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The cage is open, you can walk out anytime you want (Why are you still here?),
S2!Post!Hankel Spencer Reid x gn!BAU!reader
Angst (hurt/comfort). Autistic Spencer (you know the drill). Perhaps some traces of fluff if youâre likeâŚ. masochistic. Heavily implied happy ending.
â Explorations of Spencerâs (very glossed over) addiction. Love confessions? Half love confessions? Spencer admits it mentally, Reader implies it through actions. What am I saying? Theyâre sooooooo in love it pains me.
Warnings: *cracks knuckles,* okayâŚ. âheavy depictions of drug addiction, mentions and allusions of suicide, previous mentions of being held hostage (Hankel). PACKED with Greek mythology references (sue me, i study classics as a degree), perhaps some light biblical imagery? Spencer being at rock-bottom. heâs kinda bitchy. he also disses hotlines (they do save lives, donât listen to Spencer!!! heâs being a dick). mentions of childhood bullying.
w.c: 3.2k
a/n: title so long itâs basically a midwestern emo song.
ââââââââââââ
Thereâs intimacy in being fragile. Spencer knows firsthand, has romanticised his Glass delusion. The fear of shattering, fragmenting on impact, like jagged, sliced glass. He thinks of Charles VI, (1380âs King of France), what he felt when he refused touch. When he reinforced himself, shielding behind excess clothing, in the fallacious fear of dismantling.
Spencer does the same, hides behind fabric, shies away from human contact. Becauseâ because being careful is better than being impetuous. If he can make himself so small he no longer takes up space then maybe theyâll be kind to him.
Monachopis. Has he always been this out of place? Has it always felt this way? Will it ever stop?
12 years old. Curling inward to shield himself from the ache of cracked fists. Youâre not here, youâre not here, youâre not here. He still feels like that kid, the one bleeding across the school yard, smashed glasses, bust lip, new bruises to hide from mom.
Perhaps he should blame genetics. Find something to point the finger at. Mentally distort the truth, until itâs no longer a paling face he sees, drawing the first needle into his arm, forcing him to take what he never asked for. No longer that, but a bigger issue, a concern that cannot be personified, a larger statistic in the minefield of human psychology.
Those with ASD have a doubled risk of substance use.
He never stood a chance. Did he?
So just like Charles, he covers his arms. Veils the track marks that penetrate skin. Pretend theyâre not there, pretend youâre okay. Okay? Okay, nobody has stopped to ask him if he is âokayâ since âthe incident.â When the shock wore off, and attention strayed, everyone lost interest.
He feels like an outlaw to his own team.
How do you move on from being bound, tied, degraded to something beneath human?
How did everyone else?
He understands nowâ the pull of addiction. The way it mimics, artificially replicates home. Something soft, in that one, life-ruinously warm moment between the first hit and the inevitable come down.
But just like everything good. It dies. Turns ugly. Disfiguring, decaying. What once was simple, a fleeting temptation, a way to starve off lonely withdrawal, has derailed into desperate, insatiable hunger. To reproduce the first time, to appease the way he palpates in the wake of something tinyâ
Call it what it is. Not an analgesic agent, not a semi-synthetic, not a simple narcotic utilised in the medical field. Itâs an opioid, two to eight times greater than that of morphine. Given to those dying, to help alleviate Cheyne-stokes breathing, to reduce pain before the end.
It binds to the opioid-receptions in the central nervous system.
He is no superior than those on the street. Begging for loose change to shoot up and placate the cold.
2AM. The phone connection is faint. Do you feel like killing yourself? Is the noose already tied, is the rope choking you? Do you need to breathe? Do you even want to? He wonders what it would be like, to call into those bullshit hotlines, to hear the detached, sharp-bladed sympathy of some stranger.
Instead, when the phone picks up, the blaring beep of a dial dissipating, he hears you instead.
âYou know how itâs believed that Artemis killed Orion?â He starts. He cannot begin with hi, Iâm scared of the dilaudid burning through my veins. Do you still love me? (Presumptuous of him to believe you loved him in the first place, he certainly wouldnât.)
He doesnât let you answer. Maybe heâs scared, or maybe he can try and satiate your concern by fact-dumping so extensively that you automatically revert back to oh yeah, boy genius is talking again. âWellâ thereâs this other interpretation, that she⌠yâknow didnât. Instead, they were hunting companions, and it was because of the animals he slaughtered on Crete, that Gaia. Mother eaâ yeah, you know who Iâm referencing. Okay.â
Even at his worst, he is conveniently a social disaster. They could poke holes in his brain, drag the sharp edge of a blade through the tissue lining of his stomach, and his mouth would still find a way to run:
âYouâre missing major arteries here, câmon â I know you can push harder than that. Aim for my descending aorta, that will do the job correctly.â
It would be funny if he wasnât the biggest screw up to ever exist. Social ineptitude has never looked worse.
âAnyway, um⌠soâ disturbed by the blood-bath, and feeling repentant â she summoned this scorpion. Humans are no match for the gods, obviously. So any creation with intent willââ he sighs, finding new ways to hate himself. âBasically he died. Yeahâ dead. To⌠uh, sum it up?â
âAnd what?â Oh, there you are. Heâs surprised youâre listening, that you didnât hang up the moment his morbid rambling begun. Heâs always surprised, surprised that you listen, that you stay, even when you shouldnât. It would be romantic, if he wasnât so flawed in believing you could never want someone like him.
âWellâ Artemis gathered up the remnants of Orion and placed them in the sky. Yknow,⌠hence the constellation.â
Thereâs shuffling â a moment of uneasy silence. âSpencerââ
He keeps going. Shock-horror. âIâm not sure science would agree with that myth. It certainly counters the Big Bang theory. And the whole schtick regardingâ look⌠it doesnât,⌠it doesnât hold any truth, of course. The gods arenât real,â (if they are, they must spit at the flawed creation of him), âI justâ it was on the forefront of my mind. Made me think of you.â
Itâs innocent. If you donât take into account the stored vials he keeps stashed in his cabinet sink. If you pretend youâre just two people, two old, weary friends, who are insomniac and restless. Then again, where Spencer is concerned, everything is innocent. Heâll bare the weight of existence with no expectation of a return favour. So willing to give give give. Always taken for granted. Tossed to the sidelines. Youâve watched the team ignore his plans, call rain check after rain check, incessant excuses for something so diminutive. Even now, they canât see whatâs right in front of them. The blunt of the truth.
The aftermath of the Hankel case.
âBad night?â You ask. Like you donât feel it in your ribs.
He sighs, head spilling back against the wall. Throat bared, it would be so easy for hands to wrap around the unmarred skin, to put him down. âArenât they all?â
Youâve both been trained to pinpoint human behaviour. Discern threat from over exaggeration. You donât hesitate, he knows you donâtâ heâs seen you behind the weight of a gun. Dominant hand curved around the grip, aligning the front and rear sight. Firing pin striking the primer of the cartridge, no recoilâ heâs watched you no more than blink when the bullet penetrates.
He always anticipates a flinch that never comes.
Sometimes, he has this dream, where heâs got the same Hornady branded bullet, lodged through his chest. Sometimes he wakes up and still believes heâs bleeding out.
He can hear your keys, the clattering that fades into the grating, confirmative slam of a door. Youâre out of the apartment complex, and what? Heâs too busy thinking about some warped manifestation of his subconscious?
Will he ever live outside of his mind?
The call doesnât end (5 dragging minutes of heavy breathing and awkward silence), until youâre standing right here, flesh and bone, in his kitchen.
Heâs making himself small again. Sat against cold tile, he shields his face from view. As if that alone will incrimate him. He knows you know. And itâs scary; to be so raw in the face of someone you love.
When you drop to your knees, it feels like tending to a wounded animal.
âYou didnât need to come,â he mutters, obstinate.
âSo what?â You brush it off, ever the hero. Spencer thinks they should marbleise you in the Vatican. âI still did.â
You came. You called. Spencer fucking hates that cliche. Except, no.. no he doesnât. Sometimes, he wants to make himself sicker, just so you have reason to touch him.
Reaching up, he feels your calloused palm, the way it cups his jaw, coaxing his face to lift. He thinks, knows, youâre disturbed by the sight. Red-rimmed eyes, and waxen features. Skinnier, hollow. If he is Leander, then he prays you donât suffer the same fate as Hero.
âGeniuses are never happy,â they told him as a child. Detailing the cyanide found in Viktor Meyerâs stomach, Wallace Carotherâs affinity for Potassium Cyanide. Hans Berger, Valero Legasov, Alan Turning. Some things hurt more than can be described.
Is it really so startling that he turned out the same? When thatâs all heâs ever known?
Spencer stares. He tries to look through you, but it doesnât work. Not when youâre warm, and real, and if the come down is configuring you into reality, and youâre not really here, then so be it. Heâll take what he can get. âYouâll find Dilaudid in my bathroom. Left turn from the hallway. I suggest you call 911. Report drug possession. Theyâll take it more seriously if you say my name, emphasise the doctor in the title.â
âNo.â
âYesââ indignantly, he huffs, âYes. You will. Otherwise youâre guilty by association. The FBI will fire you, take away your credentials. Youâll be ruined.â
âThatâs if they find out.â
He canât comprehend why youâre covering for him. Thereâs decency, empathy, general human kindness, and then thereâs this. âYouâre supposed to be an upholder of the law.â
âPft,â you scoff, brush it off. âYknow, in Alabama, you canât play cards on a Sunday. Alaska, no moose on sidewalks. Thereâs also a ban on wearing masks in Georgia. California hasââ
âI get your point.â He cuts off, âWellâ no, I actually donât. Considering theyâre dumb laws that waste time. Drug paraphernalia, in contrast, is not.â
âEven high, youâre a stickler. Guess old habits die hard?â you push up, and he chases your touch. âCâmon, golden boy. Youâre getting a cold shower and some water. Gonna flush that shit out of you the old fashioned way.â
âI wasnât aware there was a modern alternativeâŚâ
He doesnât let you see him naked. Partially because, itâs his body. This vessel that feels so alienated from the better part of him. Heâs never let someone undress him before, see behind the meticulous layers. But, mostly.. well, he has a firm belief that the first time you take off his clothes, it will be in better circumstances. If that ever transpires.
Youâd probably think him deranged: hi, iâm saving myself for you, because any touch that isnât yours makes me sick.
Heâd rather rot alone than string someone along who could never fill the void of you.
The shower is methodical. Skin recoiling from the harsh rivulets of water. 3 minutes spent standing there, staring outwards not in. Complete disregard for the mirror, heâs all soft features and freshly-washed pyjamas when he pads into the bedroom. Corduroy pants, thermal-wear socks, some dumb science print embellished onto the front of his shirt. (âNever trust an atom, they MAKE UP everythingâ â yeah, he hates himself.)
You donât talk. Not until heâs consumed his body weight in water. He fights off the urge to warn you about the dilution of sodium content in blood. Hyponatremia. Fatal, with a likelihood of seizuring and long-flight comatose. Youâd probably just laugh at him, considering it was two glasses, a litre at best.
Heâll use his intellect to hurt. And youâll counter him with little regard.
Even at his ugliest, you still stay.
âIâm fine,â he protestsâ hating the way you look at him when heâs so raw.
Itâs that gaze. That same sinking, pity-warped gaze he received when he talked about his mom, about the kids at school. Adolescent meat-heads who pushed him into lockers, and beat him between class. Itsâ suffocating sympathy that he no longer has room for.
âNo you arenât,â this might be the worst youâve ever seen him.
Would you have known? If he didnât make the call? Cassandra complex. Disambiguating. A psychological phenomenon where an accurate prediction of a crisis is dismissed. Silent concern, the intuitive awareness that he never recovered, it was only going to lead to thisâ
Oh fuck it. You knew. The entire team did. Youâre just the only one who cared enough to help.
Youâre not like the rest of them. Maybe they can blanket suspicion, play pretend, refuse to get their hands dirty. But, thereâs a reason youâre better. You donât sugar-coat reality. You act. You react.
Heâll see your name on a wall one day. An award adorning your efforts.
âYouâre exhausted, lie down.â
Spencer fights the urge to scowl. Since when were you in charge? Admittedly, he knows the answer to that: since you spitballed into his apartment, better yet, since you spitballed into his life. So, like the good, propitiated loser he is, he complies. Shock horrorâŚ
âWhat are you gonna do? Tuck me in?â
âYou wish.â Instead, you force your way onto the right side of the mattress. âGet comfy, youâve got your own, free of charge, narcotics anonymous sponsor tonight.â
âYouâre not great at the whole âtough loveâ thing.â
âThen call someone else next time.â
Vulnerability feels like being ripped open at the seams. Like some botched Pygmalion creation â stitched wrong, still breathing. He wants to fall asleep, to just⌠fade into himself. Butâ you have this uncanny, accursed ability to make him honest.
You, draped over his bed, does little to appease the sickness in his mind.
âI never asked for this,â he starts, âI didnâtâ I didnât even want it. How is that fair? I never got to decide, I wasnât even given the anatomy to choose. Nowââ
The words rip free like Prometheusâ daily punishment: inevitable, agonizing.
He laughs. Cold. Something ugly that doesnât belong to him. âNow, if Iâm not thinking about my next hit, Iâm thinking about how you see me. How the team must see me. Itâsâ itâs the disappointment. I justâ I donât know why you stay.â
Itâs all so tentative. The moments before, when you extend your hand, run it across the curvature of his jaw. All it takes is the touch and heâs crashing into you. Like there is no feasible option but to submit to the basic human need of contact. Face pressed into your shoulder, he feels like dead-weight. Something unworthy of labour.
Stop pushing that boulder up the hill, Sisyphus. Let it fall. Let him fall.
His hand knots tighter in the fabric of your top. Like if he lets go, heâll spiral into Tartarus itself.
Why? Why would you do thisâ
âYou think Iâm going to cut and run just because youâre inconvenient? Pft, iâm too stubborn for that. And, wellâŚâ thereâs a sigh,⌠âI care about you too much. Alright? So be inconvenient. Fuck, call at 3AM. Call at 5AM. Make me drop everything and come over. I donât care. I want to carry the burden. I want to carry your burden.â
His touch lingers near your lower back. Drawing soft halos there, faint and uneven. âI hate you,â comes out muttered, something muffled by skin.
âNo you donât.â you counter, immediately.
âNo I donât,â just like that, he breaks. Cease-fire. How could he ever hate you? The statement was deflective, at best. Some way to make you ache the way he aches. At least then it would be a level paying field.
âI hate who I am when Iâm like this. I hateâ I hate my mind. Itâs not⌠itâs not accurate, the way people romanticise it. I canât be what they all expect of me.â
Youâre doing that thing. The one where you donât respond. Where you just listen, without interjecting, without cutting through his incessant monologues.
Sometimes, he feels like he dreamed you up. Like you donât even exist, a stowaway in his brain, something to re-mantle whenever heâs lonely. Real people arenât this good â this good to him.
âI donât get to make mistakes. I need to have the answers every single second of the day. I canât be me. Youâre the only one, how are you the only one who notices? Iâve tried so hard, Iâve been so goodââ
Heâs tangled into you now, tethered like Daedalusâ forgotten son trying to stitch his broken wings back together mid-fall. If he could, heâd crawl into you. Find somewhere warm to safely exist. Without hurt.
