This Is What I Imagine For Switch!spencer Like Mans Is Pathetic But Will Also Eat You Alive 🤭
this is what i imagine for switch!spencer like mans is pathetic but will also eat you alive 🤭
trying hard not to get into trouble (but i’ve got a war in my mind) - s. r.
in which your criminology professor is just too tempting. 3359 words.
switch!spencer x switch!fem reader, questionable age gap & power dynamic, mild exhibitionism, authority kink, brief choking, praise, semi-public sex, oral (f and m receiving), mild degradation, no use of y/n
Your bare thighs stick uncomfortably to the plastic lecture hall chair, and you shift in your seat. Still, you focus diligently on the lecture, or, more specifically, on your professor. Dr. Reid is your favourite kind of challenge, a man you can’t have, the kind who won’t compromise his morals no matter how much he wants you — or, thinks he won’t.
You don’t miss the way his gaze lingers on you just a second too long, flickers down to your chest before he catches himself. Toying with him is the highlight of your week, coming up with new ways to torture him, push his boundaries as far as you can before he snaps. The semester is drawing to a close, though, and you haven’t quite snared your pretty professor yet, so you’re having to resort to drastic measures.
It’s like he’s deliberately avoiding you, eyes sliding over you as if you’re not even there. You hope that means your barely-there outfit is working as intended. Dr. Reid refuses to call on you to answer a question, stuttering through his sentences and raking his hand through his unkempt curls. You wonder if they’re soft to the touch, if he likes having them pulled, if— Focus. You raise one hand, digging through your bag with the other. When his attention is finally on you, you spout off some stupid question that’s believable enough not to arouse suspicion; he sees right through it, though, knows the ruse.
Out of politeness, Dr. Reid keeps his focus on you as he speaks. His words come out rapid-fire as if he’s trying to escape you before you do any more damage. It only makes him stumble more, and his struggle is frankly adorable. His reaction as you wrap your lips around a cherry-flavoured sucker is audible, a hitch in his breath and a waver in his voice as you smile innocently around the candy. From then, he can’t take his eyes off you, watching your red-stained tongue lap at sticky sugar, fist clenching and unclenching at his side.
You’ve got him right where you want him.
Leaning back in your chair, you smirk slightly, wait to draw his attention. When he meets your gaze, you spread your legs, give him a deliberate eyeful of the tiny scrap of lace between them. At that, you physically see him snap, rail against the constraints of his moral compass, finally, gloriously give in. A thrill skitters up your spine as he stops in front of your desk. “See me after class,” he murmurs, jaw clenched.
“Yes, Professor,” you breathe, licking your lips as your thighs clench under the table.
You linger as your class lets out, carefully reapplying your lipgloss while you wait for the room to empty. When you’re finally alone, you approach his desk cautiously. “You wanted to see me, Professor Reid?” you say delicately, suddenly uncertain — you might just be in for the reprimand of your life, and that’s no fun for anyone.
“If you’ll just come with me to my office,” he says tightly, staring resolutely past you as he stands from his desk. Desire pools under your skin, your every nerve alive with tension as Dr. Reid lets you into his office. The sound of the lock clicking shut falls straight between your thighs — that’s when you know you’ve got him. You sit demurely in his armchair, legs crossed as he puts as much distance between the two of you as possible, standing across the room with his arms folded protectively across his chest. “I think we need to discuss your behaviour in my classroom.”
You smile. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Professor,” you say, putting on a wide-eyed, naive look you’re sure he won’t fall for. Unconsciously, he steps towards you.
Dr. Reid’s gaze is unreadable. “Really? That little stunt with the sucker, I— I know what you’re doing, and it has to stop, okay?” he says, and, oh. He’s the one pleading with you.
It makes sense, once you think about it. You know he used to be an FBI agent; a dangerous, high-stress job like that, it’s no surprise he’d want to shut off, hand over the control, be taken care of, entrust his pleasure entirely to someone else. “Why would I stop?” you pout. He’s close enough now that you could reach out and touch him. “I’m having so.” You take Dr. Reid’s tie delicately between your fingers. “Much.” You pull him in gently. “Fun.” You tug sharply on his tie, hard enough that he stumbles, bracing his hands on the arms of your chair.
He lets out a shaky gasp, like he’s expecting you to unhinge your jaw and swallow him whole. “This is… The, uh…” He clears his throat. “The way you’re acting in my class is not appropriate, and it needs to stop,” he says. You’d almost call it firmly, if not for the near-imperceptible tremor in his voice.
You note that he hasn’t pulled away. “I don’t think you want me to stop, Professor,” you murmur. “I think you want me to stop teasing you, and you want me to give you what you want.” Your smile widens the longer he stays silent; searching for the words to refute you, but the lie won’t come. “Tell me what you want, Doctor Reid,” you purr.
“I can’t,” he breathes. “You aren’t… It’s not…”
“Look at me and tell me you don’t want this,” you breathe, catching his jaw so he can’t look away.
His mouth opens, but no words come out, speechless in a way you’ve never seen him. “I… I’m twenty years older than you.”
You grin. “And?”
“I’m your teacher,” he protests, nearly a whine, and oh, isn’t that a delicious sound.
“So?”
“So?” Dr. Reid repeats, incredulous. “I can’t… have sex with you in my office!” he hisses, low as if someone might be listening in.
Your grin only widens, and you pull him down towards you, so close that his breath skates across your lips. He twitches nervously, like you’re close to breaking him, like he’s this close to doing something he’ll regret. “But you want to,” you murmur, cupping his jaw and letting your fingers trace his cheekbone. “Tell me, Professor… When was the last time you had something just because you wanted it, hm?” He shudders, eyes fluttering closed. “I’ll take real good care of you, sir, I promise.”
With a strangled groan, he gives in. The kiss is sudden, harsh like he’s furious with you for pulling him in like this. Soft lips give way to sharp teeth, greedy tongues, slotting together like you were moulded for him. Your hand slides up into his hair, tangling in his curls as you kiss him harder. A moan slips from your lips when you pull away for air, and the sound seems to drive him well and truly into madness. His lips meet yours with a renewed hunger, resting a hand at your jaw when he breaks away.
Spencer (you’ve just had your tongue down his throat, for God’s sake, you’ve earned the right to call him by his first name) strokes his thumb over your bottom lip, gazing down at you with awe and disbelief written across his face. He sucks in a sharp breath when you close your lips around his thumb, lapping at it just like the sucker from earlier. “You’re trying to kill me,” he breathes.
Releasing his thumb with a slick pop, you laugh. “Is that what you think?” You stand up, press your body into his. Spencer nods warily. “You’d know. If I was trying to kill you, I’d do something like this,” you murmur, sliding your hand up his throat and pressing down softly. His eyes flutter closed in surrender, and a filthy, spit-slick grin spreads wide across your lips. “You like that? Good boy,” you say silkily, letting go of his throat as he nods. “You gonna let me take care of you, Professor?”
“Please,” Spencer gasps, and when you let your gaze wander away from his flushed face and down his body, your lips part softly at the sight of him straining against his pants. You dip your head to kiss his neck, wishing you could bruise, make him yours, but you restrain yourself.
Rough carpet grazes your knees as you sink to the floor, hands coming up to work his belt open. You kiss him through his pants, slide his zipper down with your teeth. Spencer whines, and the sound sends a pulse of arousal through you. “So needy, sir,” you croon, slowly pulling him free of his boxers. It’s probably the prettiest you’ve ever seen, thick and hard in your palm, drooling precum as you lean in to kiss the tip. The salt taste of him fills your mouth and you moan involuntarily, his hips twitching as you pump his cock slowly.
Hands thread into your hair, but the touch is gentle, reverent, born from need rather than demand. Not that you’d say no to his manhandling you, but you get the sense that’ll take some time. “If you want something, it’s polite to ask,” you tease, holding Spencer’s hips when he tries to fuck into your hand.
“Fuck, please,” he hisses, and the obscenity slides deliciously up your spine. “You’re so pretty, baby, look so gorgeous down there. I want you so badly, I just— please?” Spencer whines, and he sounds so sweetly pathetic that you take pity on him, wrap your lips around his head. The moan that falls from his lips is made of pure lust, and you shiver, arousal dripping between your thighs.
You suck and lick at him, eager and teasing, moaning as the taste of him fills your mouth. Spencer trembles with the effort of holding still, not fucking up into your mouth, and his hands unconsciously tighten in your hair. “You can be a little rougher, if you want,” you say, sliding your palms up his clothed thighs and taking him in your mouth again. You moan around him as his cock bumps the back of your throat, swallowing a gag with practiced ease.
Spencer’s hand curls into a fist in your hair, your stomach clenching in anticipation. The gentle sting when he tugs just a little buzzes under your skin, and you moan enthusiastically around him, hollowing your cheeks and taking him even deeper. “Fuck,” he whines, hips jerking forward until his cock bumps the back of your throat. Heat throbs between your legs as he twitches on your tongue, and you can tell from the sounds he’s making that he’s close.
You double your efforts, pulling off to lick around his head and drip spit along his length. Arousal throbs in your belly, hips grinding down against nothing. Slowly, you take him all the way back in, moan low in your throat when he’s buried to the hilt. You trace your tongue across the vein throbbing on his underside, and Spencer lets out the sweetest, most desperate little whimper you’ve ever heard. “I- I’m gonna cum, you’re gonna make me cum, fuck, baby, oh, my God,” he gasps, needy and adoring.
His voice trembles as he begs, so soft you’re not sure he knows he’s speaking aloud, and the way he pleads your name, fuck. Time blurs around you, your head goes hazy, pleasure knotting itself deliciously around your insides. Spencer gives a strangled moan, a garbled sound that might be your name, and that’s all the warning you get. You swallow greedily as he spills on your tongue, twitching and moaning and praising you through short, gasping breaths.
He’s still twitching with the aftershocks as you pull off, kneeling to smile blithely up at him. Spencer’s eyes are wide, sparkling with adoration as he struggles for breath. “How was that, Professor?” you tease. “Do I get an A?”
He gives a groaning sort of laugh, pulls you to your feet. “You’re unbelievable,” he says, still gazing into your eyes. It’s disarming, and you get the distinct impression he can read what you’re thinking as plainly as if it were stamped on your forehead. “Come here, come on,” he adds, pulling at your hips and pressing your body into his. You’re almost shocked when he kisses you, hard and greedy and hungry, the most aggressive he’s been this entire time. He sanitises his damn desk three times in a class, for God’s sake — you’d half expected him to hand you a toothbrush when you stood from the floor.
And yet, he’s kissing you breathless, and his hands are tangled in your hair, and his body is pressed so close to yours that you can barely tell where you end and he begins. “Thank you,” he mutters against your lips. “That was incredible. You’re incredible. You’ve gotta let me— Come here, sit,” he says, guiding you to sit on his desk. You balance between scattered papers, an uncapped pen bleeding a black stain into your skirt.
“Let you do what, Doctor?” you say, quiet and breathy, gazing up at Spencer with wide, adoring eyes.
Spencer smiles, and something warms in your chest at the sight. Long, delicate fingers trace along your thigh, push up your skirt until your panties are on full display. “Pretty,” he remarks, maddeningly casual. “Did you wear these for me?”
“Of course, sir. I don’t dress up for boys anymore.” You swallow, bite your lip. You decide to lay it on a little thicker. “See, I need a man.”
“Is that so?” Spencer murmurs, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties. Your heartbeat quickens, excitement throbbing between your legs as he drags them down. “Look at you, sweet girl. So wet. Is that all from sucking my dick?” he teases, and you shudder.
You don’t know where the sudden obscenity, sudden dominance came from, but it thrills you all the same. “Mhmm,” you murmur. “What are you gonna do about it?” Smirking, Spencer picks up your panties, lets them dangle from his fingertips, red lace starkly incongruous from the calm, studious background of his office.
After a beat, his grin turns wicked and he tucks them into his pocket. “Safekeeping,” he says, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind your ear. The movement is so tender that it stops you in your tracks, a shimmering thread of something more than simple desire stringing between you. His eyes glitter, and you know he feels it too. Then, long fingers start to work at the buttons of your blouse. “I want to see all of you,” Spencer says, bending his head to kiss your lace-clad breast as your shirt falls open.
His hand skates up your thigh, oh-so close to where you need it. “Please,” you breathe. “Please, sir. I need you.” Spencer draws his hand away and you whine pathetically, your bare thighs suddenly impossibly cold.
“Be patient, sweet girl,” he says, low and almost dangerous. A thrill skitters up your spine as he sinks to his knees, gazing intently at your dripping wet core. “Beautiful,” he mutters, so quietly you don’t even think he’s talking to you. His hands slide up to your thighs again, spreading them apart gently. “Are you gonna let me taste you, beautiful?”
You nod frantically, cunt fluttering at his words. He kisses the inside of your knee, works his way down your thigh. A brief, bright spark of pain flickers through you as Spencer sucks a bruise into your skin and you moan. A rush of incredibly gratifying heat washes over you when you realise he’s marking you; a hidden little secret lying just beneath your polished exterior. Spencer won’t be able to see anything else when he looks at you.
He pulls away from his assault on your thighs to look up at you, doe-eyed. “Tell me you want this. Please. I need to hear you say it.” You shudder, closing your thighs around his head and threading a hand into his curls so he can’t drag himself any further away.
“Spencer,” you moan. His eyes blow wide at the sound of his name from your lips. “Please. I need you,” you breathe. “Need you to make me cum, sir, please. Haven’t I been good for you? Don’t I deserve it?” You bite your lip to muffle a scream when Spencer leans in, licks a broad, flat stripe along your soaked core.
He’s methodical, at first, and you know somehow that he’s carefully cataloguing your responses. His tongue flicks over your clit, slow at first and then faster, pressure mounting between your thighs. Spencer moans into you, shifts his hips, and you realise: he’s getting off on this. A jolt of arousal so strong you literally pulse against his mouth rips through you, and you feel his lips curve into a smirk.
Big, soft hands dig hard into your thighs, pulling you flush against him like he could bury himself in you. “You taste so good, baby,” he whines, pressing his tongue flat against your hole as you grind your hips forward. Pleasure curls under your skin, swelling and pressing against your organs, crowding your mind until you can’t think, can’t feel anything but him. Your toes curl in your shoes, stomach clenching as your orgasm builds and builds. Breaking away, Spencer presses tender little kisses to your inner thighs, licks soothingly over his bite mark.
Just as you’re starting to whine at the loss, he wraps his lips around your swollen clit. Sudden, electric ecstasy shoots through your body when he sucks on your sensitive nerves and it’s all you can do not to scream his name for the entire campus to hear. “Oh, fuck,” you whine instead, rocking your hips in a frantic, desperate rhythm. “M’so close, sir, please— You gotta let me— fuck!” you gasp, cunt clenching as he slides two fingers into you. You’re so wet that it’s easy, a slick slide as he pumps his fingers in and out of you.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Look how well you take me,” he says, staring openly at the point his fingers disappear into your body, your greedy cunt parted around them as wet, obscene noises fill the room. He kisses your clit softly and your legs kick out. “You’re gonna look so pretty taking my dick, hm?”
Your mind goes blank, pleasure thudding sickly in your throat, humming in your ears. “I want it,” you whine. “God, I want you to fucking— mmm— bend me over this desk ‘n— fuck— make me all stupid for you. Oh, God, Spencer, m’so close!” you cry, tugging at his hair and writhing helplessly.
“Go on, pretty girl,” Spencer says, softly urging. “Cum for me.” He pumps his fingers, licks at your clit, gently coaxes you over the edge. Your hands white-knuckle the edge of the desk as pure pleasure washes over you. Your body slumps, weak and powerless against the weight of your orgasm ripping through you. Spencer doesn’t let up, smiling into you as you write above him, murmuring soft praises that fade into a low buzz against your pulse hammering in your ears.
Spencer’s lips and chin glisten with your arousal, still kneeling between your legs as you struggle back to your body. “That was… Shit, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stand,” you giggle, testing your weight as you shuffle off his desk. Spencer leans down to kiss you, and the taste of yourself on his lips is dizzying. Pouting, you glance up at the clock hanging over his door. “I have class.”
As much as he wants to, Spencer won’t tell you to cut class, and you both know it. “Would you like to, uh…” He clears his throat, adjusts his tie, and just like that, he’s back to the sweet, nervous academic you’re used to. “Continue this discussion later? I’ll— I’ll be here all day.”
Your lips stretch wide in a saccharine smile as you slowly button your shirt. “Why, Doctor Reid, are you asking me to meet you after hours? How scandalous,” you giggle, pressing a soft, near-chaste kiss against his lips. “I’ll be back at six.”
More Posts from G4rvez-r3id and Others
ALYSSIA THIS WAS SO GOOD!!! EVERYONE GO LIKE, COMMENT AND REBLOG RN 😠 MY GIRL ATE UP HER FIRST FIC !!!
SIP AND STAND • SPENCER REID
SUMMARY: Navigating caffeine cravings and chaos, Reid finds himself drawn into a tense standoff, discovering that even in a coffee shop, unexpected alliances can brew.
PAIRING: fem!reader x spencer reid
a/n: this is my first time posting on here so pls be nice and lie to me even if it sucks cause i’m sensitive
this isn’t an actual reader x spencer fic cause i struggle with writing in first person and not writing a specific character so bare with me while i learn!
tysm to @g4rvez-r3id @dearlenore and @cerisereids for helping me navigate through this super overwhelming new process! <3
w/c: 2.2k
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The fluorescent lights of the coffee shop hummed, a stark contrast to the chaos swirling in Reid's mind. The case they'd just wrapped up had left him feeling hollow. A six-year-old boy, missing for three days, found just in time – but Morgan had taken a bullet to the shoulder during the takedown. His teammate would be fine, just restricted from field assignments for a while, but the image of blood seeping through Morgan's shirt kept replaying in Reid's mind. He needed caffeine, and he needed it now.
He shuffled toward the counter, already calculating the amount of sugar he'd need to counteract the bitterness of the black coffee. Three packets? Four? He usually went for five. He knew it wasn't healthy, but right now, he craved the jolt of pure, unadulterated sweetness. He reached for a handful of packets, tearing them open and pouring them into his cup with abandon.
The bell above the door chimed, and a laugh cut through the ambient noise – warm and genuine, like honey over gravel.
A young woman walked in, her yellow sundress flowing down to her ankles, making her look like a ray of sunshine against the coffee shop's muted tones. Her brown hair fell in loose waves past her shoulders, and there was something gentle about the way she moved.
"I know, Mom, I know," she said into her phone, her voice edged with frustration as she joined the line, running her free hand through her hair. "I wish I could visit this weekend, but this paper on evolutionary psychology is killing me. Like, I get the basic premise of cognitive adaptations, but trying to explain how modern behavioral patterns evolved from ancient survival mechanisms? I'm completely stuck."
Reid's ears perked up. He found himself unconsciously leaning closer, stirring his coffee slower than necessary.
"The professor wants us to focus specifically on mate selection theories," she continued, adjusting the strap of her bag. "I've got three days to figure this out, and I just... I don't know. It's overwhelming."
Her mom's voice on the other end must have been comforting because she let out a small laugh. "Yeah, I know Dad would say it's all a bunch of hooey. But you know how he is with anything that doesn't have a clear-cut answer."
As she listened to her mom's response, her eyes caught the movement at the door. A man in an expensive suit walked in, took one look at the line that wrapped around the counter, and headed straight for the front. He brushed past several waiting customers, ignoring their pointed stares and muttered complaints.
"Mom, something just came up," she said, her voice shifting to a more serious tone. "I'll call you back in a little bit, okay? Love you."
She slipped her phone into her purse and stepped directly into the guy's path.
"Excuse me," she said, her voice firm but polite. "There's a line."
The guy paused, looking at her with a patronizing smile. "Ah, but rules are for those without charm, sweetheart."
"I'm not your sweetheart," she replied, her voice cooling several degrees. "And you can wait in line like everyone else."
The guy stopped, turning to face her fully. "Look, I'm in a hurry," he said, his tone impatient. "I don't have time for this."
"Well, that's unfortunate," she said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, the kind that could cut like ice. "The line starts back there."
The guy's face flushed with anger. He took a step closer, invading her personal space. "You need to learn to stay out of people's way," he said, his voice low and aggressive.
She didn't back down, though Reid noticed her fists clench at her sides. "And you need to learn basic manners," she retorted, her voice slightly less steady than before.
"Listen here, you little—" the guy sneered, leaning in closer.
Reid abandoned his half-empty coffee cup on the table. The statistics on public harassment flashed through his mind – how often these situations escalated, how many victims never reported. He calculated the probable outcomes and decided it was time to intervene.
"Is there a problem here?" Reid's voice cut through the tension as he stepped forward.
The guy turned, irritation flashing across his face. "Mind your own business," he snapped.
"I'm afraid I can't do that," Reid replied, his voice calm. "You see, social dynamics in public spaces can be quite fascinating. Did you know that intervention by a third party decreases the likelihood of escalation by 50%?"
"Who the hell are you?" the guy challenged, turning to face Reid fully.
"FBI Special Agent Dr Reid," he said, pulling out his badge. "And harassing people in public spaces is very much my business."
The guy scoffed, though Reid noticed him take a small step back. "You expect me to believe you're FBI? Looking like that?"
"Would you like to verify my credentials with the local field office?" Reid offered calmly. "Or perhaps we should discuss the legal definition of harassment in public spaces. The statutes are quite specific about—"
"This is ridiculous," the guy cut in, but his confidence was clearly shaken. He looked between Reid and the woman, jaw clenching. As he turned to leave, he muttered, "I don't have time for this shit," before shooting one last look at the woman. "You got lucky this time."
Once he was gone, Reid turned to her. "Are you okay?"
