Sini Lo

“Of course you did.” Your eyes do a quick sweep. No visible blood except for a shallow scrape on his forearm. He’s clutching his ribs — bruised, probably, but not broken.

Morgan jogs up behind you after cuffing the suspect and getting him into the car. You stand, stepping aside to give him room. But not before offering one last, deadpan murmur:

“Very graceful, dumpster boy.”

Spencer looks up at you with that dumb, open face of his — pained but earnest — and somehow manages to smile.

—

An hour later, the team’s back at the precinct going over witness interviews. The suspect Derek arrested turned out not to be the unsub — he might have information though, so the chase wasn’t all for naught. You’re leaned against a wall with your arms crossed, trying not to glare at an officer who can’t seem to remember proper interview protocol, when you catch sight of Spencer through the open door to the conference room.

He’s sitting at the edge of the room, out of the way, absently rotating his wrist while he reads over the case file. His sleeves are pushed up unevenly. You can see the ugly scrape on his arm from here — angry red and slightly swollen — and you can tell he hasn’t had time to clean it properly yet.

He grimaces a little as he adjusts how he’s holding the file. His fingers flex once. Then again.

You look away.

But not before something tight pulls in your chest.

And that’s when it hits you: You care.

You care, and it snuck up on you.

You’re already planning to raid your suitcase for antiseptic and the stupid novelty bandaids you keep on hand for bad days. Not because he really needs them, but because you need an excuse to make sure he’s okay.

And you hate that. You hate that this… thing — whatever the hell it is that’s started bubbling up between you and Reid — has become something you have to manage.

—

Back at the hotel, you unzip your go-bag on the bed and dig through ir. Your fingers brush past a bureau-issued standard first aid kit, a half-crushed granola bar, two unsharpened pencils, and a pack of cigarettes you keep hidden even though you haven’t smoked in months.

You tell yourself you’re being practical. You’re just avoiding having to listen to Spencer bitch about an infected abrasion for the next three days. You’re doing the entire team a favor, really.

The bandages are near the bottom. Black and white skull-print, stolen from a dimly-lit Hot Topic during your late teens-era rebellious shoplifting streak. You stare at them for a second then toss them on the bed.

You should let him clean his wounds himself. He’s a grown man. He has hands. The same first aid kit. An actual Doctor in front of his name (okay, not a medical one, but still). He doesn’t need you.

Then again, that’s never really stopped you before.

You grab the peroxide next and toss it beside the bandages.

Meanwhile, your mind starts to drift. Not far, but far enough to land on him. To the week after trivia night, when he left a worn, dog-eared copy of The Demon-Haunted World on your desk before a morning flight.

You didn’t say thank you. But when you cracked it open at cruising altitude and found all his messy margin notes scribbled inside, you had to physically stop yourself from smiling.

You shake yourself out of the memory and reach for a roll of gauze.

There was also that dumb moment in Seattle — hotel hallway, 1:00am, him with his toothbrush standing outside your door begging for toothpaste.

You’d had some, of course. But you made him work for it. Held the tube out like bait and cooed, “Say please.”

He blinked at you like you’d short-circuited something in his brain, then smiled. Really smiled.

“Please?” he pouted.

You squirted a perfect little curl onto the bristles and shut the door in his face with a smirk.

You blink back to the present and slide in the last addition to your collection of supplies: a pack of sour gummy worms. For a moment the gesture embarrasses you, but fuck it. He probably needs them, and you know he shares your affinity for sour candy.

You look down at the pile on the bed: Skull bandages. Wipes. Gauze. Antiseptic. Gummy worms.

A whole fucking care package of things he didn’t ask for.

You don’t want to think about what it means. About why you’re doing this.

But your hands are shaking a little as you gather it all into your tote bag, and that’s what fucks with you most of all.

—

You knock twice, short and sharp. When he opens the door, he looks surprised to see you. Not confused — just surprised, and maybe even a little relieved.

His hair’s damp from a recent shower, soft and messy. His tie is gone, exchanged for a soft, wrinkled long sleeve t-shirt and plaid flannel PJ pants.

He blinks. “Hey.”

You lift the small tote in your hand. “I come bearing antiseptic.”

He glances down at it. Then back up at you. “You really didn’t have to.”

“Oh please. You already know I don’t do anything because I have to.” You sidestep him and move into the room without waiting for an invitation. “This is a purely selfish visit, trust me. You’re terrible at first aid, and ideally I'd like to make it through the rest of the case without hearing you complain about an infected dumpster scrape.”

He shuts the door behind you. “I wasn’t going to complain,” he grumbles.

“Mm.” You toss the bag of supplies onto the bed. “Sure you weren’t.”

He sits on the edge of the mattress and you follow, close enough that your thighs are nearly touching. He clears his throat and reaches for the tote — at the exact same second you do.

Your fingers collide, both of you brushing the bag’s handle. A light touch. Nothing, technically. Completely innocuous. But it stops you both like a switch flipped.

His fingertips skim yours — warm, gentle, careful — and instead of pulling away, neither of you move at first. Just… pause. Linger.

It’s not the contact. It’s the hesitation. The unspoken, I felt that. Did you?

The AC unit kicks on, pulling you back to reality, and you both drop your hands at once.

“I can do it,” he mumbles, reaching again. “It’s really not that bad.”

“I know it’s not,” you mutter. “But I don’t trust your clammy hands not to spill my peroxide, so I’ll handle it.”

A smooth recovery, if you say so yourself.

He hesitates — just long enough to be noticeable — then rolls his eyes and pulls his sleeve up. The scrape on his forearm looks angrier now than it did earlier — red and raw at the edges, a faint purple bruise blooming underneath.

You open the peroxide bottle and soak a cotton pad. He watches, quiet, like he’s trying to read something in your expression. You ignore it.

When you press the pad to his skin, he flinches.

“Sorry,” you whisper. You don’t mean for it to come out so soft.

He shakes his head, face neutral. “It’s fine.”

It isn’t, but he doesn’t move again. Just watches you work, still and careful. You keep your gaze locked on the scrape, avoiding his eyes like the bubonic plague.

After you’re satisfied with your clean-up job, you unwrap a large skull-print bandage and smooth it over the wound with deliberate precision. Your fingertips drift across the inside of his forearm — just a ghost of touch.

He inhales, sharp and quiet.

You feel that sound more than you hear it. It crawls under your skin and makes a permanent home there.

You say nothing.

But he’s looking at you now — really looking — and you don’t know what to do with that. His eyes are too soft. Too earnest. Like he wants something from you you’re not ready to give.

So instead, you pull away and hand him the bag of gummy worms as if it’s a lollipop in the pediatrician’s office after the flu shot. “Here,” you say. “For being such a brave little boy.”

He blinks at the bag. Then at you. “You’re giving me candy?”

You move toward the door with a casual shrug. “I had extra. Plus they might be kind of stale, so fair warning.”

You don’t wait for him to reply. You’re halfway into the hallway by the time he calls out:

“Hey—”

You pause and turn slightly back to take in the sight of him. He’s sitting up straighter now, one hand braced on the mattress, the bandage visible on his arm like an unmistakable sign of your presence.

“Thanks,” he says, a little breathless. “Really.”

You nod once. “Don’t read into it.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he says. But his voice is a little too soft, because you know he already has.

You shut the door behind you before he can say anything else.

And when you reach the elevator, your hands are still shaking.

—

The precinct coffee is somehow both burnt and watery, which feels like a personal insult this early in the morning.

You’re leaning against the corner of a metal filing cabinet, sipping yours with quiet disgust, when the local detective — Harris? Hamilton? no wait, Harding — ambles over like he’s got nowhere else to be.

He’s tall, square-jawed, ex-military. Nice enough. A little too chatty. Most definitely self absorbed. The kind of guy who thinks every woman secretly wants to hear about his bench press numbers.

You clock Spencer across the room, sitting on top of a desk pushed against the wall, legs swinging under him. He’s writing notes with one hand, the other tucked beneath his thigh against the desk, skull-print bandage visible on his forearm where his sleeve’s pushed up.

Harding gestures toward your coffee. “You know, I’ve got a stash of the good stuff in my office if you’re interested.”

You arch an eyebrow. “What, like Folgers instead of swamp water?”

He chuckles, clearly thinking you’re flirting back. “Even better. Single-origin beans from Costa Rica. Ground them fresh this morning. I’d offer to share, but you’d owe me.”

You smirk. “What’s the going rate? My left kidney?”

Behind Harding, across the precinct, Spencer stopped writing. He’s sitting on both hands now, scowling.

Harding leans in slightly. “Maybe just your number,” he says. “Share that and I’ll keep your organs out of it.”

You’re about to reply with a dry brush-off when suddenly, another voice cuts in:

“She’s not really much of a sharer.”

Spencer’s suddenly at your side. Mug in hand, face neutral. Too neutral.

Harding blinks. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize you were—”

“We’re not—” you say quickly, at the same time Spencer says, “It’s fine.”

It’s not fine.

There’s a weird pause. You can feel Spencer’s body heat too close to your shoulder, his presence heavier than usual.

Harding raises his palms in mock surrender. “Didn’t mean to step on any toes.”

“You didn’t,” you say, voice flat, and Harding walks off mumbling something about paperwork.

The silence that follows is sharp-edged. You finally glance over.

Spencer’s still watching Harding retreat. His jaw flexes once.

“You done peeing on the perimeter?” you bark.

He blinks and looks at you. “What?”

“You heard me.” You sip your shitty coffee. “That was the most passive-aggressive cockblock I’ve ever witnessed. And I grew up with Elle, so that’s saying a lot.”

His ears go red. “I just… didn’t think he seemed like your type.”

You narrow your eyes. “Oh really? And what do you think my type is?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then — like he knows he’s out of his depth — mumbles, “I’m not sure yet.”

You look at him for a second too long, then shake your head and start to walk away.

“Thanks for the unwanted assist and ruining my shot at decent coffee,” you toss over your shoulder, dry and cutting. “Next time, try not to sound so jealous when you do it.”

You don’t wait to see his reaction. But you feel it behind you anyway — hesitation, a breath caught in his throat, like maybe he hadn’t even realized he was jealous until you said it out loud.

—

You spend the rest of the day doing what you do best: compartmentalizing. You bury yourself in paperwork, case files, caffeine. Spencer keeps his distance, which is fine. Great, actually. You don’t want to talk about it. Hell, you don’t even want to think about his territorial golden retriever act, or the moment your hand brushed his the night before.

No. You’re stoic as ever.

Derek Morgan, on the other hand, is many things — and subtle is not one of them.

It starts when Spencer’s grabbing coffee at the break table in the corner of the precinct. Derek sidles up next to him and pretends he’s looking for creamer.

“You good, kid?” Derek asks.

Spencer doesn’t look up. “Fine. Why?”

“No reason,” Derek says. “Just, you’ve been weird today. Weirder than usual.”

Spencer shrugs. Adds packet after packet of sugar with too much concentration. “Just thinking.”

“Uh huh.” Derek leans against the counter. “Thinking about the case, or about Detective Harding trying to get your girl’s phone number this morning?”

Spencer stills. Doesn’t look at him.

Derek grins. “Thought so.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Spencer mutters.

“Nope,” Derek says. “Didn’t have to.” He nods toward Spencer’s arm. “Nice bandaid, by the way. That Bureau-issued?”

Spencer shifts, pulling his sleeve down instinctively. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing, huh.” Derek takes a slow sip of his coffee. “Nothing’s starting to look like an awful lot like something, Reid.”

Spencer doesn’t answer, just stares at the coffee like he’s hoping it’ll offer him a way out.

Derek softens slightly. “Look, man. You don’t have to say anything. I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”

Spencer looks up at that. “What do you mean?”

