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mggslover · 9 days ago

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OOOOHHHHH THE TENSIONNNN i love them i love them i love them

𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐦 𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐨 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Waldorf!reader universe | gif by the bestest @reidgif

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Waldorf!reader Category: fluff but in a romcom frenemies way Summary: You were expecting an evening full of mentally stimulating historic films, immersed in cinema and entertainment. Unfortunately, it seems your coworker Spencer Reid had the exact same idea. Content: 2.8k words, reader’s personality is based on Blair Waldorf, glasses!Spencer, film history stuff that I found on wikipedia, encounter with a mean old lady. a/n: this grabbed me by the chin and yelled WRITE ME, so here we go. I’m just really excited to write more for them being silly. not proofread oops. thank you for reading muah <3

All things considered, an old movie theater hosting a film festival isn’t the worst place to run into someone from work. In fact, you could argue it’s a great place—it allows you to learn something about your coworkers, opens up a topic of conversation and maybe even lead to a relationship that’s more than an exchange of pleasantries and vague plans of meeting after work (which never come into fruition).

You would have been pleasantly surprised to see anyone from the team, truly, if it weren’t for the fact that the coworker in question is Spencer Reid. Gawking at you from behind his thick glasses and dressed as though he doesn’t understand the concept of off duty with his white button-down shirt tucked under a sweater vest, and slacks. A tie hangs around his neck, lopsided and slightly too loose, making your hands itch at the tips with the desire to fix it for him.

Instead, your eyes narrow as you say, “What are you doing here?”

His brows raise, as if the answer is obvious and he doesn’t understand why you’re asking.

“I’m here for the pre-Code film festival—well, what’s still available to catch, anyway,” he says, holding up a hand. A bright green paper bracelet circled around his wrist, this festival’s version of an all access pass. His gaze lands on your hand, and he smiles in that pressed-lips, half smirk, half grimace way when he sees the same pass encircling your own left wrist. “I’ve been inviting everyone in the office if they wanted to come with—”

He stops himself abruptly, and the expression on his face becomes that exact grimace you were expecting.

Because he said everyone.

But you both knew the invitation had never been extended to you.

“Let me guess, everyone was busy.” You manage to disguise the bitterness in your voice with copious amounts of unnecessary snark, “Like they always are whenever you invite them to your little excursions.”

He shifts, averts his gaze awkwardly, and something dangerously close to satisfaction blooms in your chest when the blow lands exactly where you wanted it.

You know this is precisely why you rarely get invited to their hang outs.

Too ready for an argument, always brandishing words like they’re weapons.

You sigh, immediately regretting it, but not quite enough to apologize. Not when it’s true, at least. Not when he didn’t even think to include you.

“What are you planning to watch?” you ask, shifting the topic to something more neutral. The building boasts eight screens, meaning eight films are simultaneously playing at all times. People who have availed the all access pass often work out a schedule in order to see the movies they want to watch.

Spencer perks up at your question, eyes catching the exaggerated stage lights and glinting like honey filtered with sunlight. “Frankenstein. It’s a horror classic.”

Of course.

“Figures. And the sun rises in the east.” You say, rolling your eyes slightly. Leave it to him to watch a film adaptation of a classic novel. Still, the predictability makes you smile, albeit reluctantly.

“Yes, I suppose that was an obvious answer,” Spencer chuckles, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, an action so reminiscent of a lovestruck schoolgirl you almost laugh. “What are you watching?”

“Red-Headed Woman.”

He blinks, surprised, and then his face lights up like you’d just handed him the answer to the Navier Strokes equation. “Oh, that's a great choice, it’s a wonderful film! Did you know that F. Scott Fitgerald actually worked on the screenplay?”

“Yes, I did,” you lift a shoulder delicately, nonchalantly, as if his knowledge didn’t make your own spine straighten—most of your friends don’t care for those details, and it’s jarring to be in conversation with someone who does. “He had creative differences with Marcel de Sano, and the producers wanted the film to be more comedic, so they hired Anita Loos to do the rewrites.”

He’s nodding along, cheeks dimpling as he smiles at your words. “That’s correct, in fact—”

“I’m really sorry, Reid,” against all odds, this isn’t another sarcastic barb made to make him stop talking; you actually are a little sorry to interrupt. There’s a sincerity to your tone that surprises both of you. “I’m pretty sure my film starts in three minutes.”

“Oh,” he blinks, nods in understanding, “Of course, yes, I should head to my cinema too.” he smiles sheepishly.

“Yeah. Try not to talk to your neighbor while the movie’s playing.”

To your surprise, he laughs, “No promises.”

As you expected, the film is just as good as the last time you’ve watched it. (You’ve seen it an embarrassing number of times, something you wouldn’t admit to anyone because no normal person should watch the same film that many times.)

Leaving the cinema, you glance at your watch. It’s early enough that you could catch one of the other films before going to dinner. You walk around, avoiding the small crowd of people also adamant on finding the next movie to watch—not that there’s a lot. Turns out watching movies from the early 1930s isn’t a popular pastime among… well, anyone. All things considered, there’s a modest crowd milling around, people of all ages though a majority seems to be made up of older people.

Your feet tread along the plus carpet, intending to make it to a screening of The Divorcee as your last movie for the day. There’s no line when you locate where it’s screening, and only a young, nervous usher waits outside the doors. With a friendly smile, you show the band to him, and enter the cinema in search for a seat.

You head to the middle—the best spot in the house, you’d argue with anyone—only to find a familiar figure already sat on the aisle, hugging a bucket of popcorn to his chest.

“Oh god, you again.”

Spencer glances up, surprise visible on his face. The shadows play upon his features, making him look strangely ethereal. “Oh, hi. I didn’t think you’d still be here.” he awkwardly shifts, angling his gangly legs to the side to allow you to pass through.

“I have the same pass as you do, Spencer.” you mutter, shuffling into the row, “It’d be a waste to go so early.”

“Would you like to sit with me then? Since we’re both here, anyway. We could share the popcorn.”

The sentence seems to surprise both of you. You whirl around, brows knit in confusion, and his mouth clamps shut as though he regrets the invitation. You try to ignore the sting of that look in his eyes.

You sigh. “Buttered?”

“Of course.”

“Then all right.” You feign a begrudging sort of acceptance as you settle into the seat beside him, smoothing down your clothes. Spencer seems amused by it, smiling as he places the bucket on the arm rest between you. In the cool dimness of the room, you could feel him shifting, his sleeves brushing against your bare arms.

“I didn’t realize it would be so easy to bribe you.”

You scoff, glaring at him, “You haven’t bribed me.”

“Yet here you are next to me.” He shifts again, teeth flashing, triumphant. A whiff of something musky and clean hits your nose—his cologne mingling with the buttery scent of the popcorn. He might be too close. You don’t do anything to create more space.

“Yet here I am. And it has everything to do with these seats being the best spot to watch a film. Your offer of popcorn is simply an added bonus,” you glance at him through your periphery, willing the stupidly adorable smile to slide off his face, “Besides, it would take much more than buttered popcorn to bribe me.”

“I’ll make sure to remember that.”

There’s a slight urge to ask him what he means, wriggle out more from him and that dimpled smile… an urge which you squash when you realize it’s coming from a place of enjoyment. You like bantering with Spencer Reid.

Cheeks burning, you cross your arms and turn your annoyed pout to the screen. Saved by the movie, you think, as the opening credits begin rolling and you can direct all your focus on the film and not by how nice your coworker smells.

It’s forty minutes into the film before his whispering starts. If you’d been a betting woman, you would have struck gold—you knew he could only hold his tongue for so long.

“Did you know this was based on a book?”

You’re about to tell him to shush, but, well, you didn’t know that, and being caught so unawares is such an irregularity that you have no choice but to indulge him.

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah—it’s based on Ex-Wife by Ursula Parrott, though the credits to the author were lost to time for quite a while,” he turns to you with a smile, the scenes from the film reflecting in his glasses and dancing across his face.

You don’t speak, half from waiting for his continuation, half stunned into silence by how pretty he looks aureoled in pale swathes and flashes of light.

He must mistake this for judgement—heaven knows he’s used to those—because his head whips back to face the screen, pink rising across his cheeks. “It’s just something I found interesting, you know, considering people criticize book to movie adaptations as a contemporary trend that indicates unoriginality, when the reality of it is, it’s been done since the birth of cinema.”

“I’d argue it goes even beyond that,” you whisper back, earning his gaze once again, this time wide eyed and curious. You look away, definitely not because his eyes feel like coals burning past your skin, “Humans have always been adapting and retelling stories, from different accounts of mythology, to multiple versions of the same fairytale.”

He seems to blossom, a sproutling fed by theater lights and your interest, sitting up straight and lips splitting into a grin, “Yes! Stories are often derivative, but that’s not—”

“Shhhh.”

You both whip around in surprise like kids being caught doing something naughty. An older couple meets your gaze, sitting a few rows behind you. It dawns upon you then, that your voices have started becoming louder, more animated. The man is shaking his head and the woman is wearing a stern expression.

Spencer whispers a contrite sorry and you flash the sweetest smile you could muster before sinking back into your seats.

When it happens again, it’s a little less gracious. Spencer had begun whispering about the Academy nominations the film gained, and, once again intrigued by his earnest knowledge of a topic people often dismiss as silly, you’ve engaged in these hushed conversations until the same couple shushes you.

Only this time, it’s accompanied with a snide murmur, “There’s a trivia night out there somewhere, I’m sure that’s a better spot for insufferable know-it-alls like you.”

You turn, looking over your shoulder armed by a glare that burns. Your voice is saccharine, syruped to disguise the poison, “You’re correct, of course, and we wouldn’t have to deal with you as I’m sure you wouldn’t qualify.”

Beside you, Spencer shrinks, opening his mouth nervously, but the older lady beats him to whatever he might say.

“Excuse me? Oh you have some nerve, missy, when you and your boyfriend have been disrupting this entire movie with your silly conversations!”

You’re so annoyed you let the boyfriend comment slide, moving so as to turn your whole body to face her. However, as you shift in your seat, your arm knocks over the bucket of popcorn that’s been delicately balanced on the armrest. Before either of you can catch it, it topples over and spills. Tiny little kernels scatter across the floor, pale dots against the black carpet like some cheap imitation of the night sky.

Spencer squeaks.

The lady looks smug, tutting and shaking her head at the mess, while her husband walks away, presumably to find an usher.

“Apparently, being loud and disrespectful isn’t enough for you,” she says, casting her judgemental stare upon you like a curse, “You had to make a mess too. Young people, these days, my goodness, what a tragedy you all are.”

You remind yourself it’s not a good look to get into an altercation with an old lady. Especially as an FBI agent.

“We’re sorry,” Spencer speaks up finally, shakily, lips tilted up in a nervous smile, “We didn’t mean to be so unruly—”

“A little too late for that.” the lady smirks, as her husband reappears with an usher. You suppress a groan, glancing at half a bucket’s worth of popcorn strewn all over the floor. Goodness, any argument against this lady is bound to be futile when so much evidence is all over the floor.

“Excuse me,” the poor usher looks as though he’d rather be anywhere but here, “But I’m gonna have to ask you guys to leave. This gentleman here has been complaining and, well, there’s this mess.” he sweeps a gesture over the floor, wincing.

Before you can say anything, a hand wraps around yours, cool and slightly clammy, and tugs.

“Of course,” Spencer is saying, redness seeping past his cheeks and well into his ears and neck, “We’re terribly sorry for the inconvenience and the mess. We’ll go.” he stands up, and gives another gentle tug at your hand.

Spencer Reid, an infamous germaphobe, is holding your hand.

You’re so stupefied that you simply follow, eyes trained on the way his large hand has completely engulfed yours in a firm grip. He repeats his meek apologies to the usher and to the old couple behind you, all the while leading you to the exit.

“Until you learn some manners, you and your girlfriend should stay away from public spaces.” the lady says, her voice taking on a patronizing maternal tone that makes your own blood boil. “That way, you wouldn’t bother other people who are trying to have a nice time.”

Before Spencer could pull you all the way to the exit, you turn back, unwilling to let her have the last word, “Of course, we’ll keep that in mind. We wouldn’t want to ruin the last few dates you two will have together.”

You manage to catch a glimpse of her pinched, affronted expression before Spencer manages to wrangle you to the doors.

“You didn’t have to argue with her like that, you know,” he mumbles, walking quickly across the carpeted halls, “We could have just apologized and stayed—”

“Well, she didn’t have to call us insufferable know it alls either!”

“Why not? You all think so.”

His tone catches you off guard. No bitterness, no anger, only a quiet resignation. As if he believes it—accepts it. Your footsteps halt. He’s forced to do the same—your hand is still in his.

“By ‘you all’, do you mean the team?”

He sighs, looking away. The grip around your hand loosens, and he moves to walk away, but this time, it’s you who holds on. You who tugs, root him back into place.

“Hey,” you say, moving closer to catch his eyes, “I can’t speak for the rest of the team, but I don’t think you’re insufferable. The know-it-all part, well, I’ll concede that she got you there.”

He scoffs, cheeks dimpling as his lips curl up.

“But I’d argue that’s a good thing,” you continue, squeezing his hand, “You know things, and you use that to help people. That… that’s noble. There’s worse things to do with that knowledge, possibly more lucrative, less traumatizing things, but… you’ve chosen one that does good.”

“Still, you didn’t need to argue with her for me.”

You grin, eyes flashing with mischievous glee. “Not for you. She called us insufferable know-it-alls, remember?”

“I might have missed that,” he quips, squeezing your hand again. The coldness has seeped away from his palms, chased away by your heat, “I was too busy being mortified by all the popcorn you spilled. Who knew you could be so graceless?”

“Dr. Reid, are you making fun of me? After I defended your honor?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good. You’d never survive my wrath.”

“If that scene back there was any indication, then you’re correct.” Another firm squeeze, before he lets go. Your hand feels oddly empty so you shove it in your pocket as he says, “I won’t do anything to provoke it.”

“Smart man.”

“A know-it-all, some would say.”

You laugh, and he does too, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it is. Perhaps it could be—maybe Spencer Reid could be the person you wouldn’t mind running into. Maybe you could be the only person he needs to invite on his nerdy excursions next time.

pls comment and reblog if you enjoyed, they truly make my day <3 thank you for reading!

#loverrecs

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mggslover · 11 days ago

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best fic that has ever graced fanfic world

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a series of young women are being murdered in your town, and you — the host of a true crime podcast — are determined to investigate the case yourself, even if it means constantly getting in the way of a team of profilers and putting yourself in danger once or twice.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x podcast host female!reader, criminal minds typical violence, case details, mention of sexual violence, abduction, addiction, and drug use, season 2 bau team [DISCLAIMER] this part contains content that is darker and more intense than the rest, so please proceed with caution

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 14.7k

𝐚/𝐧: we’ve reached the shore! thank you all for reading this series and for your engagement, i hope the final part lives up to your expectations!

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟒/𝟒

The absurdity of the entire BAU team being in your bedroom reached you even despite the seriousness—the complete and undeniable seriousness—of the situation.

Maybe it was even necessary. The absurdity, you meant.

The only thing keeping you from going insane or curling up into a ball in the middle of the room, on its dark floor, while the recording was played back once again above you. Agents leaning over the desk where you used to do your homework and draw X-Files characters, band posters hanging above it. One of them sitting on the duck-patterned bedspread, resting his chin in his hand as he listened to the recording in silence.

Of course, you immediately told Reid about the tape that had been planted on you, though you had to admit you’d had your moment of doubt. A brief one. The message was clear. You were supposed to include it in the podcast or else…you didn’t want to think about what would happen to Keasy.

The thought crossed your mind, that question, whether the BAU would even allow you to publish it. It wasn’t an unfounded fear, but that’s something we’ll learn later.

Since you had already heard the recording, they didn’t seem to care about your presence. Maybe because of the breakthrough brought on by the new lead, the recording, they forgot about you standing behind them, almost completely still.

“Garcia, we need you to check if the voice modulation on this recording can be reversed,” Hotch instructed, addressing the woman they were speaking to on speakerphone, the one who had introduced them to your podcast. “Elle, come over here for a moment.”

She stepped up to the desk to help analyze the recording, at the same time Reid turned over his shoulder and met your gaze. He looked once more toward the tape recorder, then walked over to you, giving a small nod. “It might be better if you go downstairs now,” he suggested in a gentle, quiet tone.

The team had already secured the package the tape had come in, along with the note that had been attached. Now their full attention was on the recording. Despite his polite tone, you gave him a slightly sharper look, folding your arms across your chest. “The Executioner sent this recording directly to me. I want to know what happens to it next.”

He furrowed his brows at you slightly. “What happens to it next? We take it with us, analyze it again, or probably, knowing the nature of this job, ten more times, and…”

“Then I’ll be able to post it on the podcast,” you finished for him.

Reid only looked at you, as if hesitating, and before he could say anything, Morgan appeared at his side. Your room wasn’t some castle corridor that stretched endlessly out of sight. It was small, of course he had heard your entire conversation.

“That’s not even an option,” he stated, addressing you.

It felt like the air caught in your chest; you wanted to both let out a bitter laugh and scoff. How could it not be an option when a victim’s life depended on it?

You were already opening your mouth, ready to argue. But Hotch beat you to it, turning away from the tape recorder, holding the cassette in a plastic evidence bag.

“No part of this recording can be made public. That’s exactly what he wants, and the most important rule when dealing with perpetrators who try to play games to gain control over law enforcement is not to engage with those attempts.”

You shook your head slowly, in disbelief. That was really what mattered more to them, not letting The Executioner feel like he had power over them, instead of Keasy’s life?

You looked at Spencer, hoping to see any sign of disagreement on his face. Then at Elle, searching for the same. You found neither.

“I’m starting to think I was the only one who actually read that note,” you said, stepping back from all of them in one furious movement. “He kidnapped Keasy. He literally sent a recording of her and told me to put it on the podcast. It seems pretty clear to me what’ll happen if I don’t. And that’s what you should care about. Saving the victim.”

One by one, the entire team exchanged looks. Something was off, you could feel it. But you couldn’t quite place what. Maybe you were too shaken to figure it out.

“We appreciate you reaching out to us immediately after receiving the tape,” Hotch said with a small nod of his head. You opened your mouth in disbelief. Was he seriously changing the subject? “We’ll take the cassette in for further analysis, along with the actual footage from your cameras, to see if they might’ve caught whoever left it.”

“You’ll be wasting your time, the camera hasn’t worked in ages,” you warned. “You can’t just ignore that warning. We have to do what he said. I need to put it on the podcast, because if I don’t…If you won’t let me post the actual recording, then I’ll just tell people what I heard.” You were threatening the FBI. Wonderful. But you didn’t see another choice. “At least then I’ll be doing something.”

“That would count as interfering with an active investigation.”

A loud sigh came from Spencer, immediately drawing everyone’s attention. There was visible irritation on his face. Maybe even frustration.

“She’s going to find out anyway,” he said, directing his words to the team.

Your whole body began to tense. “Find out what?”

Hotch looked like he was about to say something to Reid, maybe to shut him down, but Reid was faster. “About Keasy,” he said, this time looking directly at you. His expression was almost apologetic, which sent a cold wave straight to your stomach before you even fully understood what he meant. He swallowed. “Her body was found this morning.”

Right after saying that, he pressed his lips into a thin line. It was easy to fall into the illusion that he hadn’t said it, that those words had never been spoken. But they had, and their physical weight now hung in the corners of the room.

On unsteady legs, you approached your bed, which, though it sank slightly under your weight, felt as hard as a rocky ground.

“We’re assuming the unsub didn’t expect us to find her so quickly,” Morgan informed you, and it was one of the few times his voice was truly gentle when speaking to you. “He wanted to blackmail us with Keasy’s safety, something he couldn’t guarantee from the start.”

“Or the message was never about Keasy,” Elle spoke suddenly, her face marked by deep focus. You lifted your gaze slightly to meet her eyes, not paying attention to the one or two tears on your cheek, now your chin. Her words had caught attention, not just yours. Elle bit her nail in thought. “The message cuts off after or…we assumed he meant the tape not airing on the podcast would lead to him hurting Keasy. But maybe it was about attacking another girl.”

“In other words, he’s planning to strike again,” Morgan summed it up.

Elle didn’t wait for anyone to say anything more or even react. Her firm gaze shifted straight to Hotch.

“I think she should record the podcast.”

You snapped your head up, thinking you must have misheard. You caught fleeting eye contact with Reid, who looked just as confused as you felt, but you quickly looked away when his eyes dropped to the tear on your cheek.

“Elle—”

“But not for the unsub. For the other women in town,” she finished her thought, placing her hands on her hips. “She’s got a pretty decent audience, especially lately. A simple message, a warning, something we say all the time ourselves. Don’t go places alone, especially after dark. Be cautious. She could work on it while we focus on analyzing the tape.”

You turned the idea over in your head and felt a sudden readiness rise in you, a drive to act on it immediately. You needed this, needed to feel like you could do something. Helplessness was the godfather of all murderers.

Hotch didn’t seem convinced at first, but after a moment, he gave a small nod. “As an additional form of warning, it’s acceptable. But it has to be just a warning,” he said to you. “You can’t mention the tape.”

Then, after a pause, he added,

“Reid should do it with you. He’ll give it a more serious tone, and make sure you don’t say more than you should.”

You weren’t even in the mood to argue. Not that you wanted to. Out of all the agents, they’d picked the one you were planning to meet with that day anyway. What bothered you was the fact that he’d be acting as your supervisor. Then again, you remembered how many times you’d managed to pull information out of him before, and you thought maybe you could work around that.

The BAU team was getting ready to leave your house, and it hit you. They give you a relatively minor task, just important enough to keep your mind occupied and to stop you from bombarding them with questions they probably didn’t have the answers to yet.

It was early afternoon, and once again, you were completely alone in the house. Reid was supposed to drop by later that evening so the two of you could record the episode together. In an effort to keep your mind off Keasy’s death, you threw yourself into drafting a rough outline for the podcast script. You also looked up Rebecca Yang online—the familiar name mentioned in the recording. She had been Robert Taylor’s intended victim, the woman who managed to escape his attack.

Of course.

At the end of the day, everything led back to that case. The first one you’d ever presented on your podcast. Sitting at your desk, you tried to break it all down. The Executioner couldn’t be him personally, not really, but the tape—the format, the interview style—it all suggested someone was out there trying to carry out justice in his name. He had even forced Keasy to play the role of his victim.

Keasy.

Your gaze shifted to the house across the street—her house. The one where, only today, you had dropped off groceries for a mother still waiting for her daughter to be found. Who had been found.

You stood up to draw the blinds.

Just before they fell all the way down, you caught sight of a bicycle crossing the street in front of your house. A boy riding it. The turn of his head and a stare that seemed to pierce straight into your room. The blinds shut completely, stopping him from doing so.

The sun had already set, though it wasn’t particularly late yet, just the natural effect of the advancing autumn. You turned on the lamp in your room, and when the doorbell rang, you made your way downstairs to let Spencer in.

He stood on your doorstep in a blue and brown striped shirt, a dark unzipped jacket, and—as always—his glasses resting on his nose. With a slightly sluggish motion, he raised his hand in a small wave, another one exchanged that day. You gave him a faint smile, the only one you could manage, and opened the door wider to let him in.

Silence hung between you as you made your way back up the stairs to your room.

“I’m sorry about Keasy,” he said first, reaching the top just behind you. You turned to face him. His hand was still resting on the banister, and his face was partially swallowed by the dimly lit hallway. But you were close enough to see it. The expression of concern written across his features. “I didn’t even know you two were friends.”

"First neighbors. But she and her mom would come over a lot and… yeah. I guess we were friends,” you said, your voice coming out weaker than you’d intended. You’d have to get a better grip on it if you were going to record the podcast. Under his gaze, you took a deeper breath and gave a small nod.

“Never thought I’d have an FBI agent on my podcast,” you added, trying to lighten the mood, motioning with your head for him to follow you into your room.

Spencer’s steps followed yours. He seemed to understand that you didn’t want to keep talking about Keasy. Maybe you were still in some sort of denial that allowed you to function normally, but the more you thought about it, the more you feared that illusion would shatter.

“I mean, well…I didn’t think my career would lead me here either,” he said.

You were facing away from him, giving your notes one last glance on your laptop. You glanced over your shoulder at him. He seemed slightly awkward standing in your room without the rest of the team around.

“This is a professional setup, okay? Don’t let the duck-print bedsheets fool you.”

Even with your face turned back toward the laptop, you knew he looked at your blanket and pillows.

“Perish the thought,” he muttered, and a small smile tugged at your lips.

You told him to sit across from you on the bed—you sat cross-legged with some pillows under you and your laptop balanced on your thighs, while he stayed on the other side, practically on the edge, feet still on the floor. It was a podcast, just your voices, so you didn’t have to pay too much attention to how you looked.

“So, before we start,” you looked up at him and fell silent for a moment. Of course, he’d left his coat downstairs, so he was in that striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows for comfort, and his tie loosely knotted around his neck.

He noticed where your eyes had landed and awkwardly adjusted it. You let out a laugh without meaning to. “No, it’s okay, I don’t want you choking to death in here.”

“I’ll be fine, it just looks kind of sloppy so—” he fumbled with the collar and tightened the knot.

“It looks really good,” you cut him off.

Spencer froze, hand still on the tie, looking at you. You felt a strange warmth spread across your neck. Definitely from the stuffy air in the room—you really should’ve aired it out before he came over. You were flustered by how quickly you’d said it, but honestly, you meant it. You swallowed and nodded, more to yourself.

“It looks good,” you repeated. Reid barely blinked as he kept his gaze on you, head slightly tilted. “And it’d look even better if you didn’t sit there like you’re on nails. Seriously, relax a little.”

A flush of red shot across his cheeks.

“I am relaxed,” he insisted.

“Mhm. I can tell.”

Reid, still red in the face, rolled his eyes. But right after, with a sigh, he shifted into a more comfortable position on your bed. Like he was your long-time friend, someone who by now could probably lay claim to part-time residency in your room.

“So, before we start,” you repeated again, getting back to what you meant to say before getting distracted by…well, him. “Anything new with the tape analysis? Maybe you managed to reverse the voice modulation or…or figured out anything else?”

For a moment, Spencer didn’t say anything, before letting out a quiet, apologetic sigh.

“The work on voice modulation is still ongoing, but it seems like it won’t be reversible. The rest is just our theories and guesses for now, a few leads the rest of the team is following while I… am here.”

You looked at his face after those words, pressing your lips together slightly.

You heard something pointed in them, a hint that he didn’t really want to be here with you or help with the episode. Well, that was probably true—after all, his usual daytime job was surely a thousand times more fascinating, so you should just swallow the sting that had settled in you.

“Okay, let’s get to it then,” you said. “We’ll get it done faster and you’ll be able to go back to more important things.”

You lowered your gaze back to the laptop. The room was quiet—strangely, too quiet.You lifted your eyes again and noticed Spencer staring at you, his lips slightly parted. He shook his head from side to side, ashamed. “That’s not what I meant, really.”

Now it was you who looked at him in confusion. You parted your lips as well and practically mirrored his head movement. “No, no, that’s not what I meant either. I mean. I didn’t mean to be passive-aggressive. Okay, maybe a little, but… but I get it, that maybe you don’t think this podcast is necessary.”

“I do,” he cut in, firmly. “I think it is necessary. Especially this particular episode. And I’m glad I’ll get to help with it.” His chest rose as he drew in a breath. The red lingered on his cheeks. Again. That room was really stuffy. “Besides, I really wanted to see you. Today.”

You nodded quickly, in rhythm with your heartbeat, not really knowing what to say.

Some force lifted the corners of your lips on its own. Something you didn’t even realize at first. Just like you didn’t realize you hadn’t said anything, and the two of you were stuck in that tense silence.

“I wanted to see you too,” you said after a pause that made the confession insanely, fucking awkward. Oh God.

Spencer held your gaze for a moment longer before dropping it, directing it somewhere—anywhere—else. There was a rasp in his voice when he spoke again, and he had to swallow to get rid of it. “You were right, we can finally get to it.

“Yeah,” you agreed quickly, adjusting the laptop on your lap. Yeah. “I’ve thought it through and in this episode, it’s mostly going to be you talking. I mean, I’ll ask you a few questions and keep the dialogue going, but since I’ve got a guest on the podcast, I want to make use of it. I’ve got throat lozenges in my drawer in case you need some later. Some vocal warmups wouldn’t hurt either.”

Spencer let out a laugh, then furrowed his brow. “Wait, is that something you actually do before recording?”

“Nope,” you denied simply. “I wanted to see if I could get you to make some ridiculous sounds, but you started questioning it too fast to fall for it. Anyway, does that plan work for you?”

For a moment, he looked at you like you were from another planet—but in a good way, like in fascination. Probably caused by the chaotic nature of your speech.

“It does, it does work for me,” he agreed. “But I’m not sure it will for your listeners. They might be disappointed by the lack of your rambling.”

You gave him a slight smile.

“A little bit of longing will do them good. They’ll learn to appreciate it more. Unless they fall in love with you so hard they’ll want to make you a regular guest. Then it wouldn’t be a guest anymore, if you think about it.”

“Doubt it,” he muttered, shifting in his seat. “I’m way too nervous to make anyone fall in love with me.”

“Just imagine you’re talking to me,” you suggested. You stuck out your lower lip. “Okay, technically, that’s exactly what you’re doing, so you don’t have to imagine it, but you know what I mean. Me? I’m definitely not shoving a mic under your nose right now.”

You had a digital recorder you usually took with you out in the field, and a computer-connected microphone, which you were using now. Still with the laptop on your lap, you shifted closer to Reid to bring the mic nearer to his face. His gaze dropped to the device. You immediately placed a finger under his chin to tilt it back up.

His eyes locked onto your face, surprised.

“This microphone right here doesn’t exist,” you explained.

Spencer didn’t respond, still frozen in place.You withdrew your hand from under his face and, after clearing your throat, got to work on the episode intro.This was the part where you always left the most space for spontaneity, and your guest’s brows lifted slightly as he listened to you begin without a single stumble.

“...also, this episode will be a little different than the rest, for two specific reasons. Mainly because it has a very targeted audience—all the women of our dear, cursed little town of Fairview. And, well, everyone who wants to know how to live a little safer in this brutal world. Also because, for the first time in this podcast’s history, I have a guest. And not just any guest.”

Actually, introducing himself was what gave him the most trouble. hi, I’m Spencer Reid sounded incredibly stiff, but once you got into the topic of the episode, he only got better. When he spoke, you encouraged him with a slight smile on your lips and nods when he lifted his eyes to you questioningly, making sure he sounded right.

You took the laptop off your lap and placed it beside you so you could look at your questions for him written in the empty document.The microphone sat on the bed between you in that small circle created by your knees almost touching.

“Okay, now that we’ve talked about how to stay safe, the last thing I’m interested in—and probably the listeners too,” you said, and Spencer raised his brows at you with curiosity, “I’m sure by this point you already have a profile of the killer.”

Reid shook his head.“You can’t ask me that. We haven’t released that to the media yet, and the team probably won’t be happy if I suddenly decide to do it here.”

