spencers-used-book

(stay with me now, i don't wanna be lonely / know how you feel by the way that you hold me)

at this point, putting anything on the tv felt redundant. you and spencer had a bad habit of abandoning whatever you finally decided on after thirty minutes anyway–your habit of spending fifteen minutes arguing whether or not you want to hear spencer recite something you’ve both already seen multiple times, had wormed its way into becoming a strange ritual of sorts.

maybe the background sound was comforting, in a white noise, keeping the atmosphere alive, type of way. or maybe you both just needed some sort of innocent excuse, a cover up for your cuddles before your wandering hands inevitably fell from the dark curls of his hair to the milky skin of his waist. 

the are you still watching? screen was usually present in all its knowing glory, blaring like some sort of evidence, proof that you in fact, got distracted just a little bit too easily. it wasn’t like you could be blamed, having a pretty boyfriend was tough. 

sleepovers had become your absolute favourite dates. sure, going out on dinner dates was nice, but was there really a point if spencer would end up in your bed by the end of the night, or vice versa? 

you could eat whatever you wanted, watch whatever you wanted–braless, for that matter, and you could kiss him at any given time, without any of his squirming due to an awkwardly persistent aversion to public displays of affection. 

for a lack of a better word, sleepovers were absolute perfection. 

especially when you were in spencer’s lap. 

your hands laced into his hair, gripping tight at the base of his scalp in that soft, tingly way that made his lips tremble in yours. with every gentle whine, you only pushed against him harder, deeper, as if you could somehow completely envelope him, slip inside him as he did to you. 

his hands moved from your waist, to lower, squeezing everything he could fit in his hands, as if he had the whole world there, taking and taking until there was nothing left. he loved your pajama shorts because they were soft, texture forgiving against his sensitive palms when he rubbed slow circles against your ass–and because it was very easy to slip sneaky fingers under the fabric. 

you separated from his flushed skin only to start pulling your cotton shirt over your head. typically, you made a show out of it, teasing as you dragged the material slowly against your burning skin, and spencer wouldn’t dare take his eyes off of you. 

but right now, his mind seemed to be somewhere else. 

you turned around to follow his gaze, eyes landing on the medical drama flashing across your tv screen. there was no way he was so worked up on inaccuracies and hipaa violations, that he wasn’t paying attention to the pair of tits that were practically in his face. 

“we shouldn’t be doing this while they’re watching.” 

you almost laughed as you cupped spencer’s rosy cheek in your gentle hand. 

“spence, the doctors on this show spend half of their time fucking anyway, i don’t think they’ll mind.”

he shook his head slowly, eyes darting up to yours to wordlessly judge the crudeness of your reply (he loved it,) before nodding in the direction of something else behind you. 

“no–not them, them.”

you followed his gaze for a second time, now landing on the sweet collection of stuffed animals sitting kindly at the foot of your bed. 

“you can’t be serious.” 

“i am!” 

spencer sat up straighter, forcing you to stiffen and adjust yourself on his thighs, in turn, pulling you off of his core and ripping away any friction. you weren’t too keen on the position change. 

“you don’t want to have sex with me because my teddy bears are watching?” 

he nodded yes once, then no, then yes again, and ran his fingers through his long hair while sighing. 

“i don’t appreciate the feeling of having extra eyes on me… yours are enough.” 

you really laughed this time, letting your forehead fall into the curve of his stiff shoulder as yours heaved with every giggle that escaped your chest. he was hilarious. 

“it’s never bothered you before!” 

“that was when the lights were off.”

who knew that the warm candles you’d lit to set the mood would backfire, not by setting anything ablaze, but because the ambient lighting was simply too bright?

“ok then, i’ll go blow out the candles.” 

he shook his head as you lifted your face from its hiding place against his skin,

“it’s no use now… i already know they’ll be watching…” 

you slapped his chest playfully, messing with the wrinkled collar of his patterned pajama set. 

“i’m starting to think you're coming up with excuses to not sleep with me, spence.” 

he looked at you like the mere idea was the biggest possible offense, wrapping his arms around your navel as he rested his chin on your chest–which would’ve been bare had he not paused your activities for a voyeuristic epiphany regarding your assembly of stuffed toys. 

“it just… it feels cruel, like we're tainting something pure, corrupting it.” 

you wouldn’t tell him, to allow hi to spare some semblance of peace of mind, but mr snuffles and friends had long been corrupted. but his concerns, albeit annoying, were sweet. 

“i’m sensing a double standard here.”

“really? how so?” 

sometimes with his cadence, it was almost hard to tell if he was genuinely questioning something, or just playing along with your teasing. either way, you liked to believe he was always at least somewhat authentically concerned. 

“your toys always watch us at your place… i swear that box thingy only lights up when i take my top off.” 

“they aren’t toys. they’re collectable figures! and the tardis is motion censored!” 

his voiced raised a few pitches, getting defensive as you pulled him down onto your floral patterned sheets. tangled in a yarn ball of limbs, you turned to face him, noses brushing as he face heated in adorable frustration. 

“you’re such a nerd.” 

you teased him as you brushed loose strands of his chestnut hair behind his ears. it somehow felt softer when you were laying like this, the same way his eyes felt impossibly rounder, like a thick pool of warm gold. 

“what does that make you, a nerd lover?”

“nope. i’m only with you because you’re tall and pretty.”

spencer scoffed in mock offense and rolled over, crossing his arms over his chest and huffing. you couldn’t see his face anymore, but you knew he was wearing that stupid little cheeky smirk as he so often did. 

you flopped yourself over his side, going limp against his torso,

“spenceee i’m only kidding.” 

you moved up his body until your lips found the delicate skin of his neck, peppering kisses there until his grumpy facade crumbled into a fit of giggles. your kisses made their way up to his cheeks, spanning the width of his face and then moving onto his forehead, leaving no territory uncharted. 

“how about we compromise, hmm? you can help me flip all of my stuffies over so they can’t watch us.” 

he hummed as if he was mulling it over, interlocking his nimble fingers with yours, sheer size easily enveloping them. 

“wouldn’t they still be able to hear us?” 

if you weren’t entirely obsessed with how loud he was, you’d tell him he’d just have to be quiet. 

