smokysr

[smokysr]

𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 | 𝐒. 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐝

CHAPTER III — Old Books, Cedar Wood, & Chamomile.

pairing: spencer reid x misaki hirose (oc)

content warning: none, spencer yapping about Star Trek

summary: She’s offered warmth, but doesn’t know how to hold it. The case sharpens. And somewhere between guilt and grief, she lets Spencer in.

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"𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞." — 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐢.

1:24 P. M. — local PD, Cleveland, Ohio.

The police department hummed with movement, the low murmur of phones ringing and officers shuffling past barely registering to Misaki. She paced near the evidence board, biting at her nail, eyes scanning the photographs for the third time.

Spencer was hunched over a desk, hands flipping through notes at a rapid pace, brows furrowed in concentration. The silence between them wasn't awkward—they'd grown accustomed to it—but it wasn't comforting either. Misaki found herself replaying the earlier interview in her head on a loop, her mind snagging on every pause, every look Gigi gave, every question she herself asked.

Did I push too hard? Was it even my place?

She exhaled slowly and glanced down at her phone. No new messages—not like she was expecting any. Her fingers tapped against her thigh as she resumed pacing. Every moment she had with the team felt like walking a wire she hadn't quite earned the right to stand on.

Reid hadn't said much since they returned—focused, serious. Unreadable, as always. Still, she hoped for something—a glance, a nod, anything. Just enough to settle the unease twisting in her chest. And she could already feel a migraine starting.

She sat down, eyes closed. But the thoughts didn't quiet. Morgan and Elle had just come back from canvassing, and Gideon had ducked out with a local police officer to follow up on something near the victim's neighborhood. The room's energy was fragmented—like a system in motion, where she was still trying to find her rhythm. The team moved with ease, with history. And she? She was just... placed. Not quite part of the current.

It doesn't matter. I worked hard for this. They'll have to accept me—whether they like it or not.

It was hard—everyone saw her as a product of nepotism. And maybe she was. But not once did she ever use her last name to get to where she is now. Every time she introduced herself as Hirose, that's all they saw. Never mind the fact that she clawed her way here on her own.

Misaki rubbed her temple, trying to massage the ache away. She was about to get up again when Spencer's voice cut through the silence.

"They never fixed the camera near the back exit."

Her eyes flicked to him. He was still fixed on the files, but now he was talking—to her.

"What?" She blinked.

He didn't look up. "The CCTV at Amber's workplace. Maintenance log says it's been broken for a week. We're not getting anything from it."

How could I have missed that? I should've checked it myself—cover all bases.

Spencer finally glanced up. "You were right to focus on the bar."

Misaki straightened. It wasn't praise—but not quite criticism either.

She nodded. The earlier heaviness didn't vanish, but it dulled—replaced by the sharper rhythm of purpose. Work she could do. Work that made sense.

And for now, that was enough.

The door creaked open.

Hotch and JJ stepped inside, both looking like they haven't stopped moving since they left. Misaki straightened her posture. Her fingers instinctively tightened around the file.

Hotch walked past her, settling down near Spencer.

"I read your message," he said, tone even. "Good work."

A flicker of surprise crossed her face. "Thank you, sir."

Elle gave her a casual nod, "nice catch."

Misaki nodded back, trying not to overthink it—though the small swell of relief was hard to ignore. She held her expression still.

Spencer stood and spoke before the silence stretched too long. "We talked to Gigi Palmer, Green confessed about having an affair with Blakeman. She also mentioned Amber being a regular at the bar—spending at least three nights a week, sometimes more."

Misaki added. "A few of those nights were late. Past midnight. Definitely worth checking surveillance if they had any saved." Her voice wasn't loud, but steady.

No one responded to the comment directly. It wasn't ignored—just... absorbed, moved past. The conversation kept going, and she followed it like a second current, walking a half-step behind.

Gideon arrived shortly after—empty-handed. The bar didn't open until 7 P.M., which meant the next few hours would be a waiting game.

Misaki leaned against the counter, paper cup in hand, staring at the swirl of cheap coffee like it held answers. "You're braver than me, drinking that stuff," a voice cut through her thoughts.

It was Elle.

Misaki looked up. "Just trying to stay vertical."

Elle cracked a small smile as she stepped over to the machine. "Trust me, it doesn't get any easier." There was a pause, not uncomfortable. Misaki's brow furrowed, glancing over as Elle leaned back against the counter beside her.

"You did good earlier," Elle said, almost casually. "Interviewing Gigi like that."

Misaki blinked. "Thanks."

"You remind me a little of how I was when I first started. Except, you ask smarter questions."

That pulled a tiny breath of a laugh out of Misaki. "I doubt that."

"You shouldn't." Elle sipped her coffee, grimacing slightly at the shitty taste. "You're here because you're good."

The words hit heavy, but not unkind. Misaki looked down at her hands.

"I know what they all think, just from the look in their eyes. Nepo baby and all that." She hesitated. "It's been 23 years and I've yet to outrun that legacy. Sometimes I ask myself if I came here because I truly loved the job or—if I'm here just to prove them wrong."

Elle nodded. "You don't owe anyone anything. What matters is how you work with the team—to lock up the monsters."

The hum of the vending machine filled the silence between them. For the first time since she arrived, Misaki didn't feel like she had to put up a front. She wasn't emotional or anything—not at all, but she wasn't so guarded either.

Elle turned to leave but paused at the door. "I'm gonna go reread the case files. We can go over it together if you want."

Misaki looked up, surprised. "Uh..."

"Yeah," her voice soft.

"Good," Elle smiled before disappearing down the hall.

Misaki stood there a moment longer. She felt warm—maybe from the bad coffee, or maybe because of Elle. She wasn't part of the team yet—not really. But today, she'd taken a step closer.

────────── Misaki

Turns out, Elle and I weren't the only ones reviewing case files. Morgan was there too—nose buried in a stack of papers. The room was filled with silence and concentration. I walked over to the evidence board.

I must have missed something.

"Fuck," I muttered to myself—loud enough for the precinct to hear, apparently. My migraine is acting up again.

"You always this intense?" Morgan stood beside me, eyes on the board.

"Only when I'm awake." It was a joke. An attempt at it at least—though it wasn't far from the truth.

He raised a brow. "You really wanna keep up with the team, huh?"

I stayed silent. Was it that obvious?

"I'm not here to keep up," I said, voice flat. "I'm here to earn it." He shot me a look—a smirk plastered on his face.

Did I say something wrong?

"What's with the look?" I asked, not meaning to come off too strong.

"You're interesting, kid." He walked past me, giving me a pat on the shoulder. "I'll be taking a walk, call me if something comes up." Morgan looked at me, then at Elle—she didn't look up, only gave a nod.

I went back to my desk, skimming over the files once more. Though, it was hard to focus when Morgan's words echoed in my mind. He called me "interesting."

Interesting.

That's what they all said when they weren't sure if you were good or just lucky.

────────── 8:15 P.M. — Lowlights, Cleveland, Ohio.

The bar Amber used to visit was just a few blocks away from her workplace, tucked between a liquor store and a payday loan office. Just the kind of place you wouldn't notice unless you knew where to look.

Morgan walked in first, I followed behind. The atmosphere was warm, almost too welcoming. Soft music played under the clink of glasses. A handful of patrons—businessmen in tailored suits—drowning their sorrows in booze.

We walked up to the counter, the bartender was busy serving drinks. Morgan raised a hand, catching the bartender's attention.

"Can I get you two anything?" He greeted us with a smile.

"FBI," Morgan said, flashing his badge. I mirrored the motion. "We're here to ask a few questions." The bartender nodded, for a split second his expression changed but was masked quickly.

"Of course, how can I help?" He gave a smile, treating us as if we were just here for drinks—way too relaxed.

"Do you know anyone named Amber Green?" Morgan said casually, like starting up a conversation with a friend. But the bartender was already being profiled by him.

While Morgan did his job, I scanned the place. Looking out for any cameras or regulars that seemed too quiet. And there it was, above the counter.

Palmer said they sat by the bartender that night. If we're lucky, the camera might've caught something—if the footage is still there

"Yeah, I know her." He paused, longer than he should have. "One of our regulars, she often came here alone or with a blonde man."

And Chase Green is a brunette.

"Mind if we checked out footage of that security camera?" I nodded to the CCTV behind the counter. He seemed to think for a second—was he hesitating?

"Not at all," he shook his head. "But, each footage is only saved for a week max." He added. It's still worth checking out.

"We'd like a copy anyway," Morgan looked in my direction. His eyes were encouraging, which was a nice change.

"Amber was a regular, yes?" I started.

He didn't reply, only gave a nod.

"Can you tell me more about her and the guy she's often seen with?"

He swallowed, "they would unwind here after long hours of work. Chatting late into the night." Eyes flickered back-and-forth between me and Morgan.

"Paid good as well, the guy just leaves money on the counter—running off before I can even give them their change." He continued.

"Were there any instances where it seemed like they weren't on good terms? Disagreements? Tension?" I asked.

He paused to think for a moment, "nothing serious like that. I overheard her complaining about something and then stormed off—but then he chased her shortly after."

He hasn't said anything about Amber and Gigi yet. Interesting.

"Other than the man, did Amber ever bring someone else to this bar? Could be a friend? Coworker?"

He didn't reply.

"Not that I remember, no."

I hummed in response, shooting Morgan a look—signaling  that I was done.

Morgan caught my look. No words needed.

That was new.

He continued to talk to the bartender, gathering more intel. Places like this were made to ease the mind—a place for people to shrug off whatever weight they carried on their shoulders. But something didn't sit right with me here and I can't shake off that feeling.

I hadn't realized I was zoned out until Morgan's hand landed on my shoulder. I flinched.

