the femme fatale
synopsis: when your husband ends up mysteriously murdered, the BAU arrives to investigate. spencer reid is convinced that you had something to do with it despite your alibi being air-tight. you engage in a thrilling contest with him to profile each other.
pairing: spencer reid x reader
warnings: explicit sexual content, rough sex, hate sex, oral sex (female receiving), orgasm delay/denial, breeding kink, light d/s themes, references to past child abuse, references to past sexual abuse, dysfunctional relationships, morally grey character, minor original characters.
word count: 10.5k
cross posted on ao3
"Fool me once, fool me twice
Are you death or paradise?"
Billie Eilish ; No Time To Die
It was your belief that every woman was given a piece of advice from their mother that she cherished dearly, followed precisely, and treated as if it was the gospel truth. This advice was generally received between the ages of fourteen and seventeen and young, impressionable minds latched onto it like a leech.
You repeated your mother’s words to yourself like an affirmation every morning, ingraining the thought into your brain so that it became as much a part of you as your limbs.
“Men are fickle,” Your mother had said, “A little bit like a butterfly. They flit from one flower to the next, moving towards whatever the newest, brightest thing is. Be smarter than them. Look like a flower, be the thorns.”
Look like a flower, be the thorns.
That was what you repeated to yourself as you checked your appearance in the decorative mirror in the hallway, hearing the bustling sounds of your guests outside. Satisfied that every hair was in place, you opened the door.
They looked at you curiously, evidently sizing up the new widow and her role in this entire massacre. There was a tall man with a deep frown etched onto his face, a woman with lovely flaxen hair and between them, a lanky man with a full head of light brown curls and a chiseled face.
The Governor was standing next to them.
“My dear,” He exclaimed, walking up to you and grasping your hands tightly, “How are you?”
“It’s hard to be well in a situation like this.” You replied demurely, forcing a pained smile on your face.
He nodded as you fought the urge to snatch away your hands from his clammy, sweaty grip. Thankfully, he let them go soon, instead busying himself with introductions.
“They are from the Behavioural Analysis Unit of the FBI,” He said, “Hopefully, they can put an end to this mess once and for all.”
Stupid, meddling men, you thought bitterly, stupid, meddling men and their idiotic ideas.
“I’m SSA Hotchner,” The dark-haired man shook your hand firmly, “This is SSA Jareau and that’s Dr. Reid.”
You shook hands with Agent Jareau, whose grip was far less powerful than Agent Hotchner’s. You held a hand out towards Dr. Reid, who simply shook his head and gave you a wave.
“Germaphobe.” He explained meekly, giving you an apologetic smile.
You returned a polite smile of your own. The spark of curiosity had already been ignited in your brain and you found yourself wondering what other quirks the good doctor had.
You turned around. Your butler, Xavier, stood near the doorway with tea for your guests. Uninvited or not, you would never stray from the role of the perfect hostess.
“Where would you like to sit?” You asked, turning back to them, “The grounds are pretty lovely this time of the year. Though if you prefer the shade, we have a sprawling patio—”
“Here is fine.” Agent Hotchner cut you off curtly.
Internally you frowned, this man was going to be a problem if left unchecked. Externally, you smiled and nodded.
“Put it down on the table, please.”
Your butler silently moved to do your bidding. You waited till he had kept the expensive porcelain down and left before speaking again.
“Will you stay for tea, Governor?” You asked.
“I’m afraid not,” He snuck a look at his watch, “Best be getting back to the office now. Call me if you need anything…anything at all.”
“Thank you,” You smiled, placing a hand on his arm, “Really. I would’ve been lost without your help.”
God, sometimes you really thought you would throw up while uttering sweet, saccharine words to placate the egos of men. It was so easy to make them feel special, as though their little opinions actually mattered.
“It’s no problem at all, my dear,” He patted your hand, “You know I want this horrible matter resolved just as much as you. It’s still unimaginable that this should’ve happened to Lorenzo. Anyway…good luck, Aaron.”
He clapped Agent Hotchner on the back and left.
You took a seat on the sofa, pouring out the tea with a delicate hand. A thought passed through your head that maybe you should’ve poisoned it. No, dumping the bodies of three FBI agents was a little too much…even for you. Besides, you still had plans for the doctor.
“Where were you, the day your husband was killed?” Agent Hotchner asked, accepting the dainty porcelain from your hand.
“I left early that morning,” You answered, “I had a meeting at 9 am. I’m on the board of a charity that caters to the care of children with special needs. After that I went to the riding ground nearby. I was there till 3, after which I came back home.”
You quietly watched Dr. Reid inspect the titles on the bookshelf, remaining standing. There was just something so…interesting about him. His suit wasn’t all that stiff and formal like Agent Hotchner’s. His shirt was a checkered pattern, he wore a waistcoat in a rich, burgundy colour which contrasted well with his slate gray jacket.
He didn’t even seem to be paying attention to the interrogation, his cup of tea left unattended on the German silver tray.
“And what did you see when you got home?” Agent Jareau spoke this time.
“I—Sorry,” You apologised, “Don’t mind me saying this but I’ve already given the police this information. Why are you asking me this again?”
“We don’t look for the same things that the police do,” Agent Jareau said, “We analyse behaviour alongside evidence. Evidence can be fabricated, behaviour doesn’t lie.”
Oh, sweetheart, you thought, you have no idea.
“I see,” You nodded grimly, “The house was completely silent when I returned. I went up to the bedroom but Enzo wasn’t there. So I thought he must be in his office. And when I walked in…”
You sighed deeply, rubbing a hand over your shoulder.
“And where was the staff at this time?”
“Enzo was a little paranoid,” You replied, “Last year, a series of burglaries took place nearby. He didn’t really want to leave me alone at home all day with the staff, so they don’t work full-time. Except Xavier, of course.”
A look of confusion passed across their faces.
“Our butler,” You explained, “Xavier’s father used to work for Enzo’s dad. Xavier and Enzo grew up together and honestly, Enzo really saw Xavier like a little brother. He’s the only one who’s in the house twenty-four seven.”
“But Xavier was not in the house when the murder happened.” Agent Hotchner stated, his gaze resembling that of a stern parent who was trying to get their child to fess up to the mischief they’d caused.