“She’s not the kind of person you can flirt with without consequence,” Derek says. “And you’re not exactly built for casual, kid. So just… be careful with her. Or be careful with yourself.” He shrugs. “Ideally both.”

Spencer’s quiet a long moment. Then finally says, voice low: “I think I’m already being too careful. Maybe that’s the problem.”

—

Meanwhile, Emily catches you on the steps outside the precinct. You’re leaned against the railing, finishing your third shitty coffee of the day and trying not to think about anything meaningful.

She appears beside you without a word, sipping on something suspiciously less terrible than the sludge in your cup.

You glance sideways. “That better not be Harding’s you-can-have-some-if-you-give-me-your-number blend.”

Emily raises a brow. “Would it bother you if it was?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting. I’m observing.” She almost smirks. “You know, when we get back to Quantico, you should check out Garcia’s Band-Aid collection. She’s got a bunch that are covered in glitter and hello kitty faces.”

You frown. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the skull-print bandage currently gracing Reid’s forearm,” she says lightly. “Matches your style a little too well to be coincidence, don’t you think?”

You don’t answer. Just cross your arms and take another sip.

Emily hums and nods toward you. “You patched him up.”

“Someone had to.”

“Sure,” she says. “Except, someone didn’t have to. It was just a scrape. You chose to.”

You glare at her. “Are you trying to give me advice?”

“Nope,” she says. “Just reminding you I notice things. Like when someone who prides herself on not getting attached starts… caring.”

You scoff. “I’m not attached, and I don’t care.”

Emily doesn’t argue. She just takes a final sip of her drink, tosses the empty cup in the trash, and says:

“Okay. But for what it’s worth — if you ever were going to get attached to someone… Spencer’s not the worst option. In fact, he’s probably the best one out there.”

You don’t say anything. But you stay there sitting on the cold stoop long after she goes back inside.

—

The case closes without ceremony.

The arrest is clean. No last-minute standoff, no bloodbath. Just a pair of cuffed wrists and a few exhausted high-fives exchanged between local PD and the rest of your team.

You pack up, debrief, and get to the airstrip before sunrise. It’s still dark out when the jet takes off — that violet-blue hush that feels less like morning and more like the universe hitting snooze.

You toss your go-bag under the seat across from Spencer and collapse into the leather cushion opposite him without thinking. Muscle memory.

He doesn’t look up — just shifts his notebook onto the tray table and moves his cup of tea so it won’t spill. His sleeve is tugged down over his forearm now, deliberately. Like he’s trying to hide something.

The bandage.

You lean back and close your eyes.

A minute passes before his voice cuts through the quiet:

“Did I overstep?”

Your eyes stay closed. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, Reid."

“Yesterday morning,” he says. “With Harding.”

You snort softly. “You mean when you torpedoed my shot at a decent cup of coffee for no reason?”

His silence confirms it. You finally open your eyes.

He’s looking at you, guarded but genuine. There’s a crease between his brows you know from past experience is the result of spiraling analysis.

You sigh. “You didn’t overstep. You just… kind of outed yourself as weirdly jealous.”

His ears go a little pink. “I wasn’t trying to.”

“I know.” You glance toward the front of the plane, then back at him. “You ever think about not saying the first thing that pops into your head?”

“Constantly,” he says. “It rarely works.”

You let out a tired huff of a laugh.

Another beat of silence passes. He fiddles with his pen, tapping it against the edge of the table.

“I wasn’t jealous,” he says finally.

You cock an eyebrow. “No?”

“No,” he lies. Then, a half-beat later: “I just… didn’t like the way he was talking to you.”

You roll your eyes. “I can handle myself, genius.”

He nods. “I guess I…” He pauses and looks away. “I notice things.”

You blink. “No shit, Reid. You’re a profiler. Noticing things is kind of your job.”

He shakes his head. “No, I mean… I notice things,” he says again, quieter this time. Then adds: “About you. I notice things about you.”

You study him for a second. Not the shirt sleeve or the hands or the mouth he always forgets to bite shut — but him. The part of him that sat still and let you take care of him and brushed his hand against yours and accepted stale gummy worms with gratitude.

You should say something cruel. Something sharp-edged and clever to push him back into the safe zone where nobody cares and nothing means anything.

Instead, you say, so quiet it’s barely audible above the hum of the jet engine, “I notice things about you, too.”

You don’t look at him after you say it. Don’t explain. You just lean back into your seat like the words didn’t cost you anything, like your pulse isn’t suddenly louder in your ears.

Spencer doesn’t press. He just goes still, as if he believes wholeheartedly that if he moves wrong, the entire moment might break.

He watches you — silhouette lit faintly by the glow of the cabin, one boot tucked under your knee, arms folded like armor.

He wants to ask what you’ve noticed.

Wants to know which of his cracks you’ve cataloged. Which of his tells you’ve decoded. If it’s the way he taps his fingers when he’s trying not to pace, or how he always offers you the seat facing the exit, or the higher tone his voice reaches up into uncontrollably when he’s nervous.

But he doesn’t ask. Because he knows better than to ask for something you’re not ready to give.

You don’t regret saying it — not exactly. But it sits in your throat like a jagged pill. You hadn’t planned on admitting anything, least of all to him. But then he had to go and say it first, and you’ve always been a little too competitive to let him win even at that, so…

You glance over. He’s watching the clouds now. Trying to give you space in his own quiet way.

“I didn’t mean anything by that,” you say, abrupt. “It’s just fact.”

He turns towards you again. “Okay.”

“I’m serious.” Your tone sharpens. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“I won’t,” he says. And you hate how gently he says it.

You pick at the skin beside your thumbnail and let out a long, scarily honest breath. “I’m not good at this.”

“This?”

“This,” you echo as you wave your arm clumsily at the space between you. “Being… human.”

There’s a silence, then: “You’re better at it than you think.”

You scoff. “You don’t know me well enough to say that, Reid.”

“Maybe not,” he says. “But I’d like to.”

You should snap at him for that, tell him not to waste his time.

But you don’t.

You just stretch out your legs in front of you, lean your head back against the cushion, and close your eyes like you’re done talking.

And you are.

Except—

“Reid?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t pull your sleeve down next time.”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Why not?”

You crack one eye open. “Because I like that bandage. Risked my clean criminal record stealing the box from a Hot Topic when I was 19. Hiding it is deeply disrespectful to my efforts.”

He huffs a quiet laugh — surprised and sweet. “Okay.”

You close your eyes again and nudge his foot gently with your boot in silent acknowledgement before pulling back.

That’s the end of it. No thank yous. No lingering looks.

But when the jet lands and you finally slump into your chair in the bullpen, Spencer wordlessly drops off a coffee on the way to his desk.

And drawn on the cup’s sleeve — barely visible — is a tiny, messy, pen ink doodle of a skull and crossbones, signed:

-S.R.

You take the sleeve off the cup before anyone can see it and slide it into your desk drawer for safe keeping.

It’s just a drawing. Just a piece of folded cardboard. Just a dumb little momento that makes you realize nearly getting a misdemeanor over a stupid pack of patterned bandages might’ve been worth it after all.

ᝰ.ᐟ

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★

“Do you think it’s the serial killer in Seattle?” You whispered to Emily, she had rolled her chair over to your desk when Hotch announced an emergency meeting in five.

”I don’t know what else it could be, it’s all the news is talking about. I’m just surprised we weren’t called in sooner, the escalation from this guy is practically unheard of.” She whispered back.

”I heard he’s up to four victims a day, I don’t know when this guy even sleeps.” You clicked through the files on your computer, trying to tie up any loose ends in your paperwork before the meeting. Anytime an emergency meeting was called it was almost always accompanied by a “Wheels up in ten.” 

“They’re up to five,” Spencer leaned towards the partition between your desks, he didn't look up, his eyes still focused on the book in his hands. “We don’t know that the unsub is male, the victims are male and female.” 

“It was originally just women, I’m like ninety percent sure it’s a man.” You cocked an eyebrow at Emily as you logged out of your computer, standing up and leaning over the partition to see what he’s reading. 

The Divine Comedy 

“Again?” You scrunch up your nose, you don’t know how he reads the same books over and over again. 

“Yes, again.” He flips the page, his finger arched as it slides down the page, his eyes following the trail. When you first started you hadn’t believed them when they said no one reads as fast as Reid, you brought in book after book, trying to catch him in a lie until you couldn’t deny it anymore. “There’s actually a really interesting ongoing case in Toronto, a killer leaving pages with lines from Dante’s Infernos that seem to hint towards his next victim. I was hoping we might be called in to give some insight on the situation but it seems extremely likely that we’ll be on a plane to Seattle soon.” He closed the book, giving you that devastating little side smile of his.  

Not his usual overworked, tight lipped smile he used most of the time at work. His genuine little smirk that he only used when he really meant it. 

Don’t profile him. 

It’s common courtesy. Don’t profile your fellow profiler. 

“What do you think about this guy in Seattle?” You say as you watch him put the book into his go bag, he’ll finish it in the first five minutes on the plane. 

”I think…” His voice trails off, running his fingers through his mess of hair. “Something about everything they’re releasing seems off, we’re missing a big chunk of information, that might be deliberate from the news stations or it might be a choice from the unsub. Either way I’m curious to see what the files say if this is in fact our case.” When he stood and started heading towards the conference room you followed, whispering to Emily about how you’d never been to Seattle. 

Hotch was on the phone so you did your best to enter the room as quietly as possible, joining the group. You sit next to Spencer, watching as he rhythmically taps each of his fingers to his thumb, sorting out some kind of pattern you don’t understand. When he stops you realize he’s watching you stare, quickly, you turn away, cheeks burning hot.  

Your relationship with Spencer was complicated. 

Well, your lack of relationship with Spencer was complicated. 

You joined the BAU a little under a year ago, taking the desk next to his. You’d heard all about him, the youngest member of the BAU, (until you arrived.) with an eidetic memory and an IQ to rival the brightest minds of the FBI. Meeting him made you realize he was the brightest mind of the FBI. 

The boy genius. 

Unfortunately for you, boy genius was also known by another nickname. 

Pretty boy. 

Something so stupid, that should have been inconsequential, opened your eyes to something you’d give anything to unsee.

The second the name left Morgan's mouth you had giggled into your hand, laughing at the idea of anyone thinking your dorky, walking encyclopedia of a desk mate was pretty. Instead you smiled at him, planning to give him a playful punch to the shoulder or a wink, instead you were staring into those ever changing hazel eyes. Wide eyed like a deer he watched as you had giggled, his gaze hit you like a punch to the stomach as you considered for the first time since you met him that Spencer Reid might be pretty. 

Then you couldn’t stop considering it. 

The way his hair curls around the ends. The way his eyes change colors in certain lighting. The way his slender, precise, fingers are constantly in motion, fighting to keep up with the speed his brain is working at. His pretty chin, his pretty lashes, his pretty brows, his pretty arms, his pretty hips, his pretty jaw. God that fucking jaw. Somedays you would just stare at his jaw, leering at him from your side of the desk as he works, all while you fight the urge to reach out and grab him by his pretty chin and kiss all along the edge of that pretty jaw. 

You wanted to kill Morgan. 

How were you supposed to get anything done once he opened your eyes to this? He had opened a door you couldn’t seem to close, no matter how hard you tried. And god did you try, but no matter what you did, he always did something in a certain way that drew you right back in. 

The way he scrunched his eyebrows and got real quiet when he was focusing. 

The way he always perked up when someone mentioned a book they were reading, no matter what it was.

The way he second guessed himself, even though no one else was doubting his knowledge. 

The way he would decline a handshake. Claiming that it was more hygienic to kiss.

He had shaken your hand on your first day. 

A fact that now haunted you, keeping you up at night as you tossed and turned and asked yourself, why? 