"Let's go," I blinked. "We got what we came for." He waved the USB in my face.

That went faster than I expected.

"Unless... you want to get a couple of drinks?" He offered.

For a second, I ralmost considered it.

Unprofessional.

There it was. That scrutinizing voice I grew up with. Dad. His name's already followed me here—now he's scolding me mid-case?

Morgan picked up on my thoughts somehow.

"You good?" Concern written all over his face. The most expression I've gotten from anyone in the team, so far.

"Yeah," I hesitated.

"I think I'll pass on the drinks tonight." I shot him a polite smile, he understood.

"Let's go back to the hotel then." He gestured for me to go first, opening the door before my hand even touched the handle.

I used to think being seen made you vulnerable. But tonight—it made me feel a little less alone. 

──────────

A knock.

Not loud. Two soft raps, followed by silence.

I didn't move right away. Just blinked up at the ceiling, debating whether to ignore it completely. Then I sighed, dragging myself out of bed—opening the door just enough to peek.

Spencer.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight awkwardly. Hair slightly tousled like he had been pacing—overthinking—probably both. An unusual contrast from his usual neat, almost clinical look.

"Hey," he said. Quiet, like it might echo in the hallway if he wasn't careful. "Just wanted to check if you... needed anything."

His eyes avoided mine. Was he nervous?

"From the bar scene, I mean," he added quickly.

I blinked. "No, I'm good. I'm just—going over some footage."

"Right," he nodded. "Good."

Silence stretched between us—not uncomfortable, just hovering.

His eyes flicked past me, to the dark room behind. "You haven't turned your lights on."

Was he worried that he woke me up?

"Helps with the migraine," I offered.

He nodded again. Lips pressing into a thin line. He does that whenever he's thinking. Probably calculating the neurological implications of that.

Then—

"You did well back there."

My face scrunched. "You're saying what now?"

Spencer looked up at me with that slightly lost, honest expression he sometimes wore. "Takes me a while to say things."

You and I both.

"Thanks," I said instead, voice softer than I meant.

He turned around, about to leave.

"Would you like to watch the footage with me?" I offered.

I said it too fast to fully register what I'd done. Not that I wanted to take it back—it's a privilege to work with Spencer. I just didn't expect those words to come out of my mouth so soon.

I preferred solitude. My sacred space—away from the gruesome and noisy world. Whether it was in my apartment, a hotel somewhere in America, or my childhood home—I  never let anyone in. This room was sacred. Mine. The only place where I had full control of my surroundings.

But with him, I didn't hesitate.

Spencer looked up, wide-eyed—like a real-life Bambi.

"I'd like that,"  he said. Voice soft. Measured.

We locked eyes for a second longer. The awkward silence from earlier shifted into something quieter. Calmer. Familiar.

I opened the door wider.

I let him in.

Spencer stepped inside cautiously, like he wasn't sure if he should. He didn't hover or look around—just sat on the edge of the chair near the desk while I took the floor, laptop open between us.

"Fun fact," he said, almost absentmindedly. "Your brain processes visual information faster in dim light because it relies more on motion and contrast than detail."

I blinked at him.

He glanced over. "So technically, watching the surveillance footage in the dark might help you catch something everyone else misses."

A pause.

I turned to him slowly. "Is that why you came in here? To teach me to see better?"

He blinked. "Maybe."

I snorted before I could stop myself. He smiled—almost proud. And somehow, the room felt less heavy.

It was quarter past one. Spencer was still in my room, but he was no longer sitting at the edge of the chair. He sat beside me—on the cold floor.

The footage played, nothing new stood out. My eyes began to strain, so I leaned back, rubbing at them.

"You know," he started, voice casual, "the surveillance systems in most bars are nowhere near as sophisticated as people think. But Star Trek actually predicted highly accurate real-time video communications way back in the 1960s."

I glanced up at him.

He blinked, then added. "Specifically in the original series—season one, episode fourteen. Kirk uses what's basically a video call to speak to someone lightyears away. It was pure science fiction at that time, but it ended up inspiring real-word development of telecommunications."

A beat passed.

I smiled, "is that supposed to make me feel better about watching hours of pixelated bar footage?"

He didn't miss a beat. "Maybe. Or maybe I just really like Star Trek."

"You don't say."

It was kind of admirable the way he rambled on. Maybe even cute—

My brows furrowed. Where the hell did that come from?

He tilted his head. "The original cast had its flaws, but it was one of the first shows to depict a genuinely diverse crew working as equals. There was a Russian during the Cold War, a Japanese officer not long after World War II, and Uhura—one of the first black women on television who wasn't cast as a maid. It wasn't just science fiction. It was... idealism."

His voice softened near the end, and I caught the faraway look in his eyes.

Idealism. In this line of work?

"Didn't think you'd be the optimistic type," I murmured.

"I'm not," he said flatly. "But sometimes, believing in the idea of something better is enough."

We went quiet again. Spencer turned his focus back to the footage, the dim light from the screen painting his face in blue and shadow.

I used to think optimism was for people who hadn't seen the world yet. But sitting next to him—his voice soft with wonder—I realized maybe there was a different kind. A quiet hope. The kind you don't talk about out loud. The kind you hide in late night ramblings and pixelated footage.

I yawned. Exhaustion catching up to me. But still, I tried to resist—failed, obviously. Spencer seemed to have caught on, he moved closer. Our shoulders touched.

Eventually, my head rested on his shoulder. I don't know when—or how—it happened. I was usually good at holding off my needs, especially sleep.

And just so you know, I would never—and I mean never—lower my guard like that.

Spencer smelled like old books—not dusty, but the soft scent of aged pages and leather bound spines, with a hint of cedar wood and chamomile.

I didn't say anything else.

Neither did he.

We didn't move. We didn't speak. And still, it felt like something changed.

author's note:

This chapter was softer—less crime, more connection. I wanted to show a quieter side of Misaki, especially how she's still learning to let people in. Moments with Spencer are subtle now, but they matter.

[smokysr]

𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 | 𝐒. 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐝

CHAPTER II — Something Human.

pairing: spencer reid x misaki hirose (oc)

content warning: mature themes, violence, torture, mentions of alcohol, pregnancy, graphic crime scenes, death

summary: Secrets crawl under the skin. A confessional. An arbiter. Someone who delivers punishment when the truth isn't volunteered.

previous. | masterlist. | next.

"𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩, 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞." — 𝐖. 𝐇. 𝐀𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧

Hotch's phone buzzed in the inside-pocket of his suit.

He stepped away from the scene, answering with a curt, "Hotchner." A beat passed. His expression remained steady, but his gaze shifted—sharpened.

"No, we just got here."

Another pause.

"...When?"

His gaze flicked over to the two, then on the ground. Whatever he heard, it didn't show in his voice—only in the faint tightening of his jaw.

"Understood."

He dropped the call without another word, walking over to Spencer and Misaki who had been quietly analyzing the body.

"Reid. Hirose," he called out.

Spencer looked up, catching the edge in Hotch's tone. He didn't ask questions, but the shift in his posture said he understood—this wasn't good.

Misaki stood as well, instinctively stepping back from the body. She hadn't worked with Hotch long, but it didn't take much to sense something had changed.

"We're heading back to the precinct," he said.

The two didn't say anything, only giving Hotch a firm nod.

The drive back to the precinct was quiet.

Reid sat in the passenger seat, elbow on the window ledge, fingers curled near his mouth. His mind was working, spinning like a cogwheel.

Hotch was behind the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. His composure held, as always—but the way his grip tightened slightly around the steering wheel didn't go unnoticed.

In the backseat, Misaki kept her gaze on the window. The buildings passing by were easier to focus on than the thick, unspoken tension settling inside the car.

────────── 10:42 A.M. — Cleveland Police Precinct, Cleveland, Ohio.

The low murmur of voices, ringing phones, and shuffling paper filled the precinct—louder than the silence that had settled in the car.

The local PD had cleared out a small workspace for the team: an evidence board, a few desks and a handful of chairs. Inside, Elle leaned over a desk, flipping through the autopsy report. Nearby, Derek paced—his agitation barely hidden under the edge of his voice. He can't seem to get inside the unsub's head.

Gideon sat at the far end of the room, unmoving. His eyes were fixed on a package laid out in front of him—sent, according to the police, specifically for the BAU.

Then came the sound of the door creaking open.

Hotch walked in first, his expression unreadable. Spencer and Misaki followed closely behind. Spencer's brows furrowed the moment he noticed the other's postures—tense, alert. Misaki caught the look exchanged between Elle and Morgan and didn't like what it suggested.

"We got something?" Hotch asked, breaking the silence.

Gideon didn't blink. "Package came in twenty minutes ago." He gestured toward the box on the table.

"PD said it was addressed directly to us. No return address. Just 'BAU' written on the front." Derek added, arms crossed.

Hotch gave a short nod, kneeling down. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a pair of gloves and slipped them on without a word. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he peeled back the tape.

Inside was a single item: a DVD. And a name written in blank ink across its surface.

AMBER GREEN

The tension in the room thickened. Everyone had their guesses about what was on the disc—and none of them were good. Gideon ran a hand down his face. He'd seen this before, he knew how it went. It never got easier.

"I'll ask if they have a DVD player laying around," Misaki offered quietly, glancing at Hotch.

He gave her a short nod. "Go ahead."

She slipped out the room, and the moment the door clicked shut behind her, the silence deepened. Spencer shifted his weight, the unease flickering behind his eyes now settling in his shoulders.

Derek broke the silence first. "You'd think he would send this to the husband instead, but why us?"

Hotch didn't answer right away. His gaze remained fixed on the disc like it might start playing on its own. Finally, he said, "he wanted us to see something. The question is—what."

A few minutes later, Misaki came back with a DVD player. Good thing their workspace already had a TV. She set it up with Derek's help.