“do you want me to fuck you or not?” 

spencer only chuckled as he caught your lips in a quick, chaste kiss, completely contrasting your words and his current mindset. he then grabbed a pink unicorn plush, lovingly named admiral sparkles, and turned her head so she was facing the wall, front row seat view of the two of you now completely obscured. 

“this is going to take a while if i’m doing it all by myself.” 

you smiled as you leaned over, pressing a kiss onto the beauty mark adorning his jaw, before grabbing a pink bunny plush and flipping it around as well. 

with the way spencers hands slithers around your waist, pawing at the hem of your thin shorts, you weren’t sure if you’d get the chance to blind the rest of your audience before he was on top of you.

Aaron's brows furrowed in feigned confusion. “Whose name?"

"Aaron, do you know who you're talking to?" A knowing smile formed on his face. "I know you. You're trying way too hard to pretend nothing happened. So... who is she?"

Aaron let out a quiet sigh, shutting the file. There was no point denying it. Not when Dave could read him like an open book.

"It's nothing. Our coffees got switched, and we made small talk while we waited for it to be corrected."

"About?"

Aaron chuckled softly, the memory bringing an instant warmth to his chest. "My coffee order."

Dave let out an amused huff, well aware of Aaron's coffee preference. "Already making fun of you?" He nodded approvingly, "I like her already."

Aaron shook his head, though the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth stubbornly refused to disappear.

"And is she pretty?"

Aaron answered with a subtle glare that lacked any real bite.

Dave smirked, holding his hands up in surrender. "What? It's not every day you meet someone who has you looking like that."

"Looking like what?"

"Like you actually had a good morning."

"Who met somebody?" Penelope asked as she swept into the office, her curiosity piqued immediately. 

Right away, Aaron knew where this was headed. Penelope was, affectionately speaking, the BAU's resident keeper of everyone's personal business and had never been one to let an interesting detail go unnoticed. He knew it was never malicious. If anything, it came from the fact that she cared. 

Still, he wasn't exactly eager to have his personal life become the next team-wide discussion.

"No one." Aaron said simply, reaching for the same file again and hoping it was enough to dismiss the conversation.

Penelope's eyes darted between the two of them. Aaron was doing an admirable job of pretending nothing had happened. Dave, on the other hand, looked far too amused for that to be true.

"Ohhh..." A huge grin began to spread across her face. "It was you. Wasn't it?"

"I-"

"This is the best news I've heard all week. No, make that all month. Maybe even all year, sir, this is wonderful!" She practically lit up, stepping further into the office. "Where did you meet her? How did you meet her? When did it happen?"

"It was this morning." Dave answered for him, unable to hide the enjoyment in his voice. 

"Don't either of you have work to do?" Aaron asked, his tone lighthearted with an undercurrent of fond irritation. 

"We do," Dave admitted. "But this is far more interesting."

"This morning?" Penelope clasped her hands together, absolutely giddy with excitement. "Oh my goodness, this is brand new! Tell me everything. Was it love at first sight? Did she smile at you? Does she know what you do? What does she do? Is she nice? Oh, she has to be nice."

Aaron opened his mouth to respond, only to be talked over. Interrupted, really. 

"When are you going to see her again?" Penelope asked, barely pausing between questions. "When do we get to meet her?"

"Not anytime soon if the two of you keep interrogating me."

Dave chuckled, clearly satisfied with himself. He began making his way out, tilting his head as an indication for Penelope to follow. She did, though with noticeably less enthusiasm now that the conversation was coming to an end.

"Garcia."

She turned around instantly and eagerly, without a doubt hoping for more information. "Yes sir?"

He gave her a silent, pointed look. One that read: please, keep this between us. 

Understanding flashed across Penelope's face. Her grin softened into a warm, knowing smile before she responded with an enthusiastic little salute, and then retreated. 

He gave it an hour.

Finally alone, Aaron glanced toward the coffee cup resting on his desk, your number still neatly written beneath his name. 

Was it too soon? It had been a little over an hour since the two of you had parted ways. The last thing he wanted was to come across as desperate, but he also wanted you to know he was serious about seeing you again. Besides, he knew he wasn't going to get much work done with you on his mind. He could only hope he was occupying your thoughts just as much.

He was an ephebophilic serial rapist, stalker, and one-time proxy killer. And somehow, that still wasn’t enough. 

“So many lives have been ruined here.” 

The words of Lee’s victim you and JJ interviewed replayed in your head over and over again like a broken record—a reminder of just how many more lives could be ruined now that he’s walking free. 

——

“This whole thing is a fucking joke!” your voice grew louder as anger made you slam your bag on Spencer’s couch instead of simply dropping it, “He gets to just walk away unscathed as if he’s innocent?!” 

“Hey...” Spencer whispered, his voice soft enough to make your stiff frame lean into him. 

He tipped his head down to you, snaking one arm around your waist, as his other hand kept a tight grip on the smooth wooden handle of his cane, “I know it’s unfair, but we did everything we could.” he whispered again, hoping that his touch would do a better job at melting away your frustration than his words did, because everything that left his lips sounded unconvincing. 

Of course—bowing down to the system even when it clearly fails is exactly what’s expected of you. You must silently watch a monster slip through the flawed cracks of the law without paying the price of what they’ve done. 

Both you and Spencer weren’t ones to blindly bend to false truths just because you’re told to do so, but Spencer’s words were merely an exhausted attempt at helping you both to accept fate—cruel fate that no one is capable of swallowing without feeling the sharp blade of unpunished sins and stolen lives cut through their tender flesh. 

“No we didn’t,” you snapped, your eyebrows drawing into one another stubbornly, “you don’t actually think we did our fucking job, Spence.” you shook your head, your eyes piercing into his shiny, hazel ones. 

Spencer’s chest fell, a heavy, ragged sigh slipping past his soft lips as his gaze dropped to the space between you, unable to put out your fire. 

“Look, all we could do is follow protocol. This—the grief.. and the guilt—it’s all part of our job. I know cases like this make you believe that the system is broken, but it’s all we really have,” he softly murmured, his fingers bleeding through your hair, gently massaging your scalp as he pulled your head closer, his warm breath tickling every tense muscle on your face. 