It was easier not to think about it. It was the one case you just couldn’t seem to crack, and with real killers out there you had to focus on the cases that you could solve. 

You resigned yourself to being his friend, and pushing down any unprofessional thoughts that lurked in the back of your mind.

“Let’s get started, we’ve got about twenty minutes before I want us on the jet.” Hotch passed out rather sizable files. You immediately opened yours, not at all surprised to see that you’re heading for Seattle. “I’m sure everyone here has heard plenty about the case but the public has not been made aware of the sheer extent of what’s happening.” He turned towards the screen, clicking the remote until it settled on a list of website links. 

As you flip through the file your stomach churns, you can feel the tension in the rooms as everyone sees the same things you’re seeing. 

The first body was found two years ago. 

Four months after that a surviving victim came forward. 

More bodies were found but none of them were connected to the crime until recently. They’d been so spread out in time and location no one had put the pieces together until now. They’re taking up to five people a day, with an expectation of continued escalation. It wasn’t just that they were killing people that made everyone in the room uneasy, it was what happened prior to the killings. 

Local news broadcasts implied that the killer was taking victims captive, holding them for twenty four hours, and choosing at random afterwards to either kill them afterwards or release them. Like a Russian roulette of release or slaughter. 

It’s clear that that’s not at all what’s happening. 

Victims seem random, some are taken alone, some are taken in groups of two or three. Surviving victims report finding themselves in an empty room, with concrete floors, bare walls, a red door without a handle, and bright lights. The only thing in the room with them is miscellaneous bedding and anyone who might be with them. They don’t remember how they got there, or how they left. 

Once they wake they are always stripped down to their underwear, the unsub speaks to them remotely, explaining to them a set or rules. From there they either play along or their body is found a few days later, always in dumpsters around the city. You can’t help but wonder how many bodies weren’t found. 

“We can’t confirm every victim was related but we have good reason to believe there were dozens happening outside of Seattle.”

”I don’t understand, what exactly is he doing with them once he has them?”

”He’s making videos, and uploading them online.” Hotch motions towards the website list. “These are just the sites that have had the videos taken down, more pop up every hour.”

There’s so many. 

“How the hell is that legal?” Morgan closes his case file, you watch as his fist clenches and unclenches.

“It’s not.” Spencer speaks without looking up from the file, you’re sure he’s read it over twice by now. “We’re dealing with a voyeur, he never makes appearances in the videos he’s making, but he micromanages every action taken by the victims.” 

”Why isn’t it public knowledge that his motives are sexual?” Emily speaks up now, glaring at Hotch with a look that you know holds the rage that’s meant for the unsub.

“Many of the surviving victims didn’t initially reveal what was really going on, due to either shame or fear of not being believed. Stories didn’t match, people weren’t making the connection between cases.” He sounds tired, then again Hotch always sounds tired. 

”Shame. This bastard’s likely preying on their humiliation, it’s how he gets off.” Morgan stands as he speaks, dialing his phone as he heads towards the door. “I’m gonna see if Garcia can link any solved missing persons cases to people in the videos, maybe see if we can identify victims who might’ve stayed quiet.” When he’s gone you turn back to Hotch.

“So he’s impotent?” You speak softer than the rest of the group, cringing as you flip to a page in the file that lists every video he’s made, the titles and victims listed beside each one. “He can’t perform so he lives out his fantasies vicariously through his victims, when they won’t play nice it reminds him of his own inabilities and he lashes out.” 

“Not necessarily,” You can feel the heat off of Spencer's body as he speaks, putting his arm around your chair and leaning in close while his other hand points through the list you’re eying. “The titles of his videos are positive and speak almost highly of his victims, if he were impotent he would most likely resent his victims for being able to perform when he can’t. His videos would use much more degrading language.” His finger follows specific examples for you. 

Beautiful girl gets a special treat from handsome stranger

Good girl solo session

Two men sharing a pretty lady

Gorgeous angel plays with herself

You try to ignore just how close he is to you as you read through the list. 

“Then what’s his motive?” Your attention turns back to Hotch as he speaks, Spencer pulls himself back from you in one swift motion. 

”If he’s not impotent then he’s a sexual psychopath.” This time when you speak you can see Spencer nodding in your peripheral vision. “He won’t stop until he’s caught, he feels no remorse for what he’s done and we can expect continuous escalation from here. He’ll go bigger and bolder until he gets sloppy and we catch him.”

“So we need to catch him fast.” You could see Emily thinking as she spoke. “The victimology is odd.”

“I noticed the same thing. It was all women and one at a time up until about nine and a half months ago. His solo victims are still exclusively women but now he often brings in men with them.” 

“We need to find out what happened that made him switch.” Hotch turns the screen off, giving you all a curt nod. “Wheels up in ten.” 

The team around you disperses, hushed whispers filling the space until they dissipate and it’s just you and Spencer, staring down into the case files. 

“There’s something else in the victimology, why didn’t anyone point this out?” You hold the file out towards him. “All the female victims look the same.” You can tell by how he grimaces that he already realized that. 

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“Then why didn’t anyone say anything! Clearly these women are a surrogate for someone else so…” Your voice trails off when you see the look on his face. 

Oh. 

The hair color, eye color, and body type. 

They’re all the same as yours. 

“I’m gonna grab a coffee before we board, do you want one?” He speaks softly as he stands, you nod, collecting yourself before following after him. Heading towards your desk to grab your go-bag. 

★

“I know this isn’t pleasant for anyone but I need you all to understand exactly what we’re dealing with.” Hotch had his laptop set up where everyone could see it. The thumbnail of the video already made you feel sick. 

A woman in her underwear, curled up in the corner of the room. A wiry young man in a shirt and his boxers sits in the middle of the room, hugging his knees to his chest. 

“This kind of thing is my least favorite part of the job.” Emily grumbled beside you and you couldn’t help but nod in agreement. You have to remind yourself that you can handle this. You were selected to be a part of this team, you have to handle it. 

You were the youngest on the team, like Spencer you were brought on in your early twenties, shockingly young for the BAU. You didn’t have the field experience most agents have before joining, just a specific set of skills that made you invaluable. Advanced pattern recognition skills, an encyclopedic knowledge of forensics, and of course the fact that you pieced together a dozen cold cases in college. You could catch a killer in your sleep. 

Sex crimes were different, you didn’t have the experience in them and they made you a bit emotional. You knew it was something you’d eventually get used to, but that thought made you sad most days. You can’t imagine ever being desensitized to any of this. 

“We’re just going to watch the first few minutes, I want to give everyone a chance to hear how our unsub speaks and how he reacts to things. I believe it will give us a much clearer understanding of what we’re walking into.” The entire plane was silent as he pressed play, standing silently like a statue, turned away from the screen. He had clearly already seen it and has no interest in watching it again. 

It’s as bad as you expected, probably worse. 

Hotch only made you all watch about five minutes, unfortunately that was too much for you. But he was right, it did give you plenty of insight into your unsub. They communicated with their victims through an intercom system, a disembodied voice that can be heard making demands. The thing that stands out to you most is the formality. He gives them detailed and clinical instructions, how to act, when to moan, what position to be in, all the way down to how fast he wants them to go. He signals them to begin with one clear command. 

“Action!” 

The two terrified victims moved shakily, the woman looking like she was on the verge of a breakdown, and the man had tears spilling down his cheeks. You could see the silver of his wedding band glimmering on the screen. 

You knew from the file that the victims were almost always strangers, despite the fact that the female victims had visual similarities; they were still seemingly selected at random. Unlucky women who were in the wrong place at the wrong time, trapped because they looked a certain way. They looked like you. 

It made you want to cry. Watching the way they trembled as they hesitantly touched each other, you could hear the man in the video repeating himself softly. 

“Is- is this okay? Are you okay? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

If you cried right now no one would think less of you, you almost let yourself. The woman is despondent, her eyes squeezed shut, when she starts to cry you have to look away. You can feel your companions glance in your direction and you know that they’re all thinking because it’s what you’re thinking. 

She looks too much like you.

If you squint she’s your spitting image. 

“Excuse me.” You mumble as you push past Hotch towards the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind you. 

You are good at your job, great at your job, you’ve never let a case get to you before but this? It’s too much, you’ve never been asked to watch a video of two people being raped. It’s too much. 

You run the water, letting the sound drown out the crying you can still hear out in the cabin. 

“God damn it! At least pretend like you like it you stupid fucking slut!” So much for Spencer's theory that he thought highly of his victims. When you finally hear the laptop close and the audio turn off you step out of the bathroom, but not before looking yourself over in the mirror. 

All you see is the girl from the video. 

You stumble back out into the cabin, Derek has taken your seat next to Emily, they speak in hushed whispers as they work through her notes. When you step out she gives you a reassuring smile. 

You take Derek's seat on the bench next to Spencer, he gives you a tight lipped sympathetic look. The last thing you want is for him to pity you. 

“From the sounds of it he doesn’t hold much respect for his victims, the derogatory language would imply that he does resent them but the video titles say differently. I can’t wrap my head around it.” You speak in a hushed voice so only he can hear you as you open one of the files, flipping back to the page of titles. Not once does he use degrading language toward the women, he regrets them as beautiful, gentle, angels. 

“Something seems to be happening between the videos being made and the upload time that makes him feel…” He chews on his lip, his brows furrowing as he searches for the solution. 

“Regret?” 

“No, regret would imply that he feels badly about this, as a sexual psychopath he feels no remorse for what he’s done. It’s almost like he’s lying to himself with the titles, like that’s what he wants them to be. They can’t live up to whoever he wants them to be.” He sounds unsure but it makes sense. Whoever he’s using these women as a surrogate for is who he actually wants, these women can’t live up to her no matter how hard they try. But when he titles and uploads the videos he’s thinking of her, so the language switches back to favorable. He turns to look at you, both of you eye to eye, a strangely serious moment as he runs his fingers along the spine of the file. “Are you okay?” 

It’s so earnest it nearly knocks the wind out of you, his big hazel eyes searching for an answer. 

“I’m… fine. It’s just hard sometimes, but I think I’m alright, I’ll feel even better when we catch this guy.” You give him an encouraging smile that you know doesn’t reach your eyes. “But I appreciate you checking in.” The look of relief he gives you nearly melts your heart. 

“Then let’s catch this guy.” His smile falters a bit as he thinks. “Something just isn’t clicking for me, it’s incredibly frustrating.”

“We’re missing something.” You mumble as he nods. 

“Something vital. It’s like we’re missing one big puzzle piece right in the middle of a nearly finished picture.” 

“Exactly. I understand that there must be a woman out there that he’s focused on but I just feel like there are too many possible alternative motives.” You flip through the victims photographs, living and deceased. “Is he a porn addict? Maybe the stuff online just wasn’t doing it for him anymore so he resorts to making his own?” 

“I was thinking the same thing but from what I can tell the videos he’s making are relatively tame. I had Garcia send me a list of all the general themes in the videos and it’s all pretty standard vanilla intercourse, he isn’t having them engage in anything objectively taboo.” He holds the sheet out to you, you take it from him, immediately searching the page for answers. 

Missionary

Missionary

Missionary

Missionary with handcuffs

Missionary 

Medical Play

Missionary

Doggy Style

Missionary

Gun Play

Missionary

”Medical play?” You scrunch up your face as you try to imagine that, all you can think about is needles. 

“Not at all uncommon, typically a doctor patient roleplay involving very impersonal, and detached intercourse.” You want to poke at him for knowing that off the cuff but you’re too distracted by his choice of words. 

“I hate that you call it intercourse.” You feign a grimace at him. 

”That’s the professional terminology.” He grins back at you, a real bonafide Spencer Reid smile. 

“I know, you just make it sound so… clinical.”

”In this setting it should be clinical!” His voice hitches up, his smile never faltering. 

