torturedreid
torturedreid
Komi
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torturedreid · 1 month ago
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Your Blood, My Salvation
word count: 1.5k
warnings: graphic injury, blood drinking, consensual bloodletting, self-loathing
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Spencer didn’t remember much after the bullet ripped through his side.
The world had merged into sensation and heat, the coppery smell of his own lifesblood heavy in the musky air of the motel. There’d been shouts, the sharp bangs of gunfire, his own ragged breathing pulling uselessly through his lungs. And pain– god, the pain was bright and burning, lightning racing through every nerve as he collapsed behind the couch they’d flipped for cover previously.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been shot. It wasn’t even the worst injury he’d sustained on the job. But this– this was different. His body was already starting to heal, but sluggishly, far too slow for what he needed to live. The blood loss alone wouldn’t kill him, but paired with the silver-tipped rounds the unsub had been using, there was a very real possibility.
Silver. Not enough to kill outright, but enough to make cellular regeneration almost suffocatingly slow. Like mercury poisoning on a molecular level, seeping into everything, weighing his cells down with their own burning death.
His vision blurred at the edges. The hunger clawed up through his throat like an old enemy.
It had been millennia since he’d tasted living blood.
Not since the fall of the Roman Empire, not since marble temples and blood sacrifices, not since languages lost to history and cities crumbled to dust. Not since wars and emperors, kingdoms rising and falling, dust and echoes and bones.
He had sworn never to feed from a living person again.
The bags he stole from hospitals, trauma centers, blood banks– they sustained him. Barely. Enough to remain himself. Enough to walk among humans unnoticed, to pass for something fragile and breakable and harmless. But he knew it couldn’t save him this time. Synthetic storage, anticoagulants, refrigerated for god knows how long– all of it dulled the potency. Refrigerated blood was calories without nutrients.
What he needed was fresh.
And he’d sooner burn himself alive in the sun than ask for it.
But Hotch knew.
Aaron was the only one who ever saw him fully– the hunger, the restraint, the centuries of isolation wound into his very being. He saw the scholar, the genius, the immortal, and he never flinched.
And now he saw Spencer still, bleeding out on the linoleum floor. Aaron was kneeling over his body, his trembling hands pressing against Spencer’s abdomen to keep his insides from spilling out.
“Stay with me,” Aaron murmured, voice steady in a way that meant I’m falling apart but you won’t see it. His hands were hot and stained crimson. “Help is coming.”
Spencer’s lips parted, a soft gasp escaping as his eyes desperately blinked, trying to force the world into focus. His skin was pale. Paler than usual, at least, but that made the darkness in Spencer’s eyes more noticeable. It wasn’t just pain or the loss of blood.
It was hunger.
Hotch could see it in his eyes, that deep gnawing hunger Spencer spent every waking moment fighting. There were blood bags, always in the fridge in the office fridge, tucked behind the yogurts in Rossi’s house, even in a freezer bag in Morgan’s SUV. They were everywhere.
Everywhere but here.
He opened his mouth to speak again but Spencer’s weak whisper cut him off.
“No. Don’t.”
“Spencer, we don’t have time for pride.”
“It’s not–” Spencer coughed, droplets of red sputtering out of his mouth. “It’s not pride.”
It was shame.
It was need.
He hadn’t crossed that line since he was turned, since that monster inside of him had taken a human life before they could even scream. He never wanted to feel that soft pulse fading under his lips again, to taste the difference between clinical bags, and something alive.
It would be so easy to lose himself.
Aaron knew it too.
“I’m offering,” Hotch said, like it was nothing, like it wasn’t the greatest temptation Spencer had ever faced. Like he wasn’t kneeling between Spencer’s legs, holding him together with his bare hands, offering his life like it was no heavier than offering him a ride home.
That was what made it worse. Aaron didn’t understand what this was. Didn’t understand what it would feel like to lose that last shred of humanity and replace it with teeth and hunger and–
“Don’t.”
Aaron’s eyes softened at the quiet plea. “You need it.”
“I wont–” Spencer’s voice cracked. “I can’t. I don’t know if i can stop. I haven’t– I haven’t fed from a living source in–”
"Nearly two thousand years,” Aaron said gently, “I know. You told me.”
“I’m scared.” Spencer admitted, his breath coming in short panicked gasps. “I’m scared i’ll lose control. I’m scared I’ll hurt you. I’m scared i’ll kill you.”
But, to Spencer’s complete disbelief, Hotch didn’t hesitate. Not for a moment.
“Then I’ll stop you. I trust you with my life, Spence. I always have.”
Aaron shifted, wiping his bloody hand against his trouser leg to clean it as best he could. And then he reached into his tactical belt, pulled out his knife, and with those same steady hands that held Spencer together, cut a shallow line across the side of his own neck.
Spencer’s breath hitched, horror warring with need, and before he could even open his mouth to protest, Aaron lifted a finger to the welling blood, swiped it through the thin line, and smeared it gently across Spencer’s lower lip.
“You won’t ask,” Aaron murmured. “So I’m offering.”
The sharp coppery tang of Aaron’s blood touched his lip– and Spencer was almost embarrassed at how his body reacted.
Predatory instincts long since buried in a lonely shame flared to a violent clarity. His senses sharpened instantly, vision refocusing so quickly it made him dizzy. Every hair on his arms stood on end, muscles twitching involuntarily.
One drop.
It was like feeding gasoline to a dying fire.
His hands shot out, fists clenching into Aaron’s vest in a blur of movement that made his injury scream, dragging Hotch closer overrode everything rational in his mind. Spencer’s lips parted, tongue darting out to sweep over the cut.
And god–
It was better than he’d ever dared himself to imagine.
Warm. Sweet. He could taste the oxygen flooding Aaron's bloodstream with every breath he took. It was surreal.
His tongue swept over the cut again, trembling, shaking, just holding on– but the demon inside of him was screaming at him to take it, take it, take it—
And suddenly, with a broken sob, Spencer tore his lips away.
“I said don’t!” he snapped, almost snarling with some mix of betrayal and self-loathing. His voice echoed off the motel walls, rage and terror twisting into something feral.
“I told you not to. I told you I can’t. You don’t– you don’t understand what you’re asking me to do–”
But, like always, Aaron didn’t flinch, didn’t scare away from the venom in Spencer’s voice.
“I might not understand, but i’m not going to let you die for a promise you made two thousand years ago.”
Spencer’s head shook frantically, curls sticking to the sweat and blood across his forehead. His hands still gripping Aaron’s vest, knuckles white, torn between shoving him away and pulling him closer.
“I can’t, Aaron–”
“You can, and you will.”
Before Spencer could stop him, before the shred of humanity could scream another refusal, Aaron moved. His hand came up, gentle but firm, curling around the back of Spencer’s neck, fingers threading into his damp hair, holding him close.
“I trust you,” Aaron whispered against his temple. “I’ve always trusted you. Let me help you.”
The words cracked something deep in Spencer’s chest.
Help me.
No-one had helped him in centuries. They’d fought him, feared him, worshipped him, hunted him– but help?
Then Aaron leaned closer, until his lips brushed his ear, the cut still bleeding slowly between them, painting Spencer’s lips red.
“You’re not a monster,” Aaron whispered. “You’re mine.”
That broke the little restraint Spencer had left. But this time it wasn’t a frenzy. It wasn’t madness.
With a broken moan, Spencer shifted forward, burying his face against Aaron’s throat, fangs descending slightly to widen the cut.
Aaron’s fingers stayed wrapped in his hair, thumb stroking slow circles against his scalp to soothe him.
“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
The blood hit Spencer’s tongue, flooding him with heat that pushed back the cold numbness on his fingertips. He could feel it– the slow stitch of tissue knitting itself back together, his own bleeding falling to a complete halt, the pain subsiding into nothingness.
Aaron was murmuring reassurances the whole time, a stream of quiet affection Spencer barely processed but he was beyond grateful it was there. You’re safe. I’m here. That’s it.
He didn’t feel evil, or violent.
He was cared for.
Held together by hands he didn’t deserve– not physically anymore but emotionally. Hands that belonged to a man whose love overshadowed any modicum of fear.
For the first time since the night of his turning when he first looked down at the body in his hands, the life he’d stolen, and called himself a monster–
–for the first time in two thousand years–
He didn’t feel like one.
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torturedreid · 5 months ago
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I MAKE SO MANY WHERE PEOPLE CARE ABOUT HIM BECAUSE ITS MY FAV
Paid In Conversation
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escort reader x spencer reid
w.c: 3.3k
not really sure if it needs warnings
(divider by @diviniyae )
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The bar isn't the worst place you’ve worked but it's far from the best. It’s one of those dimly lit spots just off of the Strip, filled with a mix of tourists who wandered too far and locals who know better than to waste their money on casinos. The kind of place where the music is low, the drinks are overpriced, and no one asks too many questions.
You’re perched on a barstool, nursing a barely-touched cocktail you have no intention of drinking, scanning the room for potential business. A guy in an expensive suit keeps sneaking glances at you, but he’s already had too much to drink-- too sloppy. Another man at the end of the bar hasn’t looked up from his phone in ten minutes.
And then there’s him.
The man sitting alone at the corner table, fingers wrapped around a sweating glass of water like it’s something stronger. His shirt is buttoned all the way up but wrinkled, his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and his tie is loosened just slightly. It's like he got halfway through shedding it and then gave up. Tousled curls frame his face, sharp cheekbones, a delicate jawline– handsome in a bookish way, but there's something tired about him. His hazel eyes are unfocused, staring through the glass instead of at it. His shoulders are slightly hunched, the posture of someone carrying too much weight. He’s not here for the same reason as the other men in this bar.
You know loneliness when you see it. 
He doesn’t look like the type to seek out an escort, but that's the thing about loneliness—it doesn’t discriminate.
It pays.
You pick up your now room temp cocktail and slide off the barstool, moving with slow, practiced ease. The kind that catches attention without looking desperate for it. His eyes don’t flick to you the way most people do. He’s not watching the way your dress clings to your hips, not tracking your movements in the mirror behind the bar. 
Interesting.
You stop beside his table, tilting your head slightly. “Mind if I sit?”
For a second, he doesn’t react, like he didn't hear you. Then, his head snaps up, blinking at you with an expression that borders on confusion.
“I–uh, sure,” he says, his voice softer than you’d expected.
You ease into the chair across from him, crossing your legs, letting the slow slide of the fabric against your skin do most of the work. If he notices, he doesn’t show it.
“You look like you could use a drink,” you say, nodding to the water in his hands.
He glances at the glass like he’d forgotten it was there. “I don’t drink much.”
“Ah.” You take a slow sip from your own glass, watching him over the rim. “One of those rare men with self-control.”
His lips twitch in something that isn’t quite a smile. “It’s not really about self-control,” he says, fingers tapping lightly against the side of his glass. “Alcohol affects the hippocampus, which is responsible for memory formation. It also impairs the prefrontal cortex, which is involved in decision-making. And considering the human brain doesn’t fully mature until about twenty-five, habitual drinking before that can–”
He stops abruptly, as if realizing he’s been talking too much. His mouth presses into a thin line. “Sorry.”
You blink.
Most men in bars talk too much, but not like this. You were expecting an awkward joke, maybe some overconfident flirting– not a spontaneous neuroscience lecture.
“No need to apologize,” you say, amused. “You a scientist or something?”
He hesitates. “Not exactly. I work for the FBI.”
That catches you off guard.
You arch a brow. “Really?”
“Behavioural Analysis Unit. I study criminal behaviour to catch offenders.”
A profiler.
Well, shit.
Your instinct tells you to leave. You’ve learnt to be careful in this job, and you know better than to let law enforcement get too interested in you, but he doesn’t seem suspicious. If anything, he looks…drained.
“So you’re one of those guys who gets inside people’s heads,” you say.
He exhales softly. “I try not to. Not all the time anyway.”
“Why not?”
A shadow passes behind his eyes. He hesitates, like the answer is bigger than he wants it to be.
“Because it makes it hard to be alone with my own thoughts,” he admits.
Something about the way he says it– it isn’t dramatic or performative. Just honest.
For the first time, you reconsider your approach.
But you’re not a therapist, you’re here to make money.
You shift, adjusting the conversation. “Well, you’re in Vegas. For work assumedly but that doesnt mean you can’t enjoy yourself.”
“I don’t really know how to do that.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “That might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “It’s true. I’ve never been great at doing things just for fun.”
“Ever?”
His jaw tightens slightly. “I used to read a lot.”
“You used to?”
“It’s been harder lately,” he mutters as his fingers tighten around his glass.
There’s something there– something dark, something he doesn’t want to talk about. And for a second you almost ask.
But then he keeps talking.
And talking.
At first, it’s about work– how difficult it is, how he spends most of his days analyzing patterns of human suffering, how he sees the absolute worst of people. Then, somehow, he transitions into an explanation of cognitive dissonance, which leads into the psychological effects of chronic stress. By the time he starts explaining the history of gambling addiction, you realize you’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes listening to him going on tangents.
And the worst part? He doesn’t even seem to notice.
You lean back in your chair, exhaling through your nose. Yeah. This isn’t going anywhere.
“Well, this has been fun, but I should probably–” you start, but then something shifts.
His eyes flick downward– towards your wrist. You glance down instinctively, but there’s nothing there except the delicate diamond bracelet you wear. Nothing incriminating. But when you look back up, he’s frowning, like something just clicked in his head.
He glances towards the bar, toward the bartender who gave you a subtle nod when you got up. Then at your dress– expensive but not flashy. He blinks at your drink, still barely touched, and finally his gaze lands back on yours.
“Oh.” His brow furrows slightly. “You’re, um…you’re working.”
Finally.
“Took you long enough.”
He blinks rapidly. “I–I didn’t–” his ears go a little pink. “I wasn’t trying to waste your time.”
You wave him off. “Don’t worry about it.” You push back your chair, ready to make your exit. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”
“Wait.”
There’s something desperate in his voice that stops you. You look down at him, arms crossed.
He swallows. “Would you– could I pay you? Just to stay? To talk?”
You hesitate. That’s not usually how this goes. But then again, nothing about him is usual.
“You want to pay me to listen to you ramble?”
He looks away, exhaling softly. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”
For some reason, that hits you harder than it should. You let out a slow breath, studying him, trying to figure out what the hell is compelling you to say: 
“Alright.” You sit back down. “We can do that.”
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The silence between you is oddly comfortable. 
For a man who just spent nearly half an hour rambling about neuroscience and criminal behaviour, he is surprisingly quiet once money enters the equation. He pushes a few bills across the table – a lot more than what you would’ve asked for, especially just to sit and talk– but he doesn’t even look at them.
You glance down at the crisp hundred dollar bills.
“You’re sure about this?” you ask.
His fingers drum absent mindedly against his glass. “I don’t want to be alone right now,” he repeats, softer this time.
There’s something about him– something different that you can’t quite pinpoint, and as the silence stretches, you can’t help but say, “You still haven’t told me your name.”
You wait for him to say something, but instead his lips twitch, just the slightest bit. “Right,” he says, finally meeting your gaze. “I’m Spencer. Spencer Reid.”
You smile, “Nice to finally know you, Spencer.”
The way his name rolls off your tongue feels significant, like a small but important shift. It’s no longer just an exchange of words– it feels like something personal.
He seems to relax slightly, and though he doesn’t offer more, you can sense a change in the air. There’s a quiet vulnerability now. He’s not just a stranger. He’s Spencer, and you find yourself wanting to know more about him.
“Sorry,” he says with a small awkward laugh. “I don’t usually talk to strangers, let alone…um…” His silence hangs in the air, but you know what he means.
You’re used to men throwing money at you. But usually they want something more than this.
Most of the time, you know exactly what you’re walking into. You know how to adjust your approach– when to play coy, when to be charming, when to pretend a man is the most interesting person in the world just to make him feel like he matters. But Spencer isn’t like anyone else you’ve ever dealt with.
This isn’t about sex.
This isn’t even about companionship, not really.
This is about something else.
Something that made him sit in this bar with only a glass of water, staring at nothing. Something that made his voice crack just a little when he asked you to stay.
You let the silence stretch between you before you finally slip the money off the table and tuck it away.
“Alright, Spencer.” You settle back into your seat, crossing one leg over the other. “You’ve got me for the night. What do you want to talk about?”
His lips press together. “I don’t know.”
You resist the urge to sigh.
He shifts in his seat, looking down at his hands. “I don't…usually do this.”
“You don’t say.”
That gets a small huff of amusement out of him– not quite a laugh, but close.
“So what do you usually do when you don't want to be alone?”
His fingers trace the rim of his glass. “I work.”
“Okay. And when you’re not working?”
“I read.”
“You said you don’t do that much anymore.”
He flinches, just barely. “Yeah.”
You let the moment pass, let him decide whether he wants to fill in the gaps or not. He doesn’t.
“So you’re telling me your entire personality is just work and books?”
His mouth twitches like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t.
“I—” He exhales through his nose. “I guess so.”
“Jesus, Spencer,” you mutter. “No offense, but that’s a little sad.”
His lips part slightly, like no one’s ever pointed it out before.
You study him for a moment. You’re trying to piece together how a man like him—smart, oddly endearing, and surprisingly good-looking in an awkward, too-tall, too-skinny kind of way—ended up here. Alone in a bar, offering an escort money just to talk to him.
“So, what’s stopping you from reading?” you ask, steering the conversation back.
His jaw tightens slightly. His fingers curl against his palm. “I used to do it for comfort. But lately, every time I pick up a book, I feel like my brain just… won’t focus. The words blur together. I get halfway through a sentence and forget what I just read.”
That’s not normal.
But then again, nothing about this situation is normal.
You consider that for a moment. “That ever happen before?”
He hesitates. “No.”
“Could be stress.”
“Probably.”
You hum, not entirely convinced.
You don’t know him well, but from the way he talks, Spencer’s the type of guy who prides himself on his intelligence. If he’s struggling to read—to do something that’s always been second nature to him—that has to be messing with him.
“You ever talk to anyone about it?”
His expression shutters slightly. “I’m talking to you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He shifts uncomfortably. “It’s not a big deal.”
You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who would throw money at a stranger just to avoid being alone if it wasn’t a big deal.”
That lands harder than you expected.
His jaw goes tight, and for a second, he looks like he’s about to shut down entirely. But then, instead of getting defensive, he exhales sharply and shakes his head.
“You’re… perceptive,” he murmurs.
“Kind of my job.”
He glances at you, his eyes flickering with something curious. “I guess it is.”
