miedei

[miedei]

YES LINE OOK RENUSB ID DIE FOR THAT CLAWJGN AT THE WALLS

twist my arm why don't you.... its in the works just for you nonnie

[miedei]

guys... asshole linecook!remus?

[miedei]

mie am I making this up or have you talked about going to the gym a lot

do you like it?

you're not making this up I love the gym although I'm weak as shit! it's so fun

[miedei]

when clark's out and about as superman, he can't help but linger around your neighbourhood for a little too long.

not too close to your building, he'd never forgive himself if he allowed whoever he's fighting to learn where you live. but close enough, so he can hear you talking on the phone to lois about whatever fight's going on outside, or muttering to yourself while you're frantically trying to finish your article for the next day's paper.

(one time he was in the midst of a fight with parasite, he heard a distinct moan, followed by a heart-wrenching whine of his name. he's never felt a punch quite as hard as he did that day.)

[miedei]

how I’m leaving wayne manor after wiring myself 20 million dollars, securing jason todd’s number and cracking nightwing on my way out cuz he’s easy like a sunday morning

[miedei]

guys...

[miedei]

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

[miedei]

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.”

[miedei]

gimme the dog 🤲🏻

all yours!! i need him on weekends though

[miedei]

I just need Spencer to figure out that readers thighs are her most prominent erogenous zones. It is a basic, physical, emotional need and I know you love early seasons reid. Idc if hes a dom or sub i kust need it

Contents: SMUT, MDNI, 684 words, I had early season Spencer in mind, dom!Spencer x bratty!fem!reader, dom and sub dynamics, dirty talk, mentions of scars and stretch marks, does it count as munch!Spencer if he never actually eats her out lol. 

You’ve always known that Spencer is a quick study, so this shouldn’t have come as a surprise. 

It does anyway, because who would have ever thought you’d ever be his object of scrutiny? And, more importantly, who would have ever guessed the nature of this study? Stripped and spread out in front of him like a feast bound by scraps of lace, his fingers skimming the expanse of your thighs. 

You shiver. That’s the extent of your movements; anything further would make him tut mockingly, and while you usually enjoy Spencer’s feigned disappointment, you’re also alert enough to know that you are currently on strike two. One more and you’ll face some form of punishment.

Admittedly, sometimes you act up with the intention to get punished.

Not right now, though. Not when his hands are on your thighs, dancing over every blemish like he’d know their story by merely touching them. Or as his lips ghost over the stretch marks that crisscross all across your skin, soft, warm lips laving wet kisses, tracing the spidery windings and following them all the way up on your inner thighs.

No, there’s no room for insolence when he’s so fucking close to your dripping entrance.

But he doesn’t continue. Doesn’t give your wet heat relief. Rather, he spends more time kissing your thighs, teeth sinking into flesh, shallow but the impact is bone-deep, rooting into your marrow like poison, something you’ll need to carve out, or else it’ll remain there stubbornly. Clinging to you day by day, at the most inopportune hours.

(Once, you’d gotten so worked up over the memory of being spanked that Hotch asked if you were okay; he’d assumed it was from the weight of the case. You could tell he knew you were lying when you replied I’m fine, but what you’ve been lying about remains a mystery to him and the rest of the team. It will be kept that way.)

“Spencer,” you’re heaving, and slick everywhere.

“Mhm?” he’s busy lapping at the bite marks he’d given. His warm tongue swipes repeatedly over the indentations of his teeth, never moving away until marks fade and he’s undone his stamp upon your body. Only to move to the next patch of skin and repeat the process. 

Bite. Suck. Soothe.

You feel feverish.

“Please,” it would be an embarrassing whimper, but you are past the point of shame, “Need you.”

“I’m right here.”

Bite. Suck. Soothe. 

You sob. “Need more. Need you higher.”

He laughs, sitting back to survey you with hazel eyes that used to remind you of honey—sweet, deceptively innocent—but now associate with whiskey. You’re a sight to behold. Trembling and febrile beneath his touch, and yet doing so good.

“But it’s so fun to mark you up here,” he squeezes your upper thighs playfully and somehow manages to squeeze away all oxygen from the room.

“Mhm, please.”

“Already begging, angel? I’ve barely even started yet.” Another squeeze. 

Your cunt clenches around nothing.

Spencer laughs with exaggerated sweetness. “I thought you’d be more squirmy and ticklish but look at you. Completely staying still like a good—” you watch as those eyes glint in realization, “Oh, angel.”

“What?”

“You love this.”

“Love what?”

“This. Your thighs are an erogenous zone.” He bites your inner thigh again, “See, you’re even more responsive than usual.”

You resist the urge to squirm away from him. You hadn’t even put the dots together, too lost in this dreamy bliss to realize that yes, you are getting off on this. But of course, it doesn’t escape him. Barely anything does. It’s how he learns. That and his stupid brilliant mind. 

“Bet I could make you cum without even touching your perfect pussy.”

“Mhm, no you can’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

The thing about betting against Spencer Reid is that you’re almost always bound to lose. And you should know that by now. Unfortunately, you’re not as quick of a learner as Spencer is. 

Fortunately, you’re a good sport. It’s easy to be, especially when you’re rewarded with slow burning pleasure. And Spencer is impeccably good at giving you exactly that.

an: thank you for reading! i do wonder if i should make a masterlist for this because early season dom!spencer is inhabiting every single crevice of my mind and there are more fics coming lol

[miedei]

WHISPEREDMEG1K ༄.° WHISPER WEEK

a 1k celebration event!

seven days. four kinds of whispers. one big thank you.

hi friends 💘 so. i am inexplicably right on the cusp of reaching 1k followers and like ?? i cannot even believe i just typed that. i started this blog in the spring to shout into the void about spencer reid & cm and share the fics I’d been writing in my spare time, and now almost a thousand of you are here??? huh???

i’ve received some of the kindest messages and the most fun requests imaginable, made super cool friends (if you’re my moot you’re my friend idc I don’t make the rules) and i’m so, so grateful. thank you for being here.

to celebrate, i’m hosting an event i’ve affectionately dubbed:

whisper week — seven days of ficlets, moodboards, headcanons, and secrets — all inspired by you.

event dates: september 7 - september 13, 2025

how it works:

there are four types of whispers you can send me — each one will result in a different style of post.

1. whisper a secret

send me a pairing (some form of “spencer x reader” — either just that or a more specific archetype) + a trope or scenario you love + a genre (smut, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort) and i’ll build a ficlet around it. feel free to include other details you want to see, but nothing too crazy. it’s just a whisper after all!

whisper examples:

post-prison!spencer x BAU!reader, one bed, smut

spencer x reader, fake dating, angst

glasses!reid x reader, idiots in love, fluff

note: you can request for greenaway!reader, but if you do, please be aware it’ll def just be a short blurb and won’t make too much of an impact in the overall series storyline. I have so many requests for her already that I still have to get to and my own ideas that I’ve been working on, so just be mindful of that. but fun little sidequest requests for the spencer x greenaway!reader pairing are perfectly fine!

2. whisper a vibe

send me a mood: a color, a season, a song, an aesthetic. anything you like! i’ll create a spencer x reader moodboard that fits the vibe. maybe these will even inspire some future fics down the line!

whisper examples:

east coast autumn

poison & wine - the civil wars

dark academia

3. whisper a theory

send me a spencer/criminal minds headcanon or ask me about my own headcanons — as sweet or wildly nsfw/unhinged, canon compliant or divergent as you want. i’ll share my own HCs/thoughts and maybe expand it into a little scene or drabble.

whisper examples:

spencer owns a very fancy umbrella and hates sharing it.

do you have any headcanons related to spencer’s favorite foods?

he secretly loves when reader marks him up in bed.

4. whisper a curiosity

ask* me anything — about my writing, my life, my fics, my favorite tropes, my criminal minds unpopular opinions, literally anything. go ahead and get creative here — you can also send FMKs, would you rathers, etc. don’t be shy! nsfw questions permitted (but don’t be weird). i’ll answer throughout the week so we can scream about things together.