“Right now, all I’m worried about is you. All I could think about is what this case is doing to you.. and I don’t know how to fix it.” 

Your eyes softened, dilated pupils swallowing the entire color of your eyes at the feeling of your Spencer—your angel, weaving his own gentle soul into yours, refusing to let you drown in the filth of the world. 

You let out a shaky breath against his neck, your hands sliding up his chest, “I can’t do this, Spencer. If I think about this case—or work for one more second, I’ll lose my mind.” your eyes were wide, unfiltered desperation burning into his own. 

“What do you need?” Spencer’s parted lips grew heavier, his voice full of complete surrender to you, a quiet vow that he would be whatever you needed.

You stared down at the dark polished floor, “I wanna go home.” you whispered, almost as if you were talking to yourself. 

He squeezed your waist a little tighter, leaning to press a tender, lingering kiss to your hair, “Are you sure?” 

You swallowed hard, staring up at the gentle curve of his mouth, “I’m sure,” 

“Can I walk you home at least?” he murmured, his voice dipping to a gentle plea that begged you not to shut him out completely. 

Spencer’s company was where you felt most loved, most seen, and entirely whole. Facing Spencer always brought you to your knees—soft, inevitable surrender to the only person who held your heart completely. He had a way of making the universe feel smaller, safer, and infinitely sweeter just by being in it. But now all you needed was to be alone, and yet refusing Spencer was an impossibility—you were far too helpless.

“Yeah.. yes, I’d like that,” you nodded, barely getting the words out before he closed the distance and kissed you. 

“Come on, then,” he said, picking your bag off his brown couch and swinging it over his shoulder. 

“Give me that, you don’t need any extra weight—” 

“No, no, it’s fine I can just—“ he grunted, accidentally stepping down with his injured leg before adjusting his stance and shifting the worn leather to rest comfortably across his body, “all good,” he patted the bag twice and gave you a sweet reassuring smile. 

The sight of him—struggling with his bad leg, wearing your bag as though it were an unquestionable responsibility, made your heartstrings pull taut. You weren’t sure there would ever be a time when acts like these stopped making you fall a little more in love with him.   

You beat him to the door before he could do anything else for you, unlocking it and holding it open for him. He decided to accept the attention with no complaints, because as much as he adored anticipating your every need before you could voice it, he loved being on the receiving end of your care just as much. 

“You’re ridiculous, Doctor Reid,” you smiled at him, reaching up to gently straighten the strap against his chest. 

“I’m taking care of you,” he replied simply, as if it were the most logical, non-negotiable fact he’d ever uttered,  “it’s my job,” 

“Your job is being a profiler,” you teased, your brows raising in amusement. 

“That’s my secondary job,” he corrected with a soft chuckle, waiting for you to step beside him before locking the door, “My first job is this.” 

——

The familiar streets between his apartment and yours never felt so long. Spencer kept his fingers intertwined with yours, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin.

“Did you know that this area used to be really important to the tobacco trade?”

You glanced at him, almost amused despite yourself, “Are you seriously giving a history lesson right now?” 

“Yes.” 

“Spencer.” 

“A very short one,” 

“That’s never true when you say it.” 

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, “Oh, please, I always—” 

Your soft lips cut him off with a harsh kiss. Without warning, without permission. You needed the breath that came out of his lungs to fill you up, so you gripped his face, your teeth colliding with his before you finally let him go. 

Spencer was completely out of breath, the thoughtless daze in his eyes was your favorite sign of how easily Spencer’s head was to be messed with. 

“If that was your way of telling me to stop talking, you could’ve just asked.” he said, still slightly breathless as you two continued to walk. 

“I find this far more effective. Shuts you up in less than a second.” you chuckled, earning an exaggerated roll of his eyes. 

By the time your apartment complex came into view, the sharp edges of your frustration had been sanded down to exhaustion. You stopped in the middle of the parking lot, turning around to face Spencer before he could go any further. 

“This is where I leave you, Doctor Reid,” you smiled, reaching out to take your bag from his shoulder. 

Spencer blinked, his brows furrowing at your honey-sweet tone that wrapped around the quiet dismissal, “I’m walking you to your door,” 

“Spence, it’s two flights up the stairs and there’s no elevator,” you reasoned softly, your feet bringing you a step closer to him, “I’m not letting you drag your knee up forty steps just to turn back around and come down.” 

“It’s fine, I can—” he argued stubbornly, adjusting his grip on his cane as if preparing to take the first step anyway. 

“It’s not fine,” you gently interrupted, hands smoothing down his warm chest, “You walked me home. That’s more than enough. Go back to your place and get some rest.” 

He let out a defeated, quiet huff, but the fond warmth swirling in his hazel eyes betrayed him. Lacing his fingers with the ones on his chest, he leaned down, pressed a slow kiss to your knuckles, “Text me when you’re inside?” 

“I will. Goodnight, Spence,” your fingers reluctantly slipped from his touch as you stepped backward. 

“Goodnight, love.”

His figure grew smaller with every step until he was completely out of sight. The parking lot fell silent around you, leaving only the distant hum of traffic.

Your footsteps echoed against the stairwell as you made your way up to the second floor, keys jingling between your fingers. But as you stepped into the dim light of your corridor, your feet halted mid-stride a step away from your entrance. 

A pristine bouquet of pastel blooming poppies was resting at your front door. 

Tucked neatly into the stems was a thin, cream envelope—unaddressed, and sealed with a small stamp of bright red wax. 

You never get flowers. Unless they were from Spencer, and Spencer could never keep his mouth shut or surprise you with a present. The jitters always made him spoil surprises. 

Every instinct you possessed knew that an unexpected object placed directly in your way is often not a harmless gesture. It could be physical proxy meant to prove that your perimeter had been breached. Or a trap meant to force physical contact. 

Before you could decide to ignore the flowers, unlock your door, and leap over them and into your apartment, you caught yourself as the dull bitter wave of self-pity washed over you. 

This was the tax the FBI demanded—complete paranoia. You despised that all the twisted gruesome cases you saw on the job manipulated every instinctive reaction your body had. 

