he groans against your skin like the sound fuels him. He lifts his head again, hair falling into his eyes, and you see the shift, the raw edge of something claiming him as much as it claims you.

He pulls back from your throat, breathing hard, lips swollen, the faintest trace of your skin already reddening where his teeth caught you. His hand cradles your jaw, almost tender, but his eyes are wild, restless, flicking over you like he can’t stop imagining what he wants to do.

“I can’t stop at this,” he says, his voice low, frayed, as though it costs him to admit it. “Not tonight. I need more. I need to put my mark everywhere, I need to claim you in every way I’ve thought about.” His thumb strokes your cheek, the touch at odds with the desperation in his words. “Please. Tell me I can. Tell me I can take what I need.”

You can feel the tremor in him, the way he’s holding himself back, the way restraint is shredding at the edges. He presses his forehead against yours, his breath uneven, muttering again, softer this time, almost broken. “I won’t unless you let me. Say yes. Say I can have you like that.”

“Say I can bite you, bruise you, mark every inch until no one could ever mistake who you belong to. I need to hear you say it.”

Your pulse hammers in your throat, every nerve alight with the force of his need, the way he’s teetering on the edge of breaking. You tilt your head back, giving him more of your throat, your voice unsteady but sure.

“Yes,” you whisper, then stronger. “Yes, Spencer. Do it. Mark me. Take what you need.”

The sound he makes is almost guttural, a ragged exhale that shudders through his whole body. For a heartbeat he closes his eyes, as though those words alone are enough to undo him. When they open again, they’re darker, hungrier, the last tether of restraint snapping.

“Thank you,” he breathes, but it comes out more like a vow than gratitude. His hands clutch at your wrists, dragging them up over your head, holding them pinned for a moment before he pushes off the bed. He crosses to the closet with a suddenness that makes your chest tighten, rummaging until he pulls out coils of rope.

The sight of it makes your pulse race, a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your body. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. You know what he wants, what he needs, and you give it to him without a word, lifting your wrists in silent permission.

He ties you with shaking hands, not from hesitation but from too much urgency coiled inside him, the knots rough and fast. The rope bites into your skin just enough to remind you of its presence, firm and unyielding. He secures your arms above your head, then moves down to catch your ankles.

He binds your ankles to the bedframe with a grip that feels deliberate, almost punishing, his fingers rough as they finish the last knot. When he leans back, breath uneven, eyes dragging across your restrained body, he looks possessed by the sight. His tongue flicks across his bottom lip. “Perfect,” he breathes, and this time it’s not for him. “All mine.”

He steps back, only barely. The distance does nothing to temper the heat in his gaze. He rakes a hand through his hair, jaw clenched, and looks at you like he’s already undone. “Don’t move,” he says. It lands somewhere between a command and a confession. “Not until I’m finished. Not until every part of you shows who you belong to.”

Then he’s over you again, heavy and intent, and the first bite lands just below your throat, sharp enough to steal your breath. His mouth lingers there, lips sealing around the mark as if tasting your pulse, sucking until the skin burns red beneath him. He moves lower, teeth dragging along your collarbone, your shoulder, every scrape carving a deeper ache into you. Each mark is a vow. Each bruise a warning.

His mouth finds your chest, heat pouring from him as he latches on. One hand covers a breast with unyielding pressure, kneading in a way that’s far from tender. His teeth graze the other, catching on soft flesh before sinking in, hard enough to rip a cry from your throat. The sting floods you, bright and immediate, but his tongue is there right after, soothing, circling, claiming.

The ropes hold you open, nothing to do but feel. Your body arches instinctively, seeking more, every nerve sparking beneath his mouth, his hands. You moan, loud and needy, hips jerking against restraints you can’t escape. Slick gathers fast, thick and unbearable, a throbbing heat that pulses harder when you feel him grind into your thigh, the rigid press of his cock leaving no doubt he’s just as lost in it as you are.

“Fuck,” he groans into your skin, teeth closing over the curve of your breast, sucking deep. “You sound so good like this. Strung up. Taking everything.” He tweaks your nipple between two fingers, sharp and sudden, making you gasp. Your sound fuels him. His hips press harder, chasing friction, desperate and rough against your thigh.

You writhe. There’s no other word for it. The sound of the sheets beneath you grows louder, the bed creaking as your body strains to meet him. Every drag of his mouth, every scrape of his teeth, sends a deeper ache flooding between your legs, wetness spilling onto your skin. You can feel it, slick and hot, and so can he.

His mouth stays at your chest like he’s starving, unable to leave it. He palms one breast roughly, fingers digging into flesh, thumb sweeping across your nipple until it’s aching. The other, he takes between his lips, biting down slow and deep. The pressure borders on cruel, but you welcome it. You crave it. The sharpness of pain, the heat that follows, the flick of his tongue that feels too soft, too tender, against the mark he’s just made.

He does it again, slower this time, dragging the moment out. His lips close over the bruise and suck until your back lifts from the mattress. The ropes dig into your skin, holding you down even as your body tries to rise to meet him.

You’re unravelling under him. Every time he switches sides, every time his mouth leaves one breast swollen and flushed to claim the other, the ache in your core deepens. Your nipples throb, hypersensitive, and the contrast between the warm wet of his mouth and the sharp edge of his teeth makes your breath catch in your throat.

When he slaps the side of your breast, the sound startles you. You cry out. He does it again, harder this time, and the sting only tightens the clench of your cunt. You’re soaked. You know it. He knows it. His cock ruts against your thigh with increasing urgency, a smear of wet heat left in its wake.

He won’t stop. Can’t. He’s biting you like you’re his to devour, like he’s carving himself into your skin. You welcome every one of them. Your body sings for it, trembles for it, bound and stretched and shaking from how badly you want more.

When he finally lifts his head, his chest heaves. His lips are swollen, damp, flushed. His breath comes in harsh pulls, and his eyes— His eyes burn. They drag over you slowly, taking in every bruise, every flush of red he’s left blooming across your chest. One hand stays on your breast, thumb circling lazily around your nipple, the rhythm a cruel tease that leaves you gasping.

He spreads his fingers wide, pressing against the warm skin, then moves lower, trailing them over every raised mark as though counting them. His touch is slow, almost reverent in its precision, but there’s nothing gentle in the way his jaw tightens. Something animal scratches just under the surface.

His thumb presses into a fresh bruise and your whole body flinches. He watches you twitch. Watches your lips part. Watches how the ropes strain as you try to move. A breath escapes him, half-whisper, half-growl.

“Look at you.” His voice is ragged. “Everywhere I touch, I leave something behind.” His thumb finds another mark and presses into the tender skin until your eyes water. “Everyone will know you’re mine.”

Your thighs tremble at his words. The ache inside you pulses deeper, more urgent, wetness dripping down to the sheets. Your breasts are swollen, flushed and marked and aching, and still, he hasn’t had enough. His hands linger, squeezing, shaping, then letting go only to watch them bounce back, blemished and beautiful under his gaze.

He leans forward. His breath ghosts over your skin. Then his mouth drops lower.

He kisses down your stomach, soft at first. Lingered touches. Almost gentle. Then his teeth return, scraping lightly along your belly, nipping the soft flesh just above your navel. You twitch under him, wrists pulling at the rope, hips tilting toward his mouth.

But he only chuckles, low and pleased. “Can’t even keep still,” he murmurs, voice thick with heat. “That’s why I have to tie you down.” His mouth finds a spot just above your hip and bites down hard enough to leave your legs shaking. “So I can take my time.”

He kneels between your legs, gaze dropping to the wet, glistening heat between them. His breath catches, and he exhales hard through his nose, visibly straining against the urge to take you.

His hand slides between your thighs. Not to give, just to tease. Fingers barely brush your folds, light enough that you question if it happened at all. Your hips jerk, searching for contact, but his other hand presses you flat. Holds you still. Keeps you trapped beneath his weight and will.