She let out a long breath, her shoulders finally relaxing. "Yeah, I'm... I'm fine. Just a bit shaken, I guess. That was..." She ran a hand through her hair. "Thank you for stepping in. I was trying to act tough, but he was starting to scare me a little. I really don't like entitled jerks."
"Most people wouldn't have said anything in the first place," Reid offered.
"I usually don't," she admitted, wrapping her arms around herself. "But something about his attitude just... I don't know. I couldn't help myself." She shook her head slightly. "I should probably learn to pick my battles better, huh?"
"Actually, speaking up against threatening behavior can help prevent future incidents. Though perhaps with backup next time," he added with a small smile.
She laughed softly. "Yeah, well, thankfully my backup today came with a badge." She gestured to the counter. "Let me buy you a coffee? As a thank you?"
Reid glanced at his abandoned coffee cup, already forgotten in the whirlwind of the encounter. "Oh, you don't have to—"
"Please, I insist," she interrupted. "It's the least I can do for my knight in..." she paused, glancing at his mismatched socks and cardigan, "...academic armor?"
He nodded, intrigued. "Sure, I'd like that."
They moved to the counter together, and as they waited for their drinks, she seemed to relax more, the color returning to her cheeks. Her eyes caught on the book tucked under his arm. "Wait, is that 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'?"
"It is," Reid replied, suddenly aware that his heart was beating faster than usual. "Though I find Wilde's short stories more psychologically complex, particularly 'The Happy Prince.'" He paused, then added, "I couldn't help but overhear – you're writing about evolutionary psychology?"
"Oh god, yes," she groaned. "And completely drowning in it. I thought I understood the basics, but trying to connect everything together..." She trailed off, shaking her head.
"I actually have BAs in Psychology and Sociology, along with PhDs in Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering and I've done extensive study in evolutionary psychology for my work with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit," Reid said, then hesitated for a moment. "If you'd like, I wouldn't mind helping you work through some of the concepts?"
Her eyes lit up. "Really? You wouldn't mind?"
Reid took both their coffee cups before gesturing to an empty table by the window. "Not at all. Actually, the evolutionary basis for altruistic behavior is fascinating. Did you know that reciprocal altruism was first mathematically modeled by Robert Trivers in 1971?"
She smiled, following him to the table. "I have a feeling I'm about to learn a lot more than just that."
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The afternoon sun dipped lower in the sky as their conversation flowed effortlessly, weaving through topics of evolutionary psychology, literature, and the quirks of human behavior. Reid's explanations were met with keen interest, and her questions were insightful, sparking lively debates between them.
"You know, the way you explained the evolutionary basis for altruism really helped me see the connections," she said, jotting down notes in her notebook. "I never thought about how reciprocal altruism could be mathematically modeled."
Reid nodded, clearly in his element. "It's fascinating, isn't it? Trivers' model from 1971 really opened up a new way of understanding social behaviors."
Just as she was about to respond, Reid's phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at it and saw Garcia's name flashing on the screen. "Excuse me for a moment," he said, stepping aside to take the call. His demeanor shifted immediately, becoming serious as he listened.
When he returned, he looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, but I have to go. There's a case."
She nodded, understanding. "Duty calls, huh? You know, for a moment there, I almost forgot you were an FBI agent."
Reid chuckled softly, appreciating her light-hearted approach. "It was nice to forget for a bit."
As they gathered their things, Reid courteously opened the door for her. He noticed for the first time how petite she was compared to him, her presence both delicate and confident in contrast to his taller frame. "Thank you. It's nice to share what I've learned with someone who's genuinely interested," he added, feeling a bit flustered by the unexpected intimacy of the moment.
She stepped out into the cool evening air, the bell chiming softly behind them. "I have a feeling my professor is going to be impressed too. Thanks to you, I'm actually looking forward to tackling this paper."
Reid hesitated for a moment before speaking. "If you get stuck on any more complex theories," he offered, trying to sound casual, "I'd be happy to help. You know, for the sake of academic rigor."
She smiled, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "Is that your way of saying you'd like to see me again, Dr. Reid?"
Reid's cheeks flushed slightly, but he met her gaze with a shy smile. "Maybe it is."
"Then I suppose I'll have to take you up on that," she replied. They exchanged numbers, and she gave him one last wave. "Thanks again. For everything."
Before she could turn to leave, Reid hesitated, a hint of his usual earnestness returning. "Are you sure you'll be okay walking home? Statistically speaking, the probability of encountering a dangerous situation increases by approximately 30% when walking alone compared to walking with someone."
She grinned, appreciating his concern. "I'll be fine, Reid. But thanks for the stats lesson. And don't worry, I'll keep my phone handy."
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Back at the office, Reid walked in with an unusually cheerful demeanor, his steps lighter than usual. Morgan noticed immediately and exchanged a bemused glance with Emily. They both observed him for a moment, enjoying the rare sight of a visibly happy Reid.
Emily raised an eyebrow, sharing a knowing smile with Morgan. Without saying a word, they both seemed to agree: something was definitely up.
Finally, Morgan couldn't resist breaking the silence. "Reid, you look like you're on cloud nine. What's going on?"
Reid glanced over, feigning innocence. "What do you mean?"
Emily chimed in with a teasing tone. "Come on, Reid. You can't fool profilers. You're practically glowing."
Morgan leaned in, pressing a bit more. "Yeah, pretty boy, you look like you just won the lottery."
Reid smirked, opting for a classic comeback. "You know, the odds of winning the lottery are approximately 1 in 292 million. Statistically speaking, I'm more likely to be struck by lightning."
Emily laughed, shaking her head. "Nice try, Reid. You're trying to change the subject."
Reid shrugged, a playful glint in his eyes. "I just had an interesting conversation this afternoon."
Morgan's curiosity was piqued. "Interesting enough to put that smile on your face?"
Reid nodded, keeping things light. "Met someone at the coffee shop. We talked about evolutionary psychology—altruism, reciprocal behavior, the usual."
Emily's curiosity was piqued. "That sounds like quite the conversation."
Reid offered a noncommittal smile, allowing a hint of mystery to linger. "It was... engaging."
As they were about to head to the conference room, Garcia intercepted them, noticing Reid's flustered demeanor. "Hey, what's going on with our boy genius? He looks like he just solved world peace."
Morgan chuckled, sharing a knowing glance with Emily. "Just a little coffee shop chat, babygirl."
Emily grinned, offering Garcia a playful shrug. "Yeah, he's had a... stimulating afternoon."
Garcia gave Reid a teasing smile, then turned her attention to Morgan with a flirtatious tone. "Well, sugar, you can fill me in on all the juicy details later."
Morgan grinned back, clearly enjoying the banter. "You know it, gorgeous. I'll bring the popcorn."
With that, they all headed to the conference room, the air filled with the warmth and camaraderie that defined their team.
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If you liked this, please don’t hesitate to tell me because I’m about to throw up out of nervousness!
If you didn’t, pretend you didn’t read it !
“Who’s Cameron?”
NEEDS ME A PART TWO ERIKA
𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐧 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝
Pairing: Spencer Reid x femBAU!reader Category: smut 18+ MDNI, angst Summary: Attending Rossi's wedding while nursing the betrayal of your boyfriend, you find solace (and revenge) in the arms of Dr. Spencer Reid. Content: 7.7k porn with a plot. Mentions of smoking and drinking, reader wears a dress, heels, and make up, and cheats on her shitty bf, semi-public sex, oral (m and f receiving), softdom!Spencer, fingering, overstimulation, squirting, reader is called naughty girl and good girl, very slight degradation, lots of praise, big dick!Spencer, size kink, unprotected p in v, creampie, rumination and references to sin and Eve and religion in general, probably blasphemous, Jeid mention, unhealthy coping mechanisms, this is kinda toxic but it's sexy I swear (I HOPE; yell at me nicely if i missed anything) A/N: this fic had been MARINATING for more than a month. Probably overwritten and self-indulgent, years of Catholic trauma rlly just spilled onto my docs ya know. Tried very very hard to make the smut worth it because there's so much build up and I'd hate for the smut to be meh. Lost the plot multiple times. Reached the point of i’m sick of this fic pls let it end but ultimately it's a piece that I’m actually proud of. Dedicated to user @notlongtolove for the yap fest and brainstorming, iykyk!!! Pls enjoy while I rejoice; this mammoth is finally over. Special request to leave a comment so I feel accomplished, pretty please tyyyy.
Rossi's wedding had been your opportunity to introduce your new boyfriend to the team. You've taken great pains to keep your relationship private, a feat that makes you proud because the amount of things that gets past Penelope Garcia is next to nothing. But somehow, in the past four months, you've managed. You've passed the threshold, the personal rule of three months of privacy, of keeping things on the down low, and you had been excited to stroll up to Rossi's fourth wedding in the arms of Cameron, your boyfriend of nearly five months.
Unfortunately, you'd caught another woman's underwear in his car nearly a week before the day of the wedding. He still hasn't admitted to his betrayal, no matter how many times you've pleaded and talked to him. You already know, anyway. It's easy enough to tell from his body language. The twitch of his lips he does whenever he's nervous, the way he overuses the phrase come on, every single one of his tells point to his infidelity. You've used every trick in the profiler handbook— interrogation, an attempt to seduce, anger— none has worked.
Your pathetic boyfriend would only repeat that he loves you so much, why are you acting like this?
So you're a depressing cloud on Rossi's big day. You hide it behind a big smile, which would normally be unconvincing, but everyone is too wrapped up in the festivities to look too closely at your hastily erected facade.
And it’s worked, for the most part. You know it’s not because of your acting skills, but more because there’s too much going on to pay attention to you. And disappearing as part of the crowd allows you to observe and stew in your betrayal, fingertips tingling with the desire to get even somehow.
You wish you could say he’d tempted you. Pursued you with gentle brushes of his hands on the exposed skin of your back, bewitched you with his dimpled smile, so inhumanly beautiful you just couldn’t say no. How could you resist temptation when it is being presented to you by someone who looks like he’s been carved by the hands of God himself?
Because Spencer Reid has always been something akin to divinity, at least to you. As the BAU's newest recruit— appointed and transferred by the infamous Linda Barnes herself—you've had to fight tooth and nail to earn the team's trust.
Now, Linda Barnes is gone, you have a spot on the team, and Spencer Reid remains elusive.
His reputation preceded him, of course, one of the smartest active agents, incarcerated for something he didn't do. He's kind in the moments you've spent with him, with a bumbling earnestness that you've found endearing.
He's also incredibly beautiful.
So who could blame you if you did give in to his advances? People stronger than you have succumbed, after all, and you, in your vulnerable, lovelorn glory, would not have been responsible if you decided to take a bite from the forbidden apple, right? Giving in to temptation is the lesser sin, more forgivable, would absolve you of guilt especially after the betrayal you've gone through.
Except Spencer Reid hadn’t pursued you. The meeting had been accidental, at least that’s what you tell yourself. You’d seen him leave towards the end of the ceremony. Of course you did, you had been watching him all night. Sometime towards the end of the ceremony, while the minister was talking about the importance of second chances, he’d slipped away.
You had been the one to go after him. In your defense, you’ve been itching to get your hands on a cigarette since you got here. Weddings have always made you giddy, excited. It’s a celebration of love, after all, a declaration of two people’s commitment to each other. In sickness and health. But Cameron's infidelity weighs heavily upon your shoulders, and though you've borne more than this—you're a BAU agent, after all, you face horrors on a daily basis—it's still difficult to set aside the burn when you're surrounded by happy couples.
So you’d put your focus on Dr. Reid: handsome in his suit, but something about him seemed distracted. Perhaps he'd been banking upon the wedding as a distraction, just like you had been. Everyone is too busy with the happy couple to pay attention to two lonely souls.
But he's wrong. You've got your eye on him, and you see something in his amber irises that reflect your own.
Loneliness.
Why is Spencer Reid lonely?
It’s the intrigue that ultimately leads you out into the hallways. And when you stumble upon his brooding form, your excuse is truthful, “I'm trying to find the bathroom.”
He kindly escorts you to the correct wing, making small talk. Something about wedding dresses not being white historically. You smile and nod, thanking him graciously as you slip into the ladies room. When you leave the bathroom after basically inhaling a stick of cigarette, he’s still lingering outside. Waiting by the wall, smiling upon your return.
“Oh,” you return his smile, “You’re still here.”
“Figured we could walk back together.” his nose wrinkled a little as you stepped closer, the smell of your cigarette apparently not sufficiently disguised.
You're smile becomes sheepish, shaking your head, “I thought I was being slick by spraying perfume, but apparently not.”
He laughs. It reminds you of the church bells that rang for the wedding. Rich and lilting.
“Not to judge, but why the need for a smoke break?”
“Why should there be a reason?”
“You've told me you only smoke when you're stressed out.” Fuck. “Why are you stressed out?”
“Just having a bad day.”
It's the wrong answer, because his gaze zeroes in on you, oozing with an intense curiosity. “On Rossi's wedding?”
“Not because of it,” You laugh airily, but in the quiet of the hallway, it's much more difficult to pretend that everything is okay. Two can play at this game though. “Why are you out here?”
He averts his gaze to his shoes, brows furrowing in a way that makes you blood spike. He’s hiding something.
“I just needed some fresh air.” he pushes his hands deep into his pockets, lifting his gaze from the floor and dragging it through your form, taking in your appearance in the cocktail dress you’ve donned for the wedding. His voice is strangled when he speaks again,, “You look lovely. I don’t think I’ve had the chance to tell you yet.”
“Thank you. You look very dashing too.” A pause stretches between you. In that quiet moment, it seems like the universe has presented the perfect way of retaliation for you. The nicotine had made you bold, audacious. And if you’d read him correctly, then he’s in need of relief as much as you are, the kind of relief a simple cigarette wouldn’t fix. You step closer, looking straight into his eyes, “Truth be told, I’m not in any hurry to go back.”
You see his jaw clench, the beautiful brain of his going a thousand miles per minute, likely computing every possible meaning of your words. His eyes flicker to your lips, and you decide to help him out, taking another step forward and tilting your head up.
When you kissed him, he didn’t even hesitate to kiss you back. Mouth parting, fingers tightly clenched at your waist, pulling you closer and closer until space felt like a foreign concept altogether. He is an insistent kisser, leaning his whole weight into you as his lips opened and sucked at yours.
The dark corner isn’t ideal, but it was the closest space at your disposal. Neither of you are willing to spend more time looking for somewhere to hide, not when you could spend that time running your hands and lips in places undiscovered. Your lips across the strong angle of his jaw, his stubble tickling your skin. Spencer tonguing the space beneath your ear, fragrant with traces of your perfume. Your hand massaging him into an erection through the fabric of his pants.
He lets out the prettiest moan when you drop to your knees in front of him.
You don’t miss the irony of it as you tugged and undid his belt and zipper, fully conscious of the act you’re about to commit. Kneeling in a chapel, for all the wrong reasons.
“Are you sure?” the words spill from his lips so sweetly, as if he isn't standing before you with his erection only inches from your face. Long and thick and already leaking precum at the tip.
You take him into your mouth as an answer, condemning yourself to your fate. Spencer is beautiful like the devil, and you’re Eve succumbing to the first sin.
Two wrongs do not make a right. You know this. Everyone does. A lesson as old as time itself, written in languages you can’t comprehend. Even mathematics dictates that adding two negative integers does not cancel them out—the negative value merely increases. You should not retaliate on your boyfriend by committing the very sin that hurt you in the first place. By all accounts, nothing good should come from it.
Yet here you are, on your knees for a man as pretty as the devil himself. A man very much not your boyfriend.
Even fucking worse, your coworker.
Tucked in some dark corner—not even given the dignity of a dusty closet. That at least would have given you complete privacy. No, you’re on your knees in some seemingly abandoned hallway, half hidden by a combination of the dim lights, and ostentatious pillars, and him. His lean body shields you from general view as your lips stretched around his throbbing length.
You learn that he is a contradiction. A large hand gathers your perfectly styled curls, holding them at the crown of your head. Gentle, careful. The other rests just beneath your jaw, holding your head still as he slowly pushes his hips forward. Your nails grip his pants as your mouth stretches around his girth. The fabric wrinkles under your clutches as the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat, then begins to push beyond it.
Only half of his length in and you're already choking.
Wide, panicked eyes dart up to meet his deceptively honeyed ones. You consider pulling back, just to catch your breath but you can’t; his hands are holding you steady. Oddly enough, the look in his eyes helps you relax. There’s something inherently trustworthy about those ochre irises, despite the fact that his pupils have blown up so much and nearly eclipsed them. Maybe you’re too used to indifference from Cameron, too used to sex being so clinical and borderline perfunctory, that the unbridled lust in his gaze excites you instead of scare you away.
Still, it doesn’t help the little choking issue you’re currently having.
“Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs. You blink back the tears that have gathered at your lashes, still maintaining eye contact with him. Spencer sighs, pulls his cock out. Mercy. It's not something you deserve, but you take advantage of the moment wisely, following his instructions and breathing through your nose.
The stench of sin is musky and stale. You fill your lungs with it all the same, just as he rams his cock back down your throat and fills your mouth. He hisses when you gag around him lightly, but doesn’t stop. You realize that you’d probably chase after him if he does anyway.
His thumb caresses your cheek, “That’s it, good girl. You can take it.”
Well fuck.
It’s a little too much, balancing on your knees like this while he uses your mouth and throat, but you push through because he says you can. You fancied yourself the seductress, but somehow, the tides have turned and you’re little more than putty in his hands.
His cock glides in and out of your mouth with ease, painting chapped red marks from your lipstick along the veined length with every push of his hips. Finding your balance, you wrap a hand around the base of his cock, stroking up what you can't fit into your mouth. After a few clumsy attempts, you manage to match the rhythm of his hips.
What a pretty figure you make, on your knees, looking up at him with fluttering lashes. You moan around his length, sending vibrations up his spine, and are rewarded by his mouth falling open, a wordless expression of pleasure. He continues to fuck your mouth, never breaking eye contact as he eases his cock deeper with each thrust. Tears gather at your lash line every time he goes down your throat.
You’re sure your throat is distending in order to accommodate his girth, and it makes your own pussy clench at the idea. What would it be like to have such a large cock inside your walls, filling you? It makes you moan again, and Spencer’s hand tightens at your hair. His pace quickens, and you hollow your cheeks, urging him to continue.
You hear his undoing before you feel it, strained groans tumbling from trembling lips, before his hips thrust forward and suddenly your nose is pressed to his crotch, and there’s an explosion at the back of your throat. He holds you there, eyes watering, drool spilling from the corners of your ruined mouth as he blows his load deep in your throat.
Yeah, he definitely needed that.
You swallow what you can, but that’s difficult when there’s a huge cock obstructing your throat.
It ends up being a mess, combination of your saliva and his cum dripping out of your mouth and onto the floor. How fitting. In the back of your mind, you’re just happy that only a few drops landed on your dress. Easy enough to clean. Miraculously. Your conscience, however, is an entirely different story.
Still, some part of you can’t even begin to feel bad. Cameron had cheated first, he’d broken the bounds of your relationship first.
Sure, this is still wrong. You have no moral ascendency to stand on, but who cares about any of that when Spencer Reid is kneeling before you with gentle hands and even gentler eyes?
“Are you all right?” he murmurs, his voice slow and sensual like dripping honey.
Somehow, your voice does not betray you, coming out clear and far more confident than you’re actually feeling. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He smiles, thumbs wiping away some of the residue off your lips, “Are you sure? You look a little dazed.”
You laugh, “I mean, yeah, but I just need to catch my breath.”
He takes your hand, helps you stand back up. “I think another trip to the bathroom is in order.” he says as he guides you to the bathroom again.
When you get there, you are a wreck of the highest order, curls dishevelled despite his attempts to be careful, lipstick smudged around your mouth. Your chin is still a little moist from the drool and cum that had dripped down. Tear tracks drag down your cheeks, but thankfully your eye makeup and foundation are only a little smudged. Nothing a little dab of a napkin won’t fix.
You fix what you can—quick spray of perfume, reapplication of lipstick. Hands steady as you work. You aren't sure if this is a sign of guilt, or lack of it. You don't really care. He's gone when you leave the bathroom now, and the soft, treacherous side of your heart fills with disappointment. You remind yourself that it's better this way, less conspicuous, if he returns to the wedding before you.
Still, swallowing his load with an obstructed throat somehow had been easier than swallowing the bitter disappointment that builds in the back of your tongue.
The ceremony is just about to end when you return to the makeshift chapel, people standing and clapping as David and Krystall Rossi share the sweetest kisses. A celebration of love and second chances. After what you've done with Spencer, you know this is out of your cards now. You've fallen far beyond redemption, shot the remnants of your relationship with Cameron after kneeling in service of another man.
You catch sight of Spencer, standing in the midst of other agents. Clapping like everyone else, but his eyes are trained upon something else. Curiosity gets the best of you and you follow his gaze, trying to approximate what he's looking at.
Or rather— whom.
If you're correct, then he's looking at someone.
Oh.
Blonde hair, a slim frame in a beautiful red dress that perfectly accentuates the long, muscled lines of her arms and legs. Beside her, a man with salt and pepper hair and kind blue eyes. His arm at her waist. Your coworker and her husband. JJ and Will.
Oh.
Your gaze returns to Spencer, and despite your attempts not to dig deep, not to learn why he's looking so forlorn, it’s easy to put the pieces together. Whether or not this is a full blown affair isn’t important; all you know is he wants her, and she's married to another man.
Is this connected to the previous case? You recall the last case, the hostage situation in LA. He and JJ had been in there for a long time, but neither really shared what exactly happened. Nobody knows except for the two of them, the unsub, and the victims. You aren’t about to pull rank and ask traumatized people about the drama between your coworkers. You’re better than that.