*pls specify that your question is for whisper week so I can continue answering my regular asks over the next few weeks leading up to the event!

whisper examples:

fuck marry kill: hotch, rossi, luke

what’s your typical day in the life look like?

would you rather be trapped in an elevator with morgan or emily?

📌 details & rules:

my goal is to post one “whisper a secret” ficlet each day, and sprinkle in other whispers in between (moodboards, headcanons, Q&As, etc.). so, basic formula for the week will look something like:

day 1: whisper a secret ficlet + whisper a vibe moodboard, whisper a curiosity q&a, etc

day 2: whisper a secret ficlet + whisper a curiosity q&a, whisper a theory headcanon, etc

day 3: whisper a secret ficlet + whisper a theory headcanon, whisper a vibe moodboard, etc

…and so on

requests are open now through september 6! you can start sending whispers anytime.

event posts begin: september 7. last day of the event is september 13.

fyi I’ll be more likely to use the “whisper a secret” requests sent during the next ~2 weeks or so since I want to make sure I have time to write them before the event starts. other whispers will be quicker to put together so you’ve got a while to come up w those!

ficlets will be ~350-1k words max

sfw and 18+ requests both welcome — anything 18+ will be tagged #meg after dark. my same standard request guidelines as always still apply.

anons welcome (feel free to claim an emoji too!)

i’ll pick the whispers that spark something for me! i wish I had time to get to all of them, but putting out a disclaimer now that I most likely won’t be able to :(

you can send multiple whispers, but try not to flood so I can get to as many people as possible.

please note all my other requests are closed until after the event so I can focus on this.

tags: #whisper week & #whisperedmeg1k

thank you again for being here. truly. i’m so excited to celebrate together 🥹

now go whisper something to me 🤫

xoxo, meg 🤍

p.s. I am genuinely SO awful at explaining things so if anything here is confusing, please let me know!!!

[miedei]

YES I DO

ok yay!

my parents apples are coming in good use

[miedei]

do you guys want to see a really good picture of my dog

[miedei]

every time someone talks about avatar online I'm either the most hyped I've ever been or they're talking about the blue people

[miedei]

i NEED someone to watch under the red hood with me immediately

[miedei]

so many hills to die on

a case has you re-evaluating your tenuous relationship with spencer, coming to a head when the unsub triggers a confrontation.

cw: fem!reader, soulmate!au, angst/fluff, lighttt miscommunication trope, canon level violence and gore, descriptions of being bound and kidnapped, descriptions of stalking behaviour

a/n: this is probably my most ambitious fic ever, has been in my drafts for sooo long but I rallied and wrote it finally! merged these two requests about a soulmate au from this prompt list, and I definitely went overboard with the concept. title is from $20 by boygenius (lol), unsub name and picture of spencer from loml @siriuslylantsov

prompt: b...ody art (doodles that a person draws on themselves appear on their soulmate’s skin).

wc: 11.3k (holy shit)

mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

Spencer Reid could say a lot about the phenomenon of transcorpal connections. The incidence of a level of mental connection between two individuals that manifests itself in the melanocytes in a person’s epidermal layer to reflect the markings that another person has exacted upon themselves. 

Or, if Prentiss forced him to speak ‘like you’re a human 27-year-old, please’, it was the instance of two supposed ‘soulmates’ where drawings or tattoos on one person’s skin are reflected on the others. 

Soulmates weren’t something Spencer took much stock in, to be honest. 

A fated partner that some amorphous being has assigned him is not something he really believes in, not just as Dr. Reid, man of science, but also as Spencer, the guy who’s had to watch every loving relationship he’d ever seen end. 

He’d seen his parents fall out of love, the little messages his father would write for his mother always there, until one day he’d seen his father write a to-do list on his forearm, the words never arising on his mother’s skin. He’d had whatever that was with Ethan, where he’d desperately hoped that his incoherent scribbles would eventually pop up on his friend-not-boyfriend’s arm, but never did. He’d seen Hotch, the last ‘Jack misses you’ message that Haley had written him still on his upper arm, no matter how long it had been. 

The connections between people’s skin wasn’t anything he aspired to, not anymore. He could rattle off facts and musings about the instances of ‘soulmate connections’ in history for hours, but it held no more significance for him than it did as a profiling tool.

Hence, Spencer never really held out for anything to show up on his skin, not until it did. 

You had spent years with your body, the parts of it you saw on the daily, and the parts you preferred to avoid in the mirror. The expanses of skin, littered with marks and scars from years of living, are familiar to you. Too familiar. 

You’d spent years watching your friends, acquaintances, and even strangers' skin change. Like the first time, in secondary school, whenever you saw lines begin to form on a friend's hand, it always filled you with a strange sense of melancholy. 

Of course, people lived whole, fulfilling lives without ever having a soulmate connection, and you’re sure your life wouldn’t be any different, but there was always that little thought in the back of your mind, every sighting of a couple on the street adding feathers to its wings. 

What if. What if all that skin finally changes? What if you’ll finally experience the life-shattering love that soulmates are supposed to be?

You had always been holding out for something to show up on your skin, but it wasn’t until you’d least expected it. 

Being the newest profiler in the famed BAU was more than daunting. It was terrifying, like hyper-aware-of-every-bone-in-your-body terrifying. Your transfer from Domestic Trafficking had been a long time coming, your experience in psychology and previous work under David Rossi making you the ideal candidate for the spot. You knew all of that, but somehow it didn’t dampen the nerves that coursed through your body every time you walked into the bullpen. 

It’s your third case as an official agent on the team, and your fear of messing up the biggest leap in your career hasn’t waned. In a lull in the briefing that Hotch gives on the jet, you refer to the case file, questioning the tiny Garcia shown on the screen set on the surface in front of you.

“And this witness who wasn’t present? What’s that about?” You point to a name noted on the case file, which has very little information listed next to it. 

“Yes, my love, that is a little strange.” Garcia’s slightly tinny voice floats through the interior of the cabin.

“She is a Mrs Amaya Walker, not technically a witness, seeing as, you know, she lives and works two hours away from the crimes, but there is a pickle.” As she speaks, Spencer slides into the seat across from you, and you flash him a quick smile as he slides a mug of coffee over the table to you.

“Our lovely Mrs Walker here saw a list pop up on her forearm, right when the last murder happened. Initially she didn’t think it was anything, but later she saw the press conference that the local P.D. did after the second murder-”

“Against my advice, by the way!” JJ pipes up from her spot on the sofa.

“Yes, against JJ’s advice, but once she saw it, she thought her little list might come as useful to the investigation.” Your tablets chime, a picture of a forearm you assume belongs to Amaya Walker popping up on the screen. The fax machine set up under the table whirs, and you pull out the printed version and pass it wordlessly to Spencer. The brown skin of her forearm is marred by scratchy handwriting, a list of household points of interest:

“Bedframe

Edge of coffee table

Light fixture

Oven door

Nightlight

Garage door

Silver spoon”

Your eyes widen, picking up your case file to compare.

“These are all…”

“Where the unsub left smears of the victim’s blood.” Spencer finishes your sentence, his eyes meeting yours with lines of confusion between them. The seemingly random smears of blood had been a point of confusion for you all when you did the initial walkthrough of the two murders back at the office. Each very far from the site of the murder, the team had concluded it had to be part of the unsub’s signature, although they were different for each murder. 

This was part of why JJ didn’t want it released to the public, on the off chance that the publicity causes the unsub to escalate or double down.

“Yes, wonderful profilers, you’re correct. The list correlates with all the different spills of blood and…” Garcia shudders, “gore left at every crime scene. Her husband has refused to speak to the police, and she insists he has nothing to do with it, but the police are working on a warrant, they should be getting them both to the station tomorrow.”

“Yes, that is strange. Reid, L/N, you two go to the ME’s office, figure out if there’s anything we can get out of the method of killing. Dave, you go with Morgan and JJ to the most recent crime scene. Maybe we can get something more out of it. Prentiss, you and I will head to the first crime scene, see what we can see. Hopefully we can correlate that with whatever we get from Walker tomorrow.” Hotch’s stern, no-nonsense voice cuts through the confusion, and you all straighten up, ready to get to work.

The medical examiner’s office is chilly, and you regret forgoing a blazer as you step into the bright building from the warm evening air. Spencer laughs softly next to you, and he nudges your shoulder. 