âThis isnât just, Iâm not like this just because I need you. Pleaseâ please remember that. I miss you always, even when Iâm sober. Even beforeâ before everything. Iâm not in someââ
âWhat?â you finally (mercifully) interject. âSome drug-infused decline? Where youâll lean on anyone that will give you the time of day?â
Spencer flinches â not because youâre wrong, but because youâve drawn blood from a wound he didnât know he still had.
He hates that youâve distinguished him as some mischaracterised energy vampire. Like you could ever be nothing. Like youâre just the closest fix he can find beyond a chemical high. Designer drugs, manufactured in a lab, they say Heroin feels like a hug from God.
Until your body becomes gluttonous for a hit that never appeases.
Youâ you are not a hollow high. You are slow and real and catastrophic.
Oh, youâre dependable, a want that morphed into all-encompassing devotion over slow dragging time. âYes, to the former. Noâ no, definitely no to the latter. Youâre not just some emotional crutch to me. Youâre, I donât know, youâre just⌠everything.â
Spencer swallows, pulls back, feigning composure. âI should be able to do this alone,â he mutters, âNormal people can. I should beââ
âCâmon, Spence. Youâre not a machine. You were never built for that.â
Another sharp laugh. It piercesâ you can almost taste the blood this time.
âIâm so tired,â he says in defeat. âIâm so tired of trying to be someone worth saving.â
Pressing your forehead to his, youâre kind to not mention the tears. To just let them occur, free fall. âYou donât have to be anything,â you murmur into his hair. âYou just have to be. Thatâs enough. Thatâs enough for me, and iâve got you. Okay? Iâve got you. Always.â
âWill you stay with me?â He doesnât mean tonight, you know that well enough. âWill you stay with me through it all?â
Youâre aware of the burden it would imply, the jagged, ugly reality of withdrawal. The toll, sweat-soaked skin and cold fevers. Irrational begging, pleading for god, just one more fix. The way it would change him, change your untainted perspective of him. When you agree, it is not misguided.
You know what youâre signing up for.
âYeah. Iâll stay. Through it all.â
If this is love, true unvarnished love, reciprocal and real, then heâs sorry he found you at a bad time. Give it, give me, a few months, he thinks, and iâll spend the rest of my life giving you everything.
#criminal minds#spencer reid#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid angst#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid x y/n#theyâre so in love ur honour#theyâre also traumatised#figures#criminal minds imagines#criminal minds fan fiction#bro idk iâm running out of tags
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Ton 618,
S3-S4ish Spencer Reid x gn!reader
Fluff (no angst⌠surprisingly). Autistic Spencer (present in all of my one shots bcos itâs canon to me).
ââââ domesticated time inbetween cases & blind adoration.
Warnings: literally none (who am i???), brief mention of past trauma (Hankel).
w.c: 1.5k
â Theyâre both nerds who are a little too invested in space. Light biblical imagery & Greek mythology references. My writing has been sufficiently domesticated (dw iâll be back to angst soon, war is not over.)
Loosely inspired by:
a/n: just giving him what he deserved to have.
ââââââââââââ
For the first time, in a long time, there is little residing in Spencerâs mind. Beyond warm hands, and soft skin, and the pulse of someone elseâs body. Obsessed is one word for it, a textbook definition that canât truly articulate the ache he derives from the thought of you. Obsessed, fatefully ruined, if this is the work of divine intervention, then consider him, once obstinate in his atheism, entirely, profusely devout.
Heâs still thinking about you. Whatâs new? The memory of your lips pressed against his, the tattooed promise of more, more because it will never be enough. He wants, god when has he ever wanted? Life before appears bleak now, black and white. Academia, pursuits of knowledge, lonely nights and the transient fear of forever being stuck in a cyclical cycle of loneliness.
You think heâs pretty. He smiles on the way home from work, Morgan pressing him, because âkid you canât be that happy for no reason.â There is a reason, a monumental, life-altering one that waits for him at the door. He likes that, the domesticity. Heâs never asked for much, content in his mishaps of intimacy, always baring the weight because he wants needs to be good. For the people around him, for the home heâs carved into his skin, for anything that starves off the decades of isolation.
When he threads his arms around your waist, leaning all of his weight into the contact, you both go stumbling back.
Heâs soft. Of course heâs endured more than anyone should, the sharp edge of addiction, the stifling weight of a morbid job that has him fixated, hook line and sinker, compass pointing South every time heâs thrown into the field. But for all of that, he still obtains naive, blinding light.
He burns. Or more so, he warms.
âHi, hi. Sorryâ that wasnât very eloquent. Can I try again?â Heâs halfway out of the door; you have to lean forward, grip his wrist, tug him closer, âOkay.â He laughs, âIâll take that as a no?â
Heâs certain your name is imprinted onto his heart. Carved just for you alone. There is no one else. There could never be anyone else.
That night he falls asleep on your shoulder. Hands interlocked, body splayed out across stressed leather, abandoning his book for the soft drab of safety. Thereâs a tangled wire of headphones draped between you, knotted further when you pull him, half conscious to bed. He follows mindlessly.
You spend his allocated time off as recluses, abandoning civilisation. No sunlight, his apartment is permanently drenched in molten light. Scattered lamps, balancing off stacked books and messy surfaces. Every morning heâll wake you with butterfly kisses and the promise of a breakfast he will consistently burn. Heâs content, over the moon, to forget the world around him. For it to just be, just the two of you.
Today, as usual, you eat his charred attempt at food. Heâs trying, heâs definitely trying, even if the end result is⌠a health risk. Still, you eat it regardless, without complaint, you eat it.. and then heâs just⌠kissing you senseless in the middle of his kitchen. Cold tiled floor, and mismatched socks. Fuck, he loves you, heâs never loved someone the way he loves you.
âIâve been dreaming about falling into black holes recently,â he says when you cradle his face. Pretty features besotted with the sight of you. âWeird. Kinda cool. Please donât eat anymore of my food.â
âNo promises,â you grin, and he has the audacity to pout.
Because thatâs not fair, burnt food can cause carcinogens to form, to obstruct digestion and metabolism. âMy cooking is going to kill you. Your death will be on my hands. The grief will be immeasurable. Iâll become a hermit, never leave my apartment again. Donât do that to me.â hands wrapped around your wrists, he preserves the contact. âPlease donât do that to me.â
âWell only because you said pleaseââ
He sighs, audibly, âYou just died, youâre dead, and the only thing you can focus on is a word. A word I very generously repeat, at any given moment.â â heâs polite, he will use his manners, and he will unceremoniously echo please please please to obtain even a fraction of you.
Heâs senseless. Too far gone.
You take his hand, press it against your heart. âStill alive. I think?â
âYeah,â he scoffs, âFor now.â
âYouâre dramaticââ
He cuts you off, âDid you know one of the largest black holes ever recorded is 66 billion times the mass of the sun? Ton 618.â Pausing to kiss you (a vital necessity), his hands play aimlessly with your hair, strands sliding through the crevices of his fingers. âImagine falling into thatââ kiss, âYou would die obviously,â kiss, âBut it would be a pretty cool death.â Kiss. ďżź
Time dilation, worm holes, cosmic demise, you. Sighâ you.
âIt would take over 10 billion years for its light to reach earth.â you say, and yeah. Okay. Just casually recite facts to him. Thatâs okay. He wonât melt, because heâs a rational, dignified, highly-cerebral adult.
Lie. You always know when to talk, sometimes, sometimes, he gets so lost in thought-loops and spirals of intellectual confusion that you have to draw him back to the present. He disintegrates. Every. Single. Time. One intelligent word and the threads of him are woven tightly around your finger.
âYouâre stealing my job. Andâand youâre doing it better than me. Iâm taking a vow of silence. No more words. Iâm becoming a monk. Except, maybe without the celibacy?â
âWhoreââ
âFor you? Always.â he says, knocking his shoulder into yours, âYouâre missing the important aspect to this. Donât discard my threat.â
âSpence, if you ever stop reciting random facts to me at..â you scramble to check the time, early morning, itâs hard to differentiate the hours when they all bleed into one convoluted mess of intimacy. âAt 9AM, we will have serious issues. I might get HR involved.â
Heâll ramble about the laws of thermodynamics. Dedicating hours to the philosophical differences between determinism and free-will. Youâll call him a nerd, and heâll laugh, muffling your protests with his mouth. Itâs routine. Something to fall back onto.
ďżź âHey! Donât drag HR into our domestic affairs! Thatâsââ he interrupts himself to kiss you, again. Just because he can.
Once heâs satisfied that his lips will ache for the next millennium, he continues. âAnyway. I think we should get old together, and then, when weâre losing our minds, and we canât tell the days apart, we just.. take a casual trip to space, travel through Ton 618. Iâd be scared, so Iâd hold your hand when we fall. Getting sucked into eternal darkness would be an acceptable way to go.â
He laughs, âYou know, as long as youâre by my side, or whatever.â
âOr whatever,â you repeat, before holding out your pinky. âDeal?â
He feeds his own through yours, âDeal.â ďżź
Yeah, just promise eternal devotion to him. That wont have any lasting, fatal effects on his sanity. Itâs not like heâll cling to it for the remainder of his ephemeral existence.
Later that night, when youâre draped in limbs, skin pressed against skin, you sigh against the warm slope of his neck. âYouâre reciting the periodic table in your sleep again..â
Itâs a habit. A permanent, engrained idiosyncratic that heâs endured since adolescence. He stirs awake, turning to face you in the hazy light. Features swollen, sleep-soft and pretty. âWas I?â He murmurs, finding the audacity to ask, âWhat element was i on?â
Because thatâs clearly essential.
âOsmium,â you say, tucking strands of tousled brown behind his ear. âGonna continue?â
âMhmâ yeah. Iridium. One of my favourites, thank god you woke me up before I got to it.â
You humour his tendencies; youâre nothing if not a condoner of his weird quirks. âDiscovered by Smithson Tennat in 1803.â is your response, âThe name comes from Greek Mythology, Iris. Two stable Isotopes, 191 and 193.â
There you go again. Fracturing his mind, and stealing his information before it can fall from bruised lips.
He thinks you might be cut from the same cloth. He thinks he was probably just made for you. âI like the way you say Isotopes.â He mutters, âLike the way you kiss. You always take my top lip.â
Thereâs no epiphany. No sharp blade, dragging, penetrating, skin, forcing you to confront stifled feelings. Theyâve always been there. Red string of fate, Platoâs Symposium: Aristophanesâ account of the âother half.â Hero and Leander. It doesnât matter. Thereâs only the here and now.
He does this thing. Often. Where heâll moan into your open-mouth. Fingers sunk deep into your hair, keeping you impossibly tethered to him. Youâre not sure what planet he fell from, but youâre glad they deported him, if only for your selfish benefit of circuiting around him.
âIâm in love with you,â the admittance is easy. Maybe the words have always been waiting for you to verbalise, bated breath, inexorably interlinked. Maybe theyâre long overdue. Something pleading to be let out. But, maybe, it matters more to wait until this, when everything is soft and untouchable. Fresh, untainted. Heâd like to live in your skin.
Hereâs the thing, Spencer always thought he would be the first one to say it. Reciprocation was always a fantastical hypothetical, something he could only blindly hope for. But, to have his illimitable feelings, in their extensive capacity, matched? Thatâsâ more than he ever thought he deserved.
He presses his forehead to yours, âSaying âiâm in love with youâ doesnât measure up, doesnât articulate even a fraction of what I feel for you.â
Heâs pretty sure he could die right here, in this one fragile moment, and be happy with everything heâs accomplished.
#Spotify#criminal minds#spencer reid#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x y/n#oh look i wrote something without angst#this never happens.#the world must be ending
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The enormity of my desire (disgusts me),
Early seasons (1 â start of 2) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader
SMUT (and fluff, some angst in relation to Spencerâs past because it can never be too happy, weâre not allowed nice things here). first times & explorations of intimacy.
ââââ autistic spencer (itâs a central theme to the plot), reader is actually morally good (for once).
Warnings: sub spencer (what did u even expect?), heavy corruption kink, first time for Spencer (all i do is sit around and think about how iâd like to devirgin that genius), HEAAVY praise kink, very very inexperienced Spencer, slight? oral fixation, theyâre both just rlly down bad (i told u i would write something light, i delivered), Reader is whipped, Spencer is sooo much worse. Biblical references, Religious imagery, i think i talk about math equations???? And random metaphors/complexes.
w.c: 4k
a/n: i rlly wanted to explore aspects of spencer that criminal minds swept under the rug (cough cough his undiagnosed autism, cough cough his social exclusion, cough cough his crippling fear of forever being alone).
âââââââââââââââ
Thereâs a lot Spencer hasnât done.
He knows heâs behind, that he never quite caught up when it came to the taboo of sex and intimacy. Everything, everything, heâs ever had has been centred around exclusion, alienation, he feels like heâs lived on pause. Frozen, never advancing, stuck on âgoâ. Touch isnât easy for him, interpersonal relationships are worse. Heâs different, god heâs heard that his entire life. âYouâre not weird, youâre just⌠differentâ, but maybe he is weird. Maybe his whole existence is just one big cosmic fuck you, because heâs missed out on so much, so much that he canât understand, comprehend, act out against. Falling behind; this is the only area of life where he continuously comes up short, inexperienced, naive, heâs not used to being incompetent.
Heâs never experienced want the way others do. He could never just hook up, fall into the body of another, expose them to the vulnerable elements of his stature. Open himself up to scrutiny. He might be a genius, he might be intellectually advanced, accepted into a multitude of ivy leagues before he was old enough to vote, but thereâs drawbacks to his success. Social awkwardness, an inability to blend, mould, be one of the crowd. Sometimes he wishes he was average, something grey and mundane, so far reduced from the person he is nowâ it would all be plainly simple.
But heâs not, heâs not. So, this is the weight he has to bare for the brain he never asked for.
Pyrrhic victory, heâll always be renowned for his intelligence. âYouâre going to change the world kid,â maybe, but simultaneously, heâll never get to experience said world. Thereâs a chance heâll always be on the outside, watching normal people gravitate towards each other. Live dreary lives of domesticated simplicity. Stacked bills, arguments over money and parenting techniques. Going to bed angry, only to turn around, mid-night, and resolve it, to not sleep on bad blood. To take them off the couch, to settle into predestined sides of the mattress.
Thereâs not enough possessions in the world heâd sacrifice just to experience love.
Hedgehog dilemma, the challenges of human intimacy. The hedgehogs want to move closer, to preserve heat during cold. But, they are forced, biologically cursed to remain apart, in order to prevent themselves from harming each other. Spencer doesnât want to be hurt, to hurt, itâs a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.
He thought heâd never get to experience the physical, carnal aspects of existence. And sure, he made peace with the notion, accepted the consequences of being born atypical. Learnt to live without.
But then, oh then there was you. Pretty, intellectual you who quite literally tipped his world on itâs axis. Upheaved the most stable of routines. New to the BAU, he wanted you to last. To stay around, endure the worst of the job. If only for his selfish benefit of orbiting in your presence.