A small smile wasn’t even considered as a response to the pretty bundle of flowers. 

Before you thought better of it, the heavy arrangement was between your arms, resting like a newborn against your chest, propped up by your soft fingers that immediately brushed against the rough brown paper as you made your way into your apartment. 

You placed it gently on your kitchen table, the crinkle of the kraft paper filling up the empty space in your apartment. 

Your fingers plucked the cream envelope from the flimsy stems, tracing the sealed edges of the stamp before turning the envelope over twice, studying the lack of any writing on it as you broke the seal, gently pulling out a small card.

‘I know you tried’ 

Four cursive words were written in thick splotchy ink in the middle of the paper, the edges of each letter bleeding into the rough surface. 

Every vein in your body shrunk, pulling in on its walls, limiting the blood flow so quickly you felt hot pinches creep up your limbs. 

Surely, those flowers weren’t in the right place, because nothing about this package made any sense. 

I know you tried? What does that even mean? 

You couldn’t tell if it was quiet, unnerving acknowledgment, or an honest mix up in addresses, but your gut decided for you, dropping a heavy metal ball straight into the pit of your stomach. 

With no answers waiting between the letters, you set the note beside the bouquet. The flowers remained exactly how you’d left them—an invasive, beautiful intruder refusing to become any less out of place. 

After a quick shower and a change into comfortable pjs, you crawled into bed, hoping that exhaustion would finally do its job and knock you unconscious. 

But sleep came in short, restless pieces, leaving you never fully asleep and never fully awake, until morning arrived and pulled you back into the familiar routine of work. 

——

8:05 AM, BAU bullpen. 

You were halfway through setting your bag down when Spencer appeared beside your desk, his brows slightly drawn together, “You didn’t text me last night.” 

You blinked up at him, caught off guard, “Good morning to you too,”

His lips pressed into a small frown, “You said you would,” 

“Oh,” you shrugged, “I forgot. I was really tired.” 

Before he could respond, JJ’s voice carried across the bullpen, “Come on, you two. We have a case,” she waved the stack of folders in her hand, already heading toward the conference room. 

“Ughh, a new case already?” you huffed, both you and Spencer grabbing your things to join the others. Moments after you two filed into the room, Hotch followed close behind, already speaking before he’d even reached his chair, “Fairfax County PD found the body of Roger Johnson 6 hours ago.” he said, “He finished his mandatory post-release supervision three weeks ago for a past child sexual abuse conviction. The police believe this killing is connected to five other killings that were set up in the same manner in the past three months.” 

JJ moved around the table, handing out the cream folders with a grim expression.

“The crime scene is.. unique.” she carefully said, “Johnson was laid flat in his own bed, hands folded over his chest. His eyes were surgically removed and his fingers severed post-mortem, and they’re all nowhere to be found.” 

“No signs of struggle. Almost no blood at all.” Morgan added, leaning over his file, “Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. Surgical precision, specialized instruments, clean execution.” 

“Or someone with extensive anatomical knowledge,” Emily countered, tapping her pen thoughtfully against her legal pad, “Medical examiner.. A mortician.. doesn’t necessarily have to be a surgeon.” 

Spencer’s index finger traced the edge of one photograph as he leaned closer, eyes narrowing, “Look at the floor,” he pointed out, dragging his words slowly, “candles and pink flower petals..” 

“Poppies,” you whispered in disbelief before you could stop yourself. 

The pale pink, paper-thin shape stuck out to you—the petals were identical to those you spent three hours memorizing the beauty of in your living room last night. 

“How do you know they’re poppies?” Morgan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“There aren’t many flowers in that color with petals shaped like that. And the petals themselves are very thin and kinda wrinkly, I think they’re opium poppies.” 

Spencer nodded slowly, eyes fixated on the photo, “She’s right. Historically those flowers have symbolized sleep, oblivion, and peaceful death. Actually, the specific name of the opium poppy, somniferum, means ‘sleep-bringing’, in reference to their sedative ability.” he thought aloud, “...Interesting choice.” 

“So he’s putting his victims to sleep?” JJ frowned, tilting her head in slight confusion. 

“But that doesn’t make sense,” you argued, shaking your head, “if he’s targeting an offender, why give him a ‘peaceful death’.” 

“Symbols mean whatever the unsub wants them to mean. The flowers could hold a significance to the unsub—they may represent something entirely different to him.” 

“Maybe the flowers aren’t for the victim.” Rossi suggested, rubbing his chin in deep thought. 

You pulled your gaze away from the photograph, trying to ignore the tension in your shoulders. As much as you wanted to believe that the poppies were a coincidence, you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d been part of something you didn’t realize yet. 

“Who is he targeting?" you furrowed your brows, glancing toward Hotch. 

Hotch huffed—clearly, the police weren’t much help, “I’ve already given Garcia all the details we have and she’s running background checks on the other victims. But we wanna get to the crime scene as quickly as possible.” he quickly checked his watch, cutting off any further discussion as he stood up. “Police have secured the scene. JJ, reach out to the victim’s family.”

Within seconds, the room was nearly empty. Your eyes stayed glued to the photographs of the crime scene until Spencer’s hand gently brushed against your shoulder as he stood just behind you. 

“Hey,” he murmured, his eyes searching your face as the rest of the team filed out, “are you okay? You look somewhere else,” 

“Just focused.” you sighed as you shut your folder, “Let’s go see what this guy’s left for us.” 

You offered him a small smile, matching his stride as you both walked out of the conference room. 

——

The forty minute drive to Burke passed in a hazy, near-silent blur of engine hum and Spencer reciting historical facts about ceremonial ritualism in serial homicide. 

By the time you pulled up to the curb of the quiet, isolated suburban home, the scene was already cordoned off with bright yellow police tape. 

A terrible paint job. Uneven cracked clapboards. Rusted metal windowsills. The house reflected the rot of its owner.

While Hotch was approached by the lead detective of the case, the oddly intimidating house called you towards it like an invisible magnetic field pulling on your limbs. 

Spencer stayed tied to your hip, matching your every steady step until the two of you flashed your badges at the local officer holding the perimeter tape.