And then his mouth finds your inner thigh. Hot. Heavy. He bites. Sharp. Unapologetic. You cry out again, louder, and his tongue is already there, soothing, tasting, sealing the bruise into you with heat and breath and want.

He doesn’t stop. Not yet. There are still so many places left to mark. When he pulls back, he doesn’t rush. He lingers, watching the shape of the bruise rise beneath his lips, admiring the flush of red turning purple at the centre. It’s only when your breath catches that he lowers his head again, this time to a fresh patch of skin further down your thigh, teeth dragging slow before biting in with purpose. Another mark. Another place that belongs to him.

His hand drifts closer, fingers tracing the inside of your thigh, so close to your centre it makes your whole body tighten. The contact is featherlight, maddening, a whisper of touch that barely grazes your slick folds. Instinct takes over. Your hips rise from the mattress, seeking more, but the ropes around your ankles hold firm, taut and unforgiving, stealing the freedom to chase what you need. He watches the movement, the desperation, with a glint in his eyes that borders on cruel satisfaction.

His thumb circles your clit with no pressure at all, just a ghost passing over already sensitive skin, a tease that sends a fresh rush of slick down your thighs. He bites the opposite leg hard, the sharp pain flaring bright, the bruise left behind darker than the rest. Your thighs are shaking, trembling from strain and ache, from pleasure denied and the heat spreading like fire under your skin.

Still, he doesn't touch you properly. Not yet. He switches between slow drags of his mouth across your inner thighs and maddening strokes of his fingers that stay just out of reach. A rhythm with no pattern, meant only to tease, to unravel. Your cunt aches, wet and empty, fluttering with need. Every brush of his fingers makes your breath catch, every scrape of his teeth forces another sound from your throat.

He pulls back to look at you. Your thighs flushed, covered in his mouth, his bite. Your chest rising too fast, body tense and shaking, skin shining with sweat and arousal. His hand rests just above your cunt, fingers damp with the proof of your need, and he stares at the way your body pulses for more. His cock jerks against his stomach, twitching with restraint he’s struggling to hold onto. He wants you wrecked. Wants you undone. Wants it slow enough to last.

“All mine,” he says again, quieter now, like it’s sacred. His thumb grazes your slick folds, barely a touch, but enough to make you whine—a raw, needy sound that slips out before you can swallow it.

Your wrists twist against the rope. You arch again, chest heaving, hips rolling upward as if you can summon more from him by sheer will. His mouth presses another hot kiss to the inside of your thigh, tongue sliding lazily over a bruise, but it's not enough. It’s not what you need. You need his fingers, his mouth, his cock, anything solid and deep and real.

“Spencer,” you breathe. It’s barely a sound, more broken air than voice. “Please. I’ve been so good for you. Please… touch me.”

The words fall quiet, like you’re afraid they’ll break the spell between you, but they land hard. You see it immediately—the way his eyes darken, the tension that coils tighter in his shoulders, the hand between your thighs suddenly going still.

“You’ve been perfect,” he replies, low and rough, the edge of restraint fraying in his voice. His thumb brushes you again, this time with the lightest hint of pressure. “So fucking good for me.”

He lifts his head. Locks eyes with you. And what you see there makes your breath hitch. Hunger, yes, but more than that. Possession. Worship. Obsession. He moves then, slow and sure, pressing the pad of his thumb against your clit and circling just right—firm and steady and overwhelming.

You cry out, loud and sudden, your body jolting at the pressure. It crashes into you all at once, every inch of you already strung tight and ready to snap. The heat that floods through you is blinding. Your moan echoes between the walls and his chest shudders in response, like the sound alone is enough to unravel him.

His fingers slide through your slick, dragging slow and deep between your folds, parting you with reverent precision. He finds the spot that makes your hips jump and circles it again, then again, each time slower, more deliberate, as if memorizing what makes you fall apart.

His mouth returns to your thigh, dragging his teeth across bruised skin with lazy ownership. Another nip, then a kiss, and all the while his fingers never stop, the rhythm building until you’re gasping, thighs trembling, your entire body tuned to the movement of his hand.

“That’s it,” he rasps against your skin, grinding slowly against your leg as he watches you fall apart. “So good for me. Just like this. Letting me take my time.”

The ropes, the marks, the control—it's a language spoken in sensation, in shared rhythm. Every part of you answers without hesitation. You give it freely, without holding back. All of you.

He leans down again, kisses your thigh where the bruise is deepest, and then his fingers curl inside you.

You gasp. Your back arches. He moves slow at first, dragging his fingers through your slick heat, curling them with a precision that feels devastating. He finds that spot inside you and presses, slow and firm, then pulls back just enough to do it again. And again. Until your body trembles with every stroke.

His other hand finds your hip, fingers digging in hard, nails dragging downward until red marks bloom in their wake. The pressure, the scratch, the way his fingers stretch you—all of it crashes together, making your breath come in broken pieces.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The sound of your moans, the wet glide of his fingers, the way your cunt clenches greedily around him—it’s all the answer he needs. He watches your body move under him, every reaction winding that hunger inside him tighter. His mouth is parted. His breath ragged.

You’re soaking his hand, slick coating his fingers and palm, dripping onto the sheets beneath you. And still, he doesn’t stop. Each curl of his fingers comes with purpose, pushing deeper, stroking with precision. Your moans build, tangled with the sound of your thighs slapping faintly against his wrist, the bed groaning beneath you.

Then, without warning, his mouth is there.

Your thighs tremble, muscles locking and releasing in broken rhythm as the wave pulls tighter. You’re not breathing so much as gasping, shallow and frantic, every part of you tightening around the heat he’s pouring into your body. Spencer’s tongue moves with maddening focus, a controlled chaos in the way he circles, flicks, then presses—flat, heavy, devastating. Each stroke hits a little different, a little deeper, never giving your body time to settle. There’s no mercy in the rhythm. Only hunger.

His fingers curl again, perfectly timed with the flattening of his tongue, and your whole body arches like you’ve been struck. You cry out—loud, sudden, a crack in the still air—and he groans against you, the vibration humming straight through your cunt. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t flinch. Just keeps going, lips sealed to your clit, dragging sounds from you that feel primal, unfamiliar, ripped from someplace deeper than speech.

The ropes creak with your every struggle, your wrists aching now, bound tight against the headboard, but the ache is nothing compared to the pleasure clawing its way up your spine. You’re soaked. Drenched. Every glide of his fingers spreads it wider, makes it filthier, your slick coating his hand, his wrist, dripping down between your cheeks.

His palm presses harder into the bruises at your thigh, thumb digging in near the edge of the newest mark, and the pain sharpens everything. Your pussy clenches violently around his fingers, and he moans again, louder, desperate. He shifts just enough to keep control, his weight keeping you pinned, his mouth never leaving you. He’s relentless. Intent. Like he’s memorizing how to destroy you with precision.

You’re gone. No shape to your thoughts, just fire. You buck helplessly against him, thighs shaking, back arched, sobbing his name in pieces. You can’t hold still. You can’t get free. And you don’t want to.

His fingers curl again, angled so perfectly you feel the stars behind your eyes scatter. He presses. Holds. The pads of his fingers dragging along that raw, electric spot deep inside you while his tongue circles once, twice, then flicks so fast your breath stops in your chest.

The world shatters.

You don’t mean to scream, but it rips out of you anyway. Your whole body locks, hips lifted off the bed in a trembling arc, wrists straining against the ropes, back bowing so violently the air leaves your lungs. The orgasm hits like a crash, all heat and white-noise, everything tightening in on itself before bursting open.

He groans into you, sucking harder, fingers still fucking you through it, keeping you high, keeping you wrung out. The pressure is too much, and not enough, and somehow still building even as you’re falling apart around him. Your thighs tremble uncontrollably, shaking under his hands, every inch of you soaked, fluttering, raw.