He remembers how it all started: Detroit, another case, more budget cuts, forced proximity that sent you spiralling into a shared bed for the night.
âYouâre my favourite person in the team.â you admitted, âAnd I know thatâs dumb, because weâve spoken the least, but⌠youâre just, so you. Thatâs a good thing by the way, a really really good thing.â
He couldnât quite believe you were talking about him. Spencer, who spilt coffee, and slipped into ceaseless tangents about obscure information. Spencer, who walked into walls when you were around, stumbling over his sentences before deftly, very astutely, giving up, walking away mid-conversation. He wore sweater-vests and colourful mismatched socks, itâs not like he was going to be crowned âwhite boy of the monthâ.
âNot dumb.â Spencer had responded, shifting closer to tangle further into the warm mess of this accidental situation. âThatâs good. I like being me.â he mumbled. âSometimesâŚ. sometimes it sucks. But thatâs okay. I think itâs okay?â
He moved to press his face into the crook of your neck, but you were faster, gathering him by tousled hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.
Oh.
âPlease. Please.â he whispered, breaking apart, fracturing, âPlease like me. And more than in a weird, âjust friends or coworkersâ way.â
You did. You do. He shouldâve kissed you then, but maybe he was scared, maybe he couldnât quite discern his feelings, separate the logic from the emotional. So he waited, waited, waited until now. Your third date, you take him to an exhibition within a science centre: replica models of the solar system, filling rooms up, papier-mâchĂŠ sculptures illuminated by light.
Best date ever. You listen, even when heâs rambling about planets, when heâs pointing out that yes, Jupiterâs density is less than water. That, technically, it would float in a bathtub, if one was built to accommodate its size. You donât care that heâs not exactly the staple-piece for conventionally attractive males. That heâs nerdish, and awkward, and so so inexperienced when it comes to this.
In his apartment, later, much later, he looks at you, looks at you like youâre the one who just solved the fucking Riemann hypothesis.
âWhat do you want the most? Like,⌠if you could ask for one thing.â you say, and god, Spencer loves when you pose these deep, hypothetical questions. When you make him think, because you, you are the biggest challenge to his intellect yet.
You. He wants to say. But he settles for âBeing remembered,â instead. He works to untangle layers of fabric, your scarf, your jacket, letting out an exasperated laugh when he meets your amused gaze. âRight now though? I think Iâd settle for kissing you.â
You cup his jaw, tracing your fingers along the sharp curve, and god he has perfect anatomy. âSettle huh? You should be more appreciative.â
He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your lips. Drawing away for a moment, just to return because heâs never had this before. Because for the first time in his life, he gets it. He gets physical attraction, even if it took time. Heâs kissed, been kissed, yes. But he could count those moments on one hand, and if you asked how many he truly enjoyed, heâd be left with no fingers raised.
âBelieve me, iâm very appreciativeâŚâ
This isnât like before, what he felt in the past; he expected something monotone, flighty, a brief fleeting moment of satisfaction. Means to an end. No, itâs actually the best thing heâs ever experienced, and heâs going to become so insufferable after this, because heâs just found out he is very very into kissing.
Correction: heâs very into kissing you.
In the moment between parting, and touching again, he assumes you to be divinity personified. Spencer has never been religious, but something of this magnitude should be canonised. He wants to ask you. Ask you when you became this beautiful. When you became the person he needs to kiss a second time, kiss a third time, kiss until his lips go numb.
A shaky inhale, a pause. âI hope⌠I hope that it was okay - I mean, it was good for me. Really, really good. Umââ to be honest, heâs just glad he didnât say thankyou.
âYeah, Spence. That was⌠wow.â you draw your bottom lip between teeth, press into tissued flesh. Jesus Christ. âWanna try again?â
Yes yes yes yes. He looks at you, pupils blown obscenely out of proportion. Part of him wants to say, âwhy didnât we do this sooner?â But thatâs not fair; heâs only ready now. Now that he feels, now that he might be a little in love with you.
âPlease,â is his answer, and then heâs catching your face in the palms of his hand, tugging your lips back to his, because admittedly, they have ached in the long, extensive period you were apart (53 seconds).
This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. Itâs an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellarâ and god, heâs relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word âvirginâ to his back and call it a day.
Thereâs soft little breathy sighs escaping his mouth now, bleeding into yours. And yeah, spontaneous combustion might be a real threat. Actually no, it would hardly be spontaneous; thereâs a clear, clear cause, and it just so happens to be your ruinous lips.
This is an entirely new facet of the human experience. The kiss is electric; heâs always been partial toward physics, and right now his veins carry an alternating current.
You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.
You both stumble back back back until heâs hitting a wall, and yes, thankyou. Heâs making all sorts of sounds he canât justify, and itâs a supernova, an infinite black pool ofâ oh, he thinks he might die, ascend, transcend, when you press your thumb against his chin, hold your lips at just a little slant from his. Force him to wait there.
âPlease,â heâs never been above begging. A worthy sacrifice, one heâll certainly repeat again because you return to the kiss, and the world around him dissolves.
Youâve got one hand tangled in his hair. Tousled auburn, fingers sinking into strands, pushing all the way down to the root. The other is still cupping his face, keeping him close, keeping him selfishly close actually.
âSpence,â you murmur. And yes. Yes. He likes that. The way his name sounds rolling off your tongue, like it was destined to be there. Like he was destined to be yours.
His world is ending. So is yours. Fuck it, he presses himself against your thigh, and ohmygodohmygod. Heâs being loud, heâs actually being so criminally loud right now because apparently heâs the most whorish virgin to ever exist.
âI lied, I lied,â he admits between messy kisses, âWhen you asked what I wanted the most? Itâs not to be remembered, well it is, its on the list. Butââ he groans, kisses you again because talking interrupts matters that are more important. Like your lips.
âI wanna cum.â
Eloquent.
Spencer Reid being dirty? Oh, itâs hot, itâs so hot to reduce someone to such an obscene state. To reduce him, the boyish fumbling nerd (who just so happens to be the most beautiful person in existence) to such a degrading mess.
Still, thereâs shock. Not because he said it (you greatly appreciate the indecent things falling from those pretty lips right now), but becauseâ
âYouâve never? Havenât even experienced it once? By yourself?â
He should be embarrassed, but his lips are red, his eyes are glassy, and the bulge in his pants is straining to be touched. âNever,â he sighs shakilly. âNever, and iâmâ iâm starting to understand why itâs so popular.â
He whimpers, pushes himself against your thigh, because the friction, yes. âIs that weird? Please donât think iâm weird. Because Iâm really, really weird. Just maybe⌠not in that way?â
Itâs never been enough. His body sometimes feels numb to the touch, and yet still so very overstimulated. Like he manually blocks himself from feeling, already prepared for the flinch. How does he explain that life hasnât been kind to him? That he hates his body because of what people made it out to be when he was a child. Stripping him naked, tying him to a goalpost, always the underdog. The one to be targeted, tormented.
âItâs actually kinda hot,â you interrupt his thoughts, and just because youâre evil, corrupt, the worst, you press your thigh harder against his clothed cock, palm covering his mouth when a plethora of whiny sounds escape his mouth.
Itâs performative, really. Alone in his apartment, thereâs no need for noise control. So when your thumb slips between parted, swollen lips, he knows to suck. The average human hand has between 10,000 and 10 million bacteria, and Spencer does not actually give a fuck anymore.
âTo think that youâve never even felt what itâs like. That youâre gonna feel it with me for the first time. I get to see that shitâ god, youâre going to look so fucking pretty for me.â
You draw your thumb out of his mouth, and he has the audacity to whine.
Heâs never wanted anything more in his entire life. Itâs all tertiary now. Only this matters.
âPlease donât praise meââ he protests, âIâll probably finish in my pants.â
âPraise kink, noted.â
You laugh, and he can only groan, curse existence for being this cruel to his overworked, undervalued body. âDonâtâ donât laugh. Youâre not supposed to laugh, that can heighten performance anxiety. Increase insecurity, andâŚâ he sighs, âYou do not care. Sadistic tendencies, noted.â
âShut up. Wanna see you.â you say, and heâs just muttering breathless mhmâs, too delirious to function; his body is betraying the last iota of self-control like the little whore it apparently is.
His sweater comes off first, then his top. Discarded fabric, his raised arms when you mutter a candid âupâ, giving way to exposed skin. In response? Your pupils dilate. Spencer knows because heâs analysing, profiling. If you hate him like this, heâs fairly certain heâll drag himself into a self-dug early grave. He wishes he was being melodramatic. That your approval didnât have such a substantial impact on his carefully-constructed ego. But, oh, it does. It does.
Thin, with a long, defined torso, he blushes, rose blemished skin, when your hands drag across his stomach. Heâd love to say he reacts sanely, suavely. Urbane to your touch. But that would be a total, discreditable lie. Instead, his back arches, seeking contact, following the path of your fingertips with pitiful desperation. He feels malleable, willing to bend and contort, if only to feel more.
âHow can you not think youâre pretty, Spence?â His pants are gone next, then his stained boxers, fabric borderline sheer now, soaked through with pre-cum.
Spencer feels betrayed. His body never responds, not to his own hands, not to his own thoughts. And yet, the moment youâre on him, heâs a live-wire. Itâs sick, heinous, double-crossing. Maybe itâs purposeful, done just to spite him. Figures.
âHoly shit, look at you. Look at how perfect you are.â Spencer wants to object, because he distinctly told you not to praise him. However,.. right now, the lights are on but nobody is home. Brain-death, heâs certainly in a vegetative state.
âOhmygodohmygod,â he whimpers, because no amount of knowledge about human anatomy and physiology could prepare him for how he feels under your touch. No amount of education in the psychology of relationships could inform him of how viscerally wrong the way you look at him feels.
Because itâs not wrong, not all. Itâs the most right heâs ever felt, and heâll tell you that if youâll just keep it up.
The sounds heâs making are phonographic, lewd, youâve given up on trying to stifle them now. Where have you been hiding? Your eyes fall, and he wants to blush away from the exhibiting gaze, but heâs justâŚ. too far gone; the thought of your touch outweighs any previous reticence. Then, oh then, you drop to your knees, and shit. He expected your thigh, maybe your hand if he was lucky, notâ
This. Your mouth, your tongue, your pretty lips; god, god, is this a sin? Because if it is, heâll take it.
âPlease,â he whines, and he canât look anymore because the sight alone is going to send him over the edge. Heâs gripping the wall, scrambling scrambling for purchase, because heâs trying not to grip you, but how exactly does he keep this respectful?
Heâs pretty sure theyâre past that, considering your mouth is currently wrapped around his cock, and heâs debauched.
You want this, you want him, he feels like heâs transcended humanity, like heâs become someone, anyone and anything, that deserves the way youâre taking him apart, piece by piece. In the aftermath, he hopes you donât leave a single ounce of him intact.
âWanna kiss you. Ohâ oh oh,â heâs sobbing now, âCome back here. Miss your mouthâ even if itâs,â he looks down and thatâs a mistake. âPlease.â
Of course it would be Spencer to disrupt the best (and admittedly only) head of his life because he needs you closer.
You oblige, raising from your knees, and Spencer thinks it might be sacrilegious. But then again, he feels religion in your touch so it canât be too profane. Maybe? Heâs not sure, heâs not sure and it doesnât matter. Ethics and morality have long since disintegrated, sins are engrained into humankind. He almost wants to thank Eve for tearing into the apple, because itâs allowed this irreverence to occur.
Spencer blindly follows you through the apartment, stumbling and muttering until he can collapse against the bed. Baring his pretty neck as his head hits the bedframe. Tangled in sheets, draped over his lap, his deft fingers run across your waist, mapping out the structure of your frame. If only to remember, recite this act of blasphemy.
âSpence,â you whisper, and then his lips are crashing into yours, stealing breath, stealing sanity. He whimpers, murmurs a protest when you draw back, and you can only laugh. âLets get you off, yeah? You wanna feel an orgasm, pretty boy?â
âYes, yes please. That would uhâ yes.â heâs not even sure how heâs conscious right now. His body, god his body, has endured more pleasure in the last hour than it has for the majority of his life. Your hands scathe, and Spencer is willing to indefinitely burn, if just to feel them one more time.
You only stop to take off your clothes, and surely there needs to be prep? To reaffirm, he knows anatomy, the correct procedure, how the transgression is supposed to occur. And yet, thatâs from a clinical, objective mindset. Do this, do that, etc etc. Nothing works out like that in practice.
Youâre so wet, panties stained through, he spares a moment to run his fingers across your thighs, hand slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. The moan that follows has him distracted, thumb tracing circlets, over and over until youâre pulling back to return the balance. The balance, which admittedly is skewed, tipped scales, youâre on top. He falls to the weight of your influence.
And yeah, heâs more than fine with that. Jesus, you drag your panties down, down your thighs, your legs, then theyâre reaching your ankles, pooling there for a moment before theyâre being discarded, tossed somewhere on his floor â leaving behind a souvenir that yes, yes this happened.
âI canât,â he says, burying his face into your shoulder when you take him. Itâs slow, sinking onto his cock like every inch of warmth will destroy him. Maybe it will. Maybe he doesnât care, because he deserves this. He deserves to feel after so much repression.
Or maybe, maybe heâs just become the biggest slut known to mankind. Likely.
Your body presses against his, and he thinks heâs going to disintegrate, because he feels so good. He understands now, he understands why people do this. Why itâs integral to the function of most. This is the best day of his life. This. Is. The. Best. Day. Of. His. Life.
Thereâs this noise, this pathetically loud whimper when you start to roll your hipsâ and oh your body is wet against him, and youâre so tight, and itâs perfect because he doesnât have to do anything.
He can just sit here, look pretty, and cry.
He knows heâs a giver, that heâd bleed himself dry for you. Itâs a curse, he supposes: so willing to bend backwards for the satisfaction of the people he trusts. But, this is foreign, and he wants to watch you, aimlessly stare, dumb and empty-headed as you wield his body like a weapon. Turn him into something perniciously yours.
Spencer has no reference for what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and yeah, heâs really good at guessing in these type of situations. Because heâs rolling his thumb over your clit again, and he wants to draw it into his mouth, to see you laid out across bedsheets, writhing, unable to do anything but suffocate him with your thighs.
You clench around him, back arched, releasing a series of strained moans. With one hand tangled in his dishevelled hair, the other pressed against his chest, your face contorts, your body stiffens. Thereâs no way his incessant whimpering just got you off?
Okay. So you like him desperate. Point taken.
âPleaseâ please, wanna cum. Wanna feel it so bad,â heâs slurring over his words, sentences punctured by devastating whimpers. And look at him, asking for permission, waiting even though his body has been teetering on the edge for so long now.
âShh, shh..â you press your forehead against his, and he melts. Reoccurring theme. His hand grips your jaw, thumb pushed firmly against your chin, keeping you close. âYou wanna cum for me, baby? Gonna give me your first?â
âMhmâ mhmâŚâ is all he can say. When you pick up your pace, he has to burrow his face into the crook of your neck, whimpers messy and broken off, suppressed against your warm skin.