“No,” You shook your head, “Xavier’s wife fell ill about a year ago. It’s really sad…she has pancreatic cancer. They have an eight-year old son. He goes to see her every Sunday. We try to help as much as we can.”
The two agents in front of you nodded, but Dr. Reid seemed to still be engrossed in your bookshelf.
“Something interesting, Dr. Reid?” You asked, amused by the way he immediately whirled around, “Your tea’s getting cold.”
“No, no,” He came back to the couch, “You own a lot of first editions.”
“I love reading. So did Enzo.”
“How long had you been married?” Dr. Reid finally asked you his first question.
“Would’ve been four years this November.” You replied, painting a sad smile on your face.
Most breakups happened after three months because people could only lie about their feelings and conceal their true selves for three months. You scoffed mentally, you could replace any A-list actress at this point. You’d been lying about your true emotions for almost four years.
Well, maybe not all four years. There had been something in the beginning. But that was so long ago that it was difficult to distinguish whether it had been love or greed. The latter did a deceptively good job at passing off as the former.
“You don’t come from money,” Dr. Reid said bluntly, taking you by surprise, “Your husband was twenty-four years older than you. Except reading, what did you have in common?”
Judging by the looks on Agent Hotchner and Agent Jareau’s faces, they were equally as shocked as you. Who would have expected that the doctor would be the one to stop skirting around the edges and get to the point? You had your bet on Agent Hotchner, but Dr. Reid surprised you, doing nothing to quell your growing fascination with him.
“I sense an implication behind your words, Dr. Reid.” You said dryly.
“Not at all,” He responded without missing a beat, “Merely trying to understand your strange…dynamic.”
“Say it, Dr. Reid,” You chuckled, “You’re asking me if I pulled an Anna Nicole Smith.”
The expression on his face didn’t change. At first you thought he was just trying to intimidate you, like Agent Hotchner with his deep-set frown. Then you realised he had no idea who Anna Nicole Smith was. The others did. A look of veiled discomfort appeared on their faces for a moment.
You didn’t bother to educate Dr. Reid about the scandalous, yet ultimately tragic life of Smith.
“No, I didn’t come from money,” You responded, “My father was an abusive addict, to put it plainly. He regularly hit my mother, though he liked to pass it off as “rough-housing.” In a desperate attempt to protect me, my mother moved. Of course, the consequence of that was that we lost access to the little money we did have in the bank and had to start over from scratch. My mother sacrificed a lot to give me an education.”
The words came casually. You looked for signs of disdain on their faces, as you had often caught on the faces of Enzo’s friends and family when you revealed your humble origins to them. The snobbish, little assholes would never consider you to be an “insider” so you’d given up trying. You despised those friends of his that you were forced to play nice in front of, the ones who openly flirted with you, trying to get you into bed with them and then gossiped about you at their little golf games.
“I met Enzo when I was twenty-one,” You continued your tale when they didn’t pose any questions for you, “I was working part-time in a diner, using the money to put myself through college. Scholarships only cover so much. It wasn’t the kind of place he frequented, but it was raining that day and he’d rushed in for shelter. It was…” A smile reappeared on your face, “It was straight out of a movie.”
You looked up at them. Agent Jareau was the only one who smiled politely at your words.
“Anyway, two years after that Enzo proposed. I said yes,” You shrugged your shoulders, “As for the age thing, I told you what kind of father I grew up with. I’m sure you can…fill in the blanks.”
“Was money a deciding factor in your decision?” Agent Hotchner asked.
Jesus, did this man never smile?
“Enzo helped me with college,” You raised an eyebrow, “At his own will. Not because I asked him. I wasn’t his charity case, Agent Hotchner. He loved me. And I loved him.”
You tried not to let your metaphorical claws come out yet. Their questions had become more direct after they came to know about your past. You guessed they’d already known but had just asked polite routine questions in the beginning to judge whether you were a liar.
People who lied about little things, inevitably lied about the big.
“He’s left all his money to you.” Dr. Reid commented.
“Yes,” You replied coldly, “Considering how he has no siblings or children, I don’t regard that as strange.”
“No pre-nup either.”
“I suppose he trusted me more than you do.”
Dr. Reid stared at you, his jaw tight and clenched. Judging by his demeanour, you guessed that he wasn’t usually confrontational and didn’t prefer to be so either. You wondered what made you different. He didn’t look like a blatant sympathiser of rich men, so you assumed it could only be his budding attraction to you directly colliding with his conscience. He was trying to discern if he had a crush on a killer.
Sweet, innocent, baby.
“Ma’am,” Agent Jareau extracted a photo from the file in her hand, “Do you know this woman?”
She put the large photograph down on the table, sliding it towards you. You didn’t have to look down to know whose photo it was. That little bitch.
Still, you pretended to examine the photo with great interest. Every inch of your body burned with anger as you took in her large doe eyes and glossy curls.
“No,” You shook your head, “Who is she?”
Agent Jareau placed another photo in front of you in response.
It was a traffic surveillance photo, no doubt, judging from the slightly blurry, static quality of it. There stood that little bitch, sidling up to your husband. Ex-husband. Whatever.
She was looking up at the sky and laughing, her hands on his chest. He was smiling too, the photo clicked midway between him raising a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear.
Like he used to do to you, your brain supplied unhelpfully.
“This is Isla Jenkins,” Agent Jareau said gently, “We believe that your husband may have been having an affair with her.”
You immediately dropped the photo on the table, as if it had burned your skin. Burying your face in your palms, you willed yourself to cry. One tear, no, even glossed over eyes would do. Crying on command was a talent you had had to acquire out of necessity.
“Did she hurt him?” You asked, lifting your hand and swiping at your eyes, careful not to smudge your makeup.
“We don’t know yet,” She replied, “But we are bringing her in for questioning.”
You nodded, lowering your face in your hands again. As if Isla fucking Jenkins had the balls to hurt Enzo. She was a pretty flower and men were butterflies. She didn’t have what it took. You weren’t threatened by some little girl who thought that her face and cunt would keep your husband interested. You had been that naïve little girl once too.
He would crawl back into your arms at night, arms laden with expensive tennis bracelets and designer scarves as a peace offering. You would pretend to be disillusioned by his constant, unexplained absence. Then he would fuck you into the mattress until all the help knew exactly what was going on behind closed doors. You would accept his gift and throw it into the pile of unopened, unused gift boxes that had been collecting in your closet.