You leaned in slightly, looking at him pleadingly.

“Maybe it’s about time it was released to the media. Seriously. We warn everyone not to get into a white van when the guy says he wants to show them kittens, but not every killer is that obvious. It could be anyone. Better that they know what kind of… person to avoid. Because maybe he works at the shop around the corner and looks at them weird, or in extreme, but not completely unrealistic cases, they’re having breakfast with him every morning.”

He sighed, looking at you more seriously.

“Our profile changes every time something new comes to light. And something new does come to light all the time, even if it might feel like the investigation’s at a standstill. Just today, for example. That tape…it changed everything.”

You kept looking at him for a moment, hoping he might decide to add something more—but you didn’t want to push him either. You didn’t think you wanted to break the atmosphere that had settled, or the ease with which you were talking. You nodded in understanding.

“Okay. I’ll cut that last question,” you said.

He looked at you with a soft flash of gratitude in his eyes. Slightly embarrassed, he tilted his head to the side and asked hesitantly, “Could you also cut the part where I introduce myself…? It was so awkward.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” you shot back immediately, straightening up. “My podcast is authentic. I don’t cut things unless it’s absolutely necessary. That stays in. Worst case, a few listeners die from second-hand embarrassment.”

He parted his lips, like in protest.

“Die from second-hand embarrassment? You think it was that bad?”

There was almost dread in his voice, which made you laugh.

“It was bad. Maybe not that bad, but it was bad. Even the fact that I like you can’t stop me from admitting that, I’m sorry. But hey,” you added more gently, slowly tilting your head—Spencer’s eyes dropped to your face. “If someone sent me to a crime scene right now and told me to say who the killer was based on what the body looked like, I’d probably do okay-ish at best. Podcasting’s just new to you, and for the first time, you did just fine.”

Spencer just looked at you for a moment in this kind of warm way, before a short, fleeting smile crossed his face.“Thank you. But I think you’d do well at a crime scene. If someone actually let you in, that is.”

“Right, that might be an issue. Though I’d probably find a way. Wait—do you seriously think so?”

Spencer gave a slight shrug.

“Yeah, I mean…you’re smart. And you know your stuff.”

You laughed involuntarily, shaking your head side to side.

“Imagine Nikola Tesla patting you on the shoulder and telling you you’re a clever boy. That’s exactly how I feel right now.”

Reid visibly blushed.

You nodded toward him.

“Woah, you’re blushing. Did I hit the mark and Nikola Tesla is your science crush?”

“I’m not blushing,” he said quickly, which was clearly a lie. He brought a hand to his cheek, feeling it.“Okay, maybe a little. Because this room is stuffy. And because of you, probably to some extent as well.”

“Because of me, huh.”

“Because of what you said.”

“There’s not that much of a difference if you think about it.”

Spencer paused with his lips slightly parted, which also seemed to be blushing. Because their color was violently pink, something you noticed when you looked at them. Okay, you didn’t look in a creepy way, you just briefly glanced down. That’s all.They were raspberry-colored. That popped into your head because you liked raspberries. A lot.

“Well, in a way, yeah, there isn’t,” Reid continued, nodding with this sort of nervous enthusiasm. He swallowed. His Adam’s apple visibly moved, which your greedy eyes also noticed. You weren’t listening to a single word he was saying, oh God, now that was embarrassing. By the way, had you mentioned that this room was stuffy? “Actually, I shouldn’t even separate that. If your words made me blush—which, by the way, didn’t—then it’s kind of like you made me—fuck, please, can we change the subject, I really—”

You set your mic down at the edge of the bed so it wouldn’t be between you anymore, and with surprising ease, pushed yourself up onto your knees in one smooth motion, so that in the next, your hand was pressed to the back of his head, and your lips to his.

Spencer sighed into your mouth, like in relief. Here you were, saving him from completely humiliating himself. In a way that was, okay, maybe a bit drastic, but very, very effective. And even if it was going to result in an even more blush-inducing atmosphere later, for now, he chose to ignore that and hold onto your face like an anchor as he sank into the kiss. His thumb finding your cheek while the tips of his long fingers slipped slightly beneath your hair.

And…woah. It was good.You’d never thought you’d be hosting an FBI agent in your room, let alone kissing one on your bed until you were out of breath, with his hand suddenly dropping to your back and pulling you closer. This time it was you who sighed into his mouth, caught off guard.

You pulled back from his lips for a moment, slowly blinking your eyes open.Because he was sitting, and you were kneeling, your face was slightly above his. Your hand slipped from the back of his head, down his neck and to his shoulder, and both of you were breathing so loudly you couldn’t even hear the sound of the other’s breath.

You meant to grab his shoulder for support, but one hand was already tangled in his hair,

and the other. Well. Resting on your chest, in a sling.

Your gaze met his, and you weren’t really sure what to say. Actually, you weren’t sure if you were supposed to say anything at all, so you decided to get out of it the easiest way possible—by leaning in for another kiss.

But that’s when he spoke. A faint, probably involuntary smile on his lips.

“This part,” he said, “you’ll probably have to cut from the podcast. Unless it fits your definition of authenticity.”

Right. The mic was still on. That smug little expression made you lightly nudge his arm, to which he looked at you with mock offense. Which you ignored.

“That gets cut. Your awkward intro stays. End of discussion.”

Kissing and giggling.

The next kiss was more like the next ten. Or maybe just one, just chopped into pieces.

Your mouths couldn’t stay together for more than a second, two at most, before one of you started laughing—or to put it more adorably, enchantingly, glitter-sparklingly—giggling.

You always thought that phase in life had simply skipped you. Turns out, it was just fashionably late—showing up in the middle of a murder case investigation in your hometown.

That thought replaced the butterflies in your stomach with moths. You glanced at your mic out of the corner of your eye. Technically, you’d finished recording the episode, but suddenly it didn’t feel entirely appropriate. Your faces—mostly your mouths—slowly pulled away from each other, still lingering within reach, freezing there for a second.

You pressed your lips into a narrow line, thoughtful, while Spencer briefly lowered his gaze. His hand on your back moved. The pressure softened, turned into a feather-light touch, slowly sliding down and then back up, eventually finding its way to your side, his thumb brushing along your ribs.

You took a deeper breath, letting your whole body move with its rhythm. Your hand rested near his cheek, grazing his jaw, reaching toward his neck, and simply trying to settle into that exact spot, absently gliding across his skin every now and then.

“I looked up who Rebecca Yang was,” you said suddenly, your voice piercing the calm, dreamlike space the two of you had created around yourselves. “She managed to escape Robert Taylor. Thanks to her, they caught him. And that’s how the Executioner used to refer to Keasy.”

Spencer looked up at you, a faint tension appearing on his brow.

“You’ve probably figured that out already. Do you guys think that’s what this is all about? Robert Taylor is some kind of idol? He’s trying to seek justice for his death, claiming he didn’t deserve it? And that’s why he’s hurting these women?”

His brow furrowed even more, his eyebrows drawing in with it. For a moment, you both sat in a very uncomfortable silence. One full of expectation, on your part.

You didn’t know why you bombarded him with all those questions at that exact moment.

Maybe you just felt comfortable enough, relaxed enough in his arms, that they decided to rise to the surface on their own. Spencer’s hand suddenly stilled, just like his expression—

from warm and content, slowly turning colder.

“D-did you—” he began, stammering, giving a small shake of his head. He swallowed. “Did you kiss me just to get more information about the case out of me?”

You opened your mouth, freezing up as well.No, you didn’t want him to take it that way—

Your silence must have come across as guilt or confirmation, because his jaw tensed, and he pulled out from under you, shifting, which forced you to move away and sit at a distance.

As his feet met the floor, he closed his eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a breath.

“We’ve recorded everything we needed, right?” he asked, his voice laced with forced indifference.

You sighed softly, apologetically.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would come across like that, really.”

“If so, then I guess it’s time for me to go,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard your words at all.

You sighed again, unsure of what to say in your defense. A sharp pang hit your chest as he stood up and headed for the door. Of all the moments, you really had to pick this one.

“I really meant it,” you tried again as he opened the door to your room.His movements, and the hand on the doorknob, slowed, as if with hesitation. “The kiss,” you added, just as the door closed behind him.

⚡︎

“Why are you so quiet, hm?”

The words came from your left as you half-lay, half-sat on the couch in front of the TV, your hoodie pulled up to your ears and a pillow hugged tightly to your chest. Some cooking show your mom liked was playing—the kind she always watched. She sat beside you with her feet propped up on the coffee table.

“Me?”

A dumb question, considering it was just the two of you in the house. Still, it took you a second to realize she meant you.

“Mhm. You haven’t said a word.”

You shrugged, chewing on the drawstring of your hoodie. It was late—night, really. Too much had happened that day for you to fall asleep easily, so you’d planted yourself in front of the TV just to zone out. The morning talk with Danny. Conrad. The visit to Elena. Then cassette and…Spencer.

“Just thinking,” you replied after a moment.

“What about?”

She gently brushed the hair from your face, first sweeping your bangs off your forehead, then lightly combing through the strands that had slipped inside your hoodie. There was something soothing in the way she did it, especially when it was her.

You bit the inside of your cheek. You loved her, but you didn’t really want to talk about yourself, not yet. Not when your mind was still trying to catch up with everything that had happened.

But there was one topic you did want to talk about—one that didn’t have anything to do with you directly. You turned your gaze to her.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about something lately,” you admitted.

Your mom nodded, encouraging you to go on.

“You remember Danny’s ex-wife?”

Your mom blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question.

“Danny’s ex-wife? Do I remember her?” she echoed, like she was making sure she’d heard you right. “No, sweetheart. I never met her. Danny moved here after she passed away.”

You froze, the hoodie string still between your lips. But Danny said—

“I feel like I remember her,” you said.

Your mom shook her head, looking almost amused.

“Impossible. You must be mixing something up.”

Her gaze drifted back to the TV, completely unfazed and uninterested by your strange confession. You thought of the photo in Danny’s car. You were sure you’d seen that woman somewhere before.

After a moment, your eyes returned to the screen too. Someone had just burned an omelet.

⚡︎

The next morning, bright and early, Charlie confessed.

To be specific, he confessed to the murder of Maggie Baker.

When he was arrested under that charge, a version of him began forming in your mind—and likely in the minds of the profilers as well. A version you didn’t want to become permanent. You feared it becoming permanent. You feared his confession. The confirmation of the kind of person who could use and kill a girl just a few years younger than himself, a teenager from the same small town, and then, out of fear that the truth would come out, have the audacity to desecrate her body completely. To make it look like the work of the killer.

And it wasn’t hard to copy the killer’s signature—after all, the man murdered in such a specific, recognizable way. All Charlie had to do was shave her head. Dress her in pajamas. Fry her body and dump it. Two other women had died in the same way, so of course the police would assume it was the same person. They’d chase a monster straight out of a horror story. Some figure of nightmares or urban legends. Someone who might never be caught.

And Charlie’s crime, driven by lust, simple in its brutality—what would that be in comparison? It would vanish. Unless…unless the guilt that haunted him day after day slowly started to crack him open.

He wasn’t, after all, some cold, calculating psychopath. He was just a boy working in a tech store, barely scraping through high school year after year.

When he confessed, he sealed it—and you, lying on your bed in your bedroom and working on the podcast, mechanically, like a robot, started to have doubts.

The strange thing was that when he was arrested, you were able to believe in his guilt—truly.

Maybe you were still driven by fear, after all, just the day before you had run from him, convinced you were running for your life. You broke your arm in the process, and the echo of the bone cracking made it really easy to believe.

You tried to look at it from a different perspective.

If he weren’t your friend, but a man you heard about in a true crime podcast or read about in police reports, would you still have so many doubts? Probably not. But it was nagging at you so much that you fought for the chance to visit him in holding. And you got it.

Danny offered to drive you, and you agreed. Mainly so you could take a closer look at the photo he kept in his car. Or at least, well, that was your initial plan. But once you found yourself in the passenger seat, on your way to speak with your former friend, a possible murderer, you completely forgot about it.

The man gave you a few worried glances during the ride.

“Are you sure you want to talk to him?”

You gave him a serious look. “I have to talk to him. Whether he’s really guilty or not.”

Danny nodded quickly. “No, I get it,” he said.

He went quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on the road.

“Confrontation is...it’s necessary in a way. I mean. What matters most is knowing for yourself. Try to look him in the eyes. Maybe you’ll see a version of him different from the one the police... and everyone else believes in.”

You fell into thought, your eyes lingering on his jaw—tenser than usual, just slightly.

Crime films often focus on this exact moment. The main character goes to meet the suspect, sits down in a chair separated by glass, holding the receiver to her ear. The inmate she’s come to see is brought in by two guards, takes a seat, and places his hands on the table. She lowers her gaze, unwilling just yet to face h

Hand cuffed together.

The skin around his nails was torn, tiny wounds scattered along his cuticles. You looked up—and your eyes met. Like in every film, you both remained silent for a moment, even though you knew your visit would only last a handful of minutes. No matter how it sounded, the change in Charlie wasn’t drastic. He had already looked terrible before, unhealthily thin, his face sunken, with deep purple shadows around his eyes.

The purple remained, but his frame seemed fuller now, his posture slightly stronger. Most likely the result of a forced withdrawal from drugs. He was looking at you too, though not as intently as you were at him. The fingers of his cuffed hands began to tremble slightly, so he curled them into fists. His lips pressed into a thin line, gaze dropping to the table and then returning to you. This time more present.

"I'm sorry about your arm," he said.

He didn't quite meet your eyes, rather somewhere nearby. As if trying to give the impression he was, choosing some point on your face to imitate eye contact. Your lips parted. You hadn’t expected him to speak first.

"Nothing hap—" your voice trailed off; the words came automatically. You drew in a deeper breath. It wasn’t true that nothing had happened. Something did—you had a broken arm. And a few bruises on your wrists from how he grabbed you multiple times, in some kind of frenzy. "Yeah. You should be sorry."

He nodded. “I’m sorry,” he repeated calmly. His gaze dropped back to the table. No more pretending to meet your eyes. He swallowed, his shoulders gave a slight twitch as he added, “I never wanted to hurt you.”

With those words, he was practically asking for it.

“But Maggie Baker, you did?”

His head snapped up—fast—for the first time. Your eyes met and held for a long moment. At first, his face showed no reaction, then it began to tremble, twist even, as if you’d held something foul right under his nose. He didn’t answer.

You drew a breath. Sharp, reluctant. It hurt a little.

“You know, I assume you realize I didn’t come here because I wanted an apology,” you said, resting your elbows on the table in front of you. The phone’s receiver trembled slightly in your grip. You tightened it.

Charlie nodded, lips pressed tightly together, showing that he knew exactly why you’d come. Or maybe it was just your imagination, but you thought you saw a flicker of pain cross his face. Pain caused by the reason for your visit. Because it wasn’t simply to see an old friend.

“You confessed,” you said.

A moment of silence.

“I did.”

A moment of silence on your end.

“Did you do it?”

Again, it dragged out. You didn’t know how much time you had left before someone tapped your shoulder and told you the visit was over. It was always meant to be a short conversation.

“I confessed,” he finally replied, lifting his head again.

His gaze was steady. He didn’t blink. He leaned slightly toward the glass pane, fingers around the phone receiver turning white.

To look you in the eyes. This time for real, not somewhere beside them.

Danny’s words suddenly echoed in your mind like a whisper try to look him in the eyes. So you did.

In his eyes…he was telling the truth.

He confessed.

⚡︎

“And how—”

You cut Danny’s question off halfway with a single look. You really didn’t want to talk about it. Was there even anything to say? A large part of your conversation had been encrypted in looks, with a code inaccessible to outsiders. Hard to understand even for yourself. So, you really didn’t want to talk about it yet.

Danny nodded understandingly, gave you a weak, briefly uplifting smile that vanished as soon as it appeared, and you drove back home in silence. It was late-lunch time and you planned to eat together with your mom at your place. You hoped she wouldn’t push for a conversation either.

You turned on your phone to check the time, to see exactly how long your conversation with Charlie had taken. You saw one new message. One you had to admit you hadn’t expected at all.

Can we meet later and talk?

For a moment, you just stared at it. You and Reid hadn’t been in contact since yesterday, for obvious reasons. Your question right after the kiss—which, by the way, you had really wanted—had made it look like some sort of game, a form of manipulation. Well, you knew that sooner or later you’d have to straighten things out, but honestly, you didn’t have the energy. In this overwhelming mess, you made room for romance (a serious word. let’s add silly at the start to soften it) only if it was built on giggling and kissing. When misunderstandings came into play…

You locked your phone without replying and slid it under your thigh, your gaze fixed out the window. You weren’t in a good mood after meeting with Charlie, and that’s why you didn’t want to see Spencer—afraid you’d drag him into your doghouse and make things worse. And you, well, you really liked him.

Before you knew it, you were standing in your driveway, and moments later you were stepping through the front door. Your mom was slicing iceberg lettuce on the kitchen counter; she turned toward you with a visibly concerned, questioning look, but then her eyes met Danny’s. He must have silently told her you weren’t in the mood to talk, because her mouth closed. She exhaled through her nose and, still holding the knife, asked, “Did you buy balsamic dressing?”

You pointed straight ahead, toward the stairs. “I’ll be upstairs.”

Neither of them protested, preferring to let you have a moment to yourself. Maybe there, in private, you’d decide whether you wanted to see Spencer today. You’d barely made it up two steps when you realized you couldn’t feel your phone in your pocket. With a heavy sigh, you turned back toward the kitchen.

“Dan,” you called. He was just popping a slice of cucumber into his mouth and looked at you questioningly. “I think my phone’s still in your car. Could I…?”

“Sure,” he replied immediately, patting his pockets until his hand stopped on the one at his chest, over his flannel shirt. He pulled out his keys. “Heads up, I’m throwing—”

“I can’t—”

“Fuck, I forgot about your arm. Sorry. Sorry for my language. Anyway, here you go.”

He stepped out from behind the kitchen island to hand them to you, a smirk glinting on his lips. Behind him, your mom let out a short laugh. “Apologizing for your language? Since when are you such a gentleman?”

“Since always! How could you not notice?”

Even you smiled involuntarily. For a brief moment, in a quiet sort of realization, you knew that no matter how many things had gone wrong lately—or even tragically—at least in your home, among your closest ones, everything had stayed the same. Safe and kind.

You opened the door to Danny’s car. Just as you expected, your phone was lying on the seat.

You reached for it, and out of the corner of your eye, you caught something on the dashboard. The photo you had forgotten to take a closer look at.

You froze for a moment, staring at the woman’s face. That strange feeling filled you again. The sense that you knew her from somewhere. This time, when you were alone with it, it was even stronger. That face was familiar.

Without thinking much, you shoved it into your pocket.

You nearly sprinted the distance from the car back to the house, eager to get upstairs as quickly as possible. You almost forgot to return the keys, skidding to a stop on your heels before tossing them toward Danny, who caught them with wide eyes. He said something about reflex, but his words didn’t register.

You, on the other hand, made it to your room, tossing the photo onto your desk. If it had been a book or anything larger, it would have landed with a thud.

Once again, you studied the woman’s face, analyzing every detail. The photo must have been taken when she was a teenager; it looked like something from a school yearbook. Her hairstyle, her outfit, and even the quality of the image all suggested…the 1940s.

You did the math in your head, your train of thought halting like ants caught in a death spiral. Danny was forty-nine. That would mean he was a teenager in the late 1960s. Something didn’t add up. Sure, marriages where the woman was older happened. But this whole thing reeked far too much for you to accept such an explanation.

You sat down at your desk, resting your chin on your hand. The memory of that woman in your mind was old, faded. Barely there at all. It had to come from long ago, from your childhood. You were born and raised in this town, you had no grandparents to visit elsewhere, and you doubted you’d met her at any summer camp. That narrowed the search to Fairview.

Specifically, you turned to the town’s online archives. Yes. Your little hometown actually had one.

The photo gallery was extensive. You dug your way back to the year you were born, then began moving upward through the years again. Carefully studying each photo from every fair, event, concert, and largest homegrown pumpkin contest. There were hundreds, and you hadn’t even realized that time was still slipping away behind you. At some point, someone knocked on your door, but without even turning around, you called out that you weren’t hungry.

Sometimes, in old photographs, you spotted women who looked physically similar to her, but none gave you that shiver down your spine, that rush of realization that it was definitely her. A few times you found your mom. Danny, too, but always without his wife. Your mom’s words came back to you, about how he’d moved here after her death. Why would he lie to you about that? Had you misheard him? Your mom’s memory was probably a more reliable source than your single conversation with him.

You sighed, resting your hand on your head in exhaustion.

It was only the afternoon, but your covered windows created the feeling that night had fallen, or at least evening. You were drowsy, but you didn’t want to sleep. You wanted to keep yourself busy with something calming, something that wouldn’t pull you out of rhythm if a theory or conclusion suddenly came to you.

You looked up at the empty corkboard above your desk. Sometimes you made small boards when discussing a case on your podcast, to capture that movie-like mystery-solving atmosphere. But honestly, you preferred keeping your information in files on your laptop, printing out some and storing them in labeled folders for each case. That’s what you had done with The Executioner.

Should you be working on that now? Pinning everything onto the corkboard in the hope that something in your brain would click? After all, you needed something to occupy yourself anyway.

When making a corkboard like this, the most important thing was to start from the beginning. The very beginning. So you reached for the folder where you kept all the information about the first case you ever covered on your podcast. Robert Taylor, we meet again.

You spilled all the documents onto your duck-patterned bedspread and…

Your hand froze above the page listing all his victims. Their photographs.

One of them. One specific one at the very bottom of the page — the one who escaped and helped lead to his capture. You even knew her name; you had looked it up again recently, though you hadn’t looked at the photos. Because you had heard it on the cassette recording. Rebecca Young.

You walked over to your desk, to the photo of Danny’s wife.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

The door to your room cracked open, and you jumped in place. Your heart started pounding as if you’d been caught doing something — which, in a way, you had. Your mother’s head peeked in through the doorway. “Just letting you know I’m heading over to the lake house to see how the tile work turned out. Eat something, okay?”

And with that, she left, and you pressed a hand to your chest, your first breath coming out heavy. Maybe it was good she interrupted you, good that she pulled you out of that trance. You needed to clear your head to think logically. Logical thinking was key.

You compared the photo of Rebecca Young with the photo of Danny’s wife. It was the same woman, you had no doubt. That’s where you knew her from. Not from your childhood, but from the very first case you’d covered on your podcast.

You swallowed hard. Had Danny kept his wife’s past from you to avoid painful questions? He knew you, knew you were nosy, especially when it came to these kinds of things. It was probably a heavy subject for him. A wife who had died of cancer. In your podcast, you always explored the later lives of women who had survived attacks by serial killers. If they managed to rebuild, you presented it as proof of their strength and resilience. Was Rebecca one of those women?

You couldn’t remember — you had covered the Devil of Bristol case a long time ago. But that’s what the internet was for.

You sat down in front of your laptop again.

Rebecca was the one who had survived the attack and led to his capture — of course there were plenty of articles about her later life. And… her early death. After the execution of her attacker, she had fallen into addiction and eventually overdosed in her home. So, she hadn’t died of cancer. Sure, Danny could have lied, made up the cancer story to avoid telling the truth about his wife’s tragic end.

His wife.

Suddenly, it felt like your whole room froze.

In any of those articles, there wasn’t a single word about Rebecca ever getting married. Your good hand began to tremble uncontrollably, and you reached for your phone.

The last message from Spencer.

Can we meet later and talk?

With a sharp pain in your chest, you ignored it and wrote something else, something more important at the moment.

Could you give me Garcia’s number?

The reply came immediately, as if he was waiting for your response. The pain in your chest deepened. Reid sent you the number, without asking any questions. Next message.

Can we talk, please?

Sorry, I can’t talk right now, I think I’ve just solved a criminal case — you thought. You were too shaken to reply to him. Later. You’ll do it later.

Taking a deep breath as if you were about to dive, you dialed Penelope Garcia’s number. Before she could say anything, you blurted out “Hi Pen. Okay, I don’t know if I can call you that but it’s me, hmm, you probably know me better as Rotten Cherry than by my name.”

There was complete silence on the other end for a moment.

Squeak.

“Oh my gosh, it’s you! Hi, I’m a fan! Oh my god, I probably shouldn’t be this excited, but aaa, I’m so jealous Spencer met you!”

You winced.

“Well, he’s told me a bit about you. I’m glad to be talking to you too,” you said, your throat tight, barely managing a friendly tone. You sat on the edge of your desk, closing your eyes for a moment. The world around you was slightly blurred, and your heart was racing. You think you could hear your blood rushing through your veins. “My listener from the FBI, I never would’ve guessed. Anyway…could you check something for me?”

“Sure, it would be an honor. I’m booting up my database now…whatever you wish, sunshine.”

She was surprisingly eager to help you, even though she didn’t know what you were really after. You thought maybe she would even give you access to some highly guarded information if you asked.

You exhaled sharply. “I want you to check if a man named Daniel Lewis was ever married.He currently lives in Fairview and is forty-nine”.

You heard the clicking of keys, something gnawing at your stomach. Your breathing was probably annoyingly loud.

“Hm,” she murmured.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, sunshine,” she said. “Okay, let me put it this way. Daniel Lewis was never married…”

You squeezed your eyelids shut.

“…because someone named Daniel Lewis doesn’t exist. At least not, well, officially. Are you sure that’s the name you wanted me to check? I can—”

“Robert Taylor,” you forced out. Another breath. You felt as though the air wasn’t reaching your brain at all. “Actually, Robert Taylor Jr. Check what he’s doing now.”

Once again, the sound of typing.

“Robert Taylor. Robert, Robert, Robert…” she muttered under her breath. “Well, he and his mother changed their last name to her maiden name in 1964. Any trace of Robert—since then Bennett—vanished…twenty years ago.”

The same time Danny moved to Fairview.

“You know, sunshine…you sound very, very strange. What’s going on? Do you think he, oh—!”

You hung up at the exact moment Penelope put it together. Of course, she didn’t know Danny, but she realized you uncovered something. For a moment, you thought you might collapse. Nothing you’d gone through recently, not Charlie’s arrest, not Keasy’s death, hit you like this. He’d been right under your nose.

The Executioner. And not for a week, a month, or since the murders had started. Always.

Once more, you grabbed your phone and, with a lump in your throat, opened your conversation with Spencer.

At my place in 15

You sent the message, standing motionless in your bedroom for a moment. At your place in 15? You couldn’t wait that long. You had to talk, to tell someone…God, you had to warn your mom. She was at the lake house they were renovating together. Usually, she went there with Danny. What if they were there together right now?

You physically couldn’t wait those fifteen minutes. You moved toward the door. Driving with a broken arm wasn’t impossible, just difficult. And, well, legally not recommended. Anyway, any cop who stopped you should understand.

You started running down the stairs…and stopped halfway, face-to-face with Danny.

With Robert Taylor Jr.

With The Executioner.

Your good hand gripped the banister, your body frozen in place.

“Hey, I just dropped by because I think I left my drill here when I was putting together that table for your mom’s bedroom,” he said with a smile.

Loose tone, relaxed posture, corners of his mouth tilted up. Typical Danny. Typical Danny, always hanging around your house, playing the father figure—and in his free time murdering young women in search of justice for his father, a serial killer.

Typical Danny who…didn’t know you knew.

Though your breath caught in your chest, you forced yourself to let it out.

“Yeah. S-sure, you know you don’t have to feel…awkward here,” you managed to choke out.

His brows drew together in mild confusion.

“Everything okay?”

“Mhm. You just…startled me.”

He nodded in understanding, his eyes scanning you more intently. The look sent goosebumps rippling across your skin, something you tried desperately not to show.

“Heading somewhere?” he asked.

You hesitated, letting out a nervous, betraying hum as you scrambled for a lie.

“Mhm. Meeting…a friend,” you said.

Danny tilted his head to the side. The same way your mom did when you tried going out after dark. Concern in his eyes. You eased slightly. Danny had never hurt you. And he wouldn’t, as long as you didn’t let him know you knew.

“Okay, actually…it’s sort of a date,” you added. Extra details made the lie sound more believable. “And he’s gonna be here any minute so…yeah, I should get going.”

You tried to step past him, but he placed his hand on the banister. You flinched.

“Woah, easy,” he laughed lightly, in what was meant to be a calming tone. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Again. Just wanted to say… be careful, you know? I don’t know this guy, but…speaking as a man. Most of us are pigs.”

“I trust him,” you blurted, the words coming out sharper, more forceful than you intended.

Probably the only true thing you’d said during the entire conversation.

Danny’s gaze locked on yours, neither of you blinking. His hand stayed firmly on the banister, blocking your path. You couldn’t ask him to move it. You couldn’t let him see how badly you wanted to get out of that house.

Suddenly, he gave a half-smile. In fact, his whole body seemed to move with a short, amused snort.

“You took the photo from my car,” he said. That same relaxed look was still on his face, unchanged. You froze. “You know which one. And I know you’re a smart girl. You’ve probably figured it all out by now, and here you are, lying straight to my face.”

Never. In your life. Had you been. This. Terrified.

“I-I don’t know what—w-what you’re talking about.”

“C’mon. Don’t make me out to be an idiot. You think I don’t know where you were going? To call the cops? That your date? A cop?”

You took one sluggish step back, forgetting you were on the stairs, and lost your balance. Danny caught you by the arm, and in your terror, you instinctively jerked away.

“Let me go!”

“You’re coming with me,” he replied, still calm.

You’d always imagined that in a confrontation with a deranged killer, he’d be more outwardly violent. Well, he was gripping your elbow hard enough to nearly crush it, but outwardly, he was very, very composed.

“Where’s my mom?!” you demanded, your voice trembling.

Danny pulled you down the stairs. You tried to slip your hand from your sleeve, but he’d anticipated it. Grabbing the fabric tighter and then your arm itself, yanking you closer to him. You hissed through clenched teeth from the pain, fighting as much as you could. Danny tried to grab you around the waist, lift you off the ground, taking the floor from under your feet. Resisting with one arm in a cast was incredibly hard — you kneeled him in the crotch, and taking advantage of the moment when he doubled over in pain, you reached for your pepper spray.

The same one he had given you. He even seemed amused by the sight.

You barely had time to aim before he knocked it from your hand. It rolled across the floor, under the dresser.

Fuck.

In the next moment, he did what he initially intended — threw you over his shoulder. Danny was always a strong man, a laborer. Tall, too. You tried to break free somehow, maybe fall enough to bite his ear or scratch his face, but you weren’t physically able. You groaned in helplessness and only kicked your legs and punched his back, making it harder for him to carry you through the garden door.

He grunted in pain as one of your fists hit the same spot several times, harder and harder, more panicked. He sighed, slowing his pace.

“Okay, you know what, maybe I just—”

He abruptly turned sideways just as you passed through the door. Your head hit the threshold, and, well. Shit went dark.

⚡︎

You were awakened by an electric, buzzing sound.

You blinked, dazzled by the light directly in front of you. You felt nothing at first, but gradually a throbbing pain started to pulse in your head, along with the sensation that someone was holding your head still, preventing it from moving. There was another kind of pain, in a different place...

