#unsub reader

[incognit0slut]

Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

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

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Unsub!Reader

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

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

You wanted the world to burn.

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

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

Please.

I have a family. Think of my children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

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

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like a public declaration?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Our first John Doe is identified?”

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

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

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

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

“Scarlett!”

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

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

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

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

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

You started to move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~

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

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

“Yeah, I’m… fine.”

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

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

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

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

“Reid?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ladies.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Eidetic, actually.”

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

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

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

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

“My number.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What… what are you trying to say?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hope that means you were impressed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How was that?” He asked.

“Pretty impressive.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you say that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You need to earn them.”

“How?”

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

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

“Okay. Now what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your lips were so soft.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope, can’t say that I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

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

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

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

He was going to regret this.

“What do you have in mind?”

He was really going to regret this.

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His grin widened. “Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you couldn’t let it. Not now.

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

There was a message.

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

Dr. Reid :)

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

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

I had a great time. Can we meet again?

Just thinking about you. Hope you're okay. 

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

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

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

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

Can I see you tonight?

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

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

So you took a deep breath and crafted another lie.

I have work tonight. I'm sorry.

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

“You found anything?” Derek asked.

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

“What kind of club?”

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

“And all members have this tattoo?”

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

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

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

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

“What kind of activities are we talking about?”

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

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

“Over three hundred registered members.”

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

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

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

Derek leaned in. “We have a name?”

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

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

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

“You can do that?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?”

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

“Where?”

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

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

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

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

“Reid, let’s go.”

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

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

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

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

~*~

You weren’t here. 

I have work tonight, I’m sorry.

You weren’t here.

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

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

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

Spencer felt his heart sank. “Again?”

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

“Did she mention anything to you?”

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

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

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

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

“What was that all about?”

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

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

“I’m fine."

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

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

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

“Found something new?” Derek asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you find?”

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

“How many men were involved?” 

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

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

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

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

“Sending it now,” Penelope confirmed.

“Garcia?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reid.”

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

“Reid.”

The reality made him feel sick.

“Reid!”

He needed to get out of here.

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

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

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

“What happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reid…”

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think—“

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

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

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

“But—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

And you loved it.

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

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

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

That was when you heard the ringing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't want any help.”

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

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

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

“…Spencer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t do this… please.”

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

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

Your grip on the phone tightened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spencer, stop.”

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

“Spencer…”

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

His words struck a nerve.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your voice broke, heavy sobs wracking your body.

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

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

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

“That’s not what I—”

“And you’re fucking wasting my time.”

You slammed the phone down, cutting off the connection.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You felt a smile forming on your lips.

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

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

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

The fire was for them, too.

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

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

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

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

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

“Reid.”

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

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

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

“I—I’m sorry too,” he whispered.

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

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

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

He shook his head. “We could.”

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

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

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

“Dance with me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And nothing else did.

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

~*~

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

So I can feel you in my arms.

Nobody's gonna come and save you,

We pulled too many false alarms.”

~*~

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

[aswanlake]

“The victims had no defense wounds, which means it was a blitz attack. we’ve confirmed that they all didn’t know the same person so it couldn’t have been a person of interest and so far none of them have anything in common.” Spencer Reid was truly stumped, the BAU following suit. it was unusual for the BAU to get stuck on a case especially for a week, they would have at least had a profile by now or a suspect in mind and yet they were all stumped, completely unaware of what could connect them to one another.

Morgan had given up on brainstorming an hour ago, going through a book that they had found in a victim’s house, it was just a normal book, the occasional annotations from the victim but that was it. it was ironically a murder mystery set in the same place as the first victim. Spencer’s eyes glanced over from the board that he had used to capture his time and escape from his own guilt and inability to solve this case to examine the book that Morgan had before it clicked. “Morgan, give me that.” Morgan chuckled but handed it to him, “What happened to your manners, pretty boy?”

Spencer raised his hand in apology but never said any actual words, scouring through the book, taking it apart by removing the sleek cover as his fingers grazed over the author’s name. “I’ve read some of her books before.” He mumbled, Morgan heard it, as did everyone else but they knew that wasn’t the point he was trying to make so they let him continue. “You read a lot of books, pretty boy. What makes this one so special?” Spencer’s body turned towards the box of evidence, splaying the photos they had from the crime scenes onto the table.

Just as he had suspected, skinny fingers pointing to something in three different photos. “They all own the same book- this book. Same author just different covers, I knew I’d seen it before, I just didn’t remember where.” That was the downside of his withdrawal and recovery symptoms, a boy with a usually spot on, unbreakable mind now has cracks and slips every now and then. He was normal and hated it. Hotch nodded at his observation, the coincidence not leaving his mind anytime soon. “That is true but Garcia already checked for book clubs, libraries, anything that would have been in common with these people, any indication that they would be in the same place at the same time.” He spoke, voice rough with lack of sleep but Spencer responded with a shake of his head, pulling a book out of his bag— different cover, same author.

“This author does something different, instead of doing meet and greets or book clubs she does one on one meetings with whoever applies.” He swallowed, hating to admit this about a good author, a well respected author who had collected a lot of fame in a short amount of time but it was the only sensible option on the table. “Our unsub is the author. She kills people and then uses them in her books, getting close to them with the one on one meets which is why no one fought back because they were so excited to meet their idol that-” “they let their guard down.” Morgan finished, immediately grabbing all of his stuff, the team following in short. “We need to meet this author.” JJ said, confident in Spencer’s word. “Well you’re in luck. Boy wonder applied for a one on one meet and greet.. and it was just approved.” Garcia’s hands glided from her computer, showing the accepted letter. A computer automated thank you message along with promises of a signed book and your face right next to it.

a/n : if you’d like to be added to the taglist please comment below. reblogs appreciated!! 🤍

© aswanlake do not copy, steal, translate, repost any of my works

[tjwritesfanfics]

Perfect plan (Aaron Hotchner)

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Unsub!Reader

Summary: You had no problem teaming up with George Foyet if it meant you could get rid of Haley Hotchner.

Rating: Angst

Warning: Death, killing, no one knows the reader is involved, a lot of cm darkness and unsettling nature, the reader is very convinced she's doing the right thing

Words: 1809

Main Masterlist | Criminal Minds Masterlist

An thank you to @tudorscrown for the idea!

You've loved Aaron Hotchner since high school. 

He's loved Haley since then too. And she won. Not that she deserved him. The only good thing to come from her was Jack. Sweet little Jack was the only thing keeping you from killing Haley right out. Instead you became “best friends” with her. That way you could spend as much time with Aaron and Jack as you wanted. 

You were there to watch her grow insecure with Aaron being away all the time, pretending to comfort her and reassure her of how much he loved her and jack. Honestly you were amazed by your own acting skills and the ability to hold back what you truly wanted to say to her.

Aaron is the best husband.

You’re such a bitch and don’t deserve his love.

He should be with me.

You are so lucky you have the sweetest little boy on the planet otherwise I would snap your fucking neck.

But you held back.

Even when Haley and Aaron divorced, you knew his heart still belonged to her, leaving no room for you. You knew that if you were to have him all to yourself, she would have to die.

It was only a matter of time that you met George Foyet. He came up to you, planning on killing you, the start of his plan to get back at Aaron, but you convinced him that you knew a better way.

Why just kill the people Aaron Hotchner was close to? Why not do a little psychological torture first? George liked the way you thought and, though begrudgingly, agreed to spare Jack. That took some time for him to agree with, but you refused to help him and in fact actively worked against him and promised him he would never get revenge.

Deep inside he knew you would and make his plans ten times more difficult, so he agreed. He just needed a little bit of insurance first. And that is why he stabbed you several times before leaving you bleeding in the park. Reaching for your phone, you called Aaron.

“A Aaron...”

“Y/n? What’s wrong?” You smile hearing the panic in his voice. Ah to know how much he loved you. “What happened?”

“Foyet-" You swallow the pain of the wounds starting to really hurt. You would have to remember to return the favor when you saw him again. "H he…”

You needed to say no more for Aaron to spring into action, getting your location by Garcia hacking into your phone, calling 911, and rushing to your side. He held your hand in the ambulance as you weakly recalled the “events” of the evening to him. How Foyet approached you, said something about a deal, and proceeded to stab you.

“Shhh,” Aaron brushed back your hair, “You did good. Rest now.” You close your eyes, his presence warming your heart.

It was only a matter of time before Aaron realized that Foyet would come after you again plus his ex-wife and son. He knew he would have to protect you all by putting you in Witness Protection and sending you far away.

It was only a matter of time before Aaron realized that Foyet would come after you again plus his ex-wife and son. He knew he would have to protect you all by putting you in Witness Protection and sending you far away.

You kept Foyet in the loop on not only your location, but the location of Haley and Jack, who both of the handlers assigned to your cases. In turn he gave you updates on Aaron.

Though you were used to not seeing him for long periods of time, you were missing him. The only thing keeping you going was the thought of being with Aaron and Jack.

Finally, the day came.

You were seated beside Jack, watching Foyet and him play with his little toy soldiers, your emotions completely in check as to not give away the ending of this day or how giddy you were about it.

“Here. Call this number.” Foyet handed Haley the phone. She pressed call, placing it on speaker, freezing when Aaron’s voice came over the phone. “Foyet.”

“Aaron? You’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

She looked so confused until Foyet looked up at her, the pieces falling into place. “Oh Aaron.” She breathed, tears welling in her eyes.

“He can hear us, right?”

“Yes.” She wiped at her face, her tears sparking more joy in you. “I am so sorry.”

“Haley, show him no weakness. No fear.”

“I know… Sam and Y/n told me all about him.”

“Is she there with you? Is Jack?” Always the caring man, checking in on your and his son. “They are. I is he?”

“No, Sam is fine.”

You and Foyet knew Kassmeyer was dead, he had to pretend to figure out where he would get your locations without revealing your involvement. He told you that he was going to stop by there and kill him for a little bit of fun.

“Oh Aaaron, Aaron, Aaron-” You didn’t like the condescending voice he was using towards him. “Is that why your marriage fell apart? Because you’re a liar?”

You bit the inside of your cheek so you didn’t roll your eyes. Aaron wasn’t a liar, he was just a protector of the truth. Turning back to Jack, you push back his hair, assuring him everything was going to be okay as you fill your eyes with terror passing between Foyet and Haley.

“Tell Jack I need him working the case.”

Haley nods, looking over to Jack and you. “Jack? Did you hear that?” Jack jumped up from his spot, rushing to his mother to take the phone. “Hi daddy.”

You couldn't help but smile a little at Jack. He was such a sweet little boy and honestly didn’t deserve to deal with this. It was the only guilt you held being a part in all of this.

Aaron told Jack that he needed him working the case with him again before telling him to hug his mother. Haley squeezed him tight, knowing this would be the last time she got to ever hold him before letting him go, watching him run out the room.

“He’s so cute. Like a little junior G man.” Foyet watched Jack go before calling out, “I’ll be right out Jackie-boy!”

You glare at him, daring him to even think about going after that little ball of wonder, but Foyet seemed to ignore you, his mind already made up. Standing, you made your way over to Haley, taking her hand in yours and giving it a squeeze, trying to convince her you were her friend up until the very end.

Foyet saw the act of comfort, scoffing as he pointed the gun at you. “I want you to wait in the other room.” Haley gripped your hand tighter, not wanting to lose her only lifeline besides her ex-husband on the phone. You tried to stay, moving yourself behind her, appearing like you don’t want to leave her side, but you really wanted the satisfaction of seeing her get shot. You waited for years for this bitch to die, and you weren’t going to let Foyet take that away.