“Look at you,” he rasps, voice hoarse, lips slick with you as he lifts his head for just a breath. His fingers don’t stop. “So fucking pretty when you come. So loud for me.”

You can’t speak. Your chest is rising too fast, skin flushed and shining, tears caught at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity. He watches the way you fall apart, breathes it in like it’s the only thing keeping him steady, his cock grinding against the mattress now, chasing relief but never leaving you.

And then he’s back on you, tongue dragging over your clit again. You scream, the sound strangled and wrecked. It’s too much. Too sharp. Your body jerks violently, another aftershock rolling through you, slick pulsing around his fingers. He fucks you through it, hand steady, tongue ruthless, holding you down with the weight of his mouth and the press of his palm into the bruises he made.

Your entire body convulses, twitching under his grip. You can’t stop shaking. You don’t even want to.

“Don’t stop,” you sob, and it barely sounds like words, just breath and ache. “Spencer, please don’t stop.”

He groans again, his cock dragging against the mattress with unrelenting need, and he pulls his fingers free only to press them against your clit in slow, slippery circles. The sound of it is obscene—slick, wet, greedy—and he watches every reaction like it’s sacred.

“You’re mine,” he says low, voice frayed, wild around the edges. “No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to hear you beg like that.”

You nod frantically, tears slipping free now, throat raw from moaning, from gasping his name. You’re gone. All reason burned out of you, left only with the feeling of his mouth, his fingers, the truth of what he’s done to your body.

He leans in again, tongue parting your folds as he groans deep, dragging it through the mess he’s made of you, tasting you like he’s addicted to it. His fingers return, thrusting in deep, curling again, thumb circling your clit without pause.

Your second orgasm rises faster. Meaner. Brutal in the way it builds, the way it owns you. You scream again, breath breaking apart as your body seizes under him, the ropes keeping you bound as your legs shake, vision blurring, every nerve alight with fire.

You don’t know how long it lasts. Time has dissolved. There’s only the heat, the wet, the stretch, the grip of his hand on your thigh. The marks he left burn hotter now, a map of where he’s touched, a living memory of his mouth and teeth.

You fall back into the bed, wrecked, trembling, pulse hammering through every limb. His hand slows. His mouth softens. Gentle now. Worshipful. His fingers slip free, and the loss makes your body twitch, over-sensitive, raw and swollen.

He lifts his head, gaze meeting yours, and the look he gives you isn’t smug. It’s reverent. Hungry still. But so full of awe you feel the burn behind your eyes again.

“I could do that forever,” he says, and his voice is a wreck, deep and trembling, as if he’s the one who’s been undone.

And still, he hasn't even fucked you yet.

His eyes never leave yours. Dark. Burning. Intent. You see it—the precise moment something inside him shifts. The second he makes the choice to ruin you.

A low growl rumbles from his chest, vibrating through your skin, sinking deep into your core. Then he doubles down. His tongue sharpens to a ruthless flick, relentless against your clit, while his fingers curl harder, pressing again and again against that devastating spot inside you. Perfect. Unforgiving. Expert.

The pressure on your thigh increases until it becomes a vice, his palm locking you down, giving you no escape. You're spread open, pinned to the bed, every inch of sensation forced deep into your body until you can’t separate pleasure from pain. Your back bows in one sharp motion, a cry caught high in your throat, trembling there as the first shockwave hits.

It doesn’t wash over you. It explodes.

White-hot pleasure erupts through every nerve, a burn so total it’s blinding. You jerk hard against the restraints, thighs spasming, mouth open in a wordless scream that finally tears loose as your climax crashes through you. Raw. Shattering. He stays locked to you through it, mouth never leaving your clit, tongue gentling only slightly, soothing and tasting while his fingers stay deep inside, coaxing each final pulse from your cunt. Drawing it out. Refusing to let you fall.

It borders on pain, the way he keeps going, and still, you want it. You give it. Body trembling, twitching, too far gone to speak.

When your limbs finally collapse, you melt into the bed, nothing but heat and sweat and aftershocks. The ropes keep you upright, wrists strained above your head, legs parted. You’re limp and wrecked, every inch of your skin aching. Your chest heaves. Bruises throb. Sweat clings to every curve.

Spencer lifts his head slowly. His lips are wet with you, chin glistening. He looks at you like a man starved.

Then, without a word, he slides his fingers out. The sound is slick, obscene in the hush of the room, and you feel every drop of it. He holds them up for just a second, watching the way your body jerks, then brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean. He groans low, slow, deep in his throat like he’s tasting something holy. Like he’s been waiting his whole life for it.

The sight alone sends another flicker of heat through your body, weak but real, a ghost of pleasure echoing in your still-throbbing core.

He moves quickly after that, his own need finally overtaking him. There’s urgency in every part of him now. He fumbles with the rope at your ankles, hands shaking, movements clumsy with desperation. The knot resists him at first, but he rips it loose, dragging the binding free. Blood rushes back into your legs, sharp and tingling, pain blooming as nerves reawaken.

He doesn’t touch your wrists. Doesn’t free your arms. He leaves them stretched above you, tied tight to the headboard, the rope biting into your skin as your chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven gasps.

And he just looks at you for a breath. Long enough to make your skin prickle. His eyes are darker than before. His body tense. His cock flushed and leaking against his stomach.

He's not finished.

Not even close.

The blunt head of his cock drags through the wetness he’s already wrung from your body, slick and eager. That first push punches the breath from your lungs. The stretch is sharp, unforgiving, pleasure and ache twisted so tightly together they become the same thing. You cry out his name, your voice wrecked with need, and your back lifts from the bed in one violent jolt. His breath stutters against your neck, a broken sound torn from somewhere deep as he sinks deeper, inch by inch. The pace falters, messy and aching with how much he wants this, how long he’s gone without it.

When he finally bottoms out, buried deep inside you, everything stills. His body trembles, muscles locked, and he presses his forehead to your shoulder, damp curls clinging to skin already slick with sweat. His chest rises and falls against yours, every breath a struggle. The fullness is overwhelming, dizzying, your cunt fluttering around him like it knows nothing else, like it refuses to let him go. It steals your breath. Your vision blurs. Your nerves scream for more.

Then his teeth sink into your shoulder. Not soft. Not restrained. They hit deep, sharp enough to make you cry out again, the sting a perfect contrast to the molten stretch of him inside you. The bite tethers him to you, grounds him even as it sets your body alight. The sound he makes against your skin is not human. It’s guttural, something primal, raw with possession and relief.

When he starts to move, it’s messy and frantic. Control forgotten. He pulls out just far enough to slam back in, the force of it shoving you up the mattress. Every thrust tears a new sound from your throat. Each collision feels like a promise kept too late. It’s all hunger now. The pace builds fast, erratic, your sweat-slick bodies meeting with sharp, breathless rhythm. His teeth scrape your skin again. His mouth hovers close, always moving, always claiming.

The relief is blinding. Each push is a purge. Each thrust feels like his body is pleading for something it never thought it would have again. He is everywhere. Bruising you. Stretching you. Filling you in a way that feels endless. You feel it in your lungs. In your ribs. In the places where his hands grip you, tight enough to leave reminders.

He doesn’t stop. His hips keep pounding into you with growing desperation, but his head lifts from your shoulder. His eyes meet yours. Wide. Glazed with something darker than lust. They rake down your body, slow and consuming, cataloguing the wreckage he’s made. You watch him take it in.

His gaze catches first on the bite. The mark he left. A purple crescent already blooming on your shoulder, skin broken where his teeth sank deep. He growls, low and wrecked, something torn from his chest that rumbles between you like a warning. His thumb brushes across the mark, rough, unyielding. It’s not gentle. It presses into the sore flesh until you flinch, until the pain sharpens and your cunt clenches tight around him.

He groans, loud and guttural, and drops his forehead against yours.

Then his hips slam forward, one sharp thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. He watches your skin, watches the bruise darken beneath his thumb, blooming like a flower fed on pain and possession. His eyes stay locked there, drinking it in.