In your hand, just like when you fell down the stairs.

A pain-filled groan escaped your lips. Why were you going through this again? Had you dreamed of this moment so vividly that you even recreated the sharp sensation of breaking bones? You tried to move your hand, but it wouldn’t budge. Not because it was in a cast. Because it wasn’t. It was free, yet immobilized by something else, chained to something.

You wanted to look down, away from the source of the light burning your eyes. It was a bulb hanging from a low, rounded stone ceiling. You couldn’t move your head either, though you tried. Someone was holding it.

“Calm down,” a voice behind you commanded. A familiar voice. A steady voice. “Or I’ll accidentally cut off your ear.”

“What—” you murmured, still drowsy.

Then your eyes widened despite the pain. Danny released your head. It dropped forward, as you didn’t have the strength to hold it up yourself. You groaned again and started looking around, ignoring the pain.

You were somewhere…whatever the fuck this place was. A low ceiling and stone walls, something like a bunker or a tunnel, but in front of you was…a church altar? You couldn’t make sense of your surroundings. Maybe you’d understand your situation.

In front of you stood a table, and on the other side, a chair that Danny slowly approached. He leaned casually on it with one hand, blowing on an electric razor to get the hairs off its blade.

Your hair.

You looked around, which made no sense since you couldn’t see the top of your own head. But you knew you were completely bald, you could feel the cold on your skin. You wanted to be sure and touch it, but your hands were bound with straps. Leather straps, fastening you to the chair. Another wave of pain in your hand, now free of the cast.

The chair.

You were sitting on a chair.

You weren’t wearing your own clothes, just a hospital gown and your underwear. You were in your underwear. What a gentleman. Your feet were bound too, and the only things you could move were your head and your fingers. Escape was impossible.

You shifted your terrified gaze to Danny, swallowing hard.

“Danny,” you croaked. “Danny, why?”

“Why in general, or why you?” he asked gently, sitting down on the chair opposite you. He rested his elbows on the table and leaned toward you with a smile. “How about this. You tell me why in general, and I’ll tell you why you.”

You swallowed, holding his gaze. There was madness in his calm, maybe it had always been there. You were…damp and cold, so you guessed you were underground. There were only two of you; you had been kidnapped from your home. Was it possible anyone was looking for you? You hadn’t told anyone, but…you had asked Spencer for a meeting in 15 minutes. Had he come to your house? Had he guessed what might have happened?

Danny kept staring at you, waiting for an answer. Escape was impossible. Talking was recommended. Always, in cases of kidnapping. Buying time, getting inside the killer’s head, manipulating him. You sighed. It always seemed easier in podcasts; you had no idea what to say.

“Youre Robert Taylor’s son. The Devil of Bristol,” you began.

“I’ve always liked that nickname. Commands respect.”

You swallowed. Where had your Danny gone? The one who gave you pepper spray and always asked if you needed a ride? You shook your head from side to side, lips pressed tight. “Danny, please…”

“Keep talking.”

For a moment, you closed your eyes, extinguishing the burning fear inside you, reducing it to a flicker, though it took some time. But Danny was patient. Good.

“You’re his son, and you witnessed his execution. With your own eyes, along with your mother. Neither of you ever believed he was a murderer — actually, many people didn’t. He had fans. Women. You… changed your last name and…moved away…and then…” you trailed off.

What happened next chronologically? His move to Fairview? No, something had to come in between. For some reason, he eventually came to town. He was running from something.

“When you grew up…you killed Rebecca Young. Your father’s victim—”

“A dirty liar,” he corrected you.

“She ran from him. You believed he was innocent, and she was lying. That’s why you killed her, and then…”

You frowned, and Danny tilted his head with fascination.

“I delivered the justice that I, and my family, deserved. Then I lived in Fairview under a new identity, leading a quiet life for thirty years without murderous urges. Besides, is the need for justice a murderous urge, or a fundamental human right?” he pondered. He snorted. “That’s not irony or dark humor. I’m serious.”

So why did he start killing again? You didn’t ask aloud. Your eyes did.

“There was no fucking candle in this monster’s pumpkin head. I don’t even know how an idiot like him could have murdered so many women, because, damn it, his methods were worse than offering someone to see kittens out the back of a white van labeled ‘definitely not a suspicious van, not a serial killer’s,’” Danny said in a strangely modulated voice.

You just stared at him.

“Don’t you recognize your own words?” he asked. “About my dad? In your stupid little podcast?”

Your mouth fell open. Fuck, he was right. Those were your words, your exact quote.

“You know, there was one good thing that came out of him,” he continued. “It opened my eyes to how many people don’t know the real story. How my father was framed, and that junkie lied about him. If they could hear your false version on your podcast, why shouldn’t I have the right to record mine? Here, in his tomb. To ask for Rebecca’s own opinion. She wasn’t nearly as brave sitting in that chair as she was in court when she accused him. She admitted to lying, and hearing that live was…” Danny shook his head, almost with a touched gleam in his eyes.

Bile rose in your throat. This wasn’t your Danny. This was Robert Taylor Jr. He had been all along.

“You didn’t ask her,” you said, your voice bitter. “Because she was already dead. You killed her. You asked women who weren’t even born when your father was killed.”

“But they thought the same thing. When they sat here, they didn’t want to admit to lying. They clung to their hypocrisy, only confessing the truth later. That’s right, I gave false testimony about your family, about your father,” Robert again put on a female voice. He nodded at you. “Will you repeat that?”

Your head shook automatically from side to side. “That’s not fucking true.”

You flinched as something hit the table. Not his fist. He wasn’t aggressive. From Keasy’s interrogation recording, you knew things were sometimes different. A voice recorder fell on the table between you. A familiar-looking voice recorder.

“Yes, I stole it from you, I admit it. But I did it for a higher purpose. For justice.”

You felt like vomiting. You thought you had lost that recorder months ago. You accepted it and bought a new one, while the old one was still being used for…

Robert looked at the watch on his wrist and started recording.

“6:18, interrogation of…”

“You’ll kill me, so what then? The police already know who you are. I told them,” you said simultaneously, desperately. You probably had to start threatening him. Unfortunately, Robert didn’t look even slightly scared.

He just rolled his eyes, placing the recorder on the table in front of you.

“No, I won’t. You were going to tell them, but I beat you to it. Your mom will come home, notice you’re gone. Maybe she’ll worry, but you’ve gotten her used to you wandering around at night. The police will only find you when you admit you lied about my father on your podcast.”

So when I’m dead, you thought. You started breathing heavily through your mouth, trying to focus. You couldn’t admit he was right, or he’d fry you. As if reading your mind, Robert stood up from his seat and circled your chair, fastening something around your head. You didn’t see your reflection, but it was metal and cold against your shaved skin. You struggled once more, and a wave of tearing pain washed over your arm.

“Calm down, I’m not turning it on yet,” he murmured soothingly behind you, adjusting the leather strap around your wrist. “This is just to prepare you.”

“You’re really going to do this to my mom?”

“Do you admit that what you said about Robert Taylor on your podcast was blasphemy, slander, and untrue, and that he was wrongly accused?”

You closed your eyes. You remembered the pepper spray that fell from your hand and rolled under the dresser. The BAU would surely find it and recognize it as a struggle attempt. Then they’d only have to find you. Where were you? Robert called it his father’s tomb, and it probably was, the altar before you likely concealed his body or ashes. Would they figure it out?

Maybe. But it would take time before they did. You had to give them that time.

“I do not admit it,” you said.

Robert was behind you, where the mechanism to activate the chair had to be. Surely his hand rested on the right switch, ready with pride and satisfaction to press it at the right moment. He repeated his question patiently.

You patiently repeated yourself. “I do not admit it.”

You lost count of how many times each of you repeated it before you both started shouting. You were glad he was yelling at you, and you yelled even louder so that anyone above ground could hear you. The room didn’t seem soundproof, made of stone, not any sound-absorbing foam or material.

He hissed behind you, showing the first sign of impatience. He circled the table again, as if thinking that if he slapped his hands on it and leaned toward you, he could pressure you more, force you to speak. “Do you admit…”

“I admit your father was an idiot who didn’t have a single fucking candle in his pumpkin head!” you interrupted with a scream, carefully choosing your words, pulling from your own quote that probably haunted him like a mantra since he learned it by heart.

Robert froze motionless, his eyes seemingly empty. You heard a voice above you, above the surface, and tried to tilt your head up with hope, but you were immobilized. He also looked at the ceiling, his hands clenched into fists.

“You know what, this fucking makes no sense.”

He circled the chair, and you instinctively struggled again, ignoring pain everywhere. If only those straps would give way…Your heart was in your throat because you guessed where this was heading. Your body convulsed, but not because electricity was shooting through you — because you wanted to escape, maybe knock the chair over, do anything to get out…

“Danny, please—”

Did you hear footsteps? You definitely heard The Executioner’s heavy breathing behind you, panicked. He was scared. Scared just like you, but for a different reason. The footsteps grew louder, and you heard one last, final sound — the pressing of the switch.

Then, a moment of blissful silence settled from every side, filling your ears and mind before the first wave of electricity pierced your body through and through.

⚡︎

The streets of Fairview were completely empty that day.

Lately, people had been going out alone less and less, but for the past few days The Executioner had been where he belonged — behind bars — and with no specific danger lurking for the townsfolk, Elle slowly made her way down the sidewalk without spotting a single soul.

That didn’t mean they were all shut away in their homes. That particular morning, everyone had gathered in one specific place, dressed in black. In a town where everyone knew everyone, funerals were big events. They reflected the weight of the life that had come to an end.

Well, the street being completely empty wasn’t entirely true.

A few dozen meters ahead of Elle, a boy was gliding along the sidewalk on his bike. At some point, he got off, grabbing the handlebars and inspecting the rear tire — the air had gone out of it so much that riding was impossible. He had probably run over some glass. At least, that’s what he was most likely going to think.

The boy was forced to walk his bike the rest of the way home. He turned into a narrow alley, the shortcut he always took. Elle did the same, a few dozen meters behind him, ready to cut him off from an entirely different side.

Everyone was at the funeral. The boy had no reason to expect that a woman would suddenly appear in front of him. Let alone one pointing a gun straight at his chest.

The bike hit the ground with a loud clatter.

“Hi, Conrad,” Elle greeted him. “Do you know who I am?”

The boy raised both hands in the air and looked around, hoping to spot someone—anyone—who might help him. He saw no one, and his terrified gaze settled back on Elle.

She didn’t feel the slightest trace of remorse for the fear on his face. She lifted one eyebrow slightly and adjusted her grip.

The arrest of the Executioner had left Charlie facing only the charge of rape and murder of sixteen-year-old Maggie Baker. He had fully confessed to the crimes. Elle was the one who had interrogated him, and the one who knew there was something off in his statement. That he was trying to protect someone. Someone he cared about so much he was willing to go to prison for them.

And someone who would have gotten away with the crime completely.

If it hadn’t been for her and her crazy idea.

“N-no,” the boy finally stammered, his knees trembling as if he wanted to run, but knowing he would be shot the moment he tried.

“Good,” Elle replied. “But I know who you are. And what you did. I’m just missing a few pieces of this whole puzzle, and I’m counting on you to give them to me. Otherwise…” She gave a meaningful glance at her gun.

Conrad’s jaw tightened, his face almost translucent.

“I’m not joking,” she added. “I’ve got a gun, everyone’s at the funeral, and I can disappear without being seen. Besides, you wouldn’t be the first rapist I’ve shot, though you’d definitely be the youngest. So? Are we talking?”

After a brief pause, Conrad gave a stiff nod.

Elle cleared her throat. “Let’s start then. Why did you kill Maggie Baker?”

“I didn’t want to,” he blurted out immediately, shaking his head. “Really, I didn’t. I just… I got into that party, even though they didn’t want me there because I was younger. And she didn’t pay any attention to me at all, and when I saw that they were taking something, I… I put it in her glass and…later after I…she started choking, I don’t know why, I didn’t do that.”

Elle was silent for a moment. What he’d just added had to be some form of rape drug, which had slowed her breathing dramatically. And Maggie had asthma. She must have suffered an attack, and without access to her inhaler, nearly unconscious, she had suffocated.

That was the missing puzzle piece.

“You called Charlie. Big brother, always ready to help you out, even when you’ve just raped a girl. How did you know about The Executioner’s former hideout in the woods?”

The police had determined that the first murders were committed there, before Robert Taylor Jr. decided to move them to his father’s tomb.

“I—I stumbled on it once. When I was riding my bike. But I didn’t know h-he was there—”

“You thought it would be the perfect place to dump the body. Charlie drove you there, with Maggie’s corpse. You went inside, and there it was—the electric chair. Whose idea was it, hmm? To stage the whole thing as the work of a serial killer?”

Conrad’s chest rose. “Charlie’s.”

“Ah, the caring big brother, and so clever too. Even willing to go to prison for both of you.”

“C-can I go now?” he asked.

Elle let out a short, derisive laugh. She reached into her pocket without lowering her gun and tossed something toward the boy, landing right next to his bike. He glanced down, confused. It was a pair of handcuffs.

“Go on. Put them on yourself. You’re going to see your brother.”

Conrad didn’t move, his expression tightening slightly. “I’ll deny it—”

Elle reached into her pocket again. This time pulling out a voice recorder. It was switched on, capturing their entire conversation.

Watching Conrad cuff himself, Elle glanced at her watch. This had gone much faster than she’d originally planned. She might even make it to Keasy Turner’s funeral after dropping this idiot off at the station.

The BAU had stayed in Fairview for a few extra days, something far from their usual practice. This time, however, they’d deemed it necessary. The girl who had helped them crack the entire case was still in the hospital after they had rescued her at the very last moment, just as the first wave of electric shocks tore through her body. The ordeal had caused several severe burns and robbed her of her memory for a time, but she was expected to recover—at least physically. And they wanted to wait until she woke up.

To thank her.

EPILOGUE

10 months later…

The sound of the doorbell rang.

You moved toward the door, but before opening it, you stopped in front of the tall mirror in the hallway of your new apartment. Rented, still filled with boxes from your move…even though a week had already passed. You glanced briefly at your reflection, nodded slightly, and finally went to the door. Instead of the usual two locks, you had agreed with the landlord to install three additional ones. Each time you opened them, it felt a bit like a safe-cracking scene from a heist movie.

You knew who to expect, yet you peeked through the peephole before opening the door to a smile — a smile that naturally spread across your lips, though you couldn’t hide feeling a little nervous about the meeting. Spencer was nervous too, because when he didn’t know your eye was watching him from the other side, he straightened his tie. Beneath it, a gray-blue shirt and a beige blazer; as usual, glasses on his face. Although his hair was slightly longer than the last time you saw each other.

“Hi,” he started, swallowing nervously. Somehow, you exchanged glances. His fell on your hair, yours on the small, charming bouquet of violets in his hands. But then Spencer snapped out of it, shaking his head, pulling himself out of his reverie. “Hi, wow, sorry, it’s just—”

“I know. When I told you I got a new wig, you probably didn’t expect this.”

Spencer looked embarrassed in an apologetic way.

Although when you were in the electric chair ten months ago, you only felt one shock—it caused localized burns on your scalp. To take care of them, you consistently kept your hair as short as possible and only recently allowed it to grow out fully. But as you know, that was a long process.

Anyway, you bought a wig that imitated your old hair, but you didn’t like wearing it. You felt uncomfortable pretending to be your old self when you no longer felt like her, but you also felt bad with your head shaved against your will. So you bought a wig in a deep navy color.

“You look beautiful,” he said. You looked at his face; his eyes widened slightly. He cleared his throat. “I mean, that color really suits you.”

You smiled, and for a moment, you both stood in silence before you realized you were literally holding him at the doorstep. “Oh, sorry. Come in, please.”

Spencer nodded, but before he took a step, his eyes dropped to the flowers, which he probably just remembered. He held them out to you uncertainly. “I know they look a little tired, but I literally took the subway with them and it was really, really crowded, and…I hate public transport.”

You took the flowers from him thoughtfully and smiled wider. It was a kind gesture that made warmth flood your body. Although, it was a bit unexpected. Since the BAU narrowly escaped Robert Taylor’s hands, your relationship with Spencer had simultaneously taken a step back and a few forward. You had basically avoided the problematic issue of your kiss and had become friends. Really good friends, because the state you had been in over the last few months—mainly mentally—didn’t make you feel ready for anything more.

Not once during your friendship had he given you flowers before. Well, maybe because until recently you lived in different states and mostly talked on the phone, but still. It was something groundbreaking.

“They match my hair,” you noticed, letting him into the apartment. “And they’re really pretty.”

Spencer was in your new apartment for the first time. As you both went deeper inside, it must have immediately caught his attention. Boxes. Everywhere.

“I know, nothing is unpacked. I know, it’s been a month. But I just can’t force myself to fully settle here,” you explained. “It… doesn’t really feel like home. But nothing does anymore, so I guess I don’t really have a good excuse for not unpacking. Oh, and I only have one chair.”

For a moment, he looked at you silently, a trace of concern flashing in his eyes. You felt stupid for what you said—he had just arrived, and you were already complaining and pouring out your sadness. After everything that happened in Fairview, your mom didn’t want to live there any longer. She put the house up for sale, which strained your relationship a bit. For a while, you tried living together somewhere else, but you needed a complete change. That’s why you moved to Virginia. Well, that wasn’t the only reason. The other was the studies you decided to start.

“Don’t worry about it,” he assured you gently, nodding slightly in understanding. I don’t mind sitting on boxes. Even the floor is fine if I’m being honest. I came here to see you. The rest doesn’t really matter.”

You turned the bouquet of violets in your hands. “I missed you, you know.”

A slight movement of his head, a narrow smile like a simple line. “Yeah. I missed you too.”

“Should I put them in a vase? Want something to drink? If so, just a heads up—you’ll have to find yourself a glass in one of these boxes, I have no idea which one—”

Spencer had dropped by for a chat, which—unsurprisingly—stretched on. Not that you minded. Warm orange light filled your kitchen as you washed the dishes from the meal you’d eaten together at a table with chairs made of cardboard boxes, as if that were the most natural thing in the world. You were glad to have talked with him. This particular way of talking, balanced between casualness and trust, between comfort and honesty.

“Your plans haven’t changed? Criminology?” he asked, referring to your studies and the upcoming semester.

You handed him a clean plate so he could put it in the cupboard beside his head. On the counter in front of him sat a cut-off water bottle, serving as a makeshift vase for the violets. You’d have to get a prettier one. Who knows. Maybe you could expect them more often from now on.

“That’s right. You know, I think it’s something that will always be with me. But I’m not sure what I’ll do once I finish. Maybe I’ll keep going with the podcast.” You paused for a moment, drying your wet hands with a cloth. Spencer stood right beside you, his back to the cabinets you were facing. You shrugged. “Maybe I’ll try my luck in law enforcement. But I could never do what you guys do. I mean, I don’t think I’m built for fieldwork. Being in danger. Collecting information, working behind a desk…that’s probably more my speed.”

You weren’t even sure if you were speaking honestly. Just a year ago you’d been ready to break into places or visit abandoned buildings in the evening, and now you had five locks on your door and sometimes pressed your ear against the wall to your neighbors, wondering if they might be serial killers. Not to mention that nearly every day you googled the name of one specific prison to check if a certain inmate had somehow, against all odds, managed to get out. You were full of fear and, it seemed, permanently stripped of trust.

Spencer cleared his throat gently. “If you ever do want to try your hand at the FBI Academy, you’ve got my recommendation.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “Nepotism,” you muttered.

He shrugged with a faint smirk. “Maybe.”

You turned toward him to hand over the last clean glass to be put away in the cupboard. Spencer’s hand closed lightly around it—so lightly that you didn’t let go either, your eyes lifting to meet his. For a moment, his gaze simply held yours, thoughtful and unblinking, before he leaned in to kiss you. Carefully and slowly, in a way that felt unlike him.

“I really missed you,” he said quietly as he drew back just a little. “And I’m so glad you’re here now.”

“And I’m glad you’re here,” you replied, and you meant it. Maybe you weren’t entirely glad that you were here. Your new apartment still felt strange, the neighborhood still unfamiliar, and everything still so frightening. But that he was there with you in that moment, you were truly glad for that. “Put the glass in the cupboard.”

Spencer let go of your gaze, dropping it to the glass you both still held.

“Right—”

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mggslover · 11 days ago

Text

onto the last part…. i’m scared

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x podcast host female!reader, criminal minds typical violence, case details, mention of sexual violence, abduction, addiction, and drug use, season 2 bau team 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 9.7k 𝐚/𝐧: lemme know if you want to be added to the taglist! $orry for the longer break before posting the last part. (final part — august 10)

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑/𝟒

───────────────────────────────────

executioner — an official who carries out a sentence of death on a condemned person.

───────────────────────────────────

previously...

“That belonged to Maggie,” you said. “Maggie Baker.”

Charlie didn’t move. The ticking of the clock in your room became unbearably loud, deafening even, yet neither of you could bring yourselves to speak and drown it out. He wasn’t blinking either—his eyes, for the first time in months, looked alive, wide open instead of half-lidded and fogged by sleep.

You looked back down at the little bunny. You remembered that same keychain clipped to Maggie’s backpack when she came over for tutoring sessions and set it on your desk while she pulled out her notebooks and school notes. You remembered it clearly, because when you complimented the cute plushie, she said it was made by her grandma.

"I..." Charlie began, his voice hoarse, the words barely understandable. "I... I found it."

You locked eyes with him again, a tight pressure forming in your chest, like something heavy had rolled straight over it.

"You found it," you repeated hollowly.

You remembered how, just earlier that day, you’d tried to reach into his pocket, convinced you’d find drugs. And how he had thrown you the pill bottle—how he had preferred to admit to being an addict rather than owning up to carrying that specific item.

No wonder, when it had belonged to a victim of a serial killer. A killer whose identity remained unknown.

"You found it and carried it with you all this time," you said. A while ago, you'd taken a deep, full breath and you were still speaking on that same air, not daring to inhale again, your voice quiet and razor-sharp. "You think I'm that stupid? That belonged to Maggie, and even if you didn’t know that, the last thing you’d carry around in your pocket for months would be a little plush bunny. You wouldn’t be rubbing it between your fingers like a fucking rosary."

Charlie stepped toward you. You immediately stepped back, clutching the keychain tighter. You couldn’t tear your gaze away from the man in front of you, whose features were suddenly beginning to blur, like you didn’t recognize him anymore. Like it wasn’t your friend who had walked out of that bathroom, but someone else entirely.

"You ran. That day we checked out that station together. You didn’t go inside because you couldn’t, you panicked completely. And then when you saw the cops, you ran." You began listing, while he slowly shook his head, side to side, the movement growing quicker and quicker. His eyes were shining with something manic. Then another detail came to you and your whole body tensed, your mouth opened wide. "And the next day you asked me if I saw a chair at the crime scene. And I asked, what chair? Because there wasn’t one. It had already been removed before I got there. But it had been there for a while. Investigators confirmed the victims were killed right at that spot. So how did you know about the chair?"

“Don’t,” Charlie choked out. “Don’t play detective right now, you really don’t know anything—”

"I know enough," you cut him off.

You could’ve gone on—brought up his panic attack when Mr. Benson mentioned Maggie in the store. But that didn’t matter anymore. Maybe the full truth wasn’t stretched out in front of you in all its clarity, but the feeling in your gut and the fear, the fear of being found out written all over his face were enough.

Enough to know you couldn’t stay alone with him in that tiny room a moment longer.

You didn’t bolt, but you moved toward the door—and he moved after you immediately. That’s when it truly hit you.

Maybe you should have bolted from the start.

As you reached the door, so did his hand, slamming it shut the second it cracked open. Your forward momentum collided with the wood just as his chest collided with your back. Pressed against it, you hissed in pain and tried to push yourself away just enough to grab the handle again, not an easy task with someone literally clinging to your back, trying to pull you away.

“No, wait, please,” Charlie begged, reaching around your elbow to block your grip on the handle. You could feel the adrenaline and fear coursing through him, overpowering you. You wondered who else he had overpowered like this. You groaned, from panic and pain. “You can’t do this to me, you can’t tell anyone—you said you’d help me—”

“Because I didn’t know you were a murderer!”

Saying it out loud somehow gave you enough strength to drive your elbow into him hard enough for him to stumble back. You managed to get the door open just enough to slip through, but couldn’t shut it. Charlie rushed after you with clenched jaw and that determined look in his eyes that made you truly afraid. You sprinted down the upstairs hallway toward the stairs. He grabbed your arm more than once, still shouting some desperate pleas, but your sympathy had vanished, replaced entirely by survival instinct.

Jumping down two steps at a time, all you wanted was to get out of the house, somehow put distance between you and him so you could call the police. But your foot missed a step, and you slipped. You went flying sideways, landing on your left forearm, which exploded with a searing wave of pain.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” a male voice sounded in front of you.

Still lying on the floor, you lifted your head enough to see someone’s shoes. But it only took the voice and those shoes to recognize Danny. A breath of pure relief escaped your lips.

“He’s the one who’s killing the women,” you managed to say, as loud as your screaming arm would let you.

Actually, the next few hours were a complete blur. What stood out most clearly in them was Danny.

Danny, who managed to hold Charlie until the police arrived and who kept up his role by taking you to the hospital, where it turned out your arm was broken and you were, understandably, in a fair amount of shock.

Because, well — it wasn’t every day that someone you’d considered a friend turned out to be possibly involved in the murders haunting your town.

Well. Actually responsible for them.

It still hadn’t sunk in. Especially now, when the adrenaline had worn off and your logical thinking started to kick back in. Suddenly, you had so many doubts, but you weren’t sure if you should trust them, maybe it was just that part of you that didn’t want to believe you’d spent so much time with someone capable of so much.

Spent time with him. Trusted him, to some degree.

Everything felt so unreal. Sitting on the hospital bed with your arm freshly wrapped in a cast, for a moment you had trouble remembering how it even got there. Or what had happened to you. Only focusing on its weight helped ground you in the situation you were in. It hurt, but you had to stay present.

Danny and your mom — who had arrived at the hospital just before they put the cast on — had both stepped out of the room. You’d had to reassure them maybe twenty times that it was okay to leave you alone for a moment, whether it was to go to the bathroom or grab something from the vending machine, before they finally did, both clearly feeling guilty about it.

Anyway, they left like two minutes ago at most, and you’d already sunk into your thoughts and flinched in surprise when you sensed someone’s presence by your side. You stared with wide eyes at Reid’s face, his slightly soaked clothes, wet hair, and a few droplets on his glasses, suggesting it had been raining outside.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” slipped out instead of a greeting.

His eyebrows lifted in genuine, yet somehow warm, surprise.

“Really?” he asked.

You nodded eagerly, pulling your back away from the headboard.

“Yes, you’ll be able to tell me what’s going on with Charlie. Did you question him? It’s been, like...I don’t remember how long I’ve been here, but you must have. What did he say? Do you think it’s really him?” you bombarded him with frantic questions.

You completely missed that subtle shift in his expression, The earlier warmth fading as he gave a small nod to himself, as if lost in thought. But then his attention was back on you, and at your questions, he gave you an apologetic look.

“You know I can’t tell you anything.”

“But he’s my friend! I mean, you know, he was for such a long time. And I… I was the one who discovered it, now I just want to know if I was right,” you explained, looking into his eyes with a pleading gaze. Reid slightly pushed out his lower lip. You thought you might have had some effect on him, but not enough for him to reveal anything. “Please. Just between us. Was it really Charlie…this whole time?”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, visible hesitation on his face, then sighed softly and reached into the pocket of his blazer for a glasses cloth. He removed his glasses and began to wipe the lenses, still silent, still not answering, his expression unreadable and his brow slightly furrowed. Finally, he looked back up at you, lips pressed into a thin, apologetic line.

“How are you feeling?” he asked gently.

You stayed quiet for a moment; the shift in subject drew a disappointed, discontented scoff from you. You leaned back against the bed again, shifting your arm in its cast.

“Absolutely wonderful. First, I find out my friend is a drug addict, then probably also a serial killer, and then I break my arm trying to run away from him. Oh, and now no one wants to tell me anything about him.”

“I understand the frustration,” Reid said with a kind of emphasis, ignoring your immediate eye-roll. “But nothing’s certain at this point. Charlie’s still being questioned, and I...I don’t want to tell you something that will make you feel worse, only for it to turn out to be untrue. And we can’t forget that, technically, I’m not supposed to be telling you anything at all.”

If his decision had been driven by empathy, you couldn’t feel it at all. What truly made you feel worse was the lack of knowledge. So you clenched your jaw, avoiding his gaze.

“Then why are you even here?” you asked.

Reid stayed silent for a moment, and when you finally looked back at him, you noticed his brows had drawn together in confusion.

“To check if you’re alright…?” he said, his tone uncertain, like he was guessing the answer to a riddle.

“Was it an order?”

“What? Do you really think I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t an order? I— I just, you know, got worried,” he blurted out a little chaotically, his brown eyes focused on you with a sincere expression, resisting the urge to blink as if that might disrupt him. Before you could say anything, he glanced to the side and added, “Your parents are coming. I’ll leave you with them, but… you can call me if you feel like you need to. I hope your arm heals quickly.”

Reid gave you a fleeting, parting smile before, true to his word, he left. By your parents as he had called them, he of course meant Danny and your mom. What surprised you most was how you hadn’t even flinched at the term. How it didn’t sit wrong with you or spark any discomfort. Your gaze lingered a moment longer on the retreating agent, your mind still turning over his words, until you were gently forced to shift your attention to a cup being handed your way.

“Tea for you, and a snack bar. You should eat something while we wait for the discharge papers,” your mom said. Her tone was stiff, but her eyes were filled with concern and fear. She had warned you before that digging into the case might draw the killer’s attention. And yet, it turned out that doing nothing might have still put you not exactly in his crosshairs, but uncomfortably close.

You knew they were holding back from talking about Charlie while still in the hospital—everything was too fresh, too unclear. You took the snack bar from her with your good hand. She was still holding the tea for you. Your eyes dropped to the wrapper.

“Oh, wait, I’ll do it,” Danny offered, taking it from you and opening it.

You looked up at him, the faint smile on your lips touched with the sadness of the entire day, yet still breaking through was a deep gratitude. Who knew what might’ve happened if he hadn’t shown up at your house at that exact moment, just to pick up the tiles for the bathroom floor in their lake cabin.

“Thank you, Danny,” you said with a sincere nod. “Thank you for everything.”

⚡︎

All night long, raindrops pounded loudly against your window, and every so often, a flash of lightning lit up the sky, but it wasn’t the storm that kept you from sleeping.

It was that room. The one where you'd been talking before you started to run, before he came after you. The door you both crashed into. The bed where Maggie’s stuffed toy had fallen. The desk where his pills still sat.

That small plush Maggie had gotten from her grandmother.

Murder itself is hard enough to grasp, but what you couldn’t understand at all was why he had taken that from her. Sure, criminology had plenty to say about serial killers and their tendency to collect trophies. Items belonging to their victims, or even parts of them. It was about asserting control, treating it as proof of their success. But that specific bunny keychain was nothing if not a symbol of Maggie’s humanity, her gentleness, her youth.