“I’m sure it is, Dr. Reid.” You tease as you bump your shoulder against his. Laughing as his ears burn red, he clears his throat loudly. 

“I would assume he’s trying to fulfil some specific fantasy but nothing he’s doing seems to have any correlation.” His tone stays light but you can tell this case is bugging him, he doesn’t like being confused, no one does but especially him. 

“So is he a sexual psychopath or a sadist?” You throw him a bone, a question he can make sense of that you want an answer to. 

“He doesn’t seem like a sadist, a sadist enjoys the cruelty of the act, although I wouldn’t fully rule out sadism. It’s actually rather fascinating reading the transcripts of our unsubs videos. He doesn’t seem to enjoy what he’s doing but he has to for some reason, it’s like it’s a chore. Not necessarily that it’s a compulsion that he can’t help but like it’s a job he’s clocking in for. I’m hoping when we speak to some of the victims we’ll get a clearer picture of what happened.” He speaks vividly with his hands, as he gets caught up in his ramblings a chime signals that you’re soon to land.  

You felt yourself leaning into him as the plane began its descent. 

You hope to get this entire case sorted and taken care of quickly. Everything about it made you queasy, the faster you got out of Seattle the better. 

When you land you all end up in separate cabs heading in different directions. With too many victims and too many bodies it only makes sense to split up. 

★

Your head hurts like hell.

Jesus, what the fuck happened last night? You definitely didn’t go out drinking, you didn’t catch the guy. Yet you feel like you have an absolutely wicked hangover. You can hardly open your eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights burning your retinas as you try to orient yourself. 

Definitely not a hotel room. 

You have no idea where you are. 

Okay, that’s fine, just stay calm, it’s imperative in situations like these to remain calm. 

“Find a focus point. The last thing that happened to you before you lost consciousness. Where were you? What were you wearing? Who was with you? What time was it?” 

Hotch’s emergency hostage training rings around in the dizzy mess that is your train of thought. 

You would have landed in Seattle around 8:00 P.M. 

You were in a cab heading to the most recent surviving victims home.

You were wearing black trousers, and an olive green short sleeved turtle neck, you had tucked your blazer into your bag. 

You were in the cab, there had been an unfamiliar sound, like air being let out of a balloon. 

Or gas being released into a car.

Deep breaths. 

In,

and out. 

You force your eyes open, locking eyes on the first thing you can focus on. 

Directly in front of you is a large red metal door, with no handle. 

Fuck.

Turning quickly, your eyes find a folded pile of blankets, pillows strewn about, and a small room with four walls and no windows. 

Fuck fuck fuck.  

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. 

“Don’t freak out, at least not physically. The moment you break down you’re giving your captor power over you.” 

You chewed the inside of your cheek, digging your nails into your palms as you steady your breathing.

In,

and out. 

In,

and out.

In,

and out. 

“Hello, Agent. You cannot fathom how delightful it is to finally meet you.” You immediately recognize the voice that crackles over the unseen intercom. 

This can’t be happening.

You swallow, fighting the urge to scream.

”I would like to make a movie with you.” It’s like he’s in the room with you, you can practically hear the smile on his face. You cringe when you hear the wet sound of him licking his lips. 

”I bet you would.” You fight the urge to mumble, speaking clearly as Hotch would instruct you to do. ”Is this the part where I choose between being murdered or being raped?” You turn your head, trying to find where the camera you know is watching you might be. 

“Oh, no, you sweet thing, you wound me.” His voice is a sickening coo, as if he’s soothing a frightened animal. “You, and your whole team, you misunderstand me.”

”Our entire job is to understand you.” You scoff, desperate to appear nonchalant while your head spins and your heart races.

”And you are doing a terrible job.”

”Then why don’t you help me, fill in the gaps, let’s start with a name.” You try to act as confident as you’ve seen the rest of the team be when faced with an unsub. 

”I think you know I cannot answer that, it would ruin the fun before we have even started. I simply cannot have you screaming out clues during my movie.” 

”Your movies? Is that what you call the snuff you’ve been peddling?” 

“Oh come now, you think of me as some demented, perverse deviant. That is how I know your profile is all wrong.” By the time they find you you’ll be another girl on one of those websites. ”I am an artist.” 

“I wouldn’t call anything you do art.”

”Art is subjective, perhaps you are not my intended audience.” He sounds so smug, you know he’s pleased with himself. 

”And who is?”

”Hmm… What a question.” You know by the way his tongue clicks that whatever he says next will be a lie. ”People who want to feel something. Everyone likes sex, some people are just willing to admit it.”

”Bullshit. You’re making them for someone specific, a specific group of people just as sick as you are.” 

“I suppose you are right, in a way. Some of my recent work has been… self indulgent.” 

“So who’s the woman?” There’s only silence in response when you ask the question that's been on your mind since you read the file. “Who’s the unlucky lady that we all look like?”

The silence is deafening until you finally hear that crackling voice again.

“I cannot wait to start, angel.”

”Then why haven’t we started? You’ve got me here, I’ve seen your videos, I know how this goes.” You’ve seen Hotch push and push an unsub until they crack but you don’t have the experience he does and your voice shakes. 

”Clearly you do not, or you would not have so many questions.” There’s a pause again, as he thinks something over before you hear him again, for the first time he sounds almost unsure. ”We simply cannot start without your co-star.” 

Your entire body froze, your breath catching in your throat. 

In all of his videos with multiple people they all wake up together, why would he stray from his usual routine just for you? You have no idea and you aren’t excited to find out. 

“Until then I suggest you get comfortable, I am not sure how long it will take before he makes an appearance but I have a sneaking suspicion you will not be in suspense for very long.”

”What do you mean?”

The laugh that flows from the intercom settles in your stomach, heavy and vile.

“I know he will not keep you waiting, I am certain it will only be a few hours before we are ready.” 

You open your mouth to question further but the speaker clicks and you know the conversation is over. Looking around the room you know there’s nothing you can do but wait. Clawing at the door will get you nowhere. Screaming will get you nowhere. And crying will get you nowhere.

Pacing the room tells you next to nothing, the walls are concrete, as well as the floor, there’s no windows. 

Likely underground.

You trace your fingers along the edge of the red door, there’s no gaps, when you push yourself up against it there’s no give. The ceiling is a mess of pipes and wires, you know somewhere up there are cameras, capturing your every move. 

Not the best situation to find yourself in. 

“It will only be a few hours before we are ready.” 

You feel like an inmate on death row. You know without a shadow of a doubt that the team doesn’t have a sufficient profile to find you in the next few hours, unless they pull off some kind of miracle. 

   What twisted fate does he have in store for you. The possibilities for your ‘co-star’ are endless. You’re almost thankful for the hiss of gas as you feel your vision get blurry, at least he isn’t going to make you sit here and stew. 

★

This time when you wake you’re being shaken by someone, your immediate instinct is to fight, if this is your captor this will likely be your only chance to escape. You grab at the hands on your shoulders, forcing them away from you as you kick wildly, throwing yourself at him and pinning him down, until you’re straddling him under your hips. You’re about to start punching, as hard as you can so you take a moment to force your eyes open once again. It will do you no good to slam your fist into concrete. 

When you open your eyes you aren’t met with a stranger though, instead you’re staring at familiar wide hazel eyes.

“Hey, you’re all good, it’s just me.” His voice is so soft, like he’s not about to take a beating, hands up defensively and all. “Just me.” 

“Oh my god.” Too many thoughts are firing through your brain, instead of focusing on the horrifying implications of his arrival you fold over against him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you embrace him. 

Hesitantly, his arms wrap around you as well, anchoring you in this sea of madness.

“I’m gonna guess based on your reaction that you know exactly where we are.” His words are still gentle as he holds you tight, releasing you when you finally pull back, crawling off of him. You both orient yourselves, standing and doing a turn about the room. 

“I woke up alone, he changed his MO.” You listen, waiting for your captor to finally make himself known. You know he’s there, he wouldn’t miss this. Watching with bated breath for both of your reactions. 

He winces as he reaches for the back of his head. 

“I wasn’t gassed or slipped something like his usual victims either,” He turns to you, concern becoming more and more apparent on his face. “did he talk to you?” 

“Briefly, he definitely fits the sexual psychopath profile, he doesn’t think anything he’s doing is wrong. What do you remember? How did he get you here? I was knocked out in the cab, then I woke up here…” You trail off as you motion for him to turn so you can look at the back of his head. You tentatively run your fingers through his hair, you find a bit of blood drying, it looks like he’s been bludgeoned with something. “He’s never physically hurt a victim like this, he doesn’t get hands on unless they don’t cooperate and even then it’s almost always done with a gun. All the victims were shot to death, not beaten.” 

“We‘re still dressed.” Spencer motions to himself, he’s still in his button up, cardigan, and dress pants and you’re still in the same clothes as well. 

“Just another thing we can add to the list of things that make no sense.” You’re so close, you can taste it. “Maybe because we’re federal agents? He isn’t sure what the best course of action is because he’s never dealt with something on this scale.” 

“I just don’t get it.” He’s still hung up on the clothes, you can tell as he pulls on his tie, straightening it. You both know from the tapes and files that the first thing he does is undress his victims, leaving them in their undershirts, bras, and underwear. “It’s a part of the ritual, he shows them how much control he has over them by stripping them of basic comforts.” 

“We’re different.” Your voice falls to a whisper. Everything is different for you two, like you’re his guests of honor. 

“All the other victims recall being taken together, from the same location, we weren’t selected at random like them. We hadn’t even spoken to the local police department when you were taken, did he anticipate our arrival? Is he concerned about the FBI getting involved?” The gears in your head twist and turn as he rambles on. Painting a horrifying picture as you realize the only possible explanation. “And then he took me, which makes no sense. He already has you, if he plans to ransom us back then he doesn't need two of us.”

He isn’t going to ransom you.  

“If his goal was just to make another video he would have done it with just you.”

That wasn’t his goal.

“Reid.” Your voice cracks but he’s hyper focused now on his own mental processings, his hands waving around as he paces back and forth.

“Is it respect? Because of our positions in the bureau? It would make sense why we’re still dressed, but he’s previously taken doctors, lawyers, plenty of people in positions of authority. It makes no sense for him to stray just for us.”

We’re different. Different from every single person he’s taken previously. 

“Reid.” Your voice is so quiet now you can’t blame him for not hearing you. 

“No- no, that makes no sense, he shouldn’t have taken you at all, he’s been so cautious up until now. He moves with the intention of never getting caught, our unsub isn’t stupid enough to choose federal agents as his targets. Is it possible we’re dealing with-”

You step in front of him, effectively silencing him and stopping him in his tracks. 

“He’s been after us all along.” For a moment his expression is blank, you watch as his eyes get wider, and wider. And just like it did for you, everything clicks into place, he’s given no time to react as the crackle of the intercom makes both of you look up. 

“I have been after you all along.” That polite voice rings out once more. 

Your entire body tenses up.

Shoulders and jaw locking into place as your feet step into a defensive stance. 

You know he isn’t talking to Spencer. 

“My girl.” He speaks in a gooey, loving tone that makes you want to crawl out of your skin. “I have been after you since you first graced my screen all those years ago. How lucky I was to stumble upon you as I wasted away, searching for my muse. And finally, completely by accident, there you were. An FBI training video, used to educate the public on a few basic things, you smiled and talked about your program. I must have watched that video a thousand times. You had but a few moments on screen but god were they glorious.”  

You can feel Spencer's presence change, he was on edge before but now his body language shifts from nervous to something else. His mouth is settled into a deep frown as he steps between you and the door, like he can protect you from this nightmare. 

Oh my god.

Spencer. 

You’d been so relieved to have someone here with you that you hadn’t even begun to process the implications of his presence. And now he’s here, standing between you and a man obsessed with you. 

You need to get him out of here immediately. 