The screen flickered to life.

At first, all black. Then a frame appeared—grainy, poorly lit. Amber Green sat in a wooden chair, arms and legs bound tightly with rope. A  blindfold covered her eyes. Duct tape sealed her mouth. The only light source was a single bulb above her head—casting down like a spotlight.

The tape glitched.

When it cut back, Amber remained bound to the chair—blinded, restrained. But the tape on her mouth was gone.

"Who are you?" Asked a voice off-screen. Male. Calm, deliberate—too calm.

"A-Amber Green," her voice shook, barely holding back a sob.

"No," the man snapped—harsher now, enough to rattle her further.

Silence followed. Only the sounds of Amber's breathing were heard. Shaky. Shallow. The occasional sob.

"Again!" He screamed.

Amber flinched.

"Who are you?" His voice was colder this time. No longer a question—a warning.

Her lips trembled. She didn't answer.

A low, metallic clang echoed somewhere off-screen—something being dragged or picked up.

"I said..." the man hissed, slower this time. "Who. Are. You?"

"I—" Amber's voice cracked. "I'm... I'm not who people think I am."

There was a long pause.

"I lied to everyone. I cheated on my husband. I slept with my boss—I told everyone how great my marriage was and how we were so happy to keep up appearances."

Her breaths were fast, panicked. "I built a persona around being the perfect wife to my loving husband. But I wasn't—I am a disgusting, selfish, worthless, pig."

It sounded rehearsed—like she'd been made to say it before.

"I'm a liar," she whispered.

Silence again.

"And what do we do to liars, Amber?" The man asked, taunting her. You can hear the sick smile plastered on his face just through his voice alone.

Amber didn't answer.

"Answer me!" A loud slam was heard. The camera shook.

Amber jumped, choking on a sob. "Y-You punish them," she said, voice barely audible.

The man chuckled—a low, hollow sound escaped from his lips. It was clear he was getting off on her fear, he loved the control over her.

"That's right. I punish them. That's my job. And right now, my job is you."

──────────

The room stayed silent long after the screen went black. What they had witnessed wasn't just a confessional. It was a performance. Forced. Rehearsed. Cruel. The low hum of the precinct outside their small workspace felt distant, muffled under the weight of what they had just seen.

Reid didn't blink. "He doesn't want them to just confess—he needs them to say it in his language. He corrects her. Reframes the words. Suggesting an obsession with control. Identity-based."

"Amber's confession sounded rehearsed." Misaki added, hand rested on her hips. Her gaze lingered a second too long on Spencer. "He's playing out a fantasy."

Hotch stood, arms crossed. "What else do we know?"

Elle flipped through the victim file. "Amber Green had no criminal record. No enemies. From the outside, she looked perfect."

"So they're hand-picked," Morgan said. "He watches them for a few days, at least, before attacking them."

Gideon's voice was low. "Which means he sees himself as some kind of... arbiter. Someone who delivers punishment when the truth isn't volunteered."

Misaki frowned. "In the tape, he breaks them down so completely that they stop being who they are. This isn't just about control—he wants ownership." Spencer nodded slightly. "It's a psychological deconstruction. Almost ritualistic."

Their eyes met—an unspoken understanding passing between them.

"You could hear it," Misaki continued. "He's calm when she submits. Aggressive when she resists. He's enjoying it."

A heavy pause.

Hotch exhaled through his nose. "Get everything we can on Amber Green—her routine, her workplace, coworkers, family, friends. Anything that could link her to the other victims." He looked at Morgan.

"We need to know why she was chosen. And who's next."

Morgan nodded, already reaching for his phone. "I'll give Garcia a call."

Hotch cleared his throat. "We need eyes everywhere," he said. "If he's stalking victims before he abducts them, there's a chance someone saw him—they just didn't realize what they were looking at."

He pointed toward the evidence board.

"Reid, Hirose—check out Amber's workplace. See if anyone noticed anything off. Coworkers, her boss, CCTV footage if they have them. Ask if she's ever mentioned being watched."

Spencer gave a short nod. Misaki grabbed her coat.

"Morgan, take Elle with you and canvas the neighborhood—look for potential dump spots, routes he could have taken. Talk to the neighbors."

Gideon stepped in. "I'll go with them. I want to check out any potential abduction site."

Hotch turned to JJ. "We'll go back to the husband. See if there's anything he left out. Marital problems, doctor appointments. Things only the two know."

"We move fast, keep each other posted. Dismissed."

Everyone wasted no time heading to their respective locations.

────────── Misaki

Spencer and I just stepped out into the hallway when I saw Morgan, leaning against the wall. Dialing Garcia, I suppose.

"Hey, babygirl," He said, voice smooth. "Miss me already?"

What?

I blinked, slowing down as I turned to Spencer. "Did you hear that?" I whispered, stepping a little closer. Our arms brushed for a moment.

Spencer didn't miss a beat. "It's the usual."

The usual? What's that supposed to mean?

My brow furrowed trying to decipher what Spencer just said. I turned to face him and he looked like he was holding in a laugh—no, he is. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." He shrugged, already picking up his pace.

Great. Just—great.

"Hey, Reid! Wait up." As I said that, he walked even faster. Seriously?

The elevator doors opened when I reached the ground floor and I was greeted by Spencer. He was smiling—and not the usual awkward one.

This guy thinks he's real funny, huh?

"You're pretty slow," he grinned. My tongue clicked as I walked past him. "Shut it, Reid." I rolled my eyes as he caught up to me. "So we're back to last name basis now?" He raised a brow, my eyes flicked to his face then to where I was walking.

"Who said we were out of it in the first place?" I jabbed at him.

Maybe he's not that bad.

────────── BLAKEMAN & CO. Cleveland, Ohio.

The receptionist didn't even look up when we entered. Sleek glass, beige carpeting, and fake smiles behind expensive desks. The kind of place that pretended to be friendlier than it really was.

"Agents Hirose and Reid. FBI," I said, flashing my badge. "We're here about Amber Green."

Somehow, that got her attention.

"Oh. Yes. Of course," she stammered. "I'll get Mr. Blakeman's assistant to bring you to his office—well, I guess Amber's replacement." Her voice trailed off. She cleared her voice, straightened her posture as she realized too late how that sounded.

Mr. Blakeman, the man she had been sleeping with.

I glanced at Spencer—stone-faced, as always. Stillness came easy to him when he's working. That's something I'm still trying to get used to.

I can never seem to figure out what he's thinking about but I know his mind's probably dissecting every little thing.

We were led past the cubicles and glass-walled conference rooms. Everyone was quiet—but not the usual work silence. Was it grief, or gossip? It's hard to tell.

We were ushered into a sleek corner office. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a modern desk, everything's too neat.

There he was. William Blakeman. All polished charm and strategic grief.

Tall, mid-forties, tailored suit, sharp eyes. His name etched in bold on the nameplate on his desk.

Of course it was.

He stepped forward with a practiced expression—grief, but polished. Just enough to look respectable. Enough to enforce his authority. His tie was perfect, eyes a little too clear for someone mourning an employee—someone he was seeing in secret.

"Agents," he said, voice calm, calculated. "I was informed that someone from the FBI might come by. Please—sit."

I gave him a court nod. Spencer took the seat across from his desk first, I followed after.

"I still can't believe it," he started off. "Amber worked for me for four years. She was... one of a kind, exceptional in her work."

Was. Always with the past tense. People often don't use the past tense when referring to someone who had just passed away so recently. They would even correct themselves—he didn't.

I glanced over at Spencer, he thought of it too.

"Sorry for your loss," I said evenly, carefully watching his expression. "The FBI is currently looking into the circumstances of her death. We were hoping you could help us build a clearer picture of who Amber was, especially in the weeks leading up to her disappearance."

Blakeman nodded, leaning back in his chair. "Of course. Anything I can do."

"Were there any changes in her behavior recently?" Spencer asked. His tone was flat—pure analysis.

Blakeman hesitated, "she was... distracted lately," he said. "But I assume it was purely personal. I didn't bother to pry."

Unusual. Coming from someone having intimate relations with Amber, you'd think he'd know—or be interested to say the least.

"Did she ever mention feeling unsafe?" I asked. "Or like she was being watched?"

He frowned. "No. Never."

I looked over to Spencer, who was still studying him. Probably breaking down Blakeman's every word and action.

"And how would you describe your relationship with Ms. Green?"

Blakeman paused, again.

I waited.

Finally, he gave a tight smile. "Professional."

I tilted my head, "strictly?"

His smile didn't move. "Yes."

Sure it was.

Spencer broke in smoothly. "And you didn't notice anything unusual—calls, visitors, anything out of the ordinary?"

"No," Blakeman said, almost too quickly. "If something was going on in her personal life, she kept it private."

We're not going to get anywhere. Not with him.

"Would you mind if we spoke to her coworkers?" I asked. "And if we could have access to the building's security footage?"

His expression shifted for a fraction of a second—discomfort.

"Of course," he said eventually. "I'll have someone assist you."

We stood from our seats. Spencer gave a polite nod, I didn't.

We stepped out of his office. The door shut behind us with a soft click. I didn't say anything at first—just looked at him. He met my eyes.

"He's lying."

"I know."

──────────

We didn't have to look far. Half the office had been watching us like a hawk the second we stepped out of Blakeman's office.

I spotted a young woman by the copying machine—couldn't have been older than twenty-five. Nervous eyes. She looked away the second we made eye contact.

She wore a fitted blazer over a floral blouse, but the tapping of her fingers against the copier tray gave her away. New. Probably an intern. Someone who's not used to this kind of attention.

Spencer noticed too, shooting me a look. I nodded—this one was mine.

"Hello," I said, voice warm. "Misaki Hirose, FBI. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?" I gave her a soft smile—the kind that reached my eyes.