His gaze drifts lower, tracing the constellation of bruises along your hips, each one formed by the grip of his hands. They’re vivid now. Red and rising. His fingers tighten again, locking you to the bed as his rhythm stutters into something even more ragged.

He shifts his weight, covering you, pressing more of himself over your trembling body. His mouth finds your collarbone. Tongue hot and deliberate, tracing the bruise he left there, a silent act of devotion. His mouth is savage and soft all at once, as if every press of his tongue is an apology he’ll never speak aloud.

He’s losing rhythm. Losing the shape of control. Every thrust is harder. Deeper. Wrecked.

"Every mark. Every single one. I want you to see them tomorrow and remember how this cock felt. I want you to ache with it."

His voice breaks something open in you. The words sink beneath your skin like another bruise forming from the inside. He’s unravelling in real time, undone by the sight of your body covered in the evidence of him. Your slick clings to him. His chest is heaving. And still he moves, chasing something more.

He finds your throat again, mouth dragging up to the curve where your shoulder meets your neck, and sinks his teeth in hard. The bite is brutal. He doesn’t ease up. Doesn’t pull away. Just holds it there, pressing deeper until your skin throbs under his teeth, until you cry out again, too wrecked to think.

The thrusts come fast now, his hips slamming into yours, punishing and desperate. Sweat drips from his temple onto your chest. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, wet and raw and rhythmic.

He fucks you like he’s trying to stay inside you. Like leaving your body would destroy him. Like being buried in you is the only thing that keeps him breathing.

You’re shaking. Jerking with every bite, every sharp press of his cock as it hits deep again and again. Your body can’t keep up. The edge rushes toward you and you have no defense. You’re gone. Owned. Every inch of you claimed.

His fingers dig into your hips with bruising force, grinding you into the mattress. He’s using your body like a lifeline, chasing his own destruction.

"You see what you do to me?" His voice is ragged against your ear, breath searing across your damp skin. "You make me a fucking animal. Look at your skin. Every mark."

His hand slides from your hip, wide palm dragging over your side until it finds one of the fresh bruises on your ribs. He presses down, hard enough to make you gasp, the pain sharp and immediate.

"You feel that? That's me. That's going to be there for days. You'll feel me every time you breathe."

A broken moan slips from your throat. You don’t recognize it. You don’t care. The stretch, the sting, the filthy sound of your bodies colliding—it’s all too much.

"Spencer..." His name falls from your lips, breathless and hoarse, lost against the damp of his shoulder.

"Say my name again."

His voice drops lower. Commanding. Shaken. He shifts his angle and suddenly the head of his cock drags across something electric inside you. Your whole body tightens. You cry out, voice cracking.

"I want to hear it. I want you to forget every other name when I'm inside you."

"Sp—Spencer," you gasp, nearly choking on it as he slams into that same spot again. The pleasure spikes hard, sharp as a blade, and your body jerks under him.

"That's it." His voice tears apart, words strangled, barely coherent. "God, the sounds you make. The way your cunt just... clenches around me. Like it's trying to keep me here. You trying to keep me here?"

You nod, but it's a mess of a motion. Your body says it for you. The way it grips him. The way you pulse around him. You want him to stay. You want him inside you until the bruises fade, until every mark is gone, and even then you’ll want him again.

And he knows it.

He feels it in every shudder of your body, every moan ripped from your lungs, every bruise painting your skin like a brand of devotion.

He’s not stopping. Not until he’s left you with nothing untouched. Not until you carry him everywhere.

Not until you cum again, choking on his name.

His mouth finds the fresh bite on your shoulder, tongue laving over the swollen skin, slow and heavy. His teeth press down again, not enough to break skin, but promising more. A deeper ache blooms beneath the surface. The bite and the stretch hit at once, sharp and searing, your cunt clenching around the thick, relentless drag of his cock.

His free hand twists into your hair. He doesn’t tug. Just holds you steady, guiding your head until you’re forced to look at him. His eyes are almost black now, pupils wide and blown, hunger spilling from the thin rim of color that remains.

"Look at me. Look at me when I'm fucking you. I want to see it. I want to see everything I'm doing to you behind those eyes."

You meet his gaze and it’s like falling into something too big, too fierce. He looks ruined by need, eaten alive by it, and yet he still wants more. There’s fury in it. Possession. Heat that borders on madness. It should scare you. Maybe it does. But your body answers before your mind can. Your pussy tightens around him, fluttering in a surrender that has nothing to do with control.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he breathes, awestruck and unraveling. "Taking every inch. Letting me ruin you. Letting me mark this perfect skin."

His thrusts lose any last trace of rhythm, hips snapping forward in a ragged, punishing pace that drives the bed into the wall with every slam. The sound is obscene—wet, fast, relentless—and the slick echo of your bodies meeting fills the room like a second heartbeat.

His forehead presses to yours. The air between you is ragged, breath shared, mouths brushing but not kissing. Each exhale from him fans hot across your lips.

"You like this, don't you?" he whispers, his voice low and wrecked. "You like feeling me claim you. You like knowing you're going to be sore tomorrow, that you're going to feel me for days. That you're mine."

You can’t find words. Everything in you is unraveling, stretched too thin. All you can do is nod, frantic and helpless, your body rising to meet each desperate thrust, a full-bodied yes that screams through the silence.

He groans, deep and savage, the sound of a man unspooling.

"Yeah," he grunts. "Yeah, you do. My good girl. My perfect, ruined girl. All mine."

His hand trails from your hair down to your stomach, slick with sweat. He doesn't pause. Fingers find your clit and press, thumb circling rough and fast, the friction too much. Perfect. Agonizing. It sends a jolt straight through you, pleasure flooding back in full force, raw and biting.

Your stomach coils, the tension building again, high and tight and brutal. You’re balancing on the edge of something you won’t survive intact. The pressure of his cock inside you, the sharp ache of the bruises, the brutal grind of his thumb—it’s all too much, and yet not enough.

His eyes drop. He watches you beneath him, your body straining against the rope, your arms drawn taut. The sight seems to tear something open inside him. His expression fractures, pure need spilling across his face.

"Need more," he growls, the words nearly swallowed by the force of his breath. "Need to be deeper. Need to feel all of you."

His hands find your knees, curling around the backs with a grip that shakes. He lifts and folds you in half, your legs pressed back toward your chest, thighs trembling under the strain.

The change is instant. His cock sinks in deeper, heavier, a stretch so sharp it robs the air from your lungs. The groan that tears from him sounds like it's pulled from the base of his spine.

He fucks into you harder, deeper, the angle forcing him to hit a spot that makes your eyes roll back, that makes your whole body seize around him. You sob, soundless at first, then full-throated, throat tearing raw as he drives into the heart of you with every thrust.

Your wrists strain against the ropes. Fingers curl uselessly. There’s nothing you can do but take it.

His gaze locks on the slick slide of his cock inside you, watching himself disappear again and again, hips rolling with merciless intent. His jaw clenches, eyes wild. Then he drags his gaze upward, slow and hungry, over your belly to your chest.

The sight of your tits, pressed tight together by the bend of your body, stops him. The bruises darkening there pull a noise from his throat. Something rough. Possessive.

His thumbs stroke your thighs as they tremble in his grip, calloused skin dragging over oversensitive flesh.

"Look at you," he breathes. His voice catches. "Fuck, look what you let me do to you."

He stares at the purpling marks on your chest, vivid and blooming, the teeth-shaped bruises he left there hours ago.

"My marks. Right there. On display for me."

He thrusts harder, a deliberate push that punches a cry from your lungs.

"You're so fucking beautiful like this. Tied up and bent in half for my cock. Taking me so deep. Your pretty tits pressed together, wearing my bruises. You were made for this."

His words are a filthy, hypnotic chant, weaving through the haze of your pleasure. His grip on your legs tightens, his fingers digging in, and you know without a doubt that by morning, there will be ten perfect matching bruises on the side of your thighs.