No, you weren’t threatened. Not by little Isla, who thought he would eventually leave you for her. You were angry at him, for even thinking he could ever replace you. Sometimes you thought he was the only one who recognised the deviousness in you. It was why you were the one with the massive diamond on your finger. Not Isla.
Well, he did leave you, you supposed.
“You don’t seem surprised.” Dr. Reid pointed out.
“He, um…he seemed distant for a few months before…you know,” You swallowed, rubbing a hand over your face again, “I just—I thought it was work. Not…not this.”
“Do you suspect anyone?” Agent Hotchner asked, “Anyone your husband had problems with, anyone strange you saw loitering outside the house?”
“No,” You shook your head, “Not that I can think of.”
“What about the staff?”
“I don’t think they’re capable of this. Most of them have been with us for some time now. They’re all good people.”
Agent Hotchner nodded and got up. The other two followed suit.
“More agents might be along later today or early tomorrow to interview your staff,” He said, shaking your hand, “We’ll keep you updated.”
You thanked them, shaking their hands. All except Dr. Reid, who gave your bookshelf one last lingering look before following his co-workers out.
This time, you didn’t even receive a wave.
He sat in the back seat, looking out of the window as they drove back to the precinct. The warm Connecticut sun should’ve assisted in alleviating the sense of doom he was feeling, but it did nothing at all.
He’d met far more sinister people in his life. By that measure, you didn’t seem violent, angry or a killer. But there was something unsettling about you. Well, he knew what it was. Your shiny, pinned back hair, your lips painted with red, the way your expression revealed amusement even when you weren’t smiling. His brain had flooded with dopamine and norepinephrine as soon as he had laid his eyes on you.
In other words, he felt supremely attracted to you.
There was a Neoplatonic theory that if a person’s exterior was beautiful, then their soul couldn’t be corrupt. He knew that was bullshit but it still managed to work as a bias. It was hard for people to accept that someone who was conventionally beautiful could be a killer.
“Hm?” He sat up straight, devoting his attention to Hotch.
“What did you think about her?”
What did he think about you? He thought you were secretive and hiding something, even though you had frankly opened up about your childhood. He thought your choice of books was interesting. He thought you had perfected the art of making any man feel like he was special when you spoke to him.
He thought you were dangerous.
“Spouses are considered to be primary suspects in cases like this,” He answered, “But her alibi is air-tight. The M.E. said that the time of death was at 1:40 pm, when she was at the riding grounds. The manager saw her. Not that it means she couldn’t have been involved in some other way, even if she didn’t wield the knife herself.”
“You really went for it today, Spence,” JJ laughed, “I’ve never seen you so confrontational.”
Her statement fetched an amused look from Hotch which he saw through the rear-view mirror.
He could offer no explanation for that. Was he trying to prove that you weren't the killer by asking you difficult questions? And for what? So that he wouldn’t feel guilty about being attracted to a potential killer?
“She, uh…she owns a lot of interesting books,” He said, rapidly changing the topic, “They’re all about the same thing, or the same trope rather.”
“Femme fatales. It’s arguably the most intriguing archetype found in literature,” He explained, his brows scrunching up in concentration, “It refers to a beautiful woman who uses her charms of seduction to ensnare her lovers, ultimately leading them to ruin. In the early 20th century, the femme fatale was also known as a “vamp”, after Theda Bara who played a seductive vampire in a 1915 silent film called “A Fool There Was.” It was considered to be a particularly scandalous film at the time.”
He paused, expecting an interruption and then realised he was in a car with the two people who usually never interrupted him.
“I noticed she owns “The Lady of The Camellias” by Alexandre Dumas fils. Not in the original French though, which was called “La Dame aux Camélias.” But then she also has “Goldeneye” by John Gardner.”
“Like the James Bond film?” JJ asked, twisting in her seat to face him.
“Well, in this case, the film actually did come before the book. It was adapted into a novel by Gardner later. More than Bond, it became famous for the portrayal of Xenia Onatopp, one of the most vicious femme fatales of all time who killed people by asphyxiating them between her thighs. Anyway, that makes it clear that she doesn’t stick to a particular time period of literature, she just likes femme fatales.”
“Maybe she sees herself as these women.” JJ said.
“Or she wishes she was,” Hotch added, “Either way, both those things can motivate someone to kill.”
“I think it’s the former,” He said, an uneasy feeling hammering against his ribcage, “The most read book on the shelf, if we’re going to judge by how cracked the spine was, is “The Cocktail Waitress” by James M. Cain. It’s about a woman named Joan Medford, whose husband dies in a mysterious car crash. She’s left to support herself and win back custody of her son by taking a job as a cocktail waitress. She meets two men, one who is old and ailing but rich, and another who is handsome but poor. They both appear to madly fall in love with her. But the police suspect that she is somehow involved in her husband’s death,” He cleared his throat, “Throughout the novel, death seems to follow her around. Anyone who falls in love with her ends up dead. She claims she’s innocent but then she is also the sole narrator of the story so there’s nothing to verify her claims against.”
Silence fell over the car. Once he had uttered the words out loud, he realised how similar you and Joan Medford were. The same soft yet nonchalant tone, the way in which you worked as a flame which attracted men like moths.
How far could coincidences go?
“That sounds like someone we know.” JJ remarked dryly, turning around to face forward again.
He ignored the conversation between Hotch and JJ about bringing in Isla Jenkins and getting in touch with the Governor.
He felt wrong and tainted for his desires. He prided himself on having more control than most men when it came to pretty women and their captivating eyes. But you weren’t just another pretty woman. More than pretty…you intrigued him. And he was nothing if not an academic, chasing answers and proof to confirm his hypotheses.
Getting any closer to you would be a mistake, he knew that. He needn’t look any further than into the file now resting on the dashboard. The gruesome pictures of your husband’s corpse should have been enough to shut down any curiosity you had evoked in him once and for all.
But even with an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory, he found himself in the most stupid situations. He didn’t understand his own brain ninety percent of the time. How could he be capable of liking someone as sweet and innocent as Maeve, but then also be attracted to someone like you, whose very gaze spoke of secrets that he simultaneously was dying to know yet also didn’t want to be privy to.