“Come on, come on.” Foyet took your arm, taking you to the other room. “I’ll get to you in a second, beautiful.” You cringe at the sound of his voice. He really was going to leave you here? In a normal situation, someone would try to fight back while he is distracted, but all you did was lean against the wall, waiting and listening.

Haley talked about love, and it made you sick. Love. She didn’t love him; not like you did. Your anger was quickly dissipated by the sound of several gunshots.

You poke your head back into the other room, a wicked grin spreading across your face. Before saying anything you walk over and pick up the phone Haley held in her dead hand, making sure the call was ended. The last thing you needed was to accidentally give yourself away.

Before you could say anything though, the clicking sound of the safety and the cold steel of Foyet’s gun pressed into your back. “I should have seen this coming, honestly.”

“You should have, but I’m not going to kill you.”

“Oh?”

Foyet lowered his gun, rounding to the front of you, a grin of his own on his lips. “Nope. I am going to leave you alive and then when Aaron gets here, I am going to let him know that it was you that led me to his wife and kid. So, while they are dead, you live, and he hates you.”

You stood in silence as he told you his master plan, just like a real super villain, it was honestly kind of funny to hear. You saw his plan coming a mile away, but let him play it out because you had a trick up your own sleeve.

In a flash, you grab his arm, yanking him forward and throwing him off while your other hand grabs his gun. The two of you continue to wrestle, falling to the ground, rolling around before the loud sound of a gun rang in your ears.

You pull back, peering down at Foyet as his wide eyes stare up at you, his hand gripping his stomach as blood seeped from his now fresh gun wound.

“I knew you would try and kill me, but I wasn’t going to let you.” You aim the gun at his head. “You see the difference between you and me, George, is that I’m not pride driven. Just in love.”

He laughed. “Love?! You don’t love him! You’re obsessed! You think just because you get his wife out of the way he’ll just suddenly accept you?!”

You clench your jaw, pressing the gun harder into his forehead. “He will! I will help him and Jack through this tough time! He loves me!” You take a deep breath to center yourself. Foyet was just trying to buy time until Aaron showed up to catch you in the act. Chucking at his ploy, you smile.

“I see what you were doing, but it’s not going to work. Because unlike you, I’m not sloppy.”

You pull the trigger. Ending the terror that was George Foyet.

The door banged open, Aaron rushing in to see you standing over Foyet’s dead body, gun in your hand and Haley dead on the floor. “Aarron!”

He was numb, tears streaking down his face as he went to Haley, clenching her tightly as his stoic composure finally broke. It hurt you to see him like this, but you knew it was for the best. “I’m so sorry Aaron.” Tears welling in your eyes, dropping the gun.

“You..” Aaron pulled back from Haley, taking your hand into his, “There was nothing you could do.”

You grip his hand tightly, knowing that right now he would hurt, but once the two of you find Jack only time, and you, would heal his heart.

(Banners by cafekitsune)

[thylilies]

unsub!reader & spencer reid are my fav fics 🙏

[ssa-atlas-alvez]

fic based on adele’s sky fall lyrics such as “where you go i go, what you see, i see” or “you might have my number but you’ll never have my heart” 😱😱😱😜

It's only a short one and... well, I don't really know how I came to write this, it just happened while I listened to the song on repeat lmao

It's not too long, but maybe I'll write some more of it and they'll be a part 2 aha

Warnings: blood, knives, unsub reader, manipulation, abduction, reader is a bit unhinged (not in a good way)

would like to clarify, obviously I do not condone crime, I'm writing this out just in case someone somehow thinks I condone this, I do not. I'm aware I'm digging myself a bit of a hole with this, but still. Anyways...

You had led him on for months. Something you were actually quite proud of. You had fooled an FBI agent, the unit chief of the BAU. The Big Bad Aaron Hotchner. You had gained his trust, you had ‘moved in’ (he didn’t need to know that was just an act, that you had an apartment downstairs too). You gained his trust, given him a sense of security, let him grow attached, let him grow to love you. You pretended to love him.

And he didn’t even realise because, at the end of the day, he was just like any other man. His downstairs brain ruled, blinding his upstairs brain. You let him feel secure, greeted him when he got back from a case, picked Jack up from school, cooked dinner when he was tired, bought him a coffee when he was working.

Who was going to guess who you really were? Who was going to suspect sweet and innocent (Y/N) (L/N)?

You wiped the blood off your cheek with your thumb, pressing it to your lips, the metallic taste filling your mouth.  You smirked, looking down at your latest victim. He looked up at you, eyes wide and filled with tears, blood smeared along his cheek. Pathetic. You gave a gentle tut, head tilting.

“Afraid, sweetheart?” You asked softly, placing a hand on his cheek. “It’s alright to be scared.” A glint filled your eyes.

“You should be.” You gave a hum, moving your hand to pick up the knife, resting it on his neck. You leaned forward, “Say hi to Aaron’s ex-wife for me.” And with that, slashed.

There was nothing like the thrill. The adrenaline rush that shook your hands, the fluttering in your stomach, the heavy breathing. Nothing matched it.

You revelled in the feeling for a moment before you removed the gloves, placing them in a plastic bag, along with your clothes and the knife. When you got back, you’d burn the clothes and gloves. As for the knife, you’d wipe it clean, before placing it in it’s designated place in the floorboard under your bed. Wiping the blood off your face, you threw the tissue and wipes into the plastic bag. You’d burn them too. You looked at the body, admiring it for a moment before you turned on your heels, and left. You’re sure someone would find it eventually. It’s not like they’d be able to tie him to you, you didn’t know the man. He was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. And he looked so much like Aaron youunsub y/ just couldn’t resist.

[hyperfixatedoncrimminalminds]

Hi! I love your one shots soooo much they are super cool! Could you do one with a gender fluid unsub around 14 who is hotchs child and like has been killing since hailey died and they go on cases and always kill wherever their cases are? I probably phrased this horribly but to bad! (:

Aaron Hotchner X Unsub Teen Reader

Request: Hi! I love your one shots soooo much they are super cool! Could you do one with a gender fluid unsub around 14 who is hotchs child and like has been killing since hailey died and they go on cases and always kill wherever their cases are? I probably phrased this horribly but to bad! (:

Third person pov...

The rain pounded against the windows of the BAU, mixing with the tension that hung thick in the air.

A team of elite profilers, once accustomed to solving the most heinous crimes, had been uncharacteristically stumped lately. Even their veteran leader, Aaron Hotchner, was feeling the pressure to crack this case.

“Another body found in Phoenix,” Garcia’s voice chimed through the conference room.

“Same MO as the last three we tracked. And it’s almost as if whoever is behind this is toying with us. The victims were all found in different locations, and there’s no connection beyond the way they were killed.”

Hotch stood at the head of the table, his jaw set as he processed the information. What remained unspoken hung like a thick veil in the room—his child.

Y/N had been accompanying the team for the past few months. They were brilliant and keen, yet something darker stirred within them—something rooted in a tragedy that had left its mark on the family.

It was one year since Hailey’s shocking death, and in that time, Y/N had transformed. Once a bright, cheerful teenager who wore their heart on their sleeve, they were now a whirlwind of secrecy and shadows.

The pain of losing their mother had morphed their grief into a need for retribution. They had been the one to inform Hotch about their first kill, a desperate declaration of their struggle with the chaos swirling inside.

“I want to help,” they had said, their eyes sparkling, yet haunted. “I never want anyone to feel how I felt when Mom died.”

Hotch’s heart ached at the memory. He was helpless to contain the darkness blossoming within Y/N, and what he feared most was that they might one day become the very thing they sought to destroy.

As the team piled into the jet, Hotch’s gaze fell on Y/N, sitting silently, headphones in their ears, lost in their own world.

Their style had evolved into a blend of what-they-wanted-to-be and what-they-resented; garments tailored not to gender expectations, but rather an expression of their multifaceted self—a mixture of floral patterns contrasted with edgy leather, layers lending complexity to an already intricate persona.

“Are you alright?” Hotch asked softly, leaning closer, though they didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“I’m fine,” Y/N replied, the words almost rehearsed, a barrier against the turmoil that awaited exploration. “I want to help, to make a difference.”

The words hung in the air, and beneath them was something deeper, more menacing. Hotch couldn’t shake the feeling that Y/N was seeking not just to help, but to find solace through something darker—not just shaping justice, but perhaps defining it through blood.

When they landed in Phoenix, the tempo of the city pulsed around them; sirens sang through the streets, and chaos bubbled beneath the surface.

The BAU team wasted no time regarding the case. Teaming up with local law enforcement, they reviewed the crime scenes, learning the patterns that unfolded with each new victim.

Y/N observed with an intensity that fascinated and terrified Hotch.

As they pieced together the clues, he struggled to decipher whether they were contributing to the investigation or secretly plotting their next move.

Days blended into nights as the team worked relentlessly. Each day they’d visit the scenes of the grisly murders, with Y/N becoming more withdrawn and brooding.

They had become an expert at slipping away unnoticed, coming and going like a phantom that haunted the edges of their father’s life.

During one evening, Hotch found them beneath a flickering streetlight, sketching something in a weathered notebook. “What are you drawing?” he asked softly, trying to bridge the vast emotional gulf that had formed between them.

“My thoughts,” Y/N murmured, not raising their eyes from the page. “Of Mom. Of… everything.”

Hotch’s heart tightened. “You don’t have to carry this alone, you know. I’m here.”

“Maybe I don’t want to just be here,” Y/N admitted, their voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe I want to be something else. Something that means something.”

“You are so much more than you realize. Your mother would have wanted—”

“Mom’s dead,” Y/N interrupted, the sadness transforming into an uncharacteristic ferocity. “Do you think I haven’t thought about it every day, every single moment?”

Hotch swallowed hard, trying to suppress the rising tide of frustration and fear. “You have the chance to make a difference in the right way. Let us help you—”

“Sure, help me by stopping the bad guys,” they shot back, standing abruptly, their emotions boiling over. “You mean help me keep the things I want to do in check? Help me pretend I’m not hurting? I don’t need that. I need something much more… satisfying.”

The confrontation felt like a turning point. In that moment, Hotch truly understood the internal war raging within his child. It wasn’t just about grief; it was about an urge to exert control in a world that felt chaotic and lost.

Understanding this collided with the haunting realization of their possible actions. As each day passed, bodies continued to pile up in unspeakably horrific ways. Their killer—a shadowy figure playing mind games with the authorities—remained elusive, and as clues began to mount, a nagging sense of familiarity clawed at Hotch’s memory.

Finally, everything clicked into place when a witness emerged with descriptions of the killer’s attire. Everything fit perfectly with Y/N’s style.

Hotch’s pulse raced as anxiety gripped him; he had to find Y/N before they reached a point of no return. A frantic search of bars and alleys began while Garcia worked on tracing their phone virtually everywhere.

When he finally found them—a confrontation under the same streetlight, with the echo of sirens blaring in the distance—there was a blood-stained knife clutched in Y/N’s hand. Their expression flickered between triumph and despair.

“I did it, Dad. I stopped them,” they whispered, trembling as they gazed into his eyes.

“You’re not a monster,” Hotch pleaded, his heart racing. “But this isn’t justice. This will only destroy you from the inside out.”

Silence hung between them for an agonizing breath, before Y/N dropped the knife, the clatter breaking a spell. “But I killed for you,” they sobbed. “For us.”

Hotch stepped forward, carefully reaching for them. “We can find a better way, together. This—this isn’t the path your mother would want for you.”