Hopefully this will ease her up a bit—just enough for her to willingly talk.

"Uh..." she hesitated. Looking at anything and everything except me. Spencer stood quietly behind me, calm and still. He knew I had it. "It'll be quick, I promise." I added gently.

That seemed to work—from the way she was avoiding my gaze to the moment her eyes finally met mine. Lips pressed into a thin line.

Her silence dragged, just long enough to make me wonder if she'd bolt or lie.

Then finally—

"No, not at all."

She glanced towards a small glass meeting room. "We can talk there."

"Of course."

She led the way. Spencer and I followed.

The door clicked shut behind us. She sat stiffly in the chair, clutching her lanyard like a lifeline. I took a seat across from her, Spencer to my right.

"Thank you," I started, soft and steady. "What's your name?"

"Gigi. Gigi Palmer."

"Nice to meet you, Gigi." I offered her a kind smile. "We're not here to get anyone in trouble. We're just trying to understand Amber Green's life leading up to her disappearance. Anything you remember, no matter how small, would be a big help."

She nodded, fidgeting.

Spencer leaned forward slightly, just enough to feel present. He remained quiet. Looking over at her from time to time.

Smart—too much pressure would've made her shut down.

"I didn't really know her that well," Gigi said, quickly. "I mean, we talked sometimes, in the break room, but..."

"But?" I prompted, gently.

She hesitated, shifting in her seat, eyes darting to the glass wall—afraid she'd be caught saying something she shouldn't have. She licked her lips, looking down."I don't know if I should be saying this."

"It's okay," I assured her. "You're not under oath. We just want to know what you saw, or heard. No judgement." I leaned forward. Arms resting on the table, hands open, palm facing up. A subtle shift in my body language—enforcing that we're not a threat.

She swallowed. "She was upset. I caught her crying once, when I was working late."

Interesting. "Can you tell me more about that?"

"I couldn't help but ask her if she was alright," Gigi shifted in her seat, again. "At first, she put up a face. She told me it was just stress."

There was a long pause.

I glanced over at Spencer who had his notepad out.

"I told her she can come to me anytime," she continued. "Did she ever take you up on that offer?" I asked. Gigi nodded, looking down at her hands that rested on her lap.

"Yeah," she exhaled. "We went for a drink one night, it was her way of thanking me for checking up on her—that's what she told me anyways."

"We were getting along well, having fun. Then the drinks slowly started to get to her. She was drunk, I was only tipsy." She bit her lip and glanced at the door. Like she was afraid someone might be listening. Despite the room being soundproof, she didn't want to say it out loud—not wanting to break the trust she swore Amber.

────────── Flashback

The two arrived at the bar near their workplace. The atmosphere was dim, low lights bouncing off half-empty glasses and polished wood. Gigi sat beside Amber, at the counter—just across from the bartender who was busy serving drinks to the middle-aged men in suits. The music wasn't too loud—a quiet bossa nova. Perfect for nights like this.

Amber laughed, too loud for the story she was telling about her husband. She leaned back, drink in hand—something pink and sweet with a salt rim—her lipstick smudged just slightly.

"He's a wonderful man, really," Amber said suddenly. Eyes fixed on the melting ice in her glass. She swirled it once. Twice. Didn't drink. "And I ruined it."

Gigi blinked. "Ruined what?"

Amber just smiled at her. That strange, tight smile people wear when they're trying not to cry.

"My marriage," her voice was quiet—ashamed. "We're the perfect couple, who had everything. Even our own happily ever after."

"Well, were," she added, biting the inside of her cheek. "Until good 'ol Amber had to run off and ruin things again, for the hundredth time."

Gigi said nothing, concern written all over her face. She didn't know what to say—everyone in the office thought highly of Amber, how she carried herself. She still remembered the time Amber's husband went and dropped off her lunch she'd forgotten at home.

The way his eyes lit up when she emerged from her office, kissing her softly—afraid he might break her if he was just a little too rough. Gigi yearned for a love like that too, just like the other women who envied Amber's marriage.

"I dreamt of having a family," she said bitterly. "To carry the child of the man I love the most, raise a kid with him." Amber's eyes started to pool with tears. "In the end, I got what I wanted," she gripped her glass a little tighter.

"Just not with the man I wanted to share that dream with."

"I don't know how to tell my husband," a tear rolled down her cheek. "I love him, I really do. That will never change. But he might—once he finds out. I don't want him to leave me, Gigi."

Their eyes met.

"He's my lifeline."

She broke down, head in her hands. Gigi leaned closer to Amber, rubbing her back. They stayed like that for a good minute, then Amber looked up—wiping her tears.

She turned to face Gigi, "but he doesn't want to let me go." Her voice was almost like a whisper—a silent plea for help.

"Who?"

"The big man upstairs." Gigi forced a small laugh. "Blakeman?"

Amber didn't answer. She just reached for her drink and knocked it back like it was water.

Gigi watched her, unsure of what to say. This wasn't what she expected when Amber invited her to "grab some drinks." It started light, fun even. But now, she held the secrets of a woman—who she barely even considered a friend before all this.

"And if he finds out I'm carrying his child," she whispered, "he'll never let me leave his side." Her voice broke. "He'll use it against me. And he'll do whatever it takes to keep me."

Behind the bar, a man wiped down a glass. Not watching. Not directly. But he lingered nearby, pouring a drink a little too slowly.

He heard every word.

──────────

Gigi's voice trailed off, her gaze distant—still caught in the memory. It took a few seconds before she blinked back into the room, remembering where she was.

"Sorry," she said, blinking fast. "I just... I never planned on telling anyone. It feels like I just broke her trust. I didn't want to betray her—"

"You did the right thing," I said gently, reaching out to hold her hand.

"May I ask what bar you went to?" Spencer said—for the first time in a while.

"It's called Lowlights, just around the corner from here. Amber was a regular there."

"Thank you. We appreciate your help." Spencer and I stood together, chairs quietly scraping against the floor.

Spencer glanced at me as we stepped out of the room. I already knew what he was thinking.

Our next stop, Lowlights.

────────── 12:46 P.M. — living room, the Greens' household.

The house was quiet. Too quiet for a home that once held the laughter of two people in love.

JJ sat across from Chase Green, who looked like he hadn't slept in days—hands clasped tightly between his knees, body stiff on the edge of the couch. Hotch stood near the window, watching through the curtain slats.

"Thank you, for having us Mr. Green," JJ started off.

"We're just here to ask some questions, help get us a better understanding of what kind of person Mrs. Green was."

Was. Chase's face winced when he heard that. He still seemed to be in denial.

"Amber is—was, an amazing person. A ray of sunshine, she kept her family close to her heart. Hard-working. Caring. Intelligent. Beautiful." His voice trailed off.

"Has she ever mentioned any work trouble?" JJ asked, voice soft.

Chase shook his head slowly. "Amber preferred to keep her work and personal life private. Said she liked to leave it at the office, so she can put all her focus on me, on us." He smiled through the pain.

Hotch turned toward him. "What about personal stress? Family? Anything out of the ordinary the past few weeks?"

"I mean..." Chase ran a hand through his hair. "We've been trying. To have a baby, I mean. It's been two years. She was starting to feel discouraged." His voice dropped. "But I had hope, I thought she did too."

Hotch exchanged a look with JJ. "Mr. Green, do you know a man named William Blakeman?"

Chase blinked. "Blakeman? Yeah. That's her boss." He paused. "Wait, why? Did something happen?"

JJ leaned forward, "how close were they?"

Chase's brow furrowed. "Not close. I mean... I met him once, he was cold and professional. Didn't seem like the type to get to know his employees outside work. Why are you asking?"

Hotch didn't answer right away.

"We're exploring every angle," Hotch finally said. "When's the last time you saw her?"

Chase swallowed, hard. "I dropped her off at work the day she went missing. She told me she was gonna be working late that night so I shouldn't wait for her." His voice dropped.

"I was getting worried, it was past 12 and she still wasn't home. I gave her a call, said she just got off and she'll be home soon—" his voice cracked. "That was the last time I ever heard her voice," he said in a whisper.

Hotch's phone buzzed. A message from Misaki.

We got something. Amber's co-worker told us everything.

JJ stood. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Green. We'll keep in touch."

Chase nodded slowly. He walked them to the door, but his voice stopped them before they could leave.

"Was it my fault?"

The words hung in the air like smoke. JJ turned, unsure if he meant it rhetorically—but he was staring at her. Desperate for an answer.

Hotch simply said, "we're going to find out who did this." Then he turned and walked out, with JJ following quietly behind.

author's note:

Am I the only one who noticed Spencer and Misaki finishing each other's sentences? This was a lot to write but I enjoyed it nonetheless!! (My favorite part was definitely the little banter between them, hands down.) As always, I hope you enjoyed reading—let me know your thoughts :D

[smokysr]

𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 | 𝐒. 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐝

CHAPTER I — Spirits of the Dead.

pairing: spencer reid x misaki hirose (oc)

content warning: mature themes, violence, abuse, graphic crime scenes, death

summary: A mask. A mirror. A message written in blood. Misaki Hirose steps into the BAU and into the heart of a ritualistic killing that’s far too familiar.

author's note: Hi! Thank you for checking out Undressed. This is the first thing I've written after a 6-year-long hiatus so I'm kind of nervous 😓 With that being said, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing. And please don't be shy to leave your thoughts—I'd love to hear them!

masterlist. | next.

"𝐓𝐡𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞 '𝐦𝐢𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐛-𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞; 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐝, 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐲." — 𝐄𝐝𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐀𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧 𝐏𝐨𝐞.

Humans tend to mask themselves—hiding their ugly truth behind carefully constructed personas. As a child, I never understood why, not until I realized I had been living with one all along. She wore a mask so well. A façade woven from smiles, manners, and soft words. A web full of lies. Pretending to be someone she wasn't. Deceiving everyone who looked up to her.