âOh. OhâŚâ he repeats, again. Like thereâs anything else he could utter, because this is earth-shattering.
Itâs the sun, and all eight planets combined, and the universe collapsing in on itself, and heâs bucking, squirming, releasing into you, spilling deep.
He sobs. Breaks down. Because itâs so so good, and he canât believe he ever deprived his body of this.
Neediest whore to ever exist, apparently.
It takes him a while to come back. Longer to regain motor function, to sink into present day. Life, and expectations, and everything, everything, your touch eradicated.
âJust⌠just stay like this?â he asks, collapsing against your body after heâs drawn out of you. Thereâs mess, evidence of your ministrations, but cleanliness seems futile when heâs blissed out, caught in a post-orgasmic haze that yes yes yes he needed so badly.
You card your hands through his hair, watch the way he stares up at you, large, widened eyes, chin resting against your chest. âHi,â he mutters dumbly.
âSpence,â Spence, Spence, Spence. He could drown himself in that nickname.
âYeah?â he breathes out.
âYou weâre so goodââ
He rolls away from you, finding a home for his face in the pillow. âStop. Stop.â he groans, âDonât do that. Youâre going to destroy me. Iâm not⌠equipped for this, for you. Someone should just sedate me, put me out of my misery, a coma sounds likeââ
He tilts his head to the side, relinquishing, âOkay. Sorry. Meltdown over. Can we shower? Then maybe do this again? Which will make the shower inconsequential, I suppose. Thereâs a new documentary I want to watch, and oh, you still havenât seen the third Star Warsââ
Heâs happy, content, over the fucking moon, to be silenced with your lips. âYeah,â he murmurs, hand interlocking with yours as you both fall back against the mattress, âLetâs do this again.â
#criminal minds#spencer reid smut#sub spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid angst#spencer reid#giving him the happiness he deserved#he is my roman empire#his excess trauma is also#my#roman empire#thank u and good night america#iâm not even american
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âą THE GODS ENVY USâŚ.
( navigation under the cutâŚ. ) â twenty. classics student and insatiable writer. â late night televangelism. greek mythology & obscure astral knowledge. â predominantly dom!reader centric.
MASTERLIST:
SPENCER REID: (âą: nsfw // ęŠ: sfw)
⢠⹠You are the knife (I turn inside myself) rivals who care a little too much about each other for sensibility.
⢠⹠The visionary, the willing executioner unsub!reader & spencer fuck like theyâre not doomed by the narrative.
⢠⹠The enormity of my desire (disgusts me) spencerâs first time & explorations of his autism in regards (neurodivergent rep is lacking on here).
â˘ ęŠ Ton 618 nerdish losers whose love should be marbleised in the vatican.
â˘ ęŠ The cage is open, you can walk out anytime you want (Why are you still here?) exploration of spencerâs drug addiction with the classic hurt/comfort, angsty bullshit combo.
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The visionary, the willing executor,
Spencer Reid x afab!UNSUB!reader (written with mid!seasons Spencer Reid in mind)
SMUT!! copious amounts of angst (thereâs traces of fluff in there as well if u get out ur magnifying glass)
BASED ON THIS SONG (it got so stuck in my head that I had to write something that correlated):
ââââ autistic spencer (itâs not explored that much, but itâs always gonna be present in my oneshots), evil evil reader (im not being dramatic this time. sheâs literally a serial killer. like her âbody countâ is copious. but idk, sheâs kinda sweet. if u squint and ignore the bodies). They were in love ur honour !!! theyâre still in love ur honour !!!! She pays him a visit two years after he found out about her homicidal tendencies (they miss each other, Spencer might also hate her a little but itâs okay, donât worry about that).
Warnings: sub spencer (aaaaaaalways), maybe perhaps some vague, very faint mentions of switch!spencer but idk i blacked out writing this, choking, mentions of death and general behaviour that would get you a life sentence, praise more than degradation surprisingly, coming untouched, crying (youâd think that was a kink or something?), she fucks the good out of him, hopeful ending (eh, kinda), mentions of danteâs inferno, copious amounts of religious imagery, greek mythology references, this isnât dead dove at all i promise.
w.c: 5k
ââââââââââââ
Spencer would consider himself a good person, by default. Itâs reasonable: a renowned member of the BAU, with intellect heâs weaponized for morality. The blood etched onto his hands is justified. Necessary evil for greater cause. Heâs willing to blemish his skin for the virtue, for the lives of others.
He remembers naivety. He remembers being so fragile he could easily crack into fragmented pieces of wasted innocence. Maybe thatâs been stolen from him now, maybe the ruins of his sacrifices are too sharp to touch upon still, but heâs good. He knows he will always be good.
And yet, thereâs a bruise. Something ugly and distorted that stains his skin. Something that has the ability to crawl deep into his bones and leave behind a mess of pain. Something bad. Festering and tainted, it haunts him with every breath.
You.
You, who came into his life as an abundance of sunlight. Helios personified. Pretty and warm, and everything he needed. He wanted to kiss you: the moment he stumbled into the coffee shop, tousled hair, overworked and raw from a burdening case. When you took his order, marking constellations onto the styrofoam cup. Andromeda, Ursa Major, Cassiopeia. Later, much later, then when you became an indomitable presence to his apartment.
But for all the good heâs preserved, Spencer knows heâs not allowed to receive it.
âYou shouldnât be here,â is the first thing he says when he finds you waiting for him. He always knew you would come back; youâre bound to follow him indefinitely. Like his shadow, his guilty consciousness, his cracked past of addiction and pre-pubescent torment.
He let you go. When the act was over, the curtain drawn, when he saw you. Homicidal, the perpetrator of the case he was working on, malevolence packed into the frame of perfection, oh even still, he let you go. Free to continue the cycle of death, he was left to scramble in the mess of his own misguided heart.
Thereâs risk in reward, and reward in risk. Youâre meticulous, hedonistic to the last detail. But Spencer? Well, he will always be the one loose end you could never quite force yourself to clean up. The thread that kept untangling, even as time passed. Cut it off, you should be rational, wash every bleeding trace of him from your skin.
But thereâs irrationality in love.
Blood adorns your features; thereâs no need to touch up your appearance, to return to the domesticated facade you once used on him. No, heâs been exposed to the ugly now. There can be no do overs, no back-tracking, game over try again doesnât exist in real time.
âWhat are you going to do about it?â you ask, and god, hes just as beautiful as the day you left him. So perfectly real, with dragging exhaustion and pretty brown eyes to ease the sting of his tight-faced, troubled expression.
You didnât cut the phone lines, nor move the gun he keeps stashed in his cabinet drawer. Down the hall, to the left. You know he wonât make any abrupt actions. Know, in an intuitive way, telepathic communication between past lovers.
âIt was a gamble coming here, arenât you pleased to see me pretty boy?â
Spencer has to fight every urge he has, every moral he believes in to not lunge at you; to not strangle your slender neck, crack you in half, destroy you the way youâve destroyed his sanity.
Two years, 8 months, 11 days since you cataclysmically uprooted his routined life. He fell in love with softness, not the jagged edge of a blade.
âI let you go. Wasnât that enough?â it feels too natural, fighting in his apartment, some sort of twisted lovers quarrel. Thereâs a definite list of everything he should do in this moment, and despite all logic, he just blanks at the sight of you.
âYou had to come back. Rub salt in the wound. Do you get off on this?â a sigh falls from his pretty lips, âActually, donâtâ donât answer that. We both know the answer.â
âI get off on you,â you correct.
Itâs true. If he was to analyse you, profile your warped brain like his other unsubs, heâd find nothing but unyielding loyalty to him. For all the damage youâve done, thereâs always been one anomaly to your detachment.
He stands right before you.
And, sure, maybe youâve got a leg up in this situation. Perhaps the distorted memory of you holds him back: lazy nights and tangled sheets, his body pressed up against yours. The way heâd talk, quantum physics, philosophy, rambles that dissolved into open admissions of feelings. Thereâs a lot that was fake, but to be a good liar, you have to add subsidiary details of truth.
God, he wishes the world would be cruelâa cosmic alignment of karmic righteousness that would grant him relief: some kind of justification for what he must do. But the universe is indifferent, nothing but a distant star, a fleeting speck of dust in the grand scheme of life. Thereâs no such thing as good or bad, only consequences.
Consequences. Consequences for his actions. Butterfly effect. He can comprehend it. But, there were many things he adored about you, while the illusion of love was tangible. The way your hair would curl just above your shoulders, your skin in the morning light. The way youâd laugh at one of his obscure Star Trek references, better yet his criticism on modern, inaccurate horror. He could stare at you for eons, as though he was trying to make out the secrets of the universe in the constellation lines of your scars.
The illusion of love, as it was. He sees you now with the clarity of reality, the same way a mirage fades away as you approach; a distortion of perception.
âAnd you get off on me. Even now. Donât you?â you say, shifting forward to close gravitational space.
Thereâs no way to disregard this morbid connection. No psychological justification he can exploit to demean your feelings. Youâre not a psychopath, nor anything that relates to a lack of empathy. You feelâ you feel empathy for all of your victims, the line of bodies that mark your path. But it goes deeper than that. There was reasoning for your actions, just as there was for his.
âSay it,â you goad. And thereâs satisfaction here, sure. Something mean and condescending. But thereâs also hurt, because he was supposed to be a means to an end, and now, he might very well be your end.
âSay you miss me. Câmon boy genius, a few little words and iâll have enough content to satisfy me for years. Donât be meanâ you know I hate being edged.â
He does miss you, every day that he wakes up, his bones too hollow and cold to leave his bed. The ache in his chest where his heart was supposed to be, too empty to function. No amount of caffeine can fill the void in his skull where thoughts of you used to reside. The longing, the desire for the past to rewrite itself.
âYouâre sick,â he tries. But heâs not good at this. Not when the love remained after the inevitable fall out, not when the darkest parts of him still clung to want, even after he realised the truth.
âYouâre sick, and..â he tries again, âand I hate how much I miss you. There? Is that enough? Are you happy? Got what you wanted?â
You let out an exasperated sigh, âNo. If I âgot what I wantedâ, I would still have you.â
Spencer dies. Metaphorically, literally, what does it even matter? He dies, respawns, and then kisses the admittance from your lips.
Instinctively, just like the past, your hands tangle through his hair, and perhaps thereâs a sense of ownership to the gesture. The knowledge that he will always be yours. Scarred from your touch, returning to your lips like a dog with a bird. Thereâs a mindless attempt at anger on his part, biting lips and rough teeth, but just like always, he quickly melts.
He melts, and you catch him. Because for all itâs worth, lies and deceit aside, youâve always loved him.
Thereâs something powerful to the gesture; knowing you have someone wrapped around your finger. Even after youâve bared the worst of you, the ugliness of man-kind. Thereâs someone out there that will wipe the blood from your cheek, and kiss you through it.
âOh, even better,â you mutter against his lips, âMuch, much better. Câmon Spence, show me just how much youâve missed me.â
Two years, 8 months, 11 days since he felt like he could breathe.
It hurts, it hurts so much, because thereâs a sense of coming home to the kiss, and he just wants you to stay. To ruin him forever. To leave behind a deformed version of him, something unrecognisable and equally scarring.
Youâre too loyal and heâs too susceptible to any form of attention. Because you want him, and itâs easy to fall into a cyclical cycle of self-destruction when youâre the catalyst.
âI did miss you.â he admits again. âYouâ crazy, homicidal excuse of a person.â
Spencerâs hand comes up to touch your cheek, the rough texture of skin meeting something soft. His thumb traces down the curvature of your jawline, a silent hello that doesnât linger long, too soon to be replaced with his lips.
You push him back against the wall, a painful groan escaping your lips when you feel his hips canting forward, searching aimlessly for a friction youâve both been denied. Two years. His body still aches for you. Itâs primal, something perverted and tainted and so very good.
You knew this would happen. There was not a doubt in your clouded mind that he would deny you. What you do to me, I do to you.
âThereâs my boy.â you mutter when you grip said hips, fingers finding their natural, fated position against divine bone. When he begins to find a stable pace, bucking up to meet you with every kiss that you press to his lips.
He whimpers when you touch him, soft sounds of need slipping past his parted lips into the confines of his empty apartment. Heâs trying so hard to maintain composure, but he canât find it in him to fight the inevitable. The ache of separation between himself and you. So he lets it happen, like he always does.
My boy, the possession goes straight to his head. One simple phrase and heâs untangling, breaking to pieces because yes, he is yours. And yes, he will forever want to be reminded.
âMhm, mhm. Ohâ oh, fuck.â heâs so hard, clothed cock pushing up against you with every movement. He could get off on less of you. He has. Every night.
And yes, it certainly feels like home. Itâs only the thing your body has been aimlessly yearning for, day in and day out. Itâs not fair, not fair to you, that youâve allowed your resolve to crumble, your strategic, one-track mind, for the fleeting body of a past lover.
But then again, demeaning him to a past lover doesnât even begin to articulate this.
Youâre fairly certain he was put on this earth, just to torment you.
And youâre fairly certain youâll always let him.
âGod, youâre such a slut for me.â you say, drawing back from the friction just to prove your point. The disintegrating whimpers that bleed out of his mouth in response are enough alone to confirm.
His head falls back against the wall, baring that lovely length of his neck and its pretty bruises. He wants you to kiss him there, to leave one last mark before he says âI wonât see you againâ and means it this time.
âDonâtâ donât stopââ even as he speaks, a mess of jumbled words and breathless sentences, youâre still teasing him. He hates how much it works, how much heâd rather fall into the pleasure of your hands.
âFine. Whatever. Yes. What do you want to hear? That itâs whorish the way I want you. That youâre able to just⌠corrupt me with all these dirty words, even though I have an extensive vocabulary. Even though iâm supposed to beââ
Heâs not even sure what heâs supposed to be anymore.
âYou know the extent of my devotion.â he concedes.
There will always be sadistic pleasure in reducing him to such an ignominious version of himself. Youâve seen it before, back when you were trapped in an artificial, yet domesticated, haze of bliss. But to hear it now? Even after everything has been said and done?
Thatâs a new type of pleasure.
You know he still holds onto the facade of you, aimlessly reaching for something intangible, something that never truly existed. âYou want me to be good for you, huh? Just pack up my shit, leave it all behind, get better? Think about it. White picket fence. Coffee every morning. Godâ it would be insufferable. Coming home to feed the dogs, talking every night over the phone, begging you to be safe on a case, or orââ
Spencer breaks. Silencing your words with a pained whimper.
Usually, he doesnât allow himself to think about that fantastical hypothetic. He canât afford to. Months after he let you go, when the truth had been exposed to his naive eyes, heâd spend hours in a mess of aching limbs, dreaming up alternative realities where your hands werenât stained from blood, and the most despicable thing you could do was make his coffee bitter.
So when you force him to open old wounds, to rehash past hopes, he falls apart. A whine escapes his lips, hips bucking, once, twice and then heâs coming untouched. Making a mess out of himselfâ and itâs sick, so very sick to get off on the thought of you permanent, the epitome of good.
Something he could hold onto without slicing open skin.