“Morning, Agents.” the officer greeted as he lifted the tape to let you two step under.

Spencer stepped over the curb, his eyes scanning the exterior of the house—overgrown lawn with yellow patches splashed across the wild grass, untouched windows, and complete lack of forced entry. 

As you rounded the side of the house toward the back entrance, your gaze lingered on the intact door frame. 

“No signs of struggle on the outside either,” he noted quietly, stepping beside you, “he didn’t break in. He was invited.” 

“Let’s check the inside,” you calmly said, turning on your heel back toward the front porch to slip on the protective blue boot covers and gloves. 

You pushed the unlatched front door inward with the tip of your gloved shoe. 

The scent hit you immediately—a sharp, overwhelming sting of heavy bleach and burnt lavender. 

Spencer slipped through the doorway behind you, freezing at the entry point as his brows furrowed deeply at the sight of the trail of opium poppy petals that started right at your feet and wound all the way up the stairs, pools of thick, hardened wax clinging to the hardwood floor.

“Oh, wow, he really took his time with this,” Spencer sounded almost impressed with the unsubs efforts.  

The melted ribbons of dusty purple against the shiny oak wood were impossible not to appreciate—even when it was the doing of a killer. 

“He’s not killing purely out of rage. He’s sanitizing this place.” your voice was quiet, the observation meant to stay in the bubble surrounding you and Spencer away from the eerie atmosphere sucking you in. 

“Sanitizing?” Morgan appeared on your other side, his voice quickly traveling into the cracks beneath your feet. 

This house was really falling apart. 

“Maybe he views Johnson’s home as a den of filth.” you suggested, projecting your concrete opinion on this victim.  

“That could be directly tied to this unsub’s motive,” now Hotch’s voice followed your words, “Garcia says all five victims had prior abuse reports. All different types of abuse, but none of it resulted in any prison time.” he walked past you and down the pretty aisle of pinks, whites, and purples. 

Spencer gestured for you to make your way before him, the wave of his hand answered with your stiff, robotic steps against the groaning floorboards. 

The walls were covered in faded floral wallpaper, everything was tidy, but the place reeked of wicked decay no amount of bleach could erase. 

Roger Johnson was nothing but a fingerless, eyeless, heavy bag of rotten flesh and bones in front of you in his bedroom. 

You were the first to step closer to the edge of the mattress, your gloved fingers reaching down to inspect his forearms. His cotton shirt sleeves were already rolled halfway up, so you carefully tugged the fabric higher past his elbows, revealing dozens of tiny, dark purple puncture marks littering his inner arms. They were neat, clustered, and deeply bruised. 

“Track marks,” Morgan muttered, leaning over your shoulder, “or repeated injections.” 

“Not track marks,” Spencer whispered, his eyes unnaturally still, his adam’s apple bobbing against the collar of his shirt, “He wasn’t searching for a vein in a rush. These are clean. He injected him repeatedly, very, very precisely,” 

He couldn’t look away from the bruises lining the victim’s pale skin. The familiar hollowness was written all over his face, he was trapped in the haunting memory of being helpless, drugged, and completely at the mercy of a twisted killer’s mind—undeniable terror you’ve seen etched into his features before. 

Spencer despised feeling fragile—like he’s made of sensitive glass that everybody was too afraid to touch, especially when it came to his addiction journey. But you couldn’t ignore the unmistakable barely-there tremor in his hands, slender fingers clawing tightly at the smooth top of the cane, veins pulling taut beneath the delicate skin over his bright knuckles.

The bare side of your arm brushed against his sleeve, the thin fabric doing little to block your warm skin from his, the faint friction sending a quiet shiver through you both. 

“By removing their eyes that preyed on the victims and the fingers that harmed them, he’s removing their ability to sin. He’s taking away their tools, lulling them into a forced, quiet sleep, and cleansing their space,” he paused, eyes travelling to the missing eyes, “he thinks he’s performing an act of divine service.” 

“A vigilante with a savior complex,” Hotch stated, his dark brows drawing together, “which means he won’t stop until he feels his work is finished,” 

“And that’s.. never,” Emily asked, “But if his philosophy is purification, why inject them with anything?”

One of the many cops that neglected the second story of this house finally made his way up the stairs, the fragile boards creaking at his every move until his figure appeared at the doorway. 

A steaming lidless cup of coffee between his stubby fingers, his cheeks puffed as he swirled a mouthful of the hot liquid before opening his mouth, “Guess this is what you call staging.” 

Every pair of eyes in the room shifted to his face, involuntarily picking him apart from his stance to the distant look in his eyes.  

“Staging is manipulating the scene to disguise the true nature of a crime, but posing is manipulating the body into a position that satisfies the unsub’s personal psychological needs or fantasies.” the uncomfortable lack of movement in the room was sharply cut by Spencer’s high-pitched voice.

“Ah.” the officer raised his brows, the syllable sounding more like immediate regret for being in this room with a pair of empty sockets staring him down. 

You bit the inside of your cheek before chiming in, “So this is almost certainly posing.” 

The officer nodded, his chapped lips tugging into a thin line as he shifted his weight from one short leg to the other, “Okay, well I’ll leave you to it.” 

Emily’s eyes followed the cop’s blue figure until he was down the hallway, “This is the second officer that seems completely uninterested in the case,” 

“Why should they care? It’s a child molester,” you brought your chin in, eyes bugging out with your slow words meant to point out the obvious valid excuse to lack compassion.  

“Whether he deserves sympathy isn’t our concern.” Hotch replied, “Our concern is finding the person responsible.” 

Rossi, who’d been silent, buried in deep thought finally spoke up, “The ME might be able to tell us what he was injected with and whether the mutilation happened before or after death.” 

“Well the autopsy report could come out in about twenty-four hours if we’re lucky,” Hotch said, “Until then, we work with what we have.” 

Another hour at that pit of hell was all you needed to start feeling nauseous. Your guts formed tight knots as the scent of bleach and lavender clung to the back of your throat long after you’d gotten used to it. 

The sharp snap of latex gloves and click of camera shutters were the only sounds feeding your senses until the corpse was zipped into a body bag and carried out of the building. 