”You were glowing, the camera loved you.” He speaks about you like you’re a past lover, someone he once knew dearly and is now reminiscing about. “I could not get you out of my head after that. In everything I watched, I compared every actress to you. I looked online, desperately trying to find someone, anyone, who could hold a candle to you. Every woman I brought here, every cheap trinket, was a pale comparison to your light.”

“Then why bring Reid into this at all? I’d think you’d want me all to yourself?” You manage to keep your tone even despite the fact that you feel deep in your bones like he’s already violated you. “Maybe our profile was right, you’re impotent, so you had to bring someone in to do the job you know you can’t.” 

In a way he has already violated you, through every woman he brought here as a surrogate for you.  

All of these people suffered because of you. 

“Don’t taunt him.” Spencer whispers, soft enough that your captor likely can’t hear him. “It will only result in a negative reaction. I’m starting to think he really is a sadist.” 

“Maybe I am.” For the first time you hear his prim and proper tone drop to something darker, more authentic. ”A sadist, that is, as far as the impotence goes, I do not think that is a theory you want to test.” Spencer's reaction is more severe than your own as he practically growls. The subtle changes that you’ve been trained to notice, the clicking of his jaw, the clenching and unclenching of his fist, the tilt of his gaze as his stare turns to a glare. “I felt more like a masochist than a sadist when I was finally able to see you again on my screen, after searching for so long for a morsel of information on you. You were not an easy girl to find. I remember my joy, my pure bliss, when I saw you again. A euphoria that was immediately destroyed by the presence of Dr. Reid.” You’re pretty sure you know what he’s talking about, when you joined the BAU you were sent out with Spencer to a few schools around Virginia to talk to the students about becoming a profiler. They did a news segment on it, Penelope, Morgan, and Emily teased you about it for weeks because you were staring at Spencer like a schoolgirl in love the whole time. “My heart was broken into a thousand tiny pieces. My shining star, ogling some man in a constant state of disarray. Mismatched socks, tangled hair, wrinkled pants, it was nearly enough to drive me mad. How could my angel settle for such a mess?”

”Reid and I aren’t together.”

”We aren’t together.” 

The two of you respond in unison, the room fills with crackling laughter.

”I told myself that… that it did not matter, that I could just have you and be happy. And for a while that was the plan. Until I went to Quantico to see you.”

You want to vomit.

You’ve probably seen him before, he was there, watching, and you missed it.  

”You and your precious team, out at some dive bar, it took all my strength to not take you then and there. But I told myself to wait. I told myself everything had to be perfect. I told myself that your colleagues would spoil everything if I tried to take you then. I told myself it would not hurt to buy you a drink, to say hello, but as I made my way over to you, you were intercepted by Dr. Reid.” It doesn’t take a background in profiling to tell that he isn’t as fond of Spencer as he is you. ”And you just lit up.”

Even in this moment, in this situation, you find yourself burning red with embarrassment. Your little crush on Spencer was coming back to bite you in the ass in full force. 

“Like he was the sun, and not just some insignificant dying star in your orbit.”

In the most twisted way humanely possible. 

”I knew then and there that I could never make you shine like that. I want your films to be perfect. You would not be perfect all alone, you would be dull, but with Dr. Reid you will sparkle like a diamond.” 

“I‘ll do whatever you want, please, just let him go.” You hope your voice doesn’t shake too bad as you call out to the faceless man. You can’t help but ask for his safety now that you know it’s too late.  

”You will do whatever I want regardless, even if it pains me, he is an integral part of this production.” 

You turn, walking to the nearest wall and slumping down against it, it’s all you can do to keep yourself from screaming. All you’ve wanted to do since you woke up here is scream.  

“I have seen the way he looks at you too. From an objective and artistic standpoint he is the perfect scene partner, looks of yearning that I could not beat out of an actor.” 

Spencer is silent as you look up at him, a few tears finally slip past your steely resolve and down your cheeks, blurring your vision so you don’t see his reaction as he turns away from you. 

“Make yourself comfortable, agents. We start shooting tomorrow.” You’re left with the click of the intercom and your own uneven breathing. 

The energy in the room has shifted from awful to downright unbearable. 

Spencer eventually sits against the wall opposite to you, you watch him through your hair as he twitches, fingers tapping against each other until they grow restless and sift through his hair instead.

“I suppose the first conclusion we should have come to is that we’re set to meet the same fate as the previous victims” He breaks the silence first, sounding haggard. 

The same fate. 

The man behind the voice is going to make demands of you very soon and if you don’t meet them he’s going to be sending you back to Quantico in bodybags. 

“His speech is overly formal, no contractions, he’s a control freak. Likely in a position of power with a career that lets him afford a set up like this and lets him take time off to spend with his victims.” Your tone is monotonous as you continue to stare at your shoes rather than him. 

“We don’t need to profile him right now.” God does he sound sincere when he says it. He’s typically all work and no play but now, here, even he can’t keep that up. 

“Then what are we supposed to do?” 

“Evaluate our options.” He stands, cautiously walking to your side of the room and sitting down beside you, giving you a wide berth of space. “We have a general idea of what to expect tomorrow, we should… make decisions.”

“On if we’re gonna rape each other?” You don’t mean to sound so harsh but you can’t help it, you immediately regret it when he flinches like he’s been slapped. 

“I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, I swear.” He scootches a little further away as if to prove his point and you hide your face in your hands, stifling another scream that eventually escapes as a groan. 

How many times have you imagined being with him? How often do you spend your lonely nights after closing a case lying in bed, wide awake, imagining what it would be like if he were beside you? And here he is, practically being served to you on a silver platter. 

“Reid…” 

“I mean it. I don’t care about the alternative, you’re in charge here, whatever you say goes.” 

“You get a say in this too you know.”

“It’s different.” He sounds so sure. 

“It’s not.” You’re offended on his behalf that he would assume he doesn’t have a choice here. “You have as much of a choice as I do.” 

“I need you to trust me, it’s different.” It clearly pains him to say it, it makes you want to reach out to comfort him but you can’t move. Your body is still locked up defensively. 

“Explain.” 

“This situation is bad enough as is, I’m begging you not to make me do this.” He sounds so beaten down you know it would be cruel to push. 

“Fine.” 

“Thank you.” 

“I think we should do it. It’s the obvious choice, it’s the only way we make it out of here alive.” You say it like you’re making a decision on something as mundane as what to have for lunch. 

“I agree.”

“We won’t be like the others, it won’t just be one time. He’s been saying films, plural.” He’s been waiting for you, he isn’t going to make one little movie, he’s going to make a whole franchise with the two of you. 

“He plans on keeping us.” 

“Until the team finds us.” 

After they watch every movie you make. 

“Are you up for that?” 

Up for sex with the coworker you’ve spent the last year fantasizing about? 

“I don’t know.” 

This is punishment for every sick, perverted thought you’ve ever had about him. 

“You don’t have to decide now, you can change your mind whenever you want.” He says it as if changing your mind wouldn’t result in fatal consequences. 

“No amount of talking it over first is going to make this okay, you know that, right Reid?” You snap, tired of the voice in your head demanding your attention. 

What if you like it?

“Hey, we’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna go step by step, and I don’t care what the consequences are, if you want to stop we’ll stop. And we can take breaks, and we can be professional about it, I can make it very detached-”

What if he realizes you like it? 

“Can we lay down?” Your voice is small, and tired. You really are tired, even if you’re mostly just desperate for him to stop talking. 

“I’ll set up the blankets.” He gives you the closest thing to a smile that he can as he lays out a few of the blankets on the cold concrete, making something akin to a bed as you lay down beside him. As if on cue the fluorescent lights above you flicker out until only a small red bulb is left, bathing you in the dim light. 

“He’s probably still watching us.” You whisper as you roll over, the two of you face to face, even in the dark you can make out his concerned features. 

“I’m sure he is. There’s no privacy here, even in our whispers.” He speaks softly too, and you know he’s right. 

You’ll be under nonstop observation in this little room. 

“Goodnight, Reid.” You whisper as you roll away from him, facing the wall in the darkness. 

He doesn’t respond, all you hear is fingers tapping on the cement beside you. 

★

You know the man on the intercom is speaking to you but all you can hear is the ear splitting ringing in your ears. 

“Five times?” You squeak out as Reid takes your hand in his, giving you a reassuring squeeze. 

“I would like to see what my new toys can do. So yes, I want to see five orgasms from my shining star, I do not care how you do it, I just want it to happen. As a bonus, I will not even micromanage you, I will let you work through it together, I want the scene to feel organic and natural. ” 

You couldn’t bring yourself to talk to Spencer when the two of you woke up and now you’re regretting it, you should have come up with a game plan.

But you didn’t, and now you’re being given instructions that you don’t know if you can follow.

Five? With the pressure you’re under right now? Not to mention that the most you’ve ever done in a row is two and you did it yourself. None of your previous partners had ever given you more than two orgasms, most of them struggled to give you one. 

“I can’t do this.” You can feel your heart starting to race once, your breath shaky and quick. If you don’t pull it together you’re gonna start hyperventilating. 

“Why should we listen to you at all? Clearly you adore her, you wouldn’t hurt her like your other victims, what would stop us from sitting here and waiting for the rest of our team to finally arrest you.” You want to tell him to stop, you know it won’t make a difference.

“Dr. Reid, you are not in a position to be arguing with me. She may not be expendable but you certainly are.” 

There is a moment of quiet between the two of them, you watch as Spencer goads him, cocking an eyebrow as he looks up towards the ceiling.  

“If you refuse to cooperate I suppose she and I will have to sort out the next course of action. Let us play a round of Would you Rather, my angel.” Everytime he calls you by a pet name you want to claw your own ears off. “Would you rather, I come into that cell of yours and shoot your companion dead and have you all to myself? I do not know if I can promise to keep my hands to myself while in such close proximity to you all alone, I might just have to indulge in a taste. Or would you rather I keep him alive, chain him to the wall in your room, draw out his life for god knows how long as I make you watch him decay? Of course I’ll still want to make my movies so you will have to touch yourself as you watch me stick a funnel down his throat. I wonder how much gasoline he will have to drink before he loses the attitude? Which of those options is preferable to you, my love?” 

You just burst into tears. 

Your entire body trembles as you do your best to remain standing. He catches you, pulling you into a hug as you let out a sob, praying you might wake up and realize this was all just a terrible dream. You can feel him rubbing circles into your back for a few quiet moments, you know that the absence of commentary from the unsub is his way of letting you know he’s waiting for your decision. 

“I can’t- you can’t. I can’t be alone with him, please Reid- don’t leave me alone with him.” You mumble into his shirt as his hands go to your shoulders, he pulls you back and bends down to be eye level with you. Your noses just a few inches apart, he’s shockingly calm as he nods. 

“Hey, it’s okay, we’re gonna be okay.” He says it so confidently you almost believe him. 

Almost.

”I won’t leave you alone with him, I promise.” His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing away stray tears. “We can do this, you can do this.” You try to nod but his hands hold your head in place, his eyes are dark as he stares at you with an intensity that makes you want to avoid his gaze. 

“Spence-” You don’t know what you’re going to say, but whatever it was is cut off when he leans forward and crashes his lips into yours. 

Your brain has no time to process what’s happening as you relinquish any resistance and let him. 

He kisses you like he’s hungry. Like he’s starving for it. Not like he has to do it because some pervert is watching from behind a screen and expects it of him. Your mouth matches his movements as best it can, trying to keep up with the sheer ferocity. His mouth opens, demanding more and more as you feel his teeth graze your bottom lip you gasp and he pulls back. 

“I won't leave you alone.” He sounds so sure of himself all you can do is nod. “Just pretend he’s not here, it’s just you and me.” He pulls you close again, fingers tapping against the back of your neck as he presses his forehead to yours. “Just you and me, can you do that?” 