The pleasure is a live wire, sparking through your veins with every deep, grinding thrust. He finds a rhythm that is both punishing and exquisitely precise, each movement calculated to drag the swollen, sensitive head of his cock over that perfect, blinding spot inside you. The world narrows to the feel of his hands on your skin, the sight of his intense, focused expression, the sound of his ragged breathing, and the overwhelming, stretching fullness that is both a claiming and a completion.

You are moaning openly now, a continuous, broken stream of sound that is half his name, half meaningless pleas. Every part of you is singing, straining, coiling tighter and tighter toward a shattering peak.

You can feel the tension coiling in his own body, the way his thrusts are becoming less controlled, more frantic, the way his fingers tremble where they grip your flesh. The air is thick with the scent of sex and sweat, charged with the imminent, explosive release you are both racing toward. He is holding on by a thread, his own control fraying as he watches you come utterly apart beneath him, poised to follow you over the edge into oblivion.

The thread of his control, stretched so taut and thin, finally snaps. It isn't a gentle unravelling but a violent, seismic break. A raw, guttural shout is torn from his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated release that seems to shake the very walls of the room. His hips stutter, losing all rhythm, becoming a series of shallow, frantic jerks as he buries himself to the hilt inside you and lets go.

You feel it the moment he cums. A hot, pulsing rush deep within you, the first thick jet of his release hitting your deepest walls. It triggers your own undoing. The coil of pleasure that had been wound to an impossible tightness in your core suddenly, violently, unravels. Your orgasm doesn't crest; it detonates. A white-hot shockwave of pure sensation erupts from where you are joined, radiating outward in a paralyzing rush.

It seizes every muscle in your body at once. Your back arches off the bed as far as the ropes and his weight will allow, a silent, breathless scream caught in your throat. Your cunt clenches around him in a rapid, rhythmic series of spasms, milking his cock for every last drop of his release, each pulse wringing a broken groan from his lips.

The pleasure is all-consuming, a tidal wave that drowns out every other thought, every other sense. It’s a full-body convulsion of ecstasy that leaves you trembling, boneless, and utterly wrecked. Your vision whites out at the edges, the world dissolving into a haze of sensation—the hot, wet feel of him pulsing inside you, the brutal, perfect stretch of him, the aftershocks of your own climax that feel like smaller, echoing earthquakes shaking you apart.

He collapses over you, his full weight a heavy, welcome anchor that pins you to the mattress. His forehead presses into the sweat-damp pillow beside your head, his entire body shuddering through the last waves of his climax. His breath comes in ragged, shattered gasps against your ear, each one a hot, humid puff of air. You can feel the frantic, slowing hammer of his heart where his chest is crushed against yours.

For a long, timeless moment, neither of you moves. The only sounds are the ragged symphony of your breathing and the wet, soft sound of his cock still nestled deep inside you, spent and softening.

The air is thick and heavy with the scent of sex, a primal, musky perfume that hangs over you both like a blanket.

Slowly, carefully, his grip on your legs loosens. His hands, which had been vise-like, now stroke down the backs of your thighs with a tenderness that feels shocking after the previous brutality.

He gently guides your legs down, unwinding your body from its contorted position. A soft, involuntary whimper escapes you as your muscles protest the movement, the shift causing him to slip almost out before he settles his weight again, keeping himself sheathed within you. The feeling of him, still inside you in the quiet aftermath, is profoundly intimate. It’s a possessive, grounding presence, a physical tether to the storm that has just passed.

His body is a warm, heavy blanket atop yours, and you can feel the fine tremors that still occasionally wrack his frame. One of his hands comes up, his fingers clumsy with exhaustion, to gently work at the knot binding one of your wrists. The rope falls away, and your arm drops to the mattress with a leaden thud, the blood rushing back in a painful, prickling wave of sensation. He repeats the process with your other wrist, his movements slow and deliberate, his touch surprisingly gentle on the abraded skin.

With your hands finally free, you don't move them. You simply let them lie limp at your sides, every ounce of your energy utterly spent. He doesn't pull out. He remains nestled within the warm, clenching aftermath of your body, his softening cock a quiet reminder of the connection you still share. He shifts his weight slightly, just enough to take the bulk of it off you, but he keeps his hips pressed flush against yours, refusing to break the contact.

His lips find your shoulder, not in a bite, but in a soft, lingering kiss placed directly over the darkest of the bruises. It’s an apology and an absolution all at once. His breath begins to even out, his shuddering subsiding into a deep, contented stillness.

The frantic, desperate energy that had consumed him is gone, replaced by a heavy, sated lethargy that sinks into both of your bones. You are both adrift in the silent, hazy aftermath, bound together not by rope, but by something far more profound and exhausting.

The silence in the wake of your shared climax is profound, broken only by the ragged, slowing cadence of your breaths. The weight of him is a sanctuary, his skin slick and warm against yours. For a long time, neither of you moves, lost in the hazy, saturated stillness. Then, a sound breaks from him—a ragged, shuddering sigh that is more felt than heard. It’s a sound that carries the weight of three months of hell.

His face is still buried in the crook of your neck, but you feel the first hot, wet drop against your skin. Then another. A quiet, broken sob wracks his frame, a tremor that goes straight through your soul. His arms, which had been holding you with possessive strength, now cling to you with a desperate, almost fearful vulnerability.

“I dreamed of this,” he whispers, his voice cracked and raw, muffled against your skin. “Every single night on that thin cot. I’d close my eyes and it was this. Your scent, your warmth, the way it felt just to hold you...” His sentence fractures into another quiet sob, his body trembling with the force of emotions too long suppressed. “I thought I’d never get it back. I was scared they’d stolen it forever.”

Your own eyes well up, tears tracking silently down your temples and into your hair. Your hands, now free, come up to cradle his head, your fingers threading through his damp curls. You hold him as he shakes, as three months of fear, anger, and brutal isolation finally find their release against your skin. You don’t shush him. You just hold him, letting him pour out the poison of that place into the safety of your embrace.

“I’m here,” you murmur, your lips moving against his temple. “You’re home. You’re in our bed. They didn’t steal anything, Spencer. You fought your way back to me. You’re here.” You repeat it like a mantra, a soft litany against the nightmare of his memory.

He lifts his head finally, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy, his beautiful face blotchy with tears. He looks utterly shattered, and more beautiful than you have ever seen him. He frames your face with his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks with a reverence that makes your heart ache.

“You were my only thought,” he confesses, his voice hoarse. “The only clean thing in that entire fucking place. Your voice on the phone. Your letters. The promise you made me… that you’d be here. That we’d have this.” His gaze sweeps over your face, drinking in every detail as if committing it to memory all over again. “I clung to it. It was the only thing that kept the walls from closing in.”

“I meant every word,” you whisper, pulling his mouth down to yours in a kiss that is nothing like the frantic, hungry ones from before. This kiss is soft, slow, and deep, a sealing of a promise finally kept. It’s a kiss full of three months of missed mornings and lonely nights, of fears unspoken and a hope that refused to die. It tastes of salt tears and shared breath and a love that has been tempered in fire.

“I’m never leaving this bed,” he murmurs, a ghost of his old humour touching his voice, though it’s thick with emotion.

You smile, a real, true smile that feels like the first one in months. “Good. You’re not allowed to.”

The room is quiet, heavy with the weight of everything that just happened. You both lie tangled together, sweat-slick, trembling, bodies still pulsing with the remnants of the intensity you shared. Spencer’s chest presses against yours, his arms wrapped around you almost desperately, holding you close, but neither of you moves. Words feel too heavy, too fragile, and for a long moment, there is nothing but breath, heartbeat, and the silent acknowledgement of what passed.