The cruel, mocking voice in his mind decided to make itself known.
Maybe it’s a good thing you’re attracted to her, it said, at least you don’t have to worry about someone killing her. Apparently she does the killing herself.
It isn’t as though you’re completely unreadable. Most rich people have the same taste, just tweaked versions of each other. Their living room walls are covered with expensive art, usually of the abstract variety that they then tend to offer their own pseudo-intellectual explanations for.
Your walls are covered with photos of you and your dead husband. Normally, that would be taken as a sign of sweetness and love but the sheer number of photos is excessive. Most likely, they were there to remind your husband that he belonged to you.
You were dressed in sober mourning attire, a modest black dress, but your face was in direct contrast to it. Your lips were immaculately painted with red lipstick, your eyes were thinly lined with black to bring to attention your pretty peepers. That could also be perceived in two ways—one, you used the makeup as a cover-up for the vulnerability your husband’s death had left you with. Two, you simply did not care about your husband as much as you claimed you did.
Had he not been accompanied by Hotch and JJ, he would’ve stayed longer, asked you harder, more pressing questions until he managed to break that shell. Intimidation was usually Hotch’s forte, and it was quite successful when coupled with Emily’s good cop routine. But you hadn’t reacted to Hotch like young girls with troubled pasts and terrible fathers usually did. Your body had remained angled towards him even while you answered Hotch’s questions.
Intimidation wouldn’t work on you. If he tried yelling at you, you would laugh and spit it right back in his face.
Sometimes his intuition told him that some people should be avoided no matter how intriguing they are. And his intuition was usually right. Yet he continued to ignore it, neglect it, pretend it wasn’t there at all.
Recklessly, he snuck out of the hotel that they had been put up in. It was definitely one of the best places they had stayed at, considering that they were here as a personal favour to the Governor who had been a close friend of your husband’s.
If Hotch found out that he was going to see you at ten at night, he would definitely be suspended. Maybe even kicked out of the BAU for good.
Considering how smart he was, a literal genius, it surprised him how stupid you made him. But he knew you were hiding something. And he simply had to be the one to uncover your heavily guarded secret.
Your fingers glided gracefully over the black and white keys of the piano as you played Clair De Lune by Debussy. The music was the only sound filling the mansion, echoing around the high ceilings and the empty rooms.
You learnt to play at a much later age than most people. As a toddler, which was when most people first placed their fingers on the keys, you were too busy trying not to anger your father by even breathing. Besides, your family hardly had money for posh piano lessons.
No, you learnt how to play the piano after you started to date Enzo. He had noticed your fascination with the grand piano that sat unused in one of the many rooms in the mansion and had insisted that you take lessons, just to “try it out.”
But you had fallen in love with it and your teacher, an elderly woman named Carol, had insisted that you were a natural.
“Will you be needing anything else, ma’am?”
You stilled your fingers, cutting off the music abruptly. Xavier stood behind you, gaze lowered subserviently, but his stiff shoulders revealed the contempt he actually felt towards you.
“Again with the “ma’am,” Xavier,” You chided playfully, turning around to face him, “You know I don’t care for titles.”
He didn’t respond and neither did the stiffness in his shoulders melt.
You sighed, walking up to him and looping your arms around his neck. He almost fell over in his rush to step away from you, as if you were a jolt of electricity. When he looked up, his eyes were wild and filled with unadulterated rage.
“You’re mad at me,” You pouted, “I hate it when you’re mad at me.”
“What should be the appropriate reaction in this scenario?” He asked, practically spitting the words out at you.
“Please don’t be angry with me,” You pleaded, stepping closer and latching onto his arm, “I know this is hard, but—”
“Hard?!” He exclaimed, almost throwing you off balance with the force he used to free his arm from your grasp, “I’m going to go to fucking prison because of you!”
“Darling, you did put that knife in him, you know?” You said casually, “Besides, I’ll pay your defense attorney good money. He’ll plead insanity or something, you’ll be out in no time.”
“I put that knife in him at your insistence,” He hissed, “You…You forced me!”
“Will anyone believe that, Xavier?” You snapped, patience wearing thin, “Will anyone believe that you were forced into killing your boss by his wife who’s half your size?”
His face fell. You took that opportunity to sidle up to him once more, raising your hand to frame his face, rubbing your thumb over his cheekbone. He stiffened again but then his shoulders sagged, like he had no energy to move away from you anymore.
Just my luck, you thought, I couldn’t have an old, balding butler. Of course, I get James Dean as my butler and of course I sleep with him.
But in the end, it was a good deal. You were rid of your cheating husband, free of your affair who clearly craved more and hundreds of millions of dollars richer.
“You’re not doing this for yourself,” You whispered, ghosting a kiss over his clenched jaw, “This is for your wife and son, remember? I promise I’ll take such good care of them.”
Xavier was paid a handsome salary but medical expenses were costly on a whole different level. Jealousy and desperation were the two most volatile emotions and when mixed together, they could drive any Good Samaritan down the path of sin.
Xavier was no saint, you reasoned. What kind of man cheated on his dying wife?
Men, you thought, so predictable. All of them turned to dogs at the prospect of good pussy.
The jealousy was what had initially attracted him to your plan of getting rid of your husband. He was boiling internally, tired of being submissive to Enzo while having you moaning and writhing in his bed. But fate had come along and given him the push he needed. His wife’s condition worsened and the medical bills threatened to bury them underground. That was when you added a clause to your devious little plan.
Xavier would kill Enzo. Xavier would go to prison. In return, you would provide for his wife and child.
Jealousy was the reactant, desperation was the catalyst, Enzo’s cold dead body was the product.
“You promise you will take care of them?” He asked, the look in his eyes that of a mad man, “You promise, right?”
It should’ve irked you that ultimately, whatever affection he still felt for his wife and child had won out over his lust for you. But it got your job done, so how did you care? There were enough fish in the sea, anyway.
“Of course,” You crooned, “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
He would’ve criticised you on your choice of words had the door bell not rung all of a sudden. You stepped away from him immediately.
“It’s ten,” Xavier pointed out, looking at the clock, “Are you expecting someone?”
You moved back to take your seat near the piano. Flexing your fingers over the keys you replied, “That would presumably be Dr. Reid. Bring him in.”
You began playing again, drowning out Xavier’s brisk footsteps.