“Cold?”

“No.”

You speak resolutely, but the sparkle in his eye indicates he knows your lie. Grabbing the distinctive purple scarf from around his neck, he wraps it around yours, smiling when he meets your eye. The moment is only broken by the clip-clop of shoes coming down the hallway, and you both turn away hastily.

The ME walks up to you, his voice clipped and curt.

“You’re from the FBI? Come with me, please.”

You follow him into a room that smells overwhelmingly of formaldehyde. Two examining tables stand in the middle of the room, white sheets covering the bodies.

“The methods of killing were very different for each case, so much so that we didn’t put together that they were related until the police did.”

Spencer nods from beside you, accepting a clipboard from the doctor. Not bothering to read it, when he can do it in a fraction of the time, you converse with the doctor.

“Yes, we saw that one of the victims was stabbed, and the other strangled? That doesn’t track with any evolution we’ve seen before. Stabbing’s generally much easier than strangling, we usually see them go the other way around.”

He nods, pulling back the sheet on the second victim. You can see mottled bruises around his neck.

“Yes, the most recent victim, John Coulhain, was strangled. By the angle of the bruising, it’s clear he was attacked from behind, and by something that has both leather and metal in it. You see here, there’s a larger imprint from the metal segment.”

Spencer raises his head.

“It says here that he had just gotten out of the shower after work?”

“That’s right. He was found in only a towel. His clothes weren’t found.”

You frown, turning to Spencer.

“Leather and metal… that sounds like a belt to me. Coulhain was a lawyer. He wore suits to work.”

He picks up on your train of thought, continuing where you leave off.

“His clothes weren’t found. The unsub might have used his belt as a murder weapon, so he took the rest too.”

You turn to the medical examiner

“The first victim, Cohen Gibson, what sort of knife do you believe was used?”

He walks you over to the second table, drawing back the sheet so you can see the seemingly random pattern of wounds.

“They’re varying degrees of shallowness, but the shape of the wounds makes me think it was something medium-sized, probably stainless steel.”

Spencer leans forward, inspecting the wounds closely as he muses.

“Stainless steel isn’t the sort of knife you buy with the intention of violence. 54% of stainless steel knives are purchased for everyday purposes, like cooking.”

The ME walks you through the rest of the details of the murders, but the randomness of the methods of killing and the missing clothing stick with you.

An hour later, when you and Spencer walk out of the building into the dusk, it’s still on your mind.

“Reid, why would an unsub use a perfectly good knife for his first murder, but forgo bringing it to the next scene, and use his victim’s belt instead? That reads like a devolution, and this guy is still ramping up.”

“Maybe he’s relishing the deaths? Strangling takes longer, so maybe he realised that stabbing wasn’t going to give him the time with the body that he wanted.” He offers, but you can tell he’s not convinced.

“The scenes don’t show any sign of him lingering. And even if that’s the case, why not bring your own strangling equipment? A belt doesn’t give him the precision he needs in order to control the rate of death, especially one he just snatched off the floor.”

Spencer nods slowly as you approach the car.

“He doesn’t hesitate at all in killing them, but he doesn’t come prepared. It’s like he’s obscenely confident in himself, and doesn't think he needs to plan in order to pull it off.”

You slide into the car as your phone begins to buzz in your pocket. Fishing it out, you pick up the call.

“Hey Emily, you’re on speaker.”

She speaks immediately, forgoing any greeting.

“The first victim, Cohen Gibson. Was the weapon a stainless steel knife?”

You exchange a look with Spencer, replying quickly.

“Yeah, it was. Why do you ask?”

“Gibson’s wife just confirmed that their knife block is gone, along with six stainless steel knives.”

Spencer leans forward to speak into your phone.

“That makes sense. We think the unsub is showing up with no preparation because he believes he doesn’t need it. He’s a narcissist.”

She makes a distracted sound of affirmation.

“That sounds right. Okay, Hotch wants you to meet us at the hotel, we’re going to compare notes there.”

You go to hang up, before she speaks once more.

“Oh, one more thing, the local police department got the warrant to bring in Amaya Walker for an interview tomorrow. You guys should do that, she’ll be more relaxed with younger people there. If her husband has something to do with it, you have to get it out of her.”

Stepping out of the SUV the next morning, you and Spencer walk through the sliding doors of the Decorah P.D.'s office, greeted by the captain of the precinct. 

“Hi, I’m SSA L/N, this is Doctor Reid.” You shake her hand, chuckling under your breath as you watch Spencer awkwardly avoid doing the same. 

Once you’ve set up your things in the conference room they’ve allocated to you, Spencer turns to Captain Peretti. 

“So, is Mrs Walker here? We’d like to ask her a few questions.”

Spencer is sitting in the chair across from Mrs Walker in the interrogation room, while you are leaned against the desk next to him. 

“We really appreciate you coming in like this, I understand that this is a stressful time for you. Mrs Walker, what can you tell us about your husband’s whereabouts when the list showed up on your skin?” She’s being cagey, not answering your questions and clamming up whenever you mention her husband.

“Eric had nothing to do with it. I’m telling you, it was a mistake for me to come in, I’m sure it’s unrelated.”

She motions to the words on her arm, and you sigh. It looks like straight questioning isn’t going to get you anywhere. Spencer leans his elbows on the desk, looking at Mrs Walker, his brown eyes seeming larger in the dim light. His shirt sleeves ride up his arm a little, and a flash of dark lines shows before it’s covered again.

“Let me ask you this, have messages like this come up on your skin before? Whether they’re lists or not, have you ever seen anything show up on your left forearm?” She shakes her head mutely, eyes trained on the steel surface in front of her. You sigh, motioning discreetly at Spencer, and you both rise, walking out to the viewing area where Hotch and Emily are standing. 

“She won’t say anything?”

“Only that her husband has nothing to do with it. But…” Spencer trails off, and you take the opportunity to finish his thought.

“But, she clearly has some hangup about the messages. When Spencer asked whether they’d showed up before, she said no, but it’s clear there’s more there.” Hotch nods thoughtfully. Lost in thought, you spin a pen in your hand, tapping the uncovered tip against the inside of your wrist, accustomed to the ink blotches that appear on the skin there. 

Your eyes wander aimlessly as you do so, and land on Spencer, who is scratching at his forearm. It causes his shirt sleeve to ride up a little again. That’s when you see it. 

Small marks are on his skin, more muted than you usually see them, but you’d recognise them anywhere. Your eyes widen, looking down at your own wrist. A constellation of ink dots and lines are scattered across the delicate skin, identical to the ones on Spencer’s wrist. 

Is this really happening? Reid? Of course, you’d never been able to convince yourself you weren’t attracted to him, but he’s your coworker. He’s a large part of why you’re so nervous at the BAU. He’s not your soulmate… is he? 

Hotch’s unflapped voice breaks through your racing thoughts. “Okay. Head back in, press about their relationship, not the list. Let’s see if we can find a weak spot.”

Well. Looks like you’ll have to contain this revelation until you’re done for the day. Your head reels with the discovery, but you have to put it aside in favour of the case.

Your mind made up, you snatch the pen off the table before following Spencer back into the interrogation room, steeling yourself with a deep breath.

“We’d like to get to know you a little more, Mrs Walker, if that’s alright with you. How long have you been married?”

She shifts in her seat, uncomfortable, but answers readily. “Fifteen years. And no, there’s never been any red flags that make me think he would ever be capable of something like this.” 

From his spot next to you, Spencer nods once.

“Okay, we understand. In your relationship, do you guys have any rituals to do with your connection? Like writing to each other throughout the day, or a code system or something with your skin?” 

Her cheeks flush, eyes trained on her lap. You press further.

“What is it Mrs Walker? Whatever it is, we really need you to tell us.” No answer. Spencer leans forward.

“Mrs Walker, two men are dead. We’re doing our best to find whoever did it, but we need all the information you can give us in order to do that. You can help us prevent any more deaths.” She wraps her arms around her middle, but still doesn’t say a word. Following his lead, you slam a hand down on the metal table.