Are you?
Yes. You don’t hold much sacred, but your job is important. It is above you. You aren’t about to jeopardize it over some workplace drama.
But still, the curiosity gnaws at you no matter how much you attempt to tamp it down. Does he have feelings for JJ? Does she, for him? She couldn’t possibly; she has a husband, two beautiful kids. Easy enough to deduce that it’s probably Spencer, then, who is pining after her.
As though he feels your stare, Spencer looks over at you. Hurriedly, you avert your eyes, heart pounding faster than you would like it to.
Was he thinking about JJ while he used your mouth?
The thought knocks the wind out of your lungs, and you banish it to the deepest crevices of your mind. It shouldn't matter.
It doesn't. It doesn't.
You don’t have any room to judge, anyway. You’ve dragged Spencer into your own messy relationship by sucking him off in the middle of the wedding. A relationship he doesn’t even know about. So, with a smile, you clap for the new couple, and follow the crowd to the reception.
Joy and excitement are nearly palpable in the room. A small, intimate crowd of smiling faces surrounded by the tastefully extravagant decor, obviously paid for by the wealthy groom. The air is filled with that soft, electric energy that often occurs when people are happy and sufficiently buzzed with some drinks.
The only thing on your mind is him.
How can it not be, when you can still remember the little tryst you'd had prior. The weight of him in your mouth, the fetid mess of skin and cum and the lingering nicotine.
It passes by in a blur. The food is delicious, you gush to Portia, you look so beautiful; congratulations, to the new couple. None of it is fake, but you are possessed by a single, irrevocable urge to watch Spencer. That glance at JJ has intrigued you more than you should be. What sort of web had you stumbled upon? And instead of trying to get out, you're eager to spin more.
Bringing the champagne flute to your lips, you pretend to sip, allowing the glass to obscure some parts of your face while you continue to watch them. They’ve met up at the bar now, deep in conversation, hands clasped together in a way that’s far too intimate to be just friends. You can't tear your eyes away as JJ leaves, returning to the embrace of her husband, and you watch with an almost sick sense of fascination as Spencer lingers by the bar. Longing, pure and unmistakable, is etched upon every line on his face.
Before you can stop yourself, your feet are moving, gliding across the floor until you're beside him. He startles, brows lifting as he gazes at you. Your name slips through his lips with an exhale.
“You don't have to act like I'm a ghost, Spencer.” your lips quirk up in a teasing grin as the bartender refills your glass of champagne.
He looks chagrined, the implications of your words hitting him like a brick. “I’m not, you just seemed like you were having fun with Garcia.” he says, leaning on the counter. His eyes travel down the length of you again.
“You’re right, but you were looking a little lonely,” you take a sip from your champagne, letting the bubbly drink fizzle in your mouth and wash away the taste of him. “So, what was that with JJ?”
He sputters, eyes wide as his gaze darts back to your blonde coworker—now currently wrapped up in her husband’s arms.
“Nothing!”
“Holding hands when you’re a known germaphobe doesn’t seem like nothing.”
“I’m not that bad,” he protests, shaking his head, “I’d hold your hand too, but that’s besides the point.”
“It is,” you agree, tilting your head innocently, as your voice lowers, “Just wanted to know who you were imaging in place of me.”
He looks horrified to be reminded of your little quickie from before, “No one. It’s not—I wasn’t using you to—god, it’s not like that.”
“I’m not judging you if it was,” It’s true. It’s exactly what you’re doing with him, using him to forget about Cameron, to get back at him. Poor Spencer just doesn’t know about your secrets. Your amused look only makes him fluster even more.
“It isn’t,” he insists, “I just –”
“Listen, it’s okay,” you interrupt gently, fighting the urge to rest a reassuring hand on his forearm. The words are true anyway; you don’t wish to unearth whatever secrets he wants to keep buried. You have your own, anyway; it’s only fair he’s allowed his secrecy. Your reasons for approaching him are entirely different, and perhaps a little self serving. But you’ve already condemned yourself to being the bearer of temptation, you might as well take full advantage of it.
“Don’t look so ashamed,” you grin as you lift the recently refilled glass to your lips, “You know I have a room for the night… in case you want to blow off more steam.”
The invitation makes his eyes darken in a way that’s becoming increasingly familiar. “You’re—we shouldn’t.”
“Who would know?” you quirk a brow in response, “Besides, it’s pretty much tradition for people to hook up at a wedding. Why shouldn’t it be us?” Please, say yes.
“We’re coworkers.”
“We’re adults.” you deliberately don’t say single adults, “It’s fine. Listen, I booked a room because I didn’t want to deal with the traffic, so if you want, it’s 309B. Completely up to you.” with a smile, you leave him at the bar and Spencer Reid is forced to watch a woman walk away from him for the second time.
That night, there's knocking at your hotel door—three sharp, no nonsense knocks that seem to mean business—echoes in your room minutes before midnight. You don’t bother looking through the peephole to confirm who’s on the other side. The moment you open the door, there’s not a lot of build up.
He’s shed his suit jacket; wearing only the white button down, slightly rumpled from the day’s events. His crown of light brown curls, carefully pushed back earlier, had fallen all over his forehead, messy tendrils tumbling across his face.
He takes one look at you—still in your lavender dress, but devoid of makeup and no more heels to add inches to your height. In the dimness of the room, you are diminutive, stripped of the ethereal mystique you bore from earlier. Human.
God, he wants you.
Not even as someone to help him forget about JJ. No, he wants you in your entirety, to possess you even for one night.
He kisses you again, but there’s no rush to his movements now. The previous rendezvous had been hasty in every sense of the word, made within minutes in an attempt to alleviate the desperate need all while staying safely hidden and inconspicuous.
Now, you have the entire night. He intends to make full use of it. He kicks the door closed behind him, one hand reaching back to lock it as the other tilts your face up so he can kiss you deeper. Your own arms snake around his neck, hands burying into those messy curls. There’s no more public reception to worry about; you can tug and twist and mess with it as much as you want.
Spencer groans into your mouth, hands tight at your hips, before pulling back slightly, “Jump.” he mumbles against your lips.
Your body reacts as if it’s wired to obey him, launching off the balls of your feet. His hands help to hoist you up, and you wrap your legs around his hips.
“You smell so good,” He whispers as he noses through your neck, before his teeth close around your earlobe. You giggle, urging him on by craning your neck to the side. His teeth tug on your earlobe playfully as he crosses the room to your bed. He toes off his shoes and lays you down carefully, his body hovering above yours while his kisses travel down your neck. Soft and sloppy and wet, they mark you like a brand.
Long, eager fingers hike your dress up, bunching it up your thighs, past your hips, and you hear him groan when your bare pussy is exposed to his darkened gaze.
“No panties?” he runs a finger up your folds, gathering your slick, “Don’t tell me you’re been going around like this all day?”
“Maybe I have,” you grin, legs parting even more to accommodate him. You haven’t—you’d just been touching yourself to the thought of him as you waited, but you’re not about to tell him that.
“Naughty girl,” he mumbles, one long finger pushing past your entrance and curling into you, “And so wet, too. You get off on being this dirty, or am I just lucky?”
A breathy laugh escapes your lips, “Which one would you prefer?” you ask, because tonight, you’re not yourself. Not really. You’re whoever he needs to be, the same way he’s exactly what you need right now. A body to which you can lose yourself.
“I’d like to think this is all just for me,” he adds another finger, the pace languorous and teasing.
“It is,” you gasp as he curls his fingers, then withdraws. Torturously slow, he fucks you with two lengthy fingers, hitting the spot inside you with ease. Your toes curl into the bed, sinking into the soft mattress, “Faster.”
“So needy,” he murmurs, shaking his head as he takes you in. There’s something addictive in the way you look in this moment, spread out beneath him like something unreal and sublime.
Your hips buck up. Something volatile simmers beneath your skin, desperate for more, “Please.”
Spencer chuckles as he watches you, fingers stilling inside your fluttering walls. Hovering above you with soft brown curls framing his face, he looks every bit an angel come to life. The laughter continues, his lips twisting into a sneer as you push your hips up desperately.
“So, so needy.” he repeats, but he acquiesces to your plea. More than that, he sinks a third finger inside you and speeds up. A cry of surprise and pleasure falls from your lips, head thrown back as he works his fingers inside you, “Oh, you’re taking it so well.”
Shame unfurls in your chest. What are you doing? Begging another man to fuck you with his fingers? Enjoying it? Is this truly what you’ve come to?
It’s not something you can dwell on, as Spencer begins to curl his fingers inside you while his thumb finds your clit. It circles the nub slowly, adding a layer of stimulation that has your thighs trembling. With a squeal, you writhe, moving to close your legs as the sensations become red-hot, building up closer and closer to a crescendo.
Spencer tuts teasingly, one leg pressing down on your thighs, and his other hand coming to grip your hip and hold you in place. “No, no, darling, I want to see you coming undone on my fingers.” he says, continuing to make come hither motions inside you.
“God—oh, I’m so—ah!” words trip over one another as you approach your climax, the world coming down into one point of focus. “Spencer!”
“That’s it, good girl,” he murmurs, laying his body over you as his fingers help you through your orgasm, “There you go.”
You’re thankful for the weight of him; it is a grounding presence in the midst of all the flurry. You’ve come undone at the hands of another man—literally. Never mind that Cameron had betrayed your trust first; you are no better than him.
But if sin felt as good as Spencer Reid’s kisses, then you have no qualms indulging.
His lips are upon you again, traveling down your collarbone and nipping at the skin there. You whine and wrap your legs around his waist, sensitive but still eager for more. He laughs against your skin with a tenderness that takes you by surprise.
“Are you always this needy?”
“No,” you’ve had a taste of the forbidden fruit earlier. Thrown out of Eden, you’re already past the point of no return. Might as well succumb and have one hell of a time. “Only for you.”
He hums, pushing your dress up again. It gets caught somewhere around your chest and there’s a brief moment of awkward laughter as he tries to tug at it, force it up and off you.
“Zipper,” you gasp when your brain finally works. Lifting yourself up on your elbows allows him to slide his hands to your back, find the dangling piece of metal and ease it down. The dress loosens across your shoulders and chest, and he’s finally able to pull it off altogether.
“Beautiful,” he sighs, descending upon you once again, “So beautiful.”
His words have you preening, and you wonder how something so insignificant as the word beautiful could make you feel so heavy. You used to associate delight with weightlessness, floating and light, but everything about Spencer is lumbering and grounded especially after he came back from prison.
You feel his lips and tongue making their way down, kissing every inch of your body. He tugs your bra down, not even bothering to take it off completely, your breast spilling forth and free for his touch. He takes one nipple and sucks, while his thumb circles and gently tugs the other. Every single act has you gasping, and you wonder when and where the hell did Spencer Reid ever learn how to do this? You shouldn’t question it though.
When his mouth lands upon your hips, you jerk. “Spencer,” you gasp, looking down on him, but there’s no more teasing from him now, no hesitation. Before you can even formulate what to say next—you don’t have to, I’ve already cum, I’m still so sensitive—his mouth is at your core, tongue lapping up what remains of your previous orgasm and all evidence of your arousal.
“Fuck!” you are not responsible for your actions anymore, not responsible for the way your fingers find his russet curls and tug hard, the way your thighs try to clamp shut around his head. He chuckles against you, the sound sending tingling vibrations that travel from your pussy to the tips of your toes and fingers.
“Settle down,” laughter drips from his gentle admonishment, “Or I’ll stop.”
“Please don’t.” you’re past the point of shame and guilt, eager to beg and obey as much as he wants. The positions have turned since the tryst in the hallway. No longer are you on your knees for him, no longer the one servicing him and choking around his length, yet somehow you’re still at his mercy. “Don’t stop, please, so good.”
He laughs, and you feel something sliding past your entrance. You clench around it involuntarily, as if you can tell what it is from the mere feeling, but then his mouth wraps around your clit and you’re reeling into oblivion once again.
“Spencer!” you thrash against the pillows, overwhelmed and sensitive but still eager to take more, “Spencer, oh my god, Spencer!” you lose count of how many times you’ve uttered his name from your lips. It has simultaneously lost every meaning, yet retained all of it. An invocation of fervent desire from a lowly, undeserving sinner. Thankfully, your god is merciful and giving, because Spencer wraps his arms around your thighs to hold you down, sucks at your clit harshly and thrusts into you again—fingers, you now realize, all three spreading you open and curling deep inside you.
With everything going on, your climax comes as no surprise. You and Spencer are both expecting it, you’re so worked up after all. What makes you both pause is the fact that something gushes out of you as you arch off the bed and cry out his name.
His movement stills for a split second, before he continues and helps you through your orgasm, tongue lapping at the mess between your legs as your body is wracked with the aftershocks, trembling beneath him. After a few moments, he stops, resting his head at your hip.
Looking at him feels like a risk. Fear keeps your eyes squeezed shut, afraid of what you’ll find. More teasing? Disgust? Doesn’t seem like it, from the way his fingertips are trailing over your thighs. You lift your lids again, eyes meeting his own hazy ones. They are nearly black, but what pulls your attention are his lips and chin. Glistening with slickness.
Your slick.
“Oh god,” your words are half groan, half laugh when the reality hits you, “Did I really?”
He laughs again, light and tender. “I believe you did.”
“I’m sorry.” you mutter, feeling utterly mortified that you just squirted all over your coworker’s face.
Spencer’s expression is one of mischief, but his eyes gleam with something darker. “What for?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
Another laugh, “But I wanna hear it,” he coos, pressing his lips to your hip bone, “Come on, darling, what are you sorry for?”
When you don’t answer, he nips at your skin playfully, slowly moving back to your center. Your pussy throbs both in anticipation and overstimulation.
“Spencer.”
“Mhm?”
“Too sensitive.” you try to squirm out of his grip. It only tightens, presses you deeper into the mattress.
A lick, teasing and light. “Tell me why you’re sorry.”
“Spencer!”
“Come on,” He's grinning, the bastard, “Why are you sorry?”
“Because I squirted in your face.”
He bites your inner thigh with more force than usual, “You shouldn't be.”
“Hm?”
“I loved it,” He murmurs, soothing the bite with a flick of his tongue, “Wanna see you do it again.”
You shudder, though you’re unsure whether it’s from his moistened tongue, or his words. “Yeah?”
“Mhm,” he drags himself up, kissing along your body as he does so, “Think you can be a good girl and do it again for me?”
“I think that’s entirely dependent on how well you do.”
Soft, dewy lips curl into a smirk at your challenge, and suddenly he’s sin incarnate, a devil about to pounce. Once again, how are you to deny this man of anything? How could you resist temptation when someone who looks like he’s been carved by the hands of God himself is looking at you as though you were the masterpiece? Liquid gold irises take you in, inspecting every inch of your body with unabashed want, and you’re reminded of the fact that he’s fully clothed, cock straining through his pants, and you’re in nothing but your flimsy bra that’s been pulled down your chest it’s not even covering anything anymore.
You fight the urge to squirm under his gaze, but then his hands come up your sides, ghost over your ribs and your back until he finds the hook of your bra.
“Not really fair,” you say as the last strip of your clothing falls away, your chest heaving from the sheer weight of his gaze, “I want to see you too.” with that, you reach for him, deft fingers quickly undoing the buttons of his shirt.
He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t help, only continues to regard you with quiet intensity.
Once his clothes are off, he meets your lips again. His kisses are slower this time, an almost dreamy tangle of tongue and teeth, but his body is hot and slick with sweat even as he holds himself on his elbows above you. His cock rests upon your lower abdomen, its heft reminding you of how much your mouth had to stretch to accommodate him earlier. How the length and girth had all but blocked your airways as he thrusted into your throat.
You clench around nothing at the idea of that same cock filling your pussy.
His kisses move down your jaw, down the column of your throat, being careful not to suck too hard on the skin and leave marks. You never know when you might be called in for a case, and he doesn’t want any trouble.
“Last chance to back out,” he murmurs, his hand wrapped around the base of his cock, positioning the tip at your entrance.
You grin and shake your head, “No, I want to see if you can make me squirt again, or if that last one was just beginner’s luck.”
Laughter. You’re beginning to find sex with Spencer enjoyable on more than just the physical aspect. He drags the tip of his cock over your folds, combining his precum and your arousal into a heady, natural lubrication. He’s big, you already know that, but right now, you’re so pleasure drunk that you have no problem opening up to him.
You can tell he’s being careful, pushing his tip in slowly, and your entrance flutters, stretches around him. There’s a slight burn, but it’s accompanied by awe, overtaken by pleasure. You marvel at how his cock sinks into your slick, velvety heat, the way every slight thrust makes your body conform to his own as he carves out a space for himself.
As if he belongs there.
As if you’re his.
Every single memory about your cheating boyfriend is expelled from your mind with every thrust of his hips. You moan and clench around him at the thought.
“Fuck,” he groans, hips stilling. His cock is only halfway through, and you already look so fucked out, “Careful with that, darling, or this is gonna end sooner than we’d like.”
Your lower lip trembles, but you nod, spreading your thighs apart even further. “Sorry.”
He kisses that expression away, “Don’t be sorry,” two large hands hold your thighs in place, keeping you spread for him as he sinks in another inch. And then another. You’re so wet, and he’s done such a great job stretching you out that your walls engulf him easily.
“Oh god!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut as he fills you. You hear a chuckle, before he retreats, pulls out almost all the way, and once again you’re clenching around his length as though you’re trying to convince him to stay buried inside you.
“Stop clenching.”
“Can’t help it!”
“Fuck, you’re so tight.” With a soft hiss, he thrusts back inside, still slow and steady. The curse makes you gasp; you’ve never heard him curse before, somehow it’s even more jarring than when he’s murmuring filth into your ears. When you open your eyes, he’s staring at you, unblinking and focused, watching your every reaction. “You okay?”
“Fuck yes,” you gasp as his thrusts grow steady. The world seems to disappear around you, the only point of importance is where your bodies are coming together repeatedly. You reach up, hands seeking for something to ground you, and finding purchase at his tangled curls, “Oh god, yes!”
It’s funny, crying out for a god you don’t really believe in. Crying out for a god when you’re in the midst of sin, carnal pleasure and infidelity and who knows what else, you were never religious to begin with. You wonder if this is what religion is, this free fall, the blind surrender. But faith as you know it believes in something unseen, the conviction to the intangible and unexplained.
Spencer is very much here, and you can feel him between your thighs, his very existence present in the stretch of your walls around his cock, the soft curls you’ve woven around your fingers. He keeps his thrusts slow but deep, letting your walls feel every single vein and ridge on his cock.
“Spencer,” you moan, one hand falling to his face, soft palm on the stubble at his jaw, “Feels so good.”
“You too,” he turns his face, pressing his lips to the warmth of your hand. He’s very tender, his movements measured to ensure your comfort, “God, you’re taking me so well.”
Your walls tighten around him in response.
Something seems to ignite in his brain, his hand catching your wrist, pulling it from his face and pinning it to the bed. “You like that, my pretty girl? Like knowing you’re doing a good job for me?”
Fuck. The same rush of heat from when he’d had you on your knees fills your stomach. The heat that compels you to do whatever he wants, take whatever he’ll give in order to hear more of his praise. Like a devoted servant, at the service of a benevolent god.
“Yes,” you gasp, hooking one leg around his hips, while the other is bent at an angle, foot pressed to the mattress in order to allow you some leverage to meet his thrusts. It’s sloppy at first, your body not entirely in your control right now.
“That’s it, my darling, you can do it.” he mutters encouragingly, pausing to allow you to join in this tangled, exhilarating dance. When you’ve gotten steadier, he resumes his thrusts, and you’re finally able to buck your hips up to meet them.
The action sends his entire length buried deep inside you, something he’s been very careful to avoid in fear of hurting you. But instead, you let out a cry of pleasure, eyes rolling to the back of your head, “Yes!”
“Right there?” he grunts. You’ve never heard him before, voice low and strained as he slams his hips into yours, again and again. The mattress begins to creak from the force of his actions.
“Mhm hmm!” You meet him thrust for thrust, the impact hitting spots deep inside you that you’ve never felt before. Toes curling in on themselves, one hand buried in his hair, the other pinned by his strong grip, “Oh, god, Spencer, yes!”
He loosens his grip on your wrist, intertwines your fingers together, “Good girl. Look at you, so pretty while you take me.”
No words come from your mouth, only his name, repeated over and over that it begins to sound made up, unreal. Perhaps he is divine. Nothing human can make you feel this way, surely.
He shifts, his free arm wrapping around your hips to elevate you slightly, and the new angle has you keening, every single muscle in your body tightly wound and white-hot as he pounds into you. It’s obscene how easily your body accepts every single inch of him, the way your pussy flutters and yields to the throbbing length of his cock.
“My god, you feel like heaven,” he groans, and that’s it, those words have you screaming so loud he starts to laugh and kiss you just to swallow the sound. You’re shuddering beneath him, crying, the pleasure coiling and building until it bursts and snaps, cascading over you with such fervor he has to wrap both his arms around your limp body to help you calm down.
Somehow, your hazy mind registers the wetness between your thighs, the loud, nearly pornographic squelching of his body plunging into yours. He’d done his goal; he’s made you squirt again. You are boneless in his arms as he fucks you through your orgasm, and chases his own. You only regain agency when he tenses, groaning into your ear.
“Gonna cum,” he says, moving his hips to drag his length out. He’s so long you’re able to wrap your legs around his waist before he’s pulled his cock out all the way.
“No, please, do it inside.”
His body stutters, head falling to the crook of your neck as he ruts his hips into you, not even bothering to argue or ask you if you’re sure. He thrusts into your sensitive pussy erratically, mouth open and groaning into your neck, “Oh my god, oh my — ah!”