The predictability of men never failed to amuse you. They were all so easy to manipulate. Flutter your eyelashes, compliment their dumb interests and they ended up at your doorstep begging for a chance.
Of course, you weren’t sure that Dr. Reid would show. He wasn’t exactly your normal brand of men. He was highly intelligent, you could tell that much. But the urge to see if you could outsmart a smart man was too tempting.
“Oh—” You stopped playing and turned to face him as he halted mere meters away from you, “Hello.”
He simply gave you a curt nod in greeting.
“Xavier, that’ll be all,” You said softly, “Thank you.”
You pretended not to see the vicious look that Xavier threw at both you and Dr. Reid, a look of pure contempt. Nonetheless, he left the room silently.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Dr. Reid?”
You resisted the urge to smile when you saw his eyes flit down to take in your appearance and then rush back up to your face again. Perhaps a chemise and robe wasn’t the most appropriate outfit for greeting guests but nobody expected guests at ten at night.
So he could bloody well deal with it. Besides, he looked like he was enjoying the sight of your body wrapped in satin and lace, though he desperately tried not to show it.
“I don’t think you’ve been honest with us.” He said.
“Do you play, Dr. Reid?”
“Do you play?” You repeated, gesturing towards the piano.
“A little.” He answered slowly, looking at you as if you were planning to beat him to death with the piano or something.
“Play something for me.” You requested, patting the seat of the bench, inviting him to come and sit next to you.
He stood rooted to his spot for several seconds, then came forward and sat down. His arm brushed against yours as he brought his fingers to lightly rest over the keys. You gazed at his long, slender fingers. If he had a girlfriend or a wife, well…lucky girl.
He began playing a sharp, violent piece of music that echoed around the walls. It made you think of all the gothic romantic films created in the early half of the 90s. A lonely girl in a big, haunted mansion, troubled by the ghosts of her past until the valiant knight came to save her.
Most people thought so anyway, but you hated those films. You hated the fact that the girl needed to wait for the stupid knight, that she didn’t try to fight her way out of it. Things didn’t work like that in real life. You had to save yourself or die. There was no knight who saved you from the abuse you’d suffered at the hands of your father. No one had stopped him from giving you a perpetual black eye or manhandling you like a rag doll when he was drunk. No one had come brandishing a sword and tried to save your honour when he decided that you were old enough to be considered a “woman” at the age of thirteen.
Dr. Reid had stopped playing and was now looking at you curiously.
“Storm by Vivaldi,” You stated, “Good choice.”
“What are you hiding?” He asked in response, twisting to face you.
“Do you often come into a widow’s home late at night and accuse her of things?” You enquired, raising an eyebrow at him.
“Most widows don’t own books whose stories strongly resemble their husband’s death,” He responded, “Tell me, why do you see Joan Medford in yourself?”
“I don’t see Joan in myself,” You laughed, a high tinkling sound, “I see myself in Joan. Big difference.”
“Mhm,” You nodded, “You’ll see in a lot of reviews about that book that Joan is a product of all the men in her life who very unfortunately happen to die. They’ll say she’s the sleazy little slut who chases the smell of crisp bank notes. She’s incapable of love, they’ll say. All these reviews are also written by men.”
You swivelled around in your seat and got up, trailing a hand over the cover of your piano, Dr. Reid’s eyes following you closely as you circumvented the instrument.
“But Joan was just trying to survive in a cruel, cruel world,” You placed a hand on Dr. Reid’s shoulder, standing behind him, “A world that snatched away her child from her. It’s not wrong to want your child back. Right, Spencer?”
His head whipped around.
“How do you know my name?”
“Relax, I googled you,” You laughed and patted his shoulder, “Lovely name, by the way.”
He stood up too and for a moment you thought he was about to leave. His shoulders were drawn tight and his brows were furrowed as he looked at you, as if he was sizing you up.
Try all you want, my love, you thought, I don’t betray my secrets that easily.
“See, I had a different theory about why you like that book so much.” He finally said, stepping closer to you.
“Really?” You looked up, realising exactly how tall he was.
“I think you identify with Joan because you see her as a victim at the hands of these men,” He said, voice dropping low, “And you see yourself as the exact same way in your life. A pawn for men who don’t understand your worth.”
Victim? The word made you want to scratch your manicured nails across his face. You were no victim. You’d made sure of that.
“An interesting theory, Dr. Reid,” You spoke through clenched jaws, “Care to elaborate?”
“Oh, Spencer is fine,” He corrected, “Since we’ve already crossed that barrier. You distrust men. It obviously started with your father. You play off the abuse you suffered with a casual wave of your hand but it haunts you every hour of every day. It started young, didn’t it? You were what, four? Five? You learnt to take it silently. But then it got so much worse. He molested you. Possibly when your mother wasn’t home and threatened you to keep your mouth shut. Eventually your mother found out. That’s when you moved.”
You tried to step away from him but your back hit the piano.
Smart man, you admitted reluctantly, trapping me to make me more vulnerable.
“If we look deep enough into your teenage years,” He whispered, making the words sound more sinister than they were, “We’ll find a slew of boyfriends, won’t we? Now, it’s true that hypersexuality due to childhood sexual abuse is more common among men, but it’s seen in women too. It lowered your self esteem, didn’t it? Made you think that all you were good for was your body and your looks.”
“You’re making me uncomfortable.” You answered, looking up at him with what you hoped were large, vulnerable eyes.
“No, I’m not,” He chuckled sardonically, “You want to hear what else I’ve deduced about you. All narcissists do.”
“I’m not a narcissist.”
“That’s what all narcissists say.” He answered, pressing closer to you. You could smell his cologne, something fresh and light, not weighty on your nose like your husband’s scent. Hate bubbled up inside you. How dare he come into your house and start rattling off facts about you? For the first time, you felt a certain annoyance with yourself too, for finding his intellect appealing.
You weren’t just a pretty face, but neither was he.
“You were smarter than most of your male peers in school and college, weren’t you?” He said, “But it bothered you that more often than not, only they got the recognition. People didn’t pay attention to your brain because all they would see was your face. So you started exploiting that. But then your husband came along and you believed…you believed that he recognised that you had more to offer than just your beauty. But he was just like all of them.”
“He was different!” You protested.