She sickened me.

Then I started to see them everywhere. Every street, every corner, every handshake, and hollow laugh. Pleasantries. Kind gestures. Polite smiles.

Fake.

All of it—fake.

So I did what had to be done. If you really think about it, I'm doing the world a favor. One less lie, one more truth revealed. And it felt good—no it feels good.

Everything just falls into place...

──────────

"Hey, I just got off work, I'll be home soon honey."

Amber pressed the phone to her ear, fixing her collar and wiping the lipstick smudge under her lip as she hurriedly walked down the dimly lit sidewalk.

"Yeah, love you too. Bye." She hung up.

The sound of her heels echoed against the cracked pavement. The late-night breeze stung her cheeks, and the flickering streetlight above her buzzed like dying insects.

Amber adjusted the strap of her bag—its weight digging into her shoulder—then glanced behind her.

Tonight felt off.

She'd taken this route home dozens of times. It was the only way to avoid being seen leaving his house this late. Hair a mess. Lipstick smudged. His cologne still clung to her skin. She glanced over her shoulder, again. Nothing. Just an empty sidewalk and her shadow.

"You're just overthinking it," she whispered. "Get it together." She picked up her pace. Her heels clacked louder with every step.

Then—

A scuff. Behind her. Quick.

Her breath hitched. She froze. Slowly turning her head. A pair of eyes looked up to her. A cat. It tilted its head,then vanished into the shadows. She let out a shaky breath. "Jesus." She turned back and there he was.

He moved fast. Strong hands yanked her by the hair before she could run. A rag slammed over her mouth. The scent hit her—sharp, chemical, suffocating.

Panic surged through her, clawing at his arms. Her legs kicked, weakening fast. She tried to scream, only for it to come out as a muffled whimper. The world spun. Her vision blurred. Her bag slid from her shoulder and hit the ground with a dull thud.

Then—everything went dark.

──────────

8:30 A.M. — BAU bullpen, Quantico, Virginia.

Soft clicking of keyboards echoed through the bullpen, a quiet rhythm beneath the sharp buzz of overhead fluorescents. The light was cold, sterile—too bright for the heaviness that lingered in the atmosphere. Her heels clicked against the tile with each step. Heads didn't turn, not overtly at least. But she felt them. Glances. The hushed whispers trailing behind her like shadows.

Misaki Hirose was used to it by now.

It was hard to go unnoticed when your last name carried that much weight. Her father made sure of that. A legend in interrogation—praised for extracting confessions. Infamous for using psychological warfare to push suspects to their mental limits and extract confessions. Cold. Cunning. Proud. And he made damn sure everyone knew he wasn't to be crossed.

She admired him for it. But god—she hated it, too.

It was suffocating. Living in his shadow. The constant pressure to live up to expectations. The unspoken comparisons. And being a woman in a male-dominated field only sharpened the edge of it. She wasn't just expected to be good. She had to be perfect.

Her eyes flicked to the door creaking open. Hotch stepped out of his office, voice cutting clean through the room. "Everyone. Conference room. Now."

Misaki followed behind the others, not needing to look up to know that their gazes followed her all the way to the glass walled-room. She sat quietly, her finger tapping against her lap—a muscle memory from moments of anxiety.

Her gaze landed on the lanky man in front of her—quiet and unreadable. Their eyes met briefly before he looked away just as quickly.

"Before we dive in," Hotch said, clearing his throat, "there's someone I want to introduce."

She was used to the judgement. The stares. So why the hell was her heart pounding like this? It felt like being a lamb in a room full of wolves. And they were all watching her bleed.

"This is Agent Misaki Hirose," he continued.

"She's transferring in from the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crimes, where she worked as a behavioral consultant on serial offender cases. She's familiar with our protocols and has contributed to several ongoing investigations from Quantico. Her transition to field duty was approved last month. Effective today, she'll be joining us in the field."

Silence followed. Not cold. Not particularly welcoming either—just measured. Analytical.

Hotch continued, "Agent Hirose graduated top of her class at the Academy. She holds a background in forensic psychology and interrogation analysis, with focused experience in behavioral trauma profiling, ritualistic crime signatures, and confessional psychodynamics. Her expertise will be an asset to this investigation."

He turned to her, then back to the rest of the team. "Now let me formally introduce you to the team."

He started with the man to his left. "Jason Gideon—Senior SSA and our most experienced profiler."

Misaki looked over to Gideon. She already knew him. Jason Gideon has worked closely with Keitaro Hirose back in the day. Her father spoke of him often—with respect, admiration even. Gideon gave her a subtle nod, nothing more. But she caught the familiarity in it.

He remembered.

"Derek Morgan—specializes in obsessional crimes and victimology." Morgan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, sizing her up.

"Elle Greenaway—background in sex crimes. Sharp field instincts." Elle offered a polite nod, her gaze cool but curious.

"Dr. Spencer Reid—our resident genius. PhDs in mathematics, chemistry, and engineering. Eidetic memory. He's consulted more cases than most agents twice his age." Reid looked up briefly. He didn't speak, but his eyes tracked her face studying her—like a puzzle piece he hadn't quite figured where to place.

"Jennifer Jareau—our media liaison. She carefully chooses the cases we go through and coordinates with local law enforcement and press." She smiled, warm and approachable. The first bit of real openness Misaki had felt in the room.

"You will also be working closely with Penelope Garcia—our tech analyst. You'll usually hear her voice before you see her face."

Then it came.

"Hirose... as in Keitaro Hirose?" Morgan asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.

There it was. The recognition, the weight of the name like a rope tightening around her throat. It was bound to come up. "Yes," she gave a polite smile. "He's my father." The words left a bitter taste in her mouth.

A silence followed. Not hostile, not yet—just heavy with everything her last name carried. Greenaway glanced at Jareau—quick, unreadable. Reid, who was across from her, glanced up from the file in his hands.

For a second Misaki thought he might say something—his gaze lingered—but he remained still. Gideon didn't flinch.

"Welcome to the BAU," Jennifer said gently. " Hotch already introduced me, but—I'm JJ." She extended her hand, the smile still lingering.

Misaki nodded, forced herself to mirror it, even though the tension curled in her stomach like smoke.

They didn't have to say it.

The message was clear: she was going to have to prove herself—that she belonged, fast.

The conference room was quiet except for the soft shuffle of case files being handed around. JJ set the stack of files in front of each agent, her calm nature muted by the weight of what they were about to read.

Hotch stood at the head of the table, with a remote in hand. "Victim's name is Amber Green. Twenty-eight. Personal assistant. Body posed, propped upright on the porch floor. Found this morning around 6:00 A.M."

He clicked the remote. The screen behind him lit up with a crime scene photo: A young woman sitting on the floor of her front porch, pale and lifeless. Her lips were freshly painted red—makeup applied post mortem.

In her lap, her left hand clutched a porcelain half-mask, blood splattered across it. The second image showed the mirror leaning beside her.

A message scrawled in blood read: She is unmasked.

"Time of death estimated between 2 and 4 A.M.," Hotch continued. "Chloroform was used. Victim was held for about roughly 16 hours before being killed."

"Husband thought she was working late. Told responding officers she never came home. Crime scene suggests she was killed elsewhere and transported." JJ added.

Reid flipped open the coroner's report. "Signs of prolonged psychological torture. Sensory deprivation, periods of light starvation, choking, forced stress positions. Cause of death is asphyxiation, most likely from the chemical inhalation—chloroform residue was found in the lungs. But what stands out are the secondary injuries. Blunt force trauma to the ribs, ligature marks on the wrists, and–"

He hesitated, "sharp-force trauma localized around the pelvic region. Multiple lacerations to the inner thighs and lower abdomen. The wounds are methodical, not frenzied. No evidence of sexual assault—no semen, no signs of penetration."

Morgan frowned, skimming the file. "She was staged like a warning."

A tense silence followed.

Misaki leaned forward, clearing her throat. "He was punishing her. Not violently with gratification—but with purpose. To humiliate her, bring shame even after death."

Elle glanced up. "Victim was having an affair?"

Hotch nodded. "Confirmed. An ongoing relationship with her employer."

"So to him, she's a liar. Hiding under a mask, representing everything he hates." Misaki's voice lowered, muttering more to herself than the room. "Her body became the canvas for his moral reckoning," Reid added.

"Which means," Gideon's gaze flicked from the file to the screen. "He won't stop there."

Overlapping voices echoed in the walls. Everyone had their own theories and predictions, slowly building a profile with the little information they had of the unsub.

"We have less than 48 hours before he takes another one," Hotch said. "Wheels up in 30."

Chairs scraped against the floor, as everyone stood to go. Reid however remained seated, case file in hand. Misaki went to gather her things. "I don't understand the psychology behind dumping the body outside her own home." She paused, her expression neutral.

Is he talking to me? she thought, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Well..." The word caught on her tongue. Why was she hesitating? She never did this. Not in the field. Not in front of her father. But Spencer Reid wasn't like the others—and somehow, that made it worse. Reid gazed up at her, eyes wide and curious.

"He wants it seen." Misaki looked down, keeping herself distracted with whatever she could get her hands on. "Not by the law enforcement, but by someone close. Family. Friends. In this case, her husband. The mask wasn't put on her, he made sure she held it. He did his job, he made her unveil her mask."

Reid stayed quiet, but intrigued by her explanation. "He wants the victim revealed," she added, looking up to meet his eyes. "Their real self. The mask is both literal and symbolic. The unsub believes they're hiding something, their true identity."

"Like a confession?" Reid asked. She nodded, her voice steady. "He sees himself as some sort of purifier. Someone who's convinced he's exposing the world's liars. To him, he doesn't kill—he peels them back."