Spencer holds onto you, breathing heavily into your ear as you both come down from your high. You feel simultaneously weightless and heavy, melting into your mattress with sweet, glassy eyes.
“That was incredible,” you whisper against his hair. He’s already half asleep on top of you, mumbling incoherently against your shoulder. You don’t bother to move, letting his still hard cock stay buried inside your pussy as you both drift off into dreamland.
Morning comes with a delicious ache in your lower belly. Spencer has you tucked to his chest, his arm around your waist. The air is heavy with the lingering smell of sweat and sex, but also oddly light with the knowledge of a new day. You shift in his arms, yawning as you will your body to wake up and shake off the sluggish feeling clinging to your bones.
He wakes slowly, groaning into your hair, “Morning.” he mumbles.
“Morning,” you reply, but before either of you can say any more, your phone rings. Mindlessly, you reach for it, not even bothering to hide the screen from Spencer, who’s nosing at your temple sweetly.
Cameron ❤️
Your heart sinks. Before you can hit the ignore button, Spencer turns his head, still half asleep as he catches sight of your screen. The name, the heart emoji, the multiple missed calls shakes off every single sleepy cell in his body.
“Who’s Cameron?”
more size kink fics in the BUD Chronicles. Forehead smooches to the many people who witnessed the conception of this fic and patiently listened and helped me as I crashed out and went screaming crying throwing up, hey nachos, @mggslover (who also proofread ty) @beenreidingaboutyou @reidingandallthat @burymagdalene and @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat good god there's so many, my need for reassurance is actually extremely bothersome and embarrassing but ily guys.
me and eliza are about to eat this up fr 😭
erika, i love you and i trust you with this absolutely filthy thought. would you consider writing a threesome fic with spencer x reader x chip?
Yes and if you'd check ur discord YOU'D SEE I HAVE THE PLOT FIGURED OUT ALREADY!!!!
🤓☝️ may i request for your first time series the first time spencer lets reader take control during sex? not too sure how you feel about sub spencer but im horny for it and i’d love to see what you do
edging sub spencer genre: smut 18+ cw: sub!spencer x dom!reader, mentions of spencer being insecure about his masculinity, mentions of p in v sex, tied hands, handjob, edging, breastplay, oral (f receiving), thigh fucking, bit of degradation, religious comparisons wc: 2,4k a/n: am i a sub spencer fan?! pull up in the- yes lol i very much am. i cannot even call these drabbles anymore. if anyone is wondering why your requests are taking so long, this is the reason. my first time exploring this dynamic. i hope you'll enjoy, let me know your thoughts!
“Come on, baby. You’re the one who begged me for this.”
Spencer whimpered underneath you in response. He sat up straight on your shared bed, upper body rested against the headframe, long legs spread over the sheets, as your naked body hovered over his. And most importantly, his hands were tied behind his back with a silk red fabric.
Spencer craned his neck, trying to press his lips to yours, but you simultaneously leaned away from him. You shook your head, tsking. “What did I tell you?”
Twinkling hazel eyes blinked up at you, his eyebrows caught in a slight furrow.
“You can’t tell me you forgot,” you purred, fingertips trailing the curve of his jaw. “What did I tell you, Spencer?” you repeat with more force in your tone.
He visibly swallowed as your nails dragged down his neck. “That I’m not allowed to touch you.”
“And why’s that?” You hummed.
“Because sexual denial will increase the release of dopamine, and—oh…” he closed his eyes in delight as your nails continued their path down his chest.
“—and the release of oxytocin and serotonin. It will… in general… Jesus… make you more sensitive, which will heighten your pleasure.”
He had hurriedly finished his last words, letting out a deep breath of relief once you nodded in confirmation.
“And all we want is for you to feel good. Isn’t that right, baby?”
He nodded fervently, a deep moan escaping his throat as your fingers grazed the skin of his upper thigh, carefully avoiding his throbbing length.
-`♡´-
It had all started last week, when you came home on a dreary Thursday evening. Immensely frustrated from your day at work.
Spencer oftentimes suggested sex when you were feeling stressed out. Sexual intercourse is known for lowering blood pressure and boosting happy hormones.
Usually this would result in him leading you to the bedroom where he’d gently press you down onto the mattress. He’d crawl on top of you, lips immediately finding yours, giving gentle pecks as his hands roamed up and down the sides of your body.
You’d have sensual sex. Sweet. Vanilla. It was the norm, and when it came to sex, Spencer wanted to keep to the norm. Sexuality and masculinity were deeply intertwined for him, and in both of these aspects, he felt like he didn’t fit into the traditional roles of a man, causing him to feel the need to approach sex textbook-wise.
The sex was good for the both of you. You never minded seeing your boyfriend on top of you. His lips slightly agape as he fought back his moans, hair falling into his face with every push of his hips, shoulders shuddering as he came inside of you. And for Spencer, he was always happy to be there.
So, it was entirely new when you came home that day and tugged him by the collar of his shirt the second you entered the house. Spencer’s mouth was still in a gasp when you hungrily pressed your lips to his, tongue finding his without building the moment up like you’d usually do.
Your body pulled flush against him. The softness of your breasts pressed against his hard chest. He was able to feel the peaks of your nipples even through the fabric of clothes.
“Are you okay?” Spencer choked out as you cupped him roughly through his pants.
“I just need you, Spence. I need to use you.”
Those words were almost enough to make him spill in his underwear. And indeed, the second you had moved to the couch and straddled him (an entirely new position), taking his cock in your soft hand as you sunk down onto him, it took an embarrassingly short amount of time for him to fill you up with his release.
You needed the control and security after having been bossed around at work. Spencer, on the contrary, felt too much in control at his job. Setting a profile and finding evidence and whereabouts on an unsub was very precise work, not even mentioning the huge amount of pressure on saving people’s lives.
He never realized how good it felt to let go. To trust someone else in taking charge, in taking care of him. At that moment he didn’t think about portraying a certain type of masculinity. Instead of holding back his moans and settling on deep groans, he whimpered against your mouth as you fucked him. Squirming and whining underneath your touch as he begged you for more.
His reactions didn’t go unnoticed by you. When you both had recovered and were cleaned up, you brought up the subject of this sub-dom dynamic, and it was very easy for Spencer to give in to exploring it more.
-`♡´-
“P-please.”
“What’s that?”
“Please touch me,” Spencer softly cried, fisting the pillow behind his back with the little grip he had.
You leaned in closer. Your breath tickled against his neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake, before you licked a bold stripe up the skin.
A strangled moan left his throat. You smiled at him, pleased with yourself. It deeply turned you on that you could do whatever you wanted to him, that he’d beg you for anything that you could give him.
His body responded to every ghost of your touch. Your lips trailed his throat, feeling the heat radiating off of him. Occasionally leaving lingering marks and bites until you made your way up his jaw.
“Is this what you wanted, Spence?” You teased as you put your hand around his thick shaft.
“Yes,” he moaned, his head falling back against the headboard. “Exactly that.”
You pumped his length in a steady rhythm, flicking your palm to enhance the sensation.
“You’re doing so good for me, baby. Such a pretty boy. Your cock is so hard and ready for me.”
He shivered at your words. He didn’t know how he got so lucky to have you hovering above him, breasts swaying with every movement of your hand. You were so good to him. When his gaze blinked from your breasts to your face, seeing you seductively smile but your eyes radiating a gentle sweetness, he started wondering if there might really be a God. You were too heavenly to be here on Earth, pleasing him like there was no better enjoyment in life.
Your eyes were fixed on his cock, watching his precum gather at the tip. You circled the sensitive skin with a soft stroke of your thumb. Spencer used the momentary distraction to dive in, his lips catching around your nipple. “Oh god,” you gasped in pleasure, the sensation going straight to your core. His tongue made quick work of stimulating the nub. His cheeks were hollowed as he sucked, giving his everything for the mere moments he might get of tasting you.
Spencer was internally grateful when you didn’t stop him. As a matter of fact, your fingers knotted through his hair as you tugged him closer to you. It helped him keep his balance as his still tied hands clenched around the air.
He continued his kisses to the rest of your breast once he was confident enough that you wouldn’t tell him to stop. He sucked on the soft, full flesh, leaving marks that would remind you of this moment days from now.
“Look at you sucking on my tits. You’re so desperate, aren’t you? Such a little slut for me.”
He moaned around your nipple, a wave of need fluttering through your stomach. You pulled on his hair, sharp enough to leave a pleasurable sting of pain. “Look at me.”
Wide doe eyes met yours. “‘m sorry.”
“Too distracted by having my tits in your face to look me in the eyes, huh?”
“Sorry, you’re just too pretty,” he truthfully muttered, eyes fleetly falling onto your breasts before blinking back up.
He looked so pretty like this. A red flush painting his neck and cheeks. His lips were just as swollen and red as he pouted at you. A smug smile lingered on your face, and you pulled him back in, leaning forward to not have him stretch his neck too far. The kiss was sloppy, hungry. You were not able to tell whether his whimpers were because of the kiss, or because of your touch as your hand had found its way back to his cock.
You fastened the motions of your wrist. His mouth was parted, a pretty song of whines escaping. You sucked down on his bottom lip, mirroring the action he always did when kissing you.
“Oh, baby.” The moan came out in a gasp. His hips started stuttering, stomach clenching as he neared his release.
“Are you almost there, Spencer?”
“Yes! I’m almost there, I’m almost there baby. Please don’t stop.”
You released your grip on him. His length remained hard, standing upright as if you were still holding him.
The desperate cry that left his lips should have made you feel bad. Instead, you found yourself getting even more turned on. Sure that your thighs were slick with your wetness by now.
“Why—why did you do that?” He whimpered accusingly, as if betrayed. “I was so close.”
“Ah, I know, baby,” you faux pouted. You had to bite your lip to hold back a sadistic smile as you noticed his glossy eyes, looking more green than they usually were.
“I’m just keeping you to your promise,” you reminded him. He tilted his head like a confused puppy. “When you told me you’d always make sure to make me come first.”
“But we weren’t—”
“Uh, uh, uh,” you shushed him, index finger pressed to his lips. “Don’t you want to please me?”
He softly kissed your finger, “Of course I do.”
“Then start using your mouth for better things than complaining,” you cooed at him before carefully standing up on the bed, making your way forward until his face was right below your cunt. Spencer wiggled on the sheets until he lay flat on his back, arms in a bit of an uncomfortable position, but not enough to bother him as he had a perfect view of your dripping pussy.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered in a prayer. You softly chuckled, bending your legs so that they were spread on either side of his face. Slowly, you lowered yourself until his tongue, which was already sticking out, made contact with your folds. You hissed at the sensation, your clit throbbing in the same way it always did before he ate you out.
He started lapping at your pussy, gathering your sweet slickness and spreading it over the lips. He flicked his tongue over your inner lips before sucking on them. As much as Spencer adored giving you the reins, nothing compared to the shaky, uncontrollable whimpers that left your mouth. Sounds that were made because of him. Sounds that were made for him.
“Keep making those sounds, sweet girl,” he mumbled against your pussy, the vibrations echoing through your body.
After more worshipping kisses to your cunt, his lips finally settled down on your clit. Your back arched when he started sucking on the sensitive button while simultaneously pressing on it with the tip of his tongue. He truly was your toy, no silicone object giving you the ecstasy that he could give you.
“Oh God, Spencer. You’re so good at this,” you stated in a heavy breath. The feeling of your orgasm coming up was close to overwhelming, and you were whimpering as your vision hazed.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes. Oh, fuck, I’m—”
You weren’t able to finish your sentence, instead crying out a moan as your release hit you. Your legs started shaking uncontrollably, your pussy pressed even harder against his mouth as you rode out the aftershocks, muffling his deep moans. The feel of his nose against your overstimulated cunt was dizzying.
“I need to lie down,” you said, out of breath. Shaky Bambi legs as you climbed off of him. Your body didn’t allow you to move much further. Settling on lying down on top of his body, spreading your legs to give his achingly hard cock room to breathe.
Your cheek rested against his sweaty chest. Spencer reached out to trace your face, huffing in annoyance when he remembered his hands were still tied behind his back.
He hummed when you pressed a wet kiss to his chest. “Finish for me, baby.”
Then you squeezed your thighs together. Spencer swallowed when he realized what you meant. His cock was enveloped between your plush thighs, and when he experimentally lifted his hips, he discovered how good the act felt.
“Jesus, that’s nice,” he groaned.
Wasting no time, he started pumping his hips up, using your thighs as a cocksleeve. The wetness that was gathered on your inner thighs (and was still dripping out of your pussy) working as lube.
Your fingertips lazily trailed over his chest. “Doing so good for me, baby. Show me how good you can make yourself feel.”
He nodded, a whine leaving his lips as he fastened his speed. His eyes were transfixed on the curve of your ass, craning his neck to get a better look.
He’s never experienced a feeling as sentimental as this. The rough pleasure of the sex mixed with the gentleness of your head resting against him. He couldn’t get closer to Heaven than this.
“You feel so good,” he whined. “You’re not stopping me this time. Right?” He asked for confirmation, his voice shaking in doubt.
You laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest. “That really took a toll on you, huh? I won’t, I promise.”
The slight tension in his body resolved. Making him feel enough at ease to let go. He placed his feet firmly on the bed, using his knees to lift himself up, making you let out a yelp as he fucked your thighs.
The silk wasn’t enough to hold him back, the fabric tearing as he moved his wrists. His hands immediately found your head, holding you against him as his hips stuttered. Your moans were entangled in each other as he spilled his cum all over your ass.
His stomach clenched underneath you, and you soothingly shushed him. Reassuringly caressing his chest and shoulders as he came down from his height.
-`♡´-
“You okay?” You softly mumbled once his heartbeat had calmed down.
He nodded, a lazy smile displayed on his lips. “I’m okay.”
“I wasn’t too rough with you. Was I?”
“No,” he answered, holding you closely against him. “You were perfect.”
i can fix him (no really guys… i can)
i can fix him - spencer reid x fem!reader
reader makes it her entire life's purpose to restore the spark she's sure spencer reid used to have before prison turned him gray but it doesn't quite work out...
genre: angst with some smut wc: 1.3k warnings: post prison but no spoilers, grumpy x sunshine, sunshine!reader, age gap (reader is 25), lowkey enemies to lovers, spence chokes an unsub, sex used as manipulation, unprotected sex, teasing a/n: anon request!!! based on i can fix him (no really i can)
“He hasn’t been the same since he got out.”
The words rang delicately in the back of your busy brain like a constant dial tone. A conversation with Penelope brought forth a realization in you.
When you joined the BAU, replacing the youngest member with your fresh face and a childish desire to make the world a better place, you thought of Spencer Reid as untouchable. He was rational, scientific, gathering all of his beliefs from the articles he cherished. He was right, always. Every last syllable that left his chapped but plush lips was guaranteed to be the uttermost truth. Cited, sourced, and verified.
At first, it was irritating and unbearable. You couldn’t say one word without an infuriating, “actually,” following.
The fact that he practically ignored your existence didn’t help.
It wasn’t until an enlightening comment that your view changed.
“A day in a prison, how fun,” you had said.
Garcia, ever the one to gossip, had replied with, “yeah, poor Reid, I wonder if he’s going today.”
“Well, why wouldn’t he be?”
“You don’t know. Oh, you don’t know!”
Her eyebrows raised as her mouth gaped. But then she looked away, as if telling herself to keep quiet. “He should really be the one to tell you. Or Emily! Even–uh–okay, okay, I'll tell you!”
And so you sat, wide-eyed and shocked at the things she described so easily. All of it was bad. She had mentioned his mom and drugs which honestly left you confused.
Every time you looked at him, you saw the shadow of a man he has every right to be. You saw a heart that could grow three sizes if given reason.
You knew he wasn’t always this way. You could see it every time his eyes lit up when he was about to lay some new information on the team. Right before he was shut down.
Because nobody really cared about the guy who only has seventy-two items to his name (including his underwear).
You saw the way he looked at you.
With a longing–a pondering that you found yourself wanting to know its meaning.
The rest of the team communicated their impression with how wise you were despite your amount of acquired wax candles.
He never blinked.
You figured it had to do with his already large amount of knowledge. But it felt like more. Every time you contributed to a case with a smile that proved your pride, he stared at your profile almost like he could picture the day you would dwindle. And he never once allowed an UnSub to come near you.
It was like he couldn’t figure out if he wanted to protect your innocence or ruin it altogether.
Something that used to infuriate you now seemed so… insignificant.
It was wrong, you knew, to be feeling so sad for a grown man, but it came on its own. His random facts now intrigued you.
You were sure he picked up on the change in your demeanor. Because he changed too.
When you laughed at an unfunny joke, his lips would curl into this nervous but confused half-frown-half-smile that you were now determined to make last.
And so, with the knowledge that your very own laughter cracked his tough armor, you decided to take it further. You wanted him to be who he was before all the hurt. You knew you could bring back his spark if you tried hard enough.
An optimist at heart you were.
It started how it was destined to–with a convincing kiss.
Strategically, you asked for help with organizing your bookshelf. A few lingering glances and he was right where you wanted him.
Your lips met and you knew your plan would work.
Spencer was touch starved. The second you straddled him, he was yours.
All of him crumbled the first night he spent in your bed.
And then he never left your side.
Like a puppy, he followed you around and did everything you said.
It started with small things. You asked him to smile more, say “good morning” to Anderson, and remember that bad people will still be bad even if he stays the night at the BAU.
It worked too.
He was happier. He made jokes, he laughed, he did physics magic.
You trained him almost like a dog, praising him after every time he did something nice for someone else. Because–according to Garcia–he came to work and went home unlike how he used to be.
Since you, a younger, outgoing adult, forced yourself on him, he came out a bit.
O’Keefe’s was now familiar with him. Thanks to you, that is.
And, of course, an older man, you didn’t mind. Spencer was older, experienced. He made you feel grown. And you could fix him. You turned a cold, antisocial man into a silly, awkward man again.
But there were still setbacks.
For one, he allowed his anger to come through when he thought you were in danger.
There was a day where an UnSub was taking young girls who reminded him of his ex. You just so happened to resemble that ex perfectly.
When you cleared the bathroom, you forgot to check behind the shower curtain. A mistake you were sure had been made before quickly put you in the way of Spencer. His hand had wrapped around the guy’s throat so hard you thought he might actually kill him. Apprehending him against the hard tile wall, his eyes met yours in a silent scolding.
The EMT’s fingers brushed the wound on your forehead as she bandaged the cut. Spencer’s converse came into view but you didn’t look up.
Not until he spoke.
“Are you… okay?”
Two pairs of glass eyes met and you watched as his struggled not to dwell on the bandaid. “I’m fine,” you said.
But you resented how he couldn’t be the version of himself the world deserved.
For months, he’d been perfect, how come he couldn’t stay that way?
Your twenty-five-year-old brain wasn’t enough to fix the much older man in front of you. You thought that if he smelled enough strawberry lip gloss he’d change and become a boyfriend. Yet that change never happened. He didn’t seem as grumpy or isolated, sure, but it wasn’t enough for you.
You strived to fix him.
You remembered the first time you slept together.
“What are you doing?” Spencer asked, rolling his eyes.
You simply hummed, pressing another kiss to his jaw. “I was thinking… maybe… we could have some alone time? Just the two of us. Before O’Keefe’s?”
“I already told you I’m not going to the bar.”
“Maybe you’ll change your mind? Be nice to a few people? I’ll make it worth your while…”
Another sloppy kiss to his neck.
“How about that?” you inquired softly.
No answer came, only a harsh kiss. His tongue parted your lips and his hands slid under your skirt. In a second, your panties were pushed over. His belt went to the floor.
You wasted absolutely no time in running yourself over him and sinking down immediately onto his length.
Spencer’s mouth dropped as he grabbed your ass. It burned every time he slammed into your cervix but you took it, because the look on his face was everything. Groans left him every time your hips met.
A quick, frenzied pace was set. It was pathetic how fast he unravelled.
Furrowed brows and a scrunched nose gave away how long he was going to last.
“Already close?” you teased.
“God–”
And he was coming inside you, messing your skirt effectively. But you couldn’t resist.
You felt him throb as your hips rose and fell slower. “Stop it,” he croaked.
Graciously, you nodded, pressing a sticky kiss to his lips. Your head found a resting place on his shoulder.
“O’Keefe’s?” you suggested after a few beats.
Of course, he agreed.
Because who was he to disagree with you?
me if joyce and hopper don't get together this season :
𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: there’s a stranger living in your body. after a traumatic experience, you shed your own identity and adopt another—one that belongs to the sister of your captor. while spencer fights desperately to restore your lost memories, the rest of the team decides to use the piece of a person that lives within you to catch the unsub.
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: continuation of metamorphosis, spencer reid x fem!bau reader, split narrative, amnesia and loss of identity, cult, hotch acts like a total bitch but it is explained later, a vague, even imprecise description of a psychiatric facility, forgive me for all the inconsistencies and plot simplifications because there are plenty of them lol (same goes for those few corny moments)
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 15k
𝐚/𝐧: sorry it took e so long to write the second part—it required a lot of planning. to make your reading more fun, you can use my reading game and see if you manage to get bingo <33 the biggest thanks to my dear @angellic4l not only coming up with this title but also for the overall help with planning, and to @mggslover for holding my hand during this difficult labour...
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/ˈkrɪs.əl.ɪs/ a moth or butterfly at the stage of development when it is covered by a hard case before it becomes an adult insect with wings or the case itself
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I am Lydia.
The cardboard box landed on the counter, accidentally knocking over a piece of paper, which Spencer didn’t even notice. Instead, he began placing the first items inside—items he honestly hadn’t expected to be so numerous. Choosing the first one proved immensely difficult. He paced the walls of his apartment, feeling as if his feet weren’t even touching the floor.