“No, he wasn’t!” Spencer raised his voice, silencing you effectively, “I’m guessing you already knew about the affair. You flew into a rage when you realised that even your looks couldn’t keep him around. And in that rage, you stuck a knife into him.”
“I did not!”
“Yes, you did!” He was shouting now, “Yes…you…did.”
The tears that blurred your vision took you by surprise. They weren’t forced. But the weight of your past hung heavy on your shoulders, everything that you had willed yourself to forget had been brought back up by Spencer. You were sure he could see the hate in your eyes as you stared up at him.
The tears seemed to take him by surprise too as he took a step back, looking unsure.
“Can I show you something?” You asked softly.
He didn’t respond or nod his head. But you took his silence as assent.
Slowly, you lifted your hands and pushed your robe off your shoulders, dropping it to the ground. It pooled around your feet, leaving you in your chemise.
Spencer’s face betrayed his confusion and he opened his mouth to question your intentions. When his eyes fell on your now naked shoulders, he shut it promptly.
It was clear as day that he hadn’t anticipated this twist to the tale.
“Bruising?” You cut him off, “Yes. Do you want to see more?”
You slid the thin strap of your chemise down to your arm, revealing another yellowing bruise on your sternum. Once he had stared at it long enough, you turned around, letting him feast his eyes on the sickly yellow and green bruises on your back.
“You’re right, Dr. Reid,” You said, turning back around as you lifted the strap to its original location, “My husband was exactly like everyone else. I suppose there is some truth to the saying that girls choose husbands who remind them of their fathers.”
He stared at you with wide, unfocused eyes.
“You have a degree in psychology, don’t you?” You asked, “Then I’m sure you can understand how a person who was abused as a child continues to be afraid of their abuser or a proxy as an adult. He was so sweet when I met him, you know? All of…this didn’t start until a year ago.”
Spencer looked like he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch the bruise on your shoulder. You couldn’t tell if he was even taking your words in.
“I was terrified of my husband, Spencer,” Your voice had devolved into a plea, “I didn’t kill him.”
You saw his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. He looked conflicted as his eyes flitted from your face, down to your shoulder and then back up to your face again.
“Yet,” He finally spoke, “It’s wholly possible that you got tired of being thrown around and decided that the only way for it to stop was to get rid of him.”
You narrowed your eyes at that.
“Victims of regular abuse are shy, reticent even,” He moved closer to you again, “They’re not confident, alluring butterflies like you. I’m guessing you took it silently when he hit you but you were already plotting his murder in your head.”
His words made anger flare up in you yet again. You willed yourself to calm down. It wouldn’t do to lose your cool in front of a behaviour analyst.
“I know why you speak to me with so much disdain, Spencer,” You muttered softly, raising a hand to cup his face, “I know why you look at me like you despise me.”
“Because I think you’re a murderer.” He answered bluntly, but didn’t make an effort to pull away from your touch.
“No,” You shook your head, pressing your body against his, relishing the way his breath hitched, “You feel guilty for being attracted to me. For wanting me.”
He gaped at you.
“What?” You scoffed, moving back, letting your hand fall from his cheek, “You’re not that hard to read. I know things about you too, Spencer.”
“I’m sure Google has been very beneficial to you in your mission to stalk me.” He responded coolly.
“Your father abandoned you when you were a child, didn’t he?” You said, tone soft and lilting, “You know how I can tell? By the way you look at Agent Hotchner. You look towards him involuntarily for validation, you crave his approval.”
“That’s—” Spencer stumbled over his words, “That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is,” You grabbed his hand, pulling him closer to you, “You’re the baby of the team, aren’t you? And as much as you love them, you wish they wouldn’t treat you like a child all the time. That’s why you’re here. Doing something as reckless as being pressed up against a woman who you think is a murderer,” You trailed a hand up his chest, “What would Agent Hotchner think of this, hm?”
You propped yourself up on your toes, brushing your lips against the skin below his ear, smiling to yourself when you felt his body shudder. You pretended to not notice how his hand grasped your wrist tightly.
“You haven’t had much luck in love either,” You observed, “Unrequited? Though I can’t understand why. If you were mine…”
“You would stab me to death?” He remarked dryly, making you laugh.
“No, silly,” You chided, “I would never let you leave my bed. You would stay with me…” You murmured, your onslaught of kisses against his neck becoming more confident as he made no effort to stop you, “All day…every day.”
“I would sooner die,” He mumbled, grip tightening on your wrist, “I don’t want to be in your bed.”
“Really?” You asked, moving away, watching his eyes flutter open at your sudden absence. His entire face seemed quizzical, with a touch of guilt.
“Because…” You made a show of pointedly looking down and then back up, “I think your dick disagrees.”
Nothing could have prepared you for the way Spencer’s hand went around your throat, pushing you back as your body collided with the piano, resulting in a very discordant array of notes. You quickly tried to mask the surprise on your face.
“I don’t care what you think you know about me,” He hissed into your ear, fingers pressing down on the sides of your neck, “The truth is, you’re nothing but a little narcissist with blood on her hands.”
“And you’re,” You gasped, trying to get the words out, “Attracted to me. What does that say about you?”
He yanked you forward by the throat again, pressing his lips against yours desperately. There was nothing gentle or sweet about it. You’d expected Spencer to behave shyly, taking it for granted that you would have to tempt him into sleeping with you and then hold the reins.
Well, you had accomplished the first part.
“Do you make this a habit, Dr. Reid,” You asked, as he propped you up on the piano, spreading your legs and getting in between them, “Sleeping with murder suspects? Do you like the thrill of it?”
“Do you make a habit of letting strangers fuck you right after your husband has died?” He retorted, looking down at you with darkened eyes, “His body isn’t even cold yet.”
“I wouldn’t know,” You laughed in his face, “I’ve never been married more than once.”
He tugged the thin straps of your chemise down so roughly that you thought he’d tear them right off. His face was buried in your neck, suckling and biting on the soft skin. It felt rough and animalistic. Like neither of you were completely human anymore, driven to rage and insanity by each other. This was how adversaries fucked, two people who realised that the other was equally as smart as them, equally as capable of ruining their lives.
While one of his hands held you up by supporting your waist, the other brushed under the hem of your chemise, determinedly rising up until he had rucked up the material high enough to reach your breasts. It truly dawned on you just how large his hands were in that moment. Your head fell back, mouth parting in a soft moan as you felt the callouses on his palm roughly rub against your skin.