Your faces are so close that you can feel each other’s warmth radiating in waves, the brush of skin over skin grounding you, tethering you in a reality that feels almost unreal after the intensity of what happened. Spencer burrows his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your hair, of your skin, as if memorizing it again, imprinting it on himself in case the world ever tries to take it from him. You shiver in response, and he tightens his hold, a low hum vibrating through him, the sound of someone who is both exhausted and terrified of letting go.

You lie there entwined, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart under your ear—a sound you had feared you might never hear this close again. The frantic energy is gone, replaced by a deep, thrumming contentment, a peace that settles into your very bones. The bruises will ache tomorrow. The memories will sometimes surface. But in this moment, there is only this: his breath in your hair, his skin against yours, the profound rightness of being whole again.

He lifts his head just enough to look over your body, taking in the swell of your breasts, the marks along your thighs, the fingerprints left from where he held you down. Every new mark, every darkening bruise, every faint trace of his hands on your skin sets off a fire of protectiveness inside him. He needs to tend to you. He needs to make sure you’re okay.

“I need to… I need to take care of you,” he murmurs, voice thick and rough, almost shaking. His hands brush your hair from your face, sliding down your shoulder to cup it, gentle now where moments ago they were urgent and demanding. He presses a soft kiss over the largest bite mark, lingering, as if the pressure of his lips can soothe both the pain and the memory of it.

Slowly, carefully, he shifts, guiding you upright against his chest. His hands are everywhere at once, steadying you, touching lightly, memorizing where he needs to be gentle. “Come with me,” he whispers, voice low, almost reverent. “We should… get cleaned up. I should treat those bite wounds.”

He doesn’t rush the movement, simply guides you with a hand at the small of your back, his other hand finding yours, lacing your fingers together as he leads you from the warmth of the bed into the cool, tiled silence of the bathroom.

The light he flicks on is soft, not the harsh overhead glare, and it casts the room in a gentle, forgiving glow. He turns on the shower, testing the water with his hand until it steams, a cloud of warmth billowing into the room.

He steps in first, never letting go of your hand, and guides you under the spray with him. The water is a perfect, blissful heat that cascades over your shoulders, washing away the sweat and the lingering evidence of your passion. He reaches for a washcloth and a bar of soap, the simple, clean scent of it filling the air. He works up a rich lather, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Turn for me,” he murmurs, his voice a soft vibration in the steamy space.

You obey, presenting your back to him. His touch is exquisite, a world away from the frantic grasping of before. The soft, sudsy cloth glides over your skin, over the slope of your shoulders, down the length of your spine. He is meticulously careful, avoiding the darker bruises, skirting the tender bite marks with a reverence that makes your throat tight. He washes your arms, his fingers gently massaging the muscles, paying special attention to your wrists, where the rope had held you fast. He doesn’t scrub, he anoints, each pass of the cloth a silent apology, a promise of care.

He turns you back to face him, his eyes dark and soft in the mist. The washcloth moves over your collarbones, over the swell of your breasts, and you watch his face, the absolute concentration there, the deep focus he applies to this simple, loving task. He washes every part of you with the same tender attention, kneeling to run the cloth down your legs, his touch firm and soothing on your tired muscles. He is worshipping you, not with words, but with action, washing away not just the physical remnants of the night, but the ghost of his own desperation.

When he is finished with you, he quickly, almost efficiently, soaps himself. It’s not rushed, but it lacks the ceremonial care he gave you. This is a practicality. His focus remains entirely on you, even as he rinses the suds from his own skin.

He turns off the water and reaches for a large, fluffy towel, wrapping you in it before he even considers one for himself. He pats you dry with the same infinite care, blotting the water from your skin, his touch lingering on the now-clean marks he left behind. He leads you, swaddled in warmth, back to the bedroom and sits you gently on the edge of the bed.

“Stay right here,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead before crossing and retrieving a small, white first aid kit.

He kneels on the floor before you, opening the kit with a quiet click. His hands are sure and steady as he selects an antiseptic ointment. “This might sting a little,” he says, his voice low, his eyes flicking up to yours for permission. You nod, and his touch is feather-light as he dabs the cool cream onto the bite mark on your shoulder where the skin had broken.

His brow is furrowed in concentration, his full attention on minimizing any discomfort. He follows the ointment with a small adhesive bandage, smoothing the edges down with the pad of his thumb.

He does the same for the other small breaks he's made to your skin, his movements methodical and gentle. Once the bandages are in place, he takes a bottle of aloe vera lotion, pouring a generous amount into his palm. He warms it between his hands before taking one of your wrists.

He begins to massage the lotion into your skin, his thumbs working in slow, circular motions over the faint red marks left by the rope. The lotion is cool and soothing, but his touch is what truly heals, a constant, gentle pressure that seems to seep into your very bones, easing the memory of strain. He spends a long time on each wrist, not stopping until the skin has absorbed every drop and feels supple and new under his fingers.

He looks up at you, his task complete, his eyes searching yours. The atmosphere is so soft, so sweet, it feels sacred. He has taken the violence of his need and transformed it, through this meticulous care, into something profoundly loving. He has tended to every mark, not to erase them, but to honour them, and to honour you.

The first aid kit is set aside, its purpose fulfilled. For a long moment, Spencer remains on his knees before you, his hands resting gently on your thighs, his head bowed as if in quiet reverence. The only sound is the soft, steady rhythm of your shared breathing in the hushed room. Then, he lifts his gaze to yours, and the look in his eyes—full of a weary, overwhelming love—makes your heart stutter.

Without a word, he rises and guides you back, shifting you both until you are nestled deep within the pillows, the soft comforter pulled up to your waists. He doesn’t simply lie beside you; he gathers you into him, moulding your body to his as if trying to erase any possible space between you. One arm curls beneath your neck, his hand cradling your head, while the other wraps around your waist, his palm splayed possessively against the small of your back. Your leg hooks over his hip, and you bury your face in the warm, familiar hollow of his throat, breathing in the clean scent of soap and the essential, unique scent that is simply him.

You lie like that for what feels like an eternity, simply soaking each other in. The frantic, desperate energy of before has been utterly spent, washed away and bandaged over, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep calm. His fingers trace idle, lazy patterns on your skin—over your shoulder, down your arm, across the bandage on your collarbone—each touch a silent reaffirmation of his presence, his reality.

“I kept my promise,” he whispers into your hair, his voice a low, drowsy rumble you feel more than hear. “I endured. I held on. For this. For you.” His hand stills, pressing firmly against your back, holding you even closer. “It was the only thing that made sense in there. The thought of coming back to this. To you. Right here.”

You tilt your head up, your nose brushing against his jaw. “And I kept mine,” you answer softly. “I never let go. Not for a second.” You press a soft, lingering kiss to the pulse point at the base of his throat, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart against your lips. “You’re home now. Really home. And I’m never letting you go again.”

A shuddering breath escapes him, and he shifts to look down at you, his eyes glistening in the dim light. The intelligence, the quickness that usually lives there is softened by exhaustion and emotion, leaving only a raw, tender honesty. “Promise me,” he says, his voice thick. “Promise me we never have to be apart like that again. Promise me that every night from now on, I get to fall asleep just like this. With you in my arms.”

Tears well in your own eyes, but they are tears of relief, of a happiness so fierce it aches. You bring a hand up to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking the arch of his cheekbone. “I promise,” you vow, your voice unwavering. “Every single night. No matter what. You’re stuck with me, Spencer Reid.”

A real, genuine smile—the first one you’ve seen in three long months—touches his lips. It’s a little wobbly, and it doesn’t erase the shadows under his eyes, but it is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He dips his head, capturing your mouth in a kiss that is achingly sweet and impossibly soft. It’s not a kiss of hunger, but of belonging. A seal on the promise you’ve just made.

He breaks the kiss and simply rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. “Then I’m home,” he breathes out, the words a sigh of ultimate contentment. “I’m finally home.”