“Y-yeah, I can do that.” Your heart is racing so loudly he can definitely hear it. 

It’s just the two of you.

“We can do five, all you have to do is lay here, okay? I’m gonna take care of it. I’m gonna take care of you.” You don’t understand how he can be so collected right now but you’re glad he is because you’re struggling to put together sentences. “I know it’s a lot, you’ll be okay, I’m gonna handle it. We’re gonna get through to the end. If we can do that we’ll be all done for a little while.” 

“But that’s just one day done, we don’t know how long-” You’re starting to spiral as he gently places his hand over his mouth, quietly shushing you. 

“One day at a time. We’re gonna take this one day at a time.” He slowly lowers his hand, nodding at you as he does. “I want to hear you say it’s okay.” 

“It’s okay.” You don’t sound at all sure of yourself as he guides you to the blankets and eases you down so that you’re laying down propped up on a pillow. 

“I want to hear you say what we’re gonna do so that I know you understand. I’m not going to stop until you’ve come five times.” His fingers hover above the button of your pants. Those fingers that you’ve stared at from your own desk. Fingers that you constantly find yourself fixated on. Long, defined, adept. You’ve seen him solve rubix cubes, spin pens, and flip through books. You’ve dreamed about those fingers and now they’re here, taunting you.

“You’re going to take care of it.” You stare at him, his pupils are so blown his eyes look almost black, his hair is a mess, it always is. He’s waiting, he wants a proper response. “I want you to take care of it.” 

That’s clearly what he wanted to hear.

With expert dexterity his fingers loop around the button of your slacks and pull it up and open while his other hand slides your zipper down. 

“I’m going to partially undress before I touch you, to make you feel more comfortable and less exposed in comparison.” He’s already tugging his black cardigan off, tossing it aside as yanks his tie loose, throwing it in the same direction. Without missing a beat he unbuttons his shirt, leaving it on but fully unbuttoned as you stare at the skin there. Even now you can’t help but gawk at the pale skin. He isn’t muscular by any means, but you can see that he’s surprisingly toned. You do your best not to stare wide eyed, everything about this situation is awful, you don’t need to make it worse by getting caught staring. 

Although it probably doesn’t matter considering what he’s about to do. 

He’s so gentle with you. One hand sliding under you to lift you a tiny bit as he pulls your slacks down until they’re completely off, folding them in half before he sets them aside. Only Spencer fucking Reid would nicely fold your pants before fingering you. 

Jesus Christ, this is happening. 

You lay back, unable to look at him as you arch your hips to help him as he slides a finger under both sides of your panties. You take a deep breath as he removes them as effortlessly as your pants, setting them aside as well. 

You squeeze your legs together, tilting your head back and closing your eyes. You can feel his hands on your hips, grounding you for a moment as you try and slow your breathing. 

One of his hands moves from your side to the center, you burn hot, covering your face with your hands as he tenderly spreads your legs and there’s no going back as you find yourself completely exposed to him. He’s silent, you can feel him still holding your thighs apart now as you sit up, daring a look at him. He lays in front of you on his stomach, staring at your core with an intensity you’ve seen him use when he can’t solve a case and he’s spent an hour just staring at the white board. 

“Jesus, Reid, you do know what you’re doing, right?” You can’t help it as you grumble, exasperated. 

“I know what I’m doing, I’m just trying to decide the best course of action to do this as efficiently as possible.” His tongue pokes out of his mouth, wetting his lips as you lean back again, groaning this time. 

He’s torturing you. 

“Please- please just do it.” You try not to sound like you’re whining but at this point why bother holding on to any dignity you have left? All of your self respect went out the window the second he pulled your panties down. If he keeps laying there just staring at it you’re going to take matters into your own hands.

Thankfully, that seems to be all he needed to hear, you feel his fingers brush up against you as you suck in a sharp inhale. One hand resting on your hips, holding you in place as the other finally brushes up against you. You can feel him moving tentatively as he parts your folds, swiping a digit through the wetness there. 

He knows exactly how much you like this you sick fuck, look at you, dripping. 

When the pad of his thumb swipes over your clit you squeak, arching your back until he gently pushes you back down, he moves in slow, precise, circles that make your head spin. A finger prods at your entrance for only a moment before he pushes it fully in. 

Your curiosity gets the better of you and you prop yourself up on your elbows, a whimper slipping past your lips as he curls his finger, pressing into that sensitive spot that almost makes you fall back over. 

His pretty brown locks are tucked neatly behind his ears now. His eyes, still dark and wide, his brow furrowed. You watch him lick his lips for a moment before he curls his finger again, simultaneously pressing down hard on your clit. Testing, seeing what makes you tick. You can’t suppress the moan that bubbles out of you. He’s so meticulous, timing the pumping of his finger with the slow circles of his thumb, he finally looks away from your cunt to stare at your face, watching your reaction as he abruptly adds another finger without warning. Your eyes squeeze shut as you gasp. They feel better than you ever could have imagined, long and nimble, he works you like he’s an expert after just a few minutes of experimenting with pace and patterns. Curving them at the perfect time, in sync with the increasing pace of his thumb. 

“Reid-” You start to groan his name as you can feel the knot forming in your stomach. 

You’re going to come immediately and he’s going to know just how much of a slut you are. Writhing for him on the cold hard floor. 

“Shh… I’ve got you.” He plays you like he knows your body better than you do, and at this point, he might. Before you can react he’s pistoning his fingers in and out of you as you let out an obscene sound. The hand that held your hips down is spreading your legs apart now, he watches, enraptured as you clamp down on his fingers, your legs trembling as he practically rips your first orgasm out of you. Your fingers claw at the pillows behind you as you arch your back up, pushing yourself against his fingers as you ride it out. 

“Fucking- oh my god, Reid, Fuck-” You start to sit up but he coaxes you back down, sushing you softly, his fingers still slick as he slides them up and down your folds. You squirm under him, your sensitive bundle of nerves screaming for a moment's respite as he brushes up against them. “I need a second Reid.” You grumble but he doesn’t let up, deliberate little bumps against you as you whimper. 

His pointer and middle finger find your clit now, applying just the right amount of pressure as you fight the urge to push him off of you. 

“There was an interesting study done where a researcher suggested that the woman he was studying had a hundred and thirty four orgasms over the course of a single hour. Of course it’s difficult to track that sort of thing, they went based on her heart rate to get the number as close to exact as possible.” He’s unrelenting against you, his left hand grips your thigh, pushing your legs further apart as he continues. 

“Reid, please.” you can’t handle his ramblings right now.

“Obviously what she was experiencing wouldn’t technically be classified as multiple orgasms, it would be considered stacked orgasms because she wasn’t given time to come down from her initial orgasm.” The knot in your stomach is already forming again, he picks up the pace, scooping up the wetness from your initial orgasm and using it as a lubricant for his brutal little movements, increasing the pressure until you’re a whimpering mess. “Typically with stacked orgasms the goal is to prevent a person from fully climaxing, and to keep them in an orgasmic state. I think that’s our best course of action if we want to get this done as quickly as possible.” 

“I can’t- I- It’s already too much, Spence- Reid, I can’t do five like this.” Why is it so fucking hot when he does that? You hadn’t realized until just now how much you love the sound of his voice, even if you want to shove him off of you before he can force another orgasm out of you before you’re ready.

“If you’d like me to give you a break that’s completely fine but I think you’ll be better in the long run if we stack them. Not only will we be done sooner but if we take breaks our unsub will likely get bored and resort to more extreme forms of entertainment quicker. If we keep him entertained then he’s more likely to give us space to put on a show for him.” 

“Put on a show for him? Is it a good idea to encourage him?” Your voice pitches up an octave as he lightly pinches your clit, his brow furrowing as he studies your reaction. 

“He’s encouraged either way but if we play nice he’s far less likely to lash out or escalate.” You can feel your second orgasm approaching rapidly and you know he wants you to make a choice. He rubs your clit between his finger and his thumb and you just melt.  

“Fuck, Reid.” You cover your face with your hands, letting loose a string of expletives. 

“Don’t call me Reid, I think we’re beyond that.” He sounds so stern, a desperate edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. “Please.” He sits up as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge, you can see the focus on his face, and when you look down you can see the reaction in his pants. 

Completely normal, he’s a straight guy, you’re like a personal pornstar in front of him right now, try not to be too flattered. 

“Spence- Spencer, fuck.” You can hardly think straight with all of this, all you know is that you trust him. “Fine, you’re right, do it. Whatever you need to do to do the stacked thing.” Your words fade into groans as your second orgasm hits you, another wave cresting over you. You hardly get a moment to breathe before you can feel him shifting positions, you shoot up when you feel the wet, hot heat of his mouth clamp on to you. “Spencer!” His name is punched out of you as his tongue encircles your engorged clit. He runs his tongue up and down your dripping seam before he pulls away, lips wet and pink as he stares up at you with those stupid puppy dog eyes. “What the fuck!” 

“We agreed he needed a show to be kept happy.” He sounds confused as to why you’re stopping him, the look on his face is so close to disappointment that you just lay back. 

“Then put on a show.” You mumble as he returns to his work, you bury your face in your hands, trying to swallow the moans fighting their way out of you as he wraps his lips around your clit. His tongue moves in rapid patterns, alternating between sucking and licking at you, eating you just like he kissed you, like he’s starving. Your fingers eventually find themselves tangled in his hair, tugging at him gently as he devours you.  

You lose it when he moans against you. 

A low whine as he rocks against a pillow he placed under his hips when you weren’t looking. 

You’re so fucked. 

The sight of him sends you over the edge that you’re becoming all too familiar with. 

Already? Jesus, he definitely knows that you like this. 

A painful overstimulation, coupled with the force of your third shaking orgasm. Your thighs squeeze his head and, god, he doesn’t let up even for a second. Your entire body feels hot, tears prickling at your eyes. It’s too much, you’re glad you told him not to stop because honestly you don’t know how you’d start again. Your thighs shake, and you’re fighting the urge to kick him away as he tilts his head down the tiniest bit, his tongue lapping at your weeping hole as his nose bumps your clit.

“Reid- Spencer, Spence.” You’re limited to a stuttering of his name as his arms loop under your thighs, throwing your legs over his shoulders, effectively locking you in place as he pulls you closer. His tongue delves into you as he buries his face between your legs, pushing himself deeper and deeper until your back is arching up and off the ground. 

You’re trapped between two urges. The need to kick him off of you to ease the pain, to stop the delicious burning being delivered to your overworked clit with every focused lap of his tongue. After three orgasms every touch is like a flaming hot poker that you just can’t get enough of. The other urge is to grab him by the back of his head and hold him there forever. 

That urge is the one that won out in the end. Your hands tangling themselves into his curls, tugging shamelessly at him, needing more and more of the delicious pain he’s drilling into you. Your body is spent, writhing as he tries his damndest to pull another orgasm from you. 

”I don’t think I can-“ You mumble out through breathy moans, pulling admittedly a little too hard on his hair, but all that earned you was a lengthy groan, the vibrations rocking through your center. 

“You can.” He’s muffled, you can hardly hear him as he stays buried in your cunt, refusing to pull back for even a moment. 

You’re glad he seems so sure because you certainly aren’t. He pulls one of his arms back, slotting his fingers between your folds once more. Easily sliding two fingers back into you as let out a pitiful squeak.

Yeah, you can. 

You definitely can, he presses his fingers deep, focusing on that sweet spot nestled away inside of you. 

When they say Spencer Reid knows everything they really mean it, he knows how to twist his tongue against you in a way that makes you scream like a fucking pornstar. He knows how to work his fingers into you and find every single nerve that lights you up. He knows how to work you better than you work yourself. When he adds a third finger you feel yourself tensing again. He works tirelessly, never faltering. Tears are flowing freely now from your eyes, you’re so fucking tired, everything hurts, everything feels so good. When he flattens his tongue against your clit you gush around his finger, soaking the bottom half of his face. 