I am Lydia.
Bringing small, personal items is a therapeutic practice often used in cases of amnesia or identity disorders. Their presence, touch, and smell can sometimes break through the walls built in the mind of a person suffering from memory loss, shattering them and allowing everything that had once been separated to flood in like water through a broken dam. In theory, it sounded logical, even simple. In practice, someone had to choose the right items.
I am Lydia.
Even though days had passed since he saw her empty gaze settle on his face and her lips form that sentence, so certain of its truth, it still haunted him.
The kidnapping, the torture, the pretending—it had all completely broken her mentally, causing her to truly adopt the identity of her captors’ sister. She genuinely believed she had become her. First, she spent some time in the hospital to regain her strength, but very quickly—in fact, it was only the fourth day since her escape—she was transferred to a specialized psychiatric facility for federal agents.
And now he was about to visit her for the first time.
Reid spent the most time choosing the first item. Well, initially, he had only planned to bring one. One small thing—something that wouldn’t overwhelm her. He settled on her badge.
The moment his fingers gently lifted it, opened it, and his gaze fell on her expressionless face in the photo, he seemed to slip into a trance. She didn’t remember who she was, for heaven’s sake. The badge itself wasn’t a talisman that would magically restore all the lost years, names, faces, and relationships. So he decided to take something else too.
The earrings Penelope had given her for her birthday—her favorites, though their shape and color meant she never wore them to work, not wanting them to clash with her professional demeanor.
An old, used ticket to a musical she had already seen, still pinned to her fridge.
A handmade card from their godson, Henry.
A book he had given her, its pages filled with two distinct handwritings—their separate annotations intertwining between the lines, overlapping at times like strands of hair in a braid.
Photos—all the photos he could find.
Before he knew it, he needed a box to take everything with him.
"Seriously, Spence?" JJ’s eyes widened in surprise as he slid into her car and set the box on the floor, reaching for his seatbelt. He avoided her gaze—just a little. "I’m not even sure they’ll let you in with that much stuff."
He shrugged. It was morning; they had arranged the day before to go together. Actually, it was JJ who had offered. Not only did she not want either of them to face this alone, but she also still seemed to feel a bit guilty for blaming him for her abduction.
He wasn’t offended. Not because he thought she didn’t have the right to blame him, but more because his mind was currently consumed by a much greater worry.
"Well, as long as I’m not bringing anything dangerous."
"They still might say it’s too much," she said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. She took in his hunched, exhausted shoulders, the tension in his body—like he was bracing for a blow, caught in a state of perpetual waiting. For things to get better. Or worse.
She didn’t look much better herself, deep shadows under her eyes, but she was holding it together. JJ always held it together. Spencer sometimes caught himself wondering what it would take to truly break her—then immediately shut the thought down the moment he reached the obvious answer. It made him feel sick, and he refused to go there.
Suddenly, she pressed her lips together. "At least, I think so. I’ve never been there. Never..."
Her eyes fixed on the road. She had never had a reason to go.
When they finally pulled up to the facility and Spencer grabbed the box, JJ hesitated for a moment before stepping out of the car.
"We only have thirty minutes," she announced.
Spencer’s brows shot up in surprise, his mouth opening in protest, but she pressed her lips together—almost apologetically.
"I know it’s basically nothing," she admitted, "but Hotch wants us back at the office after. We’re starting a new case."
He already knew that.
Which didn’t mean it didn’t feel like a fucking joke.
After they got her out of the oil rig, the surviving kidnapper—Lavinia—had escaped. She reached a boat before the police helicopter hovered over the scene, something they hadn't been aware of at the time. After that, she vanished without a trace.
They should have been looking for her. She was a serial abductor, a murderer. She had nearly drained her of blood—had done it to other women before. But the official stance was that, after losing both her siblings—including her sister’s body—Lavinia had also lost whatever force had been driving her crimes. She wasn’t a danger to civilians, they said. She would rather disappear than strike again.
And in the meantime, there were other cases, more urgent ones. People abducted, children held captive—where hours, even minutes, could tip the scales between life and death. That was the nature of the job. Priorities. Because they couldn’t save everyone.
Spencer understood that. But he couldn’t just let her stay free. Neither could the rest of the BAU.
So they worked the case after hours, burning through sleepless nights.
It wasn’t like the FBI had entirely abandoned the search. Lavinia was a wanted fugitive. The first day after her escape, dozens of roads had been shut down, the entire country put on high alert. Airports had been monitored, all the usual places checked.
But Reid had a feeling it wouldn’t matter.
She was too smart. Too careful. Too experienced at running.
They wouldn’t find her in a location.
They had to find that location in her mind.
"Are you sure you can handle this?" she asked quietly as they got out of the car. She looked at him carefully her expression gentle, almost cautious. "You know, going in there, seeing her..."
"JJ, I could ask you the same thing," he cut in dryly. He didn’t like the way she was treating him like someone who needed to be handled with care. "Even if I'm not ready, it doesn’t matter. If she’s going to get her memories back, she needs to see the people she knew."
"I know. Her therapist said the same thing. I just want to make sure you're okay."
"Let's just go."
She gave him a long look, sighed, and let it go.
The moment he stepped over the threshold, a strange feeling washed over him. It didn’t surprise him—he even knew its name, which, given how common the term had become, wasn’t exactly impressive. Just a déjà vu. Recognition without recollection.
Just like JJ, he had never been to this place before. But his brain still reached for a memory that felt almost identical, if he really thought about it. Someone close to him, memory loss, hospital visits—the more he let his mind go down that path, the less prepared he felt, which was completely irrational.
And Spencer deeply hated when things in his life didn’t fit within his personal definition of logic. He felt uneasy dealing with things beyond its reach. He felt uneasy then.
But he was already standing right in front of her door, which was slowly opening before them, and there was no turning back.
"Lydia, like I told you, you have visitors," the facility worker announced.
JJ looked at him, pale. His jaw also tensed when he heard the name the worker had used.
“It’s meant to reach her and gain her trust,” he explained to his friend in a whisper, the words barely making it past his clenched teeth.
He already knew he would simply speak to her without using any name at all. Nothing else would physically make it past his lips—more likely, it would get stuck in his throat and choke him first.
He adjusted his grip on the box. The room didn’t resemble a hospital ward; in fact, it was a rather cozy space with large windows and an abundance of flowers. Soft turquoise walls, dark flooring, a wooden floor lamp with a slightly old-fashioned shade adding a touch of character, and a small bookshelf filled with books. Spencer felt relieved that she hadn’t been placed in a setting that visually resembled the one where she had been held captive.
Before he managed to find her with his gaze, he exchanged one last glance with JJ. He gave her a small nod. It was okay. She nodded back.
The woman standing by the window turned to face her visitors. She was already dressed in casual, comfortable clothes instead of the ones she had been given at the hospital. Because of that, and the cozy decor of the room, she could have passed for an ordinary person, surprised by friends dropping by unannounced. For a brief moment Spencer felt exactly that way—like it was their day off, and he had just stopped by without warning, only for her to open the door with a pleasantly surprised expression, happy to see him, glad she had no other plans.
Recognition without recollection.
He had to shake off that feeling. But he didn't do it himself—her face did it for him. Marked by healing wounds and entirely indifferent to the sight of her friends. In fact, her gaze barely lingered on them before shifting uncertainly toward her therapist, thumb brushing against her lips. She lightly bit down on her nail—a reaction to stress.
She never used to bite her nails.
"These are your friends," the therapist informed her, stepping slightly to the side as if to encourage her to focus on Spencer and JJ. "You might not remember them. They just dropped by to talk, to see you."
Slowly, she looked at JJ first, then at him.
He caught himself overanalyzing her every smallest gesture and movement, searching for something familiar. If she were herself, her eyes would have gone to the box first. A foreign object, yes, but held by someone she knew, someone she was friends with, someone she saw almost every day—the box would have instinctively drawn her gaze.
But instead, she looked at him first. A stranger standing in her room. Only then did she glance at what he was holding.
"I can stay if you feel like you need me to," he continued. "But if you'd rather I leave..."
"Stay," she finally spoke.
Though her voice was quiet, Spencer heard her with an almost heightened frequency. Each syllable distinct, separate, rather than a fluid sound.
The therapist nodded but subtly shifted into the corner, giving them space to talk.
Spencer met her gaze and tried to speak, but no words came out.
"I'm JJ," his friend finally said, stepping forward toward the woman she used to greet with a hug and a kiss on the cheek on various occasions.
This time, she extended a stiff hand instead.
"Jennifer Jareau, actually. Or maybe...maybe you know who I am?"
She didn't answer. And by not answering, she didn't deny it either. And so, Spencer felt a surge of a naive hope.
"Should I?" she asked.
JJ closed her eyes longer than a normal blink, trying not to show how much it affected her. Meanwhile, Spencer was staring at the box—at a pair of colorful earrings lying on the cover of the book he had picked up. Only then did he notice its title. A Case of Identity by Arthur Conan Doyle.
Oh, fuck you, coincidence. Do you always have to mock everything?
"And I'm Spencer Reid," he replied after a brief silence from all sides. He tucked the box under his arm so he could also shake her hand. That seemed like the right thing to do—touch from familiar people might help her remember them.
Her hand wrapped around his uncertainly, lightly, as if testing the waters.
"These are, um, things that might interest you. They..." He hesitated, unsure if he should phrase it that way. But pretending she truly wasn’t herself didn’t seem particularly helpful in the process of recovering her memory.
She was herself—just buried deep within.
And they had to reach for her slowly, subtly.
"They belong to you."
Her lips parted in surprise.
He handed her the box, and she stared at it, bewildered, yet drawn to it.
His heart pounded faster, and he struggled to swallow, his throat suddenly tight.
Unmoving, he watched—along with JJ and the therapist—as she sat down on the bed and silently examined the items.
Each of them, in their own way, hoped for a breakthrough.
The musical tickets confused her. The earrings, she simply called pretty. When she picked up the book, she only glanced at the cover before setting it aside without a trace of interest.
“Where did you get these?” she asked. “You said they were mine, but that’s not true. I’ve never seen them before.”
Before anyone could respond, her fingers caught one of the many photographs.
“Oh, that’s you. Oh, this boy…” she sighed, surprised at the sight of Henry’s picture.
JJ shifted uneasily, her face lighting up with something close to hope.
“He looks just like my brother when we were kids. Same hair.” She let out a quiet chuckle before tossing the photos back into the box.
"You don’t—" Spencer started, his tone almost sharp, surprising even himself.
He had meant to say You don’t have a brother, but he managed to stop himself. So did JJ’s hand, gently reaching for his forearm in a subtle gesture of restraint.
He drew in a deep breath, wincing slightly.
"You have no idea what a smart kid he is. His name is Henry."
She nodded, her gaze drifting between him and JJ.
"Your son?"
"My son," JJ corrected gently.
She let go of his forearm, but before she did, her eyes flicked to his watch. And the time.
"Spence, we have to go," she murmured.
He looked at her in surprise, then at his watch.
She was right—the small window of time allotted for their visit was nearly up.
He couldn’t even begin to articulate how deeply disappointed he felt. He hadn’t expected her to recognize them immediately, but he had hoped for something—some flicker of familiarity. A gesture, an expression, a phrase she used to say. Or at the very least, some tension, some sign that deep down, something inside her was fighting to surface.
Instead, she acted like a stranger who had stolen his friend’s face.
After they said their goodbyes—or rather, after JJ said goodbye, because he hadn’t managed to—they walked out into the hallway in silence.
He was too shaken, too numb. His body felt disconnected from his mind, moving only out of ingrained habit. If his muscles hadn’t carried him forward automatically, he might have collapsed face-first onto the floor.
“It was the first meeting,” JJ said after a long moment. “With time…with time, it’ll get better.”
Spencer only looked at her, wanting nothing more than to believe that.
ʚଓ
He wanted to visit her the next day, and the one after that, but something always got in the way.
Specifically, work.
Over twenty-four hours on high alert during an attempt to rescue a kidnapped child—an attempt that not only failed but ended in tragedy, with the unsub still at large. His eyes burned from exhaustion, and the edges of objects blurred if he stared at one spot for too long. When he finally decided he couldn't push through any longer (the first of his three standard milestones before completely collapsing), Hotch assigned him to an interrogation.
They had managed to track down several people from whom Lavinia and Leon had been acquiring medications and medical equipment. Spencer personally considered it a waste of time; he was convinced that no one knew where the woman they were searching for was—except for herself, of course. But he couldn’t exactly refuse an order, so he headed to the dimly lit interrogation room, feeling as though his tie was slowly strangling him.
During the questioning, he inadvertently managed to extract a piece of information from one of the men. It didn't necessarily bring them closer to catching Lavinia, but it was something that absolutely warranted FBI follow-up. That alone took hours, and in the meantime, at least twice, the rest of the team consulted him about their current unsub’s profile (the second of his three standard milestones before completely collapsing).
And when it was already late at night, there was still the report.
Hotch had made it clear that he wanted to see it on his desk before either of them left the office.
So, Spencer hovered over the documents, their pages tinted yellow under the glow of the desk lamp. The ticking of the clock filled the silence, and in his exhaustion—pushed to the point of absurdity—his brain started generating the sound of a cricket chirping, as if bitterly and ironically emphasizing its opinion on this amount of work and staying this late.
He was dangerously close to the third milestone, so he took a detour around logic.
Instead of finishing the report and going home, he started procrastinating—his chin resting on his hand, a pen in his fingers feeling as heavy as a barbell. They always had packed schedules, but this was starting to get excessive. Suspiciously excessive.
There was a high probability that exhaustion alone was making him unusually receptive to conspiracy theories, but that didn’t change the fact that one had started to take shape in his mind— as if it didn’t already have enough to deal with.
Either he was imagining it, or the boss showed up with another task at the exact moment he finally managed to finish the last one.
He didn’t suspect Hotch of plotting to work him to death. But he did suspect—just a little—that he wanted to keep him at the office as long as possible.
And that’s where the conspiracy part began.
It crept into his mind hesitantly, uncertainly, suggesting that maybe—just maybe—this was meant to keep him from visiting her again.
Why?
Well, no logical explanation came to mind, though he tried hard to find one. He clung to the thought. It wouldn’t leave him alone. Was it just a tool to stretch out this hazy, half-dreaming moment of procrastination, or was there actually something to it?
He never answered that question because then, someone knocked on his office door.
He quickly pulled the barely started report closer and pretended to be engrossed in it as Rossi walked in, a leather jacket slung over his shoulder.
"Have you even eaten anything today?" Rossi asked.
"Nice to see you too.
The older man stepped closer to his desk and placed a triangular sandwich in a plastic container on it. Spencer regarded it with mild surprise, but before he could thank him, Rossi spoke again.
"You've been here way too long," he noted. "I know you're using work to avoid thinking about everything that's going on. I get it, really, but you're going to burn yourself out, Reid."
Spencer gave a small shake of his head—not an energetic denial, just the barest movement.
"It's not like that," he refuted. "Not this time. I want to go home, but Hotch told me to finish this report."
"He could've had anyone else do it, seeing the state you're in."
"I'm not in any—"
Rossi cut him off with a sharp scoff.
"Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately?"
For a moment, Spencer just stared at him, exhausted eyes dull and unblinking. Then, without a word, he reached for the sandwich, his fingers trembling slightly from an excess of caffeine. Rossi sighed because, of course, he had noticed.
"How I look is the least of my concerns right now," Spencer muttered.
"This isn’t about anyone’s sense of aesthetics, though, forgive me for saying this—you look like hell. It’s about what’s happening to you."
He paused, waiting for Spencer to say something, but he simply stuffed his mouth with the sandwich, so Rossi decided to continue. He spared him the lecture about his health, though.
"What about her? Any progress?"
The food started to swell in his mouth, and he struggled to swallow it. The reason was simple. Guilt.
"I've only seen her once," he admitted. The thought gnawed at him. In a way, it was because of him that she had been kidnapped, he hadn’t done anything to save her, and after everything, he hadn’t even been there for her. Friend of the year, truly. The best she could have ever wished for. He felt the need to justify himself in Rossi’s eyes. To make sure he didn’t think he was avoiding her because he was too weak to face it. "But that’s only because I practically live here."
Rossi nodded, watching him analytically.
"From what I’ve heard, though, there hasn’t been any improvement," Spencer added after a moment.
"These things take time. But she’ll pull through soon, trust me."
"I don’t understand it," Reid blurted out, his voice slightly louder, shedding its usual apathetic tone. It had been festering inside him for days, growing, and he didn’t know why it chose to escalate and escape right then, in that dimly lit office—but he let it.
"She was holding up so well…I mean, what she went through was horrific, and I’d do anything to keep her from experiencing it…We watched those streams, you saw them too. She was pretending to be Lydia, I thought, No I didn't think she was actually becoming her…If that were true, she wouldn’t have done what she did then…”
"As you said, she’s been through a lot," Rossi replied, watching him with quiet concern. Because of course, Spencer’s voice had faltered as he got the words out, and with exhaustion clinging to him so completely, he must have looked like nothing more than a pathetic, broken mess. “Trauma finally caught up to her. Before, she was too focused on surviving. But now she’s safe. She has access to professional help, she has us, she has you. She’ll be okay,” he tried to reassure him. “Go home.”
“What?”
Reid froze, thinking he must have misheard.
“I said, go home. Get some rest. I’ll finish the report for you.”
“No, Rossi, you can’t—”
“As it happens, I can. I’d rather stay late for one evening than have to watch you in this state again tomorrow,” Rossi said, taking advantage of Reid’s surprise to snatch the report from right under his nose. He let out a chuckle when it became clear the report was practically blank.
At Reid’s incredulous look, he just shrugged. “What? I mean it. Go home. And tomorrow, I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you can go see her. Even if it means yelling at Hotch.”
He hesitantly rose from behind his desk, his gaze still fixed on it. He could see from Rossi’s expression that he was sincere, that he truly cared about him—and that feeling tightened something in his chest.
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Then don’t. Just go. Seriously, get the hell out.”
For the first time in days, a faint smile appeared on his lips. He grabbed his half-eaten sandwich and reached for the bag waiting for him beside his desk. Just as he slung it over his shoulder and cast one last grateful glance at Rossi before heading toward the door, they opened—without his doing.
In other words, they opened because someone else had stepped inside.
At the sight of Hotch, he froze, his fingers tightening anxiously around the strap of his bag.
At the sight of JJ standing behind him, his brow furrowed in deep confusion.
The two of them, here, at this hour? Right at the moment he was about to dump his responsibilities onto Rossi? Sometimes, fate really seemed to hate him.
"I need a word with you," Hotch announced, his face as unreadable as ever.
He didn’t seem surprised to see another team member there. JJ, on the other hand, was avoiding his gaze, her arms stiffly crossed over her chest. They both stepped inside, forcing Spencer to take a step back.
"Oh, Aaron, give it a rest already," Rossi sighed, rolling his eyes. "Just look at him. He looks like he’s about to drop dead any second now, and he probably will. It was cruel to make him stay in the first place—"
"Dave, this will only take a moment," Hotch cut him off.
"What is this about?" Spencer asked, his voice hoarse.
He was exhausted, desperate to go home, but he couldn't suppress his curiosity. Or the worry creeping in as he thought about it more. A chill ran down his spine, making him stand a little straighter. Had something happened? Was it about her? Had she regained her memory?No, judging by their expressions…
"I think we have an idea on how to catch Lavinia," JJ spoke up, glancing at her boss from the corner of her eye.
She seemed tense, almost hesitant, and Spencer couldn't help but wonder if this was truly a plan they had come up with together. What exactly did it entail to make her react this way?
"But it will require…uh, it will require—"
"We want her to hold a press conference," Hotch clarified for her, pausing to let the weight of his words fully register with Reid.
It didn’t.
Spencer had no idea what he meant. Neither did Rossi, who crossed his arms over his chest and silently mouthed what?
"We'll make sure it's broadcasted on every possible channel. Wherever Lavinia is, she's likely keeping track of the news and any police activity related to her," JJ continued, running her fingers through her hair in thought. "When she sees that she has her sister's identity… we're assuming she'll believe her ritual was a success, that Lydia truly has been reborn in her body."
Either due to exhaustion or because the plan simply made no sense, he struggled to follow their reasoning. But the longer he sat in silence, analyzing it, the more he started to grasp what they were trying to convey.
"But," Rossi began, crossing his arms. "Let's assume she does believe that. Then what? How exactly does that help us catch her?"
"Lavinia lost her brother and was left alone," Hotch said. "And for her, their sibling bond was always the most important thing. We believe she's delusional enough to actually believe this—more than that, to come back for someone she thinks is her sister. But she's also cautious and will likely consider the possibiity that we're setting a trap."
"Which means we need to plan this carefully. As... as Lydia, she has to be convincing. She needs to mention something only the two of them would know..."
Spencer raised his eyebrows higher and higher at the blonde woman.
"And how exactly is she supposed to do that if she's not Lydia and doesn't have that information?"
"Oh, c’mon, Garcia will definitely be able to dig up some details from their childhood. Besides, she spent some time with the twins. Leon told her a lot about them. She just needs to agree to say what we've rehearsed with her beforehand. And that's where we might have a problem—she might not want her sister, or well, someone who thinks she's her sister, to get caught”
JJ paused for a moment, her gaze locking with his, catching his eye.
"You need to help me convince her," she asked.
For a brief moment, Spencer stood motionless, unsure of how to respond. Rossi didn’t seem to know what to say either. The two of them had managed to explain the plan reasonably well, but when he tried to imagine her in front of cameras, talking about her sister as if she truly was Lydia, as if she had really been reborn in her body, he felt a wave of nausea. He shook his head in disbelief.