The two of you lapse into silence again, but this time, it’s heavier. There’s something between you now—a strange, almost reluctant understanding.
“I lost someone,” he says suddenly.
That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.
You don’t ask who—not yet. Instead, you let him go at his own pace, watching the way his fingers trace the condensation on his glass like he’s distracting himself from the words coming out of his mouth.
“I don’t… talk about it,” he admits. “I mean, I do, I guess. My friends—they know, but they don’t… I don’t want to put this on them.” His throat bobs slightly as he swallows. “I don’t want them to feel sorry for me.”
You nod slowly. “So instead, you come here. Find a stranger. Someone who doesn’t know anything about you.”
His lips press together. He doesn’t confirm it, but he doesn’t deny it either.
“She was in danger,” he says quietly. “A stalker. She—she took Maeve, and I—I tried to save her, but…” His voice cracks just slightly. He clears his throat and looks away. “I watched her die.”
The words land like a gut punch.
You don’t know this man. You don’t know Maeve. But God, you can feel the weight of it pressing into the air between you.
“I’m sorry,” you say, and for once, it’s not just something automatic. It’s not just something you’re supposed to say. You mean it.
He doesn’t acknowledge it—not directly. But his jaw tightens, and he nods once, like he’s filing the words away.
You exhale slowly, drumming your fingers against the table. “Okay,” you say finally.
His brow furrows. “Okay?”
“You don’t want to be alone tonight? Fine. You won’t be.”
His throat bobs again, like he wasn’t expecting you to just accept it.
You offer him a small, lopsided smile. “So. You’re an FBI profiler and a neuroscience expert. Tell me something interesting.”
He blinks at you. “What?”
“Something interesting. Something I don’t know.”
For a second, he just stares, like his brain is struggling to switch gears. Then, after a long pause, he says, “Did you know that people who experience significant grief sometimes show altered activity in their anterior cingulate cortex? It’s the part of the brain that processes pain—both physical and emotional.”
You raise an eyebrow. “So, what? Your brain thinks you’re physically injured?”
“In a way,” he admits. “Grief doesn’t just exist in the mind. It exists in the body, too.”
You hum thoughtfully. “Huh. So you’re saying this isn’t just in your head?”
His lips twitch just slightly. “Something like that.”
You lean back. “Well, in that case, I’d say your treatment plan should probably include getting out of your own head for a while.”
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Spencer looks at you like you’ve just suggested robbing a bank.
“You want me to do what?”
You sigh, exasperated. “Come on, Spencer. It’s just a little fun.”
His eyes flicker with uncertainty, scanning the neon-lit street outside the bar like he’s searching for an escape route. The Las Vegas night hums around you—laughter, music, the distant ding ding ding of slot machines, and the low murmur of a city that never really sleeps.
You’d left the bar after two more rounds of conversation—more tangents, more rambling, and just enough teasing from you to make him smirk, just once. That had been enough to convince you he needed more than just a talk.
He needed to get out of his own head.
Which is why you’re now standing in front of an old, slightly run-down arcade tucked between a 24-hour diner and a tattoo shop, trying to convince a grieving FBI agent to play a damn game with you.
Spencer crosses his arms over his chest. “I haven’t been in an arcade since I was a kid.”
“Perfect. Then you’re overdue.” You nudge him toward the door. “Come on, smart-ass. Show me what you’ve got.”
He hesitates. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Why not?”
He falters.
You can see the gears turning in his head, trying to find a logical excuse, but you don’t let him. You just grab his wrist—lightly, giving him plenty of room to pull away if he wants—and tug him inside.
The arcade is loud.
It’s a mess of flashing lights, ringing bells, and old-school game sound effects. The air smells like popcorn, sugar, and whatever industrial cleaner they use to scrub sticky soda spills off the floor.
Spencer looks completely out of place.
He stands stiffly, hands in his pockets, eyes darting around like he’s trying to analyze his surroundings instead of just existing in them.
You sigh, shaking your head. “You really don’t know how to have fun, do you?”
“I have fun,” he argues, weakly.
“Uh-huh. Name the last fun thing you did.”
His mouth opens—then closes.
You raise an eyebrow.
“…I enjoy chess?”
You groan. “Oh my God.”
Before he can protest, you grab a handful of tokens from the counter, shove some into his palm, and steer him toward a Skee-Ball machine.
“Okay, Spencer, listen up,” you say, pulling him into position. “The goal is simple. Roll the ball up the ramp, try to get it in the highest-scoring ring. Winner gets bragging rights.”
He stares at the machine, then at you. “This is just applied physics.”
“Great. Then you should be fantastic at it.”
He still looks unsure, so you demonstrate first. You roll a ball up the ramp—it lands cleanly in the 40-point ring. Not bad.
“See? Easy.” You gesture to the machine. “Your turn.”
Spencer hesitates for a second before stepping forward. He grips the ball, aims carefully, and rolls it.
It bounces off the side and lands in the 10-point ring.
You snort. “Wow. Applied physics, huh?”
He scowls, grabs another ball, and rolls again.
20 points.
You can see his brain working now, adjusting his angle, recalculating. His third roll lands in the 50-point ring. By the time he gets to his last ball, he nails the 100-point shot.
You let out a low whistle. “Damn. Alright, genius, I see you.”
He pushes up his sleeves, and for the first time tonight, his eyes spark with something that’s not grief or exhaustion. “Best of two?”
You laugh, handing him more tokens. “Oh, now you’re into it.”
The next round is closer. He’s competitive—not in an obnoxious way, but in that quiet, methodical, determined way that probably makes him terrifying in his actual job. You beat him by a single point, and the look on his face is priceless.
“That’s impossible,” he mutters. “I recalibrated my angles—”
You cackle. “Guess I’m just better.”
His eyes narrow, and you see the exact moment he stops overthinking and just lets himself enjoy it.
You play a few more games—Pac-Man, Air Hockey, some type of shooting game, though he proceeds to talk about real-life firearm handling (and promptly wipes the floor with you).
You don’t rush him. You don’t push too hard.
You just let him be.
Somewhere between the Skee-Ball and Street Fighter II, you see something shift in him—just slightly. The tension in his shoulders eases. The crease between his brows smooths out. He’s still Spencer, still him, but for the first time tonight, he’s not just a grieving man sitting in a bar, haunted by ghosts.
He’s just here.
Just alive.
And when he lands a winning combo in Street Fighter, and you groan dramatically about letting him win, he actually laughs.
It’s quiet. Small. But it’s real.
And it’s probably the best sound you’ve heard all night.
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torturedreid · 5 months ago
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Paid In Conversation
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escort reader x spencer reid
w.c: 3.3k
not really sure if it needs warnings
(divider by @diviniyae )
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The bar isn't the worst place you’ve worked but it's far from the best. It’s one of those dimly lit spots just off of the Strip, filled with a mix of tourists who wandered too far and locals who know better than to waste their money on casinos. The kind of place where the music is low, the drinks are overpriced, and no one asks too many questions.
You’re perched on a barstool, nursing a barely-touched cocktail you have no intention of drinking, scanning the room for potential business. A guy in an expensive suit keeps sneaking glances at you, but he’s already had too much to drink-- too sloppy. Another man at the end of the bar hasn’t looked up from his phone in ten minutes.
And then there’s him.
The man sitting alone at the corner table, fingers wrapped around a sweating glass of water like it’s something stronger. His shirt is buttoned all the way up but wrinkled, his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and his tie is loosened just slightly. It's like he got halfway through shedding it and then gave up. Tousled curls frame his face, sharp cheekbones, a delicate jawline– handsome in a bookish way, but there's something tired about him. His hazel eyes are unfocused, staring through the glass instead of at it. His shoulders are slightly hunched, the posture of someone carrying too much weight. He’s not here for the same reason as the other men in this bar.
You know loneliness when you see it. 
He doesn’t look like the type to seek out an escort, but that's the thing about loneliness—it doesn’t discriminate.
It pays.
You pick up your now room temp cocktail and slide off the barstool, moving with slow, practiced ease. The kind that catches attention without looking desperate for it. His eyes don’t flick to you the way most people do. He’s not watching the way your dress clings to your hips, not tracking your movements in the mirror behind the bar. 
Interesting.
You stop beside his table, tilting your head slightly. “Mind if I sit?”
For a second, he doesn’t react, like he didn't hear you. Then, his head snaps up, blinking at you with an expression that borders on confusion.
“I–uh, sure,” he says, his voice softer than you’d expected.
You ease into the chair across from him, crossing your legs, letting the slow slide of the fabric against your skin do most of the work. If he notices, he doesn’t show it.
“You look like you could use a drink,” you say, nodding to the water in his hands.
He glances at the glass like he’d forgotten it was there. “I don’t drink much.”
“Ah.” You take a slow sip from your own glass, watching him over the rim. “One of those rare men with self-control.”
His lips twitch in something that isn’t quite a smile. “It’s not really about self-control,” he says, fingers tapping lightly against the side of his glass. “Alcohol affects the hippocampus, which is responsible for memory formation. It also impairs the prefrontal cortex, which is involved in decision-making. And considering the human brain doesn’t fully mature until about twenty-five, habitual drinking before that can–”
He stops abruptly, as if realizing he’s been talking too much. His mouth presses into a thin line. “Sorry.”
You blink.
Most men in bars talk too much, but not like this. You were expecting an awkward joke, maybe some overconfident flirting– not a spontaneous neuroscience lecture.
“No need to apologize,” you say, amused. “You a scientist or something?”
He hesitates. “Not exactly. I work for the FBI.”
That catches you off guard.
You arch a brow. “Really?”
“Behavioural Analysis Unit. I study criminal behaviour to catch offenders.”
A profiler.
Well, shit.
Your instinct tells you to leave. You’ve learnt to be careful in this job, and you know better than to let law enforcement get too interested in you, but he doesn’t seem suspicious. If anything, he looks…drained.
“So you’re one of those guys who gets inside people’s heads,” you say.
He exhales softly. “I try not to. Not all the time anyway.”
“Why not?”
A shadow passes behind his eyes. He hesitates, like the answer is bigger than he wants it to be.
“Because it makes it hard to be alone with my own thoughts,” he admits.
Something about the way he says it– it isn’t dramatic or performative. Just honest.
For the first time, you reconsider your approach.
But you’re not a therapist, you’re here to make money.
You shift, adjusting the conversation. “Well, you’re in Vegas. For work assumedly but that doesnt mean you can’t enjoy yourself.”
“I don’t really know how to do that.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “That might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “It’s true. I’ve never been great at doing things just for fun.”
“Ever?”
His jaw tightens slightly. “I used to read a lot.”
“You used to?”
“It’s been harder lately,” he mutters as his fingers tighten around his glass.
There’s something there– something dark, something he doesn’t want to talk about. And for a second you almost ask.
But then he keeps talking.
And talking.
At first, it’s about work– how difficult it is, how he spends most of his days analyzing patterns of human suffering, how he sees the absolute worst of people. Then, somehow, he transitions into an explanation of cognitive dissonance, which leads into the psychological effects of chronic stress. By the time he starts explaining the history of gambling addiction, you realize you’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes listening to him going on tangents.
And the worst part? He doesn’t even seem to notice.
You lean back in your chair, exhaling through your nose. Yeah. This isn’t going anywhere.
“Well, this has been fun, but I should probably–” you start, but then something shifts.
His eyes flick downward– towards your wrist. You glance down instinctively, but there’s nothing there except the delicate diamond bracelet you wear. Nothing incriminating. But when you look back up, he’s frowning, like something just clicked in his head.
He glances towards the bar, toward the bartender who gave you a subtle nod when you got up. Then at your dress– expensive but not flashy. He blinks at your drink, still barely touched, and finally his gaze lands back on yours.
“Oh.” His brow furrows slightly. “You’re, um…you’re working.”
Finally.
“Took you long enough.”
He blinks rapidly. “I–I didn’t–” his ears go a little pink. “I wasn’t trying to waste your time.”
You wave him off. “Don’t worry about it.” You push back your chair, ready to make your exit. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”
“Wait.”
There’s something desperate in his voice that stops you. You look down at him, arms crossed.
He swallows. “Would you– could I pay you? Just to stay? To talk?”
You hesitate. That’s not usually how this goes. But then again, nothing about him is usual.
“You want to pay me to listen to you ramble?”
He looks away, exhaling softly. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”
For some reason, that hits you harder than it should. You let out a slow breath, studying him, trying to figure out what the hell is compelling you to say: 
“Alright.” You sit back down. “We can do that.”
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The silence between you is oddly comfortable. 
For a man who just spent nearly half an hour rambling about neuroscience and criminal behaviour, he is surprisingly quiet once money enters the equation. He pushes a few bills across the table – a lot more than what you would’ve asked for, especially just to sit and talk– but he doesn’t even look at them.
You glance down at the crisp hundred dollar bills.
“You’re sure about this?” you ask.
His fingers drum absent mindedly against his glass. “I don’t want to be alone right now,” he repeats, softer this time.
There’s something about him– something different that you can’t quite pinpoint, and as the silence stretches, you can’t help but say, “You still haven’t told me your name.”
You wait for him to say something, but instead his lips twitch, just the slightest bit. “Right,” he says, finally meeting your gaze. “I’m Spencer. Spencer Reid.”
You smile, “Nice to finally know you, Spencer.”
The way his name rolls off your tongue feels significant, like a small but important shift. It’s no longer just an exchange of words– it feels like something personal.
He seems to relax slightly, and though he doesn’t offer more, you can sense a change in the air. There’s a quiet vulnerability now. He’s not just a stranger. He’s Spencer, and you find yourself wanting to know more about him.
“Sorry,” he says with a small awkward laugh. “I don’t usually talk to strangers, let alone…um…” His silence hangs in the air, but you know what he means.
You’re used to men throwing money at you. But usually they want something more than this.
Most of the time, you know exactly what you’re walking into. You know how to adjust your approach– when to play coy, when to be charming, when to pretend a man is the most interesting person in the world just to make him feel like he matters. But Spencer isn’t like anyone else you’ve ever dealt with.
This isn’t about sex.
This isn’t even about companionship, not really.
This is about something else.
Something that made him sit in this bar with only a glass of water, staring at nothing. Something that made his voice crack just a little when he asked you to stay.
You let the silence stretch between you before you finally slip the money off the table and tuck it away.
“Alright, Spencer.” You settle back into your seat, crossing one leg over the other. “You’ve got me for the night. What do you want to talk about?”
His lips press together. “I don’t know.”
You resist the urge to sigh.
He shifts in his seat, looking down at his hands. “I don't…usually do this.”
“You don’t say.”
That gets a small huff of amusement out of him– not quite a laugh, but close.
“So what do you usually do when you don't want to be alone?”
His fingers trace the rim of his glass. “I work.”
“Okay. And when you’re not working?”
“I read.”
“You said you don’t do that much anymore.”
He flinches, just barely. “Yeah.”
You let the moment pass, let him decide whether he wants to fill in the gaps or not. He doesn’t.
“So you’re telling me your entire personality is just work and books?”
His mouth twitches like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t.
“I—” He exhales through his nose. “I guess so.”
“Jesus, Spencer,” you mutter. “No offense, but that’s a little sad.”
His lips part slightly, like no one’s ever pointed it out before.
You study him for a moment. You’re trying to piece together how a man like him—smart, oddly endearing, and surprisingly good-looking in an awkward, too-tall, too-skinny kind of way—ended up here. Alone in a bar, offering an escort money just to talk to him.
“So, what’s stopping you from reading?” you ask, steering the conversation back.
His jaw tightens slightly. His fingers curl against his palm. “I used to do it for comfort. But lately, every time I pick up a book, I feel like my brain just… won’t focus. The words blur together. I get halfway through a sentence and forget what I just read.”
That’s not normal.
But then again, nothing about this situation is normal.
You consider that for a moment. “That ever happen before?”
He hesitates. “No.”
“Could be stress.”
“Probably.”
You hum, not entirely convinced.
You don’t know him well, but from the way he talks, Spencer’s the type of guy who prides himself on his intelligence. If he’s struggling to read—to do something that’s always been second nature to him—that has to be messing with him.
“You ever talk to anyone about it?”
His expression shutters slightly. “I’m talking to you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He shifts uncomfortably. “It’s not a big deal.”
You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who would throw money at a stranger just to avoid being alone if it wasn’t a big deal.”
That lands harder than you expected.
His jaw goes tight, and for a second, he looks like he’s about to shut down entirely. But then, instead of getting defensive, he exhales sharply and shakes his head.
“You’re… perceptive,” he murmurs.
“Kind of my job.”
He glances at you, his eyes flickering with something curious. “I guess it is.”
The two of you lapse into silence again, but this time, it’s heavier. There’s something between you now—a strange, almost reluctant understanding.
“I lost someone,” he says suddenly.
That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.
You don’t ask who—not yet. Instead, you let him go at his own pace, watching the way his fingers trace the condensation on his glass like he’s distracting himself from the words coming out of his mouth.
“I don’t… talk about it,” he admits. “I mean, I do, I guess. My friends—they know, but they don’t… I don’t want to put this on them.” His throat bobs slightly as he swallows. “I don’t want them to feel sorry for me.”
You nod slowly. “So instead, you come here. Find a stranger. Someone who doesn’t know anything about you.”
His lips press together. He doesn’t confirm it, but he doesn’t deny it either.
“She was in danger,” he says quietly. “A stalker. She—she took Maeve, and I—I tried to save her, but…” His voice cracks just slightly. He clears his throat and looks away. “I watched her die.”
The words land like a gut punch.
You don’t know this man. You don’t know Maeve. But God, you can feel the weight of it pressing into the air between you.
“I’m sorry,” you say, and for once, it’s not just something automatic. It’s not just something you’re supposed to say. You mean it.
He doesn’t acknowledge it—not directly. But his jaw tightens, and he nods once, like he’s filing the words away.
You exhale slowly, drumming your fingers against the table. “Okay,” you say finally.
His brow furrows. “Okay?”
“You don’t want to be alone tonight? Fine. You won’t be.”
His throat bobs again, like he wasn’t expecting you to just accept it.
You offer him a small, lopsided smile. “So. You’re an FBI profiler and a neuroscience expert. Tell me something interesting.”
He blinks at you. “What?”
“Something interesting. Something I don’t know.”
For a second, he just stares, like his brain is struggling to switch gears. Then, after a long pause, he says, “Did you know that people who experience significant grief sometimes show altered activity in their anterior cingulate cortex? It’s the part of the brain that processes pain—both physical and emotional.”