The room fell silent for a moment. Derek opened the door, "guys, let's go." glancing at the two before leaving again. Reid tucked his hair behind his ear. "That was a solid read," he said quietly, not quite looking at her.

She blinked. Praise from someone who wasn't sizing her up. It caught her off guard more than it should have. "Thanks," she said, voice lower than before.

"Spencer," his voice soft and quiet. Misaki met his gaze.

"You can call me, Spencer." He gave an awkward smile, walking past her and out the door. Leaving her slightly confused. At least someone on this team acknowledged her. She exhaled, following after Spencer shortly.

──────────

Misaki

The ride to Cleveland was quiet. The soft hum of the jet slowly became white noise as I rested my eyes. The window seat was always my favorite—not because of the view but because I prefer having one side of my body blocked off. It was one less angle exposed. It was comfortable this way. I can already feel myself drifting off.

One might think that the stillness and hushed atmosphere would provide some sort of peace. Solace. But that's when the voices start to get louder. Much harder to contain. I earned my place here—on this team. I had the credentials, the casework, the instinct. Yet somehow, I wonder if I didn't have his name would I even be here?

The whispers could never let me rest. Whether it's in the middle of the day or in deep sleep, they echo in the back of my mind.

"She's only here because of her father."

"I heard she skipped the waitlist in the Academy."

"Hirose? As in Keitaro Hirose? No way she got in clean–"

Spencer.

My eyes snapped open. For once the whispers were hushed. A different voice had slipped into my mind—familiar, yet somehow distant. It didn't belong to me.

Where the hell did that come from? My brows furrowed, face scrunching in confusion.

I shifted in my seat, the leather beneath me creaking as I try to find a position comfortable enough to forget what the hell that was.

Across from me, Spencer glanced up from his book. I caught him watching me—his eyes flicking over my face like he was reading a strange line of text. For all I know, he could be profiling me right now.

His gaze lingered. Curious. Not intrusive, just... observant.

Weird.

No—very weird.

I must have looked more hostile than I meant to, because he tilted his head slightly, like he was figuring out if he had done something wrong.

Geez, does he not know it's rude to stare?

I met his eyes. Sharper than I intended. If he didn't know any better, he probably thought I was pissed at him.

But then, something shifted. His head tipped down, just a little, still watching with his big brown eyes. Not backing down, not pushing either.

He kinda looks like a hamster.

Hm... not quite.

A dear? Maybe.

No—he looked more like a Bambi.

My shoulders relaxed. My face softened. No words were said. No conversation was held. It was just silence. But it didn't feel empty. For a split second it felt like we understood something about each other that neither of us could name.

"You okay?" Spencer broke the silence. His voice was soft—almost calming. Almost.

I swallowed hard, my throat bobbing. "Uh..." the word slipped out before I could stop it. I didn't know what I was supposed to say. This isn't like me. Not at all. I'm quick-witted. Sharp-tongued. I inherited every ounce of my father's ability to talk circles around people.

But right now? I was second-guessing even the simplest answer.

"Yeah, m'fine."

I held his gaze, lips pressed into a thin line. I wanted to look away. I should have. But something in his stare kept me in place.

The silence returned. It wasn't tense like before. It's just... there. And somehow it felt okay.

He gave me a small nod, and turned back into his book. I found myself relaxing—just a little. The voices in my head didn't vanish. They were still there.

But for once, they weren't shouting.

──────────

Amber Green's home, Cleveland, Ohio.

By the time we got to the scene, the morning haze was still clinging to the streets. Police tape surrounded what once was a normal house. A home. My eyes immediately landed where Amber Green's body sat. There was a lot more law enforcement than I expected.

Perhaps it was because the press had been dying to get something for their scoop. Or simply, the neighborhood was just too curious—couldn't help but take a look at the victim and gossip.

The unsub saw her as a liar—a woman who cheated and deserved to be punished. But she had a life. She was a neighbor. A daughter. A wife. She was human.

My gaze averted from the crime scene to the lead detective who greeted Hotch. "SSA Hotchner," "Detective Carter." The air was thick. The BAU wasn't the only one racing against time to catch the unsub, the pressure was getting to the jurisdiction. The exhausted look on Carter's face says it all.

"Doctor Reid, Agent Hirose," Hotch introduced us. Detective Carter held out his hand to shake mine. His grip was firm. It was subtle—but not enough to go unnoticed. Taking note of how his demeanor had shifted slightly when my last name left Hotch's mouth.

He must have recognized the name.

Carter didn't say it out loud. He didn't have to. The look he gave was the same one I've been reading since I was twelve. Disbelief, maybe. Intimidation. Or worse, pity.

Spencer on the other hand, only gave a small wave and a polite smile.

An attempt at it at least? Probably the most social effort he'd made all morning. Bonus points for trying, I guess.

Carter led us into the crime scene. Spencer and I followed behind Hotch. We ducked under the tape. The officers had already done their routine. We were here to gather our own intel. See if the locals missed anything—which they usually do.

The stench of iron and rust was sharp. God, I could never get used to the smell. Blood had dried at the edges of the floorboards, like it had tried to seep into the wood but couldn't finish the job.

Hotch assigned me to work with Reid—said our minds "seemed to connect." Whatever that meant.

Knowing Hotch, it was just an excuse he made. He'd never admit that he paired me with Spencer because we were closer in age. Figured he's a good start to ease me into the team. I appreciate the gesture though.

I knelt down, taking a closer look at the body. Slipped on my gloves before touching anything. The marks. Bruises. Cuts. Lacerations. I've seen crime scene photos back when I was working in the NCAVC—but nothing prepares you for the transition from screen to reality.

This wasn't about what she deserved. It was about what he left behind.

[smokysr]

🗂️ 𝐅𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐔 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS UNIT – INTERNAL PERSONNEL FILE

🔍 PERSONNEL FILE: REID, SPENCER W.

FULL NAME: REID, SPENCER WALTER

CLEARANCE LEVEL: 04

POSITION: Supervisory Special Agent

CURRENT ASSIGNMENT: Behavioral Analysis Unit – Quantico, VA

AGE: 24

STATUS: Active Duty

LANGUAGES: English (native), fluent in over 10 languages including Russian, Mandarin, ASL, Arabic, Latin, and Spanish

🔗 EDUCATION & SPECIALTIES

Degrees:

— Ph.D. in Mathematics

— Ph.D. in Chemistry

— Ph.D. in Engineering

— B.A. in Psychology

— B.A. in Sociology

— M.A. in Philosophy

— (Ongoing coursework in Linguistics and Physics)

Training Notes:

— Entered FBI Academy under age exemption

— Firearms certified, though consistently below field averages

— Behavioral science focus with emphasis on data-driven prediction models

Field Expertise:

— Geographic and statistical profiling

— Linguistic and cognitive analysis

— Deviant behavioral patterns in ritualized offenders

— Long-term memory data reconstruction

— Trauma-linked deductive processing

📁 PROFILE OVERVIEW

Dr. Spencer Reid’s entrance into the BAU was unorthodox — recruited not for his field experience, but for his mind. At 24, he’s the second youngest active Supervisory Special Agent in Behavioral Analysis Unit history. He doesn’t command rooms. He watches them, quietly and thoroughly.

Academically unmatched and socially disoriented, Reid walks the line between genius and vulnerability. His memory is flawless; his instincts, fast but human. He rarely speaks emotionally — but when he does, it lingers.

Most agents lean on experience. Reid leans on patterns, empathy, and a mind that rarely sleeps. He doesn’t say much about what keeps him awake. He just keeps showing up.

⚠️ INTERNAL FLAGGING

— Prone to over-identification with victims, particularly younger or intellectually gifted individuals

— History of isolation and insomnia

— Firearms aversion noted during initial training, mitigated by current tactical competency

— Avoids confrontation unless morally compelled; known to internalize emotional weight post-case

— Internal note: “Underestimated often. Not a weakness — a mirror.”

🔒 CLASSIFIED COMMENTARY

“His empathy doesn’t come from sympathy. It comes from seeing the worst and still choosing to understand.” — SSA A. Hotchner

“Spencer sees the patterns before we do. In data. In people. In silence." — SSA D. Morgan

“He doesn’t ask for your truth. But he’ll know if you’re lying. And for some reason, that makes you want to tell him everything.” — SSA M. Hirose (confidential, unsigned)

[smokysr]

🗂️ 𝐅𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐔 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS UNIT – INTERNAL PERSONNEL FILE

🔍 PERSONNEL FILE: HIROSE, M.

FULL NAME: HIROSE, MISAKI

CLEARANCE LEVEL: 04

POSITION: Supervisory Special Agent

CURRENT ASSIGNMENT: Behavioral Analysis Unit – Quantico, VA

FORMER POST: Behavioral Analyst – NCAVC, Critical Response Branch (Quantico, VA)

Assigned to ViCAP with focus on ritualistic offender profiling and trauma-linked homicide signatures

AGE: 23

STATUS: Active Duty

NATIONALITY: Japanese-American

BIRTHPLACE: Brooklyn, NY

🔗 EDUCATION & SPECIALTIES

Degree: B.S. in Psychology, Minor in Forensic Linguistics

— Graduated early via accelerated placement program

— Top of her class at the Academy

Field Expertise:

— Behavioral trauma profiling

— Ritualistic crime signature analysis

— Confessional psychodynamics

— Forensic language patterning

📁 PROFILE OVERVIEW

Assigned early to the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC) under ViCAP, Misaki Hirose built a quiet but efficient track record linking unsolved ritualistic homicides. Her work was meticulous, precise — but her transfer to the BAU wasn’t met without whispers.

