moontide//spencer reid

*14*

this chapter is so long omg I'm sorry (7.8k words!).

MANY content warnings for this as well: dom!Spencer, daddy kink, degradation, light choking, handcuffs, a lil biting. obviously penetrative sex; Spencer is talking dirty to us in this one, oh my.

"6.7." Regina notes as we walk back from the coffee shop. I do a double-take and turn my head to look at the man who just passed us.

"how do you know?" I whisper harshly.

"easy. it's in the walk, the crotch space in the pants, and--" she smirks. "a little intuition."

"down to the decimal." I shake my head and we break into laughter. Regina nudges my shoulder.

"okay, you try."

"this is so useless! it's not like we'll ever know if we're right or not." I complain.

"that's so not the point, Y/N. come on, how about him?" she nods her head to a sandy-haired guy sitting at a café table with an iced coffee.

"I don't know. he's man-spreading hard, and that kind of body language implies security..." I take a breath. "and he's giving me surfer vibes-- I'm gonna say 7.2."

"see? I was thinking around seven, too! they should add this to your job description. dick size is a big part of profiling." she says in complete seriousness. I make a face at her.

"in what world?"

"guys who are packing don't feel a need to murder women, Y/N. toxic masculinity is a disease." Regina runs a hand through her dark hair and goes through her argument like this is scientifically proven.

"you know, now that you're saying it," I nod. "impotence isn't uncommon in male serial killers. you might be onto something."

"maybe I'll make a candle for it."

"for impotent guys?"

"there's gotta be some kind of essential oil remedy for it." she's off in her own world, now, dark eyes flickering over the trees and pedestrians as we walk back to my apartment. she's visiting for a few days, and I'm just grateful I haven't gotten called in on a case.

"when's the grand opening?" I ask her. Regina's been busy setting up her first physical store for months now. after she moved to Portland two years ago, she started a small candle-making business (or wellness brand, as she refers to it) to pay the bills. some new-age blog posted a glowing review of one of her candles and she's been busy since. they're small batches, so they sell out in under five minutes. it's actually very impressive.

"two months from now, I'm thinking. Willow and I can't agree on a paint color, though." she sighs. we continue to discuss her plans for the store, running through logistics and issues with her interior decorator.

when we get back to my apartment, Regina almost drops her coffee on the floor.

"you were just here like, twenty minutes ago. don't act so surprised." I frown at her. we dropped off her suitcase in my bedroom before we went for the walk, and the sight of my messy apartment elicited a violent gasp from her. but, of course, Regina is nothing if not melodramatic.

"I just can't believe you live like this." she goes over to examine a stack of old Vogue magazines.

"leave me alone. they're collectors' items." I slap her hand away from them.

"Y/N, it's not that." she sits on the couch. "I mean, that's a whole other problem-- but I mean that you've barely unpacked."

I look around the living room, where cardboard boxes still sit full of things. a lot of them are books, but definitely not all. the only pieces of art that I have are some framed movie posters and one of my friend's art prints; those are resting against the wall on the floor.