You couldn’t understand how he had carried it with him for months after killing her, looked at it, and each time remembered the life he took.

Your stomach twisted every time the thought came back to you. The avalanche of thoughts didn’t stop, ticking forward like the hand of a clock counting down to morning.

Did Charlie even know Maggie? You hadn’t been friends with him before you started working together, so you couldn’t be sure. She was younger than both of you, only a little older than his younger brother, Conrad You knew you should look into it if you wanted to keep recording podcasts about the case, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Talk to his family? His friends? Technically, you were one of them too, were you supposed to interview yourself? What could you even say about Charlie, list off his suspicious behavior? You weren’t even sure he was guilty, maybe you didn’t want to be. Just one question kept echoing in your mind.

Why her?

A stupid question. You might as well have asked why all the other women.

But for some reason, it was Maggie who stayed with you that night. Maybe because of the bunny. Proof that had literally been found in his pocket. Undeniable.

The day before, you’d known what you were going to face the next morning. Then again, perhaps you had been slightly surprised. You had expected the whole team of profilers— not just three of them standing at your doorstep. Maybe you had overestimated your role as a witness. It was Elle, a blonde woman named JJ, whom you hadn’t yet had a chance to speak to, and, over their shoulders, Reid, towering above them.

“Hi. How’s your arm?” the blonde woman asked gently, very gently.

You knew what this conversation was going to be about, so any kind of small talk felt redundant. You just wanted to get to the point and learn something. She must have seen it in your expression, so she hadn’t intended to drag the pleasantries out forever either. They wanted to move the investigation along. So she nodded slightly, understanding. “We’d like to talk to you.”

“I figured,” you muttered.

You were completely alone in the house. Your mom had insisted on staying, but you convinced her it wasn’t necessary. Truthfully, you needed the time to yourself. You were also sure she’d be sending you text messages checking in regularly, and that at some point Danny would show up for some completely random item that would just be an excuse to check how you were doing.

Of course, you let them all in. The two women stepped across the threshold first, followed by Reid, who slowed down for a fraction of a second just before you. You hadn’t taken him up on his offer and called, though you had seriously considered it at one point. When you couldn’t sleep for what felt like hours and your fingers somehow curled around your phone, but you pushed the impulse down. It was the middle of the night. You were certain his offer hadn’t included the middle of the night. You passed each other in the doorway, and you had the feeling he might have seen the dilemma in your eyes—the one you’d faced only a few hours earlier.

But you couldn’t read what was in his gaze aside from a greeting. You had to turn your attention to the others and brace yourself for the conversation ahead.

"I know you want to talk about Charlie," you began before any of them had a chance to speak. "And what happened yesterday."

Elle drew in a shallow breath and nodded.

"Among other things, yes, but we’ve more or less heard about that from the officers you spoke to yesterday. The ones who were first on the scene. We also have a few additional questions, and it’s completely normal if you don’t want Agent Reid to be present for this conversation. He can always step out, if that’s what you prefer."

Your eyebrows lifted in genuine confusion. You shook your head slightly from side to side.

"What? Why? He can stay."

"Maybe we should all sit down," JJ suggested.

You were in the living room, arranged for receiving guests and ready to be turned into a very practical yet cozy interview room. You took a seat in the red armchair with the high backrest, the kind you could sink into. They settled on the matching sofa, lined up like three ducklings in a row.

“So we’re most interested in learning about Charlie’s behavior lately. Since Maggie Baker’s disappearance,” JJ began.

“Since Maggie’s disappearance?” you caught on suspiciously. “Not since the discovery of the first body?”

“We’re more focused on how he changed after Maggie went missing.”

You watched them closely. You knew they were professionals, and there had to be a very logical reason and explanation behind it. But you couldn’t figure it out while also reaching back in your memory.

You took a breath. You wouldn’t have mentioned it if you were certain Charlie hadn’t hurt anyone. But you weren’t.

“I know he was using drugs,” you said cautiously, swallowing hard. Elle narrowed her eyes slightly. “I can’t say for sure how long it’s been going on, but something strange started happening with him a while ago. After Maggie disappeared.”

“Do you know what kind of drugs?”

Here, you hesitated carefully, but then remembered they’d literally caught you at the crime scene a week ago, and if that didn’t land you behind bars, possession probably wouldn’t either.

“I took them from him and hid them in a drawer in my desk. I can go get them—”

"Spencer, could you?" JJ turned to the man sitting beside her, whose eyebrows lifted in surprise at the assignment.

He quickly looked at you.

"Is that a problem...?"

"My room’s upstairs," you said, the corner of your mouth twitching involuntarily. He was really asking you for permission to do his job.

None of the women spoke again until the sound of his Converse on the stairs faded. Only then did JJ lean toward you over her knees, already armed with another question.

"Did Charlie know Maggie personally? And if not, can you think of any circumstances where they might have crossed paths, gotten to know each other, or even just been in the same space? We know she volunteered at the shelter, maybe there—"

"No," you cut in, confidently. "No, he totally didn’t go to places like that, but... it’s a small town. It’s not hard to bump into someone or be around them. They definitely knew each other by sight, like everyone does here."

"How long have you two known each other?" Elle asked this time.

"Well, we went to school together here, but really… about a year. Since we started working together. He used to help me a lot with the podcasts."

"Has he ever acted in a way that made you feel uncomfortable?" The question was spoken slower, more gently. "If not toward you directly, then maybe something he said or did in front of other women? Can you think of anything like that?"

Your forehead wrinkled completely as you shook your head no even before truly thinking about it.

"No, never, no."

"Did he often react to things aggressively, was he impulsive?"

"No," you repeated. Both women’s eyes were watchful. You felt like they didn’t believe you, or thought you were hiding the truth, either from them or from yourself, or maybe trying to protect your friend. You shook your head more firmly, reinforcing your words. "No, really. Ever since he started using, it was the opposite, mostly apathetic. He barely talked."

"But he did act aggressively at times," Spencer's voice suddenly cut in.

All of you turned your heads toward him—he was standing on the last step of the stairs, pausing there just long enough to say it. Then, eyes fixed on you, he walked closer.

"When I was at your shop and he didn’t seem to be in a good mood, he sharply asked if I was buying anything..."

"That’s because we had just had a fight," you clarified. "It was more directed at me than at you."

Elle looked at Reid with a thoughtful expression, then slowly shifted her gaze to you.

"So, he did act aggressively at times."

You shot him a visibly frustrated look—one he didn’t hesitate to return. You drew in a breath and slowly let it out, reminding yourself that, from his perspective, it probably did look that way and he wasn’t lying. Even though you were doing everything in your power to stay objective—after all, you wanted this case solved too—somehow, subconsciously, you were trying to defend Charlie.

Or maybe you were just trying to give him the fairness that everyone, even the worst kind of monster, deserved.

“I need some air,” you announced, wiping your hand nervously against your pants.

Elle and JJ exchanged glances, but it wasn’t a request, you simply got up and headed for the door, accidentally bumping your arm in a sling against the frame. The world spun. You stopped for a moment, clenching your eyes shut and waiting out the wave of pain without so much as a sound. Only then did you step outside.

It had rained the night before, and the clouds still held a soft gray hue, covering the sun.

You had meant it. You really did need some air. You felt lighter the moment the autumn breeze hit your cheeks. You had planned to walk around the house and sit in the garden on one of the chairs, but you gave up on the idea.

You’d have to go back inside soon anyway, and honestly, you didn’t care anymore. So you simply sat down on the grass under the living room window, on the front side of the house. Right next to a garden gnome figurine riding a goose.

The grass, of course, was damp, instantly soaking through your pants. Oh well. In a way, it was refreshing.

You hadn’t been keeping track of time, not really paying attention to anything other than the chaos in your own head. At some point, a figure loomed over you, and even without looking up, you knew exactly who it was.

"I see you’ve made a new friend," Reid began.

You looked up at him, lifting your chin. There was a small, worried smile playing on his lips. You glanced sideways at the garden gnome to understand what he meant and found yourself smiling too, despite everything.

“Well, my last one is currently in custody, so I had to find a replacement,” you muttered, pulling your knees to your chest and hugging them with your good arm. “It’s just a coping mechanism. The joke. I don’t actually think it’s funny,” you clarified.

“Yeah, I figured,” Reid nodded.

He sat down on the grass as well.

“It’s—” you tried to warn him.

“Wet,” he finished, his eyes closed behind his glasses.

“You came here to make sure I don’t jump the hedge and run away from the interview?”

“I mainly came to talk. Which doesn’t exclude keeping an eye on you so you don’t jump the hedge and run away. Though that wouldn’t really make sense in your current position, you’re not our suspect.”

“I know I’m not. But the questions you were asking me…” You shrugged, simply showing that you hadn’t quite expected them. Then you bit the inside of your cheek, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, probing, pleading. “You suspect Charlie. Otherwise you wouldn’t be keeping him in custody, and that makes sense, because you have every reason to suspect him. After yesterday. But you don’t actually think it’s him, right? The Executioner.”

Reid parted his lips, clearly searching for some middle ground, an evasive answer. You raised a finger in front of his face, stopping him from speaking. “Just say yes or no. I have the right to know, don’t you think?”

He sighed, staring straight ahead. The street in your neighborhood looked deserted, like something out of an apocalyptic movie, their black SUV the only car parked in the driveway.

“We don’t believe he’s the Executioner,” he said finally, quickly adding, “Which doesn’t mean we think he’s innocent.”

“I figured,” you nodded. When you stepped outside and went over the questions those two women had asked you, it had all started to come together. You swallowed hard. “You think… you think Charlie killed Maggie.”

"Well..."

"Just say yes or no," you asked.

"Yes."

You didn’t gasp in horror, didn’t even move. You had asked him for a simple answer so you could accept it. Raw, unvarnished truth, without speculation or cushioning. You looked away. For a moment, the two of you just sat there in silence. You forced yourself to picture Charlie as a faceless perpetrator, the kind whose name the public never learns, just a blur of crime scene photos and news reports. A stranger.

"But Maggie was killed the same way as the other victims," you noted. You knew the case inside there was no way you could have missed it.

Reid shifted slightly in his seat. You could see the conflict on his face, whether he should be telling you any of this. Technically, he shouldn’t. But in practice, you were already more entangled in the investigation than you were ever meant to be. And beyond that, you weren’t just a witness anymore, or just someone who happened to live in a town haunted by murders.

He knew you by now. Enough, maybe, to trust you.

For a brief moment, he pressed his lips together more tightly, carefully choosing his words.

“You’re probably aware that there are certain details about a crime. The crime scene, the motive…that the police keep strictly to themselves,” he began.

You nodded to show you were following.

“To avoid situations where someone confesses to a crime they didn’t commit.”

“Yes, exactly. And in this case, with this whole investigation, our ace up the sleeve was the fact that Maggie’s murder was different from the others.”

Though Spencer was speaking in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, it felt like you were listening to a slowed-down podcast episode and couldn’t speed it up no matter how hard you tried. Without taking his eyes off you, he finished, “The later autopsy led us to believe that she didn’t die from electrocution like the others. It was done to her after she had already died from another cause.”

Your brain was both racing and completely blank at the same time. You blinked slowly. A breath.

“So, if I understand correctly, you think Maggie’s killer staged it to make it look like the Executioner’s work. So no one would connect it to him.”

Reid didn’t nod, but the confirmation was in his eyes.

You parted your lips, but didn’t speak just yet. Only let out a sigh. Thinking of it as the work of some nameless perpetrator had helped at first, but in the end, everything led back to Charlie.

“Why would he do that? Why would he kill Maggie specifically?”

Reid looked at you in silence, as if asking whether you really wanted to know.

Your face was tense, unyielding. He had to tell you.

“The autopsy also showed that Maggie was the only victim who was sexually assaulted before she died.”

Surprisingly, the fact didn’t shock you all that much. It was tragic—of course it was—and you felt for Maggie with all your heart. But at the same time, it made far too much sense in light of the questions Elle and JJ had been asking you. Had he ever made you feel uncomfortable.

Once again, you tore your eyes away from your interlocutor, fixing them instead on your legs in front of you, which now seemed like they belonged to someone entirely different, someone foreign. You bit into the inside of your cheek, hard.

You pictured the plush toy that had fallen out of Charlie’s pocket. You’d had mixed feelings from the beginning about whether he could’ve been behind all of this. But taking into account the version Reid had just presented to you…

You pressed your healthy hand to your eyes, feeling the pounding in your head.

At some point, you felt a faint touch on your shoulder. Surprised, you lifted your eyelids and glanced to the side, seeing his hand on your shoulder—resting there lightly, barely noticeable. You swallowed.

“You think I really wouldn’t have noticed?”

That my best friend was a rapist and a murderer?

You surrounded yourself with criminal cases, always felt certain that you’d notice if something bad was happening around you. You thought of yourself as smart, observant. But really, you were just plain blind.

“It’s always like that,” Spencer assured you softly. “Parents don’t know their child is killing, a wife doesn’t know what her husband keeps in the basement. But no one blames them for not knowing, no one wants to suspect someone close to them is…”

“A monster,” you finished automatically.

Reid only nodded.

You rubbed your eyes again. Looked like the headache wasn’t going to leave you that day. But despite his presence, you knew what you had to do.

“I think we have to go back,” you said.

He pulled his hand from your shoulder abruptly, as if only just now realizing it had still been there.

“Yeah. You’re right. We probably should.”

He got to his feet first, offering you his hand, since standing up with a broken arm was surprisingly hard. You took it with a grateful, somber smile that quickly faded.

You took two steps before letting go of him, your arm falling stiffly to your side. Reid shoved his into the pocket of his gray blazer. Neither of you commented on the fact that both your pants were completely soaked, but somehow it seemed to ease the crushing weight of the atmosphere just a little.

The rest of the conversation with the women went much more smoothly once you knew what kind of information they were looking for and what theories and conclusions they were leaning toward in general. When their SUV pulled out of the driveway and you closed the door behind them, you waited exactly three seconds before bolting up the stairs.

Your podcast and blog had been dead for a while. You hadn’t been able to bring yourself to talk about a case that had become so personal to you, but after the conversation in the garden, you decided you weren’t going to stay silent anymore just because your friend had ended up among the suspects.

You talked about every update in the Executioner case you could find, distancing yourself from it as much as you possibly could. You were an objective podcaster digging into the smallest details and hidden information—not a resident of the very town in question, whose voice trembled when she said the name of the victim she used to tutor.

The one who had died at the hands of your friend.

You set your laptop aside and lay down on your back on the bed. You’d been so absorbed in working on the podcast that you hadn’t noticed the day passing by outside the window, the darkness settling in.

Only then did you realize your mom had sent you a few worried messages asking how you were feeling. You replied that you were fine.

⚡︎

Charlie remained in custody for another two days. Officially, no one knew his stance on the case, but from a phone call with Reid (one of several), you learned that he stayed silent. He didn’t deny anything, didn’t defend himself—he simply refused to say anything.

Speaking of your conversations with a certain familiar profiler, they usually took place at night. You couldn’t sleep. Every time you closed your eyes and your mind went quiet, an impulse told you to reach for your laptop and scroll through forum threads or even the comment section under your podcast.

People were sharing their thoughts on the arrest of the suspect allegedly connected to the case, murders in Fairview, which were gaining more and more media attention.

As usual, various made-up theories surfaced. For example, Charlie was a real nutcase and apparently once breaded his sister’s cat.

Charlie was allergic to cats and didn’t have a sister.

The morning was quiet. You’d maybe gotten three hours of sleep, and you were up before your alarm even went off, feeling like you hadn’t slept at all. Getting dressed was a struggle with one arm still in a sling, but you managed. You had to drag yourself out early that day to drop off a few documents at work related to your medical leave. Your boss was in a rough spot, suddenly losing two employees like that, but what could any of you do?

Brushing your teeth in the upstairs bathroom, you stared at the phone resting on the edge of the sink. You’d sent Reid a link to the cat-buttering theory. The day before, he’d forwarded you a horribly written article about the case in general, criticizing its factual inaccuracies and comparing it to your podcast. It made you feel a bit better about the last episode you published.

With your nose buried in your phone and still waiting for a reply from Reid, you walked down the stairs, making your way through the house you’d lived in since childhood without even looking around. You just wanted to grab something from the fridge that required the least possible amount of preparation…

“Oh shit, sorry,” slipped out of you when you ran straight into your mom and Danny.

Making out in the middle of the kitchen like a pair of horny teenagers.

You froze in place, feeling like a parent who had walked in at the worst possible moment. But it wasn’t just the fact that two adults were engaging in perfectly normal human behavior that hit you (or them, as they pulled apart, clearly embarrassed). It was more the fact that, even though they’d been friends for quite a while, and had worked together for just as long—and Danny, especially recently, had become someone close and important to you too—they had never officially dated.

"Good morning, sweetheart," your mom blurted out, stepping two paces away from the man and leaning her elbow on the kitchen island in the most awkward way possible, only to quickly lift it again, as if realizing exactly how awkward it was.

Danny, upon seeing you, briefly wiped his face, brushing against the three-day stubble on his chin, and looked at you nervously, as if guilty. You were tempted to say, chill, dude. Sure, they had caught you off guard — you weren’t denying that — but you weren’t the kind of daughter who made a scene over her parents’ new partners for no reason. Especially not when that partner was Danny.

You remembered how both of them were there for you at the hospital after you broke your arm, and you thought your mom honestly couldn’t have done better.

“I just dropped by to... I left my level here,” he explained.

You snorted a laugh and turned to the fridge, like you’d meant to from the start. With a mozzarella string in your mouth, you looked back at them, eyes glittering with dry amusement.

“You do realize you’re making it more awkward by acting like I didn’t just see all of that?”

That light, teasing edge in your voice made your mom’s shoulders visibly relax. She gave you a half-smile. “Don’t get cocky. And for the record, he really did come for the level.”

“And was looking for it in your mouth?” you mumbled under your breath, trying to open a juice bottle with one hand.

“I’ll help,” Danny offered immediately.

Behind his back, your mom shot you a murderous look for your earlier comment, and you responded with an innocent smile. You glanced at your phone, just checking to see if you’d gotten any messages.

“Do you want me to drive you to work?” your mom asked as you were already holding a glass of juice, and Danny had just been met with a grateful look.

You were about to say it wasn’t necessary and that you’d drive yourself, when suddenly you remembered. Your arm. Right. Considering how much it had hurt when you broke it, it was surprisingly easy to forget about it.

"I could just take her on my way," Danny spoke up.

Even just his eyes told you it was more than a friendly offer, iit felt more like a personal duty. With everything that had happened lately. Your neighbor Keasy’s disappearance, your injured hand, not knowing whether the killer was still out there or not, neither he nor your mom would let you take public transport, let alone walk.

“Oh, that would be so sweet of you, Dan.”

“It’s nothing, really. Just let me actually find that level first…”

He tossed you the keys to his red pickup so you could get inside while he took a quick look in your garage.

You climbed into the truck parked in your driveway, your attention mostly on your phone — on the comments under some random article titled What’s New in the Fairview Murders? KILLER CAUGHT?, and once again checking to see if Reid had replied.

Which was stupid, really, since it was morning and he, like the rest of the team, was probably buried in work.

It would’ve made more sense, that impatience, if you’d actually asked him something urgent.

But maybe you just liked whatever this was between the two of you. Maybe it filled a space you hadn’t even known was there. Lately, most of your life revolved around the case. Details you couldn’t talk about with your mom or Danny, both disapproving of your need to dig into all of it, and obviously not with Charlie either, for obvious reasons.

You’d ended up a little isolated in all of this. Plus, you two just really got along.

You were pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of the pickup’s back door opening. Danny tossed in the level he'd mentioned more than once, along with a coil of copper wire. Ever since he'd started helping your mom renovate the lake cabin, he’d been stopping by for increasingly weirder things.

He buckled his seatbelt and started driving through your neighborhood, sneaking glances at you from the corner of his eye. He sighed.

“You know, I really feel like I should ask you this,” he said after a moment. You were passing a group of teens on their way to school, walking in a tight cluster. That’s how it had looked in town ever since they found Maggie’s body. She’d been in high school too.

You only then realized Danny had said something to you. You looked at him, confused. Just hearing Maggie’s name always pulled you into that state. The snowball effect, one thought leading to another until you landed on Charlie, and the BAU’s suspicions…and your own.

“Do…do you feel okay about me and your mom…you know, dating?”

You were speechless for a second, then let out a small involuntary snort.

“You’re asking for my permission now?”

“Well… it’d be weird to phrase it like that, but kind of? I know she’s been alone since your dad—” he made a vague gesture with his hand, letting the silence speak for itself. “And this might be a whole new situation for you. I just want to know where you stand on it.”

Turning off your phone and setting it down on your lap, you looked at him seriously.

“You’re both adults. And single. My opinion really shouldn’t stand in the way of… whatever. But if you really want to know…Danny, you know I like you. I’m actually rooting for you two, seriously.”

He took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at you, and something warm and grateful flickered in his gaze. You offered a faint smile to show you truly meant it, already starting to lower your eyes back to your phone, only to accidentally bump it against something. A photograph of a woman, pinned to the dashboard. Somehow, you'd only just noticed it now.

"I think I recognize her," you blurted out, almost involuntarily.

The man shifted his gaze toward you, his eyes unreadable. The presence of the photo didn’t surprise you. Everyone in town knew Danny had once had a wife who had passed away. It looked like a school yearbook photo; the woman appeared young, with a wide smile and curled blond hair. Her features were fairly ordinary, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d seen her somewhere before.

You met his eyes and, embarrassed, pressed your lips together. You had just been talking about his new relationship, and now here you were, bringing up his late wife…

“Yeah, that’s possible,” Danny replied with a slight nod, distant somehow. You couldn’t blame him for tensing up a little, it made sense, talking about this. “You were about five when she passed. Maybe you managed to remember her somehow.”

“Maybe,” you murmured, thoughtful. You tried to push your memory. If you remembered her from childhood, surely there had to be one specific memory tied to her, right? “Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, no, that’s okay,” he reassured you. He had already parked in front of the store, but because of the direction the conversation had taken, you held off on getting out. “You know, cancer took her over fifteen years ago. I’ll always miss her, but it’s not… you know, an open wound anymore.”

“Cancer,” you repeated, genuine sympathy in your voice. “I didn’t know. I realize it’s a bit late for this, but… my condolences.”

Your words seemed to amuse him. His whole face lit up ever so slightly, the corners of his mouth creasing with a faint smile. “Sorry, it’s kind of funny. I was actually planning to stop by the cemetery, and here you are, offering condolences.”

You gave a slight, somewhat forced smile, unsure how to respond. You didn’t feel entirely at ease in the conversation, or particularly comfortable. You were just about to thank him for the ride and politely excuse yourself when he added, “Would you maybe like to go there with me?”

Your hand froze mid-motion.

“To the cemetery? Now?” you repeated blankly.

To visit his late wife? It was…odd, probably, but you weren’t sure if it was appropriate to say no in a moment like that. Thankfully, you had an excuse. You let out a vaguely apologetic sigh and lifted the documents you were supposed to deliver at work.

“Sorry, it’s kind of important.”

"It won't take long," he pointed out. "I'll wait for you, we’ll go together, and then I’ll drive you home. How else would you get back?"

You were speechless for a moment, your mind blank. Danny was watching you expectantly, maybe even a bit insistently. You opened your mouth to casually decline the offer, but something stopped you. A flicker of hesitation, a strange uncertainty about why you didn’t want to go. Was it just because it felt… odd? Visiting the grave of someone’s wife, especially someone you considered a kind of older friend, wasn’t inherently unusual. Maybe it just caught you off guard. Maybe there was something in the way he asked, in that unfamiliar look in his eyes, that sparked a strange discomfort in your stomach.

You shook your head slightly, forcing a smile.

“I was gonna go grab some groceries, and my mom’s supposed to meet me there. We were gonna head back together,” you explained.

It wasn’t even true, but the moment the excuse popped into your head, you decided to commit to it. There was no real reason to lie to Danny. This was Danny. Your mom’s longtime friend, someone you’d always felt you could trust. You hated lying to him, especially as you watched him nod with understanding.

“But maybe another time,” you added more brightly. “We could go with my mom too, if that’s okay with you.”

Danny stared ahead for a moment, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the flannel sleeve of his shirt slipping back just enough to show a broad, dark-haired forearm. Then he glanced at you again, lips smiling, but his eyes didn’t quite follow. Or maybe you only imagined that. “Sure. Didn’t mean to push.”

The car suddenly felt too quiet. You gave your head a small shake, trying to shrug off the weird feeling as the moment to get out arrived. You finally reached for the door handle.

“Thanks so much for the ride, Danny.”

“No problem. See you around.”

You walked into the store and, out of some strange curiosity—an urge to know—you discreetly glanced outside to see whether his car at the intersection turned toward the cemetery. It had. You scoffed at yourself, not knowing where this sudden suspicion was coming from. Maybe the whole situation with Charlie had made you overly sensitive. Not everyone was who they said they were.

Everything went according to plan, and after a moment you stepped back outside, calling your mom to meet up in town. She wasn’t answering for now, so you walked slowly with your phone pressed to your cheek. Fairview was shockingly empty that day, the sidewalk covered in light orange leaves, the day bright and sunny. It was morning. Most kids were in their first or second period at school. For obvious reasons, police cars had been crossing through town even more often lately, and the watchful eye of law enforcement made people more likely to stay at home, if they could.

It was, then, unsettlingly quiet, and the sound behind you reached your ears far more clearly, enough to make you flinch slightly on the spot. You turned around to see a boy on a bike. He was right behind you, and you barely managed to jump aside before he could hit you. As he passed, he turned his head to look at you. You were about to yell at him, but then he turned fully, and you recognized him. Conrad. Charlie’s younger brother.

That alone was enough to shut you up.

“Are you there?” your mom’s voice came through the phone like through a barrier. “Honey?”

“Yeah. Yes, I’m here,” you said quickly.

You kept your eyes fixed on Conrad. He was supposed to be in school. Of course he wasn’t. As Charlie’s brother, he was a suspect in the murders. Or rather, in one murder and a rape, but only you and the police knew that part.

Of course he wasn’t going to school because of all that.

You sighed and turned your attention back to the call with your mom.

"It's really nothing. I'm just glad I could help in some small way. I can't even imagine what you're going through."

With the bag in hand, you stepped into your neighbor Elena’s house. You knew where the kitchen was, so you headed there, intending to put the groceries away. You wanted to take as much off her plate as you possibly could.Her daughter Keasy had gone missing a few days earlier, and there was still no news. No progress. It was as if she had sunk into the ground.

Elena was tightly wrapped in a long cardigan, her face ashen. The look she gave you held no gratitude for the groceries, though it seemed like she wanted it there. She simply couldn’t bring herself to feel anything but despair. Anyway, you simply wanted to help in any way you could. You left your groceries behind and chatted for a while, though really, it was you trying to keep the conversation going, just so some sound would fill that empty house, if only for a moment. You drank the tea she offered, told her she was welcome to visit you anytime, and then it was time to leave.

Your houses were separated by a street, and just as you were about to cross it, your phone rang. You raised it to your ear, glancing both ways even though traffic in your neighborhood was practically nonexistent.

"Hey, just wanted to make sure our meeting is still on," Spencer blurted out the moment you picked up.

Thrown off, you slowed down your pace. You had indeed made plans to meet at your place at a specific time andyou were the one who invited him but the conversation with Elena had completely made you forget about it. A bit guilty, you quickly replied:

"Still on? Yeah, I hope so. Unless something came up on your end and you’re calling to say so?"

"No," he denied right away. This conversation was somehow funny. Both of you replying to each other at machine-gun speed. Where had all that nervousness suddenly come from? The magic of a phone call? "No, nothing came up, luckily. So… yeah. I think I’ll be at your place in fifteen minutes. Unless something came up on your end and you want to reschedule..."

You let out a small laugh and said no, absolutely nothing came up. You were already standing at your front door, but with one hand in a cast and the other holding your phone, you couldn’t reach into your pocket for the key. So you just stood there, you weren’t in a rush to go inside anyway. Still with the phone to your ear, you asked:

"You remember the address?"

"Yeah, I’m fine."

"I’ll send it to you just in case. So you don’t get lost—" you pressed your lips together when you realized how dumb that sounded. "Right. Your brilliant memory. Please accept my deepest apologies for doubting it."

You heard a quiet laugh on the other end of the line.

"The deepest apologies have been accepted."

A certain silence settled between you, full of anticipation, as if each of you was waiting for the other to speak. You slightly moved the phone away from your face so he wouldn’t hear your breathing. You were about to see each other anyway, so you could simply say a quick goodbye and end the call. Your gaze drifted absentmindedly to your shoes, and suddenly you froze, noticing something you hadn’t seen before.

"I-I have to go," you said into the phone, as if in a trance.

Without adding anything else, you hung up and shoved the phone into your pants pocket.

On the doormat lay a small rectangular cardboard package, tightly wrapped in tape. You hadn’t ordered anything recently. Maybe it was for your mom? She often ordered things online, mostly for use on the construction site. Special screws or bolts, maybe.

You bent down to pick up the package. When you shook it, it didn’t seem like there were any screws or other small pieces inside, not a single sound came from within. But when you lifted the box, you noticed what was written on its thin side panel.

Your name.

First, you froze in place before you began, without giving it much thought, to unwrap the package right then and there. The key slipped from between your fingers and clinked against the doormat; it was hard to open the cardboard box and tear the tape off its sides using only one hand, while holding the whole thing under the same arm.

Finally, you sighed in defeat and bent down to pick up the damn key, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you with a slam.

Your legs carried you to the kitchen on their own, where you used a knife to slice through the tape on the sides. If you had found something like this on your doormat a year ago, your reaction would have been much more composed. Now, it was impulse that drove you, a whole avalanche of uneasy feelings that effectively crushed your reason down to its foundation.

The contents of the box were so perfectly fitted that they didn’t spill out onto the kitchen island. Freeing them took considerable effort. It was a cassette. There was something else inside. A note, really. A piece of paper with a message written in red marker.

Play this in the next episode or. Play this in the next episode or. Not even a colon at the end to hint at wicked intent, a threat. Suggestions leave room for uncertainty. Whoever sent it had no doubt about what would happen if you didn’t include it in the episode.

Strange, how you analyzed it like that when your body couldn’t even move.

Even without a signature, you knew who the sender was, and you knew he wasn’t stupid enough to leave fingerprints. Still, you picked up the cassette using a kitchen towel, carrying it upstairs like something that smelled foul. Whoever you asked for advice would tell you to inform the investigators immediately. But you knew they would immediately confiscate the tape, not letting you have a single look at it.

You had to know what was on it. He’d sent it straight to you. You had to.

You walked over to the tape recorder sitting on the windowsill, buried under a pile of your papers, and wrapped your one good arm around it, pulling it to your chest as you moved it onto your desk, not much cleaner. You inserted the cassette.

The recording began with crying.

Terrified and exhausted—but it wasn’t the only sound. Right after came a sigh, irritated and bored.