“Mrs Walker! I understand that, whatever this is, it’s personal, but this is not the time to be hiding information from us. Men are dead, and it's starting to look like the perpetrator had some connection to you. The local police have a warrant for your husband’s arrest. I want to help you get your family out of this mess, but you need to tell us everything you can. Now.” Her shoulders slump, and finally, you feel like she’s telling you the truth.

“I… I started getting the messages in September. They’re not- not from Eric.” A wordless conversation passes between you and Spencer. That was 4 months before the first murder. You turn back to her, nodding encouragingly as the words seem to spill past her parted lips.

“I never expected to have a soulmate. Or at least… to be able to speak with them. My husband and I, we’re happy! I didn’t care that we weren’t soulmates until…”

Spencer prompts her, leaning forward. “Until?”

“Until the first drawing showed up. It was just a doodle of something, I barely remember now, but we started writing to each other. In places that no one would see, the underside of my arm, or my ribcage. I didn’t- I never did anything! I love my husband, I do, and I would never-” She cuts herself off, holding up a hand to ask for a little time. A few minutes later, she pipes up again.

“I don’t know his name or anything. We talked about surface level stuff, you know? Favourite books, shows, things like that. I was never going to do anything about it, so I didn’t tell anyone.” You can’t help but raise your head, flashing a look at the one-way mirror, hoping Hotch will read the urgency on your face. 

“This is good, Mrs Walker. Thank you for telling us. It’s going to take us some time to deduce whether this is related to the murders or not, but I hope you won’t object to helping us further.” Wordlessly, Spencer slides your notepad and pen over to her.

“I’m going to need you to write down everything you can remember from your messages. If there are any still on you, I really need you to write them down as clearly as you can. In a few minutes, one of our teammates will be in, and they’ll walk you through a cognitive interview, try and see how much we can recover.” The two of you rise, nodding to the officer stationed inside the door, but you pause when she calls out to you.

“Do you- do you think that it’s wrong of me? To stay in this relationship, when I know there’s a soulmate out there for me?” You go to speak, but Spencer beats you to it.

“Mrs Walker, the phenomenon of connections like these doesn’t necessarily mean that the relationship would be perfect. You love your husband, and you have loved him for years. A ‘soulmate connection’ doesn’t mean you should even be in a relationship. Many people don’t even believe it has anything to do with compatibility, those relationships are just as flawed as any other. Honestly, I sometimes think the expectations could hinder a relationship.” 

It startles you a little, the emotion behind Spencer’s eyes when he speaks. Does he really not believe that a connection means anything? Your eyes can’t help but flick down to the faint marks on your wrist.

By the time you look up, Spencer is already in the doorway, looking back at you with concern in his eyes. 

“You okay?” His voice is hushed, intimate, but it’s all you can do to brush it off. Walking back into the conference room, the team is already hard at work. 

Spencer’s confused. Something clearly rattled you in the interrogation room, but despite his attempts to meet your eyes, it’s like you’re purposely avoiding his gaze. 

He hasn’t taken the time to think about it, but whether that’s because he’s busy or because he’s worried, who knows? 

What he does know is that you have quickly become one of his favourite people to work with. Hours spent hunching over maps together, inspecting crime scenes and interviewing witnesses have endeared you to him faster than he thought was possible. It’s this unexplainable fondness that leaves him reeling when the comforting smiles and shared looks are lost all of a sudden. 

He attempts to push it to the back of his mind as the team runs through the case once more, Garcia’s tinny voice streaming through the room. However, he’s not fully in it, and the team notices. By the time they’ve concluded that a reinspection of the crime scenes and interviewing Eric Walker was necessary, Emily is eyeing him weirdly, and Morgan all but frog-marches him out to the precinct’s kitchenette. 

“Kid. What’s going on?” The elder man braces his hands on Spencer’s shoulders, eyes blazing into his. 

“You’ve been acting weird ever since the second interview with Amaya Walker, and so has L/N.” A sense of relief floods through Spencer, and he speaks earnestly.

“I don’t know! We interviewed Mrs Walker again, and it was all fine, but the moment we left the room it’s like she can’t look at me anymore. It’s making me feel all awkward.” 

Morgan sighs, his fingers unintentionally digging into Spencer’s shirt. 

“What did you say when you left?” Spencer bristles a little at the implied accusation, but can’t help but run through the last few parts of the interview.

“It was all normal, but then she- Mrs Walker, asked if she was wrong to stay in her relationship when she has a ‘soulmate’ out there.” He nods, prompting Spencer to continue. 

“I told her what I think she’d agree with, that I don’t know if a connection would make a relationship stronger. I thought that was right, it felt like it soothed the witness.” A troubled look passes over Spencer’s face. He’s always struggled with social cues, but he thought he’d improved. Mrs Walker looked much calmer after he said that to her, and that was protocol. 

Calm the witness, make sure they think you are in their corner. Gideon’s voice rings through his head.

“And that was it! We left the room, and then she started acting all…”

Morgan’s features are unreadable, but his hands relax on Spencer’s shoulders. 

“Sounds like you need to figure out why she’s bothered. But, kid… Don’t let this affect the case.”

With that, he pats Spencer’s shoulder and walks off, leaving him pondering his words. Figure it out. 

Spencer Reid is good at figuring things out. Maybe he can’t tackle this like Spencer, your bumbling coworker, but as Spencer, the profiler.

You’ve been at the first crime scene for only a few minutes, but the awkwardness is thick in the air between you. 

Spencer has that infuriating look on his face, all furrowed brows and piercing gazes and so attractive it makes you want to pull your hair out. It’s making it so hard to try and detach yourself from him.

In an attempt to distract yourself, you sidle over to the evidence markers that tag the blood smears in this crime scene. 

“So we’ve got… A side table in the master bedroom, a heart pillow that was in the living room and an elephant painting on the wall in the landing. All far away from the site of the murder in the kitchen.”

Spencer steps up next to you, still gazing at you unreadably, but opens his mouth to follow your train of thought. 

“The blood spatters indicate that the attack began in the hallway, and the final blows in the kitchen. No blood anywhere else, nowhere near the smears.”

You nod, trying to run through the details of the case in your mind.

“The attack is rushed, hasty. All the stab wounds indicate a blitz attack and a lot of overkill, but the smears are calculated.” 

He smiles, and it’s all you can to not turn and reflect that back to him.

“Right, no blood dripping anywhere outside of the murder, not even when he takes some to the different areas of the house to smear. The murder itself is charged with anger, but this is something more. It’s deliberate, it’s…”

You meet his eyes, finally, and voice what you know you’ve both concluded.

“It’s a message. But to whom?”

He holds your gaze, going to reply to you, but is cut off by the shrill sound of his phone ringing. With a sigh, he fishes it out of his breastpocket, holding the brick-like device to his ear. 

Whatever he hears has him tensing, and you feel like a coiled spring, bracing yourself for whatever grim news is awaiting you.

“Okay Hotch, we’re leaving now, get Garcia to send all the photos to us.” He sets down the phone, looking at you.

“There’s been another murder.”

You stand at the clear whiteboard, surveying the images tacked on to it. The blood smears of the newest crime scene are pinned up next to those of the two previous ones, and it’s driving the two of you crazy trying to decipher what the patterns are. Spencer fiddles with his fingers, the marks on his wrist flashing as his sleeve shifts, sending your mind spiralling every time you notice them.

“A painting of a tree, and an orange. Let me ask you this, do you think the things themselves are significant or the locations of them?”

You shake your head slowly, trying to clear the fog from your mind. The both of you are silent, standing in front of the board with puzzled looks, when Morgan bursts in, waving around some papers.

“Got the pictures of Mrs Walker’s newest message.” He grabs a magnet and pins a picture of Mrs Walker’s calf to the centre of the board, two things listed there.

“Tree painting

Orange”

“Ok kids, we really need you to work your magic this time,” Morgan taps your shoulder.

“The cooling down period has gotten shorter and shorter. We can’t expect to get to tomorrow evening without another murder.” 

You sigh, rubbing your wrist absentmindedly. The marks and your newfound realisation about Spencer haven’t left your mind, but have been pushed to the background for the time being. However, the frustration brings it back up. The connection. Does it mean nothing to him? Does he not think that it would do something for a relationship? You’ve always thought it would indicate that you belong together, wouldn’t you…

Your body moves without your go-ahead.