You raise an eyebrow. “So, what? Your brain thinks you’re physically injured?”
“In a way,” he admits. “Grief doesn’t just exist in the mind. It exists in the body, too.”
You hum thoughtfully. “Huh. So you’re saying this isn’t just in your head?”
His lips twitch just slightly. “Something like that.”
You lean back. “Well, in that case, I’d say your treatment plan should probably include getting out of your own head for a while.”
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Spencer looks at you like you’ve just suggested robbing a bank.
“You want me to do what?”
You sigh, exasperated. “Come on, Spencer. It’s just a little fun.”
His eyes flicker with uncertainty, scanning the neon-lit street outside the bar like he’s searching for an escape route. The Las Vegas night hums around you—laughter, music, the distant ding ding ding of slot machines, and the low murmur of a city that never really sleeps.
You’d left the bar after two more rounds of conversation—more tangents, more rambling, and just enough teasing from you to make him smirk, just once. That had been enough to convince you he needed more than just a talk.
He needed to get out of his own head.
Which is why you’re now standing in front of an old, slightly run-down arcade tucked between a 24-hour diner and a tattoo shop, trying to convince a grieving FBI agent to play a damn game with you.
Spencer crosses his arms over his chest. “I haven’t been in an arcade since I was a kid.”
“Perfect. Then you’re overdue.” You nudge him toward the door. “Come on, smart-ass. Show me what you’ve got.”
He hesitates. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Why not?”
He falters.
You can see the gears turning in his head, trying to find a logical excuse, but you don’t let him. You just grab his wrist—lightly, giving him plenty of room to pull away if he wants—and tug him inside.
The arcade is loud.
It’s a mess of flashing lights, ringing bells, and old-school game sound effects. The air smells like popcorn, sugar, and whatever industrial cleaner they use to scrub sticky soda spills off the floor.
Spencer looks completely out of place.
He stands stiffly, hands in his pockets, eyes darting around like he’s trying to analyze his surroundings instead of just existing in them.
You sigh, shaking your head. “You really don’t know how to have fun, do you?”
“I have fun,” he argues, weakly.
“Uh-huh. Name the last fun thing you did.”
His mouth opens—then closes.
You raise an eyebrow.
“…I enjoy chess?”
You groan. “Oh my God.”
Before he can protest, you grab a handful of tokens from the counter, shove some into his palm, and steer him toward a Skee-Ball machine.
“Okay, Spencer, listen up,” you say, pulling him into position. “The goal is simple. Roll the ball up the ramp, try to get it in the highest-scoring ring. Winner gets bragging rights.”
He stares at the machine, then at you. “This is just applied physics.”
“Great. Then you should be fantastic at it.”
He still looks unsure, so you demonstrate first. You roll a ball up the ramp—it lands cleanly in the 40-point ring. Not bad.
“See? Easy.” You gesture to the machine. “Your turn.”
Spencer hesitates for a second before stepping forward. He grips the ball, aims carefully, and rolls it.
It bounces off the side and lands in the 10-point ring.
You snort. “Wow. Applied physics, huh?”
He scowls, grabs another ball, and rolls again.
20 points.
You can see his brain working now, adjusting his angle, recalculating. His third roll lands in the 50-point ring. By the time he gets to his last ball, he nails the 100-point shot.
You let out a low whistle. “Damn. Alright, genius, I see you.”
He pushes up his sleeves, and for the first time tonight, his eyes spark with something that’s not grief or exhaustion. “Best of two?”
You laugh, handing him more tokens. “Oh, now you’re into it.”
The next round is closer. He’s competitive—not in an obnoxious way, but in that quiet, methodical, determined way that probably makes him terrifying in his actual job. You beat him by a single point, and the look on his face is priceless.
“That’s impossible,” he mutters. “I recalibrated my angles—”
You cackle. “Guess I’m just better.”
His eyes narrow, and you see the exact moment he stops overthinking and just lets himself enjoy it.
You play a few more games—Pac-Man, Air Hockey, some type of shooting game, though he proceeds to talk about real-life firearm handling (and promptly wipes the floor with you).
You don’t rush him. You don’t push too hard.
You just let him be.
Somewhere between the Skee-Ball and Street Fighter II, you see something shift in him—just slightly. The tension in his shoulders eases. The crease between his brows smooths out. He’s still Spencer, still him, but for the first time tonight, he’s not just a grieving man sitting in a bar, haunted by ghosts.
He’s just here.
Just alive.
And when he lands a winning combo in Street Fighter, and you groan dramatically about letting him win, he actually laughs.
It’s quiet. Small. But it’s real.
And it’s probably the best sound you’ve heard all night.
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127 notes · View notes
torturedreid · 5 months ago
Text
As Time Runs Out
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wc: 3312
warnings: angst, grieving
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The hum of fluorescent lights and the rhythmic scratching of Spencer’s pen on paper were the only noises in the bullpen. It was late– so late that most of the team had already gone home- but Spencer had a habit of lingering long after the office had cleared. But tonight he wasn’t alone.
You sat across from him, leaning back in your chair with a half-empty coffee mug in hand. Your presence was a comfort, self-effacing. You weren’t working, not really. You had finished your reports hours ago but stayed anyway, telling him that you still had more to do. He knew you were lying, you’d always hovered over him, worried about him constantly.
“Statistically speaking, sleep deprivation has been linked to a significant decrease in cognitive performance,” Reid said without looking up from his file. His voice was matter-of-fact but you could hear the slight smile in it.
“Is that targeted at me?” You laugh softly.
His pen stilled for a second, and he looked up, his expression sheepish. “Both of us, I suppose.”
You take a sip of your coffee, watching him with quiet amusement, “Well, you’re the genius. I’ll take your word for it.”
He paused again, then brushed a piece of his grown-out hair behind his ear. “Actually, it's not so much taking my word for it as it is taking the word of the empirical data behind the studies. For example, one study conducted by the University of California showed that even one night of no sleep dampens neural responses to decision outcomes, affecting both positive and negative emotional reactions…”
As he spoke, his words picked up speed, his enthusiasm growing with each word. You didn’t interrupt, you never did. Instead, you leaned forward, resting your chin in your hand, your eyes locked onto him. There was no impatience in your eyes, no feigned interest. You were truly listening, and it made Spencer’s heart ache in a way he couldn’t quite place. Anyone else would’ve sighed or rolled their eyes by now, but not you. You’re different.
“I'm rambling again, aren’t I?” He said, abruptly cutting himself off. His cheeks flushed as he looked back down at the file he was filling in, fidgeting with the corner of it. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” you say firmly. “I like hearing the Spencer Reid fun fact of the day.”
Spencer’s eyes glanced up to meet yours, searching for any sign of insincerity but he found none. Your gaze was steady, your body language open and warm. Your words were simple, they shouldn’t affect him in any way, but to him, it felt like sunlight breaking through the darkness.
For a moment, the silence between you felt less like an absence and more like a presence- of something under the surface, something shared.
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The moment passed long ago, but it lingered in Reid’s mind well after you’d finally announced you were going home.
“You should try to rest too,” you say, pausing by his desk. “Even geniuses need to reset.”
He nodded but made no move to grab his things. You gave him a knowing look but didn’t press further. Instead, you reached out and mussed his hair.
“Goodnight, Spence.”
He watched as you left, your footsteps echoing and fading into the distance. When the bullpen was silent again, he leaned back in his chair and stared at where you’d just been sitting, the warmth of your presence still remaining. He wanted to say something, to tell you how much your kindness meant to him- how much you meant to him. Yet the words seemed trapped in his throat, so instead he buried himself in his work, pretending the pit in his stomach wasn’t there at all.
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One slow afternoon in the bullpen, the kind of day where the hands on the clock seem to drag painfully slowly from one hour to the next, all of the case reports had been filed and, for the first time in forever, the team wasn’t buried under an avalanche of paperwork. You were sat on the edge of Reid’s desk, a bag of mini cookies in hand, while he shuffled through a stack of books he’d signed out from the library.
“You’re really going to read all of these?” you asked, looking at the titles. “Who willingly reads a textbook on astrophysics? Let alone enjoy Victorian poetry and…philosophy? You need better hobbies.”
Reid snuck a glance at you, letting his hair fall over his face to hide his embarrassed blush, “I like variety. It keeps me engaged.”
“Engaged or distracted?” you teased, tossing a tiny cookie at his head.
He huffed out a laugh, a small shy expression that made your heart flutter unexpectedly. “Engaged. Distracted is usually when I delve into cases, actually.”
You watched as he arranged the books into neat piles, assumedly into the order he intended to read them. “You know, you could probably teach classes on any of these subjects, with an eidetic memory like yours people would line up to hear you talk.”
He froze for an almost imperceptively small second before resuming his organization. “I doubt that,” he whispered.
“Why?”
“I’m not exactly an interesting person. I tend to ramble and get off-topic. Most people don’t have the time nor patience for that.”
“I would,” you said softly, popping another cookie into your mouth.
The words hung in the air around Spencer, simple yet far-reaching. The way you said it was like it was the most obvious thing in the world as if he were someone worth listening to.
The rest of the afternoon passed in the same slow rhythm as earlier, yet he was completely enthralled by you. You stayed at his desk, swapping quiet jokes and sharing stories from your respective lives. At one point you’d reached over to grab a book from his stack, your fingers briefly brushing his. The contact was accidental, but the jolt it sent through Reid’s chest left his heart pounding violently. 
He didn’t say anything as usual when you’d made him feel like this. He watched as you flipped through the pages of the book, your brow furrowed at the scientific phrases that you didn’t understand.
That moment made him realize what it was he’d been shielding himself from all along, he loved you, with every inch of his being.
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Over the next few weeks, your friendship with Reid deepened in ways neither of you could have ever predicted. The two of you fell into a routine– late-night conversations, shared smiles over paperwork, and little jokes that broke through the chaos of work. Spencer was still Spencer, obviously– awkward and brilliant, long jumbled sentences– but you never made him feel like he was a burden. And that meant everything to him.
One evening, after a particularly taxing day in the field, you found yourselves sitting on the steps outside of the BAU. The sky was marbled in hues of oranges and pinks as the sun started to drop below the horizon.
“What are you thinking about?” you asked, turning to look at him. His face was cast in the golden hour light, framing his features perfectly.
“Oh, um…nothing important,” he replied, his voice faltering.
You raised an eyebrow. “Reid, you of all people are always thinking.”
He let out a soft breathy laugh, lowering his head. “True.” He hesitated, tapping his fingers against his knee. “I was just thinking about how nice this is…just talking with you, here, watching the sunset.”
“It is nice, I love spending time with you.”
His chest tightened at your words, a feeling of longing settling into his bones. He glimpsed at you, the corners of his mouth tugging up a little. “Most people find me insufferable.”
“Well, I don’t.” You respond immediately, never one to let Spencer feel sorry for himself. His heart skipped a beat. He wanted to say it– how the way you treat him anchors him when everything feels so haywire. But instead, he sat there, letting the quiet between you fill the space where his unspoken words should have been.
“Someday you’re going to realize you’re so much more than you give yourself credit for.” You said quietly like you honestly believed it. He turned to look at you, his eyes questioning.
“You’re not just a brain, Spencer. You’re not just the boy genius. You’re thoughtful and funny and there’s so much more to you than what's on the surface.” You nudge his shoulder playfully, smiling. “You’re a good person, better than most. I hope you know that. I hope you come to see yourself how I do.”
He swallowed hard, his throat tightening. He wanted to believe you, but he couldn’t. All he’d ever been was the smart one. No one bothered asking him how he was, they only ever wanted his input in their own problems, and he never said no. He always had to live up to their expectations, telling himself it was the price to pay for being gifted. Yet you were always the beaming sun in his inner shadows, every morning you’d ask about his night, letting him prattle on about whatever book he’d read or documentary he’d stayed up watching. Still, hearing those words from you– someone he’d come to care about more than he wanted to admit– meant more to him than you could possibly know.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“Anytime, smart-ass,” you replied with a grin. 
Reid smiled back, the moment etching itself into his memory like a photograph. He didn’t know if you saw him the same way he saw you– as someone who made the world brighter by just being in it– but for now, it was just enough to sit beside you, letting the weight of his unavowed feelings rest in his chest.
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It was only two weeks later when everything fell apart.
You’d become a constant in Spencer’s life. His apartment felt less isolating when you were there, filling the space with companionship. Sometimes you’d swap stories– small anecdotes from your lives before you’d met, while he offered obscure facts that only he could find fascinating in response. Other times you’d sit in a comfortable silence, his tranquility only broken by the words he’d not gotten the courage to say yet.
But as Reid knew better than most, life had a way of turning constants into memories.
Hotch had called the team into the conference room, and immediately the air felt fraught with tension. His voice cut through the room like a blade as he announced the news. An accident. Senseless, unexpected. You’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now you were dead.
Spencer’s mind went blank as he struggled to register the words. The rest of the team reacted– gasps, questions, even stunned cries– but Reid stayed frozen in place, his gaze locked onto the chair you’d been sat in only a few days prior. He didn’t remember standing up or leaving the room but the next thing he knew, he was in the serenity of the BAU library, leaning against a bookcase as his legs buckled.
You were gone.
The world became empty.
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The days after your death blurred together in a haze of denial and grief. He found himself replaying every memory he had of you, he remembered the way you laughed at his awkward unfunny jokes, the encouragement you’d always given him when he doubted himself, even when you’d tell the other members of the team to be quiet when they’d tried to hush his info-dumping.
What haunted him most though; was the last moments you’d shared. It was nothing special, just a passing conversation as the night had come to an end.
“Take care of yourself, Spence,” you’d said, your voice slick with tiredness yet somehow still light.
“You too,” he’d replied, distracted by the files on his desk that he now wished he’d ignored.
He hadn’t even looked up.
Now the memory echoed in his mind like a cruel reminder of everything he’d never said. He tortured himself with every tiny thing he could– no– should have told you, and all of the ways he should have shown you how much you meant to him.
The regret was unendurable. He’d shut down. No longer did he ramble about facts and theories, he’d stopped sharing his thoughts with the team. He withdrew into himself, leaving the office as fast as he could at the end of his shift, he couldn’t face staying later than absolutely necessary without you, knowing that every night for the past few months you’d both been in your own little world at his desk. Meals became yet another afterthought, and sleep was a luxury he didn’t allow himself.
But you can’t hide from a team of profilers, and inevitably the team noticed. Morgan tried to pull him out of it with his trademark jokes and teasing. JJ offered a shoulder to cry on, leaving coffee cups on his desk every morning in an attempt to get him to notice she was there. Even Hotch, with his usual mask of stoicism, had pulled him aside one afternoon to try to get him to attend a session with the BAU-assigned therapist. But none of the attempts prevailed. In his mind, he didn't think he deserved comfort, not after he’d failed to be there for you when you’d needed it most. Not when he’d let this happen to you.
It was a week after your funeral when he’d be forced to face his feelings head-on.
He’d been sorting through the backlog of files on his desk when he’d come across a post-it underneath some obscure Theoretical Physics book, and he’d immediately recognized your handwriting. His breath caught in his throat and the tears he’d been holding back all day came racing to the surface, his hands were trembling as he peeled it off of the desk. At first, the words blurred together, his eyes swimming with the unshed tears but as he blinked them away, your voice seemed to come alive in the words you’d written:
Spence, you don’t always say how you feel, but I see you. You care more deeply than anyone I’ve met. Stop hiding yourself. You’re more than enough– exactly as you are.
Lots of love.
He felt silly as he clutched the Post-it to his chest, but his worries were pushed aside as a choked sob escaped his lips. The weight of your permanent absence hit him like a tsunami, overwhelming and inescapable. But somewhere beneath the grief, there was something else– something warm and bittersweet.
You had seen him. Seen him better than anyone ever had. Even when he couldn’t find the words, you’d seen how he’d felt. While he’d never have the chance to say it aloud, he now had a piece of you– even in the minuscule form of your writing– the words a reminder of the connection you’d shared.
For the first time since the news was broken, Reid allowed himself to cry. Not just for the loss of you, but for the love he’d never been brave enough to express.
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It was late, the kind of late where even the most dedicated agents had gone home. Reid remained at his desk, the first night he’d stayed behind since the last time with you. His hands picked at the corners of the post-it, which he now carried with him whenever he needed a reminder that, even though you were gone, your warmth still stayed. The words you’d written were etched into his mind, looping endlessly: You’re more than enough– exactly as you are. 
He had barely put the note down since he found it. The paper was now worn at the edges, crumpled from his tight grip. The world beyond his desk felt distant. All he could hear was the laughs you’d shared at this very spot, the same laugh that cut through his darkest days, now replaced with an unbearable silence.
Footsteps broke the stillness, the heavy yet purposeful gait meant Reid didn’t even need to look up. He already knew who it was. 
“Hey, kid,” Morgan's voice flooded the room cautiously. He approached slowly, almost like he was afraid of startling Spencer. Noting how his shoulders were slumped, his hair disheveled, and how his hands traced over the writing on the note like it was the only thing grounding him. “You’ve been here all night.”
It didn’t feel right to Spencer that Morgan was taking up the space by his desk that was almost exclusively reserved for you. His eyes fixed on the paper in his hands as though he could will you back into existence if he just focused hard enough. Morgan pulled up a chair, sitting down without another word, his expression solemn but patient.
Finally, after a long silence, Reid spoke, “I thought I had more time.” Morgan frowned, waiting for Spencer to expand upon his brief confession.
Reid swallowed, his throat tight as the words flowed out of him in a broken rush. “I thought I could tell her someday, I thought there’d be another chance, but there never will be. She died without knowing…”
He trailed off as his voice cracked, he gritted his teeth, lip trembling as he fought against every part of him that was screaming to fall apart.
“Reid,” Morgan said gently, “What didn’t you say?”
“Everything.” He whispered in response, “That she was the best thing that happened to me in years. That when she was around I felt alive. I feel like I can’t breathe now…I was just so afraid to say anything.”
Morgan reached out, resting a firm but reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Listen, kid. I’ve been around you two enough to know this– she knew. Okay? She didn’t need you to say it out loud to know the truth.”
Reid sighed and shook his head, his eyes glistening. “But what if she didn’t? What if she thought she was just another person to me? What if she didn’t know how much I cared?”
Morgan’s grip on Spencer’s shoulder tightens slightly, trying to pull him back to the present instead of the dark place he was spiraling to. “Reid, the way you looked at her, the way you talked to her…anyone with eyes could see how much she meant to you. And knowing her? She saw it too. I promise you, she knew.”