By the time the scene was cleared, the sun had already started to dip below the horizon, leaving you sitting on the porch, watching Hotch and Emily exchange a few final words with the lead detective before it was time to gather and discuss what came next. 

With the scene processed and no further leads to work with, everyone made their way to the black SUV.

“We’ll head back to Quantico.” Hotch said, “The ME report and Garcia’s findings will give us more to work with tomorrow.” 

The announcement was met with quiet agreement. There was nothing left to do except wait. 

Twenty minutes later, everyone was back at the office collecting their belongings before filtering back into the parking lot. You and Spencer walked side by side to your car just as you always did. 

After Spencer’s knee injury, you took the role of driving him to and from work almost everyday, with the exception of the days when he wanted to arrive at work at an unreasonable early time of the morning. 

It became a natural routine. You’d sometimes slip some of your files into Spencer’s stack, knowing that he notices every single time but gladly finishes them up with no complaints just so the two of you would be done at the same time. 

It was an efficient, comfortable system that always led up to your favorite part of the day—the car ride back home. 

If you two weren’t talking, Spencer was thinking of ways to drag your time together to no end. Not that he needed any reason to crave his girlfriend’s presence, but you liked it when he came up with excuses to keep you around for longer. And you liked it when he got excited whenever you’d act all clingy. 

But on today’s drive, Spencer didn’t even try to come up with anything as you pulled up to his place. 

“Can you come in?” he took your hand in his, pressing his lips to your knuckles as he looked at you through his lashes, “You can stay the night if you want,” 

Being alone in your apartment wasn’t an option tonight. You hoped that the flowers in your apartment had somehow rotted in a day. That the see-through rigid petals had wrinkled further and gone completely hard and dry. That a single touch would shatter every piece into tiny flakes that would decorate your floor, proof that it was gone. 

Even if those flowers were connected to the case in your hands, you were the furthest thing from the unsub’s victimology. But you wanted those flowers gone nonetheless. 

“Are you just trying to get me into your bed?” you asked, a small smirk tugging at your lips. You leaned closer across the console, your nose lightly brushing against his, your lips hovering just a breath away from his warm mouth. “Because you’re not as subtle as you think you are,” you gave him a faux-pitying look, slightly shaking your head. 

And just like that, Spencer was already gone. His eyes fixated on your lips, completely hypnotized and quiet, “I’m not trying to be subtle.” he whispered. 

“Spencer Reid… are you propositioning me?” 

“What? No— I mean yes. Well— you’re my girlfriend,”

You nipped playfully at his lower lip, “that’s all you ever want from me, right?” you breathed out against the lips that chased yours. 

“No,” he answered immediately, almost offended. 

You deepened the kiss, tangling your fingers into the long soft curls framing his face, your other hand snaking its way down to Spencer’s thigh, giving the tense muscle a light squeeze, drawing a small gasp from his soft pretty lips.  

“Such pretty noises, Spence,” you purred against his mouth, letting your thumb stroke a slow, torturous line against his thigh, brushing teasingly close to the heavy heat settling between his legs. 

He let out a helpless hum, his head tilting to give you better access into his mouth, completely melting against you. 

“We’ve been doing this for so long..” you caught his bottom lip between yours, sucking on it just enough to make it swell, “yet you act like you’ve never been touched before,” you pressed your palm against his hardening erection, giving him the real friction he’d been so desperate for. 

A shaky, broken whine escaped his lips as you rubbed against his stiff slacks, all the tension in his spine dissolving into pure, unadulterated pleasure. He dropped his forehead on your shoulder, unable to keep up with your pace, his lips parting to press a series of feverish kisses to your neck. 

His hips bucked up into your hand instinctively, seeking more of that agonizing friction, “God—”

You gave him one last deliberate roll of your palm over his length, making his back arch off the seat before pulling your hand away completely. 

“I thought you liked to take care of me,” you teased, a light chuckle escaping you as Spencer’s chest heaved, “hard to do that when you can barely catch your breath,” 

“I can take care of you,” he whispered, his voice rough and strained. 

“Hm, we’ll see,” you hummed before stepping out of the car.

You didn’t slow your pace, letting the heel of your boot click rhythmically against the pavement as you made your way to the stairs and up to the third floor as Spencer attempted to keep up with your pace. By the time you reached his door, Spencer was catching his breath in shallow pants, rushing to narrow the gap between you. 

He was still so visibly hard—the rigid outline of his dick impossible to miss as he stood behind you, his chest heaving against your back and he fumbled with his keys to unlock the door. 

He stepped past the threshold, pushing you along with him before trapping your frame between his heat and the wood. Without breaking contact, he hooked his cane behind your knee, parting your legs to press his thigh directly between yours, pinning you flush against him. 

“Patience, Spence,” you whispered against his jaw as he immediately got to sucking on your neck, chuckling softly at how easily you held him in the palm of your hand.

The chuckle against his skin broke whatever thread of restraint he had left. His hand moved frantically, sliding up beneath your shirt, his cool palm pressing against the bare skin of your waist with a needy grip. 

“Please, can we sit so I can touch you properly— I can’t do anything when we’re like this,” he rasped against your pulse point, his hot breath coating your neck with damp heat. “I’m so fucking hard it hurts, and I can’t even use both hands to touch you,” he whined again, mouth dragging up to your ear. 

You let out a low, breathy hum, your heart thumping at his raw confession. 

“Well.. we can’t have you struggling, can we?” you cooed softly, taking pity on his trembling frame. 

Guiding him back by his collar, you navigated the few steps to his couch, letting him drop onto the worn cushions. His hands held onto your hips desperately as you stood between his trembling legs, seeing the gears turn behind your eyes, recognizing the wicked, scheming thoughts crossing your mind, “Please, sweetheart, don’t tease me.” he murmured, his fingers clawing against the delicate skin of your waist as he pulled you to him. He pressed his chin against your covered stomach, looking up at you with glassy, puppy eyes that almost brought you to your knees. 

“I’ll make you feel so good, I promise,” he pressed a kiss to your stomach, setting your soft skin aflame, eating away at the stubborn thread of self-control that you had no idea why you were holding onto. 