Eyes widen.

Shoulders tense.

Your arms reach forward, haphazardly grabbing and moving the lists until three pictures sit side-by-side on the board in front of you.

One is printed, a crude attempt by the CSU team to catalogue the items marred by blood. Two are images, words on skin. Words, the first letters of which spell out…

You grip Spencer’s arm, pointing at the first image of Amaya Walker’s skin, the second murder.

“Belongs. Spencer, the second crime scene.” 

He doesn’t even acknowledge your use of his first name, leaning forward like you are. He zeroes in on the newest image.

“To. The third one. It’s an acrostic. The first letter of each item spell out his message.”

You move forward, writing the words ‘__ BELONGS TO’ on the board. You are feeding off of each other, thinking aloud in a way that has Morgan sighing to himself.

“She didn’t get a list for the first one.”

Spencer nods. “She didn’t notice. He had to show her.”

You grab the printed list of the items smeared in the first crime scene. “Side table, pillow, painting”

He leans over your shoulder. “He’s more specific than the crime scene techs were. Heart pillow, elephant painting.”

You turn to him, stomach dropping. “She. She belongs to…”

He writes in ‘SHE’ next to the two other words. “He’s possessive, something happened to make him think he doesn’t have her.”

“Narcissistic. Driven by ownership.”

“Eric Walker was here when the third murder happened. Who else would want to lay claim to her?”

You straighten up, meeting Spencer’s eyes, not looking away even as you address Morgan.

“Derek, where’s Eric Walker?”

“They released him from questioning an hour ago, he went home.”

You and Spencer spring into action, scooping up your abandoned holsters. 

“We need to get to the Walkers’ house, now. Our unsub is taking out what he sees as competition, and Mr Walker’s all he needs to get rid of.”

In the SUV, you are jittery. Morgan sits in the driver’s seat next to you, and Spencer in the back. As you fiddle with your vest straps, you can’t help but think of Mrs Walker, the woman who never wanted a soulmate. And now her soulmate is trying to kill the love of her life.

Maybe Spencer was right?

Hotch is barking orders at the gathered agents when you step out of the vehicle. Nodding along, you fall to the back of the group, your designated role until you’re called to enter the house. 

Your vest is uncomfortable. The straps are always too long or too short, and you have to get it right before you storm the house, but your thoughts are so loud, and Rossi on the phone with the unsub is so piercing, and it feels like you will never get comfortable.

Finally, you feel like giving up, until warm hands find purchase on your shoulders. Looking up, you see Spencer, standing before you with a slight, nervous smile. His hands gently move yours away from the straps, and he looks at you questioningly.

“Can I?” You nod dumbly, unable to tear your eyes away from him.

The touch is soft, tentative. He pulls at the straps dangling over your shoulders firmly, tightening the vest until it sits snugly over your chest. As if acting on instinct, he slips a finger under the kevlar, brushing the thin fabric of your shirt over your collarbone delicately. It makes you shiver.

“Is that good? Too tight?” His eyes are devastatingly soft, head tilted down to face you fully. 

“No, it’s good. Thanks, Reid.” You have to get yourself away from the magnetic pull of him, stepping back and letting out a sigh of relief. 

You walk away, heading Emily’s way, completely missing the look of confusion he aims at you as you brush past him.

Joining the circle of agents and officers, you tune into Morgan’s run down of the plan. 

“Hotch and JJ will take 5 officers and break down the front door. Now, we know there are two other doors that the unsub will probably make a break for once we enter. Prentiss and I will be at the northfacing one, Reid and Rossi at the westfacing one. L/N, you and Captain Peretti should be stationed in the land behind the house, secure the outbuildings before the unsub can think to rush to them and destroy evidence.”

You nod, exchanging a glance with the police captain. 

“Remember, this unsub is severely narcissistic and delusional. He won’t stop at anything to get what he wants, including opening fire on us. Do not engage him in a confrontation. Challenging his goals and views will push him further, and we don’t want any more casualties at the hands of this man.” 

With a decisive nod, Morgan breaks away from the group, the people beginning to station themselves at their posts. With the captain at your side, you walk around the house to the field behind it, directing officers to each of the small barns and outhouses dotting the land. 

With the captain, you stand ready at the large wooden door of what you think is a stable, when the crackling of your earpiece alerts you to JJ’s voice.

“We’re heading in on 5, 4…” You can hear a crash and a shout, and JJ’s voice turns hurried. “We head in now!”

A few minutes have you tapping your index against the side of your firearm, worried. 

“He’s not here. We have Mr Walker here, multiple stab wounds but a relatively steady pulse. House is clear.”

Emily starts speaking. “He hasn’t gone through our door. Rossi?”

Rossi crackles out a negative response. Bringing your wrist to your mouth, you speak into the mic embedded there. 

“If Walker’s still bleeding out, the unsub has to have just been there. Are there any other possible exit points?”

There’s silence for a second until Reid’s voice comes over the comms, frantic. 

“There’s a northwest facing window that’s unlocked! Footsteps leading away from it, into the field.”

Immediately you spring into action, autopilot taking over as you direct multiple officers to search the surrounding woods, and the rest to clear out the outbuildings. 

Counting down, the police captain kicks in the stable door, and you flick on your flashlight, advancing.

The large room is drafty, the old wood planks creaking with every gust of wind. At first glance, the dark room seems quiet and empty, and each movement of your flashlight seems to confirm this. 

The only thing of note you see is the row of stalls along the left wall, the angle of the opening making sure that you can’t see into all of them. 

Silently, you begin to walk towards them, signalling for the captain to follow. Despite the first few being completely empty save for some hay, a chill runs down your spine, bracing yourself for a confrontation that hasn’t happened. 

As you begin to inch your way to the second-to-last stall, you hear a shout from outside the building. 

“There’s someone in the woods!”

One of the officers rushes past the open door to the stable, and the captain raises her head immediately, dropping her defensive stance. 

“That must be him. Let’s go!” Without waiting for a response, she turns, running out of the stable, as if she can’t hear your hushed whispers. 

“Captain! This building hasn’t been cleared—” She’s gone. You can hear the rush of officers running past the building, towards the wooded area to the back of the property. Despite the high probability of the unsub being the person spotted there, you know you can’t leave this building without clearing it. 

You really should wait for someone to do this with you. Never enter a potential crime scene without backup. Rossi’s voice rings in your ears. 

But there’s only two stalls left. The rest of your team are still securing the house and the victim. The officers are gone. 

You can clear two stalls on your own. They’re probably empty anyway. 

Having made up your mind, you straighten up, tightening your grip on your gun and flashlight, and advance. 

Slowly walking to the first stall, you turn the corner, quickly flashing your light in the small space. Empty. 

One more.

The floorboards bend slightly as you walk across them. The wind rushing past the walls ruffles your hair. The metal of your gun is warm under your palm. 

The wall of the final stall comes closer, closer, until you’re stood behind it. One step forward and a turn to the left, and you’ll be at the doorway. 

It’ll be empty. They’ve all been empty.

You take the step, right foot planting in front of you, and turn on the balls of your feet, flashlight and gun extended in front of your chest.

“Hello, agent.”

Not empty.

The house is finally cleared, and Mr Walker loaded into an ambulance. As he watches the vehicle retreat down the road, Spencer hears the chatter over the comms. 

“Is it him?”

“The woods are thick, how did he get here without us seeing—”

“—in pursuit of the person we saw—”

“He’s a white man, late 60s—”

“It’s not him! You hear me, officer? That’s not him, do not arrest that man!” Morgan’s voice cuts through the jabbering, voice stern. 

They haven’t gotten the unsub? Spencer turns on his heels, striding back into the house, where Hotch, JJ and Rossi stand around the blood spatter on the floor. 

“Spence. Doesn’t look like the unsub could’ve gotten to the woods in time, not before we were stationed in the field he’d have to cut through anyway.” JJ stands with her hands on her hips, irritation clear on her face. 

“The other buildings on the property?” He comes to stand next to Hotch.