Itâs not a good orgasm, it never is without your direct help, but at least itâs some form of release. In the aftermath, he blinks away tears, vaguely aware of the cum staining his boxers, creating damp spots through fabric.
Thereâs something painful, cutting to your gaze when you look at him. At the debauched sight, corrupted from just a few words.
Give it all up? For what? Him?
All things considered, itâs tempting.
âSpencer,â you mutter in the serrated moments between. When heâs still nebulous, caught in the aftershocks of abrupt pleasure. When heâs just gotten off, untouched, on the notion of a domesticated life with you.
Heâs struggling to breathe. Heâs spent nights gasping for you, reduced to the most debasing version of himself. So out of touch, you drove a blade through his back, catching his heart on the way.
âWhy are youâ doing this?â he asks, but before you can even answer, provide him with an explanation that will devastate, heâs lunging forward, kissing the lies that cling to your lips. Kissing you because his mouth hurts when itâs not attached to yours.
âOne last time.â he says; heâs too intelligent, too intellectually adept, to allow this swallowing cycle of humiliation to continue.
But, underneath it all, heâs also inherently selfish for you. Heâs fairly certain you were engrained into his skin, long before he fell into your barbed trap, teeth and penetrative ruin.
âThen you leave. You actually leave, never contact me again. No showing up at my apartment unprovoked. I have a good life without you. Understood?â
You scoff. He presses forward, âUnderstood?â
You donât protest when he elucidates his life as good. Even if itâs quite the contrary. Even if he has to bare witness to depravity every single day, scrutinise his way through the minds of the most perverse. Perhaps this is a social experiment to him, perhaps you are the guinea pig, Laika sentenced to space. You know he loved you once, but itâs hard to comprehend the feelings remained unscarred, itâs hard to imagine youâre anything but a test subject now.
You look at him. Look at that pretty face. Your undoing. He could be your achilles heel, hamartia in its rawest form, or maybe you willingly chose to do this. Maybe fate, and divine intervention played no part in your attachment to him. Maybe itâs just chemicals. The logics explanation. Imbalanced, skewed chemicals.
âDonât worry, boy genius.â you respond, âYou wonât get anything, not even a postcard, from me. Itâll be like I never even existed.â no trace. D.C has always been a monotone cesspit of nothing anyway.
Itâs cruel. Because if you leave, truly leave. And he never hears from you again, never catches you in his kitchen, drinking coffee with an unadulterated smile, then he will begin to forget.
The curve of your spine, the scars beneath your chest, the way your fingers fit into his own. The way he was able to memorise your body until he could draw it in the dark, when your body was pressed to his, when there was nothing but a false establishment of safety.
He knows he canât forget. Not technically. But itâll grow distant, itâll be replaced with new normals and routines. That, that, he canât compute.
âGood,â he says, kissing you again, kissing you because this is it.
Spencer wants you. In every sense of the word, he wants you so badly itâs killing him.
His bedroom still holds traces of you. That, itself, is a crime. But he just falls into you. The way lovers do. Your hands against his skinâ his hair threaded through your fingers, your lips at the base of his neck. He lets you leave another bruise, a mark, a confirmation of possession, because even if this is the last time, he is, and always will be yours.
âStill the prettiest person iâve ever seen,â you admit when heâs flushed naked beneath you.
Thereâs something in those doe-eyes, brown irises blown out of proportion, that hooked you. Even at the worst, it was still soft with him.
Slender frame, slightly arched, you want to bite into his hips, mark every inch of him as yours. Itâs greedy, gluttonous, his messy hair, fanning out like a halo, the tangled curls he never bothers to properly care for.
âGod, fucking look at you,â you grip his jaw, tilt his head back to bare that blemished neck of his. To have and to own. Heâs so inexplicably different to you, so good it runs down to the bone. And maybe youâve always been insatiable for what youâve lacked.
He canât take this. He canât, not again. The past, the future will have to dissolve with this moment, because there will never be another again.
You will never get this close to him. Itâs a terrifying thought, that thisâll be the standard of intimacy, of love - because he knows it isnât. But he canât risk the reality heâs faced with, the reality of living without this. Of living without you.
Your words only make it worse. He wants to beg you to stop. To cease the torture.
âShut up.â He kisses you, as if to remind you that your mouth is made for kissing, for his lips, for a litany of dirty words that he canât bear to hear. Those words are for someone else. For someone similar. Not him. Never him.
Defying fate. He gets off on being something bad beneath the surface. No one would ever expect it; boyish maladroit Spencer, the youngest of the team, willingly allowing, condoning, a killer to sink into his skin.
âDonât tell me to shut up,â you respond, muffled against his lips. âIf this is the last time, iâm going to enjoy it. Going to enjoy the sight of you, all desperate for me alone.â
âYou assume iâve ever been desperate for anyone elseââ he counters.
âOh, thatâs it. Keep talking dirty to me.â
âItâs not dirty. Itâs a factual statement.â
You pull away, a trail of saliva bridging the space between your mouths. If there is higher power at play here, you want to curse, to spite your creator. Because if âthingsâ had been different, if you had been born from the same rib, this couldâve ended differently.
Or for that matter, never ended at all.
âSit there and watch me.â you say, and Spencer hates the way he obliges. Pushing himself up against the headboard, he stares at you, at the way you position yourself, standing by the foot of the bed.
âDo you even know what you do to me? Do you even understand the gravity your existence has on me?â you continue, unfastening the lace corset that clings to your frame. When it drops to the floor, breasts exposed, you run your hands across them, catching pierced nipples for a vindictive moment of pleasure.
âIâ uh,â Spencer is admittedly a little distracted. Sex had always been something ruinous between you two. Something that conflicted his lack of experience, forced him to adapt.
He always wondered how someone so soft, the epitome of light, could be this obscene. Now he understands.
âLost your words? Come on, pretty boy. I thought you had an âextensive vocabulary?â Hm?â
He wants to touch himself, to ease the pulsing throb that centres in his cock. But he doesnât, because despite the time that has passed, he still knows your rules. âDonât use my words against me. Iâm being tortured.â
âTortured, huh?â your hands fumble over buttons until youâre reduced to a pair of panties, soaked throughly, leaving scarce to the imagination.
âSo so tortured. Oh my god, who are you? Can I please have my soul back?â heâs joking, but not really.
âWell maybe if you beg for it,â your words fade into a mess of moans, fingers slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. Spencerâs head spills back against the wall; he looks more affected by the movements than you.
Itâs easy to fall back into old habits. Relapse.
âCome here, come here, iâm having an existential crisis.â he says, watching as you slip one finger, then two inside you, struggling to stand now. Itâs strange how pleasure can reduce the most antagonising minds to vulnerability.
âPleaseâ oh fuck, please. Please. Donât make me watch, I canât. Need you. Need you so bad.â
He thought he found the core of torture in you touching yourself, but he was wrong. Because when you crawl closer, when you slot yourself between his thighs, lips finding skin that only you have ever touched, he sees the root of evil in his brain. The ninth circle of hell.
Itâs justified, he supposes. For all the good heâs done, he has betrayed. Himself, his friends, family, existence itself. There is not one thing he wouldnât ruin, just to feel you. Itâs incriminating, so yes, he deserves to freeze in Cocytus. Heâll willingly plead guilty, accept his entrapment in the ring of Caina.
âPoor baby, look at you.â you say, kissing his tip, catching the pre-cum on your tongue. Spencer responds: fisting bedsheets, fighting the restraint to buck forward, to find misplaced solace in the warmth of your mouth. Heâs sprawled out across sheets now, lying back in a tangled heap of want. âShh, itâs okay,â you continue, âI like my men desperate.â
âDesperate? Ahâ,â he fights the urge to shut his eyes, too aware that this is the last memory he will ever retain of you.
You, painted into his mind. The final evidence left in the fire: mouth sinking down his length, taking him to the hilt, watery eyes and leaking mascara.
âThis isnât even desperation. Youâre killing me. Just, oh ohâ please, donât. âM gonna cum. Gonna cumââ
Is it sick that he doesnât want to? If only to prolong this transitory moment of destruction? Like the lotus eaters, he will always be mindless in the pursuit of more, more, more of you.
You draw back from his cock, only to press a soft kiss against the tip. The gesture alone has him reeling, has him begging to be saved, to atone for every sin he found in the comfort of your divinely crafted lips.
âGonna let me sit on that pretty cock of yours, hm? Let me use you one last time? Promise iâll be good,â a lie, âSo so good.â
âGod, yes. Yes, please. That wouldââ You take him deep, deep enough that everything aches. He only feels alive when youâre wrapped around him, when thereâs not an ounce of distance between your bodies, when he can touch the insides of you. Pry open the raw, unfiltered version of you.
He only feels alive when heâs sunk inside the harbinger of death. Heâd laugh if it didnât hurt.
Youâve got one hand tangled in your hair, the other pressed flat against his waist, supporting you through each bump of movement. Eyes like marbles, Spencer looks up, and wonders why this will never be enough for you.
You look back, meet his gaze, as if youâre Orpheus, predestined to turn around, to always return. Even if itâs just for one last second. Even if the fall-out is so much worse than pushing forward blindly.
Oh, hes certain youâre carving a hole inside him, something that will only grow and expand, imploring to be filled by itâs inventor. Itâll hurt, for the rest of time, he supposes.
When he finds your hand around his neck, he isnât startled. Neither, when your thumb presses against his throat, applying pressure until the world cracks and fades, distorting his refined mind to the here and now. He floats, feeling transient in the curse of your touch.
âThatâs it. Just let go. Iâve got you.â
He is a sacrificial lamb. The priests favourite. He will take the knife every time, and thank you for it after.
You release the tension, hand taking his instead. For all the cruelty you possess, youâd never think to harm him. Not physically at least. The emotional damage, however, finds you both. There can be no happiness in either of your worlds, not when the memory of each other festers. âGood boyâ taking it so well. God, no one is ever gonna compare.â
He cries at the words. Pretty tears streaming down his face, because the reciprocation to his undying piety will forever trigger the warped chemicals in his brain. Will forever reduce him to something saccharine.
âLove you. Love you so much. Donât go. Please,â he fractures, âplease donât go.â he begs, besmirched words heâll regret in the wake of his pleasure. They donât count, and yet, he knows, in the most depraved sections of his mind, theyâre true.
You ride him harder. Back curved, finding god in the washed-out body of someone fatally destroyed. âNot going anywhereâ fuck, fuckfuckfuck. That feels so good. Youâre so good,â maybe itâs a kink to ruin something so perfectly spotless.
Maybe itâs a kink that he wants it.
âSay it. God, just say it. This once.â for old times sake, he almost adds. But that wouldnât be objectively correct. For all the intimacy you shared, you never once articulated those three words. Perhaps it was to save your dignity, to hold pieces of yourself in the lies you beautifully crafted.
His thumb runs over your clit, and in the tangle of your orgasm, he almost thinks you forget about his demand. But after, when youâre still taking him, when youâre still clenching, unclenching, clenching around his cock, when you know you own every part of him, you answer.
âI love you.â
He falls apart. Hips canting, body squirming, whimper after whimper escaping his bruised lips as he releases inside of you. Pushed deep, defiled to the limit. For a moment, everything is okay, everything will be alright, because thereâs pleasure, and itâs you. Itâs always you.
How can he justify falling in love with you again? How can he, when he still clings onto the artificial love of the past? Heâs not sure his heart can handle one set of feelings, nevermind two.
He takes you again, well⌠mostly you take him again. In ways that have him polluted with the remnants of your teeth. Canine marks, etched deep enough to bleed. He hopes the swelling leaves behind perennial scars, anything to remind him. Anything to hold onto when youâre gone and itâs cold.
After, when you lie together, he presses his forehead against yours and wishes he was in any other universe. One where youâre happy. Where everything is pure and simple, clean from sin.
There was always truth in what we shared before, you admit. Lazy nights spent draped over the couch, kissing him to silence convoluted rambles. Your presence in the morning, bathed in holy glow, sunlight bleeding over the pretty sight of you. The first night he touched you and saw god. And then the following night, when he ascended all over again.
He wakes to find no body. He wakes to find nothing. It feels like self-sabotage, the promise that you would leave, even if itâs quite the contrary.
In the absence, abstinence of your presence, he discovers traces of you in everything he sees, all of it, everything consumed, returning to the simple thought of you you you.
When the first postcard comes, Portland, dreary weatherâ beaches and ports, thereâs no anger. No exasperation that you broke your word.
You love him, itâs morbid, but for someone like him, it overrules everything. Sanity, dignity, his own stable existence.
You overrule everything.
#criminal minds#sub spencer reid#sub spencer#halloween#unsub!reader#spencer reid smut#spencer reid angst#CRAAAAWLING BACK TO U#idk guys they might be in love??#all i do is write smut wtf (i need help)
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You are the knife (I turn inside myself),
S2!Post-addiction!Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader
SMUT!! (and copious amounts of angst, and like a small amount of fluff to just⌠balance it out), Workplace rivals, aka, enemies to lovers (who are still enemies and would rather die than tell each other theyâre in love).
ââââ autistic spencer (as per usual), evil evil reader (im being dramatic, kinda), they hate each other so much that they have to find a new way to crawl into each others skin.
Warnings: sub spencer, brat!spencer (a man gets glasses and suddenly thinks he can be defiant) brat!tamer!reader, HUGE corruption kink (someone keeps putting that in there???? itâs not me, i swear), first time for Spencer (i love a virginal nerd), restraints (someone has to pin him down), cryingâ like lots of crying, degradation (and a little praise because they work hand in hand), Spencer eats reader out like rent is due, reader says thankyou by destroying him, they argue mid-sex. They actually just argue constantly. Mention of past drug addiction.
w.c: 9k (mostly smut, holy shit how is it 9k??? their arguments hiked up my word count im positive)
ââââââââââââ
Something, something, mindless torture. Spencer holds his brain, his intellect, in high regard. Proverbial accomplishments, Stanford Binet approved genius, heâs an outlier to most. And yet, the moment you start speaking, he has no thoughts beyond the domineering urge to throw himself off a cliff.
Youâre late today. Chicago, youâve both been sentenced, discarded to create a profile from the minimal information present. Forced proximity, the team have been trying to stifle this animosity shared between you for over a year now. It doesnât work.
Hereâs the thing, each member of the BAU has their own specialised feat: Penelope could be a cybercriminal, if she so wished, a tech-genius that has no qualms in tearing down firewalls. Morgan, adroit, an expert on the field, stereotypically strong, all running lines of muscle. Who wouldnât want to be princess-carried away from danger by him? Heâs also remarkably good at kicking down doors. Gideon has incalculable years of experience, a mentor.
The list stretches on.
But you and Spencer canât both be the brains of the team. Itâs unbalanced, skewed. A clash of intellect. Scales tipped in one direction, why does he always come up short? Why canât he justâ
Why, repeats as you push through the bureau, blanking the predictable, formulaic stares of various officers, trained officials, the usual mess. Whyâ why profiling? Why did you voluntarily choose to suffer your way through ceaseless cases of sanguinary?There has to be an element of masochism to your career; no one with a sane mind voluntarily decides to walk into an onslaught of serial killers and death.