As the daughter of Keitaro Hirose, a retired FBI interrogator with a legacy built on controversial confessions, Misaki’s entrance into the unit stirred speculation. Despite graduating at the top of her class and outperforming in simulations and casework, some still believe doors opened too easily for her.

She doesn’t answer those questions. She just works. Cold in the field, reserved at briefings, methodical in her approach — she has a reputation not for presence, but for precision.

Her move to the BAU followed a high-profile ViCAP case closed under her psychological reconstruction. No official statement was filed, but those who know her say: she stopped waiting to be seen, and stepped forward anyway.

⚠️ INTERNAL FLAGGING

— High-stress tolerance, paired with emotional detachment

— Repeated deflection during psych evals

— Declines voluntary debriefing

— Minimal engagement in team bonding

— Internal note: “Performance exceptional. Personal affect deliberately contained.”

🔒 CLASSIFIED COMMENTARY

“She doesn’t blink when others flinch. Makes you wonder what she’s already seen.” — Unattributed peer review

“If she’s running from something, she brought it with her.” — SSA D. Morgan (off record)

“You don’t need to be loud to haunt a room. You just need to carry the right kind of silence.” — SSA S. Reid (personal observation)

[smokysr]

❝ 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 ❞

Grief isn't always loud. Sometimes it speaks in rituals, in the way you fold your coat or avoid your own reflection.

🖋️ Spencer Reid x Misaki Hirose (OC)

📜 ongoing · mature

🎞️ genre: psychological horror, dark procedural, angst, slow-burn romance, literary noir

synopsis: Misaki Hirose carries her father’s legacy like a curse — sharp, quiet, and hard to put down. The BAU offers her a place to prove herself, but the case offers no mercy. Between bloodstains and quiet glances, she starts to unravel in front of the last person she expected: Spencer Reid.

WARNING ⚠️

This fic contains psychological horror, graphic crime scenes, grief, emotional trauma, and obsessive themes.

Reader discretion is advised.

𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒

CHAPTER I — Spirits of the Dead

A mask. A mirror. A message written in blood. Misaki Hirose steps into the BAU and into the heart of a ritualistic killing that’s far too familiar.

CHAPTER II — Something Human

Secrets crawl under the skin. A confessional. An arbiter. Someone who delivers punishment when the truth isn't volunteered.

CHAPTER III — Old Books, Cedar Wood, and Chamomile

She’s offered warmth, but doesn’t know how to hold it. The case sharpens. And somewhere between guilt and grief, she lets Spencer in.

CHAPTER IV — Coming Soon . . .

📁 𝐀𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 :

• Misaki Hirose: Personnel File

• Spencer Reid: Personnel File

• Playlist

✉️ 𝐈𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 & 𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

The ask box is always open — for theories, emotions, scene breakdowns, or quiet thoughts you don't know where else to place.

Tag reaction — #undressed fic

All content under Undressed — including its original characters, plot, dialogue, and aesthetic — is © smokysr.

Do not copy, repost, or translate any part of this work without explicit permission.

Plagiarism will result in a public takedown and permanent block. This story was built from personal grief — not for theft.

[smokysr]

find me on . . .

links to all my socials !

x: smkysr

wp: smkyrs

ao3:

tt: smkysr

[smokysr]

生きがい . . .

KY ⊹₊ ⋆ she/her. 18. spencer reid enthusiast.

✉️ inbox is open for thoughts, questions, or writing screams.

recent works

Undressed — S.R. [status: ongoing]

masterlist. socials. ask me anything.

smokysr2025 do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works.

[smokysr]

Debunking a Dinosaur Movie | S. Reid

Pairing: Sub!Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: When your boyfriend decides to point out the scientific inaccuracies of a movie you like, you make him pay for it.

Content Warning: s2 glasses reid is a warning, edging, dry humping, handjob, unprotected pinv

Author's note: first official smut fic kinda nervous. ive never written a sub character before but pls accept my humble offering. all the info here is from google and i dont think the research he mentions aligns with the s2 timeline but who cares we’re here for sub spence anyway not accuracy

A thud hits the floor of your apartment as Spencer drops his bag by the couch. He falls back unceremoniously on the cushions and lets out a sigh and you can't help but chuckle lightly at the sight of him, limbs sprawled out and head leaned back, eyes shut as he savors the feeling of the softness of your couch again after spending hours on his office chair.

“Rough day?” You ask as you wipe your hands on a kitchen towel after finishing the last of your dishes.

Spencer hums, “Papers upon papers upon papers..”

“I thought you liked paperwork.” You snort as you make your way to him, he turns his head to watch as you do so. His nose scrunches and his glasses shift slightly, your heart almost bursts out of your chest at the adorable sight, “Not when it feels like I’m drowning in it.”

You gaze at the way he looks right now; relaxed, the position of his head has his neck bared to the open, you want to sink your teeth in them, his legs spread wide and oh, it makes you dizzy. You avert your eyes and find his own already staring into you, a small smile on his pink lips. You're not exactly subtle with ogling him, never have been.

Spencer extends a hand to you, you take it and he leads you to sit on his lap. He twines his fingers with yours as he brings them up to his lips, he places a soft kiss and asks, “And what did you do today?”

“Not much,” You murmur, “Bought some groceries, laundry, and, oh! Jurassic Park came on the TV so naturally, I sat through the whole thing.” Your head tilts with a shy smile.

The boy grins, “Naturally.” His hands move to hold your waist as amusement fills his face, “I don’t get your fascination with it, it's not even accurate!”

A scoff leaves your lips at his statement and your hands come up to his shoulders, “Okay, first of all, dinosaurs are cool, I’m sorry your big brain doesn't understand that, and second, who cares about accuracy? It’s a sick movie. They literally brought back dinosaurs!” Spencer can’t help his little laugh at your defensive tone.

“I care about accuracy.” His fingers lightly squeeze your side and there goes that nose scrunch again, you fight the urge to just lean in and bite it. “You can't just clone dinosaurs through preserved DNA because it degrades over time due to environmental factors, they eventually break down and it would be extremely difficult to extract it from fossils. Even if it was preserved in amber, like in the movie, complete ancient DNA would not survive millions of years.”

And just like that, his mouth is rambling and his hands are moving against your waist, as if he can't stop the gestures to accompany his words but at the same time does not want to let go of you.

“They actually did a research once using a technique that sequences everything within a sample so it can pick up small strands of DNA. They used samples that were around 10,600 years old and they tried that technique to extract DNA from insects trapped inside copal, which is resin that hasn't fully hardened into amber, and they couldn't find any viable DNA. If they couldn't extract from copal then it's unlikely they could do it with amber.”

You're not sure if you heard every single word that he said but you hummed in response. How could you focus when Spencer looks so delectable in front of you? The way he’s looking at you right now with those soft eyes of his behind glasses, brows a little furrowed as he awaits your response. As handsome as he looks when he’s spewing science facts like it's nothing, you're not exactly sure if you appreciate him ruining Jurassic Park.

As if a little devil on your shoulder whispered in your ear, an idea forms in your head. If he wants to debunk the movie then you’ll let him. “Mhm, what else, baby? Wanna hear all of it.” You murmur as you tuck a stray of hair behind his ear, you don't miss the way his cheeks slightly turn pink.

Spencer’s brows furrow further, surprised that you’d want to hear about the inaccuracies of your favorite movie, but because he likes to give you what you want, he obliges. “Even if the DNA somehow was preserved and they successfully extracted it, and cloned it, there's also the issue of the dinosaurs’ ability to live in our environment.”

“What do you mean?” You tilt your head, egging him on to continue. Just as he opens his mouth to do so, you move against his crotch ever so slightly, so slightly that Spencer isn't sure that it happened at all or if you had even meant to do it but still, his breath hitches and he blanks for a moment.

Spencer realizes that maybe he shouldn't have started this discussion at all because now all he wants is to feel you. He’s not sure if he can tell you all the science when his want is slowly clouding every corner of his mind.

Your finger comes up to tap his cheek and softly ask, “Hey, where'd you go, genius? You haven't answered my question, something bothering you?”

The way you say it with a little glimmer in your eyes makes him think there's something being plotted against him but he can't bring himself to further think about it because your thumb is now stroking his cheek in delicate little lines, all while your eyes never leave his.

He swallows and shakes his head, “No, uh,” What was he talking about again? Oh, right. “The Earth's environment then is different than now. It's possible that some dinosaurs wouldn't be able to survive in our environment. Tyrannosaurus rexes or T-rexes, for example, they—” Spencer cuts off with a gasp when you move your hips against him again, firmer this time and there's no mistaking it for an accident.

“They what, hm?”

“Evil woman.” He whispers, you laugh and Spencer thinks he's fucked. His cock is stirring in his pants and he's suffering by the second.

You can feel him getting harder and the way his struggle is so obvious on his face makes it all the more fun for you. “Keep going or you won't get what you want.” Your voice is honey sweet and to make yourself clear, you lean in close to his lips and give a delicious roll on his growing erection that has his eyes fluttering shut, a small sound emitting from his pretty lips, even it affected you. While you enjoy seeing Spencer worked up, you’re suffering just as much. It's taking a lot of willpower to refrain yourself from just kissing him breathless and riding him until he's crying.

You press your lips to the corner of his mouth, trailing kisses down to his jaw, his breath is hot against your cheek and you feel the heaving of his chest beneath your palms.

“Please,” Spencer whispers when you kiss down his neck.

“You know what to do if you want more, honey.” You nudge his nose and he looks at you with the prettiest doe eyes known to man because Spencer does know what he needs to do but it was worth a shot.

Ignoring the way you start running your hands up and down his chest, he does what you want, he’s a good boy after all.