“I saw Captain Peretti. She said they were all cleared. CSU’s sending more units to secure all of them, but we’re not considering any of them crime scenes as she says it’s clear he hasn’t been in them. It’ll take a while for them to get here and secure them all.” Hotch replies, brows furrowed. 

The door opens, and Morgan and Prentiss walk in. 

“Everything okay?”

Emily huffs. “The locals almost arrested the elderly neighbour, but other than that, the woods are seemingly clear.”

Morgan adds, “There’s some trampled plants in the cornfield to the west of the property, so we’ve got officers searching that now, but that field backs up onto a major road. If he made it through that, he could be anywhere by now.”

Rossi sighs, shoulders slumping. 

“I’m getting sick of this son of a bitch slipping out of our hands.”

“I agree. Rossi, go with Prentiss and Morgan to the road by the cornfield. Canvass anyone you find, ask neighbouring homes if they saw anyone emerge from the crops onto the road or lone cars idling. If he took that way out, he'd have had a car waiting for him there.” They nod, shuffling out. 

JJ pipes up, her brow furrowed in thought.

“The smears were on a milk carton in the fridge and an envelope. Me. His message is finished, isn’t it? ‘She belongs to me’. What’s he going to do now?”

Spencer’s not sure. Hotch shakes his head exasperatedly.

“JJ, let’s go find Captain Peretti. We’ll head back to the PD and see what we can make with the old clues now that we think he had an intricate exit plan. Reid, stay here, get updating the geographical profile with the information from this crime scene. We’ll send L/N here to work on it with you.”

Spencer nods, heading to the SUV to grab his map, and settling at the Walkers’ dining table to get working. 

It’s hot, sweltering. A throbbing pain thuds in your skull, the feeling of dry hay against your face making your cheek itch. Instinctively, you attempt to bring your hand up to brush it away. It won't move.

You jerk your wrists, but find them bound, and a dull pain pangs in your thigh. It’s clear you’ve been out for a little while, your eyes feeling crusted shut. 

With a little effort, you prise your eyes open, feeling your pupils adjust to the darkness of the room. You’re still in the final stall, sprawled against the far wall. Another experimental tug on your wrist and you realise that they’re bound together, the coarse rope wound around your right thigh, forcing you to stay hunched over. 

It all comes rushing back. Losing the unsub. Peretti leaving. The empty- no, not empty stall. The raspy voice that met your ears before the resounding blow to your head.

Twisting your hands awkwardly, you begin to pick at the rough rope, trying to map out the knot that keeps you in your uncomfortable position. Sweat drips in rivulets down your back as you crane your neck.

Your position ensures that you can’t survey the entire stall, but he’s got to be close. The property’s crawling with officers. 

“I’m still here, sweetheart.” 

The voice rings out from somewhere behind you, dark and smug. Your hand automatically makes for your holster, but the rope digs into your skin, leaving you unable to reach it. 

“Don’t bother. You think I’d let you keep your gun?”

You can hear the bastard smirk, anger and fear running hot through your veins. Your gun is your lifeline in situations like this, as not only a means of attack, but a grounding feeling. Without it you feel unmoored. 

The only thing you have in your arsenal is your knowledge of the case. Of him.

“Why don’t you come stand here? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of showing me your face.” Your voice is low, cracking with dryness. 

Prodding him just enough should… there it is. You hear his footsteps, walking past your bent head until you can see his feet and legs, standing in front of you.

“That enough for you? You can see me now?” He crouches, squatting by your calves to show you his face. 

He’s surprisingly handsome, flushed from the heat, dark eyes boring into yours. Dressed in a suit that’s slightly too large for him, he looks out of place in the grimy stable. He’s playing the role of a businessman, save for the gun dangling from his left hand, and the telltale bulge of another— yours— in his pants pocket.

This unsub is severely narcissistic and delusional. Morgan’s words come back to you now. 

“You- you outsmarted us all. We were sure we’d catch you.”

A smile spreads over his face, his ego clearly swelling. You can see his shoulders relax slightly. 

“You thought so, huh? I guess even the FBI has hubris.” His lips form the word hubris with some effort, pronouncing it as huh-brus. It’s clear he’s putting on airs. 

You need to get the others here. You could wait it out, until the crime scene techs eventually make their way to this building towards the back of the Walkers’ land. 

But he has two guns, and he wants Amaya Walker, not you. Who knows how long he’ll be content to lord over you, until he inevitably gets tired of playing with you. He has two guns.

How do you get a message to them? There’s no way he’ll let you have your phone, and this guy has no reason to contact anyone but Mrs Walker. He doesn’t need a phone for that, just a pen, probably in his jacket.

A pen. Spencer. That’s it.

“So, you and Mrs— um, Amaya. Are you guys going to meet in person soon?” 

That does the trick. His eyes glaze over with an expression that would look love-drunk, if you didn’t know about the blood on his hands. 

“Soon. There’s nothing keeping us apart now. I’ll go to see her as soon as I’m done here.”

“That’s why you’re dressed up? I think she’ll like that suit.”

His voice is deceptively soft, almost tricking you into forgetting how dangerous he is.

“I think so too. I borrowed it from a friend, John. She’ll like it.”

John Coulhain. The second murder victim, the lawyer. You resist the urge to gag.

“Yeah. It’s- it’s hot in here, isn’t it? Maybe you should take off the jacket and save it for when you see her. You don’t want to sweat through it.”

His metaphorical hackles raise, and you can tell he’s getting ready to stand and walk away from you. 

“No, I don’t mean it in an insulting way, not at all. It’s just really- really warm in here. I’m sweating. Maybe Amaya would like to hug you when you meet her. She won’t want sweat on her.”

Your voice is wavering, eyes unable to move from the gun still in front of you. 

It takes a long minute before he speaks again.

“Maybe I should take off the jacket. Just for a little.” He’s clearly loathed to admit his perceived fault, muttering to himself rather than speaking to you. Straightening up, you hear rustling above you, until the jacket falls in a heap in front of your bound wrists, part of the fabric falling on the tips of your fingers. You grasp it in your hand, wincing as the rope rubs the sensitive skin on your wrists raw.

As smoothly as possible, you hunch over further, settling in the foetal position, pulling the jacket to cover your hands a little more. 

Seemingly not noticing your movement, you see his legs walk out of your eyesight, padding around you until he comes to a stop somewhere behind your body. 

“Now, we’re going to wait here until your police friends are all done at the house. Then I’m going to take you with me, and we’ll go see Amaya. You’re going to be our witness, and then I’ll get rid of you, got it?” 

His voice is unnervingly slow and deliberate, as if he’s fully convinced this plan will work. You wish you had that same conviction, but you’re sure you know how this is going to end. The stress of hiding out will surely break him, sending him into a spiral where he will either kill you and then himself, or kill you and let the police kill him. 

You have to get them here before that happens. Heart pounding, you slowly inch the jacket closer to you, until your hands are fully buried in the folds of fabric. Feeling around blindly, you trace the inner lining of the expensive fabric until you feel a lip of material. The inner pocket is welcoming to your aching fingers, and you sigh, nearly delirious with relief when your index brushes against a pen. You were right.

Thanking whatever deity there is, you grip the pen, shoving it between your bound wrists, out of sight. 

Tugging once more, you’re resigned to the fact that you don’t have the range of motion to write legibly on your forearm, hands laying uselessly against your clothed thighs. The nearest exposed skin is on your ankle, and you have no hope of contorting to reach that without him noticing.

Chancing a look behind you, you can see him hunched over his knees, muttering to himself. You don’t have much time left. 

Deciding to make a rash decision, you grip the pen once more. Shifting so your left leg is hiked up, your wrists shoved between your legs, you take the pen, jabbing harshly at the fabric of your pants. Without being able to see, your aim is sloppy, but after a few minutes of brute force, you’ve ripped a jagged hole in your pants, near where your left calf meets your knee. 

Tension runs through your body, shifting the pen in your hand so that you can write. 

‘Spencer’

Spencer is stumped. Standing over the large map spread over the dining table, he can’t think of a reason why the unsub would ever leave the scene. This was his endgame, his final target until he could have Amaya Walker to himself. Why would a narcissistic sociopath flee after that?