“Once again, from the top. Interrogation of Rebecca Young, 00:14. The subject refuses to testify…”

You stood frozen, bent over the tape recorder, as if being closer to it might help you understand what was going on. It didn’t.

The man’s voice sounded distorted. Someone was definitely using a voice modulator. The woman’s sobs were laced with fatigue, suggesting the scene had been dragging on for a long time.

Rebecca Young? The name rang a bell, but you couldn’t place it. What kind of recording was this? It sounded far too real to be a prank.

“What’s your name?” came the question again.

Silence followed, not complete silence, though. You could hear the woman’s labored breathing, still broken up by sobs, slowly start to calm. More like she was forcing herself to, rather than actually finding composure. A loud swallow. A trembling reply “Rebecca Young,” she said.

You straightened up.

That wasn’t Rebecca Young, or whoever she was being made to pretend to be. That was Keasy. Your missing neighbor.

The recording kept playing, and you listened to it without any physical reaction, simply standing there with your whole face and body tense. Somewhere in the distance, the doorbell rang. You were aware of it, but the thought of stopping the recording and going downstairs to open the door didn’t even cross your mind. Some things were important, and others were more important.

“Do you admit that your statements were false?”

Keasy sniffled. The pauses between her answers were long, it was clear she was using the last of her strength to think, trying to come up with a response that would satisfy her captor. One that might determine whether she survived. This particular pause dragged on, until she finally whimpered in resignation.

“I-I don’t know, I don’t know what you mean, I don’t know what statements—”

“Your statements about Robert Taylor. You claimed he raped and killed you, which was a false accusation. Do you admit that you lied to damage his reputation and his family?”

Another long pause, Keasy’s heavy breath, and then a desperate scream “Yes! I admit it, yes, I admit it!”

"Finally," the man muttered

That was where the recording ended. It wasn't interrupted or cut off midway. He simply turned it off calmly. When its final second passed, there was only you. No thoughts. And the doorbell ringing again.

Your legs carried you down the stairs on their own, your good hand opened the door on its own, just like your eyes met Reid's gaze on their own. A gaze that, in a split second, shifted. From somewhat nervous but generally positive to fully alarmed.

Based solely on the expression on your face.

“What happened?”

tags: @mgg-lover4eva @jp600fox

@garcialuvs

@imadisneyprincessiswear

@esposadomd

@elle-greenaways-wife

#loverrecs

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mggslover · 15 days ago

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fuck off

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mggslover · 15 days ago

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this part was so incredibly fun, i still can’t believe this is fanfic, the writing is illegally good but i ain’t complaining 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x podcast host female!reader, criminal minds typical violence, case details, mention of sexual violence, abduction, addiction, and drug use, season 2 bau team 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 14k 𝐚/𝐧: just letting you know I made a taglist for people waiting for the next parts! (part 3 — august 2)

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐/𝟒

───────────────────────────────────

executioner — an official who carries out a sentence of death on a condemned person.

───────────────────────────────────

previously...

You managed to get some shut-eye only around dawn, but when you woke up, you didn’t feel rested at all, so you suspected you hadn’t really fallen asleep, that maybe your brain had just briefly disconnected from your body and stopped registering the passing hours on the clock. But maybe that was better than dreams where everything was hair. Hair being cut, hair in tins, hair between your fingers, sliding along your arms like a plague.

In the morning, you washed your face with ice-cold water to wake yourself up. Life went on—you still had to go to work, carrying that heavy feeling of uncertainty on your back. On top of that, the knowledge that the case had been handed over to the BAU filled you with mixed feelings. For the most part, you were relieved, they were professionals, the best when it came to catching serial killers, which was a glimmer of hope. But on the other hand, their presence and the fact that they knew about your existence, meant you had to be more careful getting involved in the investigation…

…walking into the kitchen to make yourself some coffee, you screamed at the top of your lungs.

The man kneeling by one of the cabinets jumped in surprise, hitting his head on it with a loud thud and cursing. It wasn’t until he stuck his head out and gave you a confused look that you pressed a hand to your pounding heart, realizing it was just Danny.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” you blurted out in an apologetic tone, trying to mask how shaken you were. After the stress you’d gone through yesterday searching the station, your reactions to everything had become sharper, more intense. “I just scared myself more than anything. What are you doing here so early?”

Danny let out a breath through his mouth, rubbing the spot on his head where he’d hit it.

“There’ll be a bump, but it’s nothing serious. What am I doing here? Your mom asked me to fix the faucet, and it just so happens this is the only time I’m free today,” he said, nodding toward the open cabinet just under the sink where the pipe ran, and only then stood up, resting his hands loosely on his hips. He gave you a casual, half-smile. “I forgot you get up this early for work. But looks like you’re in for a rough day, look like you didn’t sleep a wink.”

“I did. For like fifteen minutes.”

Danny snorted.

“What kept you up? Digging through the details of some old case again?”

Neither he nor your mom followed your online activity all that closely, but from time to time, they’d ask out of curiosity, show some genuine interest. You tried to look just as relaxed as he did when you shrugged your shoulders.

“Why dig through old cases when I’ve got a current one right here?” you said. You really wanted it to come off as a joke, but after what happened the day before, you couldn’t manage it. Your voice came out tight, like from somewhere deep down, and Danny furrowed his brows. You cleared your throat quickly. You could tell him about what you’d found yesterday. “No but seriously I always have trouble sleeping when the full moon’s close. Heard a lot of people do.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Mhm. Some people also turn into werewolves.”

“True. There really are two types of us.”

You lifted the corners of your mouth slightly.

Danny went back to working on the sink while you started packing your lunch for work. You barely spoke, lost in thought and moving on autopilot. You didn’t even notice the sound of honking outside—Danny had to point it out.

“That’s probably for you.”

You frowned and walked over to the kitchen window, lifting it only to spot Charlie’s car in your driveway. He never picked you up in the mornings—you weren’t on his way, and he always had to drop his younger brother off at work first. You froze for a second.

Your first instinct was pure anger, remembering how you had to go to that abandoned station alone, even though he’d promised to come with you. You wanted to ignore him, let him honk again and then drive off. But then you remembered—you hadn’t talked to him yet about why he left.

You hadn’t realized Danny had been watching the expression on your face the whole time. He must’ve noticed the hesitation and tension, because he asked,

“What? You two had a fight? I can give you a lift if you want, I’m almost done with the sink—”

“No need. I mean, thank you, but...I need to talk to him.”

He nodded.

You stepped out of the house with your arms crossed over your chest. Instead of getting into the car, you stopped by the driver’s side window, quickly noticing that Charlie’s fourteen-year-old brother, Conrad, was sitting in the back seat. You wanted an explanation first and only then would you decide whether or not you even wanted to ride with him but you didn’t want to bring this up in front of someone else. With a cold expression and a sigh, you walked past the car and got in.

“Hi, Conrad,” you said to the younger boy.

Focused on his game, he just muttered something in response.

Your eyes moved to Charlie. His face looked even more drained than usual, like he hadn’t slept either. But that didn’t make you feel any more sympathetic, and you had no intention of being kinder to him just because of that.

He gave you an I can explain kind of look, but you shook your head.

“Just drive. You don’t want your brother to be late for school, do you?”

You could tell that only guilt was keeping him from rolling his eyes at your passive-aggressive tone. When you arrived at the school, you patiently waited as Conrad grabbed his backpack, got out, and disappeared into the crowd of other students.

Still, you didn’t say a word. You waited for Charlie to speak first.

There was no time to pull over and talk; you'd be late for work, so he started driving again. From the look on his face, it was clear he was deep in thought.

“Okay,” he began with a sigh. “I know I shouldn't left you there yesterday…”

“Oh, you don’t say. I literally had to get home with the FBI…”

“I know, I figured, but listen…I panicked. Just imagine, they’re looking for a serial killer, and here I am, alone in the car, parked outside a potential crime scene…”

“Oh, poor you. They might’ve asked you questions, and you’d have to answer them.”

You saw him sigh heavily, clearly frustrated that you weren’t understanding his very valid explanations, and worse—were throwing sarcasm at him, painting him like the asshole he didn’t think he was. He opened his mouth again, then closed it like he gave up, then went through the same motion again but before he could say anything of substance, the car jolted.

Your gaze snapped to the windshield. Charlie had slammed the brakes just in time to avoid hitting another car. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then he pressed one hand against his face, so hard it looked like he wanted to scrape the skin off.

You shook your head.

“What’s going on with you, Charlie?” you asked.

He ignored the question and started driving again. That tightening in your chest returned. Somehow, you had momentarily forgotten about yesterday only to now remember more than just the day before. You mentally reached back over the last few weeks, piecing together his recent behavior.

“Should you even be driving in this state?” you pressed.

This time, the answer came quickly and sharply.

“What state?”

“That state. You’re…constantly distracted, you go to the backroom three times and forget why every time, most of the time you talk to me like I’m attacking you. When I ask you to edit episodes for me, you send them back at four in the morning. You drink ten like coffees a day,” you started listing.

His expression was dismissive, defensive even. He let out a loud scoff as he parked in front of the store. You looked at him seriously, confrontationally.

“Do you even sleep?”

Another scoff, and your lips pressed into a thin line. Neither of you was getting out of the car yet.

“I’m asking, because I’m your—”

“Did you see the chair?” he interrupted you, turning his head in your direction. His pupils were dilated, deeply, his usually deathly pale face now had color, but not a healthy one, he looked like he had a fever.

Confused, you pressed your back into the seat.

“What chair?”

“There. In the station. The electric chair, supposedly that’s what he uses to kill them, right? You talked about it in the podcast?”

You delayed your answer, simply unable to string a sentence together. Where that sudden change of topic come from?

“There was no chair there, Charlie. Nothing…nothing was found.”

Charlie was looking at you, and his face expressed nothing. You felt uncomfortable in the atmosphere that had settled between you. Sure, you’d originally wanted to confront him, but suddenly everything turned strange. Maybe you pushed too hard, or maybe it wasn’t your fault at all, and something was just wrong with him in general.

Your hand opened the door on its own.

“I’m going inside,” you said. “You can go back home if you need to. I can handle the shop on my own.”

He didn’t respond to your offer. You looked at him silently for a moment longer before actually heading toward the store, unlocking the door and raising the blinds once inside.

You stopped by the window, looking at his figure still sitting behind the wheel. You narrowed your eyes, and it seemed like his hand reached into the pocket of the hoodie he was wearing, pulled something out, and stared at it.

But then he got out of the car, and driven by impulse, you stepped away from the window.

You didn’t speak to each other for the rest of the day.

Charlie spent as much time as possible in the back, only coming out when there was a customer. He served them stiffly, not even glancing at you. You did your best not to look at him either. For that one day, you treated each other like air.

It got a little boring without even the background noise of whatever game he always played, and the spiral of your thoughts and worries made the shift drag on painfully slow. Especially that last hour. You turned your back to the counter and started tidying up the shelves a bit.

The small bell above the door rang, signaling someone had walked in.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Benson,” you said almost automatically, because you just knew it was him. Like every day at the same time, he came in so you could set his alarm for 4 a.m. You turned around and froze for a second, slightly surprised. You quickly recovered.

“You’re not Mr. Benson.”

Agent Reid was wearing a striped shirt with a tie, a dark red vest, and a dark suede blazer instead of his FBI vest. His glasses were resting straight on his face, not crooked to the side, and the lenses weren’t coated in white dust like they had been after you quite literally fell on him from the roof. He had come to you in plain clothes, alone, but you weren’t about to kid yourself—he knew you worked here, and he hadn’t just randomly decided to stop by a tech store.

Your factual remark didn’t seem to surprise him in the slightest. He observed you from the other side of the counter with a rather friendly look, but something told you to keep your distance.

“As far as I know, I’m not,” he replied, a flicker of a tight-lipped smile crossing his face—but when you didn’t return it, it disappeared almost instantly.

You braced yourself against the counter with both hands, lifting your chin slightly.

“How can I help you?” you asked. “Need your phone fixed? Buying a new USB cable? Or is it something more serious. Like you were sent to talk to me and make sure I won’t tell anyone about—”

“Careful,” he cut in, tilting his head slightly to the side. You bit the inside of your cheek, wondering if the word hair would even make it past your lips, or if you’d stammer through it. “You’re about to spill the thing I’m supposed to make sure you don’t spill.”

“And then you’ll lose your job.”

Reid looked up, pretending to consider that.

“You know, I get the feeling I’m too valuable for them to fire me over something like that,” he said.

You stared at him without blinking, but you couldn’t tell whether he was deliberately arrogant, just pretending, or if that was his hidden nature.

He gave a small nod.

“Well, maybe you’re the one who should be worried about that. Attacking a customer in your third sentence?”

“Did you take that as an attack?” you raised your eyebrows. It was the second time someone had accused you of that. On the same day. “Well, I just wanted to know where I stand. Should I be worried about whether our store’s inventory meets your needs, or about being thrown into a room full of two-way mirrors and interrogated again?”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he reassured you. “No point in questioning you again. Whatever you didn’t say to us, you mentioned openly on your podcast.”

“And as we all know, everyone in Quantico is a devoted fan of it.”

A narrowing of his eyes.

“I’d argue not everyone. But as you’ve gathered, we’re familiar with it. Anyway,” he paused to take a breath, and his expression shifted slightly, as if he’d just remembered he came here with a purpose but had gotten sidetracked. “I’m not here to remind you of anything, or to keep tabs on you. I just…” he searched for the right word, gesturing lightly with his hand “wanted to make sure you’re okay. And also, I’ve got a small favor to ask.”

Genuinely curious, you parted your lips to ask about the favor when Reid’s eyes shifted to something behind you. You turned and saw Charlie standing in the office doorway, glaring at your visitor with clear hostility.

“You here to buy something or just to chat?”

It worked on you like an instant trigger. Red flag to a bull. You hadn’t spoken to each other all day, but the tension had only been building.

“To chat. With me. And it’s none of your business, so drag your ass back to the storage room where you’ve been sulking all day,” you snapped, then turned back to your customer like nothing had happened.

Reid was frozen for a second, lips slightly parted, then he closed them and let the corners curve up just a little. A glint of amusement flickered in his eyes. You figured Charlie had followed your suggestion.

“Was that the friend who let you go into the transformer station alone yesterday and then ran off at the sight of the police?” Reid asked, enunciating every word carefully, making Charlie sound like he sucked even more than he already did.

You nodded almost automatically. Only afterward did it occur to you that, if this were to be divided into sides, you and Charlie were supposed to be on the same one—and Reid on the opposite. Somehow your brain chose that exact moment to remind you of it, as if you’d gotten too distracted.

“He’s usually reliable,” you said diplomatically.

“Usually…?”

“Well, lately…” The words came to you again. Those past few weeks and Charlie’s odd behavior. But it was too complicated to get into with a profiler. So you held your tongue and returned to the foundation of your conversation. “You mentioned a favor.”

“Oh, right,” he said, apparently remembering, and to your surprise, he suddenly looked genuinely sheepish and his previously piercing gaze dropped downward.

“It’s… it’s not exactly a favor for me. More like for my friend…an agent on my team, but I’m the one delivering the request...”

He trailed off, lifting his eyes to you as if hoping you’d just guess what he meant. You had no idea. He sighed.

“So, Garcia, the one who introduced us to your podcast and vouched for it as a decent source of information, she really wants me to take a picture with you. For her.”

Somehow, a smile found its way to your lips. Wide, mostly from disbelief.

“You. A picture. With me. For her,” you repeated robotically, pausing between each phrase. It sounded like something you wouldn’t believe even if you told yourself.

You shook your head slowly and pressed one hand to your temple for a second. Reid watched you, waiting for your response, looking both mildly embarrassed by the request and slightly amused.

“No, stop, tell me you’re joking. I’m still not recovered from the fact that the FBI listened to my podcast, you can’t just walk in here and also ask me for a picture!”

You said it too loudly. Reid’s eyes flicked toward the back room, but you couldn’t care less about Charlie, and judging by how quickly Reid’s gaze returned to your face—drawn by your disbelieving laugh—he didn’t either.

“Of course, you’re totally allowed to say no,” he said. “And honestly, it’s probably best if you don’t post it anywhere—”

“How else will people believe me?”

“That’s the thing, ideally, there won’t be any people—”

“I’m kidding. I’m not about to share my fame with you,” you said dryly, making Reid huff a short laugh. Before he could reply, you extended your hand between you. “Show me your phone. That way, you’ll know I won’t show it to anyone.”

It was just too ridiculous of a life experience, not to mention a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and a blow to your ego, to say no.

Reid slowly handed you his phone with the camera already open, and you motioned for him to come closer to the counter. He obeyed, his brows twitching slightly when you leaned in on your side just as much.

You made sure not to look serious. Your lips pushed into an exaggerated pout meant to absurdly contrast his utterly awkward expression.

“Wow, my first picture with a fan. Mom, I’m famous,” you said, handing the phone back to him.

He accepted it, glancing down at the screen and lingering on the image for a second.

“I hope Garcia likes it. Maybe she’ll frame it in gold and hang it on her wall.”

His eyes snapped back up to you like he’d been electrocuted.

“Please don’t,” he said, horrified.

You couldn’t help it and you burst out laughing.

He looked like he wanted to join you, but some frayed thread of professionalism held him back. Still, he couldn’t quite suppress the twitch at the corner of his mouth or the ease softening his features. Something you decided, on impulse, to take advantage of.

“So, what’s new with the investigation?” you asked as casually as if you were industry buddies who routinely swapped updates, even the classified kind.

He fell for it like a naive lamb. Your earlier laughter and the smooth flow of conversation between you had completely dulled his vigilance.

“We sent the hair in for analysis and, well, within the next 24 to 48 hours we should have confirmation on whether it really belonged to…” He paused, then narrowed his eyes. “Wait, did you just trick me into giving you information?”

He caught on.

You gave him a half-smile, feeling zero guilt for the maneuver.

“Well, you kinda walked right into it,” you murmured. “And admit it, that was clever.”

“I can only admit it was clever,” he said, reluctantly.

You gave him a look.

“You got your picture. Now you have to finish the topic. What about the hair? What if it turns out it belonged to them?”

Reid held your gaze for a moment, clearly debating with himself. He was probably wondering whether you could really be trusted to keep sensitive information to yourself. But eventually, he sighed, realizing he’d already said too much anyway.

“Then we’ll just continue the investigation with that information,” he said. “And it’s…well, it’s pretty key. It might even help us deliver the profile.”

“So you don’t have a profile yet.”

“You know I can’t—”

The bell above the door chimed. You glanced toward it, then back at Reid, your eyes silently asking him to stay just a little longer. He visibly hesitated you saw it but then he shook his head and made for the exit.

You watched him leave with your eyes, then turned toward the new customer.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Benson,” you greeted the man.

You placed the tray of cookies in the center of the garden table carefully, making sure not to knock over anyone’s coffee or tea. Then you took a seat in the wicker chair beside your mother, facing your two neighbors. Elena and her fourteen-year-old daughter, Keasy.

Your garden was spacious, and your mother took great pride in keeping it well-maintained, so afternoons like this weren’t uncommon. During this particular one, though, your mind was both close and far.

Close—because the subject was close to your heart.

Far—because the subject was close to your heart.

“But is it, like, confirmed confirmed?” Elena asked quietly. You noticed people always lowered their voices when talking about tragedies, as if that might somehow soften their weight. “I mean, I’ve heard it from several people already, but I don’t know if I should believe it… shouldn’t that kind of info be classified or something?”

In short, in case anyone was confused. The hairs you’d found at the transformer station had been confirmed to belong to Georgina, Gita, and Judy. The bodies of the first two had been found earlier, but Judy’s hadn’t until now, which confirmed that your instincts about her disappearance had been right from the beginning.

You didn’t feel even a shred of satisfaction.

You’d rather have been wrong.

It hadn’t solved much, aside from confirming that the station had been the site of executions.

Murders, really.

The area had been locked down even tighter, but no arrests were made. The killer was still out there. And yet, one question began to follow you like a round-the-clock shadow, always present. They had found the hair of three victims, most likely shaved off to allow for the placement of electrodes from the electric chair, and hidden in cans as some grotesque form of trophy.

Three victims.

But there had been four girls.

What about Maggie Baker?

The discovery of her body, in a hospital gown, her head shaved—had shocked everyone.

You too, even on a personal level. She was a few years younger than you, and you used to tutor her, often spending time at her house with her and her parents, both pharmacists.

She volunteered at the local animal shelter. You’d often run into her walking dogs.

She had bronchial asthma

She had honey-colored hair.

But it hadn’t been found with the others.

Had the killer not added it to the collection? He’d shaved her head—that much was clear.

So what had he done with it?

Kept it? Why?

Was he personally connected to her?

Why had he suddenly abandoned the place where he committed his murders?

Did he sense that people were beginning to suspect someone’s presence at the abandoned station, and that police involvement was only a matter of time? If so, that would mean he had to be from around here. Close enough to keep up with local rumors and whispers.

It also suggested he was smart.

Did he decide to pause his killing spree? Or did he simply move it somewhere else?

Nobody knew what happened to the electric chair.

These questions circled endlessly in your mind. It was crowded and loud in there, filled with thoughts that refused to settle. And yet, you couldn’t pull any words from yourself, none that felt right for the podcast. You had paused posting updates about The Executioner, but that didn’t mean you had stopped watching the case.

The case consumed most of your attention. Even now, you only snapped out of the spiral of those repeating questions because of a sudden scoff from Keasy. The girl was wearing a gray hoodie, playing with its drawstring, her hair tied into two thick brown braids. She was side-eyeing her mom.

“Mom, nothing in this town is classified. And if it is, not for long,” she commented and it was hard to argue with her.

Suddenly, she locked her brown eyes directly on yours. She gave a slight nod in your direction.

“Like the fact that a young FBI agent visited you at the store recently.”

There was a smirk on her lips. Yours parted in surprise. Your mom and Elena both turned curious eyes on you.

“How do you know that, you little smartass?” you asked with a disbelieving snort.

She was absolutely right. Nothing in this town stayed a secret.

Keasy gave a slight shrug, a proud look on her face, like she didn’t want to reveal her sources. Your relationship had always been a bit sibling-like, full of teasing. You looked at her with raised eyebrows, expectantly, already knowing she’d tell you anyway.

“Mr. Benson,” she replied shortly. You tilted your head with curiosity. Right, Mr. Benson had entered the store while Spencer was inside, but when had Keasy talked to him? As if reading your thoughts, she added, “I’m kinda seeing his grandson now.”

“You’re joking.”

“FBI agent,” your mom suddenly spoke, holding a bitten cookie in her hand, her worried gaze focused on you. “What did he want?”

“FBI agents have phones that need fixing too.”

“I’m being serious,” she said, and from the look on her face, you could tell she wasn’t joking. You saw Elena exchange an awkward glance with her daughter, but like everyone in this town, they loved drama too much to try and soften the conversation. “I know you’re recording something about the case, but you’re not getting involved in the investigation…are you?”

You sighed, searching for an answer that wouldn’t be a flat-out lie.

“Well, of course I’m getting slightly involved in the investigation—that’s kind of what my work is about…”

“That is not your work,” your mother cut in sharply. “It’s just some silly internet project that could get you into danger. What if… the person killing these girls is listening to it?”

“You think that’s possible?” Elena asked, genuinely intrigued but also clearly frightened. “That he’s listening… to something about himself?”

“Very possible,” you answered with a nod. “Psychopaths, assuming that’s what he is, often follow how the public reacts to their crimes and what the media says about them.”

“Assuming that’s what he is?” Keasy repeated, frowning. “Aren’t all killers that?”

“No, a lot of people think so, but in reality—”

“That’s not what matters right now,” your mother interrupted. “We’re talking about you putting yourself in danger. If the FBI is interested in you, they must think you’re getting too involved…”

“And is that a bad thing?” you shot back defensively. “If my too involved helps spread awareness about the case and the victims, warns women, maybe even contributes to finding the killer—”

“Finding the killer is the job of the police.”

“Who did nothing when Judy went missing! The ones who came after the murders don’t know anything about the people here. They’ll be doing interviews and witness statements, all of which I already gathered myself. And in the meantime, while they’re doing that, another girl could get hurt. So I think it’s morally right for me to keep going with my own investigation…”

“No. I don’t even want to hear it,” she said, cutting the air with her hand.

You pressed your lips together, but you were ready to keep fighting, ready to defend your point and your decision. At that moment, you didn’t care that the two of you were ruining a peaceful afternoon with the neighbors. You understood she was worried, but how could she call your work stupid? You stared each other down, and you saw she was preparing to say something else, her temper matching your own.

Then, timidly, Elena chimed in.

“Did I just hear your doorbell?”

You both fell silent, listening. After a moment, the faint ring of the doorbell reached your ears. You exhaled through your nose and stood up, stepping ahead of your mom.

“It’s probably Danny. You invited him, right? I’ll get it.”

You left the garden quickly, let the man inside, and even greeted him warmly. But you didn’t return outside with him. That was the whole reason you’d jumped to answer the door—you wanted to use it as a chance to slip away.

Your mother’s words had hit you twice: first, with anger. Then, they struck something deeper, reawakening a dormant sense of resolve.

Judy Perkins was dead, which meant another woman could go missing soon.

There was no time to waste.

You went upstairs to your room and grabbed your recording equipment. For the first time in days, you actually felt able to say something.

Not new information.

A request.

For your listeners to send you anything they knew.

There might’ve been more people like the one who told you about the station. People who knew something, maybe had some kind of gut feeling or suspicion, but didn’t know where to take it. It felt too trivial, in their eyes, to bring to the police. Or they were afraid of exposure. You offered them a way to speak up anonymously, and you fully intended to follow up on everything they sent.

Keasy’s words about your town’s people gave you a lot to think about. Here, everything was always somehow connected.

Almost in a frenzy, you started going back through the information and notes you’d collected so far. Over the following days, you didn’t just go over the theories your listeners submitted. You reanalyzed everything and everyone from the beginning.

You visited Georgina’s ex-boyfriend for a follow-up conversation. She’d broken up with him shortly before her death. He wasn’t exactly eager to talk. You didn’t deny that you were a bit pushy.

You watched Gita’s stepfather. The one people said had abused his family. You had no explanation for why he would suddenly start murdering in such a specific way, but it gave you a sense that you were doing something, not just sitting back and reading what others sent in. You’d bump into him at the store by accident sneaking glances at his cart full of alcohol.

Sitting in your car, parked just down the road from Gita’s house—far enough not to raise suspicion—you found yourself thinking about the murders again. The electric chair as the murder weapon. Its connection to execution was obvious. But what was execution a symbol of? Justice. Or rather, the desire to carry out justice, no matter how subjective it might be.

From that point on, two paths branched out in front of you, two questions.

Justice, but for what?

And second: who carried out the executions?

Of course, The Executioner.

But there were usually more people involved. Medical and technical staff. People who had acquired the knowledge of how it worked and had seen it with their own eyes. People who could’ve been affected by it.

You contacted your one listener who always seemed to know real things, things from unknown sources.

Still sitting in your car outside the Kopeckis’ house, you didn’t pay attention to anything around you. Night had already fallen, and the streets were empty, bathed in the soft glow of the streetlights.

Then came a reply from blackqueen6969.

A full list of names—every person involved in the last execution ever carried out in the state of Connecticut. The killer was Robert Taylor. The very first case you ever covered on your podcast.

He was strapped to the electric chair in 1964. Known as The Devil of Bristol, he lured women into his car with charisma, good looks, and the reputation of a decent man. Even in prison, he received fan letters. There was a surprisingly large number of people who believed in his innocence even though one woman had escaped and managed to call the police, which directly led to his arrest.

You’d chosen that execution for one simple reason: it was the last one. The people who’d carried it out might still be alive. They might agree to talk to you.

You tapped out the phone numbers blackqueen6969 had sent, pretending to be a journalist writing a book on the history of executions.

Only one person agreed. Yes, it took a few minutes of faking wide-eyed passion, of raving about how much you cared about this book, how honored you’d be to speak with someone so brilliant, before his ego was stroked just enough to say yes.

Michael Pershing. The Executioner of Robert Taylor himself.

You couldn’t have gotten luckier.

You scheduled the meeting with him for the next day, in Richmond, around lunchtime.

The call ended, and for a brief second, you couldn’t believe it had actually worked. You wanted to squeal out loud in excitement, but instead of a happy little shriek, what came out of your mouth was a startled yelp.

Someone had knocked on your car window.

Through the glass, you saw a police officer standing on the dark street outside, his lips moving as he said something to you. You stared forward for a moment longer, biting back a loud curse. Then, because you had no other choice, you rolled the window down.

“Good evening, officer,” you greeted, giving him a nod.

It probably came across as arrogant, because it was. You didn’t exactly have a glowing relationship with the local cops. Too many times you’d asked for comment and gotten shooed off, or been accused of bothering someone’s family, which had never actually happened. Either way, neither of you was ever thrilled to see the other.

The officer sighed, leaning in toward your window with a tired look on his face.

“Why are you sitting here?” he asked bluntly, voice colored with weary condescension. He clearly wasn’t in the mood for your usual games.

What a shame. Because you were.

You shrugged.

“Answering a message. Like a model citizen and responsible driver, I pulled over to the side of the road so I wouldn’t text while driving. Would you rather I replied while behind the wheel?”

“You stalking me, bitch.”

Another figure approached your car.

The officer’s hand landed squarely on Mr. Kopecki’s chest before he could get too close.

“Watch your mouth.”

“She’s harassing me! Follows me wherever I go, watches my house. What the fuck is your problem?”

Right. You’d kind of forgotten you were still parked in front of his house. You pressed your lips into a thin line and glanced at the officer, who was now flicking his gaze between the two of you, clearly waiting for your explanation.

“Well… that’s not true,” you tried.

“Not true?! Not true?! You’re literally sitting outside my house, you fucking psycho!”

You pointed straight at him, locking eyes with the officer.

“He’s being aggressive. I’d recommend a breathalyzer. And maybe a nice little trip downtown. Who knows what he’ll do once he gets back inside, wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” the cop cut you off, running a tired hand down his face. This was probably his last call of the night and he clearly wanted it over with. You relaxed slightly, guessing he'd let you off just because he didn’t feel like dealing with it.

“Step out of the car. I’m taking you in.”

Your eyes flew wide.

“I was literally answering a text!”

“Out. Of. The car.”

You let out a sound of protest and shot him a pleading look, but he didn’t budge. Point to him for not cuffing you, but still—soon enough, you were sitting in the backseat of the patrol car as it sped toward the station. Arms crossed, you silently hoped Kopecki was fucking proud of himself.

You really, really needed to be out by tomorrow. You had a lunch scheduled with Michael Pershing.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t exactly use that as your defense. And honestly, there wasn’t much else you could do either. Your only option was to keep your mouth shut, pretend to be polite and cooperative, and hope they let you out quickly…

But that didn’t sit right with you.

Not when you had a better idea.

You slipped your phone between your knees and fired off a quick message. No time to wait for a reply. You turned it off, tilted your head back, and caught the officer’s gaze in the rearview mirror. Then gave him the faintest, knowing smile.

He sighed, more to himself than anyone else. His partner threw him a confused look.