“No. No, no, no way,” he started repeating, even though he wasn’t quite sure how to justify it yet. No, and that was it. “This…this is like encouraging her to stay Lydia. To stay without her true identity. What if it makes her condition worse?”
“It’s just one press conference. Alright, maybe two. Enough to gain Lavinia’s trust and suggest a place where they could meet. So far, there hasn’t been any progress, nothing we could undo or waste. At least…at least maybe we can catch the person who did this to her.”
Her words hurt because, in a way, she was right. There hadn’t been any progress they could ruin. However, that didn’t mean he was going to agree to it. The small chance, the risky and somewhat flawed plan to catch Lavinia, shouldn’t matter more than the potential harm it could cause to her, their best friend. They should be helping her regain her memories, not feeding her head with new, false ones that didn’t belong to her and forcing her to speak of them convincingly, reinforcing the identity of an imposter.
"It will hurt her," he said quietly, trying to reach JJ, even though it was clear she had doubts too. She had to—this was about the godmother of her son. He clung to the belief that she had those doubts. He looked at both of them, including Hotch, who, it seemed, briefly lowered his gaze. "Do you really want to risk her health?"
He hesitated before responding. Spencer had long given up on deluding himself that he truly understood the emotions hidden behind that serious facade.
“We’ll consult with her therapist,” he finally decided. “But if he agrees, then that’s exactly what we’ll do. No matter your personal doubts.”
He exchanged glances with both of them before they left the room. JJ looked as though she wanted to stay and discuss it with him one more time, but his expression made it clear that he wasn't up for it, and she relented.
The only thing he wanted now was to go home. Thank goodness Rossi had agreed to finish that report for him.
ʚଓ
“She did something bad, didn’t she?” she asked. “That’s why you’re looking for her. And that’s why you want me to help you.”
She was sitting on her bed at the facility, one of the available books left open beside her when they walked in. She looked at JJ with clear distrust. The moment they brought up Lavinia, she tensed, and her responses became sharper, as if she was determined to defend her sister at all costs.
Spencer stood a few steps away, arms crossed over his chest, listening more than actively participating in the conversation. As always, he found himself staring at her. The injuries on her face were healing, and in theory, she should have been looking more familiar to him. But it was the opposite. Even in silence, she no longer resembled the person he once knew.
Missing someone who was right there beside you was something truly difficult to describe. He could say that the feeling only grew stronger the more time he spent with her, which felt almost paradoxical. When he visited her, he spoke little. He simply couldn’t bear the way she answered his questions or addressed him, treating him like a complete stranger.
He berated himself for it in his thoughts. She wouldn’t remember who she was if he didn’t communicate with her. On top of that, he was placing the entire burden of this situation on JJ. He rubbed his temples, feeling the growing pulse within them. Thanks to Rossi, he had managed to get home a little earlier, but that didn’t mean he had gotten any sleep. The thoughts and worries haunting him weren’t the kind he could simply jot down in the journal on his nightstand, pour out of himself, and empty his mind in the process. They had long since seeped into it.
He still didn’t trust the plan to capture Lavinia, even though he had agreed to go with JJ to the facility to discuss it with her. Deep down, he hoped she would refuse.
“You’re right,” JJ said after a moment of careful thought, choosing her words with great precision. “She did something wrong, something that can’t be undone. But running only makes things worse. If she comes back on her own, the consequences will be far less severe. Someone has to convince her, and we thought you would be the best person for that,” she paused, her lips trembling before she forced out the next words. “As her sister.”
He watched as the woman swallowed, hesitation nesting in the corners of her face. Spencer, looking at her, tried to pierce into her mind and decipher the inner monologue unfolding within. What did it look like from the inside? Did she truly believe she had become someone else, or was there a lingering feeling that something was off?
How far would he have to go, wander, and search to stumble upon the remnants of her true identity—something that could be rebuilt and revived?
The sound of a phone ringing broke the silence. JJ reached into her pocket and whispered a quick apology before stepping out into the hallway, leaving them alone.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. An unpleasant feeling coiled in his stomach.
"You can sit," she finally said, nodding toward the spot their friend had occupied just seconds ago. "If you want."
"I’m fine," he replied.
A moment later, he sat down.
Something strange began to weigh down the air the moment he did. Physically, he was close to her, yet for once, physical proximity did not define reality—it deceived it. They were far apart, so far that he had no idea what to say. What to talk about with her.
"If Lavinia comes back," she suddenly began, shifting her gaze to him and fixing it on his face. Did something in her subconscious recognize him? "Will I be able to see her?"
He hesitated before answering. If he denied it—if he truthfully said that if Lavinia came back, she would never leave prison again—he would likely cause her to refuse. Hotch’s entire plan would collapse before it even began because she wouldn’t agree to take part in the press conference.
“Yes,” he finally forced out, against his better judgment. He didn’t know what had tipped the scale. He had been ready to observe his team’s scheme from the sidelines, yet he couldn’t face her alone. “If it works. And she comes back.”
For a moment, her expression blurred, her gaze unfocused. She must have been lost in the vision of seeing her sister again—he could almost swear the corners of her lips lifted in a dreamy, longing way. He looked away, unable to watch as the thought of someone who had hurt her so deeply evoked a better reaction than seeing him did.
JJ still hadn’t returned—she must have received an important call. They sat in silence. His gaze landed on the cardboard box in the corner of the room, the one filled with the things he had brought her. He recalled the frantic state he had been in while packing it, grabbing item after item, hoping they would help restore her memory. They had failed. Maybe they had never had that kind of power to begin with. Maybe he should try himself instead of relying on keepsakes.
“H-how…how do you feel here?” he asked at last, hesitating. “I mean…in this place.”
She seemed surprised that he was starting a conversation with her. She studied him for a moment without saying a word, then shrugged slightly.
“It’s nice here,” she said. There was a lot of emptiness between her words. There wasn’t much more she could say when she wasn’t there entirely by choice. Or even fully understood why she was there. “Just a little boring. I mostly read.”
He felt even guiltier for not spending more time with her. He was just about to speak when she added:
“And I really miss my siblings.”
Spencer stayed silent, not knowing how to respond. He got angry every time she said something like that—not at her, of course, but at everything that had happened to her, everything that had led her to this state.
“It’s good that you have books,” he said quietly. “Have you read the one I gave you?”
She furrowed her brows before finally remembering.
“Oh, that one. No, sorry. I don’t think it’s really my thing. What about you? Do you like it?”
He nodded.
"One of my favorites."
"Maybe I should give it a chance, then," she mused.
Spencer nodded again. He remembered the annotations in it, the small pencil notes in the margins. They had both written down what they thought the solution to the mystery would be.
"I think you'll like it. It's Sherlock Holmes."
"Then no wonder it's one of your favorites. I mean, you're with the police, right?"
"With the FBI."
"And you're here, visiting me, because something happened to me."
He froze on the spot, not expecting the conversation to take this turn. Was she starting to remember something? He struggled to find words, so he just nodded again. The pressure inside him grew, tightening his chest and buzzing in his head.
"Yeah. Yeah, that's why...Do you remember anything?"
He hoped she would hesitate, that something would start to break through the fog clouding her mind. He waited for her answer, his gaze locked onto her with quiet desperation.
She shook her head.
"Nothing at all," she said.
Spencer couldn't hold back a disappointed sigh, and at the sound of it, she flinched slightly.
"I'm sorry."
Their eyes met and held for a long moment.
He was about to say she had nothing to be sorry for—that none of this was her fault—but something in her gaze stopped him. There was sadness there, the kind you don’t direct at a stranger. Unless, of course, you're a natural-born empath. But usually, it's just a trace of pity, dusted with awkward sympathy.
With her, it was genuine sorrow. And something else.
She looked away.
"I'm back," JJ announced, stepping through the doorway and tucking her phone into the pocket of her jeans.
Her eyes landed on them, sitting side by side. It was clear what they had been talking about. For a brief second, her expression brightened—but then she caught sight of their faces and hesitated, momentarily thrown off.
"It was...a call about the conference happening tomorrow," she explained. "The one we really want you to be part of."
A moment of silence stretched between them as JJ cast a meaningful look at the woman sitting beside him.
For a second, it was impossible to tell what she was going to say. Would she refuse, realizing that their main goal was to capture her sister? Or would the need to see her again win out? And, more importantly, had she believed him earlier?
"What do you want me to say?" she asked.
Her tone sounded like agreement.
Spencer exchanged a glance with JJ, wondering if she truly believed they were doing the right thing.
"We'll give you a script and go over everything with you, so don't worry," JJ assured her. "We just need to know...hm...we need to know if you and Lavinia had any places that were important to you as siblings…”
They spent another hour at the facility, listening to her suggestions—her memories, or at least what she believed to be memories.
She knew a surprising amount.
And the worst part was that she spoke with such conviction, as if she genuinely believed she had lived through it all.
ʚଓ
You had never been in front of cameras before.
Or rather, you had once, a long time ago, but the experience was so small and insignificant that it had disappeared from your memory. You had never stood in front of cameras knowing that everything—your face, your voice, your body language, your behavior—would be broadcast on national television.
You were incredibly nervous, despite all the preparation. You didn’t have to think about what to say; you simply followed the guidelines given to you by the agents working with you. They handed you the script that you had built together. They told you that Lavinia might not believe you were really her sister, which seemed absurd to you. Why wouldn’t she believe it? You were family. You came from the same womb, and you had always, always trusted each other. No one provided you with an explanation, and eventually, you gave up on the questions, focusing on other things instead.
Your words had to be planned. They had to form a code, one that could only be understood by her, for her. There were going to be two conferences. In the first, you only had to introduce yourself. Show that you were truly yourself, whatever that meant. In the second... they hadn’t explained that to you yet. But they had asked about some place that only you two knew about. You didn’t understand why, but you felt a strange emptiness in your head when they asked. The more you thought about it, the more anxiety gripped your body. What if you couldn’t name any place? What if you never saw your sister?
Finally, you managed to force out the name of your family’s hometown. The last foster family you were sent to. You hadn’t been there long, only two years, but it was the only place that truly felt like home.
"Please, be honest with me. Did I do well?" you asked, looking at the blonde woman.
JJ, as they called her.
She bit her lip, hesitating before answering. It was right after the conference, and she had taken you for a walk outside the center so you could clear your head a little. It was nice to finally leave that strange place. The trees were much more beautiful when you could walk past them instead of being confined to watching them through a window. Why did you have to stay there? Why couldn’t you just go back to...you didn’t even know where. To Lavinia, you could have said.
"Well, it was clear you were stressed," she started, and you frowned, so she quickly added, "But don’t worry. It’s normal, anyone would be stressed in your shoes. The important thing is that you got all the necessary information across. In two days, you'll have another conference, and I'm sure you'll do better then."
For a moment, you stared at her in silence. It seemed like she wasn’t telling you the whole truth. That, secretly, she was dissatisfied. in fact, it always felt like you weren’t getting access to the full truth. There were always these unspoken things, doubts. People even looked at you in a strange way. Her and that other agent.
Oh, especially him. Although looked was too strong a word. He avoided your gaze. Spencer, the surname slipped your mind. Spence, JJ called him.
She didn't form an opinion about either of them, but while she could say that JJ was nice and seemed to care about her, she couldn't say the same about him. He appeared less often, spoke little, and when he did, it seemed like he forced himself to say each word, holding back a grimace every time she opened her mouth. However, he stared at her when he thought she wasn't looking.
How should she interpret such behavior? The more she tried to understand it, the more she thought about him, and when she did, a buzzing filled her head, like the sound you get from awkwardly adjusting a radio dial.
JJ’s phone started ringing, and with a sigh, she reached into her jeans pocket, murmuring apologies under her breath.
You decided to focus on the walk, pushing aside thoughts of the press conference, of finding Lavinia, and of the peculiar agent for a brief moment. It wasn’t like they wouldn’t let you leave the four walls of your room entirely. You just couldn’t leave the building alone, and while someone always accompanied you, with JJ by your side, you felt much less watched. More at ease.
“What? What happened?” she asked, pressing the phone tighter to her ear. Suddenly, her eyes widened. “Oh. I understand, I understand, I’m so sorry. It’s just…Will’s not home, would you be able to...yes? Thank you...”
You watched with curiosity as she tucked the phone away. She seemed slightly shaken, but not completely rattled.
“It’s the neighbor who was supposed to take care of my little one,” she explained, noticing the look on your face. “She called because her mom was admitted to the hospital...My husband is also at work, so I asked her to drop him off here. Hope it’s not an issue if we head back a little earlier?”
You felt a bit disappointed, but understood that these things happened. You shook your head in denial and soon, you both turned back toward the center. Within minutes of walking, a car pulled up beside you, and a small boy jumped out. The woman behind the wheel offered a few more apologies before driving off.
JJ looked at her son, then at you. She swallowed and made a sound, as though searching for the right words, probably about to introduce you, but the blond-haired boy beat her to it.
In fact, he threw himself into your arms.
“Auntie!” he exclaimed joyfully, colliding with you, his little body crashing against yours.
At first, you completely froze in place, not expecting this at all. But as the initial shock passed, or rather just a fraction of a second earlier, you reacted almost instinctively, holding the boy tightly and closing your eyes with a strange feeling of relief in your chest.
When you opened your eyes, you immediately caught JJ’s gaze.
You hold it for too long, and by then, you already knew she knew.
ʚଓ
"Are you leaving?"
Spencer didn’t freeze upon hearing his boss’s question. In fact, he was—he had finished his work and had every right to do so. He slung his bag over his shoulder and gave a confirming nod.
"As you can see."
The coldness in his tone had long since slipped out of his control. He was too tired for anger, so he stuck to his short, sharp replies and cynically thrown statements, all while ignoring the echoing question in his mind if was this behavior leading him anywhere?
"Reid," Hotch called him back before he could take even a single step away. Lately, it seemed like he was constantly holding back a tired sigh. Well, with one of their team members suffering from memory loss, a serial killer still on the loose, and yet another case just beginning, it was taking a toll on all of them.
"I have to ask you not to visit her today."
He remained silent for a moment before letting out a short laugh. He wasn’t particularly surprised to hear something like that from Hotch. Well, he would have been once. But lately, things had changed a lot between them.
"There's another press conference tomorrow," Hotch explained, watching his reaction without so much as blinking. "She did terribly at the last one. I assume you're aware of that. If we want everything to go according to plan—"
"We have to keep letting her believe she's Lydia, resurrected through some ritual," he finished sarcastically. A surge of anger clenched his chest, but it faded quickly, replaced by nothing more than sheer disappointment. That was probably the best word for it.
"This is hurting her. What does it matter if we catch Lavinia if she ends up staying like this forever?"
His voice wavered slightly, and for a brief moment, it seemed like something close to concern flickered in Hotch’s eyes before he pushed it down.
"Recovering memories takes time, Reid. Just because she hasn’t yet—"
"Oh, I’m well aware that it takes time. You don’t need to explain that to me." He exhaled sharply, irritation laced in his tone. "What I also know is that by now, there should have been some progress. Even the smallest sign."
He took a deep breath, recalling the last time he saw her. After that conversation about books—when he thought he'd caught something strange in her expression—he had stuck to his decision and visited her as often as work allowed. He had hoped to dig down to that spark again, to turn it into something bigger. But maybe he had been wrong. Despite the few conversations they’d had since, her eyes still didn’t light up at the sight of him like they once did. There was only unfamiliarity in them.
"Don't you think it might be different if we didn't force her to pretend in front of cameras that she's someone else? Or if you didn’t keep me here until ridiculous hours, making it impossible for her to see the people she actually knows?"
"I'm only keeping you here as long as necessary. And right now, it is very necessary."
"Or," Reid lowered his voice, suddenly aware of the weight of his own words, "you're doing it on purpose, so she doesn't regain her memories too quickly."
A shadow flickered across Hotch’s face.
"Because that wouldn't be convenient for the case."
Reid swallowed. "I thought… I thought you could see us as more than just coworkers, Hotch."
His boss’s jaw tensed, but it didn’t stop him from continuing. Before he spoke again, Spencer took a deep breath, making sure his voice was even lower. If he was going to say this, he was going to be brutally honest.
"Because we’ve always seen you as more than that. As family. At least—I did."
For a moment, they remained motionless before Reid finally tore his gaze away from Hotch’s unreadable face and walked away, not giving him a chance to respond. Not that he thought Hotch would have continued the conversation anyway.
Lowering his eyes to his hands, he realized they were trembling. He clenched them into fists to stop it. He had let out a lot, but it hadn’t brought him any relief. If anything, saying it out loud had made it hurt even more.
He left the office with measured steps, his breathing slightly uneven. Despite the request that had started this conversation—this argument, or rather his own bitter monologue—he decided to go there anyway. To her.
A strange nervousness settled in his chest, a sense of foreboding he couldn’t shake. His desperation had reached its peak. He knew this visit wouldn’t be like the last ones, when he had carefully measured his words, speaking softly so as not to overwhelm or frighten her.
This time, a little turmoil—some real emotion—might be exactly what was needed.
It might be the spark.
He was afraid that Hotch might have made a call revoking his right to visit her. So, upon arriving at the facility, he tried not to draw attention to himself and slipped into her room as discreetly as possible.
She was sitting by the window, a closed book resting on her lap. She wasn’t reading, but the moment she heard the door open, she suddenly grabbed it, as if caught off guard. However, when she saw that it was him, the book fell limply in her hands.
“Um, hi,” she said, showing him the book’s cover. It wasn’t the one they had discussed. “I still haven’t started that one, I’ll admit it. But like I said, I don’t think it’s really for me…”
She trailed off, watching as he approached the small bookshelf and pulled out the book in question—the one filled with their shared notes and annotations.
Gripping it a little too tightly, he sat down across from her.
“But I think it is for you,” he said. His voice came out weak, despite his efforts to keep it steady, despite the storm of emotions raging inside him.
He handed her the book—almost pushed it into her hands.
“Open it.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“On any page. Please.”
It was clear she had no idea what he was getting at or why he was staring at her so intensely. But he wasn’t asking for the impossible—just for her to open a book—so she only sighed quietly and complied, curiosity flickering in her eyes.
She flipped to the first page and started skimming through, too fast and too carelessly.
“Read the margins,” he urged, his voice rough with something dangerously close to pleading. He swallowed hard. “D-do you recognize it?”
The woman remained still, her gaze tracing the pencil-written sentences on the pages. For a moment, Spencer could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart, drowning out everything else.
“You wrote them.”
She let out a surprised scoff and shook her head.
“I’m seeing this for the first time in my life.”
“It’s your handwriting,” he repeated, louder this time. “Yours. Our notes. I gave you this book a while ago. Three years ago. Exactly one thousand one hundr—”
“I’m seeing this for the first time in my life!” she cut him off, raising her voice as well. She lifted her hands as if to cover her face, to steady her breath that was growing too fast, too out of control.
Spencer caught them—too abruptly. She flinched when her skin touched his.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, loosening his grip but not letting go. He simply held her hands as gently as he could, momentarily paralyzed by the sensation. He rarely exchanged handshakes, but when he did, he remembered them vividly. This touch, this specific feeling, was the only thing about her that had remained unchanged.
He smiled faintly, in a way that was both bewildered and heartbreakingly fragile.
The woman remained silent. Her gaze was fixed on their intertwined hands, her chest rising and falling in erratic rhythm.
"Look at them again," he pleaded. "Do you recognize them? Your handwriting? Your thoughts?" He paused to swallow. "Do you recognize me?"
Their eyes met. Hers were wide, his head tilted slightly in a silent, almost prayerful gesture. And then, gently, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.
For a fleeting moment, he thought he might have imagined it. His breath halted entirely.
"You recognize me?"
"I do," she replied.
She looked down, but not at their hands this time—just away, retreating for a second.
"You're the agent working on my case. Because something happened to me. Something involving my sister. You visit me, so yes, I do recognize you."
All the hope that had begun to build within him shattered. It escaped as a short, broken sound—somewhere between a whimper and a sob of sheer helplessness.
For a moment, he thought it had worked.
That he had her.
That he had her back.
Spencer drew in a breath—he had to.
And then he did something absolutely spontaneous, reckless, unreasonable… in some way, even downright selfish.
For one last time, he lowered his gaze to their hands, shut his eyes, and leaned forward—before logic could catch up to him.
The unexpected pressure of his lips made her freeze. Shock tightened her grip on his hands, but otherwise, she barely moved. Holding her breath—just like him.
For him, it was tied to anticipation, to a foolish sliver of hope.
He had no idea why he, Dr. Spencer Reid, a devoted friend of reason, had chosen such a… fairy-tale-like gesture. Did he truly believe it would work? Some tiny part of him must have. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have done it.
And, God, he almost wanted to laugh at his own stupidity.
But then something happened that stopped him from laughing at himself.
She moved within the kiss—not to return it, but to examine it, almost as if she were testing something. He inhaled sharply through his nose, just as she jerked away from him as if burned, her eyes blazing with fury.
She said something, but he couldn’t hear it over the deafening rush in his ears. It happened. She…
"I want you to leave," the words spilled from her lips—lips he had just kissed.
It was like waking up from a trance. He shook his head.
“N-no, I— but I—”
“Before I call security.”
Spencer stared at her, his eyes wide. She looked straight into them, not avoiding him.For what felt like the thousandth time, he searched for something familiar in them. Anything.
She yanked her hands free from his grasp and nodded toward the door.
ʚଓ
two weeks earlier
Even though you had regained consciousness some time ago, you remained in a state of half-sleep for a while—where sounds around you alternated between growing louder and fading away, where your body sometimes floated on soft waves and at other times lay buried beneath tons of rubble, where your eyelids trembled against the hospital room’s light.