That was the breaking point. Reid let out a shuddering breath as the dam inside of him burst. Grief-ridden tears came in a torrent, the sobs wracking his body until his throat was raw. Nothing could fill the void you’d left behind.
Morgan didn’t say anything more for a while. He simply pulled Reid into a steady embrace. Reid clung to him desperately, his sobs muffled by Morgan’s shoulder. It was the kind of grief that words couldn’t soothe, the kind that could only be withstood through time. For the first time since you’d been taken from Spencer, he allowed himself to feel the full depth of his sorrow, and the guilt that came with it. Morgan’s hold reminded him that he wasn’t alone.
Eventually, Spencer pulled back, wiping at his tear-stained face with the sleeve of his sweater. He briefly glanced at the worn Post-it, he didn’t need to read the words, he already knew them by heart. Morgan offered a final encouraging smile before leaving him alone in the bullpen, knowing he needed time to process. The ache in Reid’s chest was still there, sharp and unrelenting but Morgan’s words played heavily: She knew.
In the solitude of the now-empty room, Reid closed his eyes, his fingers stroking the edges of the paper, “I hope you knew,” he murmured, hoping that wherever you were you’d hear him. “I loved you. I hope you knew.”
The silence that followed seemed lighter than anything had within the past few weeks.
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torturedreid · 6 months ago
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Take Me To Church
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word count: 2.9k
a/n: my first hotch bot inspired my Hozier's Take Me To Church (:
warnings: funerals, idk what else
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Aaron Hotchner wasn’t a man prone to frivolities. His life was a meticulously structured machine, one that ran on precision and discipline. He was a man defined by rules and order—he was, after all, an agent against the chaos in the world. But the moment he met you, everything shifted. You were mayhem enveloped in laughter, a sharp tongue laced with kindness, a force of nature in a world dictated by societal standards and predictability.
The first time he saw you, it was at a funeral. A cold grey sky hung overhead, casting a stifling cloud over the mourners. Everyone else blended into the somber scene, but not you. You’d been seated in the back row and yet you were still all he could focus on, your posture exuding a relaxed flippancy. Dressed in black like everyone else, yet somehow it felt almost offensive when you’d worn it. Your voice carried over the quiet mutters of grief. Something caustic but darkly funny– a comment meant to cut through the heaviness in the room– he wondered if he’d only found it funny because of the immorality he faced every day at work. It had earned you a few scandalized glances but you didn’t seem to care. Instead, you smiled, unrepentant and unapologetic. It was a shining beacon on an otherwise dreary day, and he found himself watching you, his curiosity piqued.
As the eulogy spieled on, his attention kept slipping back to you. You didn’t cry, didn’t bow your head, you didn’t even look sad. Yet there was something different about you– something raw and genuine that set you apart from the rest. When the service ended and the mourners gradually left, he caught sight of you again.
You stood off to the side, half-hidden by the shadows of tree branches, smoking a cigarette despite the strong winds. Your hair whipped around your face as you exhaled a puff of smoke, your expression distant. Aaron hadn’t meant to approach you, but his feet had carried him closer before his mind could stop them. You’d noticed immediately, your eyes snapping up to his like you’d been waiting for someone to distract you from your solitude, a small cynical smile tugging at your lips.
“Not exactly the place to make new friends, huh?” you said, your tone derisive but not unkind.
Aaron hesitated for a brief moment, he wasn’t exactly sure why he answered but the words tumbled out, “It’s certainly unconventional.”
Your laughter startled him– soft and warm. “Well, I’ve always been a fan of unconventional.”
There was a confidence about you, a magnetism that made it impossible for him to walk away. The two of you talked– about nothing but simultaneously about everything. You’d never asked him why he was there and he didn't ask you either. Instead, you offered him your humor which flowed through the conversation like a river in woodlands. 
“I bet you’re the type who follows all the rules,” you teased, flicking his perfectly knotted tie. “Suit and tie, clean-shaven, always saying ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, ma’am.’”
He raised an eyebrow, a smile breaking through his regular stoicism. “And what type are you?”
You grinned, “The type to make the rules up as I go along.”
Your laughter lingered in his mind for days after, it echoed in the silent spaces of his carefully planned life, a sound he couldn’t forget. He didn’t know what it was about you that had drawn him in so completely…but he wasn’t going to ignore the pull.
So when he’d found himself at another funeral only a few weeks later for a colleague it was you he thought of as the eulogy began. It was absurd to want you there. You were a stranger, someone whose name he didn’t even know, but the thought of never seeing you again was troubling him in a way he didn’t expect. 
What he hadn’t expected, though, was to see you stood in the cemetery when he’d left the service. You were there to visit the grave of the person you’d buried weeks prior, you had flowers in one hand and your other was wrapped around your coat, pulling it tightly to your chest to combat the cold. You looked out of place yet entirely at home. This time he made the conscious decision to walk over to you.
It took a few minutes for you to notice him, but your lips curved into that now-familiar smile. “We really have to stop meeting like this,” you said, the amusement in your tone cutting through his misery.
His response was short and simple, “I’ll make a note of that.” 
You offered him a cigarette, which he declined with a swift rising of his hand, and you didn’t push, settling to light one for yourself and taking a slow drag. Silence settled between you, surprisingly comfortable. For a moment he wondered why he was even there, why he’d felt compelled to talk to you. But then you spoke again, your voice soft but edged with that irreverent humor he was beginning to associate with you.
“You know, funerals aren't so bad. They’re just really depressing parties. All that's missing is the cake.”
It was such a ridiculous statement that he couldn’t help but let out a sharp laugh which felt foreign to him after so long of stuffing his feelings away. You turned to him, eyes lighting up at his reaction and in that moment, Aaron realized something that he hadn’t since he’d started at the BAU. Maybe, just maybe, mayhem wasn't something to fear. Maybe it was exactly what he needed.
__________
You weren’t like anyone Hotch had ever known. The world saw you as disrespectful, even sacrilegious, but he saw the truth: you were honest, unafraid to strip away pretenses. In a world that demanded order and conformity, you thrived in disarray.
“You’re too tense, Hotchner,” you teased one night, sliding a glass of whisky across the bar of your favorite dive bar that you’d forced him to come with you to. “Loosen up. The world’s already miserable. You don’t need to be too.”
He rolled his eyes, but your smile was infectious. He sipped the whisky, letting its warmth spread throughout him. The bar was dark, the air thick with the scent of stale beer and smoke, it wasn't the kind of place he usually frequented but with you, it felt almost right.
“Why do you always push me like this?” he asked, his tone curious rather than accusatory like it usually was.
“Because you need it,” you replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Someone’s got to remind you there's more to life than rules and work.”
He couldn’t find an argument for that. Over the past few weeks, you’d become his serenity. What started as chance encounters turned into something more deliberate– Friday evenings at the bar, weekend mornings spent dissecting (and debating) the latest headlines over the coffee you needed to stave off your hangovers, and late nights where the conversations often turned deeply personal. You had a way of drawing him out, of making him feel safe enough to let his guard down without fear of judgment.
“Why do you do it?” he asked, watching as you laughed at something so morbid it made him want to wince. “Why do you make light of everything?”
You tilted your head as if considering his question. “Because if I don’t, I’ll cry.” You said, your tone quieter than usual. “And I’d rather laugh, wouldn’t you?”
For a moment he didn't know how to respond, but then he realized he understood, perhaps even resonated. Your humor wasn't just a defense mechanism; it helped you survive. In a world that was oftentimes painted in shades of grey, you brought color, making your own masterpiece. 
Over time your rituals became routines. The bar, the coffee, the moments where words weren’t necessary. Each interaction chipped away at the walls he’d built around himself after Haley’s death. You were salvation, daring him to step outside the boundaries he’d so carefully constructed.
One night as the two of you walked back to your car, the city around you quiet, he asked something that had been gnawing at his mind, “Do you ever get tired of it?”
“Tired of what?”
“The façade.”
You paused, your footsteps faltering. “It’s not a façade, Aaron. It’s just how I cope. Life’s too heavy otherwise.”
He understood more than he could ever articulate. You were teaching him something he’d never learned before: how to live with the weight of reality without letting it crush you, and in return he found himself opening up in ways he hadn’t thought possible. Sharing pieces of his past, his struggles, his fears. With you, it felt safe.
“You’re good for him,” Rossi had remarked one afternoon as you’d walked Aaron to his office after coffee. “He needs someone who can remind him how to live.”
Aaron hadn’t liked how Rossi had implied he wasn’t living before, but he also knew that to some extent he was right, you were good for him. You were unlike anyone he’d ever known, and he wasn’t ready to let go of that.
_____________
The dive bar was quieter than usual, the dim overhead lights cast shadows over the worn wooden tables. You’d chosen a booth in the back corner, away from prying eyes, and now sat with a drink in hand. Tonight there was something different in the air– an unspoken tension, a heaviness that clung to every exchanged glance.
Aaron slid into the seat opposite you, draping his jacket over the back of the booth. He looked tired, his tie loosened slightly and his sleeves rolled up. You took a sip of your drink, looking him up and down.
“You look like hell,” you said, breaking the silence with your standard bluntness, though there was no malice in your tone, only concern. “Long day?”
“Something like that,” he mumbled, his voice low. His gaze met yours, and for a moment, the weight of everything he carried seemed to flit across his face. Then it was gone, replaced by the impassive mask you’d come to know so well.
You set your glass down, leaning forward slightly. “You know, you don’t always have to be the strong one.” 
He raised an eyebrow. “And who would that leave?”
“Me, obviously,” you said with a smirk, but your eyes betrayed your sincerity. “I’m tougher than I look.”
Aaron huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Somehow I don’t doubt that.”
The two of you sat in companionable silence for a while, the noise of the bar filling the gaps in conversation, but there was something hanging between you– a question that neither of you dared to ask.
Finally, it was you who broke the stalemate, “Aaron.” You said, your tone uncharacteristically serious. “What are we doing here?”
He looked at you, brow furrowed. “Having a drink.”
“No, I mean this. Us.”
He hesitated, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. For a man who dealt in answers and absolutes, he found himself at a complete loss. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I know I don’t want it to stop.”
The vulnerability in his words cut through your usual defenses, your heart skipping a beat. You leaned back, studying his face for a moment before a small bittersweet smile tugged at your lips. 
“You’re not an easy man to care for, you know,” you said, your voice interspersed with that familiar mix of sarcasm and affection. “All that brooding and the walls so high I’m pretty sure NASA can see them.”
“And yet here you are.” He replied, a hint of fondness creeping into his voice.
“And yet here I am.” You repeated with a finality.
He reached across the table then, his hand brushing yours in a gesture so tentative it ached your chest. You looked down at the contact, his fingers oddly cold against your skin from the outside chill he’d walked here in earlier, and then you looked back up at him. There was a question in his eyes, one you answered without hesitation. 
Leaning over the table, you closed the distance between you, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was gentle and searching. It wasn’t hurried or passionate; it was tender, a moment of honesty in a world that so often forced people to hide the truth. When you pulled back his eyes remained closed for another few seconds as if savoring the feeling.
“I don’t know where this is going, and I can’t promise anything,” he said, his voice tinged with uncertainty, “But I want to find out.”
You smiled, your hand still resting over his, “So do I.”
At that moment, there was no chaos, no demands, no expectations– just two people navigating uncharted territory together.
____________________
The room was dark, the glow of city lights hidden behind the blinds. The world outside seemed distant, leaving just the two of you in this cocoon of things unsaid. The bed creaked as Aaron shifted next to you, the tension in his shoulders evident even as he tried to hide it.
It had been a long day. Another case, another rush of adrenaline, and the inevitable crash that followed when it was over, but the memories were never over. The horrors of the job stayed with him, haunting his every waking minute. When the door closed behind him, when the weight of the badge was set aside, it was your arms he sought, as if the safety of your arms could erase the pain, even momentarily.
You were waiting, as always, for the moment his walls began to crumble, for when his breath would hitch and his eyes would grow withdrawn. Then you would take the first step.
“Tell me,” you whisper into the cold room, your voice low, teasing but also loving. It was a ritual you had come to treasure– a sacred act of confession, listening without judgment, and to offer him something that no one else ever could: peace.
He stilled beside you, the sigh escaping him as his body tightened in preparation. Aaron Hotchner wasn’t someone who bared himself easily, not even with you.
“I’m not enough,” he said after a pause, his voice rough, the words slipping from his lips like they’d been locked away for too long. “Not for Jack. Not for the team. Not for you.”
Your fingers brushed his cheek, grounding him. “You are more than enough, Aaron. For everyone who needs you.” Your voice was steady, thick with conviction. He let out a shaky breath, his hand reaching for yours, fingers trembling slightly as they curled around your own. His insecurities and doubts hung in the air like suffocating smoke. He fears that the very things that made him who he was, the leader, the protector, were the things that kept him from being whole.
But you saw him. All of him. The agent, the father, the leader, the broken man. You loved every fractured piece.
“Command me to be better,” he murmured, voice quiet but entwined with desperation. It was half in jest, but it held the weight of something far more vulnerable.
You didn’t answer right away, instead you shifted closer, your lips grazing his neck, your breath hot against his skin. There was no need for words now. You kissed him, slow and deliberate, tracing the scars on his chest left by Foyet, the ones he never let anyone see. You felt the tremble in his chest as he let you in, allowing you to pull him from the shadows of his guilt.
“You’re already whole, Aaron,” you whispered against him, the words wrapping around him like the peace one gets from a prayer. “Even if you don’t see it.”
His hand tightened around yours, and he closed his eyes, letting your presence wash over him like a balm. In this space with you there was room to breathe. Room to exist without the constant pressure to fix everything.
Your lips never left his skin as you kissed away the years of pain, sacrifice, and of endless nights spent holding the world together while slowly losing himself. With each touch you reminded him he didn’t have to do it alone. You were here, and you always would be. Two broken pieces colliding together, a chaotic imperfect love that felt like home.
“You don’t have to carry it all, not anymore.”
He kissed you then, hard and desperate, everything he carried all day falling away with each movement. His lips were urgent, hungry, and yet there was still tenderness behind it. As your bodies tangled together, the rawness of it– the need, the anguish, the way your souls connected– it was more than just physical. It was a ritual, an offering. In that shared space, in the sanctuary you’d built together, he didn’t have to be the unbreakable Aaron Hotchner. He was just Aaron, and that was enough.
When the storm of emotions passed and your bodies finally stopped, he held you close, his arms wrapped around you. The guilt, the shame and the fear no longer controlled him.
“Thank you,” he breathed, his forehead resting against yours.
“No need to thank me, I’m not going anywhere.”
For once he felt like he was exactly where he needed to be. Whole and at peace, even if he couldn’t always see it.
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torturedreid · 6 months ago
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what I wished for with my grapes under the table
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torturedreid · 6 months ago
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The Perfect Formula
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BARTENDER SPENCER
word count: 1265
warnings: drunk reader
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The BAU’s bullpen had been transformed for the night, a rare occasion where work was on pause, and celebration took center stage. Strings of lights sparkled around the desks, and a large Bluetooth speaker on Derek’s desk blasted Garcia’s eclectic mix of holiday classics and ‘80s pop. The mood was relaxed, the team scattered around the room with glasses in hand, laughing and unwinding. A makeshift bar had been set up on the break room counter, cluttered with liquor bottles, mixers, and fresh fruit.
You leaned against the counter, watching as Spencer Reid stood at the center of it all, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, meticulously measuring liquids into a shaker. His tongue poked out slightly as he concentrated, and his cheeks were flushed a light pink, either from the heat of the room or the attention he was drawing from the team.
He’d taken charge of the cocktails after Morgan joked that Reid’s genius might finally be put to use for something other than criminal profiling. What had started as a tease quickly turned into a spectacle, as Spencer muttered to himself about ratios, volumes, and chemical balances while precisely measuring ingredients.
“Spence, you could just eyeball it, most people just pour and pray,” you teased, resting your chin on your hand as you watched. “It’s a party, not a chemistry experiment.”
His eyes flicked to yours, wide and flustered. “Eyeballing it would risk an imbalance in flavor profile, which could ruin the entire drink. It introduces too many variables. Cocktails, especially something as classic as a Daiquiri, require precision. The ideal ratio is two parts rum, one part lime juice, and one part syrup. Deviate from that, and you throw the balance off entirely.”
“Sounds pretty straightforward,” you said with a shrug, obviously joking, but of course he didn’t understand that.
“It’s deceptively simple,” he countered. “The ratio is easy to remember, but the variables compound quickly. For example, the dilution from the ice adds approximately twenty percent water to the final mixture, so you have to account for that when calculating the initial ingredient volumes. And then there's the acid-to-sugar ratio in the lime juice and syrup, which needs to fall between 1.2:1 and 1.6:1 for optimal flavor.”
You stared at him, blinking. “Did you just…math a cocktail?”
Spencer smiled faintly as he reached for a lime. “Of course. Math is the foundation of mixology.”
He began squeezing the lime, pausing briefly to weigh the juice on a small scale he’d brought over from the lab. “The average lime produces about 30 milliliters of juice, but that can vary depending on the ripeness and size. Too much acidity and the drink becomes harsh. Too little, and it tastes flat. This lime gave me 28 milliliters, so I'll adjust the syrup accordingly to maintain balance… for the record, this isn’t just a cocktail. It’s a daiquiri. The original recipe was created by Jennings Cox in the last 1800’s, and its simplicity makes it particularly vulnerable to imprecision.” 
You couldn’t suppress a laugh. “You really are a genius, you know that?”
Spencer glanced at you, his face flushing deeper. “I’m just applying basic principles of chemistry and physics,” he said, his tone modest but his expression pleased.
“You’re applying science to make a party drink,” you teased.
“And doing it perfectly,” he replied, with a rare bit of sass, pouring the lime juice into the shaker.
You watched as he added the rum with his standard precision, using a jigger to measure out 60 milliliters before pouring it in. Then came the syrup, which he poured slowly, his eyes narrowing as he calculated the exact amount to offset the slight deficit in lime juice. Finally, he added ice, giving the shaker a firm tap before picking it up and shaking with a smooth, practiced rhythm.
The clink of ice against metal filled the room as his arms moved fluidly, the muscles in his forearms flexing, exposed from where he’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. You tilted your head a little, unable to look away as he focused entirely on his task.
“Spencer-” you started, your tone teasing.
“Not yet,” he interrupted, holding up a finger without breaking his rhythm. “If I stop shaking too soon the drink won’t chill properly, and the dilution will be uneven.”