When the car finally stopped, you waited until one of the officers opened your door, gesturing for you to get out.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, stepped out onto the dimly lit station parking lot, and then—

“We’ll take it from here,” a male voice cut in, as two pairs of footsteps approached the patrol car.

Morgan didn’t even bother flashing his badge, which told you BAU and your local police were already well acquainted.

“We understand if you had reason to detain her,” Reid added, shooting you a suggestive, faintly mocking look.

You dragged a finger across your throat in a slow motion while holding his gaze—an unsubtle gesture, quickly dropped when the officer to your left noticed. You let your hand fall casually to your side and greeted him with a polite smile.

Reid cleared his throat. “But she’s a witness in our case and we need to speak with her. It can’t wait.”

You nodded in agreement, as if anyone gave a damn about your opinion in that situation. One of the officers waited a second out of courtesy, then shrugged like he couldn’t care less. The other one wasn’t as quick to let it go.

“Hey, you can’t just—”

“Let it go,” his partner cut in, shaking his head slightly. Then, quieter, under his breath, “Seriously, I don’t have the energy to deal with her tonight…”

Both Reid and Morgan heard it and looked at you, in sync. You tried not to look overly proud. None of you said anything until the police officers disappeared from your line of sight, which, given the darkness, happened rather quickly. Your lips parted first. There were so many explanations you wanted to let out, you wanted to share your theory, of course stretching the facts a bit and not saying where you got your information.

Morgan beat you to it.

“You better have some kind of explanation…”

“A reasonable one,” Reid specified.

“As it happens, I do!” you declared energetically, because, in fact, you did. One of their pairs of eyebrows rose first, unconvinced, Reid seemed to have a bit more faith in you — after all, it was him you texted. And he was the one who decided to come pick you up. You hoped he saw that note of gratitude in your gaze, which you tried to communicate. He wasn’t the best when it came to eye contact though. “And it is something reasonable, or at least I think so. It’s not totally out of nowhere, otherwise I wouldn’t have messaged you…by the way, thanks guys, for being here. Wait, can I call you guys…”

“Unusual, but acceptable,” Reid agreed so quickly it proved he was following your rambling with engagement and keeping up, which, to be honest, didn’t always happen.

“What a relief, I know some people who would’ve called that insulting a federal officer on duty…”

“To the point,” Morgan cut in.

You drew in a breath. Thoughts snapping back into place. You started from the beginning , about how you asked your listeners to send you tips and how you verified them, and then moved into your own attempts at profiling the unsub, secretly cringing inside, fully aware that two literal professionals were watching you. Still, you tried not to show it, avoided looking too closely at Spencer and the focused way his eyes squinted behind his glasses, and pushed on.

The last execution in the state, Robert Taylor. The people involved. Tracking down their identities (you claimed you found them online).

“And the main idea is,” you continued, gesturing animatedly, “To meet with them. But not as the police. I mean, undercover. For example… I don’t know, a journalist writing a book about crime. Just a loose idea. And that way, figure out if any of them could be connected to this somehow. Like, the most obvious first pick would be Michael Pershing. If, purely theoretically, someone had arranged to meet him…”

You trailed off, waiting for their reaction.

Of course you saw that exchange of glances. With growing unease, you searched their faces for signs of dismissal, scorn — maybe pity. Pity would’ve been the worst of all.

That poor, foolish girl who has no idea what she’s talking about… so embarrassed for her.

You didn’t expect the knot in your stomach to tighten that much.

"Did you come up with all of that on your own?" Morgan asked, a strange mix in his eyes — clear, dominant skepticism, but also a hint of curiosity.

You nodded in confirmation. Reid, meanwhile, rested his chin on his fingers, thinking.

"What you said has a fairly stable foundation," he offered enigmatically, causing you to tilt your head slightly. You caught his gaze, and for the first time, he held it. When he spoke about psychology or profiling, he always seemed more confident. "A person who participated in or conducted executions might have severely blurred moral boundaries and a distorted sense of right and wrong. They may believe it's in their hands or even their duty to deliver justice. Tying this back to the last execution carried out in Connecticut makes sense. What it doesn't fully explain, though, is why he’s targeting young women specifically."

You felt strangely lighter listening to him, the way he actually talked with you, how he genuinely considered your theories instead of dismissing them outright just because you didn’t have their experience.

"I hadn’t thought about that," you admitted honestly, pausing. Reid seemed to only just realize you two were making eye contact, because he abruptly broke it. Shame. It had helped you speak more clearly. You cleared your throat. "Childhood trauma? Bad experiences with women? I’m guessing here, I know, but like, 90% of the time it’s some shit like that…”

"We can’t generalize like that," Morgan interjected suddenly, his tone surprisingly calm and focused.There was no trace of pity, something that had already caught you off guard earlier and kept doing so. He gave a small nod, as if agreeing with you, and you could hardly believe it. "But the premise is definitely worth attention, and it’ll get it. But you," his tone regained its edge "are absolutely not going to keep investigating this on your own, you understand? You had an idea, and it was helpful, but from here on out, it’s our responsibility. Under no circumstances are you to meet with anyone from that list."

Biting the inside of your cheek, you nodded with feigned obedience.

"Of course. I wasn’t planning to. That could be, like, fatally dangerous."

"Alright. If that’s understood, let’s get you home..."

You checked your reflection in your car mirror. Five minutes until your meeting with Michael Pershing.

You hadn’t slept half the night preparing your entire persona and backstory. You’d chosen the name Phoebe Wright because it was simple and sounded somewhat journalistic, in your new project you were focusing on the history of executions in the United States, on how the methods and public opinion had changed. And since you came from the state of Connecticut, it was an honor for you to speak to the man who carried out the last one.

You adjusted the sleeves of your elegant blazer and, with a notebook under your arm, stepped out of the car.

The place didn’t require you to dress like that. You were literally meeting for lunch at a breakfast diner whose specialty dish was bagels. But whenever you imagined the executioner, your brain served up the image of a distant man, with a piercing gaze, the kind of man you subconsciously want to impress.

You were excited as fuck.

Because even if this man wasn’t the killer, he was still someone your passion for criminology simply wanted to meet. And to record an episode, but that was impossible. Phoebe Wright didn’t host a podcast.

Right before pushing open the glass door, you whispered a few words of courage to yourself and stepped inside, ready to conduct the most important interview of your entire amateur career.

Michael Pershing turned out to be the most ordinary man in the world. White polo shirt, a silver chain around his neck, and gray hair. Stocky, with a broad nose. Had you sat down with the wrong person?

“What, were you expecting the Grim Reaper?” he scoffed at you.

There was nothing friendly in his eyes. He looked bored, like he had ten more interviews lined up before noon and had already slogged through eight of them. The words slipped out before you could stop them. And Phoebe Wright was supposed to have better control over her tongue...

“No, but deep down I was pretty sure you’d have a killer sense of humor.”

His expression changed. Froze entirely for a second. Then suddenly, he burst out laughing. Smoker’s laugh, rough and crackling.

"I like you," he said, pointing at you with a thick finger, a wedding band glinting on it. His laugh vanished as quickly as it came, and in a blink he looked bored again. And they say it’s the younger generation with no attention span. “This might actually be an interesting interview. What you wanna know?”

Straight to the point. You were starting to like him, too.

You cleared your throat; everything you wanted to say was already carefully prepared.

“As I mentioned during our phone call, I’m working on a book ab—”

He cut you off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Oh, don’t repeat what you said on the phone!” he barked, loud enough that the waitress, who had just placed his plate in front of him, quickly retreated from your table. Eggs and bacon spilled from his bagel. “Just get to it. What you wanna know. Do I feel guilt sometimes, would I still choose this career if I could go back, how did I manage to get into a relationship and what does my partner think about it…”

You raised your brows. It looked like he was very eager to talk about himself.

Good.

If he wanted direct questions, even better.

You leaned your forearms on the table between you, nodding slightly.

“1964. The execution of Robert Taylor.”

He grimaced.

“The Devil of Bristol.”

“Knew you’d remember.”

“How could I forget? They caught him, he waited three years for an appeal, and after it was all over, people lost their fucking minds. Constant noise, saying he was innocent.”

“In your opinion, was he guilty?”

He laughed mockingly in your face.

“In my opinion? Yes, of course. I’m not a fucking moron like the rest of them. Especially those women who wrote him letters, just a group of brainless idiots…”

You let him rant about society for a moment. The topic was warming him up and loosening his tongue. Maybe it’d be easier to draw some real information out of him. You asked what his role in the execution was, in each one. You asked for a detailed explanation of the process, which took over thirty minutes.

“And what did you feel,” you asked, watching his face carefully “when you pulled the switch?”

You didn’t expect him to be honest. He’d probably give you an answer he thought you wanted to hear, something curated. The real feelings, the true experience of the executioner—those he’d keep to himself, and they’d only flicker across his face for a split second. It would be your job to catch them. To interpret them. To decide if he could be responsible for the recent murders.

There was nothing in his eyes when he said, “Hunger.”

You didn’t flinch, but a chill ran down your spine.

“Hunger?” you echoed.

He looked you in the eyes for a moment, let you dig around in them as much as you wanted. His lips twitched, and for a second, you thought he might burst out laughing again.

“The execution was early. Around seven. They’re usually done later in the evening. I hadn’t had dinner yet and I was fucking starving. On top of that, the bastard’s last meal request was for this insanely overcooked steak,” he shook his head, like he still hadn’t gotten over it. Like he still held a grudge. Over the fact he had to wait an extra hour for dinner.

You needed to take a slightly deeper breath, sort this out in your head.This man was definitely…an interesting, alarming specimen.

You looked out the glass window next to your table just as he changed the subject to his preferred cuts of meat and suddenly, you sat bolt upright. Quickly, you forced yourself back into your usual posture. But he didn’t notice, too caught up in his own rambling.

In the parking lot, right next to your car—thankfully unfamiliar to them—another vehicle pulled in. One you knew very well, since you'd ridden in it just yesterday. And you immediately recognized the face in the front seat, in his signature tweed blazer and a tie knotted neatly at the neck, mid-sentence as he spoke to his absent partner who was busy rummaging for something under the seat.

He was cleaning his glasses with that thoughtful expression of his, then slid them back onto his nose and looked up.

Right as you were staring at him.

He froze mid-sentence, completely still, then his eyes widened.

You shot to your feet.

“Excuse me for a moment. Restroom,” you croaked out to Pershing, and without waiting for a response, bolted across the rectangular diner toward the corner where the bathrooms were tucked. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Morgan finally finding what he’d been looking for—and the moment both of them got out of the car.

Shit, shit, shit.

They’d told you very clearly yesterday not to do this.Not to meet with anyone from that list.

And where were you right now?

At a meeting with him.

Hidden around the corner, you spun in place, hovering without entering any of the three restrooms. You wanted to stay back there, behind the wall—they couldn’t possibly know you’d planned to meet someone here. Maybe they’d just stopped by for lunch while working a lead in Bristol, following up on the information you’d given them yesterday. If it were anything more, Reid wouldn’t have looked so shocked to see you.

It was also possible they hadn’t recognized Pershing. There weren’t any photos of him online. If he hadn’t noticed you, maybe you could’ve ducked into the restroom and waited them out…

“What are you doing here?”

Reid’s voice came out in that conspiratorial whisper-shout combo. You peeked around the corner in panic—Morgan wasn’t looking your way. Good. He was too busy placing an order. So they really were just here for lunch.

You grabbed Reid’s shirt and yanked him a few feet away so no one could see him talking to anyone.

He gasped in surprise—and then groaned when your heads collided. Ouch.

You took a step back, rubbing your skull.

“I came here for lunch?” you half-asked, half-said.

Reid shook his head, clearly not buying it in the slightest.

“In Bristol? Two hours from Fairview? For lunch? You are a terrible liar, you know that?”

“Ha! Says the guy who got totally tricked by me last night—”

“What?”

“You didn’t tell Morgan I was here, did you?” you cut in quickly, changing the subject.

Spencer paused, adjusting the shirt you’d just yanked. His glasses had tilted slightly askew, so you reached up to fix them for him.

His eyes went wide, startled, then he caught himself and cleared his throat. Twice. And once more for good measure.

“N-no, I didn’t,” he stammered. Inhale. “I didn’t. I figured I’d find out what you were doing first and then decide if it was worth getting you into trouble.”

You shot him a grimace, though deep down, you appreciated it.

“Thank you, your grace. Now maybe let me explain, and then you can decide if it’s worth it or not,” you offered.

Before you could say anything else, someone appeared right in front of you, and both of you jumped like kids caught sneaking around. It wasn’t Morgan, though, just some guy on his way to the bathroom, who brushed past without a word.

“Okay, so,” you began. “The man in the white polo shirt you probably saw when you walked in? That’s the executioner of Robert Taylor. I arranged a meeting with him, pretending to be a journalist and an author which is also why I look insanely good today,” you said, smoothing your blazer for emphasis.

Reid was dressed similarly, and the two of you did kind of look like you’d just walked out of an office meeting.

When he parted his lips to speak, you raised a finger to cut him off.

“And before you tell me how irresponsible that is, I just want to say that the conversation was going really well and I already got a few interesting bits out of him, so it would be a shame—a big, big shame—to waste this opportunity. So please, pretty please, don’t tell Morgan I’m here.”

You even pressed your hands together in a prayer-like gesture, looking at him with pleading eyes.

Reid looked at you for a moment with an unreadable expression, like he was preparing to say something several times but kept changing his mind. Finally, he rolled his eyes slightly upward and let out a deep sigh. You couldn’t tell if that meant yes or no.

He gave a subtle nod, more to himself than to you.

“I’ll go talk to Morgan,” he began.

You opened your mouth to protest, but he raised a single finger to your lips and continued, “I’ll talk to him and come up with something to get him to leave me here. And then I’ll come back and…” he exhaled again, like he couldn’t believe what he was saying, “…we’ll finish the conversation with Pershing together.”

He said it with a firm tone, but his eyes searched your face, clearly wanting to know if you liked the idea. For a moment, you stood completely still and speechless. Then you jolted like someone had stuck a pin in you and closed the distance between you, throwing your arms around his neck in a chaotic, unexpected hug, swaying him from side to side in some kind of victorious dance.

“Oooh, thank you!” you practically sang, squeezing him tight.

Reid froze, rigid and startled, clearly having no idea what to do with his arms or his face. You didn’t blame him.

You stepped back with zero shame about your outburst, flashing a grin toward his now slightly pink cheeks. “Thank you. I swear you won’t regret this decision. Together, we’ll definitely be able to confirm or rule out whether he has anything to do with it.”

You said it with a confident, full-of-faith nod, one that Reid, seemingly involuntarily, mirrored. It wasn’t until he shook his head slightly that he managed to speak again.

“I’ll—I’ll go talk to Morgan,” he announced. He was just about to step away when something seemed to occur to him. “I’ll text you when he leaves, so you can come out safely, go back to the table and then…I dunno, I’ll have to figure out how to join the conversation, maybe say—”

You waved your hand in a calming gesture, a confident smirk on your face.

“Don’t worry about that, my dear. Go do your thing, and I’ll handle the rest. I’m a master of improvisation,” you said proudly.

Reid’s eyebrows rose slowly.

“Not gonna lie, that’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” he muttered.

“Nothing to be afraid of. Now go on, shoo shoo,” you said, waving him off. “We don’t have all day.”

You could’ve sworn you saw a soft smile bloom on his face as he disappeared around the corner, a smile just for himself. Waiting for his message, you unconsciously wore the exact same expression.

When the message finally came through, you returned to the table. Pershing was finishing up his bagel, and remembering the chill that had crept down your spine just before the conversation was interrupted, you were secretly relieved that someone would be with you from now on.

“Sorry that took so long,” you said, catching a glimpse of Reid approaching the table, uncertain whether it was time to join you. You waved him over with a discreet motion. “But the good news is, from this point on, we’ll be joined by my assistant. I think I mentioned him during our phone call. And if I didn’t, I’m mentioning him now.”

The men didn’t greet each other in any particular way; Spencer simply slid into the seat beside you.

“Assistant, mhm,” hemuttered.

You elbowed Reid hard enough that he bit his lip to keep from making a sound. Pershing couldn’t have cared less whether one or two people were conducting the interview—he pushed his empty plate aside, wiped his mouth with a napkin, placed it on top, and cast a glance between the two of you, already looking somewhat impatient.

“There’s one matter my…friend here hasn’t brought up yet,” Reid began, his voice carrying the faintest trace of irony. “And we both felt it would be incredibly valuable to hear your undoubtedly insightful opinion on the subject.”

Before you’d parted ways earlier, you’d handed him your small notebook containing notes from your conversation, but you hadn’t expected him to go through them so quickly. Turns out he had, and he’d clearly taken to heart the part about how much your interviewee liked to be praised.

“We’d like to know if you’ve heard about the series of murders in the town of Fairview.”

Pershing let out a scoff so fast it was clear he hadn’t even thought about it.

“Where?” he asked, dismissively.

“Fairview, just under two hours from Bristol,” you chimed in. “But the location itself isn’t that important. The case has been getting enough attention that you might’ve heard about it. Someone’s been killing young women, even teenagers, in a style that mirrors executions. Most likely using an electric chair—”

“What’s that got to do with me?” he cut in. “I don’t even know where that is. I don’t watch the news. And if you’re wondering what’ll happen to that killer when they catch him, well, they sure as hell won’t fry him. That’s been banned over forty years ago. And I’m not the one who’s gonna do it.”

“But this killer sees himself as a self-appointed executioner,” you said. “We’re trying to understand where that belief might come from.”

“What’s that got to do with your book?”

“A lot,” you answered sharply, not even blinking, tired of the subject constantly being derailed. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Reid glance at you, then turn his steady, observant gaze on the man across from you, and leave it there. You had a gut feeling he already had some idea of what was really going on.

“My book wants to examine the topic of executions from the broadest possible perspective, across different decades, different social climates. In depth.”

“Then I hope you find someone who wants to talk about that. Maybe the local PD. Because I don’t even know where the hell that backwater is, and I don’t know anything about that case,” he replied, his tone just as firm as yours. “I came to this meeting to talk about my experience. You said you had questions about the last execution in this state, and that’s all I’m here to answer. I can tell you how many times Robert Taylor appealed his sentence, how he escaped prison once, what he had for his last meal, and how his wife and teenage son, a kid, really, watched him fry. I’m not wasting time on anything else.”

You clenched your jaw, unsure how to steer the conversation back to the Fairview murders. Your eyes shifted to Reid, hoping he’d know how to navigate it—or at least be puzzling over it the same way you were. Maybe he’d have an idea.

But instead, he was staring at Pershing with a cold, tilted gaze.

“In that case, we won’t waste any more of your time,” he said, and your eyes practically bulged out of your head in shock.

Even the man across from you froze, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

Reid, calm and controlled, leaned slightly forward, his eyes cold but his mouth forming a polite, artificial smile.

“Enjoy your afternoon.”

“He has nothing to do with it,” he stated confidently, gesturing with just one hand, his slim fingers slicing smoothly, almost sensually, through the air. “With Fairview, I mean. Sure, his behavior shifted the moment we brought it up, but not because he’s guilty. It’s because he’s a self-centered jerk who only wants to talk about himself.”

You stopped just by your car, at the driver’s side door, facing each other with barely a meter between you.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” you scoffed, forcing a joke to try and soften the awful knot curling low in your stomach.

It didn’t really work. Your lips didn’t twitch, your voice didn’t rise. In fact, it came out quieter than usual, thoughtful and low, tinged more with discouragement than humor. And whenever your tone dropped an octave like that, it was always a dead giveaway that something was off.

Reid must’ve picked up on it, because his brow furrowed slightly, and his dark eyes settled on you with a soft, concerned look.

“Are you okay?” he asked gently.

You lifted your eyes to him, saying nothing for a moment before shrugging.

“I really thought this would lead us somewhere,” you admitted, pressing your lips together. One of your hands found the car door handle, but you didn’t press it—your fingertips just danced lightly across its surface. You were disappointed, and suddenly you regretted that he’d even come with you. Maybe you’d rather just go home alone and forget about this false lead you'd pinned so much hope on. “But I just wasted time.”

“No, you didn’t,” he replied, shaking his head slightly from side to side.

You rolled your eyes, already expecting him to disagree, just out of decency.

“Even if you didn’t find a connection between him and Fairview, I can tell from your notes that the conversation meant something to you. And right, I’ve got your notebook,” he said, pulling it from the inside pocket of his blazer and holding it out toward you. You wrapped your fingers around it gently, but for a moment, he didn’t let go. “Robert Taylor was the first case you covered on your podcast. It was worth meeting his executioner if only to hear details no one else could’ve given you. Like the fact that his wife and teenage son watched his execution, which is almost unthinkable, considering the boy’s age. That probably wouldn’t happen today.”

“I meant I wasted your time”

“That’s what investigations look like. Sometimes we follow leads that take us nowhere—it’s just part of the process. You didn’t waste my time.”

You looked at each other in silence for a moment. You bit your lip, trying to read if he really meant it or was just saying what he thought you wanted to hear. After a few seconds, you figured—he had no reason to lie. You gave him a small, grateful nod for those words. And that’s exactly when something he’d said earlier caught up to you, and your eyebrows slowly, suspiciously rose.

“Wait, wait. How do you know what the first episode of my podcast was about? Did you listen to it?”

He looked slightly flustered, though tried to keep a pseudo-casual demeanor as he shook his head. “No, I mean yes. Someone...someone from the team had to go through it. But we already established you’ve got fans in Quantico.”

“Yep, I do. And no wonder my podcast is genius. But I didn’t think you specifically had listened to all of them from the very beginning.”

“Research purposes,” he said, and you could swear there was the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Sure,” you scoffed. “Or it was my incredible storytelling and razor-sharp sense of humor.”

“And above all else, your stunning humility. Should we head back now?”

You glanced to the side, only just realizing you were still standing in the parking lot by the car, your hand resting on the door handle. Right. You should head back. You’d taken the day off work and didn’t have anything else planned, but Reid? He was literally working on the murder case in your town. Since you’d dragged him all the way out here, it was only fair to drive him back. Just the two of you. Two hours on the road.

Spencer took the passenger seat.

“But I will admit,” he said after clearing his throat, “analyzing your podcast was one of the better assignments I’ve ever had. It wasn’t just informative, it was...well. I laughed a few times.”

You froze mid-buckle at those words, then turned your head toward him, tilting it slightly, a smile forming on your lips almost instinctively.

You spent those two hours talking—surprisingly—about things that had little to do with the only common ground you'd really shared so far. And you needed that. You needed a momentary departure from the weight of it all, especially after the day you’d had, and the several before it, where your thoughts had been entirely consumed by The Executioner.

It was your last chance for that kind of relief. And maybe the only reason you were able to bear the news that awaited you once you returned.

It was afternoon. Even from a distance, you could see the BAU vehicle parked in your neighborhood, right outside your next-door neighbors’ home. But in hindsight, ever since you'd crossed the town line into Fairview, something had felt off. Heavier than usual.

Your fourteen-year-old neighbor, Keasy, was missing.

From the beginning of the day, your head was only searching for an opportunity to find itself in a horizontal position.

And well, since the day at work was, as usual, calm, you allowed yourself that. To close your eyes, stinging from lack of sleep, but not to give in to dreams—nightmares, to be precise.Three days had passed since Keasy's disappearance, and it felt like time in the town had stopped. Except for your life. Unfortunately, it had to keep moving forward, even when it wasn’t clear if hers still was.

They managed to determine who had seen her last—it was the boy she’d recently started seeing, who turned out to be five years older than her. But despite that age difference and the rather mixed opinions about him, suspicions didn’t really turn in his direction.

Everyone knew who was behind Keasy’s disappearance, everyone knew it wasn’t just a disappearance—it was a kidnapping.

The BAU and the local police were doing what they could, but from what you knew from Reid, with whom, due to lack of time, you communicated only sporadically, and from your own, old, reliable sources, there simply was no trace of her.

No witnesses. No leads.

Just like in the previous cases.

There was a soft scraping sound by your ear. You opened one eye to see a cup of coffee set down on the counter in front of you, and a man’s hand pushing it in your direction. You opened your other eye and sat up, resting the weight of your head on your palm.

“If you really can’t manage today, go home early,” Charlie offered, his hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of his red hoodie. He avoided your gaze, and the sound of his voice struck you as strangely unfamiliar.

Right. You hadn’t spoken in days.

So much had happened since then that the reasons for the silence now felt distant, irrelevant.

“We’re basically done anyway. I’ll close up on my. No problem.”

Your dry lips parted slightly in surprise at the suggestion, but after a moment they closed again, and the two of you just stared at each other in silence. If the last time you looked at him he seemed awful, now he had clearly hit his lowest point. His face was thin, the skin stretched tightly over the bones, almost translucent. A beanie on his head, with strands of long, clearly unwashed hair sticking out from underneath. His eyes bloodshot and sunken, with purple circles around them. It hit you then that his preference for loose hoodies probably wasn’t just about fashion. It was also a way to hide his increasingly thin frame. A lump formed in your throat, and you lowered your gaze to the coffee cup in front of you, wrapping your hands around it.

“Thanks, Charlie. But I’ll stay till the end, as you said, we’re basically done,” you replied in a soft tone, one that suggested you weren’t holding anything against him anymore.

Charlie nodded, leaning back against the counter on the same side as you. A long silence passed before he spoke again, hesitant and slightly remorseful.

“So…we’re good? We’re talking again?”

You nodded without hesitation. It wasn’t just that your anger had passed, or that seeing him in that state stirred something in your heart and made you not want to leave him completely alone (although mostly that) it was also that work was boring as hell when you weren’t speaking to each other. You smiled faintly.

“Back to normal.”

Charlie returned the expression, one that looked almost foreign on his worn-out face. Then the sound of the bell above the door rang out, signaling someone’s arrival. You both looked toward Mr. Benson, walking in right on schedule with his phone in hand.

“Good afternoon,” you greeted him, already reaching out your hand. Silence followed as you set his alarm for 4 a.m., but just before handing the phone back, a question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You could blame your talkativeness, or the way your mind was wrapped up in the case. Either way, you couldn’t help yourself. “How’s your grandson holding up, Mr. Benson? I mean, he was quite close to…Keasy.”

Her name was hard to say. Which made podcast recording especially difficult. You’d known the other victims—Maggie, who you used to tutor, and Judy, who you’d chatted with a few times—but not like this. They hadn’t lived across the street your whole life. You hadn’t handed down clothes to them or had them playing in your yard.

Mr. Benson made a sour face. At first, you thought you were imagining it—you even glanced at Charlie, but he was staring at the man too, just as shocked.

“Well, serves her right,” Mr. Benson said, dismissively, coldly.

You froze, stiffening all over.

“Same goes for the rest of them, if you ask me. Nothing but little whores with no decency,” he went on, taking the phone right out of your hand so suddenly that it practically slipped from your fingers.

He turned to leave, then paused, like remembering something.

“Well, maybe not that one. Whatever her name was. The one from the Bakers, you know, the ones who run the pharmacy. Good girl, smart, pretty. Always said hello. Didn’t deserve that. If that freak was right about any of them, well it sure wasn’t her…”

Charlie moved suddenly and sharply, and for a moment, you were sure he was going to react. His jaw was clenched tight, hands balled into fists and shoved into his pockets. But instead of doing anything, he just squeezed his eyes shut, his brow furrowing hard, and turned away, heading toward the back room with a quick, staggering gait.

You followed him with your eyes, confused, then turned your gaze back to Mr. Benson. For a moment, you didn’t know what to do at all. His words had gone off like a bomb, Charlie’s reaction only added to the chaos, making it hard to think clearly. You should probably go after your friend—right? The only thing you were sure of was the burning fury inside you. Fury at the disgusting, morally bankrupt man standing in front of you.

You stood from your seat and leaned over the counter, meeting his eyes with your own, blazing with anger.

“Don’t come here again,” you ordered.

You waited just long enough for him to leave and for the door to shut behind him before you headed straight to the back room. Inside the tiny, quiet space, Charlie was standing in front of one of the cabinets, hunched over, head buried in his arms, his body shaking either from tremors or dangerously erratic breathing.

You approached him immediately, placing a hand on his shoulder, but he flinched at the touch, so you quickly pulled it back.

“Charlie, what’s going on?” you asked.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, forehead furrowed with worry, silently watching as he tried to regain control, to slow the frantic breathing that at times sounded like quiet sobs. At one point, he started shaking his head with his mouth slightly open, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t force the words out. His hands slipped back into the pockets of his hoodie, fidgeting, like he was touching something, turning it over in his palms.

Suddenly, something clicked in your head. But first your friend, and his panic attack.

“N-no, don’t say anything,” you instructed him firmly. “Just breathe for a moment, okay?”

You had to repeat yourself once more before he started to follow the instruction, closing his eyes and breathing through his nose so deeply that his nostrils flared. The shop remained unattended, but at that moment, you didn’t care. Something else was festering in your mind, something that made sense of everything that had been going on with him lately—how his appearance and behavior had changed. You waited a little longer, giving him a moment to collect himself.

Maybe you should’ve asked more gently, but you didn’t know how.

“Are you using drugs?” you asked, your tone serious.

Charlie only opened his eyes at that question, locking onto your gaze. He held it for a long moment without answering, and that was all the confirmation you needed.

“God, I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out sooner,” you muttered, some shame aimed directly at yourself.

Now everything seemed so obvious. But clearly, you’d been too absorbed in yourself to notice something was seriously wrong with your friend. Or maybe you did notice. You just didn’t do anything about it.

He started shaking his head, denying it.

“I’m not… it’s not that—”

“Then what do you have in your pocket?” you asked, confrontational.

The shaking intensified, turned almost frantic. The fear was just another confirmation—you didn’t want him to keep denying it. You weren’t trying to shame him or push him away. You just wanted the truth. So you reached for his pocket yourself.

For someone who had been slow and sluggish for months, Charlie suddenly found enough strength to grab your hand before you could even touch him, squeezing it hard. You let out a hiss, but he ignored it, not loosening his grip.

“Do you ever listen to a damn thing people say to you?” he snapped, pushing your arm back so forcefully your whole shoulder rotated and you had to take a step.

Yes, your heart jumped slightly with a flicker of fear, but you weren’t about to back down at the first hint of aggression. You’d known him for too long—you could’ve guessed his reaction wouldn’t be meek.

“Show me what’s in your pocket,” you demanded.

You remembered how he’d taken something out after your argument, staring at it while sitting alone in the car. Probably another dose of whatever it was he’d been taking. It all added up—and it only fueled you more. Maybe even too much. Looking at the tension on his face, you softened slightly, tried to shift your stance to something gentler.

“Charlie, you know you can trust me. I’ll help you, if you need it. If… I don’t know… if you’re scared I’ll report it to the boss, just know I’d never—”

He shook his head slightly, eyes closed, like he couldn’t take another word.

“Move.”

You blocked him even more.

“Show me what’s in your pocket.”

He tried to push past you, but failed. The difference in strength between you wasn’t significant, especially not when his body was this weak, almost sickly. You literally grabbed hold of his hoodie, stopping him from leaving the back room.