You forced them open with difficulty, immediately colliding with someone’s dark irises. Upon noticing your movement, they softened with fleeting relief—but only for a brief moment.
"It’s good to have you back," he said, though his voice carried no real ease. On the contrary, it was filled with an insistent tension that compelled him to speak again before you could utter a word. You were in a hospital. The events of the past few days began flashing through your mind.
“Am…I…” you started, but your weak, hoarse voice made it barely intelligible. You forced yourself to swallow. “Am I safe now?”
You needed to hear it from someone else to believe it.
Hotch didn’t answer your question. He just stared at you, motionless.
“She escaped,” he stated simply.
A crushing noise filled your ears. How was it possible that she had managed to get away? Just picturing that woman’s face, remembering the suffering she had inflicted on you, sent a jolt through your body.
You gathered every ounce of strength you had—some borrowed on credit—and pushed yourself up into a sitting position so you could look your boss in the eye.
“No.”
You shook your head, refusing to accept this reality. In truth, you wanted to scream—at Hotch, at the team, at everyone involved in the rescue mission for somehow letting this happen. At yourself, for not making sure you’d be free once and for all, the way you had with Leon. His memory flashed too vividly before your eyes—or rather the memory of his shattered skull.
You looked down at your hands. The blood had been washed away.
You almost choked on air as another wave of realization crashed over you.
“No,” you repeated. “We have to do something, Hotch. We have to catch her as soon as possible. Are there even any active searches? What about the airports and—”
“We’ve implemented all necessary procedures,” he assured you. “But keep in mind how cunning an escape artist Lavinia is. We might not be able to track her down right away. And if she refrains from further kidnappings, if she withdraws from the criminal world…”
“You’re telling me we might never catch her?”
Hotch remained silent for a long moment.
“Not exactly,” he finally said. “I’d say we might not be able to catch her using standard methods.”
He had only suggested it. The rest—the entire plan—was almost entirely your creation. The mere thought of Lavinia roaming free somewhere, even far away, made you sick to your stomach. You knew the nausea wouldn’t subside until handcuffs adorned her wrists. Just like the nightmares, the fear, and the lingering psychological terror wouldn’t fade. You were willing to sacrifice a lot.
In a way, even your own identity.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Hotch asked, once everything had been decided. "Do you really think you can pull off being Lydia? Enough to fool her own sister?"
You nodded without hesitation.
For a moment, he just stared at you, searching for any sign of doubt. Though he was a man of reason and logic, in crisis situations, he could commit to even the most reckless plans—if he saw a glimmer of hope, even the slightest chance of success.
"Hotch," you called out just before he stepped away from your bed, before he could leave the room.
Your throat felt dry again.
This next part—this next decision—you weren’t as sure about. But there was no time for hesitation. You had to trust your instincts. They had saved your life before.
"This stays between us."
His face flickered with surprise.
"If I’m going to become her, I need to believe it, at least in part," you explained. "I have to immerse myself as fully as possible. I can’t do that if every one around me knows the truth and keeps treating me like me. That’s why you can’t tell anyone."
"Not even…?"
Alone in the room, you touched your lips.
Spencer had just left—or rather, you had made him leave.
You had to.
You couldn't allow the mask you'd so carefully crafted to slip, even a little. Yet every time you spoke to him, it loosened, piece by piece. That was why you had asked Hotch to keep him away, to make sure he wouldn’t visit you again. When he agreed, when he kept the two of you apart, you knew there was no turning back. You were fully committed to the plan now.
At some point, you caught yourself linking Lavinia with the concept of a sister, losing track of your own reality, getting tangled in the web of your own thoughts and memories.
It had gone too far.
The only thing that stopped you from completely losing yourself was the conversation you'd had a few days ago, right before your first press conference. That conversation had been both a relief and a disappointment.
Because of it, you'd faltered.
And in this plan, everything depended on you.
You couldn’t afford another mistake.
Meanwhile, tomorrow's press conference loomed, and you sat by the window, an open book resting on your lap, still feeling the ghost of his lips on yours.
Your mind was clear. Sharp.
More aware of who you were—who you really were—than ever before.
Fuck.
ʚଓ
"If Lavinia watched the last press conference—and let’s hope she did—she’ll probably watch this one too," JJ muttered, standing across from you in the room where you were getting ready. Neither of you met the other's gaze, like two bullets that would explode on impact, tearing everything apart. "She probably already suspects you’re trying to send her a message, but she won’t think the FBI is involved. You need to mention the town where she and Lydia grew up, but subtly. Don’t say the name outright, just hint at it, maybe—"
"The town where we grew up," you cut in.
The words felt strange in your mouth. Just yesterday, calling Lydia yourself had been instinctive, as natural as breathing. But then Spencer happened. Then that stupid kiss happened. And after that, nothing felt natural anymore.
JJ’s correction made her look you in the eyes for the first time since she had figured it out—since your reaction to Henry hgging you had given you away.
You knew Hotch had let her in on the plan and ordered her not to tell anyone. But that didn’t mean she supported your actions. In fact, once the initial shock and relief had passed, all that was left was anger. Until now, she hadn’t allowed herself to explode or confront you.
Until now.
“How…how can you even do this?” she snapped suddenly, shaking her head in genuine disbelief. “Lying to us like this, playing a role while we’re all worried about you. Me, Derek, Emily, Penelope…” She started listing the team membersbut the last name got caught in her throat. She didn’t say it with frustration—just a quiet, precise accusation. “Spencer. Do you even know what he’s going through? And can you imagine how he’ll react when he…”
"And do you have any idea what I’m going through?" you hissed, completely breaking character. "Knowing that the woman who kidnapped me, tortured me, made me take care of a dead body, tried to drain my blood, and nearly killed me is still out there, living free?"
You scolded yourself immediately, ordered to get back into the act. The press conference was starting in just a few minutes—you had to stay in character. But it was unbelievably difficult when your best friend didn’t even seem to try to understand your situation.
"And you really think this is the only way to catch her?" JJ pressed. "This was reckless from the start—"
"It’s not the only way, but it’s the one I chose," you cut her off. "And trusting my own plans, relying on myself and my instincts, is what saved my life. When you couldn’t. So, forgive me for sticking with what works."
Her eyes remained wide open, her chest still, as if she had forgotten how to breathe. When she finally tried to draw air into her lungs, her whole body trembled.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to steady the shaking inside. You had hoped that letting out the anger—so deeply tied to who you were—would help you set it aside. At least for the duration of the press conference.
You both knew it was time to leave the room. JJ seemed to be waiting for you to turn toward the door.
"You could have at least told us," she said quietly.
Your hand closed around the doorknob, holding it too tightly, for too long.
For a moment, you were back in that small, freezing room where Lydia’s body had lain. Her hair fanned out over the pillow, the teeth of a comb gently untangling each strand. Her wrists, marked by wounds. The door that never opened. The closet where you had spent an entire day—the only way to survive the cold without freezing to death.
"No," you said simply. "I couldn’t."
ʚଓ
Spencer had a feeling that JJ had been acting strangely for a while now.
It was hard to pinpoint whether it had been like this from the very beginning. Ever since this whole thing started, they hadn’t actually spent much time together. Most hours, he was buried in work. Sure, they usually went to the facility together, but during those moments, his mind was occupied with other things—not with analyzing whatever was hidden in her expression.
They found themselves facing each other across the jet, separated only by a table and some sort of barricade that seemed to have appeared relatively recently. She avoided his gaze. Her answers were more general, but then she would almost as if reconsidering, add something after the pause. It was as though she was aware that her behavior betrayed whatever it was she was hiding, and she was desperately trying to mask it. The thing was, it was too late.
Or maybe she was just tired, like all of them, like him. Or maybe it was him slipping into paranoia again. What could she possibly be hiding from him? His gaze involuntarily shifted to Prentiss, sipping her coffee.. For a long time, he had struggled to forgive them for the lie, but eventually, he understood that it had been necessary. The circumstances had justified it. But now? What is happening now?
He was quickly distracted by the sight of someone else. The whole team was present on the jet, including her. During the conference, she had done what they asked of her, subtly encoding the message in the meeting. They hoped that Lavinia, driven by the desire to reunite with her beloved sister—who had been brought back from the dead—would not only understand it, but also respond by showing up at the brief location mentioned.
Asheville was a city in North Carolina, where the triplets had been taken in by one of the many foster families throughout their lives. It was said to have truly been their home, the only place where they hadn’t experienced the cruelty of another human being, someone who was supposed to care for them.
Spencer watched her staring out of the window. Of course, she believed it was her first time flying on a jet. She sat directly across from Prentiss, who, by the way, had initially been against bringing her along. In the end, they hadn’t taken her for her knowledge of the area, which she clearly didn’t have, but to possibly lure Lavinia in.
"The couple that adopted them back then is no longer acting as foster parents to anyone," Morgan sat down next to them, his nose buried in the prepared files, flipping through them with little emotion. "The siblings spent exactly three years with them, from the age of fifteen to eighteen. After that, their trail goes cold until the first kidnapping. Doesn’t it make you wonder what happened to them during that time?"
Spencer shrugged. He didn’t feel very present in his body.
“Maybe they’ll answer that question for us,” JJ muttered. Of course, they had planned to interrogate them. “Assuming they know themselves. What exactly do they do, by the way?”
Mrs. Thomas opened the door for them, pressing a hand to her chest at the sight of the FBI on her doorstep. She was dressed in a brown button-up dress with a simple pattern, fastened high at the neck. She appeared outwardly elegant, but Spencer noticed that the fabric of her dress was visibly wrinkled, her eyes looked tired, and her face was gaunt.
“My husband isn’t home,” she announced almost immediately. Then, suddenly, her lips parted in alarm. “Oh, God, did something happen to him…?”
Morgan quickly reassured her with a gesture of his hand.
“This is about something else entirely. Actually, we’d just like to talk.”
They were invited inside. JJ accompanied them as well, while the rest of the team had been assigned to other tasks related to the search for Lavinia. Also, someone also had to keep an eye on her. Of course, they couldn't bring her to the Thomases. To them, she would be nothing more than a stranger claiming to be their former foster child.
When the woman was asked about the triplets, her face showed a tense expression, not entirely decipherable but clearly strained.
“Did you keep in touch after they reached adulthood?” JJ asked at one point during the conversation, as they were led into a living room filled almost entirely with dark mahogany furniture.
“Our paths diverged,” she stated curtly. Most of her responses followed the same pattern—brief and carefully measured.
"Has any of them tried to contact you recently?"
She watched Spencer closely as he glanced around the room. He wasn’t doing it out of nosiness—it was simply a profiler’s instinct. He always paid great attention to his surroundings, fully aware that clues could sometimes be found in the deepest corners of a home.
"You just asked if we kept in touch, and my answer was no. So I think it’s not hard to figure out that my answer to this question will be exactly the same."
There was no television inside. He wondered if she kept up with the news, if she had heard about the recent events and the ongoing search for Lavinia. He exchanged a meaningful glance with Morgan. She had taken on a passive-aggressive stance, seeming more than just displeased with their presence. Not even displeased—stressed.
“Mrs. Thomas, what made you decide to become foster parents all those years ago?” Reid asked, slipping his hands into the pockets of his blazer.
It wasn’t directly related to why they had come, but he needed to loosen her tongue somehow—perhaps get her to share something important, even by accident. The woman let out a short sigh before answering.
“My husband and I were never able to have children.”
“So you decided to take in three teenagers at once?”
“That’s admirable,” JJ interjected immediately, shooting him a look. “I mean, a huge responsibility, but also a beautiful gesture.”
The woman looked at her blankly.
When asked further questions about the siblings, she answered only as much as she had to, avoiding any details.
Yes, they were fifteen when they came to us. Yes, they were exceptionally close. Smart kids, always looking out for each other. Their mother died in childbirth. Their father abandoned them, as far as we know.
At that last part, her clasped hands tightened, causing her knuckles to turn slightly white.
Morgan raised his eyebrows.
JJ kept the conversation going while Spencer moved closer to a large bookshelf filled with books and what looked like typical family memorabilia. He could feel Mrs. Thomas’s gaze on his back.
His attention was drawn to a photograph of none other than the three blond-haired triplets, nearly indistinguishable from one another. Their hair fell to their shoulders, the only difference being their facial expressions. Lydia had a gentle smile, Lavinia stared straight into the camera, and Leon’s gaze wandered elsewhere.
They were all dressed in identical white garments resembling tunics and stood in front of a poster, partially obscuring a purple inscription in the background.
“They were the first children you and your husband decided to foster… and also the last,” JJ continued. “Was there a reason for that? Did they cause any issues that might have influenced your decision not to take in more children in the future…?”
Her voice faded as Spencer’s mind suddenly sharpened. A few pieces of information clawed at the edges of his memory, begging to be released from one of the countless overstuffed filing cabinets in his head.
Morgan stepped closer, intrigued by Spencer’s abrupt stillness. When he glanced at the photo, he didn’t see anything particularly noteworthy. He even picked up the frame, turning it slightly in his hands.
“It’s from a summer camp,” Mrs. Thomas explained quickly when she saw what had captured their attention. “We sent them there every year.”
“Reid?” JJ started, taking a step toward him.
Spencer looked at the photo again, at the words on the poster above the children’s heads.
“Do you guys know what The Chrysalis Fellowship was?” he asked, fixing a pointed stare on Mrs. Thomas.
He saw her inhale sharply.
Morgan shrugged.
“Never heard of it.”
“No surprise. It wasn’t exactly a big case,” Spencer replied, crossing his arms.
His friends were visibly perplexed by his reaction, but they understood that he had stumbled upon something significant. They watched him with anticipation and tension.
“But it was definitely not a summer camp,” he continued. “They presented themselves as just another religious gathering, kept a low profile…but in 2001, they drew some media attention when one of their members mysteriously ended up at the bottom of a cliff. Dead, for the record.”
JJ shook her head slightly, still not fully grasping what Spencer was trying to convey.
But Spencer wasn’t looking at her—his gaze was fixed on someone else.
“Mrs. Thomas, for what possible reason would you send the children on summer vacation to a cult?”
The woman fidgeted with the collar of her dress.
"I won't say anything else without a lawyer," she announced weakly.
Spencer heard Morgan sigh heavily behind him. He placed the photo back on the shelf—it was no longer needed.
He was almost certain he knew where Lavinia was hiding.
ʚଓ
The terrain at the foot of the mountains was gently undulating and covered in dense trees. After a longer drive along a narrow, winding road, they reached a place that resembled something between a well-kept neighborhood of a quiet town and an abandoned campground. Seriously.
In a small area, there were a few houses with flat roofs and white walls, some of which bore the first signs of dirt and graying. However, what dominated above them, in terms of sheer numbers, were the trailers, spaced evenly apart, as if they symbolized a former order, a time of past prosperity.
In short, they quickly contacted the rest of the team to inform them of their destination. There was no time to waste. When they asked her to choose a location based on the information she had gathered during her week of being held captive by the twins, which Leon had revealed to her after she manipulated him, she pointed to this town. They assumed she was referring to the foster family's home. However, there was no sign of their missing person inside, and while Mrs. Thomas was hiding a lot, she had not reestablished contact with Lavinia.
But that didn’t mean she wasn’t in the area.
When the three of them arrived at the nearly desolate location, which in its prime had been a thriving congregation with a large number of members, a middle-aged man immediately appeared on the doorstep of one of the houses. He was wearing nothing but a loose white shirt. His light hair reached almost to his shoulder blades, and his face was covered with a few days' worth of darker stubble.
“Hello, my children,” he nodded toward them.
“David Vaughn,” Morgan identified him instantly, thanks to the information Garcia had gathered for them.
The man simply waved his hand.
“You can call me Father.”
“Hell no.”
He didn't seem offended. In fact, his face was constantly adorned with a calm, almost serene expression. Spencer glanced around at the trailers, wondering if anyone actually lived in them. No one else had come out to greet them, and in such closed communities, the arrival of outsiders usually stirred up some general curiosity.
“Let’s get to the point. Is Lavinia Schuyler hiding here?”
The man opened the door to a small white house, standing in the doorway in a welcoming gesture.
“Come in, and we’ll talk.”
Without waiting for another refusal or command to step outside, he simply turned his back and disappeared inside.
After a brief discussion, they decided to follow him. Although, it was more JJ and Morgan doing the talking. Spencer, on the other hand, was completely absorbed in scanning the surrounding trailers, almost as if his gaze could penetrate through the walls and reveal whether Lavinia was hiding inside one of them. He didn’t even realize when his legs instinctively began to follow his friends, or when he found himself inside a cramped, multi-roomed interior. A stale, unpleasant odor hung in the air, and Spencer could confidently say that the owner wasn’t a fan of the activity called cleaning.
David Vaughn, a man once known for his reputation as a spiritual guide, dropped into a chair with such ease, it was as though there weren’t three FBI agents in his home at that very moment.
“So?” he asked cheerfully. “How are we doing this? You listen and stay silent while I speak, or do I speak, but you ask your obvious questions like what were you doing at 8 p.m. on Monday…’”
“We’re here for a different kind of obvious questions,” Spencer replied dryly. “What you were doing at 8 p.m. on Monday, or any other day of the week, is the last thing we care about. Where is she? And I know you know who I’m talking about. They all used to belong to this…”
“Fellowship,” the man finished for him. He scratched under his eye with a touch of nostalgia. “Haven’t said that word out loud in a long time. Ah, the good old days. Then everyone left, and that was that. But I’m not angry. Our lives are a constant journey. We arrive at a place, replenish our supplies, set a new direction. We wander…”
“Enough,” Morgan cut him off, his face expressing deep exhaustion with this nonsensical, pseudo-spiritual babble. “We don’t want to hear your philosophies, we want your answers. Is Lavinia Schuyler hiding here? This place will be searched soon, so you could make this easier for us…”
"Let's start with the fact that there’s no one by the name of Lavinia Schuyler," he said, causing everyone to furrow their brows. He flashed them a grin. "What? As my favorite daughter, she deserves the right to carry my last name. Lavinia Vaughn. Much better."
"Your...daughter?" JJ repeated in disbelief.
Spencer gave a subtle nod, seeing some sense in it.
"Abandoned by their father."
"Abandoned? Please. Life’s a journey, didn’t I mention that? I just moved on. Honestly, I believe children don’t need a father for proper development. A mother is only needed in the very early stages…"
“Back to the point,” Morgan interrupted again, stopping him from drifting off-topic. “Let me ask the right question this time. Is Lavinia Vaughn hiding here…”
“Aren’t you curious how I managed to bring my kids here when they were grown?”
“No, we're only curious about—”
“Well, I've been thinking about it for a long time. I knew they were approaching adulthood, bouncing from one foster home to another. A journey is a journey, but blood is blood, my blood. So I thought, why not? I asked my dear friends, oh, they were so young back then, just joined us, but already showing such loyalty. They did what I asked, of course. Took them in under their roof, sent them to me whenever the chance arose, so they could learn a bit about the world…”
Spencer could tell his friends were, deep down, intrigued by the story. After all, both of them were profilers, and understanding the backstory, discovering the circumstances that shaped a killer, was essential. Even he couldn't bring himself to stop the man, falling to some degree under the sway of his gift for persuasion. He mentally pinched himself when he caught himself in that moment.
Something about this whole situation didn’t sit right with him. Sure, some people were just chatterboxes, and this guy certainly fell into that category, but everything he said felt too calculated. It was as if he knew exactly what type of story would capture their full attention, drawing it to him and away from everything else.
"...they left me when all of this happened. You know, one guy ended up at the bottom of a cliff, and the media swooped in, saying we probably killed him in some cult ritual. Years passed, and my dear Lavinia only reached out to me recently," he suddenly stopped, grinning wide, a madness in his eyes flashing. "I was watching the news, right? She did it. That woman. That woman is now Lydia. Lydia is in her body. Oh, I always knew this girl, my Lavinia, was special. Some didn’t believe me when I said the soul is like blood. That you can transfuse it into another vessel. They thought I was speaking metaphorically, but she really listened to me..."
Spencer caught something out of the corner of his eye. A flash of light in the window, a glimpse of blonde hair. David was talking and talking, distracting them, pulling their attention away from other things. Like Lavinia, who was packing in another room and making her escape through the back door. He nudged Morgan, their eyes met, and without looking out the window, he understood.
They rushed after her, the sound of the man's loud, hysterical laughter echoing in their ears, a sound that would linger long after.
Reid’s heart pounded against his chest as, for a brief moment, he feared that when they reached the outside, Lavinia would already be gone. Her trail would vanish like it had on the drilling platform, and they would never catch her again. And he would be to blame—he would always be so, so guilty.
He stopped so suddenly that his body nearly collapsed.
But contrary to his dark visions, she was there. She was there, with a backpack slung over one shoulder, her hands raised high, frozen in place as someone had her at gunpoint, preventing her from fleeing any further.
The rest of the team arrived, and the person pointing the gun at Lavinia wasn’t Rossi, Prentiss, or Hotch.
It was her.
ʚଓ
Watching the woman who had nearly taken your life—and had certainly cursed it forever—being loaded into a car with her hands cuffed behind her back was both therapeutic and surreal.
A part of you felt relief, while the other hadn’t yet grasped the reality of the situation enough to fully process it.
Something heavy slid off your chest, but instead of crashing to the ground with a deafening thud, it dissolved into quiet.
Peace.
You hadn’t known that peace, relief, and respite—these supposedly positive emotions—could be so overwhelming that they left you frozen in place.
Someone appeared at your side.
JJ offered you a small smile. There was still a trace of lingering anger in her eyes, the remnants of her inability to understand your decision, the open disapproval that hadn’t faded and wouldn’t for a long time. But in that brief moment, above all else, she was simply relieved that it was finally over.