As Y/N fell into his embrace, the darkness quelling its hold, the rain began to pour once more, washing away every trace—a promise for a better tomorrow: healing, understanding, and love forged through pain. They stood together under the flickering streetlight.

The end!

Hope you liked this one shot, sorry for any spelling or grammar mistakes.

Request are open!

Word count: 1207

[spencerreidswhore187]

Checkmate (Part Two)

By @spencerreidswhore187 for @sackofpissandshit

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five

Summary: Spencer finds out that reader is not who he thought they were. (Lots of angst)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Unsub (g!n) Reader

Word Count: 1.4K

TW: Death, seizures, hemlock poisoning, hospitals and a brief mention of suicide.

A/N: Hi! Thank you to everyone who liked, commented, reblogged and followed Checkmate (Part one), it means the world to me. Sorry it’s taken a couple of days to upload - I’ve been working so many shifts ugh - anyway, I wrote this on the bus and did not proof read, I hope you enjoy.

You’d always mocked Romeo for being so rash but, as you stood hyperventilating over Spencer’s body, your first instinct was to drink the rest of the poison from the tiny vial in your pocket.

You were in shock. You needed to snap out of it. He’d not ingested enough to kill him instantly; you had a only few minutes to save him.

You collapsed onto your knees and checked Spencer’s pulse - it was weak. But still there. He’s alive, you reminded yourself. Alive. Alive. Alive.

If you were thinking rationally, you’d have left the building. Maybe tip somebody off so that they could find Spencer. If you were thinking rationally, you’d have recalled that Ben would kill you if you saved Spencer’s life. But none of that mattered, not when the only person you cared about was seizing in front of you.

You forced yourself off your feet and attempted to wipe away the tears streaming down your cheeks. What have I done, you chided yourself.

Running to the bedside table, you grabbed the landline telephone and dialled ‘911’.

The automated voice startled you, “Ambulance, fire or police?”

“Ambulance,” you whispered into the receiver.

Your malicious, manipulative, mastermind facade had dropped. You were hardly recognisable as the person you were moments ago. You didn’t know what you’d do if Spencer, your spence, was not okay.

“Hello?” A deep male voice echoed through the receiver.

“I-Help me. Help please,” you begged frantically.

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N. Um…Y/N Reid.” You couldn’t breathe. You’d placed a pillow under Spencer’s head and you’d pulled him towards your lap. His body wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Okay, Y/N. Listen to my voice and take a deep breathe…that’s it. I need you to calm down and tell me what’s happening,” the first responder asked.

“My…my boyfriend he’s been poisoned. And he’s seizing. Oh my god, please help, he won’t…he won’t stop seizing,” you choked back a sob.

“Can you tell me where you are? Help is on the way.”

“[your address]. I-hurry. Please hurry. He’s an agent. An FBI agent.” It hurt to remind yourself of his job, that he’d lied to you. But that didn’t matter, not now.

You heard a phone dialling in the background.

“Y/N, can you tell me your boyfriend’s name.”

“Spencer Reid. D-Dr Spencer Reid from the Behaviour Analysis Unit in um Quantico.”

“An ambulance is almost with you. Y/N, he’s going to be okay. Is he still seizing?”

You whispered, “no.”

“Can you check his pulse for me?”

You did what he asked, it was painfully slow.

“Do you know what substance he ingested?”

“It was-”

There was a sharp knock at the door followed by heavy footsteps running up the stairs.

You hung up the phone as the paramedics rushed to Spencer’s collapsed form.

Everything was a blur. You were barely aware of what was happening.

You watched their lips move as they shouted questions at you that you barely heard. You watched them start chest compressions on Spencer. You frantically chewed at your nails as they placed him on a stretcher and carried him out of your house.

You remembered when you’d bought it. Spencer had held your hand as you explored the empty rooms. He’d hugged you from behind, wrapping his arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to his favourite spot - where your neck me your shoulder. As both of you examined the rooms he rambled random facts about windows and the wall fixings. You loved it when he rambled. You would stare in awe as he counted off numerous statistics.

You’d eaten Chinese take out on the living room floor after you’d bought it. The furniture hadn’t arrived yet. You stayed up all night talking, kissing among other things. You were both so happy then. You’d thought you had escaped Ben, escaped that lifestyle after years of doing whatever he told you.

That blissful dream ended thirteen months ago.

You followed the two paramedics to the ambulance, about to follow them in when you felt a cold hand on your shoulder that instantly snapped you back to reality.

You turned to face the tall blonde woman behind you. You recognised her from a picture on Spencer’s phone. JJ, you thought her name was. Her children were Spencer’s godsons. Or maybe he’d lied about that too.

Luke Alvez, who Spencer had briefly introduced you to in a coffee shop several weeks ago, placed handcuffs around your wrists as JJ read your rights, “Y/N L/N you are under arrest for the twenty four counts of first degree murder as well as the attempted murder of FBI agent Dr Spencer Reid.”

As the world collapsed around you, you watched the ambulance drive away - sirens flashing through the melancholy city.

——————————————————————————

It was Penelope who’d gotten the call. She’d dropped her pink octopus mug when she was told that “Dr Spencer Reid had been poisoned and was on his way to the hospital.”

The rest of the team had been waiting anxiously at the round table. Spencer had insisted on going after you alone, Emily and JJ had protested but Rossi and Tara had agreed with Reid. You were dangerous. Deadly, even. They needed the element of surprise and that was something they’d only achieve if he followed his usual routine and went home to you alone.

It broke Penelope’s heart to see him like that. Spencer had looked exhausted and so broken. She wanted to give him a hug but she observes the way he flinched away anytime someone tried to touch him or offer comfort.

Penelope ran out of her office to the others.

It was Rossi who spoke first, “Garcia what’s wrong?” He asked, observing her dishevelled state as Penelope stood shaking in the doorway, “what happened?”

JJ spoke next, “is Reid okay?”

“I-no. No he’s not.” The room was so silent you could hear a pin drop.

“Penelope…” said Emily.

“A 911 call just came through from his house. He’s been poisoned, an ambulance is on it’s way. Reid…Spencer,” She inhaled sharply, “is unconscious.”

“Then who made the-”

Luke finally spoke up, “Y/N. It was Y/N.”

“But why would they call for help after trying to kill him?” Asked Tara.

No one spoke for what felt like minutes.

Emily finally answered, “it’s doesn’t matter. We need to get to that house now. Lewis, Rossi, you’re with me. JJ, you go with Alvez.”

“What about me?” Penelope questioned weakly, “I can’t…I can’t just stay here and do nothing, waiting for a call.”

“Go to the hospital, we’ll meet you there as soon as possible.”

Penelope nodded, relieved.

As they left the room, Luke hugged Penelope, “he’ll be okay, Garcia. I promise. They wont get away with this.”

——————————————————————————

When he awoke, the first thing he smelt was jello. He loved jello.

“Can I have some of that…please,” Spencer implored.

It was quickly followed by a squeal as Penelope through her arms around him.

“Spencer, you’re okay! Thank god you’re okay. I was so scared. We all were.”

Slowly he began to notice the beeping machines around them and the dull throbbing in the back of his head. He winced.

“Do you want me to get the doctor? I should tell her that you’re awake and-”

Spencer interrupted her rambling, “what happened?”

“You were given a near lethal dose of hemlock.”

Shit. He cursed to himself, remembering something he had read.

“Conium maculatum, colloquially known as hemlock, poison hemlock or wild hemlock, is a highly poisonous biennial herbaceous flowering plant…how did I…”

“Y/N,” Garcia whispered, staring at the hospital room floor.

The memories all came flooding back to him then. The truth of who you really were, the things - the illegal things - you had done. He Spencer recalled all the lies. It hurt more than his body did.

He fought tears. He would not cry over you, Spencer refused.

“Did you find them?”

He was surprised to hear answer “yes.”

“What? But if poisoning me was their escape plan, how did you find them so quickly? How long have I been unconscious?”

None of this made sense.

“Y/N, well, they made the call Spencer. They stayed with you the whole time. JJ and Luke arrested them when they were following you into the ambulance. They’ve been in an interrogation room for three days, Rossi and Tara are with them…you’ve been unconscious for three day.”

Spencer was going to be sick.

Emily, JJ and Alvez rushed into the room.

“You’re alive,” they gushed, “you’re okay!”

Spencer wasn’t listening. He didn’t care.

He stared at Emily who almost immediately understood what he was about to ask.

“No, Reid. Absolutely not.”

“I need to see them. I need you to take me to Y/N.”

A/N: Thank you for reading! Part three will be uploaded in the coming days ◡̈

————————————————————————————————————————

If you would like to be added to the tag list comment or message me.

Taglist: @sackofpissandshit @ara-a-bird @princess-ofthe-pages @catsinaspacesuit

[trampleddoves]

interrogations on uneven footing

Spencer Reid needs information on a confidential case. He is not above using unconventional methods to get you to spill.

Series masterlist

Pairing: unsub!Spencer x afab!BAU!reader Content warnings: Smut, 1.7k words, DDDNE! Noncon, bondage, sensory deprivation (complete darkness), nipple play, fingering, edging, overstimulation. Mentions of a made-up case, post prison unsub Spencer. Note: MDNI. This is not for everyone, simply scroll past it if it’s not to your liking. I cannot stress this enough. Heed the content warnings. Proceed with caution.

Multiple zip ties bind you to a wooden chair, an entire row on each arm like some twisted version of the bracelets that normally adorn your person. Ensuring you can’t move, can’t get out. It’s something straight out of a movie, your solitary figure alone in a dark room. You would have laughed if it weren’t for the distracting fact that it’s real, and happening to you right now. 

Smooth plastic digs into your skin if you struggle against them, but ultimately these zip ties will leave no marks. Unlike rope. Unlike handcuffs. They will not slacken even if you sweat through them, unlike duct tape. 

Spencer Reid is nothing if not thorough.

You’ve lost count of how long he’s kept you here. A slight burning in the space between your thighs is a flagrant reminder of his previous attentions. Legs and ankles still parted in the same way he left them, held and bound by the same zip ties that keep your arms and wrists in place. Panties stretched obscenely around your knees from where Spencer tugged them down, just enough to get a glimpse of your pussy. An odious mixture of sweat and your drying arousal keeps your inner thighs slick. 

He hasn’t hurt you. He hasn’t even penetrated you, only parted your folds and coaxed your core to weeping with rough, expert fingertips, while he asked you for details on Gregory Hall. 

Your body is weak, but your mind is sharp. While your pussy clenched and fluttered for more, you’d been able to deny him the details that you’d promised to keep confidential. Emily Prentiss is counting on you to build this profile independently; there’s a lack of certainty with this case. Whether or not Gregory Hall is behind those murders remains a mystery, but your unit chief had entrusted you to keep tabs on him on the side. A job outside the normal bounds of being a profiler, but naive pride had kept you from declining. 

Eager to please. To prove yourself. Icarus flying too close to the sun. You had accepted shady messages from unknown informants, arranged meetings with risky people in order to advance. 

Icarus flying right into Spencer Reid’s trap.

No one knew what happened to him. It’s a boogeyman’s tale in the Bureau, the type that has people ducking their heads and resorting to hushed whispers. Spencer Reid, prodigy, genius, dedicated profiler—in prison for murder. After several butchered attempts to prove his innocence, the genius was subjected to twenty five years in prison, with a chance for parole sometime down the line. He had escaped six months later.

You had never met him in person, not until tonight. 