The early mornings are always the worst; stumbling out of bed, deriving no sleep from the night, tangled sheets and restless limbs. âDonât,â you push, padding into the office, met with Spencerâs hardened gaze. âLate night.â
âWe havenât been here for 48 hours yet, 36 and 22 minutes to be precise, and youâve alreadyââ
âGet your mind out of the gutter, boy genius. Late night as in I stared at the casefiles until my mind went numb.â
âDid you take a break?â he asks, and you both know itâs not born from care. âMaybe a self-reflection period to realise that torturing yourself isnât the most effective form of work. Your reactive skills will be delayed now, letâs hope we donât find the unsub today. In fact, maybe I should warn Hotchââ
âHave I ever warned Hotch about your breakdowns?â that shuts him up. It also makes him spiral, because you canât know, itâs not statistically possible that youâd be aware of Hankelâs lasting impact on his body, dilaudid, hydromorphine, and not tell someone. He assumes youâd be desperate to eliminate him from the team, to claim your win.
âRight, umâ the case,â he shifts in his seat. Professionalism, tolerance, itâs all a little too much work when it comes to the subject of you.
âThe case.â you agree.
Youâre attuned to each other, a psychological curse heâs forced to stomach. Offices and crime scenes, analysing, competing, hellbent on one upping the other. âLook at these markingsââ his hands rifle through the files that adorn the table, searching searching until they produce an autopsy report.
The markings on the body are intricate, latin symbols prominent against the victims pale skin. You lean further forward, following the path of his index finger as it traces the outline. Perhaps thereâs an element of telepathy to your dynamic; you donât need to state the obvious, too aware that his brain has already processed the information, that heâs moved onto the nuances now.
Human sacrifice, itâs not the first time youâve caught yourselves in the midst of cult worship and indoctrination. But itâs certainly the first time of its kind.
âTraces of wine in her bloodstream. Found in a forest. Sounds like a bacchanal.â you state, shifting to pull yourself up on the desk.
Spencer looks. At your long, slender legs extending out from a pencil skirt. Effortless, natural, situating yourself on the oakwood, hair half covering your face, with loose strands pooling over your eyes to obstruct your sight.
Itâs a strange analogy, the two of you; Spencer with his tired eyes, haphazard clothes and messy desk, and you, just as dishevelled in the morning light.
Metaphorically and literally youâre higher than him right now. He fixes his askew glasses. Clears his throat. âRegina Horthorne,â the victim, âStraight A student. Honour role. What are the chances she willing went to said⌠bacchanal?â
âHm. I donât know, maybe sheâs like Laura Palmer. Double life. 4.0 cheerleader by day, crazed bacchante by night.â you retort.
Shamelessly, you take a moment to observe him, just as he did you. Shirt sleeves bunched up at his elbows, hair tousled, large hazel eyes, interminably darting across your face. You wonder for a moment if heâs analysed you the way youâve analysed him. Itâs a futile question, of course he has.
Anything to gain the upper hand.
You continue, âMaybe theyâre sacrificing virgins. You could go undercover as a potential victim. Certainly fit the part.â
âIâm already too old to be counted as an appropriate victim. Thereâs a high probability âtheyâ, the dominant unsub, wouldnât even look at me, andââ he pauses, pretty face marred by creased features, brows furrowed, a slight pout to his lips.
âThereâs a homicidal cult preforming human sacrifice, and youâre wasting time by insulting me?â Spencer isâŚ.. a perpetual scholar, a social disaster, wearing his intellect like an ill-concealed secret, outcasted for the weight of his own brilliance. âThe BAU clearly made a well-informed decision when they hired you.â
âOh, you wound me boy genius.â you respond, pressing your hand against your heart.
Endless cases. The impenetrable presence of fall. It feels like you shift through cycles, bleary-eyed and tainted from the job, damaged goodsâ do you struggle to sleep like I do?
You lean forward, hands, adorned with cluttered rings, braced against the table, bodies closer now. Thereâs a burn, something fervent that lingers between you, rivalry, opposition. Some days you feel as hedonistic as the unsubs you track and chase.
Continuing, you let out a sharp laugh. âAre you still bitter because I realised it was a bacchanal before you? Donât worry, iâll let you take the credit for it. Iâm sure Gideon will be so impressed.â
Gideon sees everything in him, and nothing in you. Predictable.
The distance between you has become almost null. Itâs intimate, and heâs not sure how he feels about that. âIâm not bitter. And I donât care about the credit.â A lie. âUnlike you, I donât need to prove my worth to him.â
ââââââââââââ
Spilt blood. Your hands are calloused from holding a gun. From firing a bullet straight through skull. The case closes, locked behind that inviolable wall, the one thatâs installed into your mind the moment youâre employed, the moment you sign your fate over to the BAU. Youâre not sure why anyone stays, overworked and undervalued, thereâs no heroes in real life. Maybe itâs the sense of family, or maybe itâs just what everyone subconsciously fell into.
You canât understand why youâre so angry at Spencer, why it extends to the next case, South Dakotaâ deaths of locals, but these days, all of the illogical, petty reasons just blur together. Create this tangled mess of overcompensation. âI assumed you two would get along,â Prentiss had statedâ but what does she know? Sheâs been an active member of the BAU for a whole 10 minutes.
The hostility has mounted to new levels now.
Itâs hard work, long hours, no gratitude and a pay cheque that canât even begin to cover the trauma that comes with the job. The BAU is like self-sabotage: a long list of reasons to leave, and no real reasons to stay. But still youâre both stuck in this loop.
South Dakota, of course itâs South Dakota. Cold, desolate South Dakota where the wind and snow will not let up, and the team are forced to remain cooped up in a cheap motel, desperate for any sort of entertainment.
Here he is, coerced into your room to work on the case, overtime, his eyes are rimmed crimson.
Youâre sprawled out across the bed while he sits at the other end, slender legs crossed. Spencer is tired with a weariness that seems to go soul-deep, shoulders slumped forward, glasses oblique.
The tension is near-palpable, stifling. âI can do this myself. No offence,â full offence, âbut youâre unneeded right now. In general, really.â
You make him cruel. Or no, maybe this job does? He canât remember himself unscathed now, fresh-faced to the BAU, unaware of what heâd endure. Itâs still early days in recovery, two months since he was entirely, indomitably reliant on Dilaudid.
âNo you canât,â you retort. Maybe itâs unprofessional, disreputable to waste so much breath on insults, to dedicate specific moments to hostilityâ people are dead, people will keep dying. And yet, perhaps thereâs justification for this; your mutual animosity is the only semblance of routine to this job, the only way either of you can seek control.
Control. All you do is reach for the blade.
âYouâre just bitter that I know what Iâm doing. Youâre not infallible, Boy Wonder. You need my help, so shut up and read that autopsy report. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go back to my apartment and forget you exist.â
Well thatâs certainly unlikely.
âI think,â he says, and he knows this is going to be bad. He can feel the serrated edge to his forming words, his half-baked analysis too focused, too distracted, by his need to hurt. But heâs exhausted, and these days, he runs on a detrimentally short fuse. Maybe he finds a release in your dynamic, or maybe it makes everything worse. How can something be everything and nothing at the same time?
âI think youâre insecureâ he continues, âbecause you know Gideon values me more. That, to him, youâre replaceable. Itâs why youâre so fixated on one upping me. Why you feel the need to prove yourself superior. Textbook insecurity. You canât stand the fact that he chooses me over you, that he thinks Iâm better than you. That my input is more wanted, more necessary.â
This is uncharted territory now. Itâs never been pushed to this extent. Itâs never gotten so morbidly cruel that his words actually pierce. Youâd consider yourself to be thick-skinned, bullet-proof, a mess of hardened edges and calloused flesh. But he regards you with such insignificance, in a way thatâs different from your own personal view of him.
Obstinate, petty, a smart kid yet to meet his match. But never insignificant.
Thereâs silence, and then heâs dragging you down with him, forcing you to dig deeper, to smother wounds with salt. âDid he really choose you, though? No one on the team noticed. Not one person. After the Hankel case? When you came back different?â
Spencer falters.
Itâs a vulnerable, raw spot, a laceration that never seems to heal; the worst part is that youâre right. Heâd been in a spiralling decline for months, in plain sight, but everyone had been so absorbed in their own issues and god he needed a release. No one noticed. No one ever notices.
That he has no life, no prospects outside of the BAU. That his existence has been one comicotragic mess of inexperience, missing the mark, missing the joke, the punchline, the fact that everyone was always laughing at him, behind his back, to his face, present or gone. It didnât matter? Why would it ever matter to a bunch of washed-out teenagers?
He was robbed of his adolescence. And these days, he barely gets by.
Spencerâs eyes drift back to the files, avoiding your perusing gaze, if only you had enough decency to soften your eyes. Just once.
âYou donât get to bring that into this.â He murmurs. âShut up.â
âYou started thisââ
âAre you 5?â he bites back, âI was making an observation.â
When he abruptly stands up, files clattering to the floor, discarded despite the prevalent case, youâre quick to follow after him, to chase him into the cheap motel corridor. Because no, he doesnât get to walk away from this. Not when he laid the first blow, when the first cut was drawn from his blade. Perhaps itâs perverse, to chase the hurt that comes from being around him. Maybe itâs all just an elaborate way to self-harm, to find release in the distorted relationship you both share.
âWhere are you going? You canât walk away from this one.â you state, gripping his arm. Nails pressing into skin, crescent marks thatâll stain and remind and then acheâ itâs repetitive now.
âI covered for your ass.â you knew about the addiction, you knew, and even though omitting such information to the BAU couldâve lost your license, you still. Didnât. Say. Anything.
Itâs not like it took much effort to discern the truth.
âI also signed your email up to about 100 rehab centres and self-help blogs.â youâre not sure if you did that out of malice, or if it was your own, interpersonal way of minimising the damage, despite the circumstances.
You noticed. The rest of the BAU, who pressed false promises of friendship, loyalty into his shaking palms didnât notice. Didnât even think to humour what he became at his worst. But you did.
Furthermore, to add onto that jarring conclusion, you helped him. Admittedly in your own insufferable, (downright mocking) way. But it was help, and thatâs more than heâs ever received before.
All he knows right now is that he hates you, hates the person he is, the person this job, and the intransigent presence of you, forced him into becoming.
All he knows is that heâs stumbling forward, cupping your face (taking your grip along with it), and kissing you. Kissing you hard. Like heâs Icarus and youâre the sun, worth the inevitable burn, even if the touch is only momentary, even if itâll seal his fate as foolish.
Itâs a mess of harsh, rough skin, tousled hair and sharp teeth against soft lips. Itâs like trying to grasp at stardust, his hands fumbling for purchase along your body, trying to push you closer, as if the chasm of space between you is unbearable, a distance thatâs impossible to endure.
He laughs when you respond instinctively, a sharp excuse of a noise, muffled by your swollen lips, and heâs just kissing you through it because he hates you, he hates youâ he hates you so much that sometimes he canât breathe when youâre around.
You crawled under his skin a long time ago, made yourself a home there.
âI think Iâd rather be held hostage for a second time than kiss you again.â he says, and he mightâve elaborated further, but his lips abandon such a notion to chase your own.
The kiss becomes more languid, more desperate, like heâs trying to find an answer in response to it. Thereâs a brief, agonising break, foreheads pressed together, a harsh gasp of air, before the moment restarts.
God you taste good. Feel good, he thinks. Heâs never been this intimate, not beyond Lila, that fleeting mess in the pool. The two events incomparable, he felt something then, small and minuscule, not enough to pursue. But right now? Oh, In contrast, he feels everything now.
âI wish you were being held hostage. Itâd be quieter,â you retort. Itâs muffled, and youâre moving, bodies stumbling into obstacles as you relocate, when did you get to your room? It feels like natural progression, evolution, diminutive changes that you donât even realise are occurring.
You bite his bottom lip, draw it between your teeth, ruin him for anyone else. Because isnât that what youâve been doing for years now? Hurting each other so profoundly that only you can bare the scarred aftermath?
Itâs sick. Itâs sick, and you wonder how petty comments, trivial work-place rivalry distorted into this? How youâve just ended up sick because of each other, and admittedly, for each other.
What is sickness without pleasure?
He whimpers. The noise almost imperceptible, but itâs there, and itâs pathetic, an unbecoming thing caught somewhere between a gasp and needy whine. Heâs backed against the wall now, and he canât find it in him to complain.
âOf course it would be you,â he says breathlessly. For all the knowledge he lacks here (physically; heâs well-versed in the hypotheticals of anatomy), he doesnât feel pure.
People like him donât get that.
He should feel guilty. He should recoil at the touch, at the knowledge you bear, at the reality of this. Except, for some unknown reason, he relishes in the idea of someone having him, even if the cost is his pride, his dignity, even if the cost is you.
He whimpers again as your teeth rake along the slope of his neck, shuddering at the sharp sensation, and heâs almost begging, words on the verge of being uttered.
But he canât. Because that isnât him when heâs with you. âAre you going to punish me? For uh, everything I said tonight? Because ah, god, Iâd like to see you try.â
Admittedly, itâs not hard to break his resolve. A few more soul-crushing kisses and your wandering hand, dipping beneath his trousers, hard. Obscenely hard. Yes, heâs muttering as you unclasp buttons, as you loosen his trousers to the extent that you can palm him through his boxers. Half-choked gasps escape his bruised lips with every touch, and heâs crying now. Pretty tears streaming down his face, accentuating those doe-wide eyes of his, now glossy and warped.
âOnly person whoâs ever touched you, huh?â you state, and maybe you derive pleasure from that concept. That only your hands, drenched thick with staining blood, have ever scrutinised the warmth of his skin. The areas where his form curves, and the areas that make him come apart, undone at the seams. Grasping you, relying entirely on the wall, just to remain upright and somewhat conscious.
He makes another noise, another guttural, pathetic sound. Because, yeah, itâs just you. Itâs only you, and the thought should be unbearable, but the pleasure of having, being touched is too much.
He has to grasp the back of your shirt, nails digging into fabric, as a distraction, a way to centre himself, while the rest of the world falls apart. His words are scattered, broken and messy, and he finds himself saying things heâll inevitably regret. âPlease, I canât-â
Heâs supposed to hate this, hate you.
âCantâ canât take it. Oh,â he wants to bury his face into the crook of your neck, but youâre gripping his jaw, forcing him to look directly at you. Glasses discarded, the view was blurry without the added layers of tears.
âEyes on me, boy genius.â
He complies. Gaze locked, unable to look away, entranced by the way your pupils dilate, staring at you, like youâre artwork, something to be studied and broken down and torn apart, only to be rebuilt again once heâs had his fill.
âLetâs look at you. Hm?â you state, removing his sweater, then his shirt, and thereâs so many layers, and heâs acting coy now, as if he wasnât whimpering moments prior.
Instinctively, by reflex, he tries to cover himself up. To hide planes of untouched skin from your gluttonous palms. You grip his wrists, pin them above his head, and oh isnât this a sight: Spencer Reid, entirely bare, bound by you alone, tear track marks and swollen lips.
He always wanted to be seen.