Her touch on your arm was hesitant, as if she were testing whether you were still yourself.
You looked at her in silence for a moment—then threw your arms around her neck.
You heard her inhale sharply in surprise.
And you didn’t even focus on the gazes fixed on you—until they became unbearable.
The first one you caught.
Hotch, nodding at you gently. As if confirming that it was over.
You almost smiled.
It was true. It was over.
So why did it still feel like something was weighing on you?
Then you caught the second gaze.
Spencer looked as if staying on his feet was a struggle. And yet, he managed to move—his expression a mask of merciless emptiness—as he closed the distance between you.
You felt your body beginning to crumble in JJ’s arms.
You stepped away before you could drag her down with you.
He stopped a step away from you, at a painfully close distance—technically, you could reach out and touch him. Do something you had wanted to do every single day and night spent on the oil rig. That is—to reach for him. In a way, it symbolized an escape for you. A return to what was good, constant, and safe.
You knew, however, that he wouldn't allow it. He would reject any attempt you made, for the lies you surrounded yourself with were dangerously toxic—they could taint and damage him.
He shook his head from side to side, clearly uncertain of what to say.
"All this time," he finally began. Quiet, but not weak.
A sigh escaped JJ’s lips. Her gaze wandered between both of your faces.
"Maybe we shouldn't talk about this now. Maybe we should first—"
"And you knew too. Of course, you knew."
From the very beginning, you knew that when the moment of revealing the great truth came, looking him in the eyes again would be unimaginably difficult. You had also suspected that words would fail you, and that’s exactly what happened. Nothing seemed right. You couldn’t apologize, because you didn’t feel guilty. I mean, you did, in a way. You felt guilty for hurting him like this, but at the same time, you were ready to admit without hesitation that even if you could go back in time, you would still do the same thing, because it meant catching Lavinia.
“I had to do this,” you finally said.
Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it. He clenched his jaw. Nodded. In a way that not only showed he didn’t understand, but also that he couldn’t forgive.
ʚଓ
Twelve months had passed.
In the blink of an eye, they say. Well, if there was an opposite to that saying, it would fit your situation perfectly. Every day, week, and month carried the weight of everything that had happened since the moment the syringe with the sedative first pierced your neck. You were facing not only the trauma left by the abduction but also the consequences of pretending to be someone else and lying to those closest to you in such an elaborate way.
You got involved in Lavinia's case, making sure you'd never have to chase her again. You took temporary leave—your psyche simply needed it.
And as you began healing from within, you could reach further.
Most of the team pretended to accept what you had done, to be ready to move forward. Pretended, perhaps even wanting to believe it was truly over. But in their minds, you would always be trusted a little less. By pretending to be Lydia, you wanted them to believe you were a stranger. And in a way, that's exactly what happened. You would always remain slightly different, distant, to them.
With Spencer, things were particularly difficult. For a time, he simply cut himself off from you. When disappearing seemed like the easier option for him, you felt quite the opposite. You preferred to stay close, even if it meant hurting each other with those prolonged moments of tension, resentment, and the painful silence of unspoken accusations.
But what happened was that, for a time, you simply disappeared from each other's lives. You fell back into them by sheer accident. Well, actually, not such a clean accident. The Christmas party held at Rossi's house took you by surprise when you received the invitation. Spencer probably didn’t expect to see you there either. Ironically, you both arrived at the same time, and without a word, he held the door open for the two of you.
You didn’t talk about it, but over the next year, these small things and gestures, progressing with the passage of time, seemed to reintroduce you to each other. At one point, you were laughing together, not just the two of you, but with the whole team, yet it didn’t change the fact that the joyful sound was coming from both of you at the same time. There was a moment when you watched your godson play on the swings, and the silence between you no longer gave you that painful, guilt-ridden knot in your stomach.
Then, on your birthday, you sat side by side in the theater. A year earlier, he had given you tickets for the musical you’d always wanted to see. They had been lost, for obvious reasons.
Before it even started, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye.
"I never said sorry," you suddenly announced.
Spencer turned toward you, his gaze filled with surprise. You, too, didn’t know where that came from. Maybe it had been nesting inside you for a long time, and you chose that moment because you realized that for the next two hours, out of respect for those around you, you wouldn’t be able to talk. And the words would have to echo in the way they should.
He shook his head.
"You don’t have to."
"But I do. You can’t forgive someone if they never say they’re sorry."
A sigh escaped his lips, and after a long moment of hesitation, he reached for your hand. You flinched when it happened, so unaccustomed to his touch.
"I think I’ve already forgiven you," he finally said, turning his face slightly toward you. His gaze fell on your hands, barely visible in the dark theater. Just the faint outline of knuckles against the blackness. Somehow, you could hear him swallow.
"I’m just not sure if I’ll ever be able to trust you again."
The musical began, and your hands remained entwined until the very end.
ERIKA YOU DIRTY GIRL
and fav s1 dom spencer truther 💁♀️
𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦 | 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐝
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!Reader Category: Smut 18+ MDNI Summary: You have several (stereotypical) assumptions about your nerdy coworker; he proves how wrong you are about them. Content: 3.2k, early season dom!Spencer Reid, bratty reader, reader has hair that can be put in a ponytail, brat taming, BDSM dynamics, sensation play (feather tickler hehe), reader is ticklish, spanking, making out, thigh riding, coworkers hooking up (are we even fucking surprised), hopefully still soft and sweet and hot. a/n: Listen I know I keep saying I’m taking a break but unfortunately I’m ovulating HARD; this is the last one for May, but there will be a part 2, I’m already planning it. I wrote this completely piss drunk (my friends can probably share screenshots as proof oops) and then sobered up enough to edit (might have missed some stuff). Based on a request that Tumblr ate 😭 but basically, BAU reader teases Spencer about sex only to find out he's a kinky BDSM dom. Hope u enjoy!
“What would you know about BDSM?” The question, spoken with a carefree laugh and just a hint of condescension, is directed at your coworker, who is currently stirring copious amounts of sugar into his coffee beside you.
Dressed in a tweed blazer that overwhelms his slight frame, Spencer Reid only tilts his head to the side, honey eyes keen and flashing with something you can’t quite place. You lean against the counter in the pantry, intrigued by his response. You’d expected a blush, chin tipping down, hair falling over his pretty eyes, lips uttering bashful, stuttering words.
Not… this. Regarding you with a frank, unblinking calm that has you shifting in place.
“Oh, right,” you roll your eyes teasingly, unwilling to let him see how easily his nonplussed reaction has fractured your easygoing facade, “You’ve read about it extensively, haven’t you? What do psychology textbooks have to say about whips and blindfolds, Dr. Reid?”
“Quite a lot,” he replies with a serenity that unnerves, “Some attribute it to the feeling of being safely back inside the womb.”
You scoff, “Right, because thinking of your mother during bondage is so sexy.”
“But,” he presses on, narrowing his eyes at you, patient but warning, “There’s often explanations that go hand in hand with biology. Deprivation of one sense tends to heighten the other. Physical restriction offers the same feeling, which then leads to altered states of pleasure. In a more emotional sense, surrendering your power to a partner communicates the highest level of trust, offering a deeper sense of intimacy for some people.”
So he does know a lot about it. Still, you don’t drop your teasing grin as you reply, “God, how do you manage to make BDSM sound so clinical?”
“Because it is a little clinical, if I’m just explaining it in polite conversation. The communication is better enjoyed if the actions match.
“Is that so?”
“Mhm hmm,” he smiles, dimples flashing, a show of innocence. A mask.
“And this information is from experience?” you tease.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
His tone carries implication and it settles upon your stomach, heavy and warm. That makes you perk up, but you fight the urge to show your intrigue. Instead, you scoff, “As if there’s anything to know.”
He’s quiet. Sipping at his coffee, honey eyes twinkling over the rim of his mug. It’s infuriating.
“No way.” you huff, finally breaking. The lightness of teasing leaves your voice, shifting to something darker, more accusatory, “You expect me to believe you have experience? In BDSM?”
“Announce it to the entire office, why don’t you?”
You pause, looking at him almost in betrayal. Really, how could you not? Spencer Reid, who looks like his nose would start bleeding from the slightest sexual attention from a living, breathing person, has BDSM experience? The man who wears sweater vests and slicks his hair back like he’s a seventy year old librarian? You survey him today, in all of his rumpled, mismatched glory, trying to find one hint of his apparent favored pastimes.
He looks almost smug as he meets your gaze, cocking his head to the side.
“No way.” you repeat.
“You possess an awfully limited vocabulary for today.”
“Shut up, stop pulling my leg,” your eyes narrow suspiciously, still in disbelief.
“I’m not pulling your leg,” he says, allowing a small, almost imperceptible smirk to curve up his lips for one split second, before his face gets hidden by the coffee cup again.
“Prove it, then.”
The words startle both of you, but you’re stubborn enough to see it through. Meeting his gaze with a confidence that would seem sincere to the untrained eye, but Spencer has worked with you long enough to know it’s all bravado.
He looks at you, unsure. “Prove it?”
“Look who's vocabulary is limited now.”
He scoffs and lowers his voice, “I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into.”
“I know what I’m getting into, I’m a grown woman, thanks.”
“Then I’ll fax you a copy of my rules. If they still seem like something you’d want to try out, come to my apartment Saturday night—that is, if we aren’t called in for a case.”
You shrug, the perfect picture of nonchalance. “Great, sounds like a plan. Don’t forget to fax.” You both know he wouldn’t.
By some universal twist of fate, that Saturday is devoid of any last minute cases. You spend the whole morning poring over the sixteen-page document that Spencer had sent over on Friday, reading through the risks—a lot of which you already know from your own research—his specific set of rules, and what he’d normally allow for a beginner. You don’t have the same perfect memory he does, but you’re sure you’ve memorized everything by the time you knock at his apartment.
“So you came,” he says, offering you a cool glass of lemonade, looking perfectly at ease as he leads you into his bedroom.
“Of course,” you say, looking around as you sip on the drink, taking it all in, “I was serious when I said prove it.” It’s dim, but nothing else is inside that rouses suspicion. It looks completely normal—a neat bed, a messy desk, haphazard piles of books—until your eyes land on the items on the dresser.
Silk ties. A paddle. Something that looks similar to a feather duster, but you assume it’s made with a different activity in mind. Your cheeks are aflame.
“You know the safe word?”
“Yes. Jupiter—you’re such a nerd, by the way.”
He laughs, taking you half finished glass and setting it down. “Do you have any objections to the terms I’d laid out? Additions?”
“I just need you to make a promise.”
“For what?”
“That this stays between us.” You face him, searching his eyes for any deceit. It’s always a risk, being a woman and engaging in anything that could be considered deviant, especially in an environment like the BAU, which is honestly a glorified boy’s club.
“You have my word. Everything that we do stays in this room.” he vows, stepping closer.
“And,” you bite your lip, “No sex, right?”
He shakes his head, “None. We’ll focus on sensations tonight, just to let you get a feel for things.”
It seems more intimate, just trusting him to tease and play with your body, but you’re glad that the boundary is set in place. Spencer seems to have gotten a lot of experience at this, and briefly, you wonder just how many other people has been in your place.
You push the thought away and smile at him. “Okay. Then that’s all on my end. I accept all your terms, and I remember the safe word.”
He hums, turning you around. Standing so closely behind you, his heat warms your back like a gentle fire. Long, elegant fingers that carry the lingering musk of old books and coffee gather your hair into a ponytail at the base of your neck. He secures it with a thin elastic, before leaning in, breath whispering goosebumps into your skin.
“Strip.”
There’s a sudden loss of heat as he steps back. You’re surprised to miss it, already, but even more surprised by his command. “What?”
“I said strip, angel.” he says, walking to your front with an expectant look on his face, “Down to your underwear.”
You sputter, looking up at him incredulously, but his face is serious. Patient, but serious.
“Do you need your safe word?”
You don’t reply, realizing that it’s begun and this is exactly what you agreed to do. To submit to him and his commands. The weight of this reality sinks in, rendering you mute and frozen, and he immediately softens.
Hands cupping your cheeks, Spencer looks at you with concern, “Hey, we can stop.”
“No,” you reply, forcefully. Stubborn pride pulsing through your veins—no way you’re stopping before you’ve even done anything, “I don’t want to stop, it’s okay. I just—okay. Strip.” you step back, nodding and muttering to yourself, “Okay, yes, I can do that.” Looking down, you fumble at the buttons of your blouse, undoing them with clumsy, unsure fingers.
He steps back to the dresser, retrieving the bundle of feathers, never averting his gaze. Wide brown eyes take you in as you lose your shirt, and then your pants, standing before him in matching lace underwear. A slow grin spreads over his lips, “You dressed up for me?”
You feel your cheeks burn, “No.”
“So you just wear expensive lace sets for no reason, even on Saturdays?”
“You don’t know what I like.”
A step closer, “I’m about to,” he says in a low, smug tone that has your breath catching, “Stay still.”
Stay still. Easy enough. Your eyes follow his movements, the way he brandishes the feathers in his hands. Your head cranes back as he circles you, and he tuts in disapproval.
“I said stay still,” he murmurs, hand cupping your jaw and adjusting your head forward.
“But—”
“But?”
“Nothing.” you squeak as you look ahead again. Your heart makes itself known, drumming in an exaggerated, hurried way that makes you want to shift. But Spencer said stay still, so you do.
A small part of you wants to scoff—why are you following Spencer Reid’s orders? This is ridiculous. Say the safe word and this would all be over. He’d never mention it to anyone else, like you both agreed earlier. You can get out, and you know for a fact that Spencer wouldn’t judge or protest.
But you don’t.
Because a larger, more significant part of you finds this whole thing incredibly hot.
Several seconds pass. Agonizingly slow. He’s drawing it out, you realize, testing how long he can get you to stay still. Or maybe he left. No, he wouldn’t—couldn’t, you’d hear his footsteps. Finally giving in, you look over your shoulder, brows knitted in confusion.
You’re met with a disapproving look and a shaking head. “Didn’t I tell you to stay still?”
“You’re taking too long,” you pout.
“That’s the second time you’ve disobeyed me, angel,” he tuts. The heat of his body envelops you as he steps into your space again, his chest pressing to your back. A hand skims over your side, warm and firm as it finds the swell of your hip, and sits there. A warning. “You know what’s going to happen when you do it thrice, don’t you?”
Your mind flashes back to the conversation and the list, the rules he laid out so painstakingly for you. Thoughtful and attentive, Spencer had made you read through pages of what he expects from this dynamic, the rules you must follow as his submissive, the punishment that will be enforced should you disobey.
Three strikes and you get spanked.
“I do,” your words drift out the most delicate breath, heart hammering even more now. “I remember.”
He hums when you are finally still. Lips land on your bare shoulder, chaste and warm, while his hand travels up your side, featherlight and teasing. They skim up your ribcage and you can’t help but gasp, fighting every cell in your body to keep from moving. Your compliance is rewarded by another satisfied hum, and then finally it touches you.
The feather.
Crawling up the back of your left thigh, soft as a whisper.
Ticklish.
“Fuck,” you gasp, jerking away from his grasp in surprise. You find yourself missing the feel of his hand on your waist before you realize your mistake.
“That’s the third.” he says, shaking his head.
“I wasn’t expecting it on my thigh!” you snap, suddenly feeling so exposed. To shield yourself, your arms cross over your shoulder defensively, voice lowering by way of apology, “I’m ticklish!”
He considers it for a moment, sitting on the edge of the bed, but his eyes remain trained on you. Gauging your reaction, the same way he’d talk to a skittish witness. You find yourself shifting again, unused to being on the receiving end of such a stare. When he speaks, his voice is calm, as if he’s soothing a ruffled creature, “You’re welcome to say your safe word.”
The easy way out. But you’ve already gone this far, stripped out of your so-called armor, down to your lace underwear and allowed him to regard you in ways far too intimate for coworkers. It would be such a waste to back out now. Besides, he said the punishment would just be spanking, how bad could that be?
“No,” you reply finally, voice breaking through the silence that settled and swelled in the room, “No, I’m okay, I’ll—I’ll take the punishment, like I agreed to.”
He sits up straighter, “Are you sure?”
A gulp. “Yes.”
He pats his lap, “Come here then.”
You’ve lost count of how many times you felt warmth at your cheeks, but this feels like a wildfire has started now, smoothing over your face before spreading all over your body in an all consuming blaze. Flashes of those kinky magazines and news articles you’d rolled your eyes over flit through your mind, the models now replaced by the image of you and Spencer. He’s asking you to bend over on his lap to receive your punishment.
With a nod, you join him on the bed, your torso draping horizontally over his lap. Your legs are laid on the bed, and you hold yourself up by your elbows. From this position, he has perfect access to your ass, a large hand smoothing over one cheek.
You squirm, “Your hand’s cold.”
He laughs, “God, you never stop complaining, huh? I should add another one just for that.”
“Sorry, I can’t help it.”
He sighs, “I know. You’re doing fine, all things considered. I’ll just do three, okay? For every time you moved.”
“Okay.”
“I want you to count.”
You inhale so sharply you almost choke on nothing. That had no business being as hot as you found it. His hand is on your ass again, and you have to dig into your brain to focus and answer, “Okay.”
The first strike comes quickly, a sharp sting followed by a cool, gentle hand soothing over it. You exhale a gasp along with the word, “One.”
“Good girl.”
Jesus Christ.
Another smack, this time on the other cheek. “Two… three.”
It’s over before you know it, barely even lasting three minutes, but it’s still managed to take your every breath away. You find yourself wishing he had added another strike, just so you could feel the sharp sting again.
“Are you okay?” his voice pulls you from your reverie, hands helping you sit back up beside him, “Do you need a break? I could get you some lotion—”
You tune him out, staring as he offers different ways to soothe the stinging. His hands keep making lazy strokes up and down your arms, eyes completely focused on you. Words are flying past his lips, attempting to reach you through this haze, solutions and probably another reminder of your safe word, but all you can think about is how close he is, how pretty with his earnest brown eyes and pouty lips, but also how hot and since when was Spencer Reid hot?
A familiar sensation settles low in your belly, slickness between your thighs, and oh my god you just want to kiss him.
So you do.
His lips are soft, pausing mid sentence for just one moment, before he’s kissing you right back, open mouthed and desperate, his hand cradling the back of your head, tilting it up so his tongue can dive deeper into your mouth. You moan, kissing him back with just as much fervor, scrambling forward in an attempt to get even closer. He tastes like mint and cinnamon, the oddest combination that has you sucking on his bottom lip, eager for more.
An arm wraps around your waist, and you find yourself on his lap again—no, on his thigh. Singular, straddling it with nothing but a tiny scrap of lace and his trousers in between your skin. Two degrees of separation. You moan again, biting down hard.
“Wait,” he pulls back, breathless, thrown off, “Wait this isn’t part of the agreement.”
You laugh, “I’m sorry, I don’t really care about it right now.”
Soft brown locks tickle your jaw as he ducks his head. Lips run over your collar, moist and gentle as he speaks, “I wasn’t really prepared for this. I don’t have a condom.”
“Oh.” you seem to deflate in his arms, despite the incessant pounding in your chest, the buzzing at your fingertips.
He looks up, surveys you like a puzzle to be solved. On his thigh, with barely anything on, practically throwing yourself at him. Muscle flexes and shifts beneath you, eliciting a gasp from your lips. It moves again, just as his hands hold onto your hips and keep you in place.
Your lips fall open, “Oh.” you repeat, but this time, it’s a low, breathy moan.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, watching you with a small smirk, “Move those hips for me, angel.”
You don’t need to be told twice, pressing down hard onto his thigh. The pressure gives your clit enough stimulation, pulling another moan from your lips. Louder this time. Loud and pretty, as his hands keep you steady, and your arms wrap around his shoulder, fingers finding the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Oh god,” you gasp, staring right at him, at those intense hazel eyes that have turned nearly black. You ride his thigh shamelessly, finding a rhythm that you know will have the pleasure snapping within minutes. Paired with Spencer’s praise, the sweet kisses he’s laying on your jaw, you find yourself trembling in his arms as you rub yourself along his muscular thigh.
All of the anticipation seems to have built up to a fever pitch, his teasing, the spanking, it all floods back until your orgasm hits you like lightning. Razor sharp, every nerve of your body seems to sing and tremble from pleasure as Spencer keeps his thigh gently moving, helping you come down from your high.
“Fuck,” you whisper, burying your face into his neck.
He laughs, wrapping his arms tightly around you, “Are you okay?”
“Better than okay.”
Slender fingers card through the back of your head, tangles into your hair, “You did really well. We went a little off script, but it seems like you found it pleasurable, which is always the goal.”
Pleasurable is the understatement of the century, but your only response is a breathless chuckle. At the moment, that’s all you’re capable of.
“Okay,” you whisper into his neck, losing all ability to extricate yourself from him. He doesn’t seem to mind though, his hold on you just as tight, free hand rubbing warm circles over your bare back. “Okay, you’ve proved your point. You seriously are a dom.”
“Mhm.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“What? You can’t believe it? I literally just gave you one of the most hands on demonstrations anyone could ask for.” he says with a laugh. It rumbles through his chest, and the feeling makes something in your stomach clench pleasantly.
You lift your head, finally meeting his gaze. Your eyes flash with mischief when you reply, “I don’t know, I might need another one to fully understand it.”
He smiles back, wide and catlike, “Well then, I think that calls for an encore.”
Thank you for reading!!! also if you could give me some encouragement for my thesis that’d be much appreciated i’d give you so much brain kisses MUAH.
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a 20 year old mess | wp: K4REVSREID-spencer reid enthusiast (he’s my hubby)i mostly write on wattpad i just kinda read on here kind of a slut for spencer reid 🪐
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