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. The door creaks open, but no light comes through. You incline your head to the right, where his footfalls make dull taps against concrete ground.

“Ready to talk now, sweetheart?” his voice remains low, deceptively soothing. You flinch as his hand lands on your shoulder, squeezing tight. The weight seems to press you deeper into the uncomfortable wooden chair.

“I told you—”

“We both know you’re lying,” he’s bent over your back, tendrils of his hair brushing over your cheek, “You have more information on Gregory Hall than anyone else.”

His free hand crawls up your side, fingers finding the buttons on your blouse. Even in the inky darkness, his movements are deft, undoing buttons with ease. You grow stiffer by the second, shaking your head.

“What is it that keeps you from telling me, hm?” you feel his nose tracing a line down your neck, before landing at the sensitive patch where it meets your shoulder. He takes a shuddering inhale, before touching his lips to the spot, murmuring in smooth, velvet tones, “Are you afraid you’ll get in trouble with Emily? I’d be the last person to talk to her, trust me.”

Trust. What a silly word, considering the circumstances. You almost want to spit at him, at his trust.

“What do you even want with it?” you reply instead, shuddering as both arms wrap around you, meeting at your chest to work on unbuttoning your shirt. Your skin grows slick with sweat, broken apart by goosebumps from every brush of his fingers. He’s been so gentle.

You both know he could hurt you, if he wishes to. The restraint he’s exhibiting is simply another layer of depravity, another way to toy with your mind, a looming reminder that this could be worse. 

That’s the problem. Hating him, hating your predicament, hating this twisted interrogation, would infinitely be easier if he were manhandling you. Causing wicked purple and blue blossoms over your skin like a perverse garden. Pulling your hair back so tightly they rip from your scalp.

You never thought you’d ever wish for violence, yet part of your yearns for it at this moment. It’s easier to reconcile violence with the violation you’re currently experiencing. Because that’s what this is. Violation. Assault. Spencer Reid exerting his will over you because he can. Because he wants something only you have access to.

“I simply need to know if my theory is correct, doll.” he coos, finally easing your blouse off your shoulders. Just enough so he could tug your bra down your chest, straps slipping down your shoulders. 

You whimper into the silence of the room, partially thankful for the lack of light. At least he can’t see you. At least you’ve been given the dignity to keep your face hidden. 

However, it poses another problem. One you had been grappling with all night. This impenetrable darkness goes both ways, blinds both of you. And without your sense of sight, everything else is heightened. 

When his thumb brushes over your nipple, the taste of blood floods your mouth. Your teeth had broken through the skin of your lower lip. Another flick, and then both thumbs begin to circle your nipples, and you shudder as they harden into stiff peaks. Another round of interrogation. He’s slowly wearing you down, you realize, literally stripping off your clothing, and in turn, adding more stimulation. 

Earlier, he had just been playing with your clit, attempting to wheedle out the information from you until your labia grew puffy from overstimulation. At your staunch refusal, he had left.

And now he’s back, pinching and tugging your nipples as you cling to your stubborn, one minded goal to keep the information to yourself.

“I would assume we have the same goal, anyway,” he murmurs, humming as he presses his large palms to your breasts, squishing them, your nipples hard and poking into his palms, “Prove he’s guilty.”

“How did you even know I was on the case?” you whimper, squirming as you feel your traitorous body reacting. The familiar warmth coiling at your lower belly. 

“You weren’t difficult to track, even I could find traces of your dealings and I have an aversion to technology. Tell me what you know, doll.” he replies, one hand leaving your chest and traveling down. You dread what’s about to come, dread the inescapable fact that he’ll cup your sex and find you drenched again.

When his hand meets your exposed pussy, he hums, a self satisfied sound that mocks you to your very being. 

“So fucking wet for me.” he hisses, licking a stripe up your neck. You squeeze your eyes shut, unable to do much but squirm uselessly on the chair. “You know, I’m beginning to think you want to be kept here.”

“No.” the word is sharp and clear, to your relief.

“Really? Yet you refuse to tell me what you know,” his index finger finds your entrance, circling it while the heel of his palm pressed on your clit, “You know the information will get you out of this.”

“I wouldn’t know that,” you hiss through gritted teeth, nails digging into your palms as he strokes up and down your slick folds, teasingly. Soon, your nails will break the skin there too, and you’ll be left with bloodied lips and hands, all from your own doing. How ironic, “For all I know, you’d kill me the moment you get what you want from me.”

“I’ve been a man of my word so far, haven’t I? I told you I won’t hurt you.” A finger breaches your entrance, sinking knuckle deep. True to his word, no pain is felt. Only the relief of the stretch, the fullness your disloyal body has been craving. “Besides, doll, you’re of more use to me alive.” Another finger. Your pussy clenches around them greedily.

“I - no.” It’s weaker now, breathless.

He laughs. He’s gone through this song and dance earlier, but now his fingers inside you are reinforced by his other hand palming your chest. “So you do like this. You just keep saying no to giving me information, doll, it seems you want to stay here and let meplay with your pretty pussy, hm?” his fingers begin a slow pace, thrusting in and out of your wet channel. Every time he buries them inside, they crook just so, hitting that perfect spot that has you straining against your bounds. This time, it isn’t out of a desire to get out. This time, it’s out of overwhelming pleasure.

“S-stop.”

“Stop?  I can feel you clenching.” he drags his fingers out slowly, and indeed, your pussy clenches around the digits like you never want them to leave. Spencer laughs, biting your earlobe as he transfers his ministrations to your clit. Quick, steady circles that have your thighs quivering.

“Reid, stop,” your plea is weak, pitiful.

“Tell me what you know.”

“No.”

He removes his hands. You choke back a sob, feeling your hair sticking to your forehead as you struggle to regain your senses. His next words are spoken from afar, and you realize he’s leaving again. “I’ll keep you here for days, if I have to, doll.” a threat. A promise.

Spencer Reid is a man of his word. As the door shuts, you realize you’ve condemned yourself to this fate.

[seasprincess]

Unsub!Spencer reid x reader

An au where Spencer Reid is like Joe goldberg from the series ‘You’

warnings-suggestive language, smut, use of y/n, mentions of drugging, spencer’s thoughts written in ‘’, misogyny linked through out, probably more

wc:2.4k

this is part 1

Spencer Reid is not a psycho. He’s not some creep like the other men in this world. No. He’s caring because he’s doing all this for you because he loves you. He wants to prove to you that he loves you.

Ever since that day you came into his bookstore looking out of place, gliding through the aisles like a goddamn angel. You were so beautiful as you looked over the books and actually taking the time to appreciate them. Most of the people who come in here don’t care about the books. Just here to take a quick selfie for their instagram to show that they are so mysterious and read. Of course Spencer hates that crowd. He’s always trying to avoid them as much as possible. He’d rather be reserved and by himself. But you, oh you. He wants to be around you.

And from the moment you walked up to the counter with the book ‘The narrative of John Smith’ he knew you were made for him. Sent to him by whatever god or angel that is watching over him. A blessing.

You both chatted about the author, you actually knew the author. Spencer couldn’t stop watching you. Watching the way your hair falls so perfectly as you laugh at one of his stupid jokes that would usually earn some weird looks. But you understood the joke. ‘Oh you are perfect.’ One of his thoughts.

And you flirted with him. He knows you flirted with him. He’s not crazy. He knows he’s not crazy. He’s a man in love that will do whatever he needs to to show you. To show you you are his and he is yours.

He’s not confident enough to outright ask you for your number. The whole idea to him is forehand and terrifying.

But when you got out your bank card to pay his eyes flickered down to see your name. And the stuff he can find with just a name.

Of course he researched you when he got home. He isn’t a fan of social media. Why would someone want to showcase a fake life to a bunch of followers that they didn’t even know? The whole idea was just not appealing to him. But he is thankful that it is too you.

He can find out so much about you. All the embarrassing college memories, all the things you like, what you did on the 21st of May five years ago. Not that he will probably need that information but he can always ask you about the family holiday you went on.

He found out your relationships with your family, your friends, where you liked to hang out with said ‘friends’. He knows all about them too, and he can tell it’s not your crowd. You’re a girl who likes books, likes to write, likes dorky little things. And they. Well they’re just loud mouthed rich party girls who are certainly not good enough. But you have to fit in. You think you have to lower yourself to fit in with them. ‘Oh Y/n, you don’t have to be different with me. You can be yourself with me.’

Your social media portrays different sides of you. Facebook isn't as active as the others. You’re gen z of course it wouldn’t be. But instagram? Oh he’s had fun with your instagram.

A bikini photo of you that you posted in 2021. You look so beautiful he can’t stop staring. His eyes roaming all over your curves and your tits. Oh your tits. He’s a fan to say the least. The thoughts he’s had about them.

Spencer can’t help but get hard as he looks at it. He just can’t stop looking at you and all your photos. Who needs porn when he can stare at photos of you and use that imagination of his?

He usually ends up here. Sat at his desk staring at his laptop screen. stroking his cock as he imagines you kissing him, sinking down on him as you moan his name.

It’s not weird. He’s not weird. He’s your soulmate.

Spencer stands by a tree, trying to appear as normal as possible. His hat and dark clothes allowing him to blend in. He’s trying to make his presence minimal as he looks through the windows. He knows this is okay for him to do, but if you or someone else saw. No one would understand that he’s doing it because he loves you.

It’s late. The sky dark and filled with stars. If only you could properly see them without all this air pollution. But that’s a rant that Spencer will just have to go on another day.

There’s a light. It is a distant street light. Of course it’s blinking every so often. He lives in one of the most famous cities in the world, the big apple, but they can’t afford street lamps that actually work. ‘Typical.’ He thinks to himself before sighing. But all his annoyance melts away as he sees you.

Spencer’s eyes are locked on you as he watches you walk around your apartment in just an oversized shirt and panties.

‘Oh come on Y/n. Walking around in that with the curtains open? Any creep could be watching you. You’re lucky I’m here.’ Spencer thinks to himself. Eyes scanning for anybody that appears to be a threat to you. But all there is is no one. Just you and him. You, and him.

Spencer’s watches as you get changed. Into some small dress that he is definitely going to have to fight some men away from you. ‘Oh you don’t make things easy for me, do you love?’

You’re going out. He can guess that much. The make up, the outfit. You’re going clubbing.

Spencer is not a fan of clubbing the same way he is not a fan of social media. He thinks it’s all stupid. Why would anybody want to be up close and personal with a bunch of sweaty strangers who are dancing like imbeciles. No. It’s not his scene. But if you’re going. So is he. I mean he can’t let you go to one of the places many people are attacked at alone can he? As your soulmate he has to protect you, to watch you. Keep you safe. Safe from the world he knows is willing to hurt you.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts as he hears the door slam shut. His gaze once again falling onto you and how good you looked. The way your breasts are on show from the low cut in the dress. Oh he’s definitely going to be using his eidetic memory to recall this image when he’s alone later. The way they bounce up and down as you walk down the stairs towards what he can only presume is an uber.

Looks like Spencer is going clubbing.

The music is pounding, lights all around the room that would give any regular person a headache. And they have. Spencer.

He’s sat in a corner, out of the way of everyone. He does not want to interact with people. He’s only here to protect you. To watch you.

The heat of the place giving him slight discomfort, he’s not exactly dressed for this place. No, he’s dressed to blend in to the streets of New york. To keep himself warm in the night breeze and not to be in some place that quite frankly might be his hell. ‘Oh Y/n, the things i’m going to have to do for you.’