Garcia’s voice comes crackling over the comms.

“My good doctor, it’s a little ridiculous that I had to use the PD’s satellite phone to get in touch with you. Do any of you pick up the phone anymore?”

He huffs out a laugh.

“We’re in the middle of farm country, Garcia. None of us have signal. Have you got anything?”

“You know I do. I took a look-see into Mr Walker’s history to see if he’d been stalked, and in multiple stretches of CCTV footage he’s being tailed by a white SUV. Including two hours ago, when he was on his way home. The car followed him on the main road, and pulled into their private road after Walker.”

“The car probably belongs to our unsub then. Do you have a name?”

“Do you even need to ask? Name’s Randall Slater, seems to tick most of the boxes of the profile. I’ll call back when I have more, Garcia out!”

Spencer slumps back in his chair. Sure, they have a name, but until he gets anything else from Garcia, it does nothing to help him with the geographical profile.

Wracking his brain for any possible lead, he doesn’t hear Hotch and JJ walk back in, not until they stand at the table with him, the police captain in tow. 

“Reid. Where’s L/N?” Hotch speaks in a low and measured tone, but Spencer can tell that he’s worried. 

“She’s not here yet. I thought you guys were going to send her here?” He raises his head, meeting JJ’s concerned eyes. 

“She wasn’t with Captain Peretti.”

“When we were pursuing the neighbour in the woods, I lost her. I figured she’d come back to find you guys.” Peretti’s voice is tight with worry, and a tinge of something else that Spencer doesn’t have the time to decipher right now. 

“Morgan and the rest haven’t heard from her?” 

Hotch shakes his head no. 

“Her comms have gone silent.” JJ brings a hand up to rub her temples.

 “Captain, inform your officers that we are looking for Agent L/N as well. Hopefully there’s nothing wrong, but we can’t rule out the possibility that the unsub found a way to get close.” 

Peretti nods stiffly, striding out of the room hurriedly. 

He can barely wrap his head around it. You’re not checking in? If there was a word stronger than worried, he’d find it, but his brain seems to be wading through sludge at the moment. He hadn’t realised how untethered he feels when you’re not there, until now, where it feels like the only thing he can think of. 

He can’t just sit around. Spencer straightens up, snatching his FBI windbreaker off of a chair and beginning to put it on.

“Okay, I’ll head out into the crop fields. If he took her as he fled, there’s got to be evidence of it.”

He’s already halfway across the room when Hotch calls out after him. 

“Reid, no. You need to stay here. Work on the geoprofile.”

Spencer can feel the irritation bubbling up inside him, his voice straining with the effort of not yelling. 

“Hotch, I’m not going to sit around here and do nothing when the unsub could have Y/N with him. If I can find—” Hotch cuts him off. 

“We. Reid, I know you’re emotional, we all are, but you cannot forget that this is a team. We’re all prioritising this. You know that you are best used here. If the unsub took her, we need to locate that secondary location immediately, that’s what you need to be doing.”

Incensed, Spencer can’t help but raise his voice. 

“Do we even know that he left? We profiled him to be a delusional narcissist, why would he ever leave? Hotch, I’m telling you, something is wrong here!”

Hotch’s eyes flash with emotion, and he opens his mouth, presumably explaining why Spencer shouldn’t leave. It’s all a moot point, however, because in that moment, he feels a burning on his left calf. 

The one-sided conversation goes over his head as Spencer can’t help but tug up his pant leg, itching at his skin as he runs through possibilities in his head. The unsub could’ve done what they’d now theorised, taken you and dragged you through the cornfield, into a car that was waiting by the main road. But why? 

He huffs, sitting down in a dining chair as he continues scratching at his leg. Hotch falls silent, but he doesn’t notice, lost in his thoughts. 

“Spencer. Spence!”

 JJ’s voice snaps him out of his haze. 

“What, JJ?” He snaps, irked that he’s been pulled out of his thoughts.

“Spencer, your leg.” He follows her pointed finger to the exposed skin of his calf, red from his scratching. It looks normal, smattering of hair covering the dark moles and lines covering his skin. 

Wait. Lines? 

He shifts, hooking his ankle over his right knee so he can see his calf more clearly. Shaky lines are forming on the skin in jerky motions, spelling out words in a familiar script. 

‘Spencer 

unsub in stable 

west edge

2 guns

wants amaya’

The handwriting is slanted, letters running into each other and words misspelled. And he knows it’s yours. 

“Y/N. It’s her handwriting. She’s writing to me.” 

He feels like he’s in an out-of-body experience. He can hear JJ’s gasp, but it feels as though it’s coming from miles away. Hotch is saying something, but the words don’t register as anything more than misshapen sounds. 

Graphology is one of Spencer’s specialties, but now he wishes he’d never learned about it. He wishes he didn’t know that the harsh angles of your writing indicate that you have adrenaline pumping through your veins. He wishes he didn’t see the way your letters jumble together, a physical manifestation of your fear. 

He slowly comes back to his body, finally understanding what Hotch is saying into his comm. 

“—a stable on the west edge of the property. We need the three of you back immediately, JJ, Reid and I will coordinate with the locals to have the building surrounded. Reid, can you hear me? Reid!”

Spencer nods, looking up at Hotch. 

“We need to know what’s happening in there. Is she hurt? Can she overpower him?”

He agrees, snatching up a pen and wracking his brain on what to write.

‘Are you hurt?

Are you armed?

Can you talk him down?’

He writes carefully, focusing on the drag of the ballpoint pen on his skin rather than the pure fear riddling his body. Once finished, he doesn’t set down the pen, fiddling with it in an attempt to stop himself from running to the building immediately. 

JJ sets a hand on his shoulder, and although he’s grateful for her support, he can’t bring himself to look at her. He can’t look away from his leg. He has a soulmate.

You’re laying at an awkward angle, neck craned and back hunched over so that you can read what Spencer’s written. 

Are you hurt? Your head hurts like hell, and the rope has irritated your skin to no end, but nothing that impairs you. You write a shaky ‘N’ next to the question.

Are you armed? You chance another look behind you, looking longingly at your gun in his pocket. Another ‘N’.

Can you talk him down? Can you? You remember the many times Rossi tutored you on interacting with narcissistic unsubs. Learn what they want, promise they will have it, and don’t challenge them. What does he want?

You decide you can, writing a small ‘Y’. Next to that, you scrawl hurriedly, hearing him shift around. 

‘bring amaya’

With that, you stuff the pen in your sock, relaxing your body and hoping you don’t look like you’ve been up to something.

The unsub is unsettled, and you can hear him oscillate between standing and sitting repeatedly. 

If you want to take control of the situation, you need to act quickly. He’s losing patience with you and the officers outside. If you wait too long, he’ll snap, and then you’re done for. 

A final peek at your calf finds the words ‘5 minutes’ etched there. 

Five minutes to talk him down. You can do it for five minutes. 

You croak out lowly, vocal chords rasping against each other. 

“I— I spoke to Amaya. When we were investigating. She told me about you. About the two of you.”

You can hear him stop moving abruptly, and then the patter of his feet as he walks quickly to you. He comes to a stop right in front of your face, your eyeline taken up by his feet and ankles. He speaks in a hushed tone, as if tasting the words carefully before speaking.

��She did? What did she tell you?”

“She said you’d been talking for a while. That it started when you drew a flower on your upper arm? She drew it for us.”

His voice has regained some of its smugness as he replies. His feet are tapping softly, as if he has all the time in the world.

“Of course she did. She loves me.”

You nod jerkily, continuing with your waffle.

“It's clear she does. I'm— in the FBI, I'm a profiler. I'm an expert on human behaviour, and I could see it, despite…”

You trail off, hopeful that he'll take the bait. He does, voice gaining a dangerous edge.

“Despite? Don't let me stop you from speaking your mind, agent.”

“Well, she was scared when we spoke. You know, suddenly there were all these dead bodies that were linked to her. She was pretty shaken.”

His tapping stills.

“Because of the bodies? I did that for her. For us!”

“Yes, I know. It's romantic, really. But, it scared Amaya a bit. It's all so sudden, you see. She was a little freaked out, especially because you hadn't told her about it.”