You settle back into the cradle of his arms, your head finding its perfect spot on his chest. His heartbeat is a lullaby under your ear, his breath a steady rhythm in your hair. The world outside, with all its dangers and past pains, ceases to exist. There is only this quiet room, this soft bed, and the two of you, wrapped up in each other, finally whole, finally safe. The future stretches out before you, not as something to be feared, but as a promise—a long, unbroken line of nights just like this one, a lifetime of holding on, together.

[virtualbabydevil]

I’ve found myself quoting JJ to my fiancé and brother in law every day

Don't make me spank you when I get back 🔥

[virtualbabydevil]

[virtualbabydevil]

father of the baby

pairing: luke alvez x single mom!reader

word count: 1.7k

summary: it was just one night. a stranger, a mistake, a consequence. but when a positive pregnancy test sends you spiraling, the last person you expect to show up for you is luke. and then he doesn't leave.

includes: no use of y/n, pregnancy, unexpected support, quiet affection, comfort scenes, slow burn/no immediate romance, found family vibes

part two, part three

The coffee in your hands has gone cold.

You’re not even sure why you came here. It’s early—too early for anyone else to be awake—but the quiet helps. You sit at a little metal patio table outside a downtown coffee shop you don’t even like, pretending to drink something, pretending to be okay.

The pregnancy test is still in your bag.

You haven’t told anyone. Not even JJ, and she’s your best friend. You don’t know how to start that conversation.

Hey, remember that guy I went home with after that night at the bar? Yeah. That turned into a lifelong consequence.

Your fingers shake as you try to bring the cup to your lips. You give up halfway. Set it down with a soft clink and rub your eyes instead, willing the tears not to come again.

“Hey.”

The voice is warm, low, cautious—like he isn’t sure if you’d even want to hear it.

You look up.

Luke stands a few feet away, hands in his pockets, sunglasses pushed up into his dark curls. He’s dressed down—sweatshirt, jeans, sneakers—but there's still something sharp about him. Something grounded. He always looks like he knows what to do.

You swallow. “Luke. Hi.”

“You okay?”

“You okay?” he asks, stepping closer.

You pause too long before answering.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “Just tired.”

He raises an eyebrow. “JJ said you’ve been kind of MIA. I was on my way to the gym—figured I’d grab coffee here first. Didn’t expect to see you.”

Of course JJ told him. You’ve been dodging her texts and calls for days. It’s only a matter of time before she starts showing up at your door.

You open your mouth—and then the truth slips out before you can stop it.

“I’m pregnant.”

Luke doesn’t react the way you expect. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t widen his eyes or spit out a thousand questions. He just blinks once. Slowly.

“It was a one-time thing,” you rush to explain. “I don’t even know the guy’s last name. I was careful. Or, I thought I was. But now…”

You trail off, your voice catching. The tears come fast, blurring your vision before you can even try to stop them.

Luke slides into the chair across from you without asking. He doesn’t crowd you, doesn’t offer platitudes. He just sits there, solid and quiet, like he’s willing to wait as long as it takes.

“You been to a doctor yet?” he asks gently.

You shake your head. “I… couldn’t do it yesterday. I just sat in the car. And left.”

Luke nods like he understands. “Want me to go with you?”

You stare at him. “Why would you do that?”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “Because I’ve been where you are. Maybe not exactly. But I know what it’s like to feel like you’ve got no one.”

You swallow hard. “You don’t even know me that well.”

“I know enough,” he says. “Come on. I’ll drive. We'll find someone good.”

You don’t know why you say yes. You just do.

The car ride is quiet. Not awkward—just still.

Luke doesn’t fill the silence with questions or noise. He gives you space, letting you stare out the window, letting your heart race and settle on its own. But you notice the small things: the way he checks the GPS twice to make sure the clinic address is right, the way his thumb taps against the steering wheel like he’s thinking, not nervous.

When he pulls into the lot, he parks and turns to you.

“You can change your mind,” he says. “About me coming in.”

You look at him. Really look. “I want you to.”

Inside, the receptionist gives you a clipboard. The questions blur a little—last period, birth control method, known allergies. Your hands shake just trying to remember your address.

Luke notices. He doesn’t say anything, just takes the clipboard and fills out the easy stuff like it’s second nature.

“Emergency contact?” he asks.

You hesitate.

Without waiting, he writes down his own name.

The nurse takes your blood pressure. Asks if you’ve had morning sickness. You nod. She asks if you’ve taken a test at home. You nod again.

The doctor is kind. Gentle voice, older eyes. She flips through your chart and says, “We’ll draw blood today to confirm and check your hCG levels. That’ll tell us how far along you are, and we’ll schedule your first ultrasound after that.”

You nod again. You feel like that’s all you’ve been doing since you walked in.

Luke sits in the chair beside the exam table, legs stretched out in front of him, arms resting casually in his lap—but his eyes are always on you.

The nurse comes back with the vials. She ties a band around your arm, tells you to make a fist. You look away as the needle slips in.

It’s not the pain. It’s the reality.

It’s happening. It’s real.

When the nurse leaves with the tubes of your blood, you finally exhale. You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath the whole time.

The doctor tells you they’ll call within a day or two with results and that the front desk will set up a follow-up appointment. She says the word “pregnancy” like it’s neutral. Like it’s just a diagnosis.

You blink hard.

Back in the parking lot, you stand beside Luke’s car, one hand wrapped around the strap of your bag, the other pressed to your temple.

“Feel like I just ran a marathon,” you mutter.

Luke unlocks the doors, but doesn’t get in. “You did great.”

You snort. “I nodded a lot and nearly passed out during a blood draw.”

He gives a faint smile. “Still counts.”

You glance at him, then look away. “They said they’ll call once they know more. About how far along I am.”

He nods. “Okay. I can drive you to the next one if you want.”

“Luke…” you start, but don’t know how to finish.

He doesn’t push. Just says, “Whatever you need, I’m here.”

You just nod.

You get the call the next morning.

Your hCG levels are high. “Consistent with six to seven weeks,” the nurse says. She sounds cheerful. You hang up feeling weightless and heavy all at once.

You’re sitting on the edge of your bathtub when Luke texts.

Did the clinic call yet?

You hesitate a second, then reply:

Yeah. 6–7 weeks. Ultrasound’s in two weeks.

Luke: You want me to come with you?

You stare at the screen for a long moment.

Then:

Yeah. I do.

He’s there for the next appointment.

Drives you. Sits beside you. Doesn’t fidget when they weigh you, or when the nurse asks about discharge, or when you ask if it’s normal to be this tired all the time.

He doesn’t flinch when the doctor uses words like "fetus" and "viability."

He just listens.

Afterward, he takes you for pancakes. You order three. You eat five.

He doesn't say a word, just keeps refilling your water.

The ultrasound is quiet.

Luke doesn’t say much—just sits near your head while the tech turns the screen and points to a flutter of movement. A heartbeat. Yours stutters in your chest.

You expect him to say something profound. Instead, he breathes out softly and says, “Strong little bean.”

Bean.

It sticks.

He misses the fourth appointment.

He texts that morning:

Caught in a case. Can’t get out. I’m so sorry.

You text back:

It’s okay. I’ll be fine.

But it feels strange walking into the clinic without him.

Later that afternoon, he calls while you’re on the couch, still in your clothes, appointment folder beside you.

“How’d it go?” he asks, breathless like he just got out of a car.

You fill him in. He listens. Asks follow-ups. Laughs when you mention the baby hiccuped on the screen.

Then he says, “I’ll be at the next one. I promise.”

And you believe him.

You throw up in the FBI parking garage.

Luke doesn’t even blink. He holds your hair, rubs your back, gets you a bottle of water from the glove box like it’s just part of the day.

You sit in the car after, both windows cracked, trying to breathe.

“I don’t think I can do this,” you say softly.

“You already are,” he replies. “Every day.”

He builds the crib on a Saturday.

Shows up with a box in the trunk, a little beat-up around the corners. “It was on sale,” he shrugs. “Didn’t want you to have to worry about it.”