You smirked, waiting until he finally strained the drink into a glass. He slid it across the counter to you, looking up with a mix of anticipation and nervousness.
“Here,” he said, his voice soft. “Let me know what you think.”
You took a sip, letting the tartness of the lime and the smoothness of the rum wash over your palate. It was perfect- bright, balanced, and refreshing.
“Spence, this is amazing,” you said, meeting his gaze.
His lips quirked up into a small, bashful smile. “Really?”
“Really,” you confirmed, raising the glass in a mock toast. “To Spencer Reid, cocktail extraordinaire.”
He chuckled softly, his blush deepening and he turned to prepare another drink. 
--------------------------------------------
Hours later, the party was in full swing, but you found yourself repeatedly drawn back to Spencer’s bar. Each time he made you something different- a Margarita, a Negroni, an espresso martini- explaining the history and chemistry behind each one as he worked. You found it endearing, and hot, even as your head began to feel pleasantly fuzzy from the alcohol.
“Another, please,” you smiled, sliding your empty glass across the counter.
Spencer raised an eyebrow, his hands hesitating over the bottles. “That’s your fourth drink,” he said cautiously.
“And every single one has been delicious,” you replied, leaning on the countertop.
“Maybe you should slow down,” he suggested, his tone gentle but firm.
“Come on, Spencer,” you sighed, pouting dramatically. “You’re the barkeep here. Don’t leave me hanging.”
He sighed, relenting as he began preparing another cocktail. “You know, alcohol inhibits your prefrontal cortex, which is responsible for decision-making and impulse control.”
“Yeah, yeah, science boy,” you said, waving him off. “Just make the drink.”
By the time you finished that one, the world felt slightly tilted, and your laugh had become louder, less contained. You stumbled against the counter, giggling as Spencer reached out instinctively to steady you.
“Okay,” he said firmly, taking your glass from your hand. “That’s it. You’re done.”
“What?” you protested, looking up at him with puppy dog eyes. “No way, I’m fine!”
“You’re drunk,” he replied, his voice soft but unwavering.
“I am not drunk.”
“You just called me a wizard and asked if we could open a bar together,” he pointed out. “No more drinks for you. You need water.”
“But Spence,” you whined, swaying slightly.
“Water,” he repeated adamantly, guiding you to a nearby chair and handing you a glass of water. “Drink this. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
You took the glass with a dramatic sigh, slumping into the chair. “You’re no fun.”
He crouched down in front of you, his elbows resting on his thighs, his eyes warm and concerned. “I’d rather be no fun than let you drink yourself into a black-out.”
“Fine,” you grumbled, sipping the water. After a moment, you added, “But you’re still cute when you’re bossy.”
Spencer froze, his eyes widening as his face turned a deep shade of red. “I-uh-”
“Relax, genius wizard,” you said with a lazy smile. “It’s a compliment.”
He stood quickly, muttering something about getting a snack. As he moved behind the counter again, you couldn’t help but grin. Even in your inebriated state, it was fun watching the famed Dr. Spencer Reid unravel.
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torturedreid · 6 months ago
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ACOTAR Seasonal Court Dividers
Spring Court
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Winter Court
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Autumn Court
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Summer Court
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Do you have a favourite? I could absolutely keep going but I've hit the image limit on this post
Credit when using/reblogs are appreciated ❤
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torturedreid · 7 months ago
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Cane
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Who? Spencer x reader
Summary: Spencer's new cane really does something for you
Warnings: Penetration by foreign object, smut, fingering
Word count: 840
A/n: This is for... you know who you are...
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Spencer took one bullet to the knee. It was during a case with a shootout with the unsub; he took the bullet to protect Dr. Barton, the next victim.
He was in horrible pain, but thankfully the team got him to the hospital quickly enough.
It was a strange switch. When you two first started dating, Spencer was a big baby. You had to carry around Band-Aids because to him, every tiny cut was an infection breeding ground. That's what he'd say. But now?
Penelope had called you to say that Spencer lied about being cleared to go on cases. Now he was stuck with her. You would be mad that he lied, but you also knew that Spencer was now stuck with Penelope... for a whole case. That was good enough punishment.
When he returned home, you finally got a good look at him since the incident. You made sure to pamper him to a point that he'd tell you to stop. You cooked for him, made him hold onto you while walking down the stairs, and helped him move his knee around to increase blood flow and mobility, but there was always something in the back of your mind.
His cane.
It was a thought that you couldn't get out of your mind; it felt wrong. Every time you saw it, you couldn't stop thinking about how it would feel in you. Him using it like a dildo, pumping it in and out of you.
Maybe it was the fact that sex was mostly off-limits due to the injury and you had built up horniness, or maybe it was the smooth wood of the cane tip and his hand wrapped around it.
You suddenly remembered that you were sitting on the couch with Spencer. He broke you out of your thoughts with him clearing his throat.
"Hun, what's wrong? You've been zoning out." He questions
"It's nothing..." You tried to brush him off, but you weren't very convincing.
"Please... tell me," Spencer gave his best puppy dog eyes.
"It's... it's wrong, Spencer. You don't get it." You sighed, rubbing your forehead.
"Please just tell me... I won't judge." He reached out and held your hand, running his thumb over the knuckles.
"Okay, it's just... I really want your cane... like, in me." You withdraw your hand from his, then bury your face in them.
"I—" Spencer got cut off by you.
"Just never mind. Ignore me." You were totally embarrassed.
"No—let's do it." He smirked, standing up and putting a hand out.
You smiled as he pulled you into your bedroom. He spent a while in the bathroom, disinfecting the cane tip. I guess a bit of young Spencer was still there. He crawled into bed on top of you before pulling you into an aggressive kiss.
You slowly started working the buttons on his shirt while he pulled your shirt off as well. You dipped your head down to his neck and started making a hickey. You bit and nipped down his neck and chest. His hands wove into your hair.
Eventually Spencer got too impatient and started to pull down your shirt, throwing it across the room, not caring where it landed.
He gently laid you down on the already messy bedsheets, propping up a pillow behind your head.
"It's not too late to back out, yknow?" He said anxiously.
To shut him up, you pulled him into another fiery kiss, reaching for his cane and putting it into his hands. He fiddled with the cane for a few seconds, wondering if he should just dive in or warm you up.
To avoid hurting you, he decided on the second option. He slowly slid in his middle and ring fingers, switching between pumping them and curving them. It was now your turn to be impatient.
You grabbed the cane and his hand, signalling that you wanted the cane now. Spencer took a deep breath before sliding it in. He was worried that he would mess up, but your slight moan comforted him.
"Are you adjusted?"
"Mmm...yeah." Your eyes were half-lidded in enjoyment.
Spencer slowly started moving it, pumping it. It was a little weird to get used to, but he got the hang of it.
"Mfffh... don't... don't stop... ngghh."
He watched as you tried moving your hips yourself to get more friction; he stopped you by placing a firm hand on them. He didn't want to torture you, so he moved it a bit faster and a bit further in.
Soon your toes curled, your legs began to shake, and your moans became louder and came more often, a sign of the impending orgasm.
When you relaxed, he knew that it had been done. He pumped it a few more times, a bit slower, to ride out your orgasm. He placed it on the floor before pulling you in to cuddle.
"Was that...good? Did you like it?" He said somewhat anxiously.
"So good... God... please don't get rid of the cane. We're doing that again," you chuckled through your heavy breaths.
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torturedreid · 7 months ago
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Wordless
word count: 2171
uhhh i don't know how to categorise this so...enjoy??
Also happy new years ♡
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The low hum of the jet as it finally stops, the stillness making the exhaustion in the cabin feel even more palpable. You’re leaning against the leather seat, staring out of the window at the cold wet night, barely noticing the jet stop. Across from you, Spencer Reid rubs at his eyes from under his glasses, his long fingers moving slowly like even the most minuscule movements require effort he doesn’t have.
The team quietly files off of the jet- Morgan gently clapping Spencer on the shoulder in a bro-style goodbye. JJ offers a soft tired smile and Hotch, as usual, barely says a word. You and Spencer share a look, you have a silent agreement that you always wait for each other. Whether the case is good, tough, or one like this that hits like a gut punch- there’s an unspoken comfort in being the last to leave.
“Hey,” you try to say, coming out as more like a whisper after not speaking for almost the entire flight. Your voice feels out of place, too warm for the cold serenity of the cabin. Spencer looks up at you, his posture rumpled, like he hadn’t slept in days and in all honesty- you knew you looked the same.
“Shall we go?” he asks, his voice gravelly.
“I don’t want to,” you admit with a slight smile. “But I don’t think the jet works as a cab, it won’t take me home on its own.”
He huffs out a soft laugh- small but real. “If it could, that would change the world of aviation as we know it.”
You roll your eyes a little but are too tired to fight the tug of a grin. Even now, after the darkness of the past few days of the case, he was still undeniably him. Still the same Spencer.
“We could grab coffee?” You blurt out. Even though you were exhausted, this case filled you with a sense of unease and you weren’t quite ready to be by yourself. “Or tea? I just-” You falter slightly, “I don’t want to be alone.”
He stills for a second, his hands no longer picking at the loose strands of his sweater, he tilts his head like he's processing your words through the tired fog. Then, with that trademark shy smile, he nods. “I’d like that. I’ll never say no to coffee.”
You gather your go-bag, feeling a little lighter now that you don’t have to face the suffocating loneliness at home. As you step off the jet and into the cool night air- the moonlight reflecting off the tarmac still wet from the rain- Spencer falls into step beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. It’s an unconscious gesture, but it grounds you, like an anchor keeping you steady.
It’s the kind of touch that friends might pass off as nothing, but tonight it feels like something more. And you think, maybe he feels it too.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
The air outside is crisp, carrying the occasional drop of rain. Your footsteps echo the almost empty streets in tandem with Spencer’s, the world feeling like it’s at an unusual standstill. The street lamps cast pools of warm light over the sidewalk, framing Spencer in an almost angelic glow, and you find yourself throwing occasional glances at him.
His hands fidget with his satchel strap, clearly restless. It’s something you’ve come to recognize in his behavior, it’s his tell, showing that he’s thinking. A lot.
“You’re quiet for once.” You tease, nudging his arm with your own, “Penny for your thoughts?”
Spencer hesitates, lips parting like he’s about to go into a long-winded speech, before he reverts his gaze to his shoes, shaking his head. “It’s nothing…it’s just that case. It was tough, to say the least.”
It was a general answer, true but definitely not what he was thinking about. You can tell he’s trying to shield you- or maybe himself. You don’t press him, and you let him fall back into his silence. You both keep walking until you find your favorite all-night cafe. It’s neon Open sign brightly shining like a savior in the night.
The bell jingles as you step inside and the smell of freshly ground coffee washes over you, and you let out a content sigh. The cafe is almost empty, save for a friendly barista behind the counter and an older couple chatting in a corner booth. Spencer lets you order first, his gaze falling over the various shelves lined with books and board games. He orders a black coffee, of course, and you can’t help but smile at how predictable he is.
You sit at a booth next to a window, the type with cracked vinyl seats and a table that can’t even be rescued with varnish anymore, but it feels inviting. Spencer sits across from you, his slender fingers wrapped around the coffee mug as if the heat will chase away the cold of the night- and the case.
For a while, you both sit in silence. It’s not necessarily uncomfortable, but it feels like a thread waiting to be pulled. Finally, you decide to bite the bullet.
“You know…you don’t always have to carry things alone. The cases, I mean.” You say, tracing a finger around the rim of your mug.
He looks into his drink, his eyes widening slightly like he hadn’t expected you to realize his inward struggle. “I don’t–”
“You do, you always do.” You interrupt, “And I get it. We all have different ways of coping but this…isn’t coping. It’s repressing your emotions and it’s not healthy. Plus you’re quieter than usual.”
Spencer exhales, his shoulder’s slumping and his fingers tighten around the mug. For a moment you think you might brush you off again, but then he begins to speak.
“It’s just…” He pauses, searching for the right words. “Sometimes I wonder if we’re making a difference. I know that we save lives, and make marginal difference to some people. But no matter how much effort we put into solving one case, another one takes it’s place immediately. There’s always more monsters waiting in the shadows.” He takes a shaky breath before continuing a little quieter now, “At times I feel like I’m not strong enough to face them.”
The vulnerability in his words hits you like a semi. You rest your elbows on the table and lean forward. “Spence,” You begin. “You’re one of the strongest people I know. You’ve been through more in your short life than what most people do in their lifetimes…hell, than what multiple people do in their lifetimes. You’re strong, not because you never feel afraid or overwhelmed but because you never let it stop you. You put everyone else above yourself and it’s damn honourable.”
He looks up, his expression unreadable for a split second, and then he smiles– a small hesitant smile that feels more real than anything you’ve seen all night.
“Thank you,” he mutters, almost unnoticeably. “I needed that.”
The tenderness in his voice wraps around you, and for just a moment the entire world fades away. Just the two of you, sitting across from each other, sharing something unspoken.
You tear your eyes away from him, feeling a slight blush creep over your cheeks. You glance down at your mug, “That’s what friends are for, right?”
“Right,” he echoes, but there’s a slight lilt in his tone– something soft but yet so heavy- that makes your chest tighten.
He definitely feels it too.
— — — — — — — — — —
The night stretches on, the occasional loud grinding of the espresso beans and the clinking of mugs cutting through the silence. Spencer’s coffee had long since gone lukewarm, but he didn’t seem to notice, his fingers absently picking back at the loose strands of his sweater like he usually does when he’s overthinking. You’ve been talking about lighter things- books you’ve read, random facts he shares- but there’s something new about the way he looks at you like he's studying you in the same way he does with his textbooks.
You try not to look into it too much, but your heart betrays you, fluttering a little faster every time his gaze lingers for a second too long. He’s still the same Spencer- awkward, genius, shy, and unremittingly kind- but you’re not the same. Something about the way he licks his lips before he speaks, how he leans forward with every fact he shares, the way his fingers twitch as he looks at the books on shelves like he's itching to flip through the pages.
“Do you ever think about what you’d be doing if you weren’t here?” He asks suddenly, breaking through your thoughts.
You blink at him, a little off guard. “You mean…if I wasn't in the BAU?”
He nods, his eyes flickering down to his hands. “Yeah, if life had gone differently.”
His question lingers in the air, feeling heavier than it should, like there’s something hidden behind it. You take a long moment to consider it before you speak again.
“Honestly, I don’t know. Something quieter, maybe? Something less dangerous, but I’d definitely still want to be helping people. Making a difference.”
“What about you?” You ask back, “What would you be doing if you weren’t Boy Genius, profiler to the stars?”
He huffs a soft laugh, leaning back in his seat. “Probably teaching, or maybe working in a library somewhere. Surrounded by books sounds like heaven.” The image makes you smile- Spencer in a library, amidst stacks of books and lost in his own world. It suits him, but there’s a pang in your chest at the idea of him being anywhere but here, with you, living a life where you might never have crossed paths.
“I could see that,” you nod. “But for what its worth, I’m glad you’re here. Even if the job is hard sometimes…I don’t think I could do it without you.” The words slip out without even thinking about it, and the weight of them hangs between the two of you. Spencer’s eyes widen slightly, and you feel the embarrassment roll through you.
“I mean the whole team…not just you.” You add quickly, trying to backtrack.
“You don’t need to explain,” he interrupts, his voice delicate. There’s a look in his eyes now, something tender and unreadable that makes your heart skip. “I know the feeling.”
— — — — — — — — — — —
By the time you leave the cafe, the world is cloaked in quiet, the sound of cars is the only thing in the streets and even those are sparse. The cold biting at your cheeks, but you barely notice, too caught up in your own train of thought. Your mind still turning over the conversation from earlier. Spencer walks close enough that occasionally his arm brushes yours, pulling you from your overanalyzing, sending your stomach twisting with a feeling you’re choosing to ignore.
The walk back to the BAU car lot feels slower than the walk to the cafe, like neither one of you really wants the night to end.
“You know,” You say after a while, your breath visible in the cold air. “You’re not what expected when i first joined the team.”
Spencer glimpses at you, his brow furrowing like he’s worried it’s a bad thing. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know exactly. You’re just different.” You see the worry in his face, “In a good way. You surprise me, I guess.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is,” You say quickly, meeting his eyes. For a moment, the world becomes motionless, the city fading into the background. A nearby streetlight radiates a lustre over him and it feels like you’re truly seeing him for the first time- or maybe noticing what’s been under the surface all along.
The realization settles over you, like the first rays of sunlight over the long night.
You’re in love with him.
And the thought terrifies you.
— — — — — — — — — — —
When you finally reach your car, the night feels over too abruptly. Spencer hesitates beside you, his converse shuffling on the floor.
“Thanks…for tonight.” You say, leaning against the car door. “I really needed it.”
His breath catches, an unknown intensity in his eyes. “Me too.” For a second it feels like he might say more but then he takes a small step back, the distance between you feeling harsh.
“Goodnight,” He mutters, barely above a whisper.
You nod, heart aching as you watch him turn and walk away. You sigh and move to unlock your car door, hand finding the handle…and then you hear his footsteps stop.
“Hey,” he calls, his voice slicing through the tension. You look up at him.
“I’m glad you’re here too.” He says, his voice laced with fondness.
You smile, his words filling you with comfort, finally sure of how he feels towards you.
As he disappears into the night, you climb into your car, your heart feeling like it might burst. Neither of you said it- not out loud- but maybe that wasn’t necessary.
Sometimes love doesn’t need words
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torturedreid · 7 months ago
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Wedding Night
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Summary: After your wedding, you and Spencer head out to your suíte, expecting to have a movie-like wedding night. However, that's not exactly what happens.
Warnings: Reader referred to as a woman. Nothing much, actually, this is just very sweet.
Word count: 1.8k
a/n: This came to me as I was getting ready for bed at 7 A.M. after my graduation ball, and I kept thinking how it would be a realistic wedding night lol. Enjoy <3
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Lace underwear, romantic music, candlelit room and loving whispers. Champagne and strawberries, maybe a bubble bath afterwards and falling asleep in each other’s arms. That’s how you pictured your wedding night.
The reality, however, couldn’t be more different.
Spencer’s hand rests on your lower back, huge smiles on both your faces as you stumble with the key card to get into the hotel room.
“I can do it.” You say, smiling ear to ear.
“I can see that.” He mocked, making you giggle as he leaned in, placing a loving kiss on your forehead.
You cheered, cheeks red from the alcohol when the door was finally unlocked, and he laughed and placed a finger over your lips.