Before he could squeeze out another plea, you grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head, tossing it carelessly onto the armrest.  

You planted your palms on his shoulders, swinging one leg over his lap to straddle him. As you sank down onto his thighs, your hips pressed flush against his hardened front, drawing a sharp breath straight from his chest, “Thank you— god, you’re so pretty, so perfect,” he babbled against your collarbone, his hands unable to stay still as they roamed around every inch of your skin, dragging along the goosebumps on your arms before travelling up your sides, his thumbs brushing the warmth along the underside of your breasts. 

His hips rolled up into yours instinctively chasing the contact, “I really need to be inside you, please, it’s been four days,” 

A breathy laugh bubbled past your lips, “you think four days is a long time?” 

“It’s enough to make me miss being inside you,” he whispered desperately, tilting his head up to capture your lips in a bruising kiss, drinking in the sound of your laugh. 

Spencer’s hands scrambled down your back, his fingers hooking urgently into the clasp of your bra, “Off.. take it off, please,” he breathed against your lips, his cool fingers tickling your spine as he fumbled with the metal. 

“Oh my god, so handsy,” you shook your head, pulling back just an inch to tease him. 

“Am I not allowed to be handsy?” his fingers finally popped the hook free, pulling the straps down your arms as desperation gnawed at his heart. 

Spencer buried his face in your chest, his warm, wet tongue sliding along your skin before his teeth dug into your sensitive flesh like a starving man trying to reach your very core. 

You arched into him with a breathy whine, feeling the sharp sting instantly melt as his lips sealed over the spot while his hands cupped your breasts. 

He kneaded the plump curve of your soft flesh, his fingers clawing in deep as if they could sink straight through skin and muscle and tangle into your ribs. 

His greedy mouth latched onto your hard nipple until you were clinging to his shoulders, rolling your hips as waves of pure arousal settled between your thighs. 

“Oh my god,” your moans vibrated against his damp skin, making him wild and eager.

He released your peak with a wet pop, dragging his swollen lips back up to yours as his hands slid down to yank urgently at the waistband of your pants.  

“You’re so warm,” he rasped against your lips, his hands struggling to drag your pants down over your hips. 

You lifted your weight slightly, leaning on him for balance as you let out a breathless exhale, “Spencer…”

“I know, I know” he mumbled, his mouth desperately tracking down your jaw to your throat, “I’m sorry, I’m trying— I just really need you bare,” 

“Well, I want you bare too,” your hands abandoned his hair as you lifted yourself off his lap to stand between his knees. 

Spencer rose with you on unsteady legs, his trembling fingers fishing a condom from his pocket while simultaneously undoing his belt buckle with wild impatience before kicking his pants and boxers away. 

“Sit,” you murmured, taking the foil packet straight out of his restless grip. 

He complied immediately, sinking back onto the couch, and yanking his own shirt off. 

Spencer was sure that you could see how hard his heart was thumping as it threatened to burst through the pale cage of his chest. 

The sharp tear of the wrapper almost pulled a primal groan from Spencer’s mouth as he waited for you to roll the latex down his length, his hips bucking up into your hand. 

“Woah, Spence, can’t stay still for two seconds?” your palm pressed flat against his stomach to admire his eager movements, holding him down just enough to drive him mad. 

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” 

“That’s really disgusting,” you whispered, furrowing your brows as you bit a small smirk back, “we saw a mutilated corpse, and this is what you were thinking about?” 

He moaned as you returned to your spot on his lap, aligning your soaked entrance with his tip. 

“I guess Doctor Reid has a really sick mind,” you purred against his jaw, keeping your hips hovering agonizingly out of reach, “that’s really gross, don’t you think?” 

“So gross,” he breathed out, his grip tightening on your thighs, pulling you down to take him all at once, his lips catching your gasp in a desperate kiss the second he successfully cut off your teasing. 

You bit his lower lip the moment he broke the kiss, a breathless whine tearing from your throat as his girthy dick filled you to the brim.  

The sound made his hips lock into place as a crease formed between his brows, “I’m sorry— A— are you okay?” he stammered, his breath coming in short, uneven puffs against your mouth.

“Oh my god-- you have zero self-control,” you hissed, rolling your hips down in a slow, careful circle to help your tight muscles accommodate his size. 

“I shouldn’t have pulled you down like that, but, please don’t stop—” he choked out. 

“Just shut up, Spence,” your fingers lightly wrapped around his throat, thumb pressing against his fluttering pulse. 

His head lolled back, “I love you— god, I love you so much,” he whimpered, his hands coming up to cover yours around his neck. 

Hearing those words rasped out so rawly sent a surge of heat straight to your core. 

Your grip on his throat softened, your palm gently cupping the warm side of his neck as you stared down into his wide, blown-out eyes, “I love you too. Now hold still, baby,” 

Lifting your hips, you rode him with a sudden, greedy urgency, pulling nearly all the way off his length before sinking back down and swallowing him whole. 

His swollen tip dragged blunt and deep against your g-spot, lighting up every nerve ending along your inner walls as you increased your pace, amplifying the heat and friction with every grind.  

Spencer was a whiny mess beneath you, his mouth sloppily tracking hot, wet kisses along your shoulder as your pussy clenched tightly around him, his hands palming your chest, fingers molding your flesh to pull you closer and deeper onto him. 

“I’m gonna— god, I’m so close—” Spencer babbled against your neck, his breath hot and ragged as he began to tremble beneath you, hips thrusting up to meet you every time you sank down. 

But instead of giving in, he suddenly clamped his jaw shut, a pained groan catching in his throat as he fought the urge to spill right then. 

The sheer warmth radiating from him was intoxicating, your inner walls clenching in rhythm with your hammering pulse. Your body was so responsive that even the tiny tremors in his thighs vibrated through your pelvis, adding to the heat pooling at the pit of your stomach. 

“Fuck,” he whimpered, his sweaty hands running up and down your back, “I’m holding on, just please keep riding me, baby,” he flexed his pelvis—the new angle driving his tip deeper into your core, quickly stealing the air right out of your lungs. 

Spencer’s chest was heaving, his face flushed a deep red as he stared up at you through a messy frame of damp curls, mumbling broken, frantic praises, worshiping every inch of your body. 