“Do you want to know what else I know about you?” He asked, voice strained, “I know you see men as objects. Objects for your pleasure, for your satisfaction. And you discard them like garbage as soon as you get bored.”
“Well, maybe—fuck—maybe they shouldn’t be so boring then,” You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, ignoring the loud protests of the piano keys beneath you, lost in the way his fingers were playing with your nipples, “Although you’re doing a pretty satisfactory job right now.”
He scoffed, harshly pulling on the front of your chemise, making it slip down to your waist. You could tell he was going to end up ruining the lace. The sting of his teeth around your nipples made you cry out as you gripped his mousy brown curls tightly. He hissed in pain and you giggled at his reaction.
“Well, I know that this is the only way you feel in control,” You said, “Everyone sees you as the shy little nerd, but then this side of you comes out and it shocks everyone—Spencer!”
He silenced you by pushing your panties to the side, curling a finger inside your soaking core, his thumb working to rub your clit. You watched his face twist into a sadistic smirk at the little whimper which left your lips. He added another finger, pumping them in and out of you roughly.
In that moment you hoped ghosts were real and you hoped your dumb ex-husband was watching his wife get fingered by a law enforcement officer on the piano he had specially bought as a gift for you. You hoped he knew exactly how it had felt for you to see him with that Jenkins bitch.
You hoped Xavier could hear you too, lying in his bed. You hoped he could hear your moans and whimpers and your occasional cries of Spencer’s name and that he knew just how replaceable he was.
They all were.
“You disgust me, sweetheart,” He whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “You’re letting the guy who thinks you’re a murderer fuck you. Are you truly that desperate? Your husband must’ve been a lousy fuck, judging by how tight you are around my fingers.”
The words were crude and cruel compared to the tender way in which he kissed you. He swallowed your moans and your gasps greedily, nipping at your already swollen bottom lip.
“You’re fucking an alleged murderer,” You spat back, “Don’t lecture me.”
There was no venom to your words. You couldn’t muster any in face of the familiar tightness you felt at the pit of your stomach, threatening to send you over the edge at any moment.
“Spencer,” Your head fell onto his shoulder, “Please, oh—”
“Are you going to cum?” He whispered in your ear, pressing his cheek against yours. You nodded, incapable of forcing words out anymore, too busy chasing your own orgasm. His fingers felt so impossibly good inside you—
And then they were gone.
“What the fuck?!” You head shot up from his shoulder as you glared at him.
“I don’t reward entitled little girls with multiple orgasms, sorry.” He shrugged casually, as though he was apologising for forgetting to bring you coffee.
You were so used to getting everything from Enzo that his response stumped you. Tears pricked at your eyes again; you were unsure whether it was out of embarrassment or frustration. Not getting something you wanted reminded you of your past, when you’d had nothing and no one. Sometimes you looked back and wondered how you’d survived then, without even the smallest fraction of the luxury you now possessed.
“Awh,” Spencer’s voice was mocking as he brought his thumbs up to the corners of your eyes, brushing away the tears before they fell, “Is the little girl going to cry? Not used to not getting your way, sweetheart? However did your husband cope with you, you insatiable girl?”
“Haven’t you heard?” You answered bitterly, “He didn’t. He just found a new slut to bury his cock in.”
A look passed over his face at your words. His eyes filled with something akin to pity for a brief moment before it was gone.
“You’re dehumanising her by referring to her as a “slut,” which I suspect is your way of lessening your hurt,” He remarked casually, letting you unbuckle his belt, “You have a hard time sustaining female friendships, even though you really want them.”
“I’m calling her a “slut” because she is one,” You scoffed, moving onto his zipper, “You would think my husband would have chosen someone prettier to cheat on me with, but no.”
“Narcissism,” Spencer pointed out, “Another defense mechanism.”
“It’s not narcissism if it’s true.” You said in a sing-song voice, hearing his breath stutter as you palmed his clothed erection. He was unfairly pretty, resembling a seraph with the way the golden glow from the overhead lights dusted over his high cheekbones. Corrupting an angel felt like a lovely way to spend the night except that you knew Spencer Reid was definitely a little bit twisted inside.
“Looks like you’re just as fucked up as me, Spencer,” You cooed, pulling his cock out of the confines of his boxers, “You wouldn’t be so hard if you were truly disgusted by me.”
He glared at you, but couldn’t manage much more as you thumbed over the flushed tip of his cock, swiping up the pre-cum that had gathered at the head. He watched you with hungry, frustrated eyes as you popped your thumb into your mouth, sucking it clean slowly.
You smiled at him, giving your thumb one last lick.
“Oh, is it my turn to analyse you?” You feigned surprise, “Right, right. Spencer, I think you consistently get attracted to the wrong women. The good girls are cute and all, perfect for taking home to Mom but it’s the bitches like me that you end up coming back to, again and again and again. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
You noticed his jaw visibly clench.
“Oh wait,” You laughed, “Do the good girls tend to leave you too?”
He didn’t say anything, choosing to run the head of his cock up and down your slit, making you shiver in anticipation of what was to come. You bit your lip, your eyes closing at the gentle stimulation.
“You get on my nerves.” He simply said.
Before you could come up with a smartass reply or biting sarcasm, he pushed into you smoothly, dragging a high-pitched moan out of you. Your hands fisted the material of his cardigan in a desperate attempt to ground yourself.
He pressed his forehead to the crook of your neck. You could feel the rapid breaths escaping his lips as he struggled to acclimatise himself to the vice grip of your walls around his cock. Entangling your fingers in the curls at the base of his neck, you clenched around him, laughing at the muffled groan he emitted.
“Too much, Dr. Reid?” You mocked, though the breathy nature of your voice betrayed just how aroused you were too.
“Shut your mouth.” He hissed, yanking your hair sharply, shocking you into silence. The roots at your scalp burned but you didn’t have a chance to focus on that pain as he pulled out and slammed back into you.
“Fuck,” You whined, toes curling in on themselves, “Spencer, oh my god!”
The piano keys made horribly off-tune sounds with every powerful thrust of his hips but you could say without a doubt that this would become your favourite piece of music for a long, long time.