He's silent for nearly a minute, breathing heavily.

“She's angry about what I did for her?”

“No, not angry. I know she'll understand. You did it for her, she'll love it. She just… wanted to know from you, instead of the police.”

There. You've set your trap, and hopefully he'll fall right in it. Rossi's good-natured lectures play out in your head. 

Never challenge a narcissist directly. Make them worried, but never tell them outright that the object of their desire isn't going to be theirs.

He feigns nonchalance, but you can hear in his voice that his narcissistic possessiveness  is warring with the uncertainty you've introduced.

“Your friends had better be leaving. I've got to get Amaya, and if that takes too long, it's on you.”

You fall silent, hearing him mutter to himself as he begins to pace. If you push further you might be toeing the line too far.

The five minutes are almost up, you've got to believe that you've done enough to help them talk him down. 

As if on cue, you hear the familiar crackle of a megaphone. Rossi's voice, albeit muffled, comes booming towards you, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Randall, we have the building surrounded! Let the agent go and we can end this peacefully!”

The unsub, Randall, you suppose, straightens up, and you see him walk cautiously away from you. He walks to the far wall of the wooded building, and you catch a glimpse of him peering through the wood planks. He swears, shoves his gun into his waistband and paces hurriedly back to you.

“You bitch. Did you tell them? Huh? Did you?” He grabs a hold of the rope binding your wrists to your thigh, tugging you up to face him. The rope cuts harshly into your skin, forcing your right leg up at an unnatural angle to follow your wrists.

“I didn’t! I didn’t tell them, I don’t have my phone!”

Wrong thing to say. His eyes darken, and you see his hand twitch toward his gun.

You’re so close, you just need to show him what he’s here for. You hope Spencer got Amaya here.

“I can get you to Amaya! I swear it, if you let me talk to them, I can get them to give you Amaya.”

It works. He doesn’t let you go, and you whimper at the feeling of the rope cutting you, but he pauses, and you can see him thinking it over in his head. It takes one long minute, but he seems to make up his mind.

“No funny business. I’m going to be right there, so don’t even try sending them any messages, got it?” 

You nod, and he whips out a pocket knife, using it to slice through the rope. You let out a deep sigh of relief, your right foot meeting the floor so you can finally stand alone. Blood seeps from the cuts on your wrists and thigh.

He grabs you by the throat, pressing himself to your back, and you register the cold barrel of a gun pressing against your side, where your vest doesn’t cover.

As he half marches, half drags you to the large door, he hisses in your ear.

“I don’t want to hear anything other than Amaya, got it? You say anything that doesn’t have to do with getting her here, I shoot you.”

You nod wordlessly, stumbling towards the door. He comes to a stop right behind it, and maneuvers around you to shove it open, thrusting you out into the fading light of the evening.

Blinking rapidly, you slowly focus on the cavalry in front of you. Multiple SUVs are parked at a three meter’s distance from the stable, doors flung side open so the officers and agents can huddle behind them. A few steps away from them stands Rossi, the sight of him sending a rush of comfort through you.

Rossi clutches the megaphone tighter, and you notice he’s speaking to someone by the SUV in front of him— Oh. Spencer is crouched at the car right in front of you, silver revolver glinting in his hand, and his eyes trained on you as he speaks to Rossi.

It feels rather stupid, but you can’t help but note how pretty he looks, hair tousled and jaw clenched.

You’re pulled out of your reverie when Randall jabs you in the side with his gun, making you yelp.

“Now.” He warns. You straighten your neck, making eye contact with Rossi.

“He’s demanding to see—” Another jab. “—to have Amaya Walker. Please bring her out.”

As you speak, you take your right hand, which was dangling at your side, and bring it up to your pants pocket. Making a gesture that resembles a gun, you slip it into your pocket softly. There’s no significant signal that they’ve understood, but you see the skin around Rossi’s eyes pinch, and you hope you’ve gotten the point across. 

If they can get him to move just a little, you can retrieve your gun from his pocket and incapacitate him. And the only thing that will get him to move now is Amaya.

Rossi brings the megaphone back up to his mouth.

“We can get her here, but we need a guarantee that you won’t harm this agent. Randall, can you do that? Give us Agent L/N, and we can get you Amaya.”

Incensed, Randall hits your side harder with the barrel of his gun. You see Spencer and Morgan twitch forward slightly.

“No! I want Amaya here, now, and I’m not letting your girl go until I see her!”

Rossi nods quickly, signalling to someone behind him. At that motion, JJ emerges from who-knows-where, Amaya Walker in tow. The older woman is wearing a bulletproof vest, her face ashen at the sight in front of her. 

They walk forward until they’re standing by the cars.

At the sight of her, Randall relaxes slightly, but not enough to where you can easily maneuver to your gun. Shaking your head slightly, you see JJ prompt Mrs Walker.

Her voice is shaky and quiet, but you know Randall is hanging on to every word.

“Randall. That’s your name? I’m—” She chokes back a sound. “I’m so glad to meet you.”

Randall makes a pitiful noise from behind you.

“They said you were scared of me.”

JJ prompts her again. 

“I- I could never be afraid of you.” 

At that, Randall lets his hand fall from your throat, and you move. Whipping around, you shove his gun away, diving into his pocket and retrieving yours. You straighten, pointing your gun at him as steadily as you can, with the wobble in your right leg.

He attempts to run to Amaya, but JJ’s already swept her away. 

“Randall, surrender now! You’re surrounded!” Rossi’s voice booms, but it only serves to madden him further.

With a roar of anger he begins to charge to you, and you squeeze, before collapsing. The bullet hits his thigh, the last thing you see before you pass out.

It feels like hours later when you come to, but it's clearly only been a few minutes. You’re sitting on something hard, cold metal, but your back is being supported by something warm.

Only a few beats pass until the sounds come rushing back. You hear the chatter of multiple people around you, but three voices come the clearest. One is deep, interjecting intermittently to the conversation.

The other is calm and melodic, speaking in a steady rhythm that doesn’t falter at all. 

The last is hurried, speaking so quickly that it feels as though it all runs into a pleasant hum. They’re clearly asking questions to the second voice, but you can’t fully understand what they’re saying. 

You want to know who it is. With an immense amount of effort, you prise your eyes open, blinking blearily at the lights. 

“Hey, there she is.” There’s that deep voice. Turning to it, you see a familiar face. Derek smiles at you softly, his hand coming up to rub your shoulder.

“You had us worried there, sunshine.”

Looking around dazedly, you can finally take in your surroundings. You’re sitting in the open doors of an ambulance, the evening having given away to the darkness of night. Headlights from multiple cars light up the area, leaving you spaced out.

There’s a medic standing next to Derek, tending to the cuts on your thigh. Who’s the last voice? 

You twist around, much to the chagrin of the medic, but their protests fall away when you see him. 

Spencer sits next to you, your back leaning against his side. His eyes are worried, pinched together, but still lovely. 

“Hey.” 

It’s simple, but the word seems to mean something more, when it’s coming out of his mouth, and when he’s looking at you like that.

You’re frozen, unable to speak. The medic pats your knee, saying that the rest of your patching up should be done at the hospital. Derek walks away after kissing your forehead. You can barely say goodbye to him. 

It’s only once you’re relatively alone that Spencer speaks again. You turn to face him, immediately missing the heat of his torso against your back.

“Was… this why you were acting differently?” He raises his leg, pulling up his pant leg to show you the words on his skin.

You nod.

“You said you didn’t think it was real. I didn’t know how to tell you yet, and then— it was the only way to contact you.”

You see his hands raise slightly, but refrain from touching you. You want him to touch you.

“I don’t know if I believe in it. But… Even without it, I wanted this.” His words are achingly sincere, and his hand comes to rest over yours. 

“Wanted it since we met.”

Your breath hitches slightly, and you turn your hand to hold his, your wrist with pen marks meeting his.

The words don’t come to your tongue, but you’re sure he knows. He figured it out.

[miedei]

underrated dynamic in dc is batman and lois. lois loves making fun of his broody nature, has respect for a fellow investigator, and they have a mutual love for her husband. bruce wants to be clois' third so bad it makes him look stupid