He watches you dance. Watching how you move so easily and still look so fucking attractive. He knows if he tried he’d look like an idiot. He’d end up embarrassing himself and most likely falling over.

But you. Oh you move so effortlessly he’s actually getting lost in the way you move.

The way you’re laughing and smiling with your friends. He can’t wait to be the one to make you laugh like that. Laugh the same way you did at his stupid joke. He’s never felt love like this. He’s never felt his heart swell and feel so full the way it does when he looks at you. You’re so-

‘Hang on. Who’s this?’ Spencer watches as some guy comes up to you. It doesn’t take a genius to see he’s flirting with you. He’s the opposite of Spencer, all muscular and probably can’t tell his left from his right. And he’s definitely a dick. Spencer can tell he’s a dick. That stupid smile, that look in-

‘Are you flirting too?’ Spencer’s eyes narrowed as he watched your hands on this guy's arm. Why is your hand on his arm?

Maybe you’re just being nice. Maybe you’re just trying to be polite. He can only hope.

If looks could kill, this jock would be 20 feet in the ground and have died a horrific death.

Spencer has been staring him down for the past thirty minutes. Watching you two talk, dance and get way too handsy for his liking. He hates having to see another guy touch you. Only he should touch you like that. He’s actually radiating jealousy. His whole body can feel it. Anger pumping through his veins. He has to sort this out right? He has to stop this guy from taking advantage of you.

Spencer watches you like a hawk as you head off to what he can presume is the bathroom. So as you leave his sight for the first time this evening his eyes fall upon the jerk standing at the bar. Ordering drinks for the pair of you.

Of course he orders the cheapest there is for you.

‘Y/n you deserve so much better than this.’

The guy is joined by some friends, all greeting each other the typical frat boy way even if they are in their late twenties. Morons.

Spencer glides through the crowd. Not wanting to draw attention to himself. He just wants to listen to this douchebag's conversation with his so-called ‘bros’.

“Dude for real she’s all over me. I’m so getting pussy tonight!” He exclaims to his friends which of course doesn’t sit well with Spencer. You’re so much more than a fuck. You’re a smart, talented, beautiful woman who deserves nothing but the best. He knows about your exs, having stalked their socials to make sure he’s perfect for you. That he’s nothing like them. Not that he is anyway. God he has multiple PhDs and they were lucky enough to have even got into college with their grades.

As you return from the bathroom and his frat bros disappear into the club somewhere he decides enough is enough.

This guy is not touching you. This waste of air is not going anywhere near his girl. His soulmate.

“I’m just gonna go piss I’ll meet you outside.” Frat boy says before heading off. Leaving you to make your own way outside. You look uncomfortable, he knows you’re uncomfortable. So he’s going to save you.

He’s going to save you from a night of regret.

Before he can think anymore Spencer follows the guy, following him into the bathroom before he ‘accidentally’ bumps into him.

“Oh man, I’m sorry.” Spencer says before looking at the guy. His chest covered in the liquid from Spencer’s drink.

“You should watch where you’re going bro.” He’s not pleased to say the least. I mean who would be if they’ve just been covered in alcohol?

Spencer scans his surroundings like some spy as his hand slips into his pocket. All the stalls are empty, it’s just them. Him and his current number one enemy.

“Yeah absolutely.” Spencer’s eyes flick back to the guy. Scanning them for a moment before deciding to waste no more time.

He pulls out a needle and stabs him in the neck, quick and fast. The guy can’t even cry out or defend himself before it takes effect. Slowing down everything in his body.

Spencer has to hold him up as he guides him back out and through the crowd. To anybody looking it will look like two guys and one of them has drank way too much.

He has to chuckle and make light conversation with all the clubbers which does not please him but does help his facade.

The cold air hits both of their faces as they exit the building, having to go through a different exit to not be seen but you.

But now he faces another problem.

He has a practically unconscious mumbling man hanging off his arm. The lengths he’s going to go for you apparently have no line he won’t cross.

But to avoid this asshole saying anything when he’s back to consciousness. He has two options.

Kill him, kidnap him.

And seeing as you’re right round the corner waiting for a man that is never going to come. He decides that he can’t miss this opportunity.

He didn’t like killing him. No. It wasn’t enjoyable. But it had to be done. The man was a misogynistic prick. Who was also carrying drugs. Drugs he may have put in your drink. So Spencer is helping out really. One less prick.

As he was a bit pushed for time and in an alley he had to be quick. Stabbing him repeatedly, making sure to not leave any fingerprints and that no cameras were there. Good job Spencer is a smart man and enjoys crime shows.

His disposal wasn’t great either. But he didn’t have many options.

So a bin will have to do. Worst comes to worst he’ll have to come back and move the prick. This guy is just causing issues like he did when he was alive.

But right now all he needs to do is go find you.

As he turned the corner he had seen you. Poor you waiting for that guy to come meet you.

‘You look so good Y/n. You should be waiting for me. Matter of fact I’d never let you wait.’

Spencer’s having to sike himself up to go talk to you. He has a habit of embarrassing himself and he really didn’t want to do that with you. He refuses to do that with you. But the way you two were in the shop. It was so comfortable. So…right.

He had finally reached the stage of being able to head towards you. The nerves will never leave but this is the calmest he thinks he’s going to get.

His feet move before his head. Walking towards you. Palms sweating. Heart pounding.

But before he can reach you, you slip away. Getting in a taxi.

You’re out of his reach and gone.

He’ll just have to wait.

a/n: this is a different style of writing that i’m not sure if i like it. Part 2 will be coming soon.

[reiding-writing]

could you pretty please write something where spencer visits unsub!reader and she’s incredibly beat up and only responding in slurs and spencer’s like wtf why has no one taken her to the doctor

THE GUARDS’ HEAVY HANDS

spencer & gn!unsub!reader | 1.3k | unsub!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

a/n— unsub!reader is in remission babyyy

WARNINGS | reader has been on the receiving end of physical violence from prison guards without medical treatment.

Four days until the board of appeals made their decision.

Four days until you would know if you truly were going to spend the rest of your life inside a concrete box or be moved to a psychiatric facility and have your psychology picked and prodded at by doctors.

You’ve been ‘visited’ almost every day over the last week, half of your singular recreational hour spent talking to some stupid appeal board official every day for the last multiple days.

You were sick of it.

You knew that they were only bothering you in the hope you’d crack, that you’d say something that could condemn you to your solitary hell and save them the effort and money in placing you in proper psychiatric care.

But you refused to placate them. You refused to let your seething frustration manifest verbally or physically, no matter how much you wanted to.

Four days. That’s all you had to last.

They weren’t making it easy though. Of course they weren’t. Because why would anything in your life ever be easy?

No. Instead you were questioned on the same mundane topics over and over by the officials, dragged harshly from meeting to meeting by the guards, and subjected to torment whenever there was a minuscule break in the monotony.

Your most recent ‘accident’ involved one of the guards shutting the food hatch whilst you still had your hand in it.

‘Accident’, because it definitely wasn’t one, and now you were dealing with a fractured index finger on top of all of the other shit that is making you want to rip your hair out.

Although you couldn’t do that either, considering you had a sizeable bruise spreading over your left temple and onto the side of your head after you’d been pushed straight into one of the phone boxes as an encouragement for you to pick it up.

It was bordering a black eye a few days ago, a mulled purple mark that stretched through your eyebrow and mottled your eyelid, but it was slowly turning green, and it’d stopped hurting now. For the most part anyway.

No use crying over spilt milk. Or a possible concussion.

There’s a sharp bang on your cell door from the side of a fist to garner your attention, along with the grating metal on metal sound as the food hatch slides open.

“Up you get freak, you’ve got a visitor.”

Another stupid visitor.

Another half an hour spend enduring the most relentlessly idiotic questions and torment of your life that you literally had to bite your tongue to stop yourself replying to and dumping all of your progress down the drain.

“Oi!” Another sharp bang. “Didn’t you hear me? Get your ass up!”

“I’m coming—” You bite back the groan that threatens to echo in your tone, muttering a curse under your breath as you’re all but dragged from your cell and thrust down the corridor into the visitor’s room.

Every minute you spent sat at that stupid concrete table in those stupid handcuffs that were way too tight made you want to rip your own hair out, or anyone’s in a five metre radius.

Four days. Then you could forget about this damn appeal and give your ‘handlers’ a piece of your goddamn mind.

And then the door opens.

“Doctor Reid,” You almost sound surprised as you pick up the visitor’s phone. “What brings you here?”

Spencer adjusted his satchel, his gaze fixed on the table where you sat, hands cuffed, a rough bruise blooming along your cheekbone. There was a fresh cut on your lip, a bit of dried blood near the corner of your mouth. The sight made his stomach twist.

He sat down slowly, his brow knitting with concern as he took in the other injuries: your knuckles scraped raw, the angry red welts visible just beneath the collar of your prison jumpsuit.

He was used to violence, certainly, but seeing it on you, someone he considered something close to a… friend, or whatever it was, made him tense with anger.

You didn’t look at him any differently despite it all. When he met your gaze, your expression was flat. Detached, indifferent. He could still tell you’d been through hell though, and as much as he hated it, he hated it. "What happened?" he asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, you just blinked, and then that small sliver of intrigue disappears from your irises to be replaced with distaste.

You scoffed, muttering something under your breath that he couldn’t quite make out. It sounded like you were slurring, words broken, as if the energy it took to have a full conversation was almost too much.

Spencer leaned his elbows onto the table, his heart hammering. "Did they hurt you?" he asked. "The guards… have they been—?"

You interrupted with a barely audible sneer, tossing out a curse that barely registered as coherent. A string of profanity. You spat them out, each word slower and more incoherent than the last.

"Is anyone taking care of you here? Any doctors?" Reid asked, his voice filled with disbelief.

You laughed, a hollow sound that sent chills down his spine. "Doctors," you scoffed. "Sure. Lots of those. Right after the love they give with their fists."

Spencer's jaw clenched. "Has anyone done anything about this? Filed a complaint?"

Another empty laugh. “Who’s going to report them, huh? Me?” you muttered, the words broken by gasps of pain. “And who’s gonna do anything about it?”

The part of Spencer that had learned to remain neutral, clinical, started to unravel. This was wrong. Whatever you had done in your past, this treatment wasn’t justice; it was plain cruelty.

He glanced back toward the door, contemplating the confrontation he wanted to have with the prison staff. But he knew what would happen—they’d brush it off, say you were exaggerating, a troublemaker who’d gotten what you deserved. And maybe they’d even be right… but he couldn’t ignore the bruises, the hollow look in your eyes.

Spencer reached across the table, his fingers brushing the cold plexiglass between you in what’s an almost subconscious want to wipe the blood stain from your mouth. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll try to get someone to check on you.”

You met his eyes again, expression clouded. He could see that behind the apathy, some tiny part of you was surprised. Maybe even grateful.

“Why do you even care?”

Spencer swallowed, the weight of the question settling over him. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly, his voice tinged with sadness. “But I do.”

You watched him in silence, as if searching his face for a reason, an answer he couldn’t give. Then, a flicker of something softened your gaze—just for a moment, like the smallest fracture in a stone wall. You’d probably deny it later, but he saw it. A spark of relief, of trust, maybe.

He didn’t know if he’d ever get through to you, not completely. But he could try. And that would be enough.

“So, uh,” Spencer fiddles with the phone cord between his fingers. “How are you feeling, about the appeal?”

And you deflate all over again.