“A— are you close, love?” his brows knitting together with desperate devotion, completely consumed by the desire to make you feel as good as you made him feel.

“Very close, Spence,” your voice trembled as the tension at the base of your spine throbbed.

Knowing you were right there, Spencer reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and applying firm, circular pressure against it. 

The sudden overload was enough to finally push you over the edge, making your thighs shake violently as your core clamped tightly around his length. A helpless string of moans left your lips, fingers cupping his burning cheeks as your hypersensitive walls pulsed in a steady rhythm, triggering his own release that he was barely holding back. 

It was absolute surrender he felt privileged to witness.

“Oh my god— ohmygod,” he spilled his load into the condom, a broken sob caught in the back of his throat, his hips twitching beneath you, his orgasm washing over him in long waves that rattled in his frame.

You melted against him, your limbs impossibly heavy, as tingling numbness made it hard to even lift your head. All you could do was drop your head on his shoulder.  

Spencer’s hands slid down to the small of your back, pulling your limp frame closer to his chest as he buried his nose in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent as he peppered lazy kisses against your skin. 

“I’ve got you,” he breathed out, his chest rising and falling heavily, trying so hard to pull himself together for you. 

You let out a quiet sigh, “You were so good, Spence,” 

“Yeah?” he whispered, his thumbs stroking soothing circled into your waist. 

“Incredible,” you breathed out, finally picking your head up to look at his glowing face, “I can’t even move,” 

“I mean you did most of the work,” he pecked the tip of your nose, his thumb tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “but I’m glad you feel good.” 

You hummed in response, too tired to argue. Spencer gently patted your hip, “Go use the bathroom and I’ll clean up here and get you a fresh pair of clothes, okay?” 

“Okay,” your eyes almost fluttered shut as you lifted your hips off of him, feeling his cock smoothly slip out of you. 

The chill atmosphere of the room was a sharp contrast to the feverish heat of his body, making your skin break in goosebumps as you stood up. You wrapped your arms around your middle, feeling the sticky warmth between your thighs and the pleasant ache deep in your core settle in as you made your way to the bathroom in his room. 

The warm water from the shower was a welcome relief against your skin, washing away the sticky residue of the night and helping to soothe your sore body. Hearing the soft hum of his movement in the room, you turned off the water and wrapped a towel around yourself before stepping into the bedroom. 

On the nightstand sat a tall glass of cold water. Spread neatly on your side of his perfectly made bed was one of his faded, oversized graphic t-shirt--one of his favorites that he adored sharing with you now. 

By the time you slipped into the cotton shirt and drank half the glass of water, Spencer walked back into the room. He’d changed into a loose pair of sweatpants, his long curls tucked behind his ears, carrying a soft knit throw blanket in his arms as he favored his uninjured leg, stepping carefully toward the bed. 

His eyes softened the moment he saw you, a gentle smile tugging at his lips, “Feel a little better?” He asked in a hushed tone, making his way to his side of the bed, holding the blanket open for you. 

“Much better,” you responded with a nod, setting the glass back onto the small table before tucking yourself into his side. 

Usually, you two would tangle your arms and legs together, but that type of cuddling was now restricted because of his injury, so you settled for draping your leg over his good thigh.  

“I love you,” he pressed a lingering kiss into your hair, “Get some rest, sweetheart,”

“Love you too,” you lazily mumbled, your eyelids fluttering shut.

His arms wrapped around your frame, fingers splayed out as though they couldn’t stay still, reaching for every inch of you like the drooping branches of a willow tree that knew no bounds. 

In the small space between wakefulness and sleep, the crime scene bled back into your thoughts. 

Purification was a false hope—a carefully constructed delusion of ultimate goodness and perfection. 

It was most likely your unsub’s motive, the fuel of his addiction to play god. 

Although seeing the empty, fleshy sockets shook you to your core, you couldn’t help but think that the creature you could hardly bring yourself to call human deserved it. The thought brought back the image of the heavenly bouquet sitting in the comfort of your apartment. It made you sick. It made you weak. It made you think there was something waiting for you just beyond what you could see. 

Spencer Reid who, obviously, has mommy issues. he loves his mum. and he was very good at taking care of her. so good, in fact, that he felt more like her dad than her son. but it’s okay, really, because he never really felt like a kid anyway. he’s always been far too clever to need anyone to take care of him.

Spencer Reid who never ever complains. not when people forget his birthday, not when they invade his personal space or insult him. not when they assume he’s socially incompetent because of his IQ. and he can be, sometimes. but he does know when people are laughing at his expense. but it doesn’t bother him. at least people are enjoying themselves.

Spencer Reid who always remembers birthdays. what to get people, if he should avoid bringing it up in the office to dave their embarrassment, where they keep the candles in the small kitchenette at the BAU.

Spencer Reid who never gets a please or a thank you. but it’s okay! really! it’s not like he does all these things for other people so he’ll get praised, right? even if he did, it’s not like he gets any, anyway. it would be nice, though, to get a little recognition. would it be so hard to say thank you? would it kill these people, people he considers to be his friends, to compliment him instead of ‘jokingly’ insult him?

Spencer Reid, who just about melts into a puddle the first time you compliment him. you’re a new recruit, young and sweet and unable to stop yourself from fawning over how smart he is, how nice he is, how much you admire him. you’re a constant blushing, hair twirling mess. and it makes him feel… weird. bigger? smarter?

Spencer Reid, who starts showing off a little bit, for your sake. maybe a little for his own, too. he starts wearing his glasses again, once you comment that you think he looks ‘pretty’ in them. he preens when you touch him, because you do it so casually. like it’s no big deal to brush the tips of your fingers on his arm, to cling to him when post-case drinks with the team leaves you tipsy and giggling, to lead him around clutching his hand in yours, your palm so warm against his.

Spencer Reid, who doesn’t know what to do with all of this. because surely, surely you don’t actually mean anything by it. maybe he should just take what he can get, enjoy what attention you grace him with. but it makes him feel… dirty. because he gets so much more out of this than you do. you don’t know what you do to him. what he wants to do to you.