“Shhh, it’s three in the morning.” His voice was a hushed whisper as you, once again, giggled against his finger and walked into the room.
It was beautiful, dimly lit with flowers everywhere and a gorgeous view to the vineyard you two got married in. As you admired the room, though, Spencer could only admire the woman in front of him. His wife. He still couldn’t believe he got to call you that.
He had this lovesick smile on his face as he approached, arms encircling your waist as he bent down to pepper your face with kisses, making you giggle as his mustache tickles your skin.
“You look so pretty.” He said when you turned around, his hand moving to rest on your face.
“You already said that. A million times.” You smile, eyes shining as you look up at him.
“I’ll say it a million times more.” He murmured, looking at you like you created the Earth itself, and kissed you. It was slow, tender. Like he had no rush at all. And he didn’t. Thankfully, you were his all night, and for the next fifteen days of your honeymoon. This was the first of many, many kisses.
"Have I ever told you how much I like this?" You ask, interrupting the kiss as your finger moves up to trace the dark hair on his upper lip.
"The stash?" He asks with a cocky smile and you laugh at the word, and the way his voice sounded whenever he tried - and failed - to use slangs.
"Yes, the stash." You say, your voice slightly mocking.
"Good thing I forgot to shave." He murmurs with a smile, bending down to capture your lips once more, his smile blending with his as your arms circle around his neck to pull him even closer.
His hand finds its way to the back of your head, tangling in your meticulously styled hair that he had been oh so careful not to ruin all day. The other palm, resting on your waist, slowly pushes you back towards the wall, his lips not leaving yours for one second.
Sliding down, you feel the heat of his hand moving from your waist to your hip, then to your backside, and involuntarily, you let out a giggle against his lips.
“What?” He asks, smiling as his mouth moves against yours.
“Naughty.” Your murmur makes him laugh, eyes twinkling with amusement as he pulls back just enough to look at you.
“Excuse me?”
“We haven’t been here for five minutes and you’re already trying to get freaky.�� The slurring in your words, the way you said it with your brow lifted like that, simply made him laugh more. "I think it's the mustache. There's a reason why they call it a pornstache."
“Mrs. Reid… Are you drunk?” His hands were back on your waist, his thumbs caressing your skin over the dress so tenderly. You smile widely, biting your bottom lip to unsuccessfully try to contain it.
“Just a little bit, Dr. Reid” Your fingers were brought together in a pinching motion as you showed him the visual amount of your “drunkness”.
“More than a little bit.” He smiled, bringing his own fingers up to open yours and make the quantity more appropriate.
“Okay, fair enough” You laughed, but your lips were back on his half a second later, and this time, it was you guiding you both to the bed.
The dress was heavy, and Spencer couldn’t help but laugh when you sat on the fluffy mattress, the blankets blending it with the white fabric.
“What?”
“You look like a cupcake.” He says, earning a scoff from you and being attacked by a random pillow that was close enough for you to reach.
“Take it back!” Your voice was as serious as you could manage it to be, but the smile on your lips was a dead giveaway that you weren’t actually upset.
“Alright, I’m sorry. You don’t look like a cupcake.” He smiled in that charming way that makes your knees give out. Good thing you were sitting.
“Thank you.” Your face was already between his hands, and the pillow falls uselessly by the bed when he guides you down onto the mattress, his body weight pushing you down as you allow yourself to drown in his touches.
His tongue explores your mouth in gentle, languid kisses, and you were comfortable in his arms, enveloped by the smell of his cologne, laying on the soft bedding…
“Darling?” You blink, your eyes meeting his and that crushing smile “Are you falling asleep on me?”
“No…” You blink again, and this time, completely against your will, a yawn escapes your lips.
“So, you’re that kind of drunk.” His fingers gently brush some of the curls away from your face.
“Sorry. No, I’m good. I’m not going to fall asleep.”
“Sure you won’t.”
“I won’t.”
“I believe you.” No, he didn’t.
Spencer knew you well enough by now. You’ve been "happy drunk" for hours at the party, but that wave had long passed. Two more minutes in this bed and you’d be completely out of it.
“Honey” He smiles, caressing your cheek when your eyes start drooping again.
“I’m awake!” His laughter is so angelical, and you smile despite it all.
“Listen, we have fifteen days. We’re both exhausted, and I’m sure you can’t be very comfortable right now, in such a tight dress and with your hair like this. We can just sleep, it’s fine.”
“But it’s our wedding night.” You pout, and the look on his face softens.
“I know, but you’ve been up since six a.m.”
“Still. I can do this. I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“Disappoint me?” He chuckles incredulously and takes your face between his hands again. “My love, you’re not disappointing me, not in the slightest. I just got married to the woman of my dreams, to the love of my life. I’ll have the rest of my life to have sex with you, one night won’t kill me.”
His voice was earnest, and his heart was light. He loved you more than anything, and the last thing he wanted was you feeling like you weren’t enough because you were too tired to give him a wedding night like the ones in movies.
“Let’s get you out of all of this, and then go to bed.” Before you could protest, he was already up, your body in his arms as he carried you bridal-style to the bathroom. Fitting.
Your laugh echoed in the room as your arms moved to wrap around his neck and hold you up.
“I can walk, you know.”
“I didn’t want to take any chances of you refusing.” He left a kiss on the tip of your nose as he placed you back down on the floor.
His fingers worked with expertise as he carefully removed the bobby pins from your hair, the pile growing and growing.
“Jesus, how many do you have in here?” He murmured, and you could only giggle as you looked at the reflection of the two of you in the mirror.
Next, came the makeup. Well, came off the makeup.
He still remembers how, every night as you wash your face, you use two products, smiling at him and saying “I have to double cleanse.”
The pads of his fingers massaged the oil on your eyes, melting away the mascara and the layers and layers of product that had been on your face since morning, reapplied to look fresh the whole time.
“You’re so pretty.”
“I probably look exhausted. I’m sure it was better with the makeup.” You smile, and his heart absolutely melts. How he loved that smile.
“Um, no. You’re pretty either way. You could be bald and painted in blue, and you’d still be just as pretty.” You giggle, but he was dead serious. In Spencer’s eyes, you were the most gorgeous person in the universe – yes, universe, because he was sure you’d still be a thousand times prettier than whatever other life form there is out there.
The zipper moves down slowly, and soon, the giant dress is on the floor. His mouth goes dry at the sight of you, his brain momentarily not working.
“See? I was prepared.” You do a little twirl, joking as you have no idea just how much the sight of the black lingerie affected him.
“I’m the luckiest man on the planet.” He murmured, almost to himself as he stepped closer, taking your face in his hands and pulling you in for another kiss, effectively shutting up whatever drunken ramble you were going on about.
This time, his lips were a little more desperate. He was a gentleman through and through, but come on, he was still a man. And with you looking like that in front of him? How could he react any other way?
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist it.” He murmurs, breathless when he finally pulls just the slightest away, the warm palms of his hands still holding your face in place.
“Don’t ever apologise for kissing me.” You murmur back, and you can feel the way the smile comes to his lips.
“Come on, darling. Let’s go to bed.” He picks you up again, and in – very pleasant – seconds, your body sinks on the mattress.
Spencer can feel the warmth of your body against his, the softness of your skin under his hands. He can feel the curve of your backside fitting perfectly against his hips, can smell your perfume and drown in the mess of your post-hairstyle curls.
“Honey?” Your voice was a soft murmur in the dark.
“Yes, darling?” His eyes were half open, his restraint holding him back from doing anything as his lips hover over the curve of your shoulder, so tantalisingly close.
“I’m not sleepy anymore.” The smile that takes over his lips is instant, his hands moving on your skin with a little more purpose once he feels your hips pushing back against his.
“Mm, that’s good.” He whispers and finally allows himself to place hot kisses on your shoulder and up your neck. “But I’ll go slow anyway.”
1K notes · View notes
torturedreid · 7 months ago
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Office Christmas Party
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In which the Hotchner!reader needs a plus one for an office Christmas party and Aaron Hotchner is quick to suggest Spencer accompanying her. (Fluff&Smut!)
word count: 4.4k
tags: office christmas party, one bed, aaron hotchner (dad), fem reader, bisexual reader, elle greenaway, spencer reid, plus one, new york city, christmas movie, room service, falling in love, crush, smut, fluff, elevator kissing, fancy hotel, manhattan, sightseeing, work colleagues, dating the boss’ daughter, girly reader
warnings: elevator kissing, sub spencer reid, dick riding, protected PinV sex
notes: Happy Christmas/ Christmas eve everyone! I hope you enjoy this, I tried my best but I’m still new to writing with a reader. I think I remembered all the tags pls let me know if * missed anything.
—————————💚————————
Two weeks before Christmas you walked into the Behavioural Analysis Unit of the FBI, your shoulder bag swinging as you walked up the small staircase towards your father’s office not bothering to knock before opening the door.
“What have I told you about knocking,” Aaron Hotchner looked up from whatever file he was finishing to see you standing in the doorway.
“My bad? I need help,” you sighed loudly sitting down on the chair opposite him.
“What have you done now? Hotch asked putting down his pen.
You gasped putting a hand on your chest, “That’s rude! I haven’t done anything.”
“Then what do you need help with?” He sat back in his chair looking at you waiting for you to continue talking.
“There’s a Christmas work party out of town next week and I have no plus one and I don’t want to go alone, help me find someone to go with please!”
“Man or woman? You know this isn’t exactly the help you ask your father for.”
“I know but I’m desperate, I’ll take anything, anyone,” You dramatically slumped over on his desk putting your head in your arms that were folded on the desk.
“I’ll think about it.”
“That’s it? I need to know possible suitors now. Does that hot brunette still work here I saw her once when I came to visit.”
“Who?” Aaron raised an eyebrow.
“Um,” you pictured yourself being back there that day and looking over at her desk, “Elle!”
“Yes.. she works here but she’s a little old for you?”
“She doesn’t look old, how old is she?”
“29.”
“Dad that’s only eight years difference. I’ve dated older people than that.”
“I have Elle on a special assignment in Texas next week but you’re more than welcome to ask her on a date another time I suppose…” Aaron said before adding, “What about Spencer?”
You pondered for a moment, “Look I like him he’s got that sexy nerd vibe.. also he looks like he’d be clueless but so good in b-“ You stopped what you were saying remembering you were speaking to your father, not a friend, “Nevermind. Do you think he will ramble a lot I don’t know if the other workers will like it, they are nowhere near as smart as him and I don’t want them to say things about him.”
“He does talk a lot but I thought you liked that plus he’s closer to your age,” Hotch made his point after shaking his head at your words, he wasn’t born yesterday he knew exactly what you were about to say and he did not like it at all.
“I suppose, there’s going to be models, influencers and fashion magazines we work with there though… I guess Spencer isn’t too bad he has a grandad kind of style going on people and by people I mean me, find that quite hot nowadays.”
“Look I have a job to do if you’re going to ask him just ask,” He said looking back at his file, “Aren’t you meant to be at work?”
“The company are scouting new models today I’m not required to be there, I don’t do that.”
“Right, well speak to Spencer and tell him I’ll give him extra time off with pay since he’ll be entertaining you. Where is this party?”
“New York. The company convinced Lilia Archer to go. I’m so excited she’s awesome.”
“Lilia Archer? Mention her and Spencer will be there I’m sure.”
“What do you mean? He’s got like a crush on her?”
“We had a case she was involved with last year, Spencer kissed her.”
“What?” you asked shocked but also with a hint of jealousy bubbling in your stomach.
Aaron laughed, “It was… unexpected.”
“You can say that again,” you picked up your bag, “I’ll see you later dad, love you.”
Hotch stood from his chair and walked around the corner of his desk pulling his daughter into a hug, “I love you too.”
You left the office walking down the stairs while looking around to see if you could spot Spencer.
You finally found him over by the coffee machine pouring an unnecessary amount of sugar into his coffee, “Spencer?”
The man turned around quickly hearing his name spoken so softly by a voice he recognised, “Y/N! Hi, what are you doing here?”
“I was actually looking for you,” you started.
“You were… Why?” His lips pressed into a straight line as his eyebrows knitted together.
“Are you busy next week? On Friday and Saturday?”
“I mean yes, I’ll be here…”
“And what if my father gave you some time off?” you smiled with hope.
“What’s going on?”
“I need a plus one for a Christmas party in New York, Please be my plus one Spence,” you clasped your hands together grinning widely.
“I’m not sure it’s really… well my scene, you work in fashion with models and I don’t usually go to parties.”
“Please Spencer, Lilia Archer is going to be there apparently,” you smirked a little.
“Oh I definitely cannot go, she’s got a boyfriend it will just be awkward,” Spencer frowned.
“Fine, I’ll have her uninvited or something? Please Spencer, If you don’t want to share a room with me I’ll pay for you to have your own.”
“What, no, you don’t have to spend your money on that I don’t mind sharing i-if that’s okay with you, of course!” Spencer stuttered getting nervous.
“So you’re coming?” the wide smile reappeared on your face.
Spencer sighed, “I guess so, what do I need to take?”
“Can I have your keys?”
“What why?” Spencer’s eyes widened.
“I have a day off, you are always busy and I will pick good outfits, it’s literally my job, I’ll go pack for you,” you put your hand out waiting for his keys.
“But I haven’t tidied up, I wasn’t expecting company.”
“Spence you’re a clean freak your meaning of messy is everyone else’s spotless clean.”
“Just stick to the wardrobe, don’t snoop around I know what you’re like,” Spencer said as he handed over his keys.
“Yes Doctor Reid, oh yeah if it wasn’t obvious you’re going as my boyfriend,” you kissed him on the cheek before walking off not giving him time to respond.
“What’s going on there pretty boy? The big boss wouldn’t be too happy if he saw that,” Derek said as Spencer’s blush deepened on his cheeks.
“I thought she was into me…” Elle added.
“I’m sure she wouldn’t turn down a night with both of you,” Derek winked at the brunette.
“You’re disgusting,” She rolled her eyes going back to typing on her computer.
——————
When Spencer returned home from work the next day, he opened the door to see his apartment fairly clean with his books that didn’t fit in the bookcase stacked up in alphabetical order as well as some cookies on the kitchen counter and as he went into his room he saw the open suitcase on the bed with a note by the side.
I hope you like everything I’ve packed and you enjoy the cookies I made you. I’m trying to be a good ‘girlfriend’ ;)
Y/N <3
Over the next few days, You only came into the office once to give Spencer another note that contained your phone number so you could communicate about where to meet before flying to New York.
On the day of the trip, Spencer drove to your apartment at 6 am, your flight was at 8:30 am but your apartment was a 20-minute bus ride from the airport meaning it was the best place to meet.
Spencer knocked on the door and waited a few minutes before knocking again.
“Spencer there’s a key under the mat!” You called through the apartment. The man rolled his eyes, you had probably woken up your neighbours and just told them where you had been hiding your spare key although by the look of the building it may have soundproof walls or a least more soundproof than his were at his apartment.
He took the key and unlocked the door, stepping inside to see you in the kitchen with your hair in rollers, drinking a cup of tea with multiple outfits hanging up around the house.
“I take it you aren’t ready?” Spencer said.
“Good morning my love, nope almost just need to pick the airport outfit!”
“I like the second one,” He shrugged.
“Hm, I think I’ll go with the fourth.”
Spencer shook his head with a laugh, “Please don’t be long we don’t have much time.”
“Don’t stress it’s all cool,” you picked up the coat hanger that had a pair of black Victoria's Secret sweatpants, a white tank top and an off-the-shoulder sweater on, “Make a coffee, make yourself comfortable.”
Every minute that passed Spencer checked his watch getting more anxious until finally 15 minutes later you left your bedroom with a suitcase and 2 bags with your hair curled and your outfit on.
“I’m ready, let’s go,” you said grabbing your phone and walking over to the door.
——————
You and Spencer stood outside the hotel and spa, it looked fancy and definitely out of his price range, Spencer thought to himself.
“Ready for 2 days of fun boyfriend?” You smirked pulling your suitcase through the glass door of the hotel.
Spencer followed closely behind you holding one of your bags. He let you check in before you went to your room on the top floor.
“Woah this is huge!” you said looking at the hotel room’s super king-sized bed.
“It’s a nice hotel, how much did you pay for this?” Spencer asked leaving his suitcase next to the left side of the bed.
“I didn’t, my boss did. I’m pretty sure she booked out the whole hotel for the party.”
“So,” Spencer sat down on the bed after removing his shoes, “What exactly is the plan?”
“What plan?” you raised an eyebrow sitting down next to him and picking up the room service menu.
“Why am I here?” Spencer kept to the edge of his side of the bed.
“To be my plus one for the party tomorrow night, maybe you can show me around the city, dad said you’ve been here more than a few times for cases.”
“That’s it? You just wanted a plus one? There was no hidden meaning? I’m sure you could have found someone better looking on a dating website.”
“I like nerdy guys, plus you’re a fancy FBI agent,” you turned to look at him biting your lip before giggling, “I think we are going to have fun, wanna explore the hotel?”
“Maybe later, I want to stay here for a few minutes since I’m going to have to start using my social battery soon.”
“Okay suit yourself, I’m going to meet some of my friends I won’t be longer than an hour,” you said getting off the bed and heading out of the door.
Spencer sighed once he heard the door close, his head falling back against the headboard. He couldn’t deny the fact that he had a crush on you but he knew you were totally off-limits, you were Hotch’s daughter after all.
His head felt dizzy picturing the way you had looked at him while biting your lip even if it was jokingly it still made his head spin and his blood rush to his cock.
Spencer took it upon himself to take a cold shower, he needed one after the flight anyway so why not kill two birds with one stone?
You walked back into the room at the same time as Spencer opened the bathroom door with a towel wrapped just around his waist.
“Hello to you too, what a nice surprise,” you winked at him with a laugh.
“Shut up,” the man walked back into the bathroom closing the door, “I thought you were going to be an hour.”
“Got bored, assumed you’d want to go out or get something to eat maybe? Do you find if we swap rooms I need to pee.”
“Oh, oh sure,” Spencer opened the door again, “Food sounds good. Could you stay in the bathroom until I’m dressed?”
“Sure if it makes you more comfortable,” You smiled going into the bathroom.
“Thank you,” Spencer got dressed as he called into the bathroom, “I’m paying for our food, you can come out by the way.”
You opened the bathroom door, “You don’t have to Spence, my father gave me some money to spend here.”
“Use it to buy something nice, I want to pay for dinner,” Spencer smiled at you.