You can’t remember ever coming so hard, let alone squirting like this. It’s enough to snap him out of his animalistic state, when he looks up at you try not to look too shocked. 

You’re probably just as much of a sight at this point. 

His lips are wet and swollen, he wipes the bottom half of his face on his shirt and you recall every time he’s made a big deal of germs around the office. Clearly that’s all been abandoned. You’ve put his hair in a state of disarray. When you finally look him in the eyes you can’t look anywhere else. 

Dark and desperate. 

“Was that five?” Your voice is raw and quiet, when you break the silence he shakes his head, crawling up your body until he’s on all fours above you. His knee locked firmly between your thighs, likely soaking his pants with your juices. 

“Almost.” He whispers back, his tongue poking out before he chews his lip. You shake your head in return, your entire body trembles as a fresh flood or tears rushing out of you. 

“No, no I can’t do another one, I’m all done.” You bring your hands up to cup his cheeks, begging him as if this is his choice and not some cruel gods, still watching you somewhere on a little screen as if this is all just a silly little movie and not your sadistic reality. 

“You can, I know you can, you’re so strong. You’re so good.” He whispers so sweetly, it almost makes you forget the circumstances of all of this. “Just one more, I know you can last just a little longer.” 

“Spencer, please, it hurts too much.” You cry unabashedly. Moving your hands down his neck to his chest, clinging to his shirt collar. His touch is light as he brushes your hair back and out of your face. 

“Deep breath, stay with me sweetheart.” He kisses your forehead and it really does make a difference in grounding you. It’s so strangely personal and intimate, even knowing that he’s gonna have to put you through another crushing orgasm he treats you with such tenderness. 

“Please.” Your voice sounds so small, and you’re thankful for the recognition in his eyes when he nods. He knows you aren’t asking him to stop, you’re asking him to finish this. 

When he kisses you this time he isn’t as forceful as he was the first time. There’s a gentleness, it crosses your mind that he isn’t putting on a show for the camera with this kiss, this kiss is just for you. For just the two of you. 

You whimper when his hand wanders down your body and between your legs for what you hope is the final time today. You feel raw down there, you know he can feel it too because his hand flies back up to his mouth, you watch with morbid fascination as his lips part and he sucks his fingers, wetting them and returning them to your cunt. 

“You’re doing so good, so good, so good for me, all for me.” He’s moving in focused, deadly accurate circles. Kissing you between his praises, his free hand continues to sweep your hair away from your face. He’s hovering over you in an awkward position as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth while you whine. The muscles in your stomach ache and scream as you feel the burning knot forming once more. 

You groan, the buzz of pleasure is almost entirely gone, replaced solely by the dull, blunt pain of overstimulation.  

“Just me, just for me now, okay? This one isn’t for him, or anyone else, just me.” He’s rambling, picking up the pace, the strokes becoming more chaotic as he mumbles, seemingly to himself more than you. The shocks to your clit are erratic and relentless, as you feel yourself approaching a release you know is inevitable. His knee shifts, when his body presses down against you you can feel the outline of his cock against your hip, he positions himself in a way that can’t be comfortable, it makes it hard to focus on achieving any kind of release until you realize what he’s doing. 

Just for him. 

He’s covering you up, since you can’t see the cameras you have to assume they’re on the ceiling, tucked away near the fluorescents where you can’t find them. Regardless of where they are, if they’re from an elevated angle they won’t see your face, or most of your body as far as you're concerned.

Just. For. Him.

You cry out his name when you come, repeating it like a prayer as you sob against him, he kisses your face. Your cheeks, your forehead, your eyelids, your chin, and your lips as he murmurs against your skin. 

“I knew you could do it, look at you. So good, so pretty.” Whispers branded onto your skin with his lips. 

He wipes between your legs with the blanket, making you whine. 

“You did so good.”

You’ve never felt so spent in your entire life. There’s no energy left in your body so you just let him work, he pulls your panties back up your legs. He tries to get your pants back on but the tight fabric makes you cringe so he doesn’t bother. Instead he wraps his cardigan around your shoulders before laying back, pulling you against his still bare chest with a sigh.  

You sit in silence for what feels like hours, catching your breath and fighting sleep, your eyelids heavy. 

The crackling of the speaker startles you, you’d been so focused on Spencer you’d almost forgotten the dark reality of your situation. For a moment your captor doesn’t speak, he just claps, loud, cruel, beats. 

“I have no notes. I knew you would be incredible, I just- I did not realize how good it would be.” He sounds so worked up you swear he’s crying. “You really are my muse, you have inspired me, I have to go, I need to put together tomorrow's script, rest well my shining star.” 

In a swift motion as if a switch has been flipped the lights go dark, and you’re left alone in the void with only Spencer to cling to. For a moment, you aren’t sure what to say. What do you talk about after what just happened? Eventually you figure it out, right as you’re about to pass out from exhaustion. 

“You called me sweetheart.” You practically sigh the words out, your fingers find a button on his shirt, twisting it between your thumb and forefinger. 

“I did, should I not have? I wasn’t sure if I could pull that off, I don’t think I’ve ever used a pet name on anyone, maybe ever. It’s kind of Morgan's thing.” He sounds apologetic as he combs his fingers through your hair before sliding them down your back. 

“No, I liked it. Sweetheart works, it’s… timeless, and simple.” He rubs your back as you shut your eyes, mumbling against his chest as you trace a line up and down his sternum. 

“Get some sleep.” You don’t bother resisting, you feel like you’re already halfway there. 

“Goodnight, Spencer.”

“Goodnight, Sweetheart.”

Bishop didn’t want to overthink anything, he overstepped a line he shouldn’t have even touched in the beginning. You were very nice and kind as a person, never put up a fight unlike Angel or insurance troubles like Magick. To him, you were perfect. You were the last thing he would see before going to sleep and the first thing he thought of when he woke up. It’s like you were a drug to him, he knew he shouldn’t keep doing it, but he did, it made him feel good.

Some weeks passed where you would do things differently. You started to pay attention the days Bishop would come to the club, with Alamo or alone. You bought brand new lingerie, two pieces and bikinis in all colors and designs. Three new heels and an ankle bracelet Tish gave you because it wasn’t her style. When you would perform you made sure you did everything correct, not a single mistake. You were flirtier with the customers, nicer with the bartenders, overall you were going for employee of the month.

Bishop could’ve cared less, at least he wanted to.

He was growing impatient; you were driving him crazy. He would subtly see your performances in the club, looking away if you made eye contact. He would also see the men that asked you for dances on the booths, feeling his heartbeat faster when they would grope your tits and waist, made you move how they would want to as if you were a toy. He hated it when they spanked you when you walked by, all the time. Seeing those hands grab the fat of your butt just filled him with rage. But it’s not like he couldn’t do something about it. You weren’t his. At least not yet.

꧂

Thursday afternoon, Bishop was at Alamo’s mansion in his usual corner while he had a meeting with Big Eddy, G in a corner counting some money. “Honestly this a real good line up of girls we’ve had in a while.” Alamo’s desk was splattered with photos of the dancers from Silver Slipper, including you. “This one a real winner.” Alamo raised your photo, a picture of you smiling with an orange bikini, facing it to Bishop, “I bet this bunny loves to bounce bounce bounce!” Alamo erupted with laughter.

Fucking pig, Bishop thought to himself.

“She’s been good, I’ve had guys tell me they’d pay the double to get a section with her.” Big Eddy talked while taking some notes. “Bishop suggested to have her do more dances with the snake, maybe by the end of the month.” Alamo answered taping a photo of Tish. “She need a boob job.” He muttered.

“Should check if she’d be good doing a private, like a test run.” G spoke up, “And why the fuck would I do that?” Alamo asked, thrown off at G’s request. “Listen, I’m not gonna throw none of the girls under the bus, but some of these hoes just don’t got the love in when it comes to doing private dances. No coordination, no charisma...Magick is the less that gets asked that’s all I’m going to say.” G responded, his last sentence being the quickest to push out. “I won’t mind checking on Bunny tonight.” Alamo chuckled, “I’ll check on her real good.”

Bishop really didn’t want to interfere, he wanted to promise himself that you were nothing but another dancer. It was known that Alamo would take advantage of these women, he was practically a pimp. But the back of Bishop’s head kept telling himself that you were different, you were worth something.

“You’ve said that with each dancer, you only end up fucking them.” Bishop said with that monotone voice of his, making the three men look to him, Alamo visually angry. “And what the fuck do you want to mean by that?” “We test the girls for the public, not for us. Not every man that comes in the club is coming for a fuck, some just simply want a private dance.”

And everyone knew Bishop’s point was right. Alamo would do it based off his own personal interests, not for the public, which is why G suggested to really test the girls out. Alamo grunted, not having a comeback or an excuse for Bishop’s observation. “Let’s have her do a private with you then.” Alamo faced to G, who started laughing at Alamo’s demand.

“Nahh— have Bishop do it, she’s got a little crush on him.” Bishop’s heart dropped, looking directly at G, “Does not.” “Does too! She always bats her eyes in such a way, changes the tone of her voice, she’ll be like— Hello Bishop, how you doing?” G mimicked you, having Alamo and Big Eddy laugh with him.

“Bunny with a little crush, she’s adorable.” Big Eddy said wiping a tear out his eye. “I don’t wish to receive a private dance from Lola.” Bishop replied, he knew it wouldn’t be the right thing to do, especially when he’s trying to push down the emotions, he’s had building up for you. “It was your idea, B. Put it to the test, or we can go back my way.” Alamo responded, standing up fixing his attires.

“Make Tish, get earlier than usual to talk about driving her for a boob job, and tell Lola Bunny she’s doing a private dance.” Alamo assigned Big Eddy while making his way out, “Bishop, call that bitch Laurie to do some orders for a party I’m planning soon.” Alamo added before heading out. Bishop took a deep sigh, glaring at G who was still quietly giggling, then looking to Eddy, who held your picture towards him. “10:30, be there or be square.”

꧂

“Could it be his birthday?” “That man is not a Aries, Tish.” All the girls were surrounded by the board, you included. On your schedule it was written quite big, ‘PRIVATE: BISHOP 10:30PM’ and you had no idea why, but it wasn’t that you weren’t excited. “Y por qué yo tengo nada? The fuck?” Magick scoffed, her schedule being just one performance at 9pm. “At least you can just relax around.” Midnight, one of the dancers, laughed, her hand resting on your shoulder, she taps it. “Damn, Lola the chosen one this month.” You laughed, hiding your nerves, “I don’t know why.” You softly answered.

“And why Bishop? Is he like retiring?” Angel asked from her seat, counting money. “Nadie sabe, Eddy’s stupid anyways.” Magick said, clearly upset that her schedule was so clear. Tish walked in, stepping hard on the floor, “I’m getting my boobs done.” The room erupted with squeals and cheers, Angel standing up to hug her. “Yeah, yeah say your goodbyes cause this girl going to Mexico.” Big Eddy said, making his way to the office before being stopped by a whistle from Magick.

“What’s this schedule? You hate me? Why the fuck is your Babadook friend getting a private? Para qué?” “You talk too much.” He muttered resting on his office doorway. “We doing a new thing, gonna test out how you girls do on private dances.” Big Eddy explained, for once having many of the girls’ attention. “This just a draft, Bishop doing it cause Alamo nor G available tonight. Lola was our pick.” “Lola can dance on a stick, and it would even have more emotion than that man.” Angel said, having the girls giggle.