Charlie tilted his head back with a sigh of frustration.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he ground out through clenched teeth, then reached into his hoodie pocket. He shoved something into your hands. Before you could even register what it was, he used the slack in your guard to push you back hard enough that you stumbled. As he left the room, he turned around briefly, spreading his arms with a bitter smile. “Happy now?”

You dropped your gaze to the small, orange plastic container.

You hadn’t been wrong for a second.

It was filled with pills.

It wasn’t even the next day when you heard the doorbell and knew it was Charlie.

After your confrontation, he had left the shop, leaving you alone. Ironic, really—he was the one who had suggested you go home early. Okay, maybe not the best time for irony.

After he squeezed your hand and pushed you, combined with everything else going on in your life outside of him, you probably had some unspoken right to just cut him off. Well, no one would be surprised that you didn’t. Just fifteen minutes later, you texted him asking to meet. A message he ignored. But you knew he read it. And you knew he would come.

After all, you had all his pills.

You hid them in the drawer of your desk, keeping them as a bargaining chip, just so you could talk to him a little longer. Just so you could ask how it had even started, and what you could do to help.

So, the doorbell, the steps up the stairs, the uncertain way he sat down on the edge of your bed, and silence. There was silence between you the whole time. Heavy and deafening.

The room was lit by your bedside lamp, the same color as the pill bottle hidden in the drawer of your desk, where you sat now.

Charlie kept his eyes fixed on the pattern of ducks on your bedspread. When he swallowed, it was so loud he might as well have shouted.

“I’m sorry for how I acted toward you,” he said stiffly.

“You’re only saying that so I’ll give you your pills back?”

“Yes.”

“You could at least try to make it less obvious.”

He pressed his lips together and shrugged apathetically.

“What for?”

Exactly—what for?

You slid down from your seat, still lightly leaning against it, arms loosely crossed over your chest. Charlie’s eyes gleamed with hope, thinking maybe you were moving to hand him back what was his. It was a pathetic sight.

"I need it," he said after a moment, placing heavy emphasis on the word need, his whole face tightening with it. "You obviously don’t get it, but for me this is... it’s the only way to, I don’t know, move forward."

You let out a sharp laugh.

"Charlie, you’re not moving forward. You’re barely dragging yourself."

“A small step is better than none.”

“Don’t bring up motivational you-can-do-it believe-in-yourself businessman quotes when we are literally talking about drugs!”

His hands slapped against his thighs with a tired sigh.

“I told you, this isn’t something you can understand. Just give it back, okay? If you don’t, I’ll get more anyway. It’s not a problem.”

You stayed silent. You knew he would say that, had even expected him to use that argument. But you couldn’t get past the moral block of physically handing your friend something that was slowly destroying him.

“No,” you answered plainly.

He rolled his eyes.

“Can I use the bathroom?”

You had your own bathroom upstairs, with the door right in your room. You gave him a look.

“Just so you know, I didn’t hide them in there. Don’t even think about going through my cabinets.”

“I just need to piss, psycho.”

You waved a hand.

“Be my guest.”

Charlie lazily got to his feet, with a look on his face like it had taken the effort of climbing Mount Everest. Then, with equally energetic movements, he dragged himself toward the room and closed the dark wooden door behind him. You were glad he had disappeared from your view for a moment, it meant you had time to think about what you were going to say to him when he came back. At least he wasn’t stubbornly denying his addiction anymore, and you considered that a good start.

As your eyes wandered around the room in thought, across the dark wooden floorboards and the walls covered in posters and photos, they eventually had to return to the place where Charlie had just been sitting. Your bed, the duck-patterned bedding, something lying on it.

And it didn’t belong to you.

You glanced toward the bathroom door—your friend was still inside.

You pushed yourself away from the desk and walked to the bed, picking up the object that must have slipped from his pocket when he stood up. Your brow instantly furrowed. It was a small crocheted bunny with button eyes, made into a keychain, with a clasp that allowed the tiny, adorable mascot to be attached to just about anything.

You carefully lifted the object, as if it might shatter upon falling. Your hands, for some reason, were trembling, so dropping it was actually a pretty likely outcome. You held your breath for a moment, as if oxygen deprivation might sharpen your other senses. And that strange feeling in your core.

Charlie wasn’t the kind of guy who’d clip a small, cute plushie onto anything, but even if he did, he’d wear it attached, not hidden in his pocket, right? You shook your head slightly, not knowing why you were analyzing it so much. Maybe he just got it from someone, maybe he bought it, found it. There didn’t have to be anything deeper behind it.

You were about to toss the oddly familiar plushie back where it had been, but then you glanced to the side and locked eyes with Charlie, just as he was stepping out of the bathroom. Upon seeing you, he froze in the doorway with one hand still on the handle, his gaze falling on what you were holding.

Your fingers closed more tightly around the little bunny.

If there hadn’t been anything deeper behind it, you wouldn’t have felt such tension in your body. You stared at his pale face for a long moment, without blinking or moving. Charlie parted his lips, then closed them again—his lower lip was trembling nervously. If there wasn’t anything behind it, he wouldn’t be reacting like that.

“That belonged to Maggie,” you said. “Maggie Baker.”

taglist: @mgg-lover4eva @jp600fox @garcialuvs

#loverrecs

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mggslover · 15 days ago

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GIF REQUEST MEME - 17. FAVORITE GIDEON SHIP (BLANK SPACE): HIDEON (JASON GIDEON / AARON HOTCHNER) (requested by @solardrop :D)

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mggslover · 15 days ago

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FIFTEEN LOVE

aaron hotchner x wife!reader

summary: your idea of a fun morning filled with tennis and blackmail quickly turns into your idea of hell…or heaven, if an overprotective aaron and a sprained ankle sound like your kind of thing.

warnings: fluuufff, suggestive-ish banter, old married couple bickering, implied age gap because it's not an alina fic if there are no old man jokes, sprained ankle and a broken nail :(

wc: 1.5k

✰ masterlist

You watch as a lambent orb darts past you, its fuzzy hairs grazing your ankle with a light burn. It bounces a few times, and you turn to watch it roll towards the fence, kind of like your intentions for the day.

When you woke up this morning, before the sun had decided to do its harsh beating, tennis with your husband sounded like a great idea. Now? With your sunscreen melting off, hairs sticking to the back of your neck, and your pretty skort rubbing uncomfortably against your inner thigh, you’re being forced to reconsider. Drastically reconsider.

“You know it helps when you hit the ball back,” your luscious, sweaty husband calls out, shielding his eyes from the gnarly sun with one hand.

“You don’t say,” you call back, strumming up a light jog to retrieve the balls behind you because unfortunately, and to your dismay, you’re failing to return half of them.

“Come on,” he coaxes, still infuriatingly chipper. “Where’s all that enthusiasm from this morning? Need I remind you this was your idea?”

“All my enthusiasm went out the window the moment you saw me in this skort and didn’t make a single degrading comment.”

“So what I’m hearing is…you wanted me to objectify you?”

You return to your spot with a sigh, swiping the back of your hand above your brow, collecting the beads of sweat. “Why else would I wear this glorified napkin and subject myself to manual labour in the sun?”

He laughs and you bounce the ball off your racquet a few times.

“I’ll make you a deal,” you offer suddenly, and his face freezes mid-mouth crease. “Don’t look so worried, you’re going to love it.”

He narrows his eyes. “What is it?”

“I’ll give you my absolute best tennis effort for a full twenty minutes. But…” you pause, letting it hang just long enough, “I need sound effects. You know, the ones that usually accompany tennis matches.”

“Sound effects?”

You nod solemnly. “Moaning.”

He stares at you, and you stare right back, though the smile on his face has slipped off, done a hurdle jump over the net, and found a new home on yours.

“I’m sorry,” he says slowly, like he’s making sure he heard you right. “You want me to moan…while playing tennis?”

“Correct.” You bounce the ball again. “Nothing over the top. Just a few well-placed grunts, maybe a sharp ugh when you serve. Bonus points if you add a dramatic ahh after a point.”

“You’re deranged.”

“Yes. I thought that was exactly why you married me,” you huff.

“No, I think I married you because of how great your ass looks in jeans.”

You shake your head, pointing your racquet at him like a judge with a gavel, sentencing a man guilty of a crime too late. “Uh-huh, objectifying me won’t save you now. I need to hear some moaning.”

His hands land on his hips as he ponders over your proposition. The sight is sweet really, watching him pretend he has a choice in the matter. But you let him have his moment nonetheless, despite the fact that any illusion of authority he brings home from work, gets promptly surrendered the second he steps through your front door.

“You’ll really try if I do this?”

“Twenty uninterrupted minutes of effort,” you confirm. “I’ll even run for the ball instead of watching it roll into next week.”

He raises his brow and you grin at him once more.

“You can serve, baby,” you say sweetly, tossing your ball to the side, effectively removing his last excuse. Now he has no choice but to serve and grunt… or grunt and serve. Whichever he fancies first.

You watch as he draws in a cavernous breath, likely preparing to mentally erase the next twenty minutes before they’ve even begun. His hand digs into his bulging pocket, retrieving your yellow nemesis. He bounces it a few times, and before you know it, it’s in the air, making clean contact with his racquet on the drop.

As expected, a reverberant ugh! escapes him on the serve.

You almost drop your racquet from laughing, the sharpness of your wheeze matching the intensity of his swing. A sudden fit of cackling seizes you–hands on your knees, eyes shut, completely ignoring the ball as it pitifully bounces past your feet.

“This is you trying?” Aaron asks, his tone flat and unimpressed, which only makes you laugh harder.

“Sorry!” you gasp between giggles. “What the hell was that?”

“A very dignified serve.”

You wipe your eyes, straightening up, breath still hiccuping. “I wish I was recording.”

He stoops to grab another ball from the court. “You promised twenty minutes of effort,” he says, tossing it lightly in his hand. “I’m not sure where ‘publicly mocking me’ fits into that.”

“Not mocking–never mocking! In fact, I’m reminiscing. That very sexy grunt sounds suspiciously like the noise you made that time we tried–”

A yellow blur zips past your arm before you can finish.

“Hey!” you yelp, glaring at him while he pretends to be utterly absorbed in inspecting the string tension on his racquet.

“Hmm,” he hums, still studying it. “Might need to restring this soon.”

“You almost hit me.”

“Almost doesn’t count.”

You scoff, running a hand over your upper arm for emphasis, even though the ball wasn’t anywhere close enough to do damage. “Careful. I’ve been known to hold grudges.”

He finally looks up, one corner of his mouth curving into a smug arc. “You’ve been known to lose at tennis, too.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that I’m just letting you win? I know for a man your age, taking a beating might hit harder.”

He lets out a chuckle, paired with a brief shake of his head. He knows you too well–your fondness for lobbing age-related digs whenever things don’t swing your way–and he’s got a very particular method of returning the serve. It’s rarely deployed in public. No, in public, he just gives you this look (the one he’s wearing now) that says he’s tucking your little remark into his pocket, and saving it for later…for when the crowd is gone and you’re far less inclined to be quite so mouthy.

“Well, you promised full effort,” he reminds you, palm pressed to his chest in mock sincerity. “Don’t hold back on my account.”

You spare him a witty remark and instead reach for a ball, taking your time to muster up the said full effort you promised despite the sun slowly sucking it out of you. You bounce it once, twice, enough to look like you know what you’re doing, before sending it across the net with what you’ll later claim was a calculated aim but in truth was just… a bit of a hopeful swat.

Somehow, you manage to coax a rally out of the two of you, punctuated by laughter whenever Aaron makes good on his earlier promise to ‘moan and serve,’ grunting and ahhing his way through the match. It feels a bit like dancing with someone far better at it than you, only his so-called sound effects—originally meant for your amusement—are starting to feel less like entertainment and more like sabotage.

You’re convinced you’ve burned through at least half the time you promised him, lungs warm, cheeks hotter, when it happens. Mid-giggle, you leap for a return just a touch too eagerly and your balance deserts you. Your ankle, poor loyal thing, takes the brunt, folding with a pointed protest before depositing you in an ungraceful slump on the court.

The thud of you hitting the court is immediately followed by the thwack of Aaron’s racquet hitting the ground as he abandons it mid-play.

“Hey–” He’s already crouching beside you, one hand bracing your shoulder, the other hovering over your ankle like he can will the pain away. “Talk to me–sharp pain? Throbbing? Can you move your toes?”

“I don’t know…that depends on if I won or not,” you manage, your attempted grin faltering into a wince when his thumb shifts against a tender spot.

“Not funny,” he says, sliding a gentle hand beneath your heel to keep it supported. “The pain—what is it like? Is it constant? Does it get worse when you move?”

“Yeah, something like that,” you mutter, trying to keep the mood light despite the ache. Your eyes drift down to your ankle, and that’s when you notice one of your nails had surrendered and snapped off during the fall, now fused with the sun-baked asphalt. “Honestly, I think I’m more upset about my nail.”

He takes your hand, brushing a soft kiss over the finger missing half its nail. “We’ll get that sorted too. For now, let’s get you into the shade with an ice pack, alright?”

You nod as he stands and begins easing you to your feet, but before you can even shift your weight, he scoops you up in his arms, bridal style, drawing a surprised squeak from you.

“You just love having me in your arms, don’t you?” you joke, teasing him about how often you’ve ended up like this.

You’re starting to think he might be actively looking for excuses to carry you, and deep down, you realise it’s probably one of the few ways he truly lets himself believe you’re safe.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley @wowitsafemale @cinnamoncunt @keiminds @iyskgd @mystic-rox @insured-by-the-mafia @2dloveshp @lovelystrawberry @imissaaronhotchner @justyourusualash @alexxavicry @storiesofsvu @ehedrick012110 @hopelessromantic727 @piatosniathenie @averyhotchner @softtdaisy @b1tchyr1ichy @wvffles @mayhills @star-crossed-libby @sreidmia @cringeiknow @vyviiennestar @calm-and-doctor @iloveyou2mia @casualpruneranchfire @bau-bestie @vivs30 @lovelystrawberrysblog @htchnr @khxna

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mggslover · 15 days ago

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yeah…… yEah…… YEAHHH….. !!!!!!!

i swear i’d feel like i’d be on aphrodisiacs 24/7 when being around spencer. i actually think i am on aphrodisiacs now placebo effect and all bc of how fucking hot this was someone turn the fan on rn i need a cold shower

𝐥𝐚 𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!Reader Category: Smut 18+ MDNI Summary: A shared motel room, two bored agents, and a bar of chocolate—what could go wrong? Everything, when the chocolates turn out to be fast acting aphrodisiacs. Or it all goes right; it’s simply a matter of perspective. Part 2 of In the Secrecy of his Room. Content: 5k words, early season dom!Spencer Reid, bratty reader, dom and sub dynamics, accidental consumption of aphrodisiacs, probably inaccurate depiction of aphrodisiacs, nipple play, unprotected p in v, dumbification of reader, size kink if u squint, use of good girl and sir, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, squirting. a/n: I listened to ben platt’s version of diet pepsi on loop while writing the last 2k words lol. Also, I’ve been seeing sentiments against writing early seasons Spencer as a dom so uh click here if you prefer him whiney and inexperienced. Or just scroll away! It’s all free! If u stay, i hope you enjoy! Requested by the lovely @misserabella. First half was proofread by @cherrypickinns and then it's all my deranged writings once they begin kissing. Gif is by the bestest @reidgif

It isn’t that the case is harder than usual, but there’s something about this small town in Nebraska that makes everything seem like it’s moving through water. Warped and just on the side of sluggish. The team had come at an unfortunate time, because there’s a harsh thunderstorm outside. So strong the authorities made necessary suspensions, and now everyone is stuck indoors.

On top of that, you’re sharing a room with Spencer. Of course, the universe is cruel enough to work like this. To his credit, he’s the picture of professionalism. He had assured you secrecy and it’s a promise he’s been upholding consistently. No teasing, nothing to give away the activities you’ve engaged with each other, no references to how he’d given you pleasure. For this, you are grateful. Small miracles and whatnot.

Tonight is no different; stranded together on a work trip, he’s politely ignoring you by poring over the case files, as if his single minded focus would be enough to solve it.

It would be easy to coax him out of this, but you don’t want to make anything awkward. Besides, you’d both set strict rules—those activities, your roles, all must be contained within his bedroom. The moment you’re out of it, you’re simply two coworkers again, barely friends, and yet…

You drag your eyes away from him, away from those fingers tracing over words on a page as the very sight triggers some treacherous part of your brain and goosebumps break across your inner thighs where he’d drawn invisible patterns with the very same fingertips and littered deep purple blossoms from his mouth.

Okay, stop.

“Ughhhh,” you roll over until you’re first into the pillows, muffling the last bits of your very articulate sound of complaint.

His snort catches you by surprise though it doesn’t quite ring as annoyance. More like amusement.

“What?” you lift yourself on your elbow, pouting.

“I thought being difficult was just something you play up… you know, when we’re having our sessions.” He murmurs from his seat, a slight hesitance tugging at his voice; this is the first time either of you acknowledged that outside of their designated weekends. Outside his room. He continues, musing, “But it seems like you’re simply a brat in real life too.”

His form remains focused on the case files at the desk. Still reading, as if you aren’t important enough to warrant his full attention.

You aren’t sure if he’s doing it deliberately, but, well, it’s making you want to act up and get his attention.

You don’t fall for it, though. Mostly. “Well, sorry if I’m bored.”

“You have a case file sitting in your bag, and it’s not going to read and solve itself.”

“We’re off the clock. Everything’s suspended until tomorrow because of the storm, Spencer. Besides,” you roll over onto your back with a groan, “I’ve no interest reading it again—I’d read it cover to cover multiple times already. It won’t get solved if we’re stuck in here with incomplete puzzle pieces. Like Hotch said, we need to search the woods and cross examine some witnesses, but that’s not happening in this weather.”

“I, for one, would appreciate some silence,” he replies quietly. He turns the page. You pout at his back, unsure of what you want and infinitely restless.

Finally, you sit up and rifle through your bag, huffing with annoyance. If he hears, he doesn’t bother acknowledging it. You almost want to scream. The rummaging noises you’re making are so obviously calculated. It’s just a passive aggressive attempt to get his attention; you don’t even know what you’re looking for, this is simply done for the sake of doing something.

Spencer still doesn’t dignify you with a response. However, your fingers curl over something smooth and unfamiliar. A smile splits across your face when you pull it out, relief and elation replacing the initial curiosity.

A bar of chocolate. This had been from Penelope, something she slipped to you with a beaming face the morning before you left. You had stuffed it into your go bag when Hotch said you’re leaving, and thank heavens for that. At least now you have a sweet treat.

You push off the wrapper, eager for some sugar. The wrinkling sounds make Spencer turn in his seat, brows raised in question. “Have you finally decided to review the—what is that?”

“Oh, Pen gave me some chocolates.” you reply, peeling off the carefully packaged wrapping paper—Penelope loves elaborately wrapped gifts, even gifts as simple as these. A glance back at Spencer shows that he’s looking at the bar with some form of longing, “Want some?”

He shrugs, “If you don’t mind.”

“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous, Dr. Reid.” With a grin, you hold the chocolate from both ends and bend. It’s gotten softer from being in your bag, and you’re able to halve the bar easily.

“How fortunate, indeed. You know, some studies have linked chocolates to heightened focus.” he says as he accepts his share. His fingers brush against yours briefly, just the tips, but it’s once again enough to trigger memories of how those fingers feel running across hidden crevices in your body. Slow, teasing. You clear your throat and retreat immediately once the chocolate is in his possession.

No room for lewd thoughts tonight. Absolutely none. Not when you’re on a work trip. And sharing a room on top of that.

Nope. You cram chocolate into your mouth quickly. Too much. So much that your cheeks bulge at the sides and it’s difficult to chew through. It’s good old milk chocolate, sweet but decadent, and thankfully, it melts easily in your mouth.

You take another bite, not trusting yourself to speak to him. There’s a slight aftertaste to the chocolate, but you figure it’s probably just an unfamiliar flavor. Penelope enjoys experimenting with her desserts, after all. It’s good, regardless, and you’re not going to complain about free chocolates.

Unsurprisingly, the chocolate is consumed quickly.

“Is that enough chocolate to help your brain focus better, Dr. Reid?” you ask him teasingly.

“I didn’t have an issue focusing in the first place, in fact, I think you would benefit from it more.” the words would cut if it came from someone else, but it’s Spencer and he’s grinning back at you like you’re worth something, and finally, you feel satisfaction bloom in your chest.

And then with a quick thanks, his attention dissipates and he ducks back to the case file and the satisfaction wilts like a neglected houseplant.

With a groan, you give up trying to pull him away from his reading and pick up your own case file. Maybe he’s right and the chocolate would help you focus.

It creeps up on you, the uncomfortable heat. Nearly imperceptible at first, and quickly eased by turning on the small fan provided by the motel. It’s weird, though, because the storm pelting outside has made the place considerably cooler. Still, the heat creeps with such subtlety that you don’t dwell upon it. Maybe your body heat’s fluctuating. Maybe you need a shower.

After a little while, Spencer speaks up too, brows knit in annoyance.

“Do you mind sharing the fan, it’s too hot.” he says, glancing at your figure. Prone on your bed, legs up in the air like you’re reading some issue of Cosmopolitan rather than your work folder, and hair rustling from the fan pointed directly at you.

You glance up fast enough to catch his eyes on your ass.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” With an exaggerated groan, you heave yourself up and move to press the button on the fan. It oscillates, and you huff annoyed sentiments about the lack of air conditioning. It’s unique to the room you two are sharing; Gideon and the others had managed to claim first dibs on the rooms with functional air conditioning systems. You suspect it’s more that you two are the youngest, and there’s still some playful hierarchy going on within the team. After all, everyone else got their own solo rooms as well—you and Spencer had been the only ones sharing a space.

But the heat only seems to thicken as time passes by, and you shift on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. Something in you curls, heavy and slow and burning like molten honey.

“Oh my god,” you hiss, sitting up.

From the desk, Spencer whirls to face you, “Do you mind? It’s already difficult to focus with this heat.”

Your eyes land on his forehead, noting how the strands of his hair have tumbled down and are now plastered to his skin, moist. A bead of sweat runs down from his temple, and your eyes trace its movements. Somehow your gaze lands on his mouth, the tops of his lips also gathering moisture.

What would he taste, all hot and worked up like this?

You blink. Glance away. But he seems to catch something in your expression, because suddenly he’s on his feet and walking to your bed.

“What was in the chocolate?”

“What?”

“There’s something wrong with both of us—we’re exhibiting similar symptoms of discomfort, increased body heat, and—” his voice drifts lower, frustrated, “What was in the chocolate? We shared one bar and approximately six minutes and forty seven seconds later, I began feeling hot.”

You blink up at him, watching as his hand swipes over his forehead. His eyes are trained at your neck, where a couple of droplets are racing down your throat. His eyes considerably darken. Your thighs clench.

“What was in the chocolate?”

“I don’t know,” your voice sounds higher, squeakier, as you begin to panic very slightly. Tearing your gaze away from his accusatory expression, you rummage through your bag for the wrinkled wrapper, “Penelope gave it to me, I doubt she’d try to poison us.”

“This doesn’t feel like poison, this—”

“Oh my god, no!”

“What?”

If possible, you feel even hotter as you read through the little pink post-it note from Penelope. It had been stuck on the wrapper and in your boredom and haste to eat, you had simply missed its existence.

This is the aphrodisiac I told you about, my beautiful cupcake. Consume moderately and enjoy!

Aphrodisiacs. Yes. A vague memory pops into your head, giggles and secrets shared in Penelope’s technology cave—one you treasured since not a lot of agents are allowed access into her sacred office. Chocolates loaded with aphrodisiacs. Her promise to get you some.

And she pulled through—of course she did, she’s Penelope fucking Garcia—and gave it to you the morning you left.

Oh, you could pass out. This is mortifying.

“What? What is it?” When you don’t answer, Spencer grabs the wrapper with an impatience he doesn’t usually exhibit. He first scans Penelope’s note, then pieces the slightly torn and creased wrapper together to go through the list of ingredients, before speaking in a tone at least two octaves higher than normal. “An aphrodisiac chocolate!?”

“Is it bad?” you mumble, running your hands through your hair.

“Chocolate by itself already contains phenethylamine, which controls our so-called ‘love chemicals’ but the addition of these ingredients means that these will work at a faster pace. Mixed together, they’re optimal—”

Normally, you listen to his tangents with more patience than the other members of the team, but right now, you’re grappling with so many feelings it’s difficult to process his high falutin explanations. He’s rattling off words that mean nothing to you. In fact, they make everything sound so clinical. So much worse.

Your anxiety manifests by way of frustration. “Okay, genius, now translate that to English.” you interrupt, which makes him pause. Immediately, your tone softens, “Sorry, this is already freaking me out, and all that science wasn’t helping.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, more moisture congregating at the hollow of his throat now. Distracting—sinfully so. You want to tongue that spot until the taste of his sweat is somehow absorbed into your bloodstream.

“We’ve essentially just consumed an entire bar of sex drugs.”

“Oh,” your eyes squeeze shut when he confirms your suspicions. That conclusion didn’t require his level of genius, although you had been hoping it hadn’t been the case. That his explanation would somehow point to the opposite—hey we’re actually just really hot because there’s some type of pepper in the chocolate that enhances body heat or something to that effect. Not a confirmation. You groan, “Well yeah, I figured that much. That explains the, um… heat.”

The bed dips beside you as he eases onto it, “Yes, all the symptoms aren’t from poison or disease, it’s—”

“We’re horned up.”

“There’s less crude ways to put it,” he laughs and tosses the crumpled wrapper back into your bag, “But yes. We are, as you very eloquently said, horned up.”

You peek up at him from beneath your lashes, trying to make yourself smaller in the midst of this mortification. “What’s the statistical probability of us being able to wait it out like adults with incredible self control?”

“Factoring in our—”

“Reid, that was rhetorical,” you attempt to conjure enough energy for a glare, but it simply comes across petulant. His smile twists, and something flashes in his expression. Something you recognize. You’re sure you’re looking at him the exact same way—desire reflected back at you from clear amber eyes.

“Is it?” his voice drops and you feel the weight of his gaze prickling your overheated skin, “Forgive me, I quite enjoyed figuring out the math of the age old question: how long will it take for you to initiate something between us.”

This time, you glower. And the bastard laughs, which only serves to heighten your annoyance. “I’m not initiating anything with you.”

“No? But you’re so skilled at it.”

Memories of your previous trysts flood your mind. His room, the list of rules and your punishment, the way you came apart on his lap. A meeting that you had, indeed, initiated.

You huff like a brat, and look away.

“It’s only 22.45%,” he says when the silence stretches long enough to grow uncomfortable and swells until it threatens to suffocate, “If my math is correct.”

Admittedly, the low chances make you curious. You shift slightly to glance at him, “22.45% chances of me initiating? Why is it so low?” In your mind, you’d give it 90% and that’s being modest. You’re barely controlling yourself right now. No way it would be so slim; the number is actually a little insulting to you and how much you want him to jump your bones.

“Well,” he leans in, breath ghosting over your face, close enough you smell the hints of chocolate and coffee and cologne. And yet, still not close enough, “Factoring in the probability of where we are, there’s a 4.94% chance we get called by the team, and 3.88% to us actually being good—that is, not succumbing to these hormonal cocktails in our brains.”

“That doesn’t make sense, those are even lower numbers.”

“Mhm. Because based on my calculations, there’s a 68.73% chance that I initiate something.”

Your breath catches. Math and numbers have never sounded so fucking hot until this moment.

“What are you waiting for?” your voice catches in your throat and comes out a fluttery sigh.

“Your consent.”

A smile splits across your face, and you decide that tonight, your 22% chances trump his 68%.

Your soft lips press upon him, eager, open, and tasting faintly of chocolate. Spencer has never been more happy to be proven wrong.

He has always kissed with intention—slow, deep, as though he's trying to meld himself with the velvety warmth of your mouth. But this kiss is different. This kiss has edge. Teeth. The same unhurried pace but marked by a molten need that makes your toes curl and your thighs clench. He leans forward and you follow like you're wired for submission. Like laying down beneath him is simply part of the natural order, the same way planets orbit around the sun.

Sweaty palms find their way beneath your shirt, pressing into equally slick skin, the surface of which immediately breaks out in goosebumps.

"Spencer," You groan into the kiss, hands wandering up his shoulders, "Should we be doing this?"

"That sounds like another one of your rhetoricals."

You laugh, breathless, muffled, "I suppose it is."

"Then there’s no point in answering," He dips his head, lips latching on your neck and, because he’s Spencer Reid, he offers some form of answer anyway, “For the record, I don’t think it’s a question of should.”

"We're debating semantics now?"

"No." A bite. Hands squeezing around your waist before they traverse the softness of your breasts. "The point is we're not debating anything. We both know this is happening regardless of whether or not we should."

He punctuates the statement with a decisive snap that unhooks your bra. "Arms up." Spencer whispers.

You do as he says without another second thought. He tosses your sweaty clothes to the ground. It’s careful. Your bottoms ease off next, and then it’s his turn, stripping down to his boxers with shaky hands. As more clothes join the floor, the room spins and the heat swells.

You’ve both figured there’s no running from it, so instead, you hurtle headfirst and off balance, hands squeezing and tongues dragging across sweat-sodden skin. Spencer settles between your legs with ease, his body slotting with a familiarity that should unsettle you. He moves like he belongs there, and you’re afraid that you want this to be true.

“Fuck—so hot.” he groans against your chest, lips closing around a nipple.

Your back arches, urging him deeper, “Thanks.” You giggle, taking credit for an adjective you’re not even sure is intended for you.

“I—you know what, yeah,” he rasps, lifting himself up on his elbows. The loss of his lips on your chest is alleviated by the look in his eyes. Intense, pupils blown wide as they survey the sight of you beneath him. Glistening and heaving, eyes already out of focus as if a few simple kisses from him is enough to throw you completely off your equilibrium. It’s a sight he’ll keep for as long as he’s alive, no eidetic memory needed. “Yeah, you are. Hot. So hot, so beautiful.” his mouth captures yours again, and you swear you’re melting straight into the sheets.

Your hands fumble uselessly at the waistband of his boxers, pushing the fabric as he attempts to shimmy out of them on top of you. Unfortunately, that simply drives his obvious bulge against your already needy core. With a whine, a prayer, and enough determination to possibly put you through law school, his boxers finally drag down his thighs, just enough for him to kick them off.

Spencer pauses then, looking down at you with gooey brown eyes, every bit of his attention now on you and the sensation burns deep in your gut, a soft kind of heat, one you wish to kindle.

His voice is soft when he asks, “You remember your safe word?”

“Yes—Jupiter,” the next teasing word - nerd - is immediately swallowed by a kiss. You moan, the burning in your belly spreading white hot just beneath your skin, tinging at every point of contact.

“And you remember what instances to use it?”

Leave it to him to still be concerned about his rules while you're both nearly consumed by such a ruinous chemical reaction. Still, this attentiveness makes something curl in your chest, and you find yourself breathless for an entirely different reason.

“Yes, I do.”