“Fine I’m not going to turn that down again,” you laughed and grabbed your purse.
——————
You and Spencer had lunch and stayed out exploring the city until 5 pm when you headed back to the hotel.
“Are you sure you’re okay ordering room service for dinner?” You asked Spencer for the 4th time since you had been walking back to the hotel.
“Yes I’m fine with it,” Spencer laughed and rolled his eyes pushing their room door open.
Just as he was about to close the door he heard a feminine voice calling ‘Wait’ Confused, he waited, by this point, you had gone into the bedroom.
“Oh!” The woman spoke, “I’m so sorry I thought this was my friend's room.”
“You’re a friend of Y/N?”
“Yes… and you are?”
“Spencer,” he smiled, “Y/N, someone is at the door for you.”
You groaned and came out of the bedroom with your sweater off, you looked extremely good in the white tank top you had been wearing under the sweater.
“Laura! Oh hey; Laura this is my boyfriend Spencer, Spencer this is my boss Laura.”
“Boyfriend?” Laura looked confused, “You have a boyfriend?”
“Yes…” points to Spencer, “Boyfriend.”
“Oh well, I guess you don’t need to come to the club with me and a couple of the others to find plus-ones then,” Laura laughed.
“Nope, no clubbing for me, Spence and I are going to have a movie night, order room service and have lots of cuddles,” Sofia grinned.
“That’s cool have fun, I’ll see you tomorrow, or I’ll text you if I get lucky,” Laura winked before leaving the room.
You closed the door and Spencer eyed you curiously, “I wouldn’t have minded if you went out.”
“We have plans did you not hear?”
“You were being serious you want a movie night with me?” Spencer raised an eyebrow.
“And cuddles,” you smiled before returning to the bedroom, “Can you order room service while I take a shower?”
“Of course, What do you want?”
You hummed, “Carbonara, margarita pizza, red wine and chocolate brownie with ice cream. Oh and ask for bottled water.”
Spencer laughs, “I’m guessing this gets charged to your boss?”
“You guessed right, order what you want. I love her but I love spending money more,” You giggled going into the bathroom and turning the shower on.
You walked out of the bathroom in your towel, “Sorry I forgot to take my pyjamas through.”
Spencer cleared his throat, “It’s fine um room service will be 6 minutes and roughly 17 seconds.”
——————
The two sat in the living room area of the room eating their meals and sharing a few bites with each other.
You both went back to the bedroom to watch TV and just as you were about to climb into the bed you took off your dressing gown revealing your silky pyjamas which consisted of a low-cut tank top and short shorts.
Spencer’s face went a little red as he cleared his throat, “That's what you chose to bring?”
“Is there a problem with them?” You asked looking down at your clothes.
“No, no, no problem you look really um great,” he wanted to continue his ramble but you stopped him.
“You can tell me I’m hot baby,” the younger woman winked.
“Stop that, let’s just watch the movie,” Spencer spoke desperately.
“Fineeee,” you said dragging out the last letter as you switched the TV on.
At some point during the movie, you fell asleep on Spencer’s arm. Once he realised you were sleeping he switched off the movie and fell asleep beside you.
The next morning, you woke first with a groan, you smiled as you tilted your head up to see Spencer sleeping. He looked so perfect as he slept. You weren’t sure if having thoughts like that were sweet or creepy.
You pulled back the duvet to go to make some tea. By the time you came back, Spencer was starting to wake up.
“Sorry, I didn’t make you anything I didn’t know when you’d wake up,” you said getting back into bed.
“That’s fine, good morning,” He smiled trying not to move.
“Good morning, is everything okay?” your eyebrows knitted together in curiosity.
“Yeah I’m fine, just uh disorientated… give me a few minutes to wake up.”
“Man troubles?” you caught on and raised an eyebrow.
Spencer choked, “What?”
“Oh come on I wasn’t born yesterday Spence, I’ve had boyfriends. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”
He covered his face with his hands, “It is embarrassing but it will go away. What time is it?” Spencer asked changing the subject.
“Only 7:30 but Dad will call at 8 to check on me,” you rolled your eyes,
“And then I’ll go back to sleep for a bit.”
“What time are you getting up?” Spencer said, he was used to getting up long before this time most mornings but it wouldn’t hurt if he had a lay-in for once. It wouldn’t usually be his thing but these beds were extremely comfortable.
“Before noon? The party starts at 5 pm so I’ll have more than enough time to get ready,” You placed the empty mug on the bedside table and waited for Aaron to call you in the meantime Spencer had fallen back to sleep.
—————
When you both woke up again, you had slept slightly past noon. Spencer had a few missed calls from the team, he instantly felt guilty that he wasn’t available to answer his phone if they needed help but it didn’t take long for you to convince him that it was his day off and he didn’t have to be on call all the time.
After a lot of stressing about curling your hair and making sure your make-up was perfect, you were almost ready. The last thing you had to do was put your dress on.
Spencer was waiting on the small sofa for you to finish getting ready. When you walked out of the bedroom in the long sparkly dark grey strapless dress his mouth almost fell open and his eyes were glued to you, his pupils dilated.
“I have some rules, well if you agree to them, we have to actually act like a couple… you know kissing and stuff and I want you to be yourself… earth to Spencer?” you waved your hand in his face when you realised he wasn’t actually listening to you and his eyes were locked on your body, “See something you like?” you laughed.
Spencer nodded his eyes still barely moving as if he was in a trance.
“Wanna take it off? I don’t mind being late,” you smirked.
Spencer snapped out of his thoughts at your words, “What? No, I can’t, you just look good, you look nice, um hot?”
“Thank you,” you tilted your head to the side with a smile, “So you’re fine with kissing?”
“Totally fine, I mean I haven’t kissed anyone in a long time, I might be bad. I really hope I’m not.”
“Spence, you’ll be fine.”
——————
You had no problem introducing Spencer as your boyfriend to your work colleagues making him wonder if you had done this before, what he wasn’t prepared for though was how highly you spoke of him and the sparkle in your eyes which to him would suggest that you really meant what you were saying. However, when you spotted Lilia Archer across the room you changed. It wasn’t that you seemed shy because you were anything but shy, but until Lilia spotted both you and Spencer it was like you was trying to hide.
You were the first to notice Lilia walking toward the both of you and your first instinct was to pull Spencer closer to you, your lips landed on him in what was meant to be a quick kiss to make Lilia feel at least a tad bit jealous but the kiss didn’t stop at a quick peck.
The two of you felt a spark run through you that neither of you could explain but you both didn’t want it to end.
Once the genius remembered that you were at a party with hundreds of people and not alone in your hotel room he removed his hand from the side of your face and pulled back from the kiss.
His hand fell beside him, catching your hand in his not long after, “That was interesting…”
“It was.”
“Did you mean it or was it because Lilia was coming?”
You shrugged, “A bit of both I wanted to make her jealous but I did mean it, I think you’re attractive and I know I'm not anywhere near as pretty or cool as Lilia Archer-“
“Stop talking like that. You’re perfect how you are, the only reason I didn’t do that first was that I thought for sure no one as confident as you would want someone… like me. And the other reason is Hotch, he is my boss.”
“Come on Spence you’re the most perfect gentleman I’m sure Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, would be more than happy if his daughter was dating his favourite boy genius.”
Spencer took a small step closer to you despite the lack of distance between you already. He cupped your cheeks lowering his head to give you another kiss.
“I know we’ve only been here for an hour but do you want to get out of here?” you said with a giggle.
“Lead the way.”
——————
The two of you couldn’t keep your hands or your lips off each other in the elevator to your floor or in the hallway toward your room.
Once the hotel door was closed you pushed Spencer up against it, kissing his lips passionately as you fiddled with his tie trying to get it off in a hurry.
You swiftly moved on to unbuttoning his shirt once the tie was off, your lips were still connected but now your tongues were invading each other’s mouths.
Separating from each other to take a couple of breaths, Spencer removed his shoes while you kicked your heeled shoes off removing a few more inches between yours and Spencer’s height.
“Bedroom?” you asked him, taking his hand in yours and intertwining your fingers together.
“I didn’t bring condoms with me, I didn’t plan for well this,” he said with a laugh.
“I always have some with me just in case,” you said as you entered the bedroom immediately finding one in your bag while Spencer removed his pants.
“At least you’re prepared, now come here I love that dress on you, you look beautiful but I want to take it off,” Spencer spoke with a rasped tone, his hands running up and down the curves of your waist and hips once you were standing in front of him.
“Take it off,” you whispered.
Spencer stood up from the bed spinning you around to find the zipper at the back of the dress, when he pulled it down he was met with your bare back meaning you had no bra on and only a lace g-string.
Spencer couldn’t help a quiet moan escaping his mouth when you turned back around showing him your exposed top half.
“You’re beautiful,” he said kissing your lips once again his hands finding your breasts.
A few moments later the both of them were fully undressed nothing left on their bodies.
“Can I put it on?” You asked holding up the condom packet.
“Please,” his voice was slightly strained he was so desperate to be inside of you, he didn’t know how much more he could take.
You ripped open the packet wasting no time before sliding the latex over his cock as a groan fell from his lips.
“Can I be on top?” you asked him.
“You want to ride me?”
“Yes, please?” you gave him a puppy dog-eyed gaze earning a nod from him.
“I’m not going to say no to that,” Spencer held your thighs as you positioned yourself in the right place before slipping his cock inside of you.
You moaned as he penetrated you further. Once fully inside of you, you took a deep breath.
“Am I hurting you?” Spencer asked worriedly.
“No! I just need a second,” you slowly began to move up and down your hands placed on his chest to maintain your balance.
Spencer moaned with each small movement, the warmth from your insides felt incredible wrapped around him, he fit perfectly inside of you.
“You’re doing so good,” you praised him as his hip started to jerk in a rhythm that matched your pace.
“I can’t last much longer, you feel so good,” Spencer moaned against your lips, when you leaned down to kiss him his cock angled even deeper instead of you.
You could barely open your eyes as you said, “I’m almost there.” The way you spoke triggered something in Spencer that made him remove one of his hands from your back and move it so his thumb would brush against your clit in circles.
With a few more sloppy thrusts caused by his hips that grazed your g-spot each time combined with him rubbing hard circles against your clit, the both of you came at the same time both with moans so loud anyone would be able to hear them through the walls.
You didn’t pull him out of yourself until you had fully gotten your breath back.
“Oh my god,” you sighed lifting off him and rolling into the space beside him, covering half of your body with the thin duvet.
“Good, oh my god? or bad?” Spencer asked pulling you close to him.
“Definitely good, so good,” You answered.
“Okay good because I agree, you were amazing,” Spencer pecked your lips softly.
“I hope you plan on being my plus one again,” you spoke quietly running your fingernails down his naked chest.
He pulled the duvet up to cover your body a little more, “I certainly plan on it.”
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torturedreid · 7 months ago
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Christmas Lights & Nutmeg Cookies
summary: christmas fluff ♡
warnings: none
a/n: anyone who knows me also knows that i pretty much only write angst, so i decided to try my hand at something lighter 😽
word count: 866
------------
The soft glow of the Christmas lights Spencer had been struggling to untangle days before bathed your apartment in a warm, golden light. The scent of the gingerbread you’d baked hours before still lingered in the air before you both moved on to the next task, sugar cookies. While simplistic enough that they weren’t really a challenge, Spencer was going all in for his first year hosting the BAU Christmas get-together.
He offered you a bite of his latest batch, after determining the last 3 weren’t quite right. “Did I do good?” He asked as the sweetness melted on your tongue.
“That’s perfect, keep that recipe.” You responded.
“It’s the nutmeg,” He declared proudly, “For a batch of 36 I used half a teaspoon, it's subtle but it makes all the difference.”
“You know, I wasn’t so sure that Christmas cookies were something that could be scientifically perfected but of course, it's you that managed to prove me wrong.” A slight laugh escaped you at the idea that he’d spent hours treating a sugar cookie recipe like it was String Theory.
He smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, “Don’t worry, I’ll credit you on my genius recipe too.” He moved over to the dining table, sitting cross-legged on the chair, tucking his long legs beneath him, “Now let’s hope I don't mess the batch up with bad icing skills.”
You sigh a little at the mess left by Spencer’s repeated attempts at baking, knowing that he won’t clean it himself. He’s perfect, really, but his one downfall is the mess he unconsciously leaves in his wake. You get to work scrubbing bowls and mixer whisks as he meticulously pipes icing onto a reindeer-shaped cookie.
“I think I cracked the code,” He said, his brows furrowed in concentration. “The key is steady pressure, not too much at once. That way the antlers don’t look… asymmetrical.”
You couldn’t help but laugh as you spotted the shabby icing job he’d done on a few other cookies, you walked over to him, drying your hands with the handtowel. “Took you a few tries but it looks like you’ve got the hang of it now.” You look at the one he’s finishing, “Spence, that reindeer looks amazing. You might’ve missed your calling as a pastry chef.”
He gave you a sheepish smile, his cheeks flushing slightly, “I think the team would tease me relentlessly if I moonlighted at a bakery. But, you know, this is actually therapeutic…especially when you have a partner cleaning up after you.”
“I told you it’s calming!” You teased, nudging his shoulder lightly. “And you said baking wasn’t your thing.”
He reached for another cookie, this one shaped like a star, and began decorating it with such diligent precision that was so very Spencer. You sit in the chair next to him, content to watch him work for a moment. There was something so endearing about seeing him in this setting, this domesticity was a huge contrast to the rest of his life.
“Alright,” You said, standing up and holding your hand out to him, “baking break. Time for a movie.”
Spencer’s eyes lit up, though he tried to feign nonchalance. “Do you already have one picked out?”
“I’ve never watched it before but it's a classic…” You say, grinning, knowing how he loves anything that’s referred to as a classic. The opening notes of It’s a Wonderful Life filled the room, and Spencer's expression softened.
“Fantastic choice,” He muttered, setting his finished cookie and the piping bag aside.
You both nestle into the couch, and you place a fluffy blanket over the two of you. Spencer shifted his weight slightly and gently grabbed your hand under the blanket. His warmth was comforting and couldn’t resist the urge to rest your head on his shoulder, he reacted in turn and rested his head on top of yours. His sweater smelled faintly of vanilla and cinnamon, the result of the baking spree he’d just indulged in.
As the movie played, his fingers absentmindedly traced circles on the back of your hand. You found yourself focusing on him and his presence more than the screen, admiring the way the glittering lights on the Christmas tree reflected in his hazel eyes. When George Bailey’s troubles began to develop, Spencer leaned down to whisper in your ear.
“Did you know Jimmy Stewart was nervous during the filming of this scene? It was one of his first roles after returning from World War II.”
You smiled, finding it adorable how his mind was always finding facts and stories to tell you, “I didn’t know that, thanks for the tidbit, Dr. Reid.” He chuckled slightly, his breath warm against your cheek.
As the movie neared its ending, you found yourself unable to concentrate on anything but the feeling of being wrapped up with Spencer, the soft rumble in his chest as he laughed, and how it warmed the room. You both hear a soft patter against the window and turn to look out of it, seeing snow falling, blanketing the world outside in a crisp white sheet. And inside, everything felt alive with Christmas magic- laughter, love, and sugar cookies.
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torturedreid · 7 months ago
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Summary: Post Tobias Hankel Spence, struggling to stop taking dilaudid and spiralling in darkness find light in the one he loves most <3
Warnings: Anxiety, drug dependency, panic attacks, depression (I think that's it, please let me know if I missed any)
Word count: 3219
a/n: Hi guys! This is my first time writing something longer than a bot for Spencer, so I really really hope you'll like it! The way I chose to portray his depression and anxiety here is very much based on how I experienced it, so this is very important to me. Let me know if you'd like a part two! Enjoy!
—————————————————————————
Spencer was wasting away, fading. His dark eyes no longer shone like they used to. His pretty smile was now a rare sight to see. His nerdy contributions to conversations were now scarce - that is, if he ever interacted with anyone anymore.
He felt hollow, no longer being motivated to do anything but the one thing he knew he shouldn't. Dilaudid.
That little bottle now went everywhere with him. The flask and the demons that haunted him after Tobias, clinging to him and punishing him for whatever bad thing he had done to deserve this. And he was sure he had done something. He just couldn't understand why so many bad things kept happening to him, following him from his childhood to his adult years. Even with all the science in the world, the only explanation plausible enough was that he had done something terrible in his past life and was now paying for it.
Despite the leave Hotch let him take having ended two days ago, he still hadn't shown up to work. This was new to him. He'd always loved going to the bureau, even if it was just for paperwork. Now, he could barely read three lines out of his favourite book.
Time was blurry, a haze of sobering up and searching the high once again with pauses destined for the bathroom and occasionally to eat - when his stomach hurt enough to remind him he had to. Apart from that, he never left his bed, hopelessly wishing he could sleep without being hunted by the flashbacks of his time in that shed, of the splinters he wasn't able to remove after digging his own grave. His hands were now raw in the parts he had scrubbed out the skin to take the little wooden pieces off of him. He barely felt it. He barely even felt anything.
He knew it wasn't rational, but the empathy and guilt he felt for the man who kidnapped him was so intense it did nothing but contribute to his numb state.
So, alone, he spent his days, going through flask after flask of the forbidden liquid, cursing himself for not being strong enough to stop and wishing Tobias had never reanimated him back at the cemetery.
Naturally, after dealing with a schizophrenic mother all alone as a child, and being forced to grow up faster than he should have, he fiercely believed he had to solve this problem alone, like he's always done.
You, however, didn't. With the many gift baskets sent by Penelope and the sweet voice that was enough to make his demons dissipate - at least while you talked -, the time you spent sitting by his locked door always left him feeling somewhat relieved.
Sitting on the cold hardwood floor with sweaty damp hair clinging to his forehead, Spencer listened quietly as you talked, not giving you any hint that he was there. Part of him didn't believe he deserved those acts of kindness from you, so he hid himself in the shadows, and, as if forbidden, served as audience to your stories about events he missed. He noticed, even in his usually drugged state, that you tried your best to lighten up the stories, probably afraid to trigger something in him. If only you knew there was no need for a trigger.
x
It was a Wednesday, and the pouring rain that came through the window he forgot to close and got him and his bed soaked was almost enough to make him give up on the day, even if he had been up for only two minutes and 28 seconds.
But he couldn't. Because giving up would mean he'd have to sit in the wet sheets all day, and despite everything, he still had issues with the feeling of wet things against his skin.