You sit cross-legged on the nursery floor, watching him wrestle with instructions in three languages and ten thousand screws. He swears once. Maybe twice. But he gets it done.

When he finishes, he pats the wood gently and says, “There. Bean’s first bed.”

You blink back something sharp in your throat.

You expect him to pull away. To decide this is too much.

But he stays. He always stays.

You start texting him before your appointments.

Then after.

Then for things that aren’t appointments.

Do you think I can eat goat cheese if it’s pasteurized?

How do I politely tell my boss to stop touching my stomach?

Did you ever think about having kids?

Some questions he answers. Some he doesn’t. But he always responds.

You cry one night because your favorite hoodie doesn’t fit anymore.

Luke shows up the next morning with a sweatshirt that still smells like him.

“Bean’s mom deserves to be comfortable,” he says, handing it to you like it’s sacred.

You try not to wear it every day.

You fail.

At sixteen weeks, you feel the baby flutter.

You text him, She moved.

He replies immediately:

She? We’re going with she now?

Yes.

Then I’m buying her tiny sneakers tomorrow.

He meets JJ for lunch one weekend.

She comes over that night and just gives you a long, silent hug.

Then pulls back and says, “You picked a good one.”

You almost say, I didn’t pick him.

But the words catch in your throat.

You keep waiting for him to pull away.

Maybe when the work gets busy. Maybe when it stops being convenient. Maybe when the baby kicks for real and it all becomes too real. 

But he doesn’t.

He shows up. Again and again.

And every time, it surprises you just a little less.

I have a much longer Spencer Reid fic thats kinda similar to this premise thats big chilling in my drafts so... idk ig lmk if you wanna see that too lol

[virtualbabydevil]

dandelion ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you discover a barely scientifically possible concept, and it is the perfect conversation starter to annoy your boyfriend with.  

pairing: spencer reid x reader genre: fluff (18+ for suggestive content) tags: fade to black smut. soft dom spencer reid if you squint. lots of moles talk. past life discussion (?). spencer-i-have-3-phd's-reid pulls up to the function.  word count: 1.2k a/n: i stared at way too many matthew gray gubler photos for this. she lives and more importantly she still writes! very simple blurb to break up what's been happening and also my 2 months of fanfiction silence... love u xo

"Have you heard about the mole theory?"

Perking a head up from the sudoku book he was trying to complete, Spencer's eyebrows pinch, and he stares at your curious eyes for a few seconds. Only to exasperatedly breathe out, "There's a theory about moles?"

"Don't say it like that," you pout, placing your crossed feet down from the armchair you were curled up in. You soon enough find residence atop his desk, feet dangling as your head hangs down to look at the black and white squares on paper, trying not to laugh at the completed scrawl amongst them. 

"I didn't say it like anything," he hums, and despite his piqued interest in what you were bringing up to him, his gaze falls back down to the book, ballpoint pen still firmly in his grip. Pen, because he has no fear in messing up any of the puzzles—an attitude you resent him for. 

"Yes you did," you grumble, ducking your head down in an attempt to catch his eyes and pry it from the now fresh sudoku page. 

"What did I say it like, then?"

"Like you don't believe it's a real thing," you huff. 

"I haven't even heard the hypothesis," he replies, oh so simply. 

"I haven't even heard the hypothesis," you mock, voice going high pitched as your back straightens. You succeed in gaining his attention, for he lifts his head and gives you an amused glare. "Will you hear me out before you butt in with your stupid mole science that proves the theory wrong?"

"My stupid—mole—science?" he stammers out with a laugh. "You mean human anatomy?"

"Dr. Reid, I really hope you're not ridiculing another scientist's work?" you cock your head to one side. 

"Not at all, Doctor," he pokes the side of your thigh with his pen. You swat his hand away. "Continue."

"Right, well, there's this theory that where the moles are present on your body is where your partner in your past life would kiss you the most," you say, and though he doesn't say anything, you can see the glint in his eyes that tells you he does not believe a word of what you're saying. "So, like, you have a mole here," you point to the brown dot just below his cheekbone, "and here," you again tap the one above his right eyebrow. "So in your past life you were kissed in those places the most."

"Interesting," is the only response he supplies you with, the chair he's in wheeling back just so he can reposition himself in front of you. "Don't you have one here?" he lifts one of your hands, index finger circling the mole in the centre of your palm. 

"He was a gentleman," you beam down at him, and you watch as he tries—and fails—to not roll his eyes. Though, the smile never falls from his face.

"What about me?" he asks, bringing your palm to his lips. "Am I?"

For a split second you stop breathing. A combination of his voice hushing, his eyes never straying from yours, and his mouth meeting your hand making your head go fuzzy; your chest warm. 

"Um—yes," you nod your head. "You can be."

"I can be?" his lips find the next mole he can spot, then the next, mapping out every single dot like its very own constellation upon your skin. "Am I not always?"

"No," you say, breathless. You can see the quirk of an eyebrow on his face, and you force yourself to focus on what you're trying to say. Eternally difficult when he's stood from his chair and found his lips to the base of your neck. "I just—I mean, sometimes, you say things to mock me because you think it's funny. I don't think that's being very gentlemanly."

"You misinterpret my intentions, then."

"What are your intentions if not to tease me?" you accuse. 

"I think teasing you and mocking you are two very different things, and you're claiming it's mocking to make it seem worse than it is," he pokes your side, and you flinch away. 

"Profilers," you spit out, though there's very little malice in your voice. 

"Stop making it so easy to profile you, then."

"I don't! You just know everything about me!" you're protesting with hands on his shoulders, punching them lightly. 

His hands wrap around your wrists to stop the assault, instead locking them firmly against the tops of your thighs. 

"You know everything about me, too."

His reassurance is honey-like, and your resolve crumbles within milliseconds of him spewing it. A few simple words and you are putty all over again in front of him, moulding against his hands that are just barely grazing you. 

"I don't think I do," you say, quietly. 

"You know a lot more than anybody else in my life," though he doesn't verbalise it, you can feel the punctuated promise in his tone. 

"Mm. You too," you reply, inching towards the edge of his desk. "But I think you'd know all of that even if we weren't dating."

"I wouldn't know where to kiss you." 

It's the earnestness in the way he says it—the lack of flirtation or cockiness in his voice—that sends you spiralling. He doesn't mean to fluster you with the sentence, he means it quite literally. He wouldn't know where to kiss you. However, he does (fluster you), and he's saying it with hands holding you in place on his desk, knees knocked apart to accomodate him between them. 

"You'd have some idea," you comment, quietly. Near silence is the best you can come up with. "Erogenous zones and all that."

"I wouldn't know exactly where," he squeezes your thighs to punctuate the words, "and that would drive me insane."

"I don't think you'd put that much thought into where to kiss me if we weren't dating," you counter.

"I would. I did. Trust me."

You squirm at the implication of his words. 

"Flirt."

He laughs, head dropping to your shoulder as he shakes it. "How about I find and kiss the rest of those moles, instead of letting you continue to insult my character?"

"So you believe the theory?" you perk up, and he pulls back only to find your face again.

"Absolutely not," he shakes his head. "Moles are genetic, and if not genetic, formed due to factors such as sun exposure. Not where you were kissed in a past life. Which has never been scientifically proven to exist, by the way."

"You're so boring. Scientists are so boring."

"Uh-huh. They sure are. Let's go," he steps back even further, and attempts to take you with him.

"Mm-mm," you shake your head. "'m staying here as an act of defiance for your boring disbelief in the mole theory."

"I'm not getting you naked on top of the same desk I work on murder cases on," he says, deadpanned simplicity in his voice shattering you. 

"That's what you want to do?"

"I've been with you long enough to know when you're starting a conversation to initiate sex. Feigning innocence won't work, honey," he presses his lips to your jaw, just below your ear, as a hand finds the small of your back to coax you off of the desk. "Let's go."

And, by surprise to none, you follow compliantly.