He just didnât expect, anticipate, being seen to this extent. He canât fight your trailing gaze, and he doesnât want to; it might make him flushed, a few irrational movements away from a cardiac arrest, but this itâ raw uncut intimacy.
Youâre softer now, as you run your hand along his dick, earning a variety of muffled noises, as your thumb brushes over his tip, taking care to touch every part of him. Everywhere he needs it. When you finally wrap your fingers around him, everything burns, fervent and collapsing, and he supposes this is what it felt like the moment Troy collapsed.
âMhh,â he moans, hips bucking in time with your palm, steady movements.
Heâs already so messy, and it should be embarrassing, but all he feels is the blunted edges of pleasure, the jagged cut of humiliation, warring against each other.
âYouâreâ oh.. youâre enjoying this far too much,â he manages, and it takes so much energy to get it out, his words slurring, interrupted by debauched gasps.
It feels good, so good that he canât process the shame thatâs bound to follow. He hates you, and he might be a little in love with you, and itâs not fair to process feelings, chemicals, he was never supposed to obtain.
âThat itâs. There you go. Thatâs my good boy.â
Spencer sobs.
âShh, shh, I know, I know, itâs a lot.â thereâs always an element of condescension to your words. An undertone that rips through his defences. Destroys him in the process.
His body is receptive, ruined, because of the praise. Heâs not sure how you can look at him, clearly, consciously, and dictate that heâs good. Most days he feels impure, debased. Burnt-out and wasted, the great always fall.
The same skin he pierced with needles is now reverently on show, and you should be cruel, itâs what youâre both good at, the only viable way to communicate, an undisclosed secret language. But youâre not. That confuses him to no extent.
âI canâtâ cant, âm so close.â his arms are still bound above his head, and despite the ache, he keeps them there. Itâs not the most conventional âfirst timeâ, but he takes it regardless.
âYeah?â you mutter, pace picking up. The sound is obscene, his excessive pre-cum smeared across his length, wet noises with every stroke. âYou wanna cum for me, hm?â
âOh god,â he breaks, âYesâ yes, pleaseââ
You have no interest in denying him, not when heâs this destroyed from a mere hand-job. âGo on then. Just because you asked so nicely.â
He falls apart. Dewy-eyed and blissed out, you force him to look at you as he reaches his orgasm. To keep looking as he squirms and writhes. So he does, because apparently his cognitive function has evaporated now.
Your tongue meets your palm, tasting him, pressing the excess into his mouth with an indecent kiss. Is this what sex entails? Complete submission, vulnerabilities bared wide? Dirty in that primal sense, the same one he always shied away from?
Finally, finally in the aftermath, he breaks his stare. His head falls back against the wall, eyes closed, neck exposed. Stifled gasps, itâs quiet, as if youâre both aware of your actions, the consequences of them.
âThis is, uhâ yeah.â he mumbles, reaching for his clothes; now the ecstasy has worn off, the shame overpowers. The sin of man, heâs starting to think youâre the personification of the serpent.
Or maybe itâs the other way around. He doesnât hold his own body to such pure standards. Heâs not sure any benevolence would look at him with acceptance. Not after everything heâs done to it.
âHey wait,â youâre not good at this whole âniceâ thing, not when it comes to him. But there have been moments, in the past, small, fleeting seconds ofâŚ. youâre not entirely sure what to call them. Late hours spent scrutinising cases, your back-up points to his statements, mindless information dumps that the team canât quite understand.
âDonât make me chase you a second time, jesus.â You canât just leaveââ you exhale, breathe, in and out, âAre you okay?â
He stops. He stops because youâve never asked that question, never cared to ask that question, and maybe that hurts more than not being asked at all.
A part of him, the small part of him thatâs not functional, wants to stay, wants to just stay in this bliss and pretend that it doesnât matter, that the inevitable fallout wonât occur. But the larger, prominent part, reminds him that this isnât right, that he needs to leave and collect his wits.
âI donât know, im confusedââ he sighs, drags a shaky hand through his hair. âYeah, im uh⌠iâm fine. âI just need to leave, I have to-â he swallows. âI canât. Not right now, I need to doâ anything but this.â
He walks out on you and itâs fine.
ââââââââââââ
Everything is fine, reality can return, and you can forget that you had his arms bound against the wall, that he fell apart from the weight of your dragging palm. You can pretend you never saw him naked, bare in every form of the word. Stripped raw, his lips burning against yours, skin on skin. Itâs. Fine.
Life continues. Your dynamic remains the same, unrelenting, your biting words, just short of callous, his scathing remarks. Modus Operandi. You wonder how youâve turned the most tender person into something sharp, and you wonder if itâs ever going to be reversible.
When the case closes, the BAU, in predictable, systematic fashion, celebrate (ease the weight) over drinks. Youâre adorned in lace, a black dress that just catches your thighs. Itâs late now, and by the time you arrive at the dive-bar, the majority of the team are intoxicated (you couldnât go straight from work, there was still blood clinging to your skin).
Everything is fine. To reiterate.
Itâs not.. Itâs not. Because oh, Spencer finds himself staring. Heâs fairly certain he doesnât have any lingering interest. But then again, why is he fixated on the way fabric clings to your ruinous figure, the way your hair sits, slightly dishevelled, pooled over one shoulder? Itâs exasperating and inebriating all at once. You shouldnât be able to affect him to such an extent, and yet here he is, mindlessly staring at you with starry-eyes. He should look away. Leave even?
Of course, he fails. You end up squeezing in next to him, all leather seats and too little space.
And, okay, he knows he should feel guilty.
In reality, heâs not. Because, sure, heâs sat too close, and sure, he can just make out the scent of your perfume, faintly floral. But heâs intoxicated, just as everybody else is, and itâs making logic and reason seem far off, too distant to process. He looks at you once, then twice, like he canât quite believe youâre tangible.
âYou look nice, I guess,â he murmurs bluntly, looking away, feigning disinterest.
As if the âincidentâ (as heâs taken to calling it) didnât tilt his world on its axis.
âYou also look nice, I guess.â you retort, and itâs the best youâre going to get out of each other. At least in this state (the surplus of praise that left your bruised, possessed lips cannot be justified, or repeated ever. again.)
You lean forward, watch as his face creases at the proximity. Are you thinking about the kisses? Plural, fuck, plural. Open-mouthed, desperate movements?Youâre. not. Instead, you steal his glasses, slip them on. The prescription is strong, thick lenses that distort your perception.
âWhat do you think?â you ask, âI might go as you for halloween, itâll definitely scare the kids.â
âThey make you look intelligent. Considering you need all the help you can get, Iâd take that as a compliment,â
Itâs a domestic action, to put on his glasses. And the thoughts that burn through his mind stem from HR prohibited to domestic, which he argues is far worse. You, tangled in sheets, sporting nothing but his glasses. Resting against the tip of your nose, askew, as you ride him. As you tilt your head back, exposingâ no.
He wants to say something about how ridiculous you lookâ but itâs hard to focus, youâre taking up all of his sanity, like a computer running multiple programs at once. Youâre malware actually, destined to corrupt him (which youâve already done to a painful extent).
âYou canât just touch my stuff.â he settles on, sounding more petulant than anticipated.
âOh chill out, boy wonder. Itâs a pair of glasses,â you mutter, removing them to blink blink blink, and there he is, the centre focus of your vision, now fully detailed again. It takes you a moment to render in his appearance: shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms exposed, long, deft fingers. Thereâs heavy bags gathering beneath his eyes, dragging down those big, blown-out irises of his, wide and completely dirty (how is it that his natural resting face is so obscene?).
Focus.
You push the glasses back onto his face. Better, itâs a sight youâve come to anticipate after he ran out of contact lenses. âThere. Oh, were you just upset because you couldnât see me properly? Thatâs sweet, Spence. Flattery will get you everywhere.â
He can see everything.
Every small detail of your face; strands of hair falling loose, dilated pupils, accentuated by heavy liner, obsidian that contrasts against your incisive eyes. Your lips, oh your lips, he could write a thesis on them. Stained crimson, if he were to kiss you right now, residue would catch against his own mouth, incriminate him.
He gets up. Excuses himself. Sometimes he wishes he could vanish.
But itâs not good enough.
âYou,â he says between messy kisses, âNeed to keep your hands to yourself.â â okay, heâs not sure how this happened. He left for the bathroom (to splash water on his face, gather his dignity, perhaps drown himself?) and you to humour the locals outside, gathering around with half-smoked cigarettes and slurring conversations.
But then, on his way back, padding through the long corridor (why is it always a corridor?), you were there, and yeah. He was screwed. Fatefully wrecked.
He had tried, in the moments leading up to his demise, to resist, but he was a man of logic and science and the science, when he was around you, simply did not apply. Youâre bad for him, in every sense, he should avoid you, he should stay away.
But now, thereâs no space between your bodies, no space for rationality or reasoning (god heâs tired of the thinking part. He just wants to feel).
The kiss is rough, sloppy, a desperate, messy thing. âThis canât keep happening,â he mumbles against your smeared lips.
âDo you remember last time?â you question. Itâs taboo, to bring it up, to disclose the buried. But youâre fairly certain this compromising position wouldnât exist without the lethal effects of that one night. The cheap motel and his body arching into your touch.
Rationality appears to be nonexistent now. A discarded concept.
Like last time, you guide him back against the wall, pin his hands above his head. Mirroring your actions. Well, to some âdignifiedâ extent. âHad you just like this,â you lean forward to press a series of kisses along the curvature of his jaw. âI bet youâd let me take you like this again, hm? Right here? In the middle of this shitty dive bar?â
And if he werenât so far gone, heâd protest, heâd tell you that no, this is wrong, because youâre so wrong for him. He knows that if one good man has to fall, it shouldnât be him.
But you donât let good men rise, and thereâs something so enticing about the depths of hell. Heâs not sure heâs good anyway. Itâs a complex situation. âYouâre a sadist,â he murmurs, breathless, âI wouldnât.â
Your grip instinctively tightens against his wrist, and he squirms. Heâs nervous, âCould we, like⌠at least find a bathroom? Iâd take a bathroom, even though thereâs endless strains of bacteria there. Or, or split a cab. No, iâll just payâ Anything. Iâll do anything. Just not here. This is a public space, and technically, public indecency, andââ
âFuck,â heâs never been the type to swear, âIâll do anything.â this time, he says it in self-defeat. Acknowledgment.
ââââââââââââ
French exit. His wandering hands in the cab, and the electric pulse that burnt through his body as he kept a low profile, stumbling out of the bar, muttering thinly-veiled excuses for his abrupt departure.
The second youâre both inside your apartment, youâre clattering into things. âI love your eyes,â you state bluntly, forthcoming in every sense of the word, âLove it when you cry for me.â
You think of every harsh word that has ever escaped your lips, You think of the consequences they mightâve had. Did he ever cry over them? You know, in contrast, you never did over his. Though there was that sharp, sinking pain that felt like the embodiment of slow death. Something terminal, fated to linger, to eat and eat until nothing remained.
No big deal!
âItâs an involuntary bodily response. Youâre a dacryphiliac.â he responds.
Thereâs not a lot he can compute right now, his brain too preoccupied with processing your touch alone. Which is so prominent, so harrowingly good that not even his genius mind can comprehend it.
Heâs reasonable to believe he would kill whoever had the pleasure of experiencing you like this.
âItâs not a fetish if I only feel it for youââ
Spencer breaks.
âNo-no-no,â he says, too loudly, âYou canât just- say those things. You canât tell me you love when I cry, just because- I should be scared, of you. Youâre volatile. Destructive,â he murmurs, head leaning against the crook of your shoulder. Against better judgement. But all reason has left him now. Youâve stolen it, taken it as a personal trophy to parade and boast about.
âWhy am⌠Why am I not scared?â he asks, âItâs not like I make you cryâŚâ
âBecause thereâs no reason to be scared.â you answer simply. And at surface level, itâs true. In spite of the hostility, the years of white-knuckled rivalry, youâve always trusted him. Itâs a coveted admission, considering youâre circumspect by nature.
You unbutton his shirt, let it fall to the floor, exposing his skin in the middle of your apartment. Heâs standing there, and youâre not sure what to do with all of this want that perhaps youâve misplaced as enmity for so long.
âYou could make me cry,â you state, because if thereâs one person out there capable of cracking you open, leaning behind fragmented pieces, itâs him. Itâs always going to be him.
Itâs a startling realisation. That he, Spencer Reid, of all people, can reach the centre of you in ways nobody has ever done before.
âWhy would I want you to cry? Thatâsâ iâm not even sure how I would go about it.â
You grip his hips, walk yourself backwards until youâre hitting a wall, there your body instinctively curves forward to meet his. âIt doesnât always have to be bad.â you explain, because heâs looking at it from a simplistic, textbook perspective. âLast time,â those words still feel like poison, âWhen I made you cry, there was no pain, right? You cried because it felt good.â
Heâs staring at you clueless. Though, he might just be distracted. Either works.
Your hand catches his wrist, and then youâre hiking up your dress, guiding his touch beneath fabric. The lace panties that cover skin. Heâs tentative, experimental, dragging his thumb over your clit, causing your hips to cant towards him. âMake me cry, boy genius.â
You act like this is the most indecent thing heâs capable of doing. From an unbiased standpoint, itâs up there on his list, but admittedly he hasnât really done enough to constitute a list in the first place.
Spencer, in response, simply drops to his knees. Your panties are pulled down your legs in a disconcerting haze, and then heâs just groaning, cursing Gods he doesnât believe in, spiting them with blasphemy, whilst also simultaneously thanking them, humouring false promises he wonât commit to.
Itâs blasphemous, a prodigy on his knees, in front of you, for you. As if heâs worshiping something he canât even comprehend, something beyond the expanse of his knowledge. And you just pull strands of his hair, pull at the strings of him.
His hands find the inside of your thighs, caressing the soft skin there and you make another noise, a noise that has him devouring you.
Face buried between your legs, he flattens his tongue against your clit, drags it upwards to catch wetness, to affirm that youâre just as affected as he. That since you touched him, all thoughts have consisted solely of you.
He doesn't think he's doing this correctly- but you're making noises, gasps that he didnât even know you were capable of, and that's the thing about science or anatomy, whatever it may be, the brain is incredibly subjective, and the more knowledge you acquire, the less you really know.
And there's knowledge here, but itâs not utilised; no coordination, even when there should be, even when heâs got the human body memorised to perfection. Still, you seem to like him messy, desperate, drawing your clit into his mouth to pull, to tug, before shifting back to blow cold air against you.
The task was simple, at surface level: make you cry. And whilst, if you pick it apart, it becomes more complex, he seems to be efficient in following orders because right now, youâre ruined. It might not be the most meticulous head youâve received (though youâre sure, under different circumstances he could probably surpass that standard), but itâs wanting, in a way that makes you ache.
âOh oh, fuckâ fuckfuckfuck.â
You grip his hair, twisting and pulling and using, and he lets you, heâd do anything, do this forever if he had to. His fingers, still gripping your thighs, dig into soft flesh, leaving visible marks. And he wants to see those marks, in the morning, an irrefutable fact that would force him to accept this as real.