You hadn’t said anything. You were trying to place if it had something to do with the conversation you had with Bishop at the diner. “Y’all barely know this fool.” Eddy spoke, “Do you even know this fool?” Magick mimicked, still very, very pissed. Big Eddy just grumbled, taking a quick look at the girls before going to his desk, “No bullshit tonight.” He yells.

You sat at your chair looking at your reflection. Your pupils were huge, you could see goosebumps forming on your arms, your heartbeat so loud it was coming out your ears. “You’ve done privates before, right?” Angel asked you. You sure had, it wouldn’t be professional of a strip club to not serve that in their job. “Here and there, extra money with some blowjobs or handjobs.” You weren’t proud, but money was needed on some certain nights at your old place.

But Silver Slipper was different, you felt like a princess. And tonight, you could prove that you were an outstanding dancer, not just for everyone, but for Bishop.

꧂

Bishop rarely drank, like ever. Only at his house or surrounded by his close peers. But tonight, he needed to not let anything get to him, especially you. Sitting on the bar, Tylenol in hand, he shoved it down his mouth, followed by an Old fashioned. “You acting like a hippopotamus giving you a dance.” G was beside him, having a cold whiskey and eating peanuts. “I do not know what she wants from me.” Bishop said, looking down at his drink.

“She’s beautiful though.” G looked around the club, looking at Bishop, he whispered, “You should find out how tight that pussy is.” Bishop shoved G off him, hearing his cackles grow loud. Settling down, G patted his shoulder getting off his sit. “What’s up, doc...here come the girl of the night.” G walked away, making Bishop turn around, looking for you. And you were hard to miss.

Flirting with a table, you stood proudly in your red glitter six-inch heels, a blood red lingerie set, the side of your panties being this decorative golden chains. Your bra was fully bedazzled accompanied with fringe, the lights of the club making you shine with every movement. You had gemstones on your eyes with a light gold eyeshadow. A red lip. You were unbelievable to Bishop, a walking angel from the sky.

Accepting the money from the man you were talking to on top of your bra, you made your way to Bishop, who was already looking at you, standing by the entry. You focused on his wardrobe, a white button up with stripes paired with a dark red tie, dark brown pants, and dark blue trench coat. As always, he carried his prayer beads, he never let go of them. Finally, the two of you were face to face. It almost felt like it was just the two of you in the whole world.

“Bishop.”

“Lola Bunny.”

“Are you ready for me?”

“It’s 10:27.”

“I won’t charge the extra minutes.”

“…Lead the way.”

꧂

The private rooms were all different, for different usages. You led Bishop to your assigned room. It was spacious, a pole in the center with a small platform. In front of the pole was a couch pushed against the wall that was a mirror. A mini bar facing the left side of the room, another couch on the right side.

You turned to Bishop, the biggest smile on your face. “I’ll make you a drink!” Heels clacking their way to make him a drink. Bishop didn’t say anything, instead he placed his beads on the doorknob, and took one of the chairs from the corner, dragging it till he reached the security camera. Placing himself on top, he took the tape he had out of his pocket, biting a piece of tape, he covered the camera. He wasn’t going to let Big Eddy see this humiliation ritual they did to him.

“What are you doing?” You hadn’t turned your head, making him a vodka soda, a vodka cranberry for you. “Don’t worry about it.” He replied, dragging the chair back to its place. Feeling his presence on your left, you looked at him, you were practically the same height with the help of your heels. Holding both drinks in your hands, you kept that sweet smile. “You smell good.” “Make it quick.” Bishop replied, grabbing his drink, and making his way to the couch. You rolled your eyes, taking a quick chug of your drink, you made your way to the platform, squatting down to the speaker.

Bishop took off his coat, taking his gun from his back, he unloaded it and placed it on the small coffee table in front of him. “Would you like grade this?” You asked from the stage, holding onto the pole. “Yes,” He crossed hands between his legs, “just dance like you do outside, Bunny.” You cleared your throat, a quick nod to yourself. Showtime.

You were a true masterpiece when it came to pole dancing. You displayed all the techniques you knew with your performance; every step was perfect with the beat of the music, Bishop was engaged. He watched your every move, not a single mistake. He barely blanked every time you twirled around the pole, your knees hooked to the back of the pole, you looked so care free. Bishop wanted to ignore the erection he has growing between his legs. He was too grown to be getting a boner from a pole dance.

“Are you enjoying it?” You asked, so innocently, as if you weren’t dancing barely dressed with a pole with a Rihanna playlist playing all for him. “I am.” “You’re such a liar.” You mumbled, sitting on the edge of the stage. It was Bishop, what was he even going to do with your performance? “Is that all?” He asked, you shrugged, getting shy out of nowhere, looking down. “This is the part I give you a lap dance.” You looked up; Bishop hadn’t moved a muscle. He straightens his back, “I’m not stopping you.” You felt your cunt flutter, you were actually doing this.

You stood up, getting a glance of yourself though the mirror. Strutting your way to Bishop, it’s like your footsteps got louder, your breathing got shorter. Shaky but firm hands grasped on Bishop’s shoulders, straddling him. He slowly dragged his hands to your hips, making you shudder at the touch of his cold hands in your warm body. You moved your hips in slow circles, moving your hands to his chest. Bishop couldn’t believe he was letting this happen. Feeling your cunt through his crotch was heaven, he wants to believe this is the closest the two of you will get on an intimate level.

“I can feel you.” You whispered so low, so low Bishop almost didn’t catch what you said. But you both knew; you both knew Bishop’s cock was poking hard through his pants. “Don’t get excited.” Bishop whispered back, looking up when he heard you giggle. “I shouldn’t get excited? You and your bud—” You pressed down harder, making his breath hitch, “...would be leaving me alone.” You have no idea what came over you, you felt like you were on top of the world.

Moving your hands on top of Bishop’s, you leaned to his face your mouth grazing his, “You wanna see them, B?” Bishop didn’t even have time to analyze what you asked him. He did see how your hands reached for the center of your bra, a quick clasp and you were taking your top off. Bishop couldn’t hear his thoughts to this point, everything was happening so fast.

He moved his hands to your abdomen, his eyes not leaving your now exposed breasts, nipples perked up because of how cold the room was. God you were so beautiful. “You’re doing really good.” Bishop said, trying to remember this was overall a test, that he wasn’t feeling any type of pleasure from this. “Yeah, I’d figured.” You stood briefly, not a single moment had Bishop’s hands left your body.

You sat back down, having your back facing him, sitting directly on his growing erection. It didn’t even feel like you were doing a lap dance anymore. You grabbed his knees spreading them even more, having your butt grind right against him. “Fuck—” Bishop muttered under his breath, hoping you didn’t hear him. You were creating a friction in such an intense way, he couldn’t keep his eyes away from you.

And then you moaned, that’s when Bishop realized how your movement changed from a sensual dance to you grinding yourself against his cock, chasing pleasure. A professional act would’ve been for Bishop to tap out, hand you his money, thank you for the dance and leave. But Bishop also knew he had time left, and that testing out your private dance was the only thing Alamo had asked him to do for the Thursday night.

Would it hurt to add more fuel to the fire?

He sat up, and pulled you closer, having you gasp. “Bishop—” “Don’t freak out and I won’t freak out.” He whispered against your ear. It felt like a movie, a very soft porno movie if you will. Bishop’s right hand made its way to your panties, going upward until it connected to your right boob, instantly you placed your hand on top of his. “Would you let this to happen?” He asked so slowly, making his left hand make the same movement, your hand following.

With Bishop’s hands on top of your breasts, you were still grinding on top of him, not once did you think about stopping. “I don’t know...” You whimpered, “it- it feels good.” “I know baby.” Bishop said. Baby. He had never called you that, your heart was fluttering. “You haven’t answered.” Bishop placed a light kiss on your shoulder. You knew his question was about the men you would dance to if you did private dances, if you’d allowed them to place you in such a vulnerable position like the one you were in right now.

“Nu uh...” You answered, fastening your movements. “No? Then why are you doing it, Bunny?” Bishop kept leaving small kisses all over your shoulders and neck. You were so lost in the feeling of your grinds that made your clit bump against Bishop, you hadn’t noticed how he traced his hand down to your panties, this time making his fingers go inside you. You gasped loud when you felt him on your cunt, lightly placing his fingers, doing the smallest circles since the movement of your hips were already giving you that pleasurable sensation. Two of his fingers made his way inside your tight cunt.

“Bunny…” Bishop spread his fingers slightly, ignoring your whimpers. “You’re so wet...who let you get this wet?” Whimpers and moans were the only thing coming out of your mouth. You turned your head back, facing Bishop. With little patience inside your body, you finally crashed your lips against his. And it felt so fucking good.

Bishop was fingering you, slowly dragging them to your clit, he would then grope your boob and kiss you, swallowing all your moans and whimpers with his mouth. You couldn’t stop pushing back against him, you were practically begging for Bishop to push you to the couch, pull your panties and shove his cock inside of you and destroy you.

A loud bang was heard from outside the room. You wanted to gasp— you did gasp, but Bishop was quicker to put his hand over your mouth. The two of you stayed still, in this very intimate position, waiting to see of something was to occur. Hearing yells and ruckus outside, you whimpered, making your hips circle on top of Bishop again.

“Bunny…” Bishop whispered in a tone that was telling you ‘We should stop’, yet, his fingers were still rubbing your folds, and you were getting so close. “Please B…I don’t want you to stop.” You whimpered going faster than before. He groaned, placing a hand on your hip, he kept the your clit with his other hand.

“Can’t believe you’re letting me do this.” He whispered, “You know Alamo could kill me if he saw what you’re letting me do to you?” You moaned, feeling your climax get closer. “He’d be furious to know I got to you first, that you’d be this easy to break.” You felt it just then, your coil snapping. You had no idea how to react with the combination of Bishop’s words and his quick fingers on your cunt.

“Bishop—!” You moaned while you came, his free hand quickly covering your mouth. Even though the room was soundproof, you were quite loud. I mean who are you to blame? He was working unforgettable movements and the last time a guy made you cum must’ve been ages ago. Your moans turned into whimpers, turned into deep breaths. It hits you now, it hits you hard. Bishop made you cum, on his lap, while you were supposed to just give him a lap dance. What the actual fuck?

Bishop moved quicker than you, pushing you out his lap, he stayed still for a moment. Looking down at his hands, one covered in the wetness of your orgasm and the other one with slight lipstick marks from your mouth. He turned to look at you, bare chest heaving and that scared look you always tend to give him. Like a person that was caught doing something wrong. “Get dressed.” Bishop stood up, throwing your bra at you while he put his gun and coat back on.

You were still processing basically everything, but you knew Bishop wasn’t going to pillow talk you from just fingering you. Once the two of you got dressed, he made his way to the door, taking his prayer beads in hand, you behind. “What are you gonna tell Alamo?” You finally spoke up, before he could get his hand to open the door. He slowly turned to you, a look in his face that told you he didn’t have time for this. But he wanted to tell you, he wanted to just talk to you and stay with you for the rest of the night.

“Go make money, Lola.” Was all he said.

But you couldn’t just accept that, like you really couldn’t accept that. You knew these feelings weren’t just some tension you and Bishop were building up. You know this had to be something more. It’s why you the moment he reached to the doorknob, you put your hand on his, and leaned in to kiss him. Your soft lips crashed against Bishop, and that’s when he kissed back. Grazing his fingers slightly at your stomach, he pushed you against the door so softly.

You pull away, looking for a new expression. Bishop’s eyes had softened, looking more tender at you. “I think you’re gonna be a problem for me.” He whispered. The door opens making you walk backwards till you got outside. “I’ll make sure I won’t be complicated, B.” You smiled. Bishop’s name was being called out there, God knows for how long. Slowly he made his way out, his eyes never leaving yours. Standing alone you felt like coming back from a roller coaster.

Would it hurt to go for a second ride?

.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