“You know,” His words came out in harshly punctuated gasps as he struggled to speak through the pleasure, “One defining trait of femme fatales is their rejection of motherhood. Yet you’re letting me, a stranger, bareback you. Do you realise how much control I have right now?”
You struggled to come up with a response, seized with anxiety over his words yet aroused by them. You felt his hand gripping your hips, leaving bruises over the bruises already present on your body.
“You’re terrified of the idea of having kids, aren’t you?” He asked, a breathy laugh escaping his lips and brushing over your shoulder.
“I just don’t want them.” You gritted out, the end of your sentence melting into a whine as he propped your legs up higher around his waist, penetrating you deeper. In a surprisingly sweet gesture, he brushed your hair away from your face, tucking the strands behind your ear.
“Nothing is as simple as that with you,” He shook his head, stilling his movements, “I’m not fucking you unless you tell me.”
“What do you want me to say?” You scoffed, annoyed at the fact that he’d curbed your impending orgasm again, “In case you haven’t noticed, men suck. If I bring a daughter into this world, she might face the same things as me. If it’s a son, I risk him becoming like my father. Either way, I lose.”
“I think you should be more scared that your daughter might turn out like you.” He mumbled against your lips, resuming his movements with more vigour.
You brushed aside the insult, paying it no heed.
“What about you, Dr. Reid?” You asked, pulling him even closer to you, “You wanna be a daddy?”
“Do you feel that?” He whispered, ignoring your question, “Me inside you? One mistake, the slightest delay, and you’d be stuck with my child.”
“Relax,” He laughed, “I don’t want a murderer raising my kid.”
The sense of relief which you felt was tinged with a disappointment that you didn’t recognise. You didn’t want children, but you wanted to keep Spencer with you. It felt like he understood you…even through the hate-filled vitriolic words you spat at each other, he was the closest thing you’d ever found to an equal.
You blamed it on the euphoric sensation of his cock pressing against your cervix. You didn’t like him, just his dick.
You were so lost in your thoughts that when he reached a hand between your bodies and began rubbing determined circles against your clit, you jolted. Neither of you exchanged insults anymore, too lost in the haze of arousal.
“Spencer, please, fuck…” You pleaded, starting to feel overstimulated with every brush of his cock against your walls, “Please, I wanna cum.”
“Aren’t you the most precious, polite thing?” He mocked, but his own face was screwed up in pleasure, brows knitted closely and breath escaping in gasps.
Your face was pressed into his shoulder, voice muffled by his cardigan. You felt tears prick your eyes. Your entire body felt like it was on fire, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. Your mind didn’t want this to end, it wanted him to stay buried in you forever, but your body was slowly giving up.
“Go ahead, sweetheart” He whispered into your ear, making you shiver, “Cum all over my cock.”
He met your mouth halfway, drinking in all your soft whimpers like a parched man. Your orgasm crashed over you, aided by his slender fingers. To his credit, he held on throughout, only pulling out swiftly when you purposefully clamped down around his cock. Even when your entire body was starting to hurt from the overstimulation, you couldn’t help but cause mischief.
But you were nothing if not a generous lover. You grasped his cock in your hand, now slick from your cum. It only took a few rapid flicks of your wrist before he came all over your hand, biting down onto your bare shoulder to muffle his groan.
It had been animalistic and wild, from start to finish.
He watched you lift your hand to your mouth, nimbly licking it clean of his cum. You were scared he would break a key off your piano, judging by how hard he was gripping it.
You lowered yourself from the piano, one last dissonant chord following in your wake. Your knees felt like they would buckle for a moment and you tightly gripped onto Spencer’s hand, who had made himself presentable in the meantime.
He continued to look at you as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the correct arrangement of words. You leaned forward, pressing your lips against his gently and exchanging your most chaste kiss of the night.
“Good night, Spencer,” You said, softly squeezing his hand, “Get back safely.”
With that, you headed upstairs, no doubt leaving a dumbfounded Spencer Reid behind you. The urge to turn around and look at his face was great, but the theatrics of him having to see you walk away was greater.
You heard the front door open and shut even before you reached your room.
You turned on the shower, steam slowly fogging up the glass chamber. Stripping yourself, you examined the condition Spencer had left you in. Your hair was a mess, and there was a prominent mark in the shape of his fingers on your hip. He’d walked away feeling like he’d won your little analysing contest with that remark about children.
But at the end of the day, even Dr. Spencer Reid was just another stupid man.
After you escaped your father at the age of fifteen, you’d vowed to yourself that you’d never let another man hurt you in any way. You didn’t care much for promises made to others, but the ones you made to yourself? You took those very seriously.
You traced a gentle finger over the healing bruise on your shoulder, the one which you had given yourself by slamming your shoulder into the wall in this very bathroom. Just like the one on your hip and sternum. Xavier had assisted with the ones on your back.
You’d planned it in advance, done it two days before Enzo died so that when the cops inevitably arrived, you could have a backup of self-defence if things really went south.
You scoffed, feeling the warm water run down your body.
As if Enzo ever had the fucking balls to lay a hand on you.
He knew Xavier wasn’t the killer. Well, he was in the literal sense of the word but the idea had been someone else’s. Yours. He just knew it.
You were a wonderful actress, he had to admit. With your shocked gasp when Xavier admitted to the crime, your crocodile tears as you asked your butler why he would ever kill your husband when the latter was like a brother to him—every reaction, every little gesture was perfect.
But people could not be convicted on the basis of doubt alone. You had the Governor’s goodwill on your side and the heap of money that your husband had left you. On the other hand, the government could not justify keeping a case open and spending money on it when someone had already willingly confessed to the crime.
The way you shook everyone’s hand and thanked them profusely, the way you smiled at him sweetly as if he hadn’t been fucking you last night was all a sham.
You were the heroine, the director and the producer of this little charade you had launched.
He saw the little quirk of your lip as you watched him get into the car from your front door. He kept staring at you, waiting for you to break character and betray yourself until the car turned out from the driveway and he could no longer see you.
Everyone agreed that there was definitely something off about you but they couldn’t justify investigating you without proof.
He specially requested Garcia to put one of her alerts on you. If any other husbands mysteriously died and there was even the slightest premonition that you had something to do with it…he would find you.
Next time, he’d beat you at your own game.
1K notes · View notes