Spencer Reid | Oneshots

Yellow Light ❤️‍🔥 (E)

Summary: Everyone thinks Reader is dangerous. Probably because she's Cat's sister. But is that why Spencer likes her?

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Content Warning: Reader is Cat's Sister, penetrative sex, heated arguing, choking, implied/referenced death/murder, panic attack, referenced past sexual assault

——————————————————

"Gravitation cannot be held responsible for people falling in love. How on earth can you explain in terms of chemistry and physics so important a biological phenomenon as first love?"

-Albert Einstein

——————————————————

Metaphors have a bad reputation in science. It's strange, really, considering just how poetic the field could be. Yet so many men — and let it be clear, that it is predominantly men — share this ridiculous notion that there is no need or purpose for flowery language when it comes to the hard sciences.

But metaphors are not mere aesthetics; they help us put words into abstract ideas, to share the depth of our feelings in a way that literal speech couldn't capture. For example, I could tell you that I felt an odd attraction and an unsettling familiarity with the strange woman seated in the back of my class, but I am confident that you wouldn't understand what I meant.

So, instead, I will tell you that she was the Earth's core. Mysterious molten magma that I could only come to understand through the way the world shifted around her. She was the source of life itself, what was left behind from the collision of ancient forces and chose to begin again. And I was just a compass hand. A brainless fool in the face of a natural wonder, finding my way back to her no matter how hard I tried to resist the pull of her.

That was the only way I could think to describe the situation, to explain how hopelessly devoted to her that my soul seemed to be. The only words that could describe how my mind began to spin the closer she grew to me, and why my hand reached out to meet hers without thought.

"Hi Dr. Reid, it's such a pleasure to finally meet you," she said with a voice that sparked flames where our hands met.

"Wow, thanks, that's really nice of you," I muttered back like the smitten fool I was. My heart was so pleased with the smile that it elicited from her that I couldn't stop myself from begging her to stay. "Are you thinking about taking this class? Because you know there are seats open."

Her lips scrunched in a perplexed expression that was somehow still breathtaking, for reasons other than the anxiety it caused.

"Oh. No, actually, I... I actually don't go here," she laughed, "I, um, I got permission to sit in on your class. I e-mailed you last week?"

The memories flooded back, and I immediately found myself both berating my past self for being so cursory in my original response to the e-mail, as well as for having forgotten that she'd told me she was coming.

"Oh right! Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry, I completely forgot. I don't normally do that!" I couldn't hate myself for it too much, though, because the humiliation brought along her first laugh.

"I'm really sorry. I hope you enjoyed the lecture, though."

"I did," she noted. While I didn't believe her for a second, having seen her terribly lost (and equally adorable) expression for the past hour, I let it go. I chose to exist in a world where she actually wanted to listen to me talk, instead.

There was something else about her, though. Something that couldn't be as easily ignored. There was a tension, an uncertainty and anxiety present in wringing hands and rocking feet.