“T-rexes lived in the Cretaceous period which would be about 145 to 66 million years ago and oh,” He almost whimpers when you start moving against him again, this time you don’t stop. You resume your kisses on his neck and Spencer is so hard it hurts, “The average global temperature at that time was about 4°C higher than today–” He moans when you suck on that sweet spot on his neck and his hips buck up without meaning to. “They’d have to adapt to lower temperatures.”

You squeeze his shoulder to try to stop your eyes from closing and focus on his moving lips but the friction feels so good against your covered core that you can't help your own sounds of pleasure. His fingers find their way under your shirt and grip the skin tightly, maybe it's a little cheating that he's trying to guide your movements so you're humping him harder but you don't say anything.

Heat is coiling in Spencer's stomach, he can't take much more of this, “I can't. Please, touch me.” His voice sounds broken and something about it is so sexy that it increases your arousal tenfold.

“I am touching you, baby.” You coo and dear God, the boy pouts. You want to ruin him.

“Kiss me, please,” Spencer mumbles, doe eyes boring into yours like he knows you love it when he looks at you like that, like a puppy asking for a treat.

You snake a hand to the back of his head and let your lips descend to his. He moans like his thirst has been quenched after being deprived of water for so long. The kiss is messy, it's filthy, and Spencer's head is spinning as he chases each movement of your lips. His pants are so tight, his cock straining underneath them, and when your tongue finds its way inside his mouth? He’s gone. His glasses are in the way but neither of you makes an effort to remove it. He looks hotter with them anyway. Your fingers pull his hair just hard enough that his head tilts back, the moan that leaves his mouth is downright sinful even when it's muffled by your own.

Spencer can't think, there is nothing in his mind except you, your tongue, and your hips rutting against him. He’s so close to coming and he can't believe he's about to cream in his pants, talk about being a loser. Oh, is he sorely mistaken.

As if you could tell he’s close, your hips still and you pull your face away from him. Spencer whines. God, he looks so wrecked, lips are swollen and red, his glasses are crooked and all fogged up. You want to have this image of him engraved in your mind.

“What? No, please, come back,” He almost cries, you have to take his hands to keep him from moving your body against him.

“But you look so pretty like this, Spence.” His cheeks flush a deep rouge and he squirms underneath you, “All fucked out for me and I haven't even touched your cock properly.”

“Fuck, please, please, please,” At this point, Spencer is not above begging on his knees for you to fuck him but then again, he’s never above being on his knees for you. “Please, I’ve been good, haven't I?”

You so desperately want to see if he would actually cry from being deprived of your touch but your cunt is aching and you’re sure you’ve soaked your panties, you're torturing yourself almost as much as you're torturing him, so you give in. You lift yourself up from his lap and make quick work of undoing his belt and pulling his pants, along with his boxers, down his legs. Spencer lets out a groan of relief when his cock is free from its confinement, it slaps against his stomach, flushed red and leaking.

“Look at that,” You hum, “So pretty, baby.”

You swipe a thumb over the tip, a broken moan emitting from Spencer. Spitting on your palm, you wrap your hand around his aching cock and begin stroking him.

“Oh, yes, ngh!–” Spencer wails, head throwing back against the couch and arching into your touch, “Thank you,”

“Always so polite, aren’t you? Such a good boy for me, honey.” You coo, voice all sweet and the praise sends him reeling, meanwhile his pathetic moans has you clenching around nothing.

All it takes is a few more strokes and your voice in his ear, and he’s close again.

“I’m, hngh, I'm so close, please.” He gasps and moans, his jaw slack, he's fucking up into your hand, brows furrowed hard. Your sly chuckle is his only warning before you remove your hand from him, denying him his orgasm once more. Spencer is now fully convinced you're a devil— a devil with an angel’s face, disguised in pretty smiles and sugary sweetness.

Fuck! Just fuck me, please! Spencer is so tempted to let those words just slip out and he wonders if you’d slap him for it, he bites his tongue and decides to not push his luck, although the thought of you slapping him is turning him on more than he'd like to admit. You laugh in his face, cruel and mocking the way he's pouting, and Goddamnit, Spencer is so in love with you.

“I know, baby, I’m so mean, aren't I?” You grab his chin, faux sympathy on your face. He can only whine in response. “Don’t worry, honey, you can have it now.”

With a quick peck on his lips, you lift yourself off his lap to take your shorts and underwear off, Spencer eagerly helping you. You settle on top of him once more, “You ready, baby?”

His head nods so comically fast, you take his cock and let his tip rub up against your clit a couple times, a little whimper leaving your lips at the stimulation after spending so much time focusing on Spencer's pleasure. You slowly sink down on him, a gasp emitting from the both of you, you take a second once he's fully inside because you feel so full it's a little overwhelming.

You want to drag this out a little longer but you've reached a point of pure hornyness that you physically can't bring yourself to take it slow. Poor Spencer almost shouts when you just start bouncing on him, you're so wet and it feels like he’s died and Heaven is in between your legs.

“God, you feel so good, baby, fuck,” You moan out. Spencer's hand has moved up your back, his fingers are gripping your shirt to death, his mouth is moving incessantly, mumbling and slurring out incoherently.

“Look at you going all dumb for me, so pussydrunk you can't even speak properly, huh?” You grab his flushed face, gripping his cheeks so his lips meet in a cute pout.

Spencer whines. “Use your words, pretty, I know that genius brain can do it, come on.” You struggle to get the words out, your body feels like it's on fire, your thighs are aching but you can't stop, not when he feels so delicious inside of you.

“Fuck, feels s’good– ngh, don't stop, please.” He manages to let out, he peels his eyes open and groans, you look so fucking beautiful as you ride him like there's no tomorrow, your mouth formed in a ‘o’ shape and your eyes fluttering shut as you make the prettiest sounds he's ever heard. It's the sight of you that does it for him. He gasps, “I’m so close, fuck,–”

“Not yet.” You grit out as you continue to grind down on him. Spencer feels like he's going to fucking explode. “I can’t, please, I can't!”

Your forehead leans on his, your mouths are so close to each other that he feels your hot breath on his skin, he wants you to kiss him again.

“Just a little more, baby, I promise.” You say as you move faster, desperately chasing your own pleasure. Tears well up in Spencer's eyes, he can't hold his orgasm off and he's certain he’s gonna combust on this couch if he doesn't come soon. The knot in your stomach grows tighter and tighter, your moans get higher in pitch and it drowns out Spencer’s pathetic cries, his cock is continuously hitting that sweet spot inside you until you feel like you're about to burst.

“I need to cum, please, can I?” He chokes out. You nod, “Mhm, fuck, cum for me, honey.” Spencer tenses all over, his back arching from the couch as he finally comes, his moans coming out in a whiny pitch. You feel the warmth of his release in you as you hit your own orgasm.

“Fuck, too much!– hngh,” He squirms and cries underneath you as you ride him through your orgasm. When you finally come to a stop, you're both heaving, silent as you come down your highs.

You wipe the single tear that has run down his cheek and place a sweet kiss on his lips. “I love you.” Spencer mumbles and you smile, “I love you too, Spence, even if you don't like Jurassic Park.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, “I won't ever try to get between you and dinosaurs again.”

“Probably a good idea.”

~•~

Do not steal or repost on other platforms without permission.

[smokysr]

As I continue writing Undressed, I’ve come to realize I’ve been bleeding quietly into every line. I didn’t mean to write myself into the story, but grief has a way of showing up even when you don’t name it.

I guess I am like Misaki—not in a self-insert way, but in the burdens we carry. The silent battles we've fought, and keep fighting.

If this story has a heartbeat, it’s grief. Identity. The painful act of transformation.

Every chapter has become a kind of reckoning. A quiet burial of identities I no longer recognize. I think I've been grieving a version of myself that's already dead and buried. And in the process, I'm figuring out who's left behind.

Because I'm not just writing about pain—I'm writing from it. And those are two very different things.

Honestly, it scares me.

That someday, someone will come to read it and they'll be able to see right through me. Through the masks I've worn. The uglier truths. The softness I've hidden. My most vulnerable self is laid bare in every word I've written.

I just hope when that time comes—when someone finally sees me for who I am through this story—they'll understand. And maybe they'll look at me with kinder eyes than the ones I've used on myself.

[smokysr]

this is so sick i love him sm 😭

Keiji is a total victim to love boners when you two get together. Before you two started dating he would have classified his sex drive as average. He starts to notice how hard he gets almost any time you two are together and feels so embarrassed. He's an adult, he never let his hormones get the better of him when he was younger and can't believe it's happening now. Always tries to hide them from you, but is unsuccessful 80% of the time. He's very grateful that you aways offer to help him with his little problem

[smokysr]

Just thinking about Keiji who starts going to the gym with Bokuto and Kuroo to impress you 🤭

[smokysr]

genius. [akaashi keiji x reader] masterlist

>>You struggle to pay rent on your limited graduate student salary, and your worst enemy agrees to help you out.

or

You realize you need to find a partner for your faceless porn account, and Akaashi Keiji is the only man who meets all your requirements.<<

series status: ongoing. ↺

spotify playlist ⇝

tags: "grad student by day, porn star by night" akaashi keiji, linguistics phd students akaashiyn, welcome to the one thing i know too much about :')), academic rivals to lovers, smut, fluff, angst, dom!akaashi keiji (DOM AKAASHI SUPREMACY), porn with feelings, akaashi gets yellow-carded in their color consent system but i swear it's not what it looks like, dom/sub dynamics, akaashi's a brat tamer, side pairing kurootsukki <3

a/n: welcome to the 'academic rivals to lovers dom!akaashi keiji' series that's been haunting me for weeks now :) hope you enjoy :)

✗ !!! minors do not interact !!! ✗

chapter 1. october 16th. ⊗ [wc: 17.5k]

chapter 2. ricochet. ⊗ [wc: 29.6k]

chapter 3.

chapter 4.

chapter 5.

chapter 6.