But he canât focus, canât think about anything when youâre reacting like this, so undone. How can there be anything, at all, beyond this?
He lets you drape a leg over his shoulder, letâs you get off against his face, fingers sliding inside, one digit at a time, to feel warmth wrapped around him. To feel the way you clench when he curves them, when he grazes spots that he could explain to factual detail.
Your body shudders, and youâre making noises he hasnât heard before, sounds that could only be described as obsceneâ and his name, youâre moaning his name, and god, heâs certain he would follow you to the ends of the earth right now. Without question.
Itâs when he stops, when he leans back enough that he can breathe. That he can look at you, really look at you.
Youâre messy, undone. The sight could be considered humiliating from an outside perspective, but youâre gorgeous, and heâd do this a thousand times over if it resulted in this exact reaction. A reaction that heâs given you. No one else.
âI love your face.â He says, a little bluntly. But itâs true, he does.
So he returns to the task. Practically situating you on his face now to suffocate him, to let him become some sort of extension to your pleasure. And inevitably when you fall apart, tears and writhing, boundless pleasure, he can only push you through it. Allow his existence to crumble, for the second time,
And as he draws back, face covered in you, he can only stare.
His knees are bruised. Thatâs the first thing you notice when you stumble to the bedroom, when youâve taken a moment to wipe away evidence of the tears, to regather and compose yourself. Itâs not in your nature to be soft, no to him, but you still find yourself kissing the mauve blemishes, working your way up his body after youâve oh so unceremoniously undressed him. Reduced to his boxers, heâs an incriminating sight.
âLosing your virginity to me is like the biggest irony ever.â you say, kissing along his stomach, watching as his body reacts, arches, contorts in search of more pleasure. Itâs a hypnotising sight, to see every nerve tuned to you solely.
âIronic, demeaning, enough to send past versions of myself into an early grave. Yes, I get your point.â he mutters.
Your hands find their way to the waistband of his boxers, and heâs lifting his hips, because he wants you to undress him, because heâd let you do anything right now, but he also feels embarrassed, exposed. Vulnerable in a way heâs never felt before. Youâre seeing him, seeing things he doesnât even know himself. But thereâs nowhere to hide, not while youâre slowly pulling off his underwear, with a care that heâs unaccustomed to.
âI wonât go easy on you,â you assure. Even though thatâs technically a straight-faced lie. Of course itâll be more tender than anything else youâve endured; he has this devastating habit of softening those around him. Itâs only taken this long to affect you out of pure, unbridled spite.
Oh, he wants. The evidence is his body alone. Laid out before you, like an offering, a hedonistic one. Dick hardened, dripping pre-cum onto his stomach.
âHands above your head,â you watch as he blindly obeys, any defiance now crushed. Well, for the most part: at least in his actions. âThatâs goodâ good boy. Tell me if theyâre too tight,â you say, binding them with his discarded tie.
You stare, and itâs like you want to eat him alive, and against better judgement, heâd let you. Serve himself up, passive as you tear him limb for limb, taste all the bad parts of his existence, the ones he keeps hidden shamefully away.
âToo tight? Iâve been held hostage, I think I can handle a little bit of fabric.â he retorts before tugging at the restraints, âTighter.â
âDidnât realise you were so into thisââ
âNeither did I,â he scoffs, âIâve never done it before, obviously.â
âNow you have. Congrats, iâll give you a sticker once weâre done. Gold star, huh?â and just for good measure, you tighten the restraints further. Just a few more pulls until youâre knotting it in place. Until heâs entirely defenceless, but realistically, what would you do? Itâs hard to find fear when youâve covered him on the field for over a year (heâs prone to being targeted, an unsubs wet dream).
âYes, thank you. Iâll put the sticker on the wall next to my PhDs.â right now, right in this moment, countless people are getting what they want.
And Spencer is being manhandled by his pretty coworker.
Ironically, thatâs exactly what he wants.
Youâre the perfect dichotomy. Cruel, and caring. Harsh words to juxtapose gentle hands. Soft touches, but scathing remarks that linger, leaving behind a trail of scars, the ubiquity of your cruelty.
Youâre lethal, and heâs smart enough to comprehend the danger. Except heâs never been smart when it comes to people.
Your hands are acquisitive, roaming, searching, blunt nails that scrape skin as you rake them down, down towards his abdomen. He shivers, bite into that pretty bottom lip of his until heâs spilling blood, and itâs a sight. Something sick that you both want to such an offensive extent.
âSensitive.â you murmur, like the idea of him so reactive pleases you, in a way youâve never considered before. Because the way his body strains, bucking forward to deepen the contact is maddening.
âAre you always like this?â you wonder aloud, leaning down to run a hand along the length of his inner thigh. âPoor baby, so touch-starved.â
âI donât know if Iâd use the word sensitive.â he replies, âMore susceptible to the fact that youâre touching me, and that I havenât felt another person touch me in a long time. And of course when people touch me, itâs usually professionals poking me with needles or stitching this weeks new wound.â
Touch-starved? He has sensory issues. The lightest graze can provoke, cause his skin to crawl. Of course he would like your touch, of course the universe would torture him by finding relief in the one person who nobody should stumble upon for relief.
âOh youâre a soldier, you suffer so much.â you state, and itâs condescending (naturally), but there is some truth to the serrated comment. You, the team, are all bruised, mentally and physically distorted from the consequences of the job. Only he could react so reverently to your calloused hands, blissed out to the extent that it looks like youâre witnessing ascension.
Itâs pretty. Pretty, in a soft, domestic way. One that demeans his bound wrists and your sharp words.
You press a few tender kisses to his thighs, the inner sections, where youâre certain, assured, no one has ever touched before. Maybe thereâs something possessive to that thought, the want to own, to know that no one will ever have him the way you have him.
Your touch is like a brand. He wants it, even if itâs bad, even if itâs cruel. Because the alternative to this is nothing. A lonely existence. A life of work, of chasing shadows, knowing he had so much to give, and no one to give to.
âStop mocking me.â he replies, itâs through laboured breath. âJust because I donât have your proclivity for taking hits doesnât mean I donât suffer.â
No oneâs ever touched him like this. No oneâs ever cared to try. Youâre his first.
âI know you suffer,â you retort, are you arguing? Is this foreplay? If it is, then you have some serious self-reflecting to do on every single past conversation. Because maybe you shouldâve taken him to your bed earlier, in that case.
Oh god was your hatred of each other built solely on sexual tension?
Finally, you move. Just like the first time, your hand runs across his length, taking him slowly, easing him into it, coercing him through the pleasure. Itâs not similar to before: it wonât end after heâs found his release, and itâs not frenzied and ardent. Spurred on by shame.
âAnd you know iâm always going to take the hits for you, regardless.â he whines when you remove your hand, and whines again, for contrasting reasons, as you spit on your palm, generate lubricant to support each stroke.
âOhââ he breathes out. Heâs fairly certain heâs supposed to be more contained. A huff escapes his lips and then heâs retorting, âYou could try a tactic other than reckless self-sacrifice every once in a while.â
Heâs overwhelmed, with you. All of you. The way you look, the way you talk, all the harsh lines and scathing remarks. The way you take the hits for him, an altruistic custodian, but he isnât worthy of being saved. Isnât worth the effort.
âShut the fuck up, Spencer.â you say, promptly ending this discussion; you grip his dick tighter, tilting your movements to catch him at a better angle.
âShitâ okay, okay,â he moans because that feels really really good, and he wishes he could articulate it in a better way. Something complex and poetic, but itâs just so good.
Heâs always been a little masochistic. Too smart for his own good, too analytical. He wants you to take him apart, piece by piece, and see the inner workings of his body laid out before you, raw and vulnerable. Because only you can see him like this.
He doesnât even really touch himself. Thereâs been nights, body flushed and wanton, bucking up against sheets, muffled noises pressed into his pillow. But theyâre rare, and they usually lead to an aftermath of ignominy.
Heâs a prodigy, a genius in the field of criminal psychology. So why does it feel so good like this? To be humbled, to be demoted. As if all his degrees, his awards, his intellect, mean absolutely nothing.
Heâs never felt so loved. Which is ironic. Because heâd always hoped love would be slow, gentle. Soft, like a caress. The kind of love you share over meals and pillow-talk.
He realises, with a jolt to his system, that if this is love to you, heâd accept it, in its most primal form.
âYou get off on this,â he analyses as you draw back, mostly to stifle the begs that nearly escape his mouth. Come back, need you here.
âWell Iâd be pretty concerned if I wasnât getting off on this right nowââ
âNo,â he pushes, âYou like that iâm, that yeah. I have no experience. You want to corrupt me, huh?â he looks up at you with pretty, innocent eyes. Holy shit. âRuin me for anyone else? Go on, let me have it. Iâll only come back, iâve already done it once. Statistically, itâs going to happen again. And again. Pavlovian responses, condition me. Make my body react to no one else.â
When you kiss him again, he can only take it. Can only moan, whimper, plead against your mouth until youâre lining him up, until youâre sitting on his dick, and everything is okay.
âYouâre soââ bottomed out, wrapped around him entirely, you sigh. âFuck, Spence, who taught you to be so fucking dirty?â
âYou.â he mutters, playing coy. âBut youâre a bad teacher, I think I could do with a few more lessons..â
âI think you could do with learning to shut your mouth more often.â
âIt is better suited for other purposes, I suppose..â
He gags when you slot two fingers, index and middle, into his mouth. No warning, no predetermined acknowledgment. They hit the back of his throat, and he can only suck, muffling protests around the digits until he goes blissfully silent.
âBetter,â you retort. Drawing them out, you press your thumb against his bottom lip, keeping it parted so that you can lean forward, spit into his open mouth. When you first met, he promptly refused to shake your hand, too conscious of the dissemination of germs, now? Heâs swallowing your saliva, unprompted, with little resistance.
You know him. The way you touch is like youâre searching for something. Anything about him. Itâs like youâre a bloodhound, trying to unearth every single vulnerability. And you mustâve found them, because youâre suddenly here, bearing all your weight on him, moving, and itâs all his body can do to take it. All of it. All of you.
He tugs at his restraints, because he wonât go down without a susceptible fight. Even if he knows itâs fated that he will inevitably fall. âPleaseâplease untie me, just wanna hold your hand.â
And, oh that shatters you. Like, mentally, physically, spiritually dismantles you until youâre breathless, staring at him with widened eyes and a loss of composure. Itâs such a tender request, something domestic and raw, and mindlessly youâre fumbling with the knots of his tie. Freeing them to take one in yours.
Itâs against your nature, but you canât help, canât refrain yourself from pressing a kiss against his knuckles. âYouâre doing so good fâme. Such a good boy,â
Your free hand runs across his torso now, grazing skin, admiring the sight of him, flushed, debauched, sprawled out beneath you.
He grips your hip. Thatâs the first thing he does once heâs sufficiently sane, well⌠partially, the praise did knock him entirely off balance. Tip the scales, send him over the inexorable edge.
He watches as you take the incentive to slip off his body, and the loss of friction is okay, tolerable because heâs sitting up against the headboard, drawing you closer, whining for you until youâre on his lap, until youâre sat in your rightful place.
Here, he can kiss you. Which he admits has become a very vital aspect to his existence.
The kiss is like a bruise. Not rough, heâd never be rough with you, heâs all long, languid strokes and soft movements. But itâs overwhelming, and leaves discernible, lasting imprints.
And yeah, sure, kissing you is the closest thing to worship he has ever known. Something he would like to commit to memory, every single time your lips touch, itâs like heâs seeing god in the shape of your cupidâs bow.
âPlease, I needââ he stutters over his words, âIf you donât move, I swearââ he pauses, his head falling against your shoulderâ âI swear, Iâm gonna die, this has to be against the Geneva Convention, you canât leave me like this, pleaseââ
âThe Geneva convention? Really? Is this your form of dirty talk?â you retort, unable to muffle your laugh.
âNo. Iâm stating my rights,â he says, âTorture is prohibited.â
âIâm not torturing youââ
You tangle your hand through his hair, tug tug tug, and then pull, drawing his head back by tousled strands, forcing him to meet your gaze.
âOhmyfuckinggod, yes. You are.â he whimpers.
Itâs indefensible how good he feels, how he sinks into you, hitting crevices youâre certain no one else has ever grazed before. Feeling full, whole, itâs new. Itâs your own first, and you canât even begin to articulate how defenceless you are to the way it makes you disintegrate, fragment to pieces of pleasure. Spencer is warm, and soft, and it makes you want to cry. To just fall, give in, transcendence of self, Burke said, and right now, you feel that entirely.
His moan is unapologetic, unfiltered as you move. At this point, you could slice him open, leave him bleeding in your bed, and heâd thank you for it.
You hold his hand, and yet, simultaneously destroy him.
âPlease,â he whimpers againâ heâs too pretty to be asking so nicely. âI justâ I want you closer. As close as possible, I want you so close to me that Iâm not even sure if my body can handle it.â
Itâs not dirty talk, itâs more like heâs begging you, tears staining his skin, pitiful eyes, wide and glassy, staring at you with some form of desperation. Brows furrowed, gaze soft.
And his gaze only grows worse when you do give him what he wants, when your pace fastens.
Itâs a religious experience, like heâs about to be crucified, a martyr to his pleasure. Heâs almost afraid to touch youâ to stain something divine, like youâre too much for him. But youâre not.
âI like this. Like you. Like you here. Youâre so good for me,â he murmurs, and itâs untruthful, but right now, he sincerely believes it. âso good, so perfect, all I need, pleaseââ
âStop it.â you bite, preferring him defiant over thisâ because this opens up wounds you werenât even aware existed. âOh fuck, stop it.â
âSo good. Youâre so good,â he cups your face, presses his forehead against yours, and you might as well just die right here.
âSays you.â
âSays me.â
You fuck him harder.
âOh,â is all he can pronounce, little ohâs every time you rock against him, and he has to grip you hips, deepen the movements until youâre bouncing against him, up down up down, exploiting his sensitivity with a torturous pace.
And itâs not fair, he needs to balance the scales, so he runs his thumb over your clit, firm halos that have you keening. âIf being nice got me this, Iâd be so nice to you for the rest of my lifeââ
Another lie. But itâs worth it. If only for the way you kiss him. The way you silence his cutting words, forcing your way into his mouth, forcing him to just squirm and sob, until youâre clenching around him, and heâs there with you. Falling apart, bodies shifting until movement ceases, and thereâs nothing but bliss.
âI hate you so much,â you say in the aftermath, and itâs closest youâve ever gotten to a confession of love.
He laughs, wipes away tears, âHate you more.â
âDonât leave this time.â he just nods, bordering on nonverbal now. It takes you hours to coax actual words out of him, and by then, youâre both tangled in a foreign mess of warm limbs.
âOh iâm going to be so mean tomorrow.â you mutter, playing loosely with his hair.
He can only sigh, stare at you dreamily. âGod, is that a promise?â
#sub spencer reid#sub spencer#brat spencer reid#spencer reid angst#spencer reid smut#criminal minds#enemies to lovers#rivals#idk they hate each other but want each other#itâs a messy situation!!#id hate to be either of their therapists#or HR who has to deal with the fallout of this
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