“Yeah? Tell me.” His teeth sink into the softness of your shoulder, hips grinding down onto your core, both of which effectively eliminates any and all ability to form coherent thought, let alone his goddamned rules.

“Uh - it's - I -”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he pulls back to look down at you, voice raspy but tinged with amusement. Smugness glimmers beneath the desire in his amber irises, “Have you already lost your ability to speak? Do I need to remind you?”

“Y-yes.” you gasp, not really sure what you're replying to.

“Yes what?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good girl. God, you’re so wet for me.” He takes your lower lip between his teeth, sucks until it's tender and numb, before letting go. You feel his tongue push past your teeth, and once again, pure jelly replaces your gray matter. Nothing is real except for him and all the sensations he's giving you. Your hips cant up for any relief. “Be patient,” he cooes, “You need to remember the rules. Safe word if it gets too much, yes? Even if you just want me to slow down. Do you remember now?”

“Yes sir.” you're nodding desperately, and the moment the words leave your lips, you feel the stretch at your core, “Oh god!” You tense around his girth, the broad tip spreading you open. There’s a slight sting, as there always is when he first breaches your entrance with his large cock. It’s familiar. It’s welcome—it means he’s here, he’s with you.

“Angel, you gotta relax,” he says through gritted teeth, his breaths shallow as he pauses, “You're—ugh—too tight like this.”

The most pathetic whine trembles from your lips. He chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours, “Relax, or we'll be stuck like this all night.” He says it like that's somehow a threat, as if you wouldn't be content having him buried inside you. “I don't want to hurt you.”

Against all odds, you manage to relax, walls fluttering delicately as he slides his hard length deeper. Excruciatingly slow. Part of you wonders if it's still because he doesn't want to hurt you, or if he's deliberately torturing you by inching his way in like this. You'd think that after the broadest part of his head pushes past your entrance, it would be an easier fit, but you still find yourself gasping as the rest of his cock slides in and you're still being stretched taut.

“Fuck!”

“I know, I know, god, you're so tight. Should’ve stretched you out with my fingers first, baby, I’m sorry.”

You laugh, “Don’t apologize, I’ll live.”

“You’re in pain.”

“Just a little bit,” you whisper, “Trust me, it’s fine. Please move or I’ll combust.”

Spencer laughs, his forehead pressed to yours. “Okay. You’re lucky I can’t help myself right now, otherwise that would count as an infraction.”

“Not fair, I said please.” you’re pouting as you say it, but the expression immediately dissolves into a slack jawed, glazed over scream of silence as he drags his length nearly all the way out and thrusts back in. Holy fuck.

“Too much?” he pauses, fingers pushing back the strands of your hair that cling at your forehead.

“No, god no, that was perfect.”

“Yeah?” he grins. Does it again. Slow, deep thrusts that make your spine arch in a way you weren’t even aware you could do. Every time he sheathes himself in your warmth, he deliberately grinds his pelvis into yours, the wiry hairs giving your sensitive folds just the right amount of friction. Drag out. Thrust in. Grind, repeat.

Whatever aphrodisiacs were in those chocolate must be working overtime, because everything feels sensitive. You could feel every ridge of his cock as he drags it in and out of your sodden cunt. By some miracle, you’re wetter than normal, slickness dripping around your thighs, into your ass, soaking into the sheets.

Your hands curl into his biceps, fingers clawing his flesh, as gasps are torn from your throat. He’s building up a rhythm now. Black dots dapple your vision, “Oh, god, yes! Just like that!”

“Mhm, you feel so good,” he groans, one hand finding your chest, “So soft and hot for me.” His thumb circles your nipple, then pinches it right as he buries himself balls-deep.

You’re undone within moments. Teeth clamping around the soft part of his shoulder until the skin blooms berry red and are marred by indentations of your teeth.

“Already?” he tuts, letting go of your nipple to grip your waist with both hands, “I didn’t even give you permission yet.”

You sob, “Too good. Please, again.”

“Think you can handle more?” he asks, as if he’s not continuously rutting into you with scientific precision.

“Mhm, please, sir.”

That word seems to make him lose any modicum of restraint and he slams into you so roughly your body rocks forward. Again and again, only his hold on your waist grows more firm, keeping you in place to take this rougher pace. Your skin is prickling with goosebumps and tacky with sweat, and, when he takes one of your legs and hooks it up over his shoulder, you scream.

“Angel!” he halts in an instant, brown eyes wide with concern.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, please, I’ve been so good, I can take it.”

His skin flushes as the realization dawns upon him. It wasn’t from pain; no, the complete opposite. Spencer slams his hips into you again, eliciting a more subdued response—a low, keening whimper. The new angle allows him to burrow deeper, the tip of his cock nudging against your cervix, but every time he does, your walls clench tighter, an indication that tells him you’re enjoying it.

Now certain that you can, indeed, take it, he resumes his steady pace, all while nibbling at the leg slung over his shoulder.

“You’re so pretty like this, but you gotta be quiet.” he murmurs, sinking his teeth into your flesh and sucking.

“Or what?” you groan, somehow still managing to find a sliver of insolence even while he’s balls deep in your cunt. “You’ll stop?”

He can’t. You both know that. Not while those aphrodisiacs are still coursing through your systems.

A dangerous glimmer passes through his eyes. “No,” his free hand finds your clit and soothes quick halos over the slick bud, “I’ll be even louder. Let everyone know exactly what we’re doing.”

From those words, your eyes snap to focus.

He’s grinning and something in his expression reminds you of a triumphant and mocking devil. “Is that what you want? For everyone to know how good you are for me? Quite frankly, I’d prefer to keep it between ourselves, angel, but if that’s what you want, then—”

“No, no, no,” you’re mortified at the very idea, something resembling shame curling in your chest. You push it away; this shouldn’t be shameful, you do not want your memories with Spencer to be tinged with something so negative. “Please, I’ll be quiet, I swear.”

Your clit throbs between his index finger and thumb as he pinches it lightly, “You promise?”

“Yes sir.” you whine.

He nods, though there’s no relief for your poor clit. He keeps it pressed between his fingers, occasionally rubbing his thumb over the exposed top, and you begin to seriously consider if there’s a limit to how much pleasure a body can feel before it spontaneously combusts. If there is, you’re dangerously close to that point.

You’d gladly face it, if that’s the case. What did the French call it—la petite mort? You’re not sure. Right now all you can feel is an all consuming, syrupy sort of bliss. Besides, whatever you can muster of your brain power goes directly to making sure you don’t make a sound. His threat might seem extreme, but Spencer rarely bluffs with his punishments. Either way, you have no intention of finding out.

When it all gets too overwhelming—the fullness that settles in your fluttering channel, the consistent pressure on your clit—you decide this isn’t such a bad way to go.

Only, the pleasure simply splits the world, and suddenly you’re gushing around his cock, and the meeting of your flesh is chased by soft, squelchy sounds.

“My god,” Spencer groans, slowing his pace to marvel at the massive wet spot beneath your bodies, “Did you just?”

“Mhm,” your head tilts in a barely perceptible nod, too exhausted and cock-drunk to reply with words. Never mind that the word in question contains only a syllable—yes. Yes, you just squirted around him.

The world whirls into smudges and colors as he continues fucking into you, his soft grunts echoing in your mind like a favorite song you refuse to unlearn. He finds your hand, cradles it to his chest and, despite everything, you manage to smile up at him. He returns it, a gentleness to the feral creatures that seem to have taken over the two of you.

“God, you’re so lovely. My good girl. Do you need a break?” he cooes, slowly bringing your leg down so that it rests on the bed. You’re limp as a ragdoll beneath him, eyes fluttering and barely kept open, but your walls are squeezing around him so tightly.

“No,” you shake your head.

“Are you sure? You look out of it.” he says, attempting to pull out.

You whine and squeeze your walls to keep him inside.

Spencer laughs, “Let’s turn you over, huh? So your back isn’t all bent all night.” he says, gently pulling out of your heat.

You’re dead weight as he rolls you over, unable to do anything but follow his gentle manhandling. A pillow slides under your hips, elevating the area for easier access. And he’s right, the position does take pressure off your back, but you’re sure that’s temporary, since his entire body weight is going to be above you at any moment.

Palms squeeze and spread your ass playfully, “So pretty. Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks, pressing a soft kiss at the small of your back.

Your answer comes in the form of a low, needy moan. Spencer chuckles, his tip nudging at your entrance once again.

“You know your safe word, right?”

“Jupiter.” the answer slips from your mouth on instinct.

“Good girl. Remember it, because otherwise, I don’t think I'll stop any time soon.”

He shouldn’t. He should stay buried in you forever, or until the aphrodisiacs wear off, or until you die. Whichever of the three comes first.

“I don’t think we’ll be needing the safe word.” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow.

Spencer laughs and slides in, deep and gentle, and doesn’t stop until the clock reads 3am, and neither of you have any energy to do anything but sleep in each other’s arms.

i feel insane. more early season dom content here. thank you for reading! tagging ppl who specifically asked for part two @cherrycemeterry @ana-stasssiaaa @spencerreidwannabe @appledressing @rafayelsheart @aliteralsemicolon

#loverrecs

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mggslover · 17 days ago

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mggslover · 18 days ago

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BLACKS AND BLUES — spencer reid

In which Spencer is not letting his injury stop him from putting you in your place

genre smut (18+) cw dom!jesus!reid, bratty!reader, teasing from both sides, fight for control, bdsm relations, established relationship, spanking, caning, rough fingering, deep throating, p in v, praise, dirty talk, brat taming, dacryphilia, pet names, talking you through it, mentions of masturbation wc 4,7k a/n jesus reid + that mf cane have such a hold on me, i knew i had to write about it. this is also the last kinkfest fic, thank you so much for being here and reading. your support truly is the biggest motivation to write, so if you enjoyed this, please let me know! <3

“I’m bored,” Spencer announces.

You’ve lost count of the number of times he has repeated this sentence in the last couple of hours. Days, even.

Ever since your boyfriend got shot in the leg out on the field — an event that still makes your heart race when you think back on it for too long — he’s been bored. Bored. You’d imagine someone feeling any other way than bored when getting shot, but no, Spencer Reid was bored. Tired of being on bedrest. So tired that he had begged Hotch to join today’s case, which ended up with the both of you stuck in a hotel room.

You had just stepped out of the car, not even close to the destination of the crime scene, when Spencer's limping and whining got the both of you being assigned to the nearest hotel.

Most of the time, you wouldn’t be one to complain about spending the day with Spencer in a luxurious hotel bedroom. But that’s when you’re not taking into consideration that you’re now on research duty and don’t have the time for a boyfriend-shaped distraction.

Turning your head, you find Spencer in the same position you’d left him in when you had entered the room an hour ago. Looking like an ill Victorian child with his upper body propped against a wall of pillows, his injured leg resting on a bundled-up mess of blankets, and a large pout displayed across his face.

You give a small shrug of your shoulders and murmur a “Well, I’m not,’’ before turning back to the tower of case files stacked on top of the narrow desk in front of you. With a flick of your finger, you uncap your yellow highlighter and scan the text to see where you were left off.

“I finished my book.”

Your hand halts in its motion. For a second you close your eyes, composing yourself as you take a steady breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. “You’ve reread it?”

“Thrice.”

“Front to back and back to front?” You question him, like you’re a mother wanting confirmation that her son indeed did his homework.

“Yup,” Spencer answers, popping the p. “Why won’t you let me take a look? You know I can go through those files much faster than you can.’’

Spencer tries sitting up, stifling a groan when a sharp pain courses through his leg.

“That’s why,” you say, pointing your highlighter at him. “Hotch gave me specific instructions to not let you do anything work-related.”

He huffs. “Hotch isn’t a doctor.”

“Neither are you.”

The defense is ready to fly out of his mouth. “I am a–”

“Nuh uh,” you shush him. “Not a medical one. And Dr. Carter — a medical doctor — has also reminded me, just this morning actually, that you need to take two weeks off from doing anything strenuous.”

“Strenuous meaning activities that will increase my heartrate,” he corrects as he slowly lifts himself up on the bed. “Reading reports will not have that effect on me. Actually, complete rest after an injury like this can delay recovery.”

“So, if you don’t mind, I’ll…” His hand reaches out beside him, patting the air in search of his cane. You catch the moment his eyes flicker from the bedside table to the wall next to you, the item he’s looking for right in your possession. “You took my cane?”

You unapologetically hum, giving him a single nod. “That’s what happens when you’re too stubborn for your own good.”

Spencer’s mouth falls open, eyebrows raised in indignation. “I get shot in the leg and you’re being this mean to me? You should be taking care of me.”

A scoff escapes your throat, not being able to help the lines of your mouth from curving into a smile. “I’m your girlfriend, not your nurse.”

He seems to ignore your correction altogether, fingers tapping against each other, and you see the wheels turning in his mind. “I think I know what this is.”

Here we go. With a small sigh you click the cap back on the highlighter and let it drop on the table. “Enlighten me, Reid.”

He pulls a long lock behind his ear, his eyes finding yours across the six feet of distance.

“I think you’re frustrated that I’m the one being taken care of and not you. You miss me taking care of you, and now you’re punishing me for it.” He’s deadpan as he says the words, as confident as he’d be while delivering a profile.

It takes a second for his words to catch up to you, then you let out a loud cackle. “What?”

“I’m not joking,” he continues, sure of his own theory. “When was the last time we had sex?”

Embarrassingly, it took you a while to come up with an answer. It must’ve been longer than two weeks by now. Despite living together, the cases lately had been so energy consuming that neither of you had it in you to make even the slightest bit of movement when you’d lie in bed at the end of the day. And then the leg thing got in your way, of course.

“Some time ago,” you silently mutter.

Spencer nods, having made the mental calculations way before you did. “Considering the case will keep everyone busy for some more hours, we might as well not let this time go to waste.” Spencer says, almost purrs, as his voice drops a notch.

His eyes scan over your figure, unapologetically ogling you. “Do you know how distracting you look when you’re working?”

“Do you know how distracting you are when I’m working?”

The words leave your mouth harsher than they were meant. You open your mouth to soften the blow, but before you could even apologize, Spencer’s expression had shifted. An eyebrow is cocked in surprise, his brown eyes have narrowed shut, and there’s a clear ticking of his jaw.

“Come here.”

Two simple words rolled off his tongue, and you’re already burning up. The heat crawls over your skin, warming your body as it moves up and up until it finds a place to settle on your cheeks. “Spence, I didn’t mean—”

He pats the blankets next to him. The gesture in itself is inviting, gentle, but you’ve known him for long enough to predict what will follow.

“Take the cane and come over.”

The choice is yours. To obey or disobey? That is the question.

“Oh, so you think that’s funny?”

You’re not even aware that the stupid inner thought has caused a small smile to form on your lips until Spencer mentions it. A flicker of anxiety passes through you. You don’t feel as confident in the decision now.

Spencer’s eyes rake over yours, reading your hesitant expression and seeming rather pleased by it.

“Take the cane,” he repeats. “And come over.”

You grab the cane.

Certain objects carry memories: every time you touch your apartment key, you think back on the day Spencer had handed it to you. Every time you feel the soft fur of your childhood plushie, it takes you back to your hometown. Spencer’s cane carries its own memories. Filthier ones.

Just a slight trail of your finger against the smooth wooden handle is enough to remember past events. It almost slips out of your grip by the light layer of sweat that has gathered with your nerves. You know exactly what the cold, curved wooden handle feels like when it brushes against your nipples, can vividly remember the stir of goosebumps it causes when it moves down your spine, and you’ll never forget about the sharp stings it leaves on the insides of your thighs or the plump skin of your ass after a couple of spanks.

Something tells you it’s the latter that you’ll be receiving today.

The creaking of the floorboard goes unnoticed by you, as your heart seems to beat louder with every step that you take toward him. Spencer is seated on the edge of the bed, his legs spread wide in a way that would bother you with anyone that isn’t him. With a sense of shame, you hand him the cane. He accepts it by the other end and then pulls it to him so that you come to stand in between his legs.

Your breath stutters at the eye contact he’s making, hazel eyes taking you in and darkening with every second. You’re holding onto the handle of the cane for dear life when Spencer’s hand slides up your outer thigh, making you feel like you’d fall right through your shaky knees if you didn’t.

His hand slowly travels higher until it pauses at the swell of your ass. He doesn’t take a moment of consideration as he roughly cups the flesh, eliciting a gasp from you.

“You missed this?” He asks in a low groan. “Missed being manhandled like the dirty little brat you are?”

Your throat grows dry. You meet his gaze with wide eyes, watching him like a deer, curious to know what his next move will be. If he’ll take a slow, cautious step forward, or if the attack is already near.

His palm continuously rubs over your ass in slow circles, warming the skin through your pants. You can feel yourself growing wet, embarrassingly so. You want to rub your thighs together to find relief for the throbbing ache between your folds and the slick that’s uncomfortably gathering behind the thin fabric of your underwear.

Spencer’s gaze flicks from the undeniable wet spot that’s starting to form on your pants to your eyes.

“Did you enjoy your time spent alone?”

He catches on to your confusion and elaborates. “I heard you in the shower. It sounded like you had fun on your own.”

The heat in your face rises. You never realized that he had heard. It’s been ages since you’ve reached for one of your sex toys or were desperate enough to make use of the other functions of a showerhead. Spencer was enough to satisfy you — more than enough — but the last few weeks your boyfriend wasn’t able to help you out like he usually would. And him looking that good with his long hair and light scruff and that damn cane had gotten you needy to find release elsewhere.

“Don’t be shy now,” Spencer hummed. “I know you liked getting that sweet pussy stimulated, but we both know it doesn’t come close to the way I can make you feel. I could’ve still helped, you know? Still have a mouth you could ride... Still have my fingers to make you feel good.”

The rasp of his voice leaves a ripple of sparks to your core, which Spencer seems to take notice of, obviously. A cocky smile curves on the edge of his lip, and he tilts his chin up.

“Lay over my lap.”

His voice is certain, a demand — one he knows you can’t reject.

“Spence-“

He tsks. “Come on now, angel. You can’t stand on those shaky legs for much longer.”

It was the truth. There was a magnetic force (or maybe it was just his hand making a “come here” motion that drove you crazy) that pulled you to him, one that you could only fight for so long.

You did as he ordered — your fingers moved to your zipper on instinct. You didn’t make a show out of it, didn’t turn around and slightly bend through your knees to slowly reveal the thin, lacy underwear peeking between your cheeks. Today you didn’t have the patience. With a sharp tug you pull your pants down your legs and find them sticking to your thighs.

It’s not like you didn’t know that you were incredibly turned on, but it always keeps amazing you to find out how wet Spencer can make you just by his words and some slight touches.

“Good girl, that’s it,” Spencer praises. “Now come sit.”

The position comes naturally to you. You pass him the cane and lay yourself on his lap: you place your arms on the mattress, hovering over it with your chest as your stomach and legs lay over his thighs, ass on display.

Spencer hums. “I’ll never grow tired of this sight.”

Butterflies flutter through your stomach as he whispers the words. They only swarm wilder when you feel heat coming from underneath your lower stomach — not from your own body, but from the growing bulge in your boyfriend’s pants that’s pressing up against you.

He traces slow circles over your skin, playing with you in awe. His hand leaves you momentarily, and then it falls back with a sharp sting.

You jolt forward, gasping out a “fuck”.

He gently caresses the stricken spot as a form of apology before giving another slap.

“So sensitive,” he observes. “It’s really been a while if just my hand already has this effect on you.”

You whimper in his grasp, grinding your ass in the air, shamelessly begging him for more.

“What is it that you want?”

The faux cluelessness in his voice makes you want to roll your eyes back and cry out in frustration. He knew exactly what you wanted. You dare say he knows your body even better than you. Still, he always asked you. Not only to confirm your consent, but because he revelled in hearing you speak your filthy wishes out loud. There were few things he liked more than you admitting how badly you wanted him. How you needed him to take you. To claim you.

“Cat got your tongue?”

You glance over your shoulder and catch Spencer smirking down at you. But no matter this cocky exterior, Spencer stays Spencer — the man who still gets flustered when you kiss him in public.

A teasing, wicked smile forms on your lips as you find his eyes. “I want you to grab your cane and spank me until I can count every mark.”

His eyes widen comically, and a few coughs follow that he swallows down.

“I- I can do that.”

His fingers flex around the cane, and he adjusts his grip on it, quickly composing himself. He brings the handle back over your ass and mimics the vexing slow circles of his hand. “Until you see marks,” he mutters to himself.

“Yes, please,” you breathe out in a soft moan.

He lets out a low groan, released from deep in his throat. Then the heavy wood falls sharply onto your skin.

Then again.

And again.

Until a galaxy of stars blurs your vision.

The blows burn deliciously; each spank sends tingles to your core. Your juices are leaking onto his pants at this point, mixing in with Spencer’s arousal where your bodies connect. Proof that this is turning him on just as much, if not more.

“Fuck, angel. You’ll look so perfect with your ass all painted in blacks and blues,” Spencer praises, using his free hand to trace over the marks he’s created on your ass.

“Please, Spencer,” you whisper. “I need more.”

He takes your beg as a command, the cane falling to the ground with a thud, and his now-free fingers immediately find you. He trails them over your thighs and grazes downwards until he cups your heat.

“So soaked already,” he says, satisfaction lacing his voice.

He slips his finger into your underwear, pulling the string. “These don’t have that much use anymore, do they?” He answers himself by pulling it to the side, replacing the fabric with two of his long and slender fingers.

“Oh god, Spence,” you whine, bucking your hips to grind against his fingers.

“How many can you take?” he asks, his breath heavy as two of his digits press against your entrance. “Two?”

To test his theory, he enters you and curls his fingers, hitting that sweet spot so easily.

“Three’s more like it,” he corrects himself as he pushes another one in.

Your mind is blurred in white, hot fog. You can’t think nor respond back, just gratefully nod and moan, as those three fingers were exactly what you needed.

Spencer switches between curving his fingertips up — repeatedly hitting your g-spot and making you want to roll your eyes to the back of your skull — and moving them swiftly in and out of your heat, as filthy squelches fill the room.

“You feel so good around my fingers, angel,” Spencer whispers, pressing his lips to your hair. “Stretching you out for my cock, hm? Want me to fill you up? You want to be full of my cock, sweetheart?”

Spencer shifts underneath you as he says the words, his arousal twitching against your stomach.

“God, yes, Spence. Want it so bad, but—“

The words escape you as he leans forward and places a kiss on top of the curve of your ass. “But what?” He mutters against your skin.

“But— fuck, but…”

He smirks. “Come on, you can say it.”

“But the doctor says—“

“I only care about what my girl says,” he cuts you off with a shush. “Do you want my cock?”

Strenuous activities. Rest. Don’t get his heart rate up…

“Yes, please.”

Before you know it, you have found yourself in a new position. Still stretched out on your stomach, but now between Spencer’s bare legs. He’s propped against the headrest like before and holding out his stiffened cock for you as he lazily gives the length some tugs.

The image was downright obscene but mouthwatering nonetheless. It was similar to vanilla ice cream on a sunny day, his precum melting down from his reddened tip to his thick shaft.

“I think you need to clean me up before I enter you, angel. Don’t want to make a mess on these fresh sheets, do we?”

He tangles his fingers into your hair, holding your scalp as he guides you closer. Your lips part in anticipation, glossed from the sweep of your tongue.

A moan leaves your mouth as Spencer taps the head of his cock gently across your bottom lip, smearing a sticky layer over it.

“Come on, angel. Open up for me...”

You do, opening your mouth further and letting him rest his heavy cock on top of it. You drag your tongue along the underside of his shaft as you take him in. Looking up through your lashes as your eyes slowly start to water. The muscles in his jaw tighten, but the clear relief in his face is undeniable.

“That’s it,” he whimpers in a high-pitched breath as his tip grazes along the roof of your throat.

“Oh, that’s it.” He repeats when you start working a rhythm, bobbing your head along his length. “Just like that.”

He isn’t able to drive his hips into your mouth like he usually would, so instead he presses your head down each time you’re close to taking him all the way in — helping you until your nose is nuzzled against his happy trail, holding you down for a second before easing you up by your hair to let you catch a breath.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” Spencer hisses when you pull off, your swollen lips glistening with saliva from your ministrations.

You giggle, catching your lip teasingly in between your teeth. You run your nails along his thigh, feeling the hairs stand straight in goosebumps, while using your other hand to take hold of his shaft.

Spencer’s legs flinch up when your tongue goes up and down his slit. A grunt of pain leaves his chest from the sudden movement of his injured leg. You hold him down to prevent him from more pain while continuing to work your tongue in quick, steady licks.

He’s trying to hold it together, batting away the small moans and groans that force their way out of his throat. But his composure is swiftly slipping with every hollow of your cheeks as you suck harder and faster — taking away his sense of control.

He hisses through his teeth and tightens his grip on your hair. “That’s enough.”

You hum around him, letting him know you’ve heard loud and clear, but choose to ignore the warning as you keep bobbing your head.

A guttural moan sounds, one that has your chest filling with lust and pride.

“I said that’s enough,” Spencer repeats as he tugs you up.

He doesn’t give you time to catch your breath as he presses his thumb in between your lips. He shakes his head in disbelief as you happily wrap and swirl your tongue around the digit. “Fuck. Such a sweet, horny girl, aren’t you? Always need something in your mouth.”

For a moment (that felt like eternity to you, you simply watched each other. Your eyes speak, reminding each other of the safety and trust that you both feel when being this close. Are you enjoying it? His hazel ones ask. You give a small nod of your head, and Spencer understands.

“Get up.”

Your knees scramble over the mattress as you sit up. With a swish of your arms, strip yourself of your shirt and bra. In the time that the items of clothing have dropped beside you, Spencer is bare too. His chest is flushed in pink and painted with small brown birthmarks that you can’t admire for long, as his warm hands reach out to cup the skin where your hips meet your waist as he draws you closer.

“You want to take control?” He whispers against your lips.

A moan hugs in between your intertwined lips as you kiss him back in response.

“Ride me then.”

Keeping your lips on his, you slowly sink down his length. Spencer steadies your hips with his hands, but he doesn’t guide you. Letting you tackle this on your own.

“That’s it,” he murmurs as he watches himself fill you up inch by inch. “Look at you, baby. Such a big girl taking all of my cock all by yourself.”

Heat spreads low in your belly as he stretches you out. Your thighs are shaking by the time his body meets yours, and you wonder if he’s experiencing the same sweet torture from you putting your weight on his injured leg.

Spencer shifts his hands to your shoulders. Holding you there, and then he —

“Ah, Spencer!”

The whimper gets knocked out of you as Spencer pushes you further down on his cock — making you realize you missed an inch until you could now feel his trimmed pubic hair tickling against your folds.

“Mm, there you go,” he praises, licking his lips. His gaze is intently fixed on your body, connecting with his, as not a single fraction of space is keeping you apart.

You whimper again. You feel so full. And full is good. Full is fucking good. But only for some seconds before you need him to move. But that won’t happen. No, not with his injury. You’re in charge, just like he said.

With large hands he’s cupping your cheeks, pressing them softly together to get you to pout.

“Come on, honey. You got to work for that cock.”

You tighten your fingers around his shoulders, palms flat on his chest, as you clumsily lift yourself up on your trembling knees that are seated on each side of his body. With uneven moves of your body, you try to roll your hips in a nice pattern, trying to find that sweet spot that Spencer manages to find in a second. But failing.

“Take your time.” He encourages, folding his hands behind his head as he watches you with a smirk.

“Not funny.”

“Not funny, but very entertaining.”

You adjust yourself again, your knees sliding against the white blankets as you try riding him again. This time lifting yourself up and slowly dropping back down. It feels good enough; your wetness makes it easy for his cock to slip in and out of you. Still you weren’t satisfied. Maybe Spencer spoiled you too much, to the point where nothing could satiate the throbbing need in your core but him taking control.

“Spence?”

He lifts his brow ever so slightly. “Hm?”

A small, frustrated noise escapes you as you nod your head to your intertwined bodies.

“Giving up so quickly?” He teases, already knowing the answer.

It’s too embarrassing to admit out loud, so you just nod.

Then his hands move.

You gasp when he grips you by the ass and tilts you over, your body hovering over his as you plant your arms on each side of his head on the pillow.

Your breath catches as his palms slap against your ass, reigniting the sharp burn from his cane. There’s no warning as he lifts your cheeks up and slams you back down on his cock — using his strength to bounce you on top of him, since he can’t use his legs to pound into you like he usually would.

“Fuck, Spencer!” You cry out in the crook of his neck.

“Nuh uh, no hiding. Let me see you. Let me see how I make you feel.”

You weren’t planning to, not with your eyes all watery and your expression showing a raw, messy need that would stroke his ego way too much (even though he deserved all the praise).

He squeezes your ass, harshly enough for you to obey his command and face him.

“Oh, does that hurt?” He pouts. “Is your ass still so sore?”

You whimper a yes. Large, clear tears rolling down your cheeks like they’re a paid actor.

“God, look at you,” Spencer breathes out in awe, looking like he’s trying to memorize every expression on your face in vivid detail. “Taking me so well, angel.”

It didn’t feel like you were taking it well. You felt like a fucked-out mess as Spencer dragged you up and down his cock at a devastatingly fast speed.

“Tell yourself, sweetheart. You’re taking my cock so well.”

You lick your lips that have turned dry and nod. “I-I’m taking it.”

“So well, huh?”

Another nod. “Taking your cock so well.”

Spencer lifts you again and drops you as your hips meet in a filthy, wet slap. You bite back a cry, instead letting a just as filthy moan of his name fill the room.

“That’s my girl, looking so pretty when I’m doing the work,” Spencer groans in pride. One hand slides up your spine as he pulls you flush against him. Hard nipples meeting his sweat-slicked chest.

“Oh, I can come like this, baby.”

The way he whispers it into your ear and instantly presses his lips to the side of your face has you exploding in both pleasure and adoration.

“Let me feel it, angel. Come around my cock like this.” He urged you on as you clenched around him. Your climax tears through you in hot, sharp waves, taking you under and making you feel as light as a feather. Spencer’s deep and slowing thrusts almost lulling you to sleep.

“Oh, oh, oh.”

Spencer’s cock slips out of you, and he paints the sensitive flesh of your lower back.

“So good, sweetheart. So good.” He whispers against your temple, marking the words with a kiss. And another, as he kisses his way from your cheek to your plump-kissed lips.

Orgasm-stricken and exhausted, you decide to stay where you are — comfortable with your head on his chest, gratefully accepting your boyfriend’s soft kisses.

You don’t need a blanket with the way he’s keeping you warm. His hands roaming from your ass to the other parts of your body, rubbing your skin up and down and working like your own personal heater.

“I don’t wanna get up,” you mutter in a disappointed groan as you hear the ticking of Spencer’s watch and are reminded of the unfinished stack of papers on the desk.

“I think I’ve proven to you I feel good enough to read some files.”

“God,” you groan against his neck. “We shouldn’t have done that, I probably have ruined all of your progress.”

Spencer chuckles, moving you as his chest shakes in warm laughter. “I think this was the best motivation I could get to get better as soon as possible.”

#timezone rb

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mggslover · 19 days ago