Dragging himself out of bed, he gave up on the challenge of changing the sheets and settled for his sofa instead.
"I'm changing ambiens. This is improving."
The lie of getting better was more of a sentence he said as a form to attract it, though he never made the effort to stop himself from deteriorating further. That was merely an excuse for the voice in the back of his mind to scold him further. It started with his incapability of getting clean. Then, his lack of shower. After, came the barely eating and now, the sulking in bed - or in this case, the sofa.
His mood was as gray and dull as the weather, and the sound of the rain falling did little to comfort him through the many nightmares plagued naps that he eventually gave up on. This was the moment of the day he went to his bedside table and retrieved the little ornate box with the needles and the bottles of the clear liquid. This was the moment of peace, of relief.
His mind was hazy, clouded by the momentary pleasure only the dilaudid was able to provide when the familiar knock on the door came.
“Hi Spence.” You said, your honey, homey voice wafting through the apartment and reaching his ears.
Automatically, he stumbled across the living room, and, in an all but gracious way, dropped by the door. That was the first time you heard him move inside as you talked to him, and as minimal as it was, it brought a smile to your face.
“I think I heard you fall. Knock twice if you’re hurt.”
No knocks. So, he was okay. Or as much as possible.
“The day was boring. No new cases today.” You start talking, the daily briefing session that grew more and more important to his weary mind filling the previously silent apartment, your voice sounding like a melody to his stoned brain.
“But I thought of you.” His ears perked up, his spine straightening as he focused intently on the next words.
“Can you believe there was no sugar for the coffee? Not in the coffee station, not anywhere in the building.” It was silly. Stupid. But it made you think of him, and if he was on your mind, he was happy.
“That’s absurd.” He murmurs, a little out of it.
You freeze, too surprised that he said something this time. It was the first time you heard him speak in almost two weeks. It was muffled, and too low for you to understand, but it was words, and that was better than nothing.
“It is.” You say, trying not to draw much attention to the fact that he spoke. You didn’t want to scare him away.
“What happened next?” He asked quietly, almost as if talking to you was a mistake. To him, it was actually a privilege he didn’t deem himself worthy of.
“Garcia went down to a local coffee shop with Emily and they stole a bunch of packets for us. They came back running as if they had stolen a bank.” You say and chuckle, hearing the faintest of laughs inside from him. He was laughing. That was good. Amazing, actually.
“Good. Can’t imagine being without sugar.” He murmurs, and you couldn’t see the small smile on his lips at the first sign of normalcy after so long in the dark.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure when you get back there’ll be as much sugar as you want.”
Silence.
You wait, and wait, and wait, but he doesn’t speak again.
“Spence?” You ask, and the only other sound you hear that day is him getting up and stumbling away.
x
“When you get back.”
Those words plagued him for the rest of the day, which he spent locked up in his room to try and muffle your voice as you continued talking on the other side of his front door. Just the thought of it terrified him.
At first, he imagined it was out of fear of living something like his experience with Hankel again. But when he passed by the mirror in the bathroom and saw how he looked, he understood the real reason.
Deep dark circles. Hollow cheeks. Lifeless eyes. Hair greasier than it had ever been in his whole life. Pajamas stained with food he couldn’t identify. Grown out beard. He had gotten used to the smell by now, but he was sure it would be strong to anyone else.
He was disgusting. Gross.
Useless. Undeserving. A junkie.
His breathing quickened, but it was like no air came. One shaky hand moved to his heart, feeling the fast and strong beats. It felt like drums in a rock song. Like the cart of a rollercoaster against the rails. Like horses running freely.
Except there was no freedom. He felt trapped, desperate. Hopeless.
And as he fell to the ground and tears pricked his eyes, he was sure he might die.
No one will understand. No one will try to understand.
Suddenly death didn’t seem so bad. But just like it happened so many times before in his life, it was an easy way out. And nothing was easy for him.
So, fifteen minutes later, the needle in his arm was the only thing capable of taming the panic attack that still coursed through his veins.
x
When he rolled around on his bed, sweating from the nightmare, the room was spinning. Or maybe it was just his brain.
Either way, the open box on the bedside table, the not discarded needle and the torniquet still on his arm were explanation enough for what had happened the night before. He exaggerated. Again.
The day after these episodes were always the worst. Sickness, dizziness. Loss of strength in his muscles. That was also when the thoughts got worse.
It was ironic, really, that he went through almost a whole flask in hopes of drowning the voices only to wake up with them stronger than ever. It was a cycle. But then again, wasn’t all of this?
The world was a blur, a mix of living nightmares and not very healthy thoughts, and in the end, he caught himself wishing you’d show up.
Laughing, whispers of love and beautiful promises. That was how the world was around you. And even through the thick wood of his front door, he was still selfish enough to crave a glimpse of the Heaven you held in your hands; of the salvation from this twisted reality he found himself trapped in.
Spencer wasn’t the most emotional of men. In fact, before you, all his research pointed to him lacking the brain connections that allowed one to feel anything remotely romantic. He was sure he was okay without love, and he was sure he would always be.
But then you came, and it was like buying his first glasses all over again: suddenly the world was clear, and so much more beautiful.
It was hard for him to describe what he felt. He could only think of one simple way to put it. It was all orange.
x
“Hi, Spence” The melody of the notes that compose your voice echoed around the apartment, making the faintest of smiles bloom in his face.
For the past three days, you had managed to make him talk more and more. At first, it was weird. Alone in his apartment, the only things his walls had heard in the past few weeks were his terrorized nightly screams and the incoherent mumbles that occasionally made themselves present.
“Listen, I brought you something” You say and wait to see if he had any contributions. When he remains quiet, you continue. “I called your mom’s facility” His eyes shot open, and he sat up straighter on the floor. “Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything. I figured if someone was to tell, it should be you” The simple reassurance was enough to calm him down the slightest. “I called to ask her for the recipe of those peppermint cookies you told me about a few months ago.”
The smell of baked sugar filled the small kitchen. Days like these were good. Days when his mom was okay. When she was his mom again, and he had the freedom to be the child his seven-year-old self deserved to be.
“I made some” Your voice cuts through the first good memory h’s had since everything went down. “I’m sure they’re not as good as hers, but they’re not bad either. I have them here, I could drop them off with the baskets Penelope brought and yo-“
The sudden movement of the door opening catches you by surprise as you stumble back, no longer having a surface to rest your back on.
He opened the door. He really opened the door.
Spencer stood there, looking down at you and seeming even more surprised than you did. His eyes flickered over your form, heart beating faster. God, how he missed the sight of this angel.
He looked different from what you remembered. Dark stubble covering his face, messy and greasy hair, sleeves rolled up to reveal an arrangement of needle punctures. For a moment, neither of you say a word, simply taking in the sight of the one person you each missed more than breathing. That was when Spencer realised it. He’d rather die in that shed a thousand times more than go another day without seeing your face. The pictures he had really did you no justice, not when you looked more beautiful than a diamond, with its carbon atoms so perfectly aligned, creating what is believed to be one of the most precious objects on Earth. You didn’t even compare to that.
“You made me cookies?” He asks, looking down at the little box in your hands, the faint smell of the cookies reaching his nose.
“Yes. Yes, I did. They’re still a bit warm, I baked them before coming here.” You stand up, quickly enough to drop your blood pressure slightly, but not enough to startle him.
When he takes the box from your hands and, without another word, walks inside leaving the door open for you. There’s no hesitation in your steps as you follow him in. And the sight that welcomes you is nothing but heartbreaking. His once so perfectly organized place – at least according to the system only he understood – was now a mess. There were books on the floor, take-out boxes on every table, dirty clothes on the floor.
He wafted through the chaos, eyes never leaving the box as he opened it and threw himself on the sofa. Carefully, he picks up a cookie, and after an experimental bite, a single tear rolls down his face. Then another, and another, and another until the dam breaks and he is full on sobbing on the sofa, crushing the cookie as his hands close into fists and his shoulders shake.
Your heart, shattered already, breaks even further, and when you sit next to him, you feel shocked as he falls into your arms. His arms are tucked between your bodies, his face buried on your chest, and you don’t have the heart to tell him he smells the tiniest bit. No, not now. You could tell him he needed a shower when he didn’t look like a vulnerable child, climbing on your lap.
“It’s okay… shh…” His brain barely registers your comforting words, too busy paying attention to the way your fingers card through his hair without a hint of disgust. He knew he loved the right person, especially because of moments like this. You were just… perfect. It was cliché, but Spencer genuinely could not think of any other way of describing you.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” His voice was almost inaudible, filled with a gut-wrenching guilt for doing this to you. “I’m s-sorry”
“Don’t be. It’s okay, you’re okay. I’m here” Your voice, the soft murmur of reassurance breaks him even further, relieving him of the pressure of the guilt he had been feeling for so long.
That day, he cried until he fell asleep in your arms. Not for a second did you let go of him, your hands always gentle and loving as you caressed his hair. For the first time in two weeks and four days, he slept with no nightmares.
x
The sound of steps moving around his apartment was the first thing he registered when he woke up. Rubbing his eyes and sitting up on the couch, he looked around, groggy and with his head pounding from crying.
You had your back turned to him as you cleaned his kitchen, the smell of something in the oven making his stomach growl slightly. Then he notices it. No clothes on the floor. No takeout boxes around. Books neatly on the shelves. You had cleaned his place while he slept.
For a minute, he simply watches you, dark eyes following your movements around the kitchen as you wash and dry dishes. Then you turn, and the small, concerned smile that forms on your lips as you walk closer is enough to send his heart racing in his chest again.
“You’re up. How did you sleep?” You ask, stopping behind the couch as your fingers lovingly brush his messy hair out of his face.
“Fine. How long was I out?” He asks and clears his throat, voice slightly gruff.
“About three hours. I didn’t want to wake you, so I cleaned up. And made dinner. You still like lasagna, right?”
His eyes stare directly at your face, and for a moment, he considers a crazy theory.
Maybe he had died that day in the shed. He died, and the last couple of days were his time spent in some sort of imbo. But now he was in Heaven. That had to be it. As irrational as it was, how else could he explain the presence of an angel in front of him so suddenly? Besides, he always thought that if the Realm of God was a real place, if his paradise was real, you’d be there.
“Spencer?” He blinks, and the world still has a happy veil over it when his eyelids open and his irises meet your face again.
“Yes. Yes, I like lasagna.” He nods, eyes fixed on you.
Maybe life wasn’t so bad after all.
x
The door closed behind you, and the illusion left just as fast. The light that seemed to follow you was gone, his world buried in darkness and numbness again. Your presence made him feel so light as you talked his ears off today. He didn’t mind. Not when he smiled more in a couple of hours than in the last two weeks. Not when you two were sitting so close, cuddling on the couch. Not when your lasagna had tasted like the best dish he ever ate.
But now you were gone, and all that is left for him to do is climb back in bed. His sheets are clean now – you changed them – and the overused pajamas on his body feel sinful against the fabric. What was meant to be a good thing only served to send him spiraling again, and as most nights, this one ended with a small pinch and the sting of the liquid as he applied it on his forearms.
Who knows? Maybe the delusions would bring you back tonight.
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torturedreid · 7 months ago
Text
Tomorrow
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summary: spencer experiencing cravings & depression-induced isolation
warnings: drug cravings, death, depression
word count: 1574
a/n: so...this is my first time writing something longer than a bot since I was 14 on wattpad. I hope you'll like it because I sacrificed a lot of sleep writing, reading then rewriting/ Let me know your thoughts!
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“Did you know the average person lies three times within the first ten minutes of meeting someone new? However, trained investigators can detect microexpressions—fleeting, involuntary facial expressions that reveal a person's true emotions—even if the lie is well-rehearsed.”
That's the first thing Dr. Spencer Reid ever said to you, and you were one of the few who listened to him, which is how he knew you saw through his lies when you’d asked if he was okay.
You had noticed the shadows under his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands when he was flicking through case files. Spencer was good at hiding things, but not from you. You’d spent enough time with him to recognize the signs- restless fingers playing with the edge of his scarf, his tendency to ramble more than usual as if he were trying to fill a void he didn’t want to face.
The death of Ryan Phillips was what was playing on repeat in Spencer’s mind. His attempt at talking Jack Vaughn down from shooting him, how he’d asked ‘When does it end, Jack?’ and the chilling response as he had replied ‘Tomorrow’. That word taunted Spencer. Though he had a good handle on his addiction to Dilaudid and he’d been sober for a while, witnessing that kind of stone-cold brutality was causing cravings that he was struggling to keep suppressed. He’d attempted meetings, getting a sponsor but nothing was helping to subside them.
He knew he should talk to someone, about how isolation was dangerous. It was feeding the cravings and making the voice in his head louder, but the thought of facing anyone was all the more daunting. He’d begun shutting himself off from everyone, the team, you, and even his sponsor. He told himself he just needed time, time to sort through his thoughts and feelings but deep down he knew that he was lying to himself- it was merely an excuse.
It started when he’d stopped lingering around the bullpen after cases instead opting to retreat to his desk muttering about needing to catch up on paperwork. Then it extended to avoiding the team hangouts that Penelope always insisted on, citing headaches or wanting to read a new book. Even his long-winded ramblings, which you’d always listened to attentively, were few and far between now.
At home, he’d sit in silence on the couch for hours, the solitude -though suffocating- offered more consolation than discussing it with others. His gaze alternated between the stacks upon stacks of self-help books he’d obsessively scoured over the past few weeks and his journal, which he’d been using to document his recovery, that was now collecting dust on his coffee table.
The nights were the worst, the memory of how Dilaudid promised him relief, a numbing warmth against the harsh reality of his life, and now it was more than that, now it offered the illusion of reprieve from the guilt and relentless replay of Ryan’s death. Tomorrow, Jack Vaughn's words haunted him like a ghost in his mind, he couldn’t stop wishing it was him who’d been on the other end of that gun instead of Ryan, a child. He was utterly exhausted.
He loathed those thoughts, how easily and reflexively his mind turned back to the vials that had almost consumed and destroyed him before.
You’d tried to reach out to him, stopping him in the halls of work, hovering by his desk gently asking how he was doing. He’d seen the worry in your eyes and god it just made the guilt resurface tenfold. He couldn’t bear the idea of burdening you with this darkness inside of him, of the disappointment in your eyes as he admitted to you how truly close he was to falling apart.
So he pulled away.
One evening a few days ago, he’d ignored you as you knocked at his door, even though he knew you’d seen the light seeping from under it. He’d stayed perfectly still as you softly called his name, your voice full of concern, and he’d wanted to open the door, to fall into your arms and tell you everything. To cry, and to ask for help, but the thought of facing you and admitting his shortcomings was too hard. When you’d finally left he’d felt so lonely that he fell into a dissociative state that took hours to pass.
So Spencer did what he always did when things got too unbearable. He buried himself in his work, in the many books littering his apartment, anything to distract him from the chaos in his head. He avoided eye contact, deflected your questions with half-hearted jokes and reassurances, and drowned himself in statistics and theories to keep the cravings -and shame- at bay.
But no amount of isolation could stop the storm from raging inside of him and deep down Spencer knew sooner or later it would catch up to him, that he couldn’t outrun the truth forever.
He was broken.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — —
The turning point came on a rainy Thursday night, after a long, draining case. The team had dispersed hours ago, but something was stopping you from leaving. Something about the way Spencer had disappeared into the conference room without a word made you loiter. You’d waited a while but finally dug up the courage to approach, when you’d gotten to the conference room, you found the door slightly ajar, and inside Spencer sat at the table, head in his hands, and his body full of tension- like the weight of the world was on his shoulders and it was crushing him.
“Spencer?” you said quietly, trying to avoid startling him.
You saw how his body language changed, straightening up his posture but remaining stiff. “I’m fine,” He said quickly, voice clipped, but you knew better. Everything about him was screaming to you that he was far from fine- his tone, his posture, the heavy slump in his shoulders.
You stepped further inside, closing the door behind you, “It's okay to not be okay.” You knew it sounded cliche but it was oddly fitting for this moment. You sit in the chair opposite him.
For a minute he didn’t respond, but when he finally raised his head his eyes were glassy, bloodshot and so full of pain that it made your chest ache. “I don’t know what to say,” he muttered, so quietly you almost missed it.
“Then don’t. Don’t say anything, just let me be here with you.”
His brow furrowed slightly, taken back by the simplicity of your answer, at how you didn’t push for more, and he nodded, darting his eyes away from you like he thought you’d see into his soul, reading into his deepest darkest thoughts just with a glance.
You waited for a while, the silence stretching yet it wasn’t uncomfortable. To him it just felt like a reminder that he didn’t have to carry this alone. Eventually Spencer's voice cut through the silence, shaky and hesitant.
“I swear I was doing okay,” He said, picking at the skin around his nails. “But after Vaughn, after Ryan, everything came rushing back. The cravings, the doubt…the self hatred. I keep wishing it was me he’d killed because this is so much scarier than death. The fear of it happening again, of me falling so deep into the darkness that it swallows me. The fear of not trusting myself.”
The honesty in his words broke something inside of you, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you put your hand across the table, offering it to him if he needed it, and you keep your voice steady and calm. “Then trust me. You’re strong, you’re still here and fighting. That’s the truth, and the truth matters more than ‘what ifs’.”
He laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “It doesn’t feel like enough. I’ve been to meeting after meeting, read so many books, and nothing is helping. I feel hopeless. I feel stuck.” He looks up at you, his eyes searching yours, trying to determine if you were genuinely worried. “Why do you care so much?”
“Because you’re my friend,” You said without hesitation. “I care about you, Spencer. Not because you’re a genius or because you save lives everyday, but because you’re a good person. An honest to god good person. You’re a rarity nowadays, and good people deserve to have someone in their corner. Plus we all need help sometimes, there’s no shame in it.”
His lower lip trembled slightly, and he looked away, blinking rapidly. “I don’t know if I can let you in. I’ve spent so long building up these walls that I’m not sure if I can knock them down again. It was just easier that way.”
“I get it,” You say, getting up and walking over to his side of the table, sitting next to him and taking his hand gently. “But easier isn’t always better. You’ve been carrying this weight alone for so long, but you don’t have to. Not anymore. Let me help.”
For a brief moment, he didn’t say anything, then slowly nodded. “I don’t know where to start, though.”
“That's okay, we’ll figure it out together. One step at a time, alright?” You said, squeezing his hand.
He gave you a small tentative smile- a real one this time. It wasn’t much but enough to make you believe he’d be okay.
And for the first time in weeks, Spencer let himself believe it too.
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