[vatelixx]

The visionary, the willing executor,

Spencer Reid x afab!UNSUB!reader (written with mid!seasons Spencer Reid in mind)

SMUT!! copious amounts of angst (there’s traces of fluff in there as well if u get out ur magnifying glass)

BASED ON THIS SONG (it got so stuck in my head that I had to write something that correlated):

──── autistic spencer (it’s not explored that much, but it’s always gonna be present in my oneshots), evil evil reader (im not being dramatic this time. she’s literally a serial killer. like her ‘body count’ is copious. but idk, she’s kinda sweet. if u squint and ignore the bodies). They were in love ur honour !!! they’re still in love ur honour !!!! She pays him a visit two years after he found out about her homicidal tendencies (they miss each other, Spencer might also hate her a little but it’s okay, don’t worry about that).

Warnings: sub spencer (aaaaaaalways), maybe perhaps some vague, very faint mentions of switch!spencer but idk i blacked out writing this, choking, mentions of death and general behaviour that would get you a life sentence, praise more than degradation surprisingly, coming untouched, crying (you’d think that was a kink or something?), she fucks the good out of him, hopeful ending (eh, kinda), mentions of dante’s inferno, copious amounts of religious imagery, greek mythology references, this isn’t dead dove at all i promise.

w.c: 5k

────────────

Spencer would consider himself a good person, by default. It’s reasonable: a renowned member of the BAU, with intellect he’s weaponized for morality. The blood etched onto his hands is justified. Necessary evil for greater cause. He’s willing to blemish his skin for the virtue, for the lives of others.

He remembers naivety. He remembers being so fragile he could easily crack into fragmented pieces of wasted innocence. Maybe that’s been stolen from him now, maybe the ruins of his sacrifices are too sharp to touch upon still, but he’s good. He knows he will always be good.

And yet, there’s a bruise. Something ugly and distorted that stains his skin. Something that has the ability to crawl deep into his bones and leave behind a mess of pain. Something bad. Festering and tainted, it haunts him with every breath.

You.

You, who came into his life as an abundance of sunlight. Helios personified. Pretty and warm, and everything he needed. He wanted to kiss you: the moment he stumbled into the coffee shop, tousled hair, overworked and raw from a burdening case. When you took his order, marking constellations onto the styrofoam cup. Andromeda, Ursa Major, Cassiopeia. Later, much later, then when you became an indomitable presence to his apartment.

But for all the good he’s preserved, Spencer knows he’s not allowed to receive it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” is the first thing he says when he finds you waiting for him. He always knew you would come back; you’re bound to follow him indefinitely. Like his shadow, his guilty consciousness, his cracked past of addiction and pre-pubescent torment.

He let you go. When the act was over, the curtain drawn, when he saw you. Homicidal, the perpetrator of the case he was working on, malevolence packed into the frame of perfection, oh even still, he let you go. Free to continue the cycle of death, he was left to scramble in the mess of his own misguided heart.

There’s risk in reward, and reward in risk. You’re meticulous, hedonistic to the last detail. But Spencer? Well, he will always be the one loose end you could never quite force yourself to clean up. The thread that kept untangling, even as time passed. Cut it off, you should be rational, wash every bleeding trace of him from your skin.

But there’s irrationality in love.

Blood adorns your features; there’s no need to touch up your appearance, to return to the domesticated facade you once used on him. No, he’s been exposed to the ugly now. There can be no do overs, no back-tracking, game over try again doesn’t exist in real time.

“What are you going to do about it?” you ask, and god, hes just as beautiful as the day you left him. So perfectly real, with dragging exhaustion and pretty brown eyes to ease the sting of his tight-faced, troubled expression.

You didn’t cut the phone lines, nor move the gun he keeps stashed in his cabinet drawer. Down the hall, to the left. You know he won’t make any abrupt actions. Know, in an intuitive way, telepathic communication between past lovers.

“It was a gamble coming here, aren’t you pleased to see me pretty boy?”

Spencer has to fight every urge he has, every moral he believes in to not lunge at you; to not strangle your slender neck, crack you in half, destroy you the way you’ve destroyed his sanity.

Two years, 8 months, 11 days since you cataclysmically uprooted his routined life. He fell in love with softness, not the jagged edge of a blade.

“I let you go. Wasn’t that enough?” it feels too natural, fighting in his apartment, some sort of twisted lovers quarrel. There’s a definite list of everything he should do in this moment, and despite all logic, he just blanks at the sight of you.

“You had to come back. Rub salt in the wound. Do you get off on this?” a sigh falls from his pretty lips, “Actually, don’t— don’t answer that. We both know the answer.”

“I get off on you,” you correct.

It’s true. If he was to analyse you, profile your warped brain like his other unsubs, he’d find nothing but unyielding loyalty to him. For all the damage you’ve done, there’s always been one anomaly to your detachment.

He stands right before you.

And, sure, maybe you’ve got a leg up in this situation. Perhaps the distorted memory of you holds him back: lazy nights and tangled sheets, his body pressed up against yours. The way he’d talk, quantum physics, philosophy, rambles that dissolved into open admissions of feelings. There’s a lot that was fake, but to be a good liar, you have to add subsidiary details of truth.

God, he wishes the world would be cruel—a cosmic alignment of karmic righteousness that would grant him relief: some kind of justification for what he must do. But the universe is indifferent, nothing but a distant star, a fleeting speck of dust in the grand scheme of life. There’s no such thing as good or bad, only consequences.

Consequences. Consequences for his actions. Butterfly effect. He can comprehend it. But, there were many things he adored about you, while the illusion of love was tangible. The way your hair would curl just above your shoulders, your skin in the morning light. The way you’d laugh at one of his obscure Star Trek references, better yet his criticism on modern, inaccurate horror. He could stare at you for eons, as though he was trying to make out the secrets of the universe in the constellation lines of your scars.

The illusion of love, as it was. He sees you now with the clarity of reality, the same way a mirage fades away as you approach; a distortion of perception.

“And you get off on me. Even now. Don’t you?” you say, shifting forward to close gravitational space.

There’s no way to disregard this morbid connection. No psychological justification he can exploit to demean your feelings. You’re not a psychopath, nor anything that relates to a lack of empathy. You feel— you feel empathy for all of your victims, the line of bodies that mark your path. But it goes deeper than that. There was reasoning for your actions, just as there was for his.

“Say it,” you goad. And there’s satisfaction here, sure. Something mean and condescending. But there’s also hurt, because he was supposed to be a means to an end, and now, he might very well be your end.

“Say you miss me. C’mon boy genius, a few little words and i’ll have enough content to satisfy me for years. Don’t be mean— you know I hate being edged.”

He does miss you, every day that he wakes up, his bones too hollow and cold to leave his bed. The ache in his chest where his heart was supposed to be, too empty to function. No amount of caffeine can fill the void in his skull where thoughts of you used to reside. The longing, the desire for the past to rewrite itself.

“You’re sick,” he tries. But he’s not good at this. Not when the love remained after the inevitable fall out, not when the darkest parts of him still clung to want, even after he realised the truth.

“You’re sick, and..” he tries again, “and I hate how much I miss you. There? Is that enough? Are you happy? Got what you wanted?”

You let out an exasperated sigh, “No. If I ‘got what I wanted’, I would still have you.”

Spencer dies. Metaphorically, literally, what does it even matter? He dies, respawns, and then kisses the admittance from your lips.

Instinctively, just like the past, your hands tangle through his hair, and perhaps there’s a sense of ownership to the gesture. The knowledge that he will always be yours. Scarred from your touch, returning to your lips like a dog with a bird. There’s a mindless attempt at anger on his part, biting lips and rough teeth, but just like always, he quickly melts.

He melts, and you catch him. Because for all it’s worth, lies and deceit aside, you’ve always loved him.

There’s something powerful to the gesture; knowing you have someone wrapped around your finger. Even after you’ve bared the worst of you, the ugliness of man-kind. There’s someone out there that will wipe the blood from your cheek, and kiss you through it.

“Oh, even better,” you mutter against his lips, “Much, much better. C’mon Spence, show me just how much you’ve missed me.”

Two years, 8 months, 11 days since he felt like he could breathe.

It hurts, it hurts so much, because there’s a sense of coming home to the kiss, and he just wants you to stay. To ruin him forever. To leave behind a deformed version of him, something unrecognisable and equally scarring.

You’re too loyal and he’s too susceptible to any form of attention. Because you want him, and it’s easy to fall into a cyclical cycle of self-destruction when you’re the catalyst.

“I did miss you.” he admits again. “You— crazy, homicidal excuse of a person.”

Spencer’s hand comes up to touch your cheek, the rough texture of skin meeting something soft. His thumb traces down the curvature of your jawline, a silent hello that doesn’t linger long, too soon to be replaced with his lips.

You push him back against the wall, a painful groan escaping your lips when you feel his hips canting forward, searching aimlessly for a friction you’ve both been denied. Two years. His body still aches for you. It’s primal, something perverted and tainted and so very good.

You knew this would happen. There was not a doubt in your clouded mind that he would deny you. What you do to me, I do to you.

“There’s my boy.” you mutter when you grip said hips, fingers finding their natural, fated position against divine bone. When he begins to find a stable pace, bucking up to meet you with every kiss that you press to his lips.

He whimpers when you touch him, soft sounds of need slipping past his parted lips into the confines of his empty apartment. He’s trying so hard to maintain composure, but he can’t find it in him to fight the inevitable. The ache of separation between himself and you. So he lets it happen, like he always does.

My boy, the possession goes straight to his head. One simple phrase and he’s untangling, breaking to pieces because yes, he is yours. And yes, he will forever want to be reminded.

“Mhm, mhm. Oh— oh, fuck.” he’s so hard, clothed cock pushing up against you with every movement. He could get off on less of you. He has. Every night.

And yes, it certainly feels like home. It’s only the thing your body has been aimlessly yearning for, day in and day out. It’s not fair, not fair to you, that you’ve allowed your resolve to crumble, your strategic, one-track mind, for the fleeting body of a past lover.

But then again, demeaning him to a past lover doesn’t even begin to articulate this.

You’re fairly certain he was put on this earth, just to torment you.

And you’re fairly certain you’ll always let him.

“God, you’re such a slut for me.” you say, drawing back from the friction just to prove your point. The disintegrating whimpers that bleed out of his mouth in response are enough alone to confirm.

His head falls back against the wall, baring that lovely length of his neck and its pretty bruises. He wants you to kiss him there, to leave one last mark before he says ‘I won’t see you again’ and means it this time.

“Don’t— don’t stop—” even as he speaks, a mess of jumbled words and breathless sentences, you’re still teasing him. He hates how much it works, how much he’d rather fall into the pleasure of your hands.

“Fine. Whatever. Yes. What do you want to hear? That it’s whorish the way I want you. That you’re able to just… corrupt me with all these dirty words, even though I have an extensive vocabulary. Even though i’m supposed to be—“

He’s not even sure what he’s supposed to be anymore.

“You know the extent of my devotion.” he concedes.

There will always be sadistic pleasure in reducing him to such an ignominious version of himself. You’ve seen it before, back when you were trapped in an artificial, yet domesticated, haze of bliss. But to hear it now? Even after everything has been said and done?

That’s a new type of pleasure.

You know he still holds onto the facade of you, aimlessly reaching for something intangible, something that never truly existed. “You want me to be good for you, huh? Just pack up my shit, leave it all behind, get better? Think about it. White picket fence. Coffee every morning. God— it would be insufferable. Coming home to feed the dogs, talking every night over the phone, begging you to be safe on a case, or or—“

Spencer breaks. Silencing your words with a pained whimper.

Usually, he doesn’t allow himself to think about that fantastical hypothetic. He can’t afford to. Months after he let you go, when the truth had been exposed to his naive eyes, he’d spend hours in a mess of aching limbs, dreaming up alternative realities where your hands weren’t stained from blood, and the most despicable thing you could do was make his coffee bitter.

So when you force him to open old wounds, to rehash past hopes, he falls apart. A whine escapes his lips, hips bucking, once, twice and then he’s coming untouched. Making a mess out of himself— and it’s sick, so very sick to get off on the thought of you permanent, the epitome of good.

Something he could hold onto without slicing open skin.

It’s not a good orgasm, it never is without your direct help, but at least it’s some form of release. In the aftermath, he blinks away tears, vaguely aware of the cum staining his boxers, creating damp spots through fabric.

There’s something painful, cutting to your gaze when you look at him. At the debauched sight, corrupted from just a few words.

Give it all up? For what? Him?

All things considered, it’s tempting.

“Spencer,” you mutter in the serrated moments between. When he’s still nebulous, caught in the aftershocks of abrupt pleasure. When he’s just gotten off, untouched, on the notion of a domesticated life with you.

He’s struggling to breathe. He’s spent nights gasping for you, reduced to the most debasing version of himself. So out of touch, you drove a blade through his back, catching his heart on the way.

“Why are you— doing this?” he asks, but before you can even answer, provide him with an explanation that will devastate, he’s lunging forward, kissing the lies that cling to your lips. Kissing you because his mouth hurts when it’s not attached to yours.

“One last time.” he says; he’s too intelligent, too intellectually adept, to allow this swallowing cycle of humiliation to continue.

But, underneath it all, he’s also inherently selfish for you. He’s fairly certain you were engrained into his skin, long before he fell into your barbed trap, teeth and penetrative ruin.

“Then you leave. You actually leave, never contact me again. No showing up at my apartment unprovoked. I have a good life without you. Understood?”

You scoff. He presses forward, “Understood?”

You don’t protest when he elucidates his life as good. Even if it’s quite the contrary. Even if he has to bare witness to depravity every single day, scrutinise his way through the minds of the most perverse. Perhaps this is a social experiment to him, perhaps you are the guinea pig, Laika sentenced to space. You know he loved you once, but it’s hard to comprehend the feelings remained unscarred, it’s hard to imagine you’re anything but a test subject now.

You look at him. Look at that pretty face. Your undoing. He could be your achilles heel, hamartia in its rawest form, or maybe you willingly chose to do this. Maybe fate, and divine intervention played no part in your attachment to him. Maybe it’s just chemicals. The logics explanation. Imbalanced, skewed chemicals.

“Don’t worry, boy genius.” you respond, “You won’t get anything, not even a postcard, from me. It’ll be like I never even existed.” no trace. D.C has always been a monotone cesspit of nothing anyway.

It’s cruel. Because if you leave, truly leave. And he never hears from you again, never catches you in his kitchen, drinking coffee with an unadulterated smile, then he will begin to forget.

The curve of your spine, the scars beneath your chest, the way your fingers fit into his own. The way he was able to memorise your body until he could draw it in the dark, when your body was pressed to his, when there was nothing but a false establishment of safety.

He knows he can’t forget. Not technically. But it’ll grow distant, it’ll be replaced with new normals and routines. That, that, he can’t compute.

“Good,” he says, kissing you again, kissing you because this is it.

Spencer wants you. In every sense of the word, he wants you so badly it’s killing him.

His bedroom still holds traces of you. That, itself, is a crime. But he just falls into you. The way lovers do. Your hands against his skin— his hair threaded through your fingers, your lips at the base of his neck. He lets you leave another bruise, a mark, a confirmation of possession, because even if this is the last time, he is, and always will be yours.

“Still the prettiest person i’ve ever seen,” you admit when he’s flushed naked beneath you.

There’s something in those doe-eyes, brown irises blown out of proportion, that hooked you. Even at the worst, it was still soft with him.

Slender frame, slightly arched, you want to bite into his hips, mark every inch of him as yours. It’s greedy, gluttonous, his messy hair, fanning out like a halo, the tangled curls he never bothers to properly care for.

“God, fucking look at you,” you grip his jaw, tilt his head back to bare that blemished neck of his. To have and to own. He’s so inexplicably different to you, so good it runs down to the bone. And maybe you’ve always been insatiable for what you’ve lacked.

He can’t take this. He can’t, not again. The past, the future will have to dissolve with this moment, because there will never be another again.

You will never get this close to him. It’s a terrifying thought, that this’ll be the standard of intimacy, of love - because he knows it isn’t. But he can’t risk the reality he’s faced with, the reality of living without this. Of living without you.

Your words only make it worse. He wants to beg you to stop. To cease the torture.

“Shut up.” He kisses you, as if to remind you that your mouth is made for kissing, for his lips, for a litany of dirty words that he can’t bear to hear. Those words are for someone else. For someone similar. Not him. Never him.

Defying fate. He gets off on being something bad beneath the surface. No one would ever expect it; boyish maladroit Spencer, the youngest of the team, willingly allowing, condoning, a killer to sink into his skin.

“Don’t tell me to shut up,” you respond, muffled against his lips. “If this is the last time, i’m going to enjoy it. Going to enjoy the sight of you, all desperate for me alone.”

“You assume i’ve ever been desperate for anyone else—“ he counters.

“Oh, that’s it. Keep talking dirty to me.”

“It’s not dirty. It’s a factual statement.”

You pull away, a trail of saliva bridging the space between your mouths. If there is higher power at play here, you want to curse, to spite your creator. Because if ‘things’ had been different, if you had been born from the same rib, this could’ve ended differently.

Or for that matter, never ended at all.

“Sit there and watch me.” you say, and Spencer hates the way he obliges. Pushing himself up against the headboard, he stares at you, at the way you position yourself, standing by the foot of the bed.

“Do you even know what you do to me? Do you even understand the gravity your existence has on me?” you continue, unfastening the lace corset that clings to your frame. When it drops to the floor, breasts exposed, you run your hands across them, catching pierced nipples for a vindictive moment of pleasure.

“I— uh,” Spencer is admittedly a little distracted. Sex had always been something ruinous between you two. Something that conflicted his lack of experience, forced him to adapt.

He always wondered how someone so soft, the epitome of light, could be this obscene. Now he understands.

“Lost your words? Come on, pretty boy. I thought you had an ‘extensive vocabulary?’ Hm?”

He wants to touch himself, to ease the pulsing throb that centres in his cock. But he doesn’t, because despite the time that has passed, he still knows your rules. “Don’t use my words against me. I’m being tortured.”

“Tortured, huh?” your hands fumble over buttons until you’re reduced to a pair of panties, soaked throughly, leaving scarce to the imagination.

“So so tortured. Oh my god, who are you? Can I please have my soul back?” he’s joking, but not really.

“Well maybe if you beg for it,” your words fade into a mess of moans, fingers slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. Spencer’s head spills back against the wall; he looks more affected by the movements than you.

It’s easy to fall back into old habits. Relapse.

“Come here, come here, i’m having an existential crisis.” he says, watching as you slip one finger, then two inside you, struggling to stand now. It’s strange how pleasure can reduce the most antagonising minds to vulnerability.

“Please— oh fuck, please. Please. Don’t make me watch, I can’t. Need you. Need you so bad.”

He thought he found the core of torture in you touching yourself, but he was wrong. Because when you crawl closer, when you slot yourself between his thighs, lips finding skin that only you have ever touched, he sees the root of evil in his brain. The ninth circle of hell.

It’s justified, he supposes. For all the good he’s done, he has betrayed. Himself, his friends, family, existence itself. There is not one thing he wouldn’t ruin, just to feel you. It’s incriminating, so yes, he deserves to freeze in Cocytus. He’ll willingly plead guilty, accept his entrapment in the ring of Caina.

“Poor baby, look at you.” you say, kissing his tip, catching the pre-cum on your tongue. Spencer responds: fisting bedsheets, fighting the restraint to buck forward, to find misplaced solace in the warmth of your mouth. He’s sprawled out across sheets now, lying back in a tangled heap of want. “Shh, it’s okay,” you continue, “I like my men desperate.”

“Desperate? Ah—,” he fights the urge to shut his eyes, too aware that this is the last memory he will ever retain of you.

You, painted into his mind. The final evidence left in the fire: mouth sinking down his length, taking him to the hilt, watery eyes and leaking mascara.

“This isn’t even desperation. You’re killing me. Just, oh oh— please, don’t. ‘M gonna cum. Gonna cum—“

Is it sick that he doesn’t want to? If only to prolong this transitory moment of destruction? Like the lotus eaters, he will always be mindless in the pursuit of more, more, more of you.

You draw back from his cock, only to press a soft kiss against the tip. The gesture alone has him reeling, has him begging to be saved, to atone for every sin he found in the comfort of your divinely crafted lips.

“Gonna let me sit on that pretty cock of yours, hm? Let me use you one last time? Promise i’ll be good,” a lie, “So so good.”

“God, yes. Yes, please. That would—“ You take him deep, deep enough that everything aches. He only feels alive when you’re wrapped around him, when there’s not an ounce of distance between your bodies, when he can touch the insides of you. Pry open the raw, unfiltered version of you.

He only feels alive when he’s sunk inside the harbinger of death. He’d laugh if it didn’t hurt.

You’ve got one hand tangled in your hair, the other pressed flat against his waist, supporting you through each bump of movement. Eyes like marbles, Spencer looks up, and wonders why this will never be enough for you.

You look back, meet his gaze, as if you’re Orpheus, predestined to turn around, to always return. Even if it’s just for one last second. Even if the fall-out is so much worse than pushing forward blindly.

Oh, hes certain you’re carving a hole inside him, something that will only grow and expand, imploring to be filled by it’s inventor. It’ll hurt, for the rest of time, he supposes.

When he finds your hand around his neck, he isn’t startled. Neither, when your thumb presses against his throat, applying pressure until the world cracks and fades, distorting his refined mind to the here and now. He floats, feeling transient in the curse of your touch.

“That’s it. Just let go. I’ve got you.”

He is a sacrificial lamb. The priests favourite. He will take the knife every time, and thank you for it after.

You release the tension, hand taking his instead. For all the cruelty you possess, you’d never think to harm him. Not physically at least. The emotional damage, however, finds you both. There can be no happiness in either of your worlds, not when the memory of each other festers. “Good boy— taking it so well. God, no one is ever gonna compare.”

He cries at the words. Pretty tears streaming down his face, because the reciprocation to his undying piety will forever trigger the warped chemicals in his brain. Will forever reduce him to something saccharine.

“Love you. Love you so much. Don’t go. Please,” he fractures, “please don’t go.” he begs, besmirched words he’ll regret in the wake of his pleasure. They don’t count, and yet, he knows, in the most depraved sections of his mind, they’re true.

You ride him harder. Back curved, finding god in the washed-out body of someone fatally destroyed. “Not going anywhere— fuck, fuckfuckfuck. That feels so good. You’re so good,” maybe it’s a kink to ruin something so perfectly spotless.

Maybe it’s a kink that he wants it.

“Say it. God, just say it. This once.” for old times sake, he almost adds. But that wouldn’t be objectively correct. For all the intimacy you shared, you never once articulated those three words. Perhaps it was to save your dignity, to hold pieces of yourself in the lies you beautifully crafted.

His thumb runs over your clit, and in the tangle of your orgasm, he almost thinks you forget about his demand. But after, when you’re still taking him, when you’re still clenching, unclenching, clenching around his cock, when you know you own every part of him, you answer.

“I love you.”

He falls apart. Hips canting, body squirming, whimper after whimper escaping his bruised lips as he releases inside of you. Pushed deep, defiled to the limit. For a moment, everything is okay, everything will be alright, because there’s pleasure, and it’s you. It’s always you.

How can he justify falling in love with you again? How can he, when he still clings onto the artificial love of the past? He’s not sure his heart can handle one set of feelings, nevermind two.

He takes you again, well… mostly you take him again. In ways that have him polluted with the remnants of your teeth. Canine marks, etched deep enough to bleed. He hopes the swelling leaves behind perennial scars, anything to remind him. Anything to hold onto when you’re gone and it’s cold.

After, when you lie together, he presses his forehead against yours and wishes he was in any other universe. One where you’re happy. Where everything is pure and simple, clean from sin.

There was always truth in what we shared before, you admit. Lazy nights spent draped over the couch, kissing him to silence convoluted rambles. Your presence in the morning, bathed in holy glow, sunlight bleeding over the pretty sight of you. The first night he touched you and saw god. And then the following night, when he ascended all over again.

He wakes to find no body. He wakes to find nothing. It feels like self-sabotage, the promise that you would leave, even if it’s quite the contrary.

In the absence, abstinence of your presence, he discovers traces of you in everything he sees, all of it, everything consumed, returning to the simple thought of you you you.

When the first postcard comes, Portland, dreary weather— beaches and ports, there’s no anger. No exasperation that you broke your word.

You love him, it’s morbid, but for someone like him, it overrules everything. Sanity, dignity, his own stable existence.

You overrule everything.

[spencersmopbucket]

The Way of an Agent | Spencer Reid

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you okay?"

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

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

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

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

"Man?" You questioned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were finally going to become parents.

You genuinely couldn't have been happier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Long story short, you were the stricter parent.

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

Until one fall evening.

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

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

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

You yawned, closing your book.

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

"Tired, baby?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Immediately, you grabbed the phone, answering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mom... he’s still out there."

A cold wave of dread swept over you.

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

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

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

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

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

But this was different.

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

And you knew exactly how dangerous this could be.

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

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

But Aubrey was in danger. Aubrey was your priority.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You lunged.

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

The knife fell to the ground with a sharp clatter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He kissed your forehead gently. “Always.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They thought you were incredible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[hoe4hotchner]

idk if i have alr requested this but aaron hotchner x unsub!reader ??

Under his skin | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Unsub!Reader

CW: psychological manipulation, power dynamics, implied violence, implied murder, interrogation, mind games

WC: 1.7k

Summary: Hotch finally captures you, but as the interrogation unfolds, it becomes clear the real game has only just begun, blurring the lines between right and wrong.

           The tension in the air was palpable as Agent Hotchner entered the dimly lit interrogation room. He stood tall, his presence commanding, his eyes fixed on you, he had been hunting you for months. You sat at the metal table, wrists shackled, your expression calm. Still, your eyes held a defiance that matched the intensity of the control in his.

           "You've been hard to find," Hotch said, his voice low, each word measured. He circled the table, never breaking eye contact, the weight of his authority pressing down on the room. "But it's over now."

           A slow, knowing smile crept across your lips, not in submission but in challenge. "You think you’ve won, don’t you, Agent Hotchner?" you murmured, your tone laced with mockery. "But you don’t understand, do you? You were never in control. Not once."

           Hotch stopped behind you, his jaw clenching as he resisted the urge to react. He’d dealt with killers before - manipulative and dangerous minds who thrived on power games - but you were different. There was something about you that got under his skin, something that blurred the line between hatred and… something else.

           He leaned down slightly, his breath warm against the back of your neck. "I understand more than you think," he whispered. "I know what drives you."

           Your pulse quickened, but you refused to show it. You turned your head just enough to meet his gaze from the corner of your eye, your smirk never faltering. "And what is that, Agent Hotchner?"

           "Fear," he said, his voice steady, his eyes searching yours. "You're terrified. That’s why you keep pushing, keep running, keep killing."

           You straightened in your seat, your composure cracking for just a moment before you masked it again with a cold laugh. "You don’t know anything about me."

           Hotch moved around to the front of the table, placing his hands on its surface as he leaned in closer, his face inches from yours. "I know you better than you think," he said softly, his eyes narrowing. "You wanted me to catch you, didn’t you?"

           Your smirk faded, replaced by something darker, something rawer. The truth of his words hung in the air between you, and for the first time, you felt the weight of the game you’d been playing. But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you break. Not yet.

           "You really think this is over?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

           Hotch’s eyes hardened, his jaw tightening. "It’s over."

           But even as he said the words, there was an unspoken understanding between you, a pull that neither of you could ignore. Enemies. Opposites. Yet, somehow, connected by something far deeper than either of you was willing to admit.

           Hotch stood still, watching you for any sign of weakness, any crack in the armor you wore so expertly. But there was something in your gaze, something he couldn’t place. He had chased you for months, relentlessly unraveling the puzzle you’d left behind, but now, sitting across from you, he felt it - the undeniable pull that shouldn’t exist between foes.

           You leaned back in the chair, your posture relaxed but your eyes burning with an intensity that made his stomach twist. "You say it’s over," you repeated softly, "but is it? Really?"

           Hotch didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Instead, he sat down across from you, his eyes narrowing as he studied your every move. There was a strange calmness in the air, a stillness that shouldn’t exist between hunter and prey, but here it was. And Hotch hated it. He hated how you affected him, how, even now, with your wrists bound in cuffs, you still had power over him.

           "You wanted this," he said quietly, his voice a low growl as if he was trying to convince himself that he was right. "You wanted me to find you."

           You raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. "Maybe I did," you admitted, your voice was like silk. "Maybe I’ve been playing you all along."

           He should be angry. Furious. But instead, there was something else simmering beneath the surface - something that had been growing since the first time your paths crossed. Something that blurred the line between hate and fascination.

           Hotch leaned in, his eyes locked on yours, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Why?" he demanded. "What do you want from me?"

           You held his gaze, the challenge in your eyes unwavering. "Maybe I wanted to see if you could catch me. Maybe I wanted to know if you were as good as everyone said you were."

           He shook his head, not buying into your game. "That’s not it," he said firmly. "You’re too smart for that."

           You let out a soft laugh, leaning forward slightly, closing the distance between you. "Maybe I just wanted to see you up close, Aaron."

           Hearing his first name fall from your lips made his blood run cold and hot all at once. He had heard it a thousand times from friends, colleagues, and family, but from you, it felt… intimate, wrong even.

           "You don’t get to call me that," he said, his voice strained.

           "Why not?" you asked, your voice almost playful. "You’ve been chasing me for months. You know me better than anyone."

           "You’re a killer," Hotch said, his tone sharp.

           "And yet, here we are," you whispered, your eyes darkened, daring him to admit the connection neither of you wanted to face. "Maybe you’re not as different from me as you think."

           Hotch’s jaw clenched. He wanted to refute your words, to tell you that you were nothing alike, but something stopped him. Deep down, beneath the layers of righteousness and duty, he felt it too. The same darkness that fueled you had touched him as well, shaped him in ways he didn’t want to acknowledge.

           He stood abruptly, pushing his chair back as if to create distance, both physically and emotionally. "This ends here," he said, his voice hard, though it trembled slightly.

           You smiled, slow and taunting, as you watched him struggle with the truth he didn’t want to face. "We both know that’s a lie, Aaron."

           He turned on his heel, refusing to look at you as he headed for the door, but your words lingered in the air, heavy and unshakable. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

           Hotch stopped just shy of the door, his hand hovering over the handle as your words echoed in his mind. The venomous sweetness in the way you said his name, the way you pushed, prodded at parts of him he kept buried deep - he hated that you could get under his skin so easily.

           "I know you feel it too," you called softly from behind him, your voice echoing in the stark interrogation room. "That pull… it's what kept you chasing me."

           He hesitated, fingers tightening around the cold handle. His body was rigid, but every nerve in him was taut, strained to the breaking point. "You don’t know anything about me," he growled, though the words lacked conviction.

           You smirked, leaning back in your chair with a confidence that set his teeth on edge. "Don’t I? You’ve been playing the hero for so long, trying to separate yourself from the darkness. But it’s always there, Aaron, lurking beneath the surface."

           He turned slowly, his expression hard but his eyes betraying the inner turmoil. The room felt smaller now, suffocating under the weight of what was left unsaid. The way you watched him, the way you spoke as if you knew him inside and out, it crawled under his skin in a way that felt wrong. But even more than that, it felt familiar.

           You leaned forward, your shackles rattling softly as you rested your arms on the table. "We’re not different, you and I," you whispered, eyes gleaming with a dangerous allure. "You spend your life catching people like me. But tell me, Aaron - how much of yourself do you see in us?"

           Hotch clenched his fists, fighting the urge to lash out, to shut you up, but it wasn’t just anger that drove him - it was fear. Fear that maybe, just maybe, there was a certain truth in your words.

           He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, his gaze locked onto yours with a cold intensity. "You and I are nothing alike," he said, his voice low and controlled. "I don’t get off on causing pain. I don’t manipulate and kill innocent people."

           "No," you agreed, your eyes narrowing as you tilted your head slightly. "But how many lives have you ruined, Aaron? How many times have you had to make the hard choice? The one that keeps you awake at night?"

           For a brief moment, a flash of something passed through his eyes - regret, maybe. But he buried it quickly. "I do what I have to," he said, his voice a little too quiet, a little too tired. "To protect people."

           You studied him, a small smile curling at your lips as you sat back once more. "Keep telling yourself that."

           The silence that followed was deafening. It stretched between you like a loaded wire, ready to snap at any moment. Hotch couldn’t bring himself to move, couldn’t turn his back on you again. You were still dangerous, still a killer, but beneath it all, there was something else. Something more complicated.

           And maybe that’s what scared him most of all.

           "You don’t win," he said, more to himself than to you. "You’re going to spend the rest of your life in a cell."

           Your laugh was soft but chilling, echoing through the empty room. "Win? I already have. You may lock me away, but I’m in here," you tapped your temple with a finger, your gaze never leaving his. "I’ll always be in here."

           Hotch’s face tightened, and without another word, he turned and pushed through the door. The cold, sterile air of the hallway hit him like a punch to the gut, but it wasn’t enough to shake off the weight of your words.

           As the door clicked shut behind him, your maniacal laughter faint behind the steel door enclosing you, Hotch realized something unsettling: the chase was over, but the game had just begun. And whether he liked it or not, you were right.

           You were under his skin.

[reidsdimples]

Doctor, Stalker, Special Agent

Spencer Reid x BAU!Reader

18+❤️‍🔥 MDNI‼️

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

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

Click

You remove your shirt

Click

You remove your pants

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

Click

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

Click

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

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

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

You wouldn’t miss them.

Maybe.

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

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

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

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

“Harder, right there,” you moan.

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

“Reid fuck!” You exclaim as you cum.

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

He had to go. Now.

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

—

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

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

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

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

“Long night,” he sighs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Foreal,” JJ agrees.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he doesn’t hide it.

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

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

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

“What- I…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want it?” You ask him.

“Yes please,” he begs.

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

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

“Ah,” you moan softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nearly stumbles coming after you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reid? You coming?” You turn and ask.

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

[thylilies]

i wanna write smth with an unsub!reader but i have like… zero ideas for the plot.

[pinkglittergelpenink]

the team whenever Spencer talks: