alex.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

“Is this okay?” He pulls away from you, a lock of his hair brushes against your cheek. 

You’re a little surprised by your own breathlessness.

“Absolutely.” 

“I umm… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” 

“What we’re doing is fine,” You plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth, and another on his jaw. “do you want me to get on top?

“Yes, please.” He nods, letting you put your hands on his shoulders as you ease him down onto the bed next to you before swinging your leg over his lap. 

His face is already red, god you love that, hair askew as he stares up at you with pupils blown, his hands awkwardly twitching at his sides.

“You can touch me, start with my waist and see what feels right.” You take his wrists, guiding his hands to your hips. You’ve obviously seen his hands before, but now, while they’re against your skin you’re surprised by how massive they are. Prominent veins along the back, and long, agile fingers, gripping the fleece fabric of your pants for dear life. 

His back arches off the mattress as he lets out a breathy whine, gasping as you press him back down. A rather noticeable bulge presses against your thigh in the process. 

Out of breath and needy beneath you, you come to a nauseating realization that you can’t believe you didn’t see sooner. 

Reid is fucking hot. 

You’ve noticed things before, he doesn’t have a completely terrible face, and he’s tall. When he wears fitted shirts you’ve certainly noticed an appealing figure, even if he’s annoying, you aren’t blind. His hair is always a mess, and he has no idea what he’s doing with it but right now, the way it falls in a pretty halo against your pillow… you’re feeling a little mesmerized by the discovery that he isn’t just objectively attractive. 

He’s hot, like really hot. 

Maybe it’s just the atmosphere, or maybe it’s situational, but right now, you’re noticing some perplexing details about him that just don’t add up with the irritating nuisance you’ve always taken him for. 

Like the curve of his lips, and the sharp angular point of his nose, you’d like to feel it pressed against your skin. His jaw is honestly a little ridiculous now that you’re really, properly, staring at him, it’s absurdly sharp, and he’s got a fucking movie star chin. And he’s clean, which is the oddest detail to notice, but his nails are recently trimmed and tidy, and he smells good. He clearly takes care of himself in a way most of the men you meet out at bars don’t.  

The way his hands twitch against the fabric of your pants, gently drawing them lower so he can run his fingertips against your bare skin is hot. The way his hips are desperately grinding up against you as you try to pin him down, is hot. And his stupid glasses are stupidly hot. 

“Is everything okay?” His voice snaps you out of it. 

Shit. 

“Sorry, yes, everything’s fine.”

“Can- can we keep kissing please?” His grip on you tightens as you let out an airy laugh.

Leaning down you cup his face with both hands, pressing your lips to his again, he’s hungry. His teeth graze your bottom lip as his tongue pokes at your teeth until you open your mouth. 

He doesn’t kiss the way you’d think a virgin would. He isn’t timid as he shoves his tongue into your mouth, desperate and ravenous. All teeth and tongue, and in a rush. One of his hands rests on the side of your face, his ridiculously large hands that practically engulf half of your head. 

 Eventually his hands wander, clearly nervous as he lets one slide down your thigh, the other slips under your shirt but he doesn't seem to have the confidence to drift any higher than your stomach. He whines when you break away from the kiss, taking his wrist you guide his hand up until your tank tops riding up and his hand is placed over your chest. You’d think you were granting him the greatest pleasure imaginable based on the way he moans, his head falling back in the process.

“Do you own any sex toys?” His voice is high pitched and strained. He squirms, breathing heavy as he cautiously squeezes, whimpering as his fingers dig into your soft flesh. 

The question makes your brows furrow. It’s not exactly the dirty talk you’re used to. 

“Yes, obviously, but I don’t see how that’s relevant.” 

“I’m just trying to plan ahead, while there’s no specific statistic, almost all men experience premature ejaculation when having intercourse for the first time. I’d like to have options to assist me afterwards since I doubt you’re going to achieve climax from ten seconds of penetrative intercourse.” He rambles, in that way you’re used to, except now his eyes are tightly shut, his fingertips glide over your nipple making your breath hitch. 

You stare down at him, eyebrows drawn together as you try and make sense of what he just said. Both of his hands return to their place on your waist, his fingers dig in just a little too hard, not that you mind  

“That’s…” Kind of sweet, in an insane, ‘only Spencer would think of that’ kind of way. “not something I’m really worried about right now. Let’s just focus on you right now.”

He nods and you take the opportunity to tilt his head up so you can nip at his neck, grazing your teeth along the edge of his jaw before you bite his ear. 

“Fuck-” He whines as you run your tongue over his ear lobe. You hardly have to grind your hips against his, he’s busying himself with doing it himself. His hands hold you in place as he thrusts up against you. You brace your hands on his shoulders, sitting up so you can look at him. 

His eyes are still squeezed shut tightly as he whimpers. His teeth dig into his bottom lip so hard you’re worried he’s going to break the skin. 

So fucking pretty. 

Unfairly so. 

The flush on his face and neck, the hair falling into his face, the noises he’s making. He’s so fucking loud. You’re sure you’ll be getting some dirty looks from your neighbors after tonight. Whining and groaning as he humps you, you haven’t even taken your clothes off and he’s putty in your hands. 

“Oh my god.” He keens as his head pushes back against the pillow. You wrap your fingers around his throat gently, with the intention of getting his attention but the sound he makes when you do catches you completely off guard. A strangled cry as he goes rigid beneath you, groaning as he gasps. “Fuck, shit… fuck.” He spits out a slew of curses through his teeth until his head falls back, the veins in his neck prominent as he cries out. 

No fucking way. 

Just like that there’s a wet warmth between your legs and a stain on his pants as he cringes. 

“I’m sorry.” He buries his face in his hands, you take the opportunity to tangle your fingers in his hair, scratching his scalp. 

You couldn’t be more thrilled, your grin spreads from ear to ear. 

“For what?” You try to keep the teasing tone out of your voice but it slips through. 

He only groans in embarrassment. 

“Don’t be sorry, it’s extremely flattering.” You tug on his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. You really do mean it, when was the last time you had this effect on a guy? Let alone a guy you hardly ever see in compromising positions? The most condescending, insufferable man you know just came in his pants before you so much as took your top off.  

This makes every correction, interruption, and outright rude comment he’s ever made, totally worth it. 

“Please don’t patronize me.” 

“I’m serious, don’t worry about it. How long does it normally take for you to recover? Do you need me to get you some water?” You start to lift off of him but he holds you in place, shifting his hips as he stares up at you. Face still hot with embarrassment.

“I’m all good.” 

“Are you sure?” His hips buck up against you, you have to brace yourself against the headboard so you don’t fall off of him but he gets his point across when you feel him already hardening again after just a few moments. 

Jesus. 

“Pretty sure.” He whimpers. 

“Why don’t you get on top for this part, I think if you control the pace you’ll last a little longer.” You climb off of him, laying back against the pillows. He watches, tongue poking out to wet his lips as you kick your pajama pants off, you wore a pair of pretty red panties for the occasion. He stares at you like it’s his first time seeing a woman, wide eyed and slack jawed. You can’t help but grin. “Take your pants off, Reid.” 

He nods frantically, he couldn’t move faster if he tried as he kicks his pants down to his ankles and off of the bed. There’s an obvious wet patch on his boxers and an impressive bulge you’re eager to set free. 

“Can you take those off too? And your shirt?” You point down and up, he simply continues to nod as he tosses his shirt aside, his fingers lingering at his waistband. You could ask him to do quite literally anything and in this moment he’d do it with a smile. 

You don’t even get to enjoy that fact because you continue to be faced by the horrifying truth of his hotness. 

Slender and scrawny Reid is hiding some fucking arms under those dress shirts and cardigans. He’s got a little blonde patch of chesthair, and his chest is about as toned as you’d imagine for a human encyclopedia. But his arms, you’re gawking at his biceps. It’s a subtle muscle, you get a really good look right as he’s pulling his shirt over his head as he flexes. 

You don’t get a lot of time to dwell on that as he shoves his boxers down, and there’s no going back. 

You watch as his cock slaps against his stomach and you can’t focus on anything else in the room. An asteroid could hit your apartment building and you’d still be staring at the monster between his legs.   

No fucking way.

“Jesus Reid, what the fuck?” You sit up straighter as he shoves his boxers down his legs until he’s kneeling in front of you completely naked. 

“What?” He’s quick to nervously cover himself with his hands but you kick his arms away as you stare, dumbfounded by the sight of him. 

“You’ve just been walking around with this thing? I’m surprised you don’t limp everywhere, you’ve got a third fucking leg.” 

“Shut up.” You didn’t think his face could get any redder but he proves you wrong, blush spreads down his neck, and across his chest. 

“Seriously, what the fuck?” 

“Was I supposed to announce it to everyone? It’s a slightly above average sized penis.” Maybe in the porn industry it’s slightly above average. 

Boy genius has the biggest cock you’ve ever seen, and you’ve seen plenty. 

“How is this fair?” Your eye is practically twitching.

“How is what fair?”

“You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met and you’ve been blessed with this, and you don’t even use it.”

“I can’t be that annoying or we wouldn’t be here right now.” He mumbles under his breath, beet red at this point. 

You only scowl in response, laying back, you raise an eyebrow at him. 

“What do you want me to do now?” His voice is still tinged with a high pitched embarrassment. 

“What do you want to do?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious at this point.” It certainly is, his cock stands at attention, tip red and slick with his previous release. You can’t help but eye the thick vein running along the underside, from base to tip. Just like the rest of him, his cock is aggravatingly pretty. He shifts nervously. “Stop staring at it, you’re making me self conscious.” He grumbles.

“You have no reason to be self conscious, come here.” You pat the space between your legs, bending your knees so he can slot himself between them. “Take my panties off, Reid.” 

You don’t have to tell him twice. 

Nimble fingers wrap themselves around the fabric at your hips, lingering there and trembling softly as he runs the pad of his thumb across the lace band.

When he doesn’t make a move to pull them down you clear your throat. 

“So like… you know what to do, right?”

“Of course I know what to do.” He sounds a bit shrill.

“Would you like some guidance?”

“I just don’t want to mess up.” He sits back, fingers twitching against his palms. 

“You won’t, you’re too much of an overachiever for that.”

“I’ve seen a lot of videos, and I’ve read a lot of information, so I know there’s a few different things I can do to start. I just don’t want to do the wrong thing.”

“There is no wrong thing, Reid. It’s sex, it’s free flowing, it’s natural. Whatever you do is the right thing to do.” 

“But it’s you. And you’re staring at me with your eyes and touching me with your hands and talking to me with your mouth.”

He has such an endearing vulnerability about him. At work all you get is an argumentative, know-it-all, it’s a little jarring to see him so unsure. It makes you wonder if you should have done this at all. 

“Reid.” 

“What.”

“We don’t have to do this.”

“I want to.”

“Really? Cause you’re looking at me like a frightened deer. I’m not going to disappear, and I’m not going to make fun of you. But you need to relax, if you don’t want to do this that’s fine but-”

“I do.” You believe it, he sounds almost panicked at the thought of not. 

“Then you need to relax.”

“Can you- can you just keep telling me what to do?” His head falls forward, staring down as he mumbles. 

“Do you like it when I do that?”

You brush his hair out of his face as he nods. 

“You can start by taking my panties off, you’ll feel a lot better if you aren’t the only one with your clothes off.” 

He does exactly as he’s told, this time when his fingers grip the fabric he’s quick to tug them down your thighs. You lift your hips to help him, watching as he carefully brings them to your ankles before removing them completely. 

The look in his eyes as he stares between your legs is exactly why you decided to give him a chance in the first place. 

Devotion.

His eyes are more pupil than iris as he stares silently, tongue poking out to wet his lips before he chews on them, a habit you’re noticing more and more from him. 

“I’m gonna need you to warm me up before you stick that thing in me.” You take his hand, resting it on your inner thigh, his fingers fidget nervously against you. “Why don’t we start with fingers, or if you want I can do it myself.”

“I want to do it.” He answers quickly, gripping the soft flesh of your thigh.

“Okay, start with one, and I’ll tell you when to add another.”

“Okay.” His breathing is heavy as you take him by the wrist, leading him gently between your legs, your breath hitches as his fingers slide between your folds, his cock twitches against his belly the second he feels the wetness pooling there. You guide him to your entrance, letting your eyes flutter shut as he finally presses a finger into you. 

It’s definitely been a while. 

You don’t want to make a fool of yourself but it feels so good to have another person touch you, especially considering the last couple of months have been entirely your own hand and toys. 

“Is this okay?” His voice is hoarse as he slowly starts to withdraw. 

“Perfect.” You squeak out, taking a deep breath. “I can probably take another.” You aren’t ready for it yet but the burn is so good you can’t help yourself. 

He’s happy to oblige, two fingers slide through the slick of your folds before delving into your cunt. He’s slow and precise as he moves in and out, hesitating when you groan, before repeating the motion that pulled that reaction from you in an attempt to hear it again. 

“Curl your fingers.” You dig your nails into the sheets around you, struggling to keep your voice even as he does so, hitting that spongey spot inside of you that makes your back arch off the mattress. “Just like that.” You hiss through your teeth.  

Oh he’s good. 

Your expectations were low, even if you didn’t want to tell him that, but he’s good. He doesn’t just do what’s hard or fast, when you open your eyes he’s studying you. Any noise you make, you make twice, because he tests everything. Curling his fingers, scissoring them, angling them up against you. His free hand eventually comes to rest on your pelvis, applying pressure as he simultaneously crooks his fingers, grinning when you cover your mouth with your hand in a failed attempt to stifle a groan. So rarely do you see such an earnest smile from him directed at you. Your reaction leaves him smiling like an idiot as he does it again, and again, and again, until you sit up and gently push on his shoulders until he withdraws his fingers.

“Where’d you learn that one?” You try to keep your voice steady, your core is buzzing from the sudden withdrawal.

“The internet.”

“For someone who claims to hate all technology you seem to spend a lot of time on the internet.”

“Sure do.” He shrugs, thankfully much less nervous. 

You can’t take your eyes off of him as you lean back, resting your head against the pillows as he brings his fingers to his lips with zero hesitation, as if it’s second nature to him. Moaning against them as he sucks them clean. 

Jesus. 

“Are you ready?” His fingers are still in his mouth when you ask, he hums as he nods. His dick literally couldn’t be harder, it looks almost painful, the weeping red tip, begging for a release you’re happy to give him. “Go slow.” Mostly for your benefit, you’re certain it’s going to hurt at least a little trying to cram his absurd dick into you. 

He continues to nod, as he moves closer to you, bracing himself with his hands on either side of your head as his cock pokes at your thigh. 

“Are you ready?” He mumbles as you give him a half smile.

“Are you?”

“Yeah, I think so.” You let your hand drift to the space between you, when you take his cock in your hand he whimpers, his entire body goes still as you help to line him up at your entrance. You don’t dare close your eyes now, you don’t want to miss the look on his face. 

The sound he makes when he slides through your folds is pornagraphic. Actually, it’s better than pornographic, in porn the sounds are always exaggerated and fake. The sounds he’s making are raw and real. You stare wide eyed as the space between his eyebrows creases, his lips parting slightly as his face scrunches up, if you didn’t know any better you’d say he was in pain, but you know better. 

“Oh my god-” His head falls back, you watch as his adams apple bobs, and best of all, you feel the stretch of his cock as he pushes into you. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” He whispers over and over again in an increasingly high pitched tone. Your headboard shifts as one of his hands moves to grip the wood.

He pushes inch by inch into you, the squiggly little vein on his temple looks like it might pop as he lets out a pitiful whine. You let out your own contented sigh as you bask in the feeling of being split open. It’s hard to believe you’ve been willingly denying yourself this feeling for so long. It’s even harder to believe you let Reid be the one to make you feel it. 

You thread your fingers through his hair as he bottoms out, his pelvis hitting yours. 

If you had known how good his cock would feel buried inside you, you would have unbuttoned his pants on your first day in the BAU and gotten on top of him right there at his desk. It feels like his dick was sculpted for you, thick and pretty, perfectly hitting every spot buried inside of you. 

“Oh my fucking god, oh my god-” He’s panting like a dog above you as he babbles on endlessly. “Holy fu- oh my god, fuck-” With a rather loud whine you can feel his hips twitching against yours, he continues to whimper, making little noises as his entire body tenses and your headboard creaks as he leans against it. 

Then there is a stillness. 

And a silence, in the dim light of your bedroom as he struggles to catch his breath. There’s a wet warmth between your legs as his cock slips out of you.

“I’m sorry.” He says sheepishly, when his head falls forward you can see that his smile is too genuine to convey any actual apologetic feelings. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.” You run your hand from his wrist to his shoulder, simply touching him for the sake of touching him. “Do you feel okay?”

“I feel fucking fantastic.” What a shock it is to hear curses fall from his lips. “How do you feel?”

“Splendid.” You mean it, even if you aren’t necessarily satisfied, there is a pleasure in knowing that you’re the first person to see him like this. This version of Reid is so much more agreeable compared to what you’re used to. 

“Next time I’ll do better, I promise.” God, you’ll have to find a way to thank Emily without letting her know that this happened, he’s perfect. There’s nothing you love more than a man who’s eager to please. “Can I try to make you come?” The words sound foreign in his voice, like he’s unsure he’s using the right terminology. 

“Yeah of course, do you know what to do?”

“I think I can figure it out.” You can’t help but laugh at his confidence, he isn’t the first guy who’s told you he’ll ‘figure it out.’

“Have you watched a lot of videos?”

“Videos, forum posts, as many books as I could find on the subject, I read the book Sex for Dummies.” He’s lighter, and so much more at ease now when he speaks. 

“Is that a real thing?”

“It is, and it’s surprisingly helpful and informative.” 

“You’re unbelievable.” You sit up on your elbows as he sits back on his knees. “I’m sure you’re very well informed but I’m not the easiest girl to finish, I can do it myself first if you’d like.”

“I’d like to try and figure it out on my own first, if that’s alright with you. I would of course appreciate verbal cues from you if something feels good, or if it doesn’t” 

“I can certainly do that.” 

He bends your knees, reaching for a pillow he gently lifts your hips to slide it under you to give him a better view. He’s studying your cunt, eyes moving up and down as he sits back.

“Do you masturbate?” His eyes flit to your face as he asks, you can’t help but laugh.

“Everyone jerks off, Reid.” 

“Well I don’t know, I thought it might be different when you’re sexually active.”

“It is, sometimes I go a few weeks without doing it, sometimes I do it everyday, it depends more on my mood than my current partner.” 

“Hmm.” He nods, seemingly truly invested in the information you’re sharing with him. “How do you normally do it?” If you didn’t know any better you’d say his limp dick was starting to swell again. 

“I use toys, unfortunately these-” You hold your hand out in front of him, wiggling your fingers to show off your manicure. “prevent me from using my fingers most of the time. So I have tools to help.” While your arm is outstretched you take the opportunity to grab his hand, pulling him closer so his hand hovers just over your cunt. 

“Can I see them?”

“My toys?” You aren’t sure if you want him to, even if he’s been inside of you, it’s an oddly intimate thing to share. He nods, eyes so wide you can’t say no. “If you can make me come.”

He nods again, a determined look flickering in his eyes. 

With a surgical precision he separates your folds, examining your entrance with intense focus, with his other hand he pushes the come leaking out of you back in. Fingers scooping and pressing into you before pushing fully in, two digits sink into you, just as you’d instructed him to do previously, this time he curls them almost immediately. With a small gasp your eyes flutter shut. 

“What feels better, this-” He curls his fingers again, harshly. “or this?” He presses deeper before withdrawing swiftly and pressing deep again, holding his hand there the heel of his palm grinds against your clit, your head spins as you groan. 

“That, definitely that.” You grit your teeth as he repeats the motion, much slower this time as he finds his rhythm. Moving in and out ever so slowly as your fingers grip the sheets, an obscene wet sound accompanies his efforts. The hand that was parting your folds moves to your thigh to push your legs further apart as he crouches down, squinting as he looks you over, as if he can discern the secrets of the female orgasm by taking a closer look. 

The pad of his thumb swipes across your clit making you squeak as your hips buck involuntarily. 

Your eyes fly open when you hear the hiss of air and a sharp, wet sound, feeling a wetness dripping between your legs.

“Did you just spit on me?” 

“Proper lubrication can help to reduce friction, it’s for your comfort and pleasure.” He explains it like he’s presenting evidence, but you can see his cock swelling against his stomach again.

“Really?” You cock an eyebrow at him, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Really…” He rubs an experimental circle against your clit, spreading his spit across the bundle of nerves as your breath catches in your throat. “I also saw it in a video once and thought it would feel good to do, and I was right, it felt amazing.” He mumbles that last bit as his concentration drifts back between your legs, all of his focus on you as he finds a solid pace between both of his hands. 

You alternate between arching backwards, with your head leaning back, and shifting forward when you can, watching him closely. 

His tongue pokes out between his teeth, his focus is almost comedically intense, but there’s nothing funny about the way he’s working his fingers. He continues to try different things, moving his thumb a certain way, applying different amounts of pressure. Shifting his fingers to be angled a certain way until he finds the perfect position to brush up against all your most sensitive nerves. 

He’s relentless once he finds a way to make your eyes roll back and your legs shake, robotic in nature as he repeats the motion perfectly, again and again.

“Fuck, Reid-” You mumble, trying to stop yourself as the words tumble out. The last thing you need is for him to get an ego about this after you just told him it wouldn’t be an easy task. 

“Does it feel good?” His voice is hoarse, coming out as a strained whisper.

“Mhmm.” You hum as your hips lift off the mattress an inch as he crooks his fingers a bit. Your head is spinning as you suck in another breath. He carries on like it comes naturally to him, as the knot forms low in your stomach. “Like that-” 

The instinct of most men when something feels good is to do that thing harder and faster, which never really works out for them. Reid seems to have better intuition than most men though, instead he maintains that delicious pace. Fingers buried deep within you as you cover your mouth with your hand to stifle the cry threatening to burst from your throat. 

Until the knot in your stomach tightens, until it pulls taut, and threatens to snap. 

Your toes curl, digging your heels down into the mattress as you lift your hips. Despite the way your hips twist around wildly he manages to keep it up, burying his fingers deeper until the knot snaps and you come, hard. 

Clamping down on his fingers as you let out a series of moans. You open your eyes just long enough to see the satisfied smirk on his face. His own eyes are hungry, never leaving your cunt.

The pressure in your head releases as you let go of the breath you didn’t realize you were holding in, your body going limp as you reach down and shove his hand away, the overstimulation buzzing through your body as he continues to try and play with your clit. You don’t get a lot of time to recover because he’s back between your legs, hard cock in hand as he guides himself back against your entrance.

“Again already?” You raise an eyebrow but he’s too hyper focused on what he’s doing to answer. You’re wet enough that there’s no resistance as he slams back into you. The stretching feeling returns full force as he forces himself into your already overstimulated cunt. “Jesus, Reid!” 

The feeling of fullness is overwhelming. You manage to yelp as he thrusts into you a few times, the head of his cock hitting your cervix with every sloppy thrust until his head falls back and you see the now familiar sight of his eyes fluttering shut as he comes, immediately melting into a whimpering mess. His face and neck are bright red as he falls over beside you. 

As he sucks in a harsh breath his hand wanders back between your legs. You instinctively swat his hand away, too sore for whatever he’s trying to do.

“Are you done already?” There’s a tinge of disappointment in his voice that makes you laugh.

“For now, there’s no reason to wear yourself out on night one, Reid.” You’re still fighting to catch your breath.

“It’s gonna take a lot more than that to wear me out.” 

“Oh, I intend to find out exactly what it takes.” You sit up on your elbows, eying him. 

“Yeah?” You watch as he licks his fingers clean again. You could watch him do that for hours.

“This is just training for what I have planned for you, think of this as the academy, pretty boy. I plan on having you ready for field work in record time.” The nickname isn’t one you’ve used before, typically only Derek calls him that but it feels appropriate considering just how pretty he looks right now. 

He moves to lay beside you, a sheen of sweat coats his skin, he smells musky in a good way, a mix of earthy and sweet. The heat of his body has made the ends of his hair curl.

“I graduated top of my class, and I completed all of the courses in a tenth of the time it took the rest of my class. It would have been less time but they didn’t believe me when I told them I’d finished all of the course content.” He traces his fingers up and down your arm as he beams at you like the sun. It genuinely looks like he’s lost ten years worth of stress in the last hour, the constant tension he carries in his shoulders has melted away, and his eye bags almost seem less dark. You can’t help but put a hand on his shoulder, lightly scratching your nails against his pale skin.

“How’d you do on the physical assessment?"

“Worst in the group.” He grins, flashing his teeth at you.

“Poor thing.”

“I got over it, being the youngest person ever recruited for the BAU was a nice consolation prize.”

“I hope your stamina has gotten better since then, I intend to put you through some endurance training.” You dig your nails into his shoulder. 

He frowns as he theatrically groans. 

“Oh you’ll be fine. It’s clear to me based on how you act that you’ve never once denied yourself anything. You need to be told no every once in a while or you’ll get spoiled.”

“Can I see your toys now?”

You pull the blankets up and over yourself, an exhaustion muddling your thoughts as you yawn.

“In the morning, get some sleep, we can talk about it in the morning.” You roll over onto your side, facing him. He shifts awkwardly as he pulls his boxers back on.

“Should I… go sleep on the couch? Or I could go home and come back tomorrow.” He starts to get up but you gently grab his arm. 

You should send him home. That’s what you’d typically do after a night like this, but this isn’t a typical night. If this is going to be an ongoing thing between the two of you then it doesn’t hurt to let him spend the night. 

“Lay down, Reid.” He does as he’s told, shuffling underneath the sheets with you, laying on his side so you’re face to face. 

You try to ignore him and close your eyes but he makes it hard with the intensity of his stare. 

“Goodnight, Reid.” You mumble, eventually rolling over to escape his severe gaze. 

“Goodnight.” He whispers back. 

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

He might be in love with you. 

His feelings towards you have been confusing and complicated for quite some time. He’s never been able to properly put it into words before. There was resentment there, but now he knows that was likely because he couldn’t have you. And now he does, and he’s pretty sure this whole time those confusing emotions might have just been love all twisted up. 

He hasn’t ever been in love but this has to be the closest thing he’s ever felt to it. He has no interest in so much as looking at another woman ever again, why would he? He doesn’t need anyone else, not with you laying next to him. 

You’re so sweet, even when you’re being mean. It confuses him and it confuses his penis even more. 

He didn’t know you could be so sweet, that must be why everyone at work loves you. He can certainly see the appeal. You didn’t tease him, at least not while he was vulnerable, and you didn’t pull the rug out from under him at the last minute. Instead you made pretty noises, smiled, and touched his hair. 

He didn’t want to sleep, he would have much preferred to stare at you as you snored softly beside him but the exhaustion of the evening caught up with him quickly and before he knew it he was out. 

He woke up first in the morning, light filtering in through the blinds against his face. He didn’t open his eyes at first, there was a very real possibility that he had dreamed everything and you would be gone when he opened his eyes. He wanted to live in that fantasy for a little while longer. 

Yet when he opened his eyes there you were. 

Drool on your pillow, lips parted with each quiet snore, your tanktop straps slid down your shoulders. You look like an angel. 

He’s tempted to get out of bed and raid your bookshelf, you have so many titles he hasn’t ever heard of, he doesn’t care about the contents so much as he wants to feel closer to you. But he’s worried he’ll wake you if he moves so he doesn’t. He just enjoys the steady rise and fall of your chest with each breath.

When you do finally wake, a wave of unease crashes over him as he waits for you to furrow your brow and glare at him before kicking him out. Instead you smile, and his heart feels like it’s beating so fast it may burst. 

“Morning.” You rubbed your eyes and reached for him, he’s more than happy to wrap himself around you. 

“Good morning.” He murmurs, burying himself in your arms as he twists his arms around you, resting his head on your chest. 

“What do you want to do today?” 

“This.”

“There’s too much time in the day to only do this.”

“Well, what do you want to do?” 

“You mentioned a chess tournament at some point, it’s today right?”

“You actually want to watch that?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“It might be boring for you.” 

“I know how to play chess, Reid.”

“You know all sorts of things.”

“I do, in some cases I’d say I probably know more than you.” Your nails scrape against his scalp as you comb through his hair. He’d always thought your long nails were impractical, another way for you to draw attention to yourself. He won’t be raising any more complaints about them going forward, not when they feel so good against his skin. 

“What else will we do today?” He tries not to sound too hopeful when he asks. 

“We can do whatever you’d like.” 

He would like to touch you more, he feels like he’s only scratched the surface of your body. He’d like you to give him permission first and foremost, or preferably, you’d ask him for it. He’d like this version of you, the one that lets him into your bed and says sweet, mean, things to him, to be the only version of you. 

“Can I see your sex toys now?” You roll over, hiding your face in the pillow and groaning as he sits up. “You promised.”

Turning your head you peek up at him. 

“I suppose I did.” You just lay there for a moment until you sigh and lean off the bed, reaching underneath before throwing a shoe box down onto the bed in front of him. “If you tell anybody about this I’ll-”

“Kill me, deny it, never let me touch you again. I think we can just assume at this point that I don’t intend on telling anyone about any of this.” You roll your eyes at him as he reaches for the box. 

You lay back down beside him as he flips the lid up, eyes widening as he stares down at the contents. Immediately with a grin he picks up the silicone cock, holding it out towards you. 

“Really?” He can’t help the sarcastic tone that seeps into his voice.

“What? Most women have one, if you’re gonna be a dick about it I’m gonna put them away.”

“Do most women have one so pink and sparkly?” You yank it out of his hands, throwing it back into the box. 

“It doesn’t matter what color it is if it gets the job done.” When you cross your arms in front of your chest he picks it up again.

“And this little toy gets the job done?” He thinks about how your jaw dropped when you saw his dick for the first time. You stared with wide eyes and told him he was big, just thinking about it makes his face feel hot. He’s certainly bigger than this tiny thing.

“Big talk from someone who came immediately." Low blow, you always resort to those when you don’t have a better response.

“You promised not to tease me about that.”

“And I didn’t, I’m just stating a fact.”

He sets the dildo back in the box, lifting the next thing to demand his attention, a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs up. 

“Theres a lot to address in this box but these are certainly eye catching.”

“Don’t get too excited. I got those as a gag gift, Emily gave them to me for my birthday.”

“Have you ever used them?”

“No, I prefer real cuffs.”

His mind races at the thought, any witty retort he might have formed fizzles out. You, handcuffed to the headboard, with your arms behind your back, to an interrogation table. All the blood in his head rushes out of his brain straight down to his dick as he flits through the possibilities, you, on top of him, pinning his wrists above his head, doing whatever you want to him. 

“Earth to Spencer.” You're snapping your pretty manicured fingers at him as he blinks at you. 

“Sorry, I must have zoned out.” He drops the cuffs, pulling one of your throw pillows into his lap. “What’s this?” He holds up a silver pill shaped thing with a wire attached to it, leading to a small plastic remote with a wheel.

“That would be my vibrator.” He’s never seen a vibrator that looks like this and the confusion must be apparent on his face. You take it from him, when you spin the wheel and the silver pill buzzes to life on the bed. “Most women don’t own the big hitachi wands you see in porn. Those things are expensive.” You seemingly read his mind, he had in fact been picturing the larger wands he’s seen in countless videos. He does recognize the last thing in the box, another flash of silver. A very small silver plug with a pink gem at the base, in the videos he’s watched they were usually a lot bigger. He can tell by the way you’re raising your eyebrows at him that you’re waiting for him to ask about it, he decides against it. 

“I thought there would be more.” He tucks everything back into the box, sliding it back over to you.

“I think that’s a perfectly normal amount for a person to have.”

“You always make it sound like you’re hiding chains and whips in your closet.”

“Do you want me to invest in chains and whips?”

“You lie a lot at work.”

“You listen in on too many of my conversations.”

“You talk loudly, why make things up? I’m sure you have plenty of stories that are true.”

“Because I like to tell a good story, besides, most guys aren’t into that kind of thing.”

“Are you into that kind of thing?”

“I’m into everything.”

His dick is so hard it hurts. 

“And you would like a guy who is also into everything.”

“There’s that big brain of yours putting in the work.”

“So you would want a long term thing with that kind of guy?”

“Don’t be weird about it, Reid. I have no desire to put a label on this.” Of course you don’t, you have an avoidant personality and you’re terrified of the thought of someone getting close enough to see behind the strict facade you put on. “But yes, I think we’re in agreement to enjoy each other's company outside of work. It’ll help me relieve stress and hopefully you won’t be so uptight if you’re regularly getting laid.” 

He wants more than getting laid regularly. He wants you, now more than ever. But until he figures out how to get that this will have to do.

“So we agree that this is a long term thing?” He does his best to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice.

“It’s a long-ish term thing. If you must have something akin to a label you could call this a friends with benefits situation.”

“So we’re friends now?”

You frown at him.

“Coworkers with benefits, BAU with benefits, enemies with benefits, whatever you want to call it.” He has lots of things he wants to call it, but he knows that if he does that you’ll run far away from whatever this is. 

Long-ish term thing.

He hates that. 

Now that he knows what it feels like to have you moaning underneath him he’s not sure he can handle life without it. 

It’s fine. 

It’s going to be fine.

He’s solved harder cases than this. 

When he gets a chance to focus on something other than how beautiful you look right now glaring at him he’s going to figure out exactly what it’s gonna take to get rid of the ish in long-ish term thing. 

  ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

You spend most of the day on your back. 

On the couch, on the bed, on your bedroom rug at one point. 

Spencer acts like he’s found some kind of groundbreaking discovery in your vagina. And if he doesn’t check on it often enough it might disappear or change. 

You get up to make breakfast and he offers to make coffee. When he hands you a cup you’re almost irritated at how good it is, he knows exactly how much creamer you like and he’s seemingly brewed better coffee than you’ve ever made with your shitty french press. 

When you moan at the taste and set the mug down he seemingly can’t help himself. That sound is like a dog whistle to him. He leans against the fridge, staring at you with a tent in his pants until you roll your eyes and smile at him.

“Do you want to do it?”

He doesn’t even answer you, you're simply dragged to the couch and he’s on top of you. 

The eggs end up burning but you’re happy to make more. 

When you tell him you’re going to try and finish the book you’re reading he follows behind you like a dog on a leash. He doesn’t bother you, letting you sit against the headboard he finds his own book from your shelf. It’s one you have read, Bride. 

The sight of him with a romance novel in his hands with his brows furrowed makes you burst into a fit of laughter. 

“What?” He already sounds offended.

“Nothing, I just don’t think that’s the type of book you usually read.”

“I read all types of books.” He seems insistent so you let him flip his way through it. You don’t get through more than a page of your own book because you’re too focused on him. The way his eyes get wide when he clearly gets to a sex scene, or how his eyes flit up towards you when he gets to a page you dogeared on your own read through. It only takes him a few minutes before he’s closing it and staring at you with a mix of horror and awe. “You read that kind of thing at your desk at work?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s porn! It’s extremely inappropriate! Can you imagine if I started reading a dirty magazine at my desk?” His face is red as he throws the book down onto your end table. 

“It isn’t all porn, there’s plenty of plot and story.”

“I’ve seen you reading this exact book at work before, I can’t believe you’ve been reading this type of thing on the clock.” He seems genuinely frazzled by the thought. You can’t stop laughing as his voice gets higher and higher. “I can’t believe you read this around other people!”

“Relax, Reid, all the women in the office read books like that at work. We actually have a little book club.” He puts his head in his hands as he groans. You’re sure he’s mentally recalling every book he’s ever seen J.J, Penelope, and Emily reading at work, trying to piece together the contents based on the titles he can remember. You put your hand on his leg as he runs his fingers through his hair nervously. “Isn’t it kinda hot though? To read something like that in public?”

That’s all you have to say to get him back on top of you, it’s almost too easy. 

After that sort of thing happens about five more times you tell him you have to shower. He stays in your bed, reading more of your books with a horrified look on his face. When you return in a towel he’s on his feet immediately, hands on your waist as he tries to guide you to the bed.

“I don’t want to get the sheets wet, let me dry off first.” You laugh but he’s quick to get you on the floor instead. Even if you know it’s only going to be a few seconds it feels too good to pass up on any opportunity to get his dick inside of you. 

Around 6:00 p.m. he orders dinner for you both, picking through the takeout menus on your fridge you don’t have to so much as lift a finger. One of the perks of his stalker tendencies is that he knows exactly what you want from the chinese place down the street. 

You set up the chess tournament stream on your television while he does that. Waiting on the couch until he joins you, even after he’s been inside of you he still sits on the other side of the couch, legs pressed together with his hands on his lap like he’s afraid of taking up too much space. 

“How long is the average chess game?” You slide closer to him, until your legs are touching. 

“You can’t really put a number on it, there’s blitz games, rapid games, standard games, tournaments are normally the longest.” He always relaxes when he’s explaining something he knows a lot about. 

Which is most things.

“How long is this tournament?”

“It’s a longer one, but the time will depend on how the match goes, it could be as quick as a few minutes, though I seriously doubt it, it’s much more likely to be between three to six hours.”

“That long?” 

“We don’t have to watch the whole thing if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to.” 

Thankfully it’s only the first match he’s interested in watching. Over the course of the next three hours you’re surprisingly entertained. He explains everything to you in a way that is shockingly not condescending. 

After half an hour the food arrives, and of course he’s ordered you your favorite dinner combo, you swallow a comment about how he’s a creep.

It’s kind of nice to have someone care so much about things like that.

He spends the rest of the match explaining the players origins and significance to the chess community. 

When he isn’t correcting you about something you said, his ramblings are surprisingly interesting. You don’t play a lot of chess but he explains every move made in great detail to you, it almost makes you feel smarter. An hour and a half into the match he tells you who the winner is going to be, and after another hour and a half, he’s proven right. 

He reaches for the remote when the match is over but you grab his wrist to stop him.

“Let’s watch one more.” You give him a reassuring smile, who knew the know-it-all was going to need so much encouragement after the day he’s had. 

“Are you sure? It could be another long match, we can watch something else if you’d like.” You’re sure, you’ve got plans to keep yourself entertained during this next game. 

“No, I want to watch this.” You move close to him, resting your head on his shoulder. He balls his hands up into fists in his lap when you do.

For someone who's come inside you multiple times today he sure is nervous. He isn’t typically. Awkward, sure, but nervous? You’ve found him to be overconfidant most of the time at work. 

You start with a hand on his thigh, ignoring whatever might be happening on the T.V. as you scratch your nails against the cotton of his sweatpants. 

“Take your pants off.” That’s all you have to say to have him lifting his hips up off the couch, he unceremoniously shoves his pants and boxers down to his ankles before he starts to get on top of you. “Sit down, Reid.” You keep your voice even as you click your tongue. 

It’s so refreshing to have him comply without argument. Anytime you’ve ever told him what to do at work you’ve always been met with a whine or a “you’re not my superior agent.” He has no problems with compliance now, as he sits back, staring at you with those doe eyes of his as his cock strains against his stomach. 

“You like when I tell you what to do, right Reid?” You’re pleased as punch when he nods hastily. Good, you like telling him what to do. “Then watch the game.” 

“What?” He squeaks. 

“Watch the chess match.” You say it a bit sterner this time, frowning at him until he does. His eyes dart back and forth from the screen to you until they settle on the screen. His teeth are digging into his bottom lip as he stares, unfocused at the game. 

When you’re certain he’s watching you reach forward, he hisses through his teeth when you wrap your fingers around the base of his shaft. When he starts to look towards you you grab his chin with your free hand, gently guiding his attention back to the screen as you move at a snail's pace with your first stroke up and down his length. 

“Watch the game Reid. And tell me when you’re about to come, if you don’t I’m not going to be happy.” You whisper as you let go of his face. Watching the way his throat bobs as he nods. “I’d like you to tell me what you’re going to do.” You settle your hand back at the base of his cock, unmoving as he lets out a whine. 

“I’m going to watch the game and tell you before I come.”

You make a tsking sound at him, tightening your grip just enough to be noticeable. 

“Not before you come, when you’re about to.”

“What’s the difference?” His voice edges towards a whine as you slide your hand up his length, letting your thumb brush up against the pretty pink tip of his cock. 

“You tell me when it’s about to happen, that doesn’t mean it’s going to. Before implies an after, there isn’t going to be an after because you aren’t going to come until I give you permission.” He gives you a skeptical look the entire time you speak, there’s a moment of silence before he opens his mouth. 

“But what if I-” You swipe your thumb over his tip, and then trace a little circle over it as his words turn into a whimper. 

“You aren’t going to come until I give you permission.” You repeat yourself, still in a whisper. 

And he fucking pouts. 

Bottom lip jutting forward, brows furrowed and wide eyes filled with a dramatic sadness. 

Poor Spencer.

You’re a little embarrassed at how wet you are. Thank god you don’t have a penis that would give you away every time he does something stupid that arouses you. 

“Don’t you want to make me feel good?” You match his pout, batting your eyelashes at him theatrically, his frown deepens as he nods. “Then you’re going to need to build up your stamina. We’ll both be happier that way.” 

“But-”

“No, but.” You shake your head, at him, faux pity coating your words. “You’re going to tell me, or I’m going to be very cross with you.” 

He nods as he continues to pout. 

You continue to move slowly, up and down the length of him, keeping your grip tight and controlled. It doesn’t take much to get him there, almost immediately his legs tremble, his fingers dig into your throw pillows. His cheeks are bright red as he takes a shaky breath. You drag the pad of your thumb in lazy circles against his leaking tip until he gasps. 

“I’m gonna-”

“No, you’re not.” You slide your hand down his shaft, tightly squeezing him around the base of his cock, still and firm.

His head falls back as he lets out a pathetic whine. His Adam's apple bobs up and down as he makes a pained sound. 

“Oh come on, Reid.” You can’t help it as you smirk at him as he continues staring at the ceiling. “You can’t already be whining, that’s only the first one.” 

“First?” He groans as he sits up straighter. “How many times do we have to do this?” You almost laugh at how frantic he sounds, instead you give him a knowing smile. 

“Until the game is done, silly.” He practically jumps out of his seat when you squeeze his cock again. 

“I can’t do that!” His voice hitches up, it’s the argumentative tone you’re used to from him. But instead of irritating you, it only serves to egg you on.

“You can, and you will.”

“We don’t even know how long this match will be, it could be hours!” His voice just gets higher and higher. 

You only shrug in response. 

He starts to sputter but stops, instead he scowls. 

“I could just do it myself if you won’t let me.” There’s that attitude you know all too well. 

“You won’t.”

“Why not?” He raises his eyebrows at you, pretty bold for someone whose cock is still in your hand. 

“Because you want to make me happy.” He opens his mouth but any response dies in his throat as he starts to chew on his lip, clearly thinking. “You want to make me happy, and you want to make me feel good. And you know that if you can control your dick for more than twenty seconds you might be able to feel really good. And you want me to feel really good, don’t you Reid?” With another gentle squeeze of his dick he’s putty in your hands.

“Yes-” He hisses as you trail a finger along the vein on the underside of his cock. “Yes, I- I want to make you feel really good.” He manages to stutter the words out as his dick twitches against your hand.   

“I thought so.” You nod, your expression is one of mock sympathy as you start to stroke him again, you don’t bother trying to get him to pay attention to the match. He can hardly keep his eyes open.

Luckily for him it doesn’t actually end up being that long of a game compared to the last one.

Over the course of an hour you bring him to that edge probably a dozen times, until his forehead is slick with sweat and he can barely longer speak. He simply whimpers and chews on his lip with his head thrown back, and like the good boy you knew he could be, he tells you each time he’s about to come. 

Not once does he beg you to let him finish. 

He really does want to please you. You’re reminded again and again that he’s perfect. 

You know it’s going to end in a forfeit when he manages to pay attention long enough to look over the board and sigh in relief. Not even ten minutes later one of the men knocks his king over and Spencer’s practically in tears at the sight. 

“You did so good.” You can’t help but smile, even if he can’t seem to stop his eyes from squeezing shut. 

“Mhmm.” He hums, quietly as you pick up the pace, the tip of his cock weeps, red and desperate for the release he’s earned.

“You know the best part about having to wait for it?” You rest your head on his shoulder once more, he’s sweating profusely but it doesn’t bother you one bit. 

“I- umm- no I don’t think- I-” His words come out half formed and slurred. 

“It feels so good when it finally happens.” He’s making a conscious effort not to finish in your hand as you continue to jerk him off, you’re actually impressed. He’s certainly earned his release. “I want you to come, Reid.” Halfway through your sentence his hand grips your wrist as his cock spasm against your palm, you continue to stroke him through his orgasm. 

His mouth falls open, lips wet and swollen from where he’s been chewing on them. You’re never going to be able to face your neighbors after thing, he’s so loud. Crying out as he repeats your name over and over again. 

You figured with how many times he’s come today he wouldn’t make too much of a mess. You thought wrong, his stomach is covered in his release as you rest your hand on his thigh. You give him a coy smile as he struggles to catch his breath. While he’s still out of it you hop up off the couch, quickly making your way to the kitchen to get him some paper towels and a glass of water. When you return his cheeks are flushed, and he’s staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

There’s too much behind those eyes. Too much beyond lust, an appreciation, a devotion. 

That’s what you wanted? Isn’t it? You wanted someone devoted to you without any string attached. You wanted someone who liked to have fun, someone who would enjoy it as much as you do. And that’s all this is.

You shake off the thought, focusing on the mess he’s made instead.  

He protests when you start to clean him up but you just shush him. Wiping up the mess and handing him the glass. He eagerly gulps it down in between hitched breaths. He pulls his pants up as you turn the television off. 

“Ready for bed?” You’re still smiling broadly as you say it.

And he returns your smile tenfold. You’ve never seen someone so happy because of an orgasm. 

He follows you to the bedroom, you flick the lights off in the apartment. When he joins you in your bed he lays beside you, resting his head on your chest. 

It’s the kind of thing that’s too intimate for what this is. Too personal. But you don’t have the heart to tell him that, not when he wraps his arms around you so tightly. Not when he did such a good job.

You feel… weird. 

Obviously you feel good, that was unbelievably hot. And he feels good, you nearly put him to sleep. His chest rises and falls slowly beside you, if he isn’t already asleep he’s about to be. You just feel weird. There’s an unfamiliar fluttering in your chest.  

“You’re right.” He mumbles against you. 

“About?” You whisper back to him, you can’t stop yourself from tangling your fingers in his hair, without thinking about it you lightly scratch his scalp.  

“About having to wait for it.” His voice sounds a thousand miles away when he says it, it’s the same tone he uses when you’ve been at a case for days and he finally finds some missing piece. He sounds so far away, it makes whatever is happening in your chest stir. Like you’ve got a bunch of butterflies loose in your ribcage. “It really does feel so good when it finally happens.”

  ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

i don't have a tag list but you can follow @holymolynotifications for updates!!

Spencer's hand in yours is warm, warmer than it should be considering the cool breeze that hits as you walk out of the metro station. A rush of giddiness rolls over you, scrutinizing the domestic comfort of this moment.

Four months of whispered affirmations and nights holed up in either of your apartments have led you to feeling more in love with him than you thought was possible. Even just contemplating it brings a rush of blood to your face, forcing you to huddle closer to him, leaning your cheek against the puffy exterior of his coat. 

Without looking, you can feel his shoulders shake in silent laughter, your mind conjuring the image of his lips pressed together, suppressing the giggles you know are threatening to burst out of him. 

“Cold?” The amusement bubbles up in his tone, and you both know that your uncharacteristically shy demeanour has nothing to do with the temperature. His hand comes up to rub at your shoulder comfortingly. He’s awful.

“I hate dating profilers.” Despite your words, your mouth twitches up into a smile.

“Well, I love dating a profiler. And as a profiler, I can tell you do too.” A mock-exasperated sigh leaves your mouth at his words, but you make no move to part from him.

It’s only when the imposing Quantico buildings come into view that you finally step away from him, hand slipping out of his. His lips quirk up as he eyes you. 

“You think they’d be suspicious, us showing up in the elevator at the same time every day.” 

“Don’t jinx it! We’re lucky they haven’t been insinuating themselves into every part of our lives yet.” You step into the elevator, leaning against the wall and staring him down.

“Hey, if they figure it out, did you know it’s statistically more likely that it’ll be because of you? You touch my shoulder on average 17 times a day. Even when we’re on a case.”

“Oh, don’t start. How many times did you almost call me ‘angel’ yesterday? I can’t believe Hotch hasn’t noticed, especially that one time in his office.” It’s gratifying to see the apples of his cheeks redden with embarrassment. 

Stepping into the bullpen, you step away from him, striding to your desk and calling out greetings.

“Morning, guys. What’s that?” 

Emily and Derek are huddled over Garcia, who’s sitting in Derek’s desk chair with a magazine in hand. 

“Well, sweetheart, someone’s missing their monthly Teen Vogue, it’s accidentally been delivered here instead. We’re just catching up on what the young female populace is doing these days.” Garcia answers absentmindedly, their eyes all fixed on the glossy pages.

“Teen Vogue? Need I remind you, we’re in the FBI. Surely you’ve got work to do.” You stare pointedly at the stacks of paperwork piling up on Emily and Derek’s desks.

“If you must know, this is research, kid. How are we supposed to do our jobs if we don’t know the interests of such a huge potential victim pool?” Derek croons over to you, voice sugary-sweet.

Garcia calls out to you. “Did you know that, apparently, even unconsciously, if a person is in love, they will always demonstrate the 5 love languages to whoever they’re into?”

She holds up the magazine, open to a glossy blue page with ‘LOVE LANGUAGES’ etched on it in swirly handwriting.

You can see Spencer tilt his head at his desk, and beat him to the punch. 

“Are you sure that’s true, Penny? Doesn’t seem very statistically sound.”

“There’s actually been very little scientific research done into the concept of love languages as they’re considered colloquially, and what little there is really doesn’t support it as an actual concept that strengthens relationships.” Spencer chimes in, swivelling back and forth in his desk chair as he muses. 

Emily chuckles, wisely retreating to her desk as Penelope and Derek begin to puff up like irritated cats. 

“Yeah? And what would you know about that, pretty boy? Had some experience lately?” 

It’s clearly meant in a joking way, no real accusation behind it, but Spencer’s eyes widen just a fraction. Enough to bring their attention to it. Enough to get them to pounce. 

You shake your head softly, turning to your desk as Derek and Penelope descend on him, peppered questions being met with resolute silence (and occasional sputtering).

It’s a solid 30 minutes before the two of them let up on Spencer, and that’s only because JJ sweeps through with a case for the team. As you all file into the briefing room, it’s clear Penelope and Derek are still scrutinizing Spencer from across the round table. 

As JJ explains the details of the case, you can’t help but smile at the sight of Spencer patting his reddened cheeks, trying to come down from the mortification and stress of fending off the others. 

In a lull in conversation, you rise from your seat, crossing the room to the pot of coffee sitting under the window. Snatching up two distinctive mugs, you set about pouring coffee, adding copious amounts of sugar into one and considerably less into another, as you muse aloud about the case. 

“Sounds like the victimology is pretty clear. Young men in their 20s, all successful academics who have relatively small social circles,” With the two mugs in hand, you return to the table, setting the FBI logo-emblazoned one in front of Spencer with a discreet brush of your knuckles to his shoulder. 

He looks up with a soft smile, nudging his shoulder back into you, mouthing thank you.

“Should help us narrow down who would’ve interacted with them all.” You finish, settling down in your seat in between Rossi and Emily. 

Hotch nods. 

“The local PD’s already got a few people of interest in mind, but they’re holding off on questioning until we arrive. Garcia, you’re coming with us, the victims’ tech is proving difficult for the local experts to get into. Hopefully this will be a quick one. Wheels up in 30.”

There are multiple decisive nods around the table, most of you standing to grab your go-bags.

Notably, Penelope and Derek stay behind, watching you leave the room with unreadable expressions on their faces. 

If you’d stayed, you might have caught her pulling a glossy, torn-out piece of paper out of Derek’s pocket, crossing off a phrase.

The police department you find yourselves in is more sparse than you’d expected. The police force spread thin, there are only a few officers still in the building. The setting sun filters through the blinds, casting a warm glow over the conference room. 

“...So, we’ll spend this evening going through the details, and I’m confident we’ll have a profile by tomorrow morning. Based on that, we can see whether any of your suspects fit.”

Hotch’s no-nonsense voice cuts through the light chatter in the room, and the local captain nods. The two superiors walk out of the room to the captain’s office, leaving you with the rest of your team and a local officer. 

Nodding politely at the officer, you walk over to the large table, digging into the copious boxes of evidence stacked on the table and murmuring your initial thoughts to Emily. 

“The victims were all part of the city’s chess league, save for the second one. That seems significant.”

Before she gets the chance to reply, a brutish officer in uniform butts in, shouldering past Emily to take the seat next to you. 

“So, you guys get a lot of these murder cases, huh? This is pretty huge for us, but I guess it’s everyday for you.”

There’s a glint of morbid curiosity in his eye, leaning into your space as he waits for your answer. 

“Um, yes, we’re assigned to murder cases from time to time. But we also consult on all sorts of crimes, like—”

He waves a hand in the air, as if dismissing your statement.

“Yeah, uh-huh. What’s the craziest murder you’ve seen? You know, the real gory ones.”

He’s scooted closer to you now, his face lit up with excitement. Out of the corner of your eye you can see Spencer start towards you, but you’d rather shut this down yourself.

“I mean, yes, we do see quite a bit of violent crime. But the aim of our unit is to shut it down, not sensationalize it. So, we kind of need all of our attention on this case right now. You understand, right?” You try not to, but a hint of exasperation creeps into your tone.

A flash of irritation sparks in his eyes, but the officer backs down, rising out of the seat and tossing a half-hearted agreement at you. 

You sigh as he leaves the room, and Spencer makes his way over to you with a wry smile. 

“I’m glad you dealt with him, I wouldn’t be able to do it as quickly. You’re always so good at dealing with people like that, ang—” He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes darting around the room nervously. 

Holding in a laugh at his slip up, you nudge his foot under the table.

“Thanks, Spencer. I appreciate that.”

After he not-so-discreetly attempts to see if anyone noticed his failure to maintain the facade, the two of you settle in to the casework.

Notably, Derek only gets to work after holding a hushed conversation with Penelope at her laptop.

Presenting a profile is always exhausting, but doing it first thing in the morning after basically pulling an all-nighter is worse.

You stand in front of the gathered crowd alongside the team, alternating with explaining different aspects of the profile. Once you’re done waxing poetic about the presumed trigger that set off the string of murders, you get to sit back and let Derek do the last bit (thank god).

Leaning against the edge of the desk behind you, you put a lot of effort into looking stoic and professional, hoping the gathered agents and officers can’t see the exhaustion oozing out of you. Although it seems an eternity, it’s probably another five minutes of talking until they’re dismissed, and the team gathers in the conference room. 

Hotch looks surprisingly alert, standing at the head of the table and gesturing to different points of interest on the map mounted on the wall. His voice drones on, your drowsy ears registering each sentence a few seconds after. 

“Prentiss and Rossi, you two stay here and question the suspects that the uniforms are bringing in. There’s probably nothing to it, but give it a try anyway.” 

Resting your hip against the table, you stare bleary-eyed at the various faces tacked on to the whiteboard. Despite the coffee in your hands slowly bringing you back to life, you can’t help but muffle a yawn, your upper body swaying with the force of it. 

“Morgan, JJ, you go down to the local news station, see if the tips they’re receiving are actually any good. One of their reporters has been into the PD every day asking for updates. Find out if it’s anything more than journalistic curiosity.”

Spencer steps up next to you, nudging your shoulder with his. Without saying anything, his eyes lull you into a sense of ease. Looking around to see that everyone’s staring at Hotch, you can’t help but lean into him slightly, the lines of your upper arms melding together until your bodies press against each other pleasantly. 

 A soft sigh leaves his lips, and you’re inclined to agree with him. Just this level of touch has you melting, the tension in your body slowly seeping out of your bones. 

“L/N and I are going to meet with the families of the first and second victims. Reid and Garcia, go to the workplace of the latest victim. His computer system needs your expertise, Garcia, and Reid, you take the time to interview his coworkers about his behaviour before the murder.”

Hotch looks around for everyone’s assent, then nods once more, dismissing everyone to their tasks. 

You and Spencer make sure to part from each other quickly, hoping to evade suspicion. Flashing him a smile, you brush past him, catching his pinky with yours for a split second before you follow Hotch out the door. 

Spencer is left in the conference room, brushing his thumb over his pinky with an absentminded smile, oblivious to the shit-eating grin that’s found itself on Penelope’s face. 

Spencer and Penelope are the last to get back from their assignment, the rest of you gathered in the PD before the sun begins to set. Derek’s sitting at the display along the wall, currently showing the live feed of the suspect in the interrogation room along with Hotch. 

The case is shaping up to be a relatively short one, so if the interrogation goes well, you might be able to spend the night at Spencer’s.

Rossi’s voice joins the soft haze of conversation, and you finally snap out of your head in time to hear the tail end of his statement. 

“...Hotch is pretty sure that Reid will be able to crack him. He’s putting on airs, the only way we'll get him to confess is if he doesn’t perceive any threats to his ego.”

Emily nods from her seat beside you, chiming in. 

“They’ve been gone for a while, has Garcia called?”

JJ grins softly, unlocking her phone to display a message full of angry emojis and very little text. 

“I’m assuming something held them up, but she says they’ll be here pretty soon.”

The room falls into an amiable silence, all of you alternating between getting a headstart on your reports of the case and watching Hotch glare at the suspect. Emily lets out multiple heavy sighs, the the last two days catching up to all of you.

It’s probably another fifteen minutes until Spencer and Penelope finally burst through the doors, the latter looking very huffy.

Rossi throws his hands up in mock exasperation, questioning the pair.

“About time you showed up! What took so long?”

Penelope groans, rolling her eyes and plunking herself down into a chair. 

“I was ready to be here a while ago, but Boy Genius over here felt the urge to browse multiple novelty stores, for god knows what reason, before he deigned to let us come back!”

Her cheeks are flushed, and Derek and JJ quickly devolve into poking fun at her vexation. Rossi quickly stands, grabbing Spencer by the shoulders in preparation to steer him into the interrogation room. However, Spencer slips out of his grasp with a lithe finger held in the air. 

Apologies on the tip of his tongue, he paces across the room to where you’re sitting, hand delving into his pants pocket and emerging with a small object wrapped in brown paper. He comes to a stop next to your chair, bending over your shoulder to snatch up a folder from the desk (one that you know has nothing to do with the interrogation he’s about to perform). As he does so, he takes the opportunity to slip whatever it is into your palm. 

Straightening up with the folder in hand, he moves back over to Rossi as if nothing happened. 

Turning the small, solid object over in your hand, you watch the two of them leave the room with a soft smile on your face. You have an idea what might be in your possession. 

The first time Spencer stayed at your apartment, he’d taken a particular liking to the collection of souvenir shot glasses that you had on your mantelpiece. Once you explained your goal of buying one in every city where you’ve had a case, he’s taken it upon himself to help you. 

Just as you’d suspected, when you sneak a glance at what he's given you under the table, a tiny shot glass with a cartoon cat stares back up at you. 

A rush of affection runs through you, slipping the glass into your bag as you attempt to hold in a smile. 

Among the many sounds currently coming from the frustrated Penelope, one seems to be less angry, and more triumphant.

Thank goodness, Spencer gets through to the suspect in an hour, extracting a confession that will more than nail the suspect in court. Because of that, the entire team now finds themselves on the jet once more, in various states of sleepiness. 

Rossi is knocked out, head leaned against the wall, mouth agape. Hotch is similarly asleep, with JJ and Emily across from him, sharing wired earphones as they both try and get some shuteye. 

Derek and Penelope are sitting on the couch, leaving you and Spencer to claim the table. 

You’re not complaining, not when Spencer’s foot is pressing against yours from the seat across from you, and you can use the excuse of taunting him about the chessboard to hear his melodic voice float over to you.

“What was it Gideon always told you? I don’t think you’re exactly thinking outside the box right now, Spence.”

His eyes dance as he looks up at you, hand hovering over the board. 

“You think so? I think I’ll be done with you in 5 more moves,”

A glint of cockiness reflects in his irises, forcing you to shift in your seat, cheeks flushing. 

The two of you quickly duck your heads though, both of you sucked into the game. 

Low voices murmur compliments and jabs, and his ankle hooks around yours before long, sending a tremor of fondness through your body. 

You’re so focused on the game and Spencer, that you don’t notice how Derek and Penelope have fallen silent. It’s only when Derek scoffs loudly that either of you acknowledge them. Shooting you a look loaded with meaning, he gestures to the kitchenette on the other side of the cabin, motioning for you to follow him there. 

With a confused glance at Spencer, you rise from your seat and trail after Derek, watching Penelope slide into your vacated seat with a determined look on her face. 

Turning to Derek, you’re met with teasing eyes, his eyebrows waggling as he looks at you, arms crossed over his chest. 

“What’s up, Morgan?”

He chuckles, the sound coming from low in his chest as he stares you down.

“Sweetheart, you’re not exactly being subtle.”

A silence follows, as you try and discern what he means. Seemingly getting sick of it, he sighs, launching into speech again.

“If you haven’t noticed, you’ve been acting mighty close to Spencer recently, don’t you think? Making him coffee, playing chess, nearly falling asleep on him. You know what that sounds like to me? A crush.”

He brandishes his phone, the grainy screen showing a familiar blue page. The list of love languages has been marked up, each item crossed out and scrawled handwriting marring the image. 

Barely hiding your disbelief, you stop peering at the phone to stare up at Derek instead.

“You’re bringing up Teen Vogue again? What is this supposed to mean?”

He laughs at your incredulity, slinging an arm around your shoulder to tug you into his side, his other hand coming up to ruffle your hair. 

“Fine, fine, you don’t have to say anything. But I’ll help, sweetheart. If you need to convince the kid to man up and ask you out, I’ve got some strategies.”

You can’t stifle a giggle, not when you look over your shoulder to see Spencer with a harried look on his face, trying to listen to Penelope’s frenzied chatter (she’s louder than she thinks she is, you can hear her say get some flowers, and just ask her!). 

the behavioural analysis unit are not easy to fool, but you did it, somehow.

for the last six months, you've been living as a fugitive. a wanted woman whom the FBI refuses to give up on until you are behind bars. you're an outlaw, a villain, a murderer. and you are the last person that spencer reid wants anything to do with.

but you want everything to do with him, and so you have drafted a proposal which he cannot refuse: a country-wide wild goose chase, with the promise of a chance to put you away for good. and who doesn't love a good old game of cat and mouse?

⊱⋅.⋆♱ meet unsub!reader here !

⤷ ゛notes ! ˎˊ˗

composed of a series of oneshots; vignettes from various stages of spencer's relationship with unsub!reader ranging from their first meeting to their final (?) goodbye.

the timeline begins in december of 2009, placing it somewhere mid-season 5 after the events of episode 100. this is jesus reid propaganda. however, the bulk of these posts will be set in late 2010 to mid-2011, so around the middle to end of season six.

𑣲 = fluff | ♰ = smut | ⛓ = angst | ݁ᛪ༙ = hurt/comfort

IN STARLIT NIGHTS, I SAW YOU | 𑣲 when the FBI's behavioural analysis unit set up their base of operations in your place of work, you have to keep calm and pretend that you are not the unsub they are so desperately searching for. you try to keep your head down, but that is a difficult task when a certain genius has taken an interest in you for reasons...unrelated to the investigation. (part one)

SO CRUELLY, YOU KISSED ME | 𑣲 the BAU’s resident genius cannot sleep due to a case weighing heavy on his shoulders, so you offer to lend an ear. he seems to believe that the key to solving this case is right in front of him…but he doesn't mean that literally, right? (part two)

GIRL OF YOUR DREAMS | ♰ after fumbling a case in amherst, massachusetts, spencer reid cannot sleep. he is plagued with dreams of the unsub who slipped through his fingers and, as the months pass, it becomes evident that what spencer is feeling goes far beyond simple hatred.

GALATIANS 5:19-21 | ♰ you finally convince spencer reid to meet with you in person with the promise of information on a prolific unsub. but standing face-to-face awakens a violent storm of long-suppressed emotions, and marks the beginning of a love affair that will ruin the both of you, permanently.

I WON'T MISS YOU | ♰ spencer receives a note in the mail inviting him to a valentine's day rendezvous at an outrageously expensive hotel. he is decidedly not going; he wants nothing to do with you and your games, not today. and yet, somehow, he finds himself standing at the door of your hotel suite anyway.

THE GIRLFRIEND PARADOX | 𑣲 when spencer seems more distracted than usual, the team conclude that he must be hiding a girlfriend. they try to get him to crack, not knowing that the reality of his situation is far worse than your typical secret relationship.

"LATE NIGHT?" "VERY." | 𑣲 waking up in the arms of the FBI agent who is supposed to be hunting you is not how you were intending to start your week. you could quite happily stay here all day, but duty calls, and spencer reid is now late for work.

SLEEP WITH ONE EYE OPEN | ♰ spencer reid wakes up to an unexpected guest all up in his business.

SCHADENFREUDE | ♰ interrupting spencer's sleep by asking for sex takes a turn when he gives you exactly what you want in the worst (best) ways possible.

...and more to come !

extras

⊱ moodboards | 1 | 2

⊱ does reader love spencer?

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

Between the ages of sixteen and twenty, 50% of Americans lose their virginity. 

By the age of twenty-two it’s 90% of Americans.

If you haven’t lost your virginity by thirty, the likelihood that you ever will falls off dramatically. 

At twenty-five Spencer isn’t feeling too great about those odds. With every year that passes he can feel the agonizing tick of the proverbial clock. 

He keeps waiting for it to stop. Eventually the clock has to stop ticking, right? 

He’s a literal genius after all. (Of course there isn’t actually a medical definition or anything like that but at this point they might as well just put a photo of him under the word in every dictionary.) He should be able to solve this problem just like any other. 

Yet he can’t.

God, and he was so close. Elle would have let him, he was sure of it.

She was way out of his league, but who wasn’t? He had been laying the groundwork, he was going to ask her on a date, she was always so serious and understanding, she was the perfect choice. They would go on a few dates, he would lose his virginity to someone who understood him and then they could go back to being friends.

And he would finally be free from this torment. 

That wasn’t the case of course, thanks to you. 

He loathed you for that. Even if it was his own damn fault for never asking her out, he’s sure if he’d had more time he would have gotten there… eventually.

Logically he understood why it happened, and that you had no control over it, but subconsciously he still blamed you. One day Elle was gone and instead you were there. Pretty and unattainable, a painful reminder of his still intact virginity. At least he felt like he stood a chance with Elle, she liked him as a person, whether she was attracted to him or not, she was kind to him. You were something else entirely. You were unapologetic and loud in every sense of the word. You were constant. And impatient, and unpredictable. It made him miss her. 

You were nothing like Elle, you made yourself impossible to ignore. 

You wore your hair up in a different way everyday, always something big and flowy that bounced with your every move. Your nails were always too long, the polish was always multicolored and catching his eye whenever he was trying to get his work done. And all of your outfits barely stayed within the office dress codes. You served as a bright, sparkling, constantly giggling reminder of what could have been.

Worst of all, no one else had a problem with you. No one else seemed to understand that you were a succubus sent undercover to the BAU, designed to make his life miserable. 

When Gideon retired he was left completely alone. Emily Prentiss stepped in and of course you buddied right up to her. And because you seemingly couldn’t stand him, neither could she. In the blink of an eye the team he had come to know and love was gone, now he felt like he was back in high school, surrounded by mean girls. Except this was worse than high school, because here he had to be involved in every conversation. Whether it was the bullpen, or the conference table, or the jet, he was stuck sitting and listening to every word. And sure, maybe he’s extra sensitive at this point but seemingly, all anyone talks about anymore is sex.  

The second Hotch dismisses the group or leaves the room Derek starts talking about his weekend with “a blonde goddess.” or “a redhead goddess.” or “a brunette goddess.” 

Emily had a seemingly endless supply of girlfriends and boyfriends in her rotation, something that Spencer found to be extremely unfair. 

J.J. and Penelope never shared explicit details but they made enough suggestive comments to make it clear that they were just as busy. 

Even strict, stoic Hotch was rubbing it in his face every Thursday when he rushed out of the office early, he’d never admit it but the whole team knew Thursday was the day he scheduled his “date nights” with Haley. 

But none of that held a candle to you. 

They called you maneater. 

And your stories were so… animated. 

Morgan, Emily, Penelope, and J.J. would gather around your desk on Monday mornings, you rolled your eyes back, parting your lips as you would sigh dramatically before recounting your tales from the weekends. 

You reveled in the laughter of your peers, it sustained your bright, bubbly demeanor. From what he observed you adored positive attention, and it didn’t matter what you had to do to get it. He had pointed that out once during a rather heated argument, it was one of the only times he was truly worried you might hit him. 

Mondays were always torture. 

You were explicit enough to get him worked up and vague enough to leave him wondering, he wouldn’t dare ask follow up questions like the rest of the team. 

He wasn’t a part of the conversation. He was just the guy stuck in your desk clump. 

You mentioned men who were tall, and strong, with pretty hair and striking eyes. You would lean back in your chair, making lewd comparisons to coke cans, garden hoses and beer bottles. Biting your lip and letting out ridiculous faux moans, your tongue poking out between your teeth whenever you laughed. 

He hardly got anything done on Mondays. 

At least not until he got home, with his pants pooled around his ankles the second he stepped into his living room. He could always think clearer after relieving himself. The problem was that you would still be there when he gets to work in the morning and he risks it happening all over again. 

Sometimes he wished you’d just sink your claws into him. Devouring him like all your other prey, putting him out of his misery. But that wasn’t going to happen so instead he was stuck, all alone. 

Marooned on a sexless island.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

“It’s basically a sex island. That’s like it’s only purpose.” Morgan’s voice is ringing in your ears as he continues to brag about his plans for the long weekend ahead. 

Another one of Hotch’s mandatory vacations. 

After Gideon retired he got so scared of the team burning out he made some changes to the schedule. Every three months you’re faced with what is essentially your only break from the relentless call of your chosen career. A long weekend, sometimes even a full week where you’re forced away from work. 

“Are you absolutely sure I can’t convince you to come? My offer still stands.” His smile is as bright as the fucking sun. You can’t be trusted around that smile, especially on a sex island.

“As much as I would love to join you on your sexcapades I can’t. My landlord’s doing some stupid construction thing at my apartment and I have a thing about people being in my space when I’m not around.” You really would love to go, you’re going through a painfully long dry spell and if you don’t get laid soon you’re seriously worried your virginity might grow back. 

“Your loss.” He gives you a theatrical wave goodbye before he turns off his monitor as he leaves. 

It really is your loss, you helped Garcia pick out a few new swimsuits for this particular trip and you’d give anything to lay back on the beach and see Derek’s reaction to some of the tiny bikinis she bought. 

“I’m surprised you aren’t going with him, that sort of thing seems right up your alley.” Spencer is mumbling from his desk, he’s always mumbling from his desk. He never speaks plainly, he wants to make snarky comments because he just can’t help himself, but he doesn’t want to deal with the conflict afterwards. 

How does anyone here tolerate him?

“Are you saying that sexcapades are right up my alley?” You say it loud enough for him to immediately start looking around to make sure no one overheard. He might not like conflict, but you do. 

“Are you worried they might find something in your apartment? Do you think they’d go through your stuff while you’re not home?” Typical of Spencer fucking Reid to not only change the subject immediately, but also pick at you anxieties to try and get the upperhand.

“It’s normal to be worried about that kind of thing. I know it might be hard for you to understand that since you’ve never been able to get someone to come over to your apartment.” He sets down whatever it was he was working on as he looks up at you as you speak, that stupid look of mock concern on his face. 

“Would you even notice if someone went through your drawers? If I were you I’d try and memorize where everything is so you’ll know if something goes missing.” He looks so smug, he always does halfway into these conversations, then you deliver the killing blow and he shuts right up. 

“Unfortunately I don’t have that big brain of yours, maybe you could come over and put that eidetic memory to good use. If you help make sure all my panties are in the right place I might just let you take a pair home.” He makes it too easy. Just like that, his mouth snaps shut and he puts his head down. 

“You’re disgusting.” Right back to mumbling Spencer. 

“I’m sure you’d be more than willing to accept that offer. Especially considering that you haven’t gotten any action since Lila Archer.” 

“You weren’t even here for that, why are you always bringing that up?” He whines, he’s so fucking predictable. 

“Because you always get red in the face when I do.”

He doesn’t bother responding, he never does when he gets all flustered like that. You have a theory that it short circuits his brain if he thinks about sex for too long, so you make a deliberate effort to talk about it as often as you can. 

Even after a weekend spent alone in your bed you make sure to make up some rowdy story about how you raised hell.

You have to take out your frustrations somewhere and he makes himself such an easy target. He’s always there, wherever you are. You know it’s a part of the job, with you in forensics and him being… well a walking encyclopedia, you’re often left alone to work in whatever conference room you’re shoved into by the local police while the rest of the team’s out in the field. 

Derek likes to say that the two of you are ornamental members of the team. Too pretty to be in the field, so you have to be tucked away somewhere safe. 

You usually respond to that by punching him in the arm, hard enough to remind him that you went through the same training he did. 

You tried to be nice to Spencer when you started, you really did. You offered to bring him coffee, you engaged in his interests, you played chess with him even though no one else would because he always won. 

But he was still a brat. 

It’s an odd word to use to describe a grown man but that’s exactly what Spencer is. He’s a brat, he pouts, he whines when he doesn’t get his way, and he runs to Hotch every time he has a problem with you.

So you don’t feel too bad about teasing him. 

You spend the next two hours ignoring him as you transfer the last of your case notes over to the digital files. You aren’t in a rush to finish your work, your weekend plans can wait. 

“Are you still going to Betty’s tonight?” Emily sidles up to your desk, her bag’s slung over her shoulder, she’s probably on her way to the airport, is it six thirty already?

“Unless a guy offers to take me home in the parking lot then I think so.” 

“Have a drink for me, the wellness retreat my mother booked doesn’t serve any alcohol.”

“It’s a wellness retreat, did you think they were going to?” You can’t help but laugh as you spin your chair to face her.

“She told me it was a vacation, vacations have booze.”

“Yikes.”

“So, what’s the game plan tonight, maneater?” She leans in like you’re sharing a secret, as if there’s anyone left in the bull pen but the two of you and Spencer.

“I’m thinking heels, jeans, and the tightest shirt I can find.” That’s always been your go to and it hasn’t failed you yet.

“Now you’re making me want to stay.” She tilts her head to the side, brushing her bangs to the side. 

“You know the black one that’s cut down to here?” You motion towards your chest, she was with you when she bought it so she knows just how low it is.

She throws her head back as she groans. 

“I’m gonna miss the debut of the perfect tits top?” It’s a good thing everyone’s gone home because she is loud. 

“Paired with the perfect tits red push up bra. I’m still trying to figure out if I want to do my makeup like-.” 

Your sentence is abruptly cut off when he clears his throat. 

You turn to glare at him but he isn’t looking at you.

“Well, you better get out of here before the fun police start reciting the HR policy. Tell your mom I said hi.” You stand up to hug her, planting a kiss on her cheek and wishing her well as she disappears out the elevator, leaving you alone with your favorite coworker.

“I should start reciting the HR policy, it isn’t appropriate to talk like that in the bullpen.” You should install a microphone on his desk with the way that he mumbles everything.

“Oh no, I didn’t realize, should we ask everyone if they were offended by my comments?” You gesture around the empty bull pen. 

“Extremely inappropriate.” He mumbles to himself, returning his focus to the report he’s been filling out for the last hour. 

You spend more time with Spencer then anyone else on the team, at least during work hours. Thanks to your chosen field of expertise, you’ve begged Hotch to move your desk somewhere else but he says you’ll be a distraction if he puts you with Emily or Morgan. Like you’re a rowdy student in class who has to sit next to the teacher's pet so he can keep an eye on you. 

“You know Hotch wants us out of here by seven at the latest.” He manages to speak clearly this time. 

“I’m aware.”

“It’s six forty five, we should get going.” He turns his monitor off, closing the file in front of him.

“I’m almost done.” You need to look over everything you just filled out, it shouldn’t take more than five minutes. 

“Hotch is really serious about these breaks, burn out effects over fifty percent of the American work force, it often results in-”

“Are you gonna tell on me if I don’t?”

“I won’t have to, Hotch will see your timecard on Monday.”

“If I’m being honest, I don’t really want to deal with an elevator ride with you. I’ve been waiting for you to leave so I can go home.” You give him a tight lipped irritated smile as he shoves his book into his satchel. 

He turns on his heel, knuckles white as he clutches the strap of his bag. 

“Have a good weekend.” You call over your shoulder in a sickly sweet tone. 

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

You’re the devil. 

You must know what you do to him, otherwise why would you do it? You know how cruel it is, that’s the only explanation. 

He tried to take care of it at home. Picturing your tits in a push up bra, wrapped in tight black fabric with your cleavage pouring out. He didn’t even get past unbuttoning his pants before he came, whining as he ruined another pair of boxers. 

And it wasn’t enough. 

He has an eidetic memory, he remembers every lowcut, flowy shirt you’ve ever worn. He’s carefully filed away every slip of your bra strap, every time you’ve ever worn a hoodie without a bra on the jet ride home. He has it all tucked away for later use in the seemingly infinite expanse of his mental library. But you’d never wear what you were describing to work, even if you don’t always act like it, you do have your limits. You maintain a very precarious sense of professionalism.

You put the thought of this mysterious black blouse into his mind and now he can’t think about anything else. 

Opening his laptop he throws himself onto his bed, shoving his pants the rest of the way down and unbuttoning his shirt before kicking both onto the floor. He stares at the search bar, sifting through his brain in an attempt to recall the stores you mentioned going to with Emily. 

He opens up the directory of the mall you typically frequent, scrolling through the store list, clicking open all the generic clothing stores. 

Old Navy, Kohls, JCPenny. 

He sorts through the filter bar, clicking the options available in your size in black. 

If his dick wasn’t so painfully hard right now he’d probably feel like a creep right now, but he’s done worse. 

He scrolls, imagining you in each top, how the fabric would cling to your body, how each neckline would hug your clavicle… With a groan he slams the laptop shut. 

This isn’t working.

The models in the pictures don’t look like you, they don’t do anything for him. He needs to see it. 

All he needs is one look, then he’ll remember it forever.

His mind wanders to the top you wore today. 

A loose fitting maroon button up, it didn’t cling to you, instead it flowed seamlessly with your every move. Teasing him with the thought of what might be underneath. You always left too many buttons undone, today it was three. Three was enough for the fabric to slip down one of your shoulders a few times, showing off a thick dark green bra strap. 

His cock is demanding his attention now. 

With a sigh he reaches across his bed to his nightstand, using muscle memory to yank the drawer open, grabbing the bottle of lube without so much as a glance in that direction. 

Popping the cap open he coats his palm before tossing the bottle back in the drawer, hissing as the cold liquid hits his skin as his fingers wrap around the base of his cock.

He pictures you in your maroon top and only that top, opening the door of your apartment to let him in. You’d give him that harsh, thin lipped, mean smile, you were always so mean to him. 

“Ah-” He lets out a small whine, his hips rocking up and off the mattress. 

You would call him gross, and disgusting, and he wouldn’t object like he usually does. He is, he’s abhorrent, you deserve to say all of that and more. 

His grip tightens as he picks up the pace, he never lasts that long anyway so why bother trying to take it slow. 

You would bring him into your room, he’s never seen the inside of your apartment but he has ideas of what it might look like. Based on your descriptions it’s some kind of cave of debauchery. But that’s not his focus right now.

You would bat your eyelashes at him like you do when you’re trying to get a reaction out of him.. 

“I might just let you take a pair home.”

Your voice rings out clear as day in his mind. Who cares if you were trying to be mean when you said it? In his mind, now, he can use his unyielding ability to recall things to use your words for whatever he wants. 

He knows what pair he’d want if your offer was anything more than a sick joke. You’ve got a pair of pink panties that he’d kill to have.

They're your favorites, he’s sure of it. You wear them on Monday’s, your laundry day is Sunday so everything’s clean Sunday night, when you’ve got everything available you always choose the simple pink pair. Even if he doesn’t get much work done thanks to you on Monday’s he’s still got enough brain function to keep an eye out for them. They aren’t lace or anything fancy, as far as he can tell they’re just cotton. They sit higher than your others, if he’s lucky you’ll walk in on Monday morning in a shirt that doesn’t fully cover your waist line and he’ll get a little glimpse. 

One time, while you were on a case in California you tried to reach for something on the top shelf in the file room. You never asked him for help, even when he could reach it easily. 

You were wearing a tank top that rode up and he got a clear view of your navel and the sweetest surprise ever when he learned that your pink pair of panties have a little bow on the front, resting just below your belly button. 

In his fantasy you lay back on your bed, pulling your shirt up so he can see the pink fabric and the little bow. Wrapped up like a pretty present. His teeth dig into his bottom lip as he tries to stifle the groan that’s building in his throat.

Those manicured nails, every nail a different color, drag across the front of your blouse, pulling open another button, and another, and another. 

His dick twitches in his hand, before he can get any further into his fantasy the muscles in his thighs spasm and his grip tightens as his hips jerk upwards one last time. 

He slurs out a mess of whimpers and something that almost sounds like your name as he comes.

It’s the only time he gets a break from the insistent demands of his brain. For once he isn’t trying to keep up with his own train of thought as his mind goes blank. 

Laying in his mess he takes a moment to catch his breath, using his clean hand to shove his hair out of his face. Trying not to feel as pathetic as he does after that. 

He doesn’t even get to touch you in his fantasies. 

He should see a therapist. 

Instead he opens his laptop again, looking up Betty’s bar. It’s a good hour and ten minutes away, all he has to do is glance over the map before he knows exactly how to get there. 

He shouldn’t have done that. 

Because now he knows how to get there, and he can’t forget it if he tries. 

He’s on auto pilot as he slides out of bed and into the bathroom, rinsing his hand off in the sink as he cleans his stomach with a washcloth. 

Normally after fucking his hand he feels better. All the traces of you typically wash off of him, leaving him to have a brief moment of respite where you do not plague his thoughts. 

Not this time though.

This time he feels even worse, knowing that somewhere out there, you’re wearing a top that reveals more of your chest then he’s seen. Unmapped territory waiting to be explored. 

The though has his body crossing the room, he puts on a clean pair of boxers and slacks. Before he knows it he’s tightening a tie and he’s fully dressed. 

And then he’s locking the door behind him.

And then he’s walking to his car.

And then he’s driving. 

He just couldn’t help himself. How would he ever forgive himself if he didn’t at least try and get a look at the ‘perfect tits top.’ He can go home once he sees you and harmlessly enjoy the memory in the safety of his own room. 

Easier said than done. 

Especially now that he’s here, self-loathing creeping in as he scans the crowd for you. He checks his watch, worrying that it might be too early, it’s only ten, what time are people normally out at bars?

He felt sleazy, and out of place. He had expected a dive bar would be the chosen hunting grounds of the prolific maneater. Instead he finds himself standing in a pretty classy establishment. 

Full of girls that are too pretty for him and guys that make him feel small. 

He’s about to leave, no harm done, he can go home and pretend this never happened while he still has a shred of his pride. He gives the room one last scan as he takes a step towards the exit.

And there you are. 

All alone, standing against the wall, doing your own search about the room.

“Perfect tits top” is an understatement. It should be called the “perfect hips, tits, shoulders, little bit of exposed midriff and he can almost see your nipples through that bra top.” 

Great, he’s seen it, he loves it, he wants to marry that top, he wants to burn all the clothes you own so you have to wear that top every day. Now he can go because he’s gotten exactly what he wanted to get out of this. 

But his legs don’t move. 

Probably because all the blood has rushed out of his brain and into his penis. 

He’s stuck in place, staring, and hoping that it’s dark enough in here for him to remain unnoticed. 

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

The bar is full and somehow there isn’t a single guy worth your time here. 

The curse of being a profiler is knowing immediately the type of people you’re dealing with. At one point you were approached by a rather handsome and well spoken blonde guy in his thirties. You were pretty sure you'd struck gold until an hour into your conversation when you saw the tan line on his ring finger and the small circular indent in his wallet as he paid for your drink.

You kindly excused yourself before trying to find some place far away from him. Eventually putting yourself against a wall so you can scan the crowd for your next mark. 

The glint of someone's glasses catches your eye in a painfully familiar way. The same little flicker of light you see in your peripherals on a daily basis. 

Surely not. There’s no reason for him to be here. You tell yourself not even entertain the possibility by looking but on instinct you seek out the source and of course, there he is. 

Even in a place like this he manages to suck the fun out of the air around him. He looks like he would on any other day in the office and it makes him stick out like a sore thumb. He’s out on the town, you think he could unbutton just one button on his shirt. He went home and changed, and he still chose to wear a short sleeve button up with a tie. 

You’re about to just get up and leave, there’s no reason to spend your day off dealing with his shitty attitude. There are plenty of other bars in town and it’ll be best to just get out of here before he sees you.

Except he has. It becomes extremely apparent that he’s staring at you, he doesn’t even try to hide it. 

Scratch that, he isn’t staring at you. He’s staring at your chest. 

If he just looked up ten inches he’d find himself making direct eye contact with you but you’re pretty sure a gun could go off in the bar right now and he still wouldn’t look away. 

This can’t be happening. 

He couldn’t be more obvious, standing twenty feet from you with his eyes wide, he literally gulps like a cartoon character, he might as well have hearts in his eyes with his tongue rolled out of his mouth. 

When you start walking towards him he finally manages to look up at your face, where he’s currently receiving the most severe glare he’s ever been faced with. In return you’re met with an absolutely terrified Spencer. 

“So you just… look like this all the time, huh.” You poke at the top button of his shirt. 

“It’s a nice shirt.”

“Sure it is. Why are you here?” You arch an eyebrow at him, cocking your head to the side. Oftentimes when you’re trying to pick a fight with him you start off with the same opening move. A question with an obvious answer while you bat your eyelashes at him. Usually, in return you’re met with frustrated Reid, or exasperated Reid, or whiney-go-and-tell-Hotch Reid. 

Never once have you been met with slackjawed, silent, bright-red-in-the-face Reid. Until now that is. 

“Reid, did you follow me here?” His adams apple bobs as he swallows, his eyes are everywhere but your face right now. “Hello? Earth to Spencer?”

“Sorry, what?” He just can’t help himself, even now his eyes dart down to your chest before blinking back to your face. 

Oh my god. 

You grab him by the end of his tie. Yanking him down to your level so he has no choice but to look you in the eye, you wouldn’t dare pull this kind of move when you’re at work but this is a different playing field.  

“I said, did you follow me here, you absolute creep?” You typically just ignore it when you catch him sneaking a glance down your shirt but this is unbelievable, there is absolutely no way you can ignore this. 

“I- I am not- no. I did not- I’m just stopping in to see-“ Boy genius seems to have realized you're speaking to him but he has nothing of importance to say. 

“Who? What? What are you stopping in to see? I know you didn’t come all this way just to stare at my chest, because that would be extremely inappropriate.” The second the words leave your mouth his eyes stop darting around the room and actually meet your gaze. 

“I- I should go.” He manages to pull his tie free as he does his best to maneuver through the crowd; it immediately becomes apparent that he’s never been here before. He avoids the exit entirely and ends up tucked into the dark quiet alcove by the bathrooms. 

You aren’t sure what’s motivating you, at this point in the night it might be your sexual frustration that fuels your angry stomping after him. When you catch up with him he’s turning around, realizing he’s ended up at a dead end. 

You plant your hands on his shoulders and shove him back against the wall. You really shouldn’t but you aren’t on FBI property and what’s he gonna do about it? Tell Hotch you shoved him because he stalked you outside of work hours so he could gawk at you?

“I- I just-” He’s red in the face. 

“Just what? Spit it out already.”

“I- I knew Emily was out of town, and I was worried about you drinking and being alone. You- you’re a federal agent it just doesn’t seem safe.” His voice falls off into a whisper as you squint at him. 

“Really? That’s the best you could come up with?”

“I’m just a concerned coworker.”

“Reid, you wouldn’t spit on me if I was on fire. I seriously doubt you had concerns about me.”

“It’s extremely irresponsible to drink when you’re all alone and dressed like… that.” For a second he starts to sound a little firm but he shrinks right back down by the end of his thought.

“Dressed like what, Reid? You seem to be rather fond of the way I’m dressed.” 

“You’re clearly very drunk, I should just go-” He tries to sneak past you once more but you just shove him again. 

“I haven’t had a drop of alcohol, I’m not dumb enough to drink when I’m here alone.” It’s true, you’d never drink while out alone, you aren’t an idiot. 

“I- I need to go.” He steps to the side but you do the same thing. 

“Isn’t this place like an hour away from your apartment?” Tilting your head you gauge his reaction, the guilt that falls over his face is obvious. 

“Yes, so I really should get going, I’ve got a long drive home.”

“You just got here, sit, let’s have a drink.” 

“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“Aww, but who’s gonna protect me if I drink too much? Clearly I’m not capable of doing it myself.” You jut your bottom lip out at him as he finally manages to get past you, taking a step back towards the crowd. 

“Can we just forget this ever happened?” He’s holding his hands up in front of him as if you’re holding him at gun point. 

“Oh, definitely not, I will be calling Emily the second I get home. And then maybe I’ll call Hotch and let him know I ran into you.”

“I’m allowed to be out at a bar after work hours, I didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice does that thing where it flips from being in control of his emotions to that breathy whine that makes your spine straighten. 

“I never said that you did, all I’ll be telling them is the truth of my experience.”

“I’m not scared of you.” He sure looks like he is. 

“And I’m not trying to scare you. I’m simply letting my coworker know what my busy weekend plans are.”

“I’m sure you’re gonna be really busy, there are some real winners here tonight. Are you planning on taking home the guy over there with the Family Guy face tattoo or the very obviously married guy trying to cheat on his wife?” He points around the room, and it seems like he finally found his voice. “I think there are also a couple of guys who look drunk enough to take home the next thing that talks to them if you want to enjoy what I’m sure will be a thrilling thirty seconds of love making.” 

You hate that he’s right.

“Love making? Are you twelve?” You lean forward to shove him again but he anticipates it this time, stepping backwards. 

“Goodbye. I’ll see you on Monday.” He turns and before you can stop him he manages to disappear into the crowd effectively this time. 

What the fuck just happened?

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

You pour yourself another generous glass of wine as you check your phone at the sound of an alert.

Debrief?

You open Emily’s contact, hitting the call button, you’re surprised she’s even still awake, it’s almost one in the morning.

When she picks up she’s already giggling, she doesn’t manage to get a word out as she laughs to herself for a good thirty seconds. 

“How are you drunk? You told me just a few hours ago that they didn’t serve alcohol there.” You can’t help but laugh along with her, her joy is always infectious. 

“I brought my own stuff.” She hiccups. 

“Of course you did. Are you having fun so far?” You’re careful not to spill any of your wine as you slip under your blankets, situating yourself against your pillows. 

“It’s been surprisingly enjoyable so far. Lots of spa music and I got a massage an hour after I landed.”

“God, that sounds incredible.” Anything sounds better than the night you had. 

“My night was boring, I’m more interested in yours. How’d it go?”

Terrible. You left five minutes after Spencer did.

“Well I wouldn’t be talking to you right now if it went well.” You let out a small sigh. 

“You’ve gotten too picky.” She’s quick to throw that out there, she must be a few drinks in to be this blunt. 

“It’s not even that it’s just…”

“Just?” It sounds like she’s leaning closer to her phone. 

You got distracted because he was there?

You’d be lying if you blamed tonight on him entirely. You’ve been going home alone for a while now.

“I’m gonna sound crazy.” There’s a reason you haven’t brought this up yet, it’s embarrassing. 

“You always sound crazy.”

“I just- I’ve been having this problem for the last few weeks.”

“Oh I’ve noticed. You’re grumpy.” She lowers her voice an octave as she says it, forcing another fit of tipsy giggles out of you. 

“It’s been a little while since I’ve had a successful night out.” You pick at your nails, thankful for the liquid courage that you’re finally getting this off your chest. 

“How long?”

“A month and a half? Maybe two months.” She gasps the second you say it. 

“Oh wow. That’s like two years in maneater time.”

“Shut up.” You groan.

“Well what’s the problem? I’ve been out with you, you’ve got plenty of options.” It’s true, she’s out with you every weekend and there’s no shortage of potential suitors for either of you. 

“Promise you won’t laugh?” All you’ve done on this call is laugh, you’re asking her to promise the impossible. 

“Scouts honor.” She’s already stifling a laugh but you don’t let that stop you. 

You take a deep breath. 

“None of them want me enough.”

There’s a pause and for a moment you’re worried you got disconnected until she bursts into laughter.

“I’m sorry, but I promise you, all of the guys that you talked to tonight wanted you.” She manages to get out between snickers. 

“Sure whatever, the problem is that they don’t want it enough.” 

“I don’t understand.” Her laughter fizzles out. 

“Of course you don’t, you have consistent partners, people who understand you and your body and want you.” You set your phone down on the sheets, clicking on speaker phone. “I’m just a vessel to make them have an orgasm, they aren’t even grateful enough to go down on me. All I want is a guy who’s obsessed with me but isn’t clingy.”

“I think you’ve had too much to drink.” She giggles, on cue she takes a long sip of her own drink. 

“Just- just let me explain.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re right, every guy who I talked to at the bar wanted to have sex, but you can take me out of the equation and they still just want to have sex. It doesn’t matter if it’s with me, all they care about is finishing as fast as possible. They don’t care about me, they care about having a hole to fuck. It’s- it’s too easy.” You swirl your whine around in gentle circles, you’re already nearly done with the glass. 

“Okay…”

“One night stands don’t put any feeling behind it, they don’t… want to try new things, or have fun. They don’t even want to take the time to cuff me to the headboard. They're always in such a rush to get their rocks off, they forget that the act itself is supposed to be fun. They think the whole goal is just to shoot their load and leave before they have to make small talk.” Your head spins a little as you take a deep breath.

“It sounds to me like you want a boyfriend.” 

“That’s the last thing I want. I want… a consistent partner who wants to do more than four minutes of missionary with the lights off. I want ropes and chains, and gags, and- and I want someone to be mean to me, like really mean, not some stranger who’s worried that I’m gonna break or cry if he spanks me too hard.” Your cheeks are getting hot. You really need to get a handle on yourself. “I want someone to make me cry and I want them to want me to cry, for the love of god I need someone to manhandle me. I need someone to manhandle.” 

You’re a lot drunker than you realized. 

“Wait, don’t kill me.” She hiccups, you can practically hear the smile on her face.

“Oh my god, what?” 

“I think I know who would be perfect for you.” She drags the words out. 

Perfect. 

“Aww, Em, are you gonna offer me one of your boyfriends?” 

“You wish, I’m just thinking, I know someone who’s obsessed with you, and I bet he would do anything you wanted if you just asked.” 

Sounds too good to be true, if this man is out there you would have sniffed him out by now. 

“Have you been holding out on me? Hiding some secret perfect man?”

She’s a mess of giggles as she takes a deep breath like she’s bracing herself. 

“What about Spencer?”

You’re waiting for more laughter, something to indicate that she’s joking. 

“That’s not funny.” Your voice is flat now. 

“I’m not trying to be funny, I’m serious.”

“Gross, Em. He’s gross, oh my god.” You want to kill her for even putting the thought into your head. 

“Exactly! All he does is stare at your tits, and your ass, and your mouth, just you in general. You won’t find someone more ready and willing.”

“He stares at everyone, he’s got a staring problem.”

“Yeah but he stares at you way more than the rest of us. We get passing glances but you get straight ogling.” She says it like that makes it okay.

“Ew. Exactly.”

“Give the kid a break, how's he supposed to get anything done with you walking around in your tiny skirts and your low cut shirts?”

“He’s- no- he is so gross, he’s literally a pervert Emily.”

“And you are…?”

Woof.

“Low blow.” You exhale harshly. 

“Besides, you must not hate the attention. I’ve seen you yell at him for breathing too loudly but you’ve never commented on the staring.”

“Well that’s not- that has nothing to do with-”

“Look, all I’m saying is that he would do anything you wanted, happily. Like an eager little puppy. Whether he’d admit it or not, all he wants is your attention.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. He might like to stare but he hates me, he makes a conscious effort to irritate me on a daily basis.” 

“That’s just because he makes a conscious effort to insert himself into every situation you’re in. Yes, he’s annoying, but you get the worst of it because he never leaves you alone. You want someone obsessed with you, right?”

This feels like a trap.

“…Right.”

“There is no one more obsessed with you than Dr. Spencer Reid. It’s insane to me that neither of you have realized this, I clocked it two days after I started working with you.”

“He hasn’t realized it either?”

“Of course not. Just like you, he thinks that he hates you. He just hates that he feels bad for leering at you.” 

He must not hate that feeling too much because he drove forty miles from his apartment to leer.

“You’re wasted.” It’s all you can say because for some reason she’s making sense. 

“Yeah, and barely keeping my eyes open.”

“Go to sleep.” You murmur, picking your phone back up.

“Mhmm.” She sounds like she might already be snoring. 

“Love you, I’ll see you Monday.”

“Love you too.” She mumbles. “Good luck with the rest of your weekend, maneater.”

In the dark of your room all you can see now is the glow of your phone screen.

There is no one more obsessed with you than Dr. Spencer Reid. 

What a joke. 

You scroll back up through your contacts, clicking on the all caps name just below Aaron Hotchner, labeled ASSHOLE, you have no message history. Why would you? Texting is for joking around, making plans, and casual conversation, you don’t do any of that with Spencer. 

His contact photo is a blurry photo you took of him as he tried to shove your phone out of his face. You took it after he begged you for your number. Claiming you needed to have everyone on the team’s contact information in case of an emergency. 

You’ve shared maybe two phone calls in that time. Both while on a case, both when Hotch made you call him. 

You shouldn’t call him, it’s late, nothing good can come of it. 

He’s disgusting, you shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea. 

She just made it sound so appealing. And for the first time in the year you’ve been working at the BAU, you consider for a moment that Spencer might actually be good for something other than pissing you off and reciting facts that you can find with a quick Google search. 

Like an eager little puppy. 

Huh. 

Are you really this desperate?

You click the call button without thinking about it. 

Fuck you’re so drunk. 

You’re about to cancel the call but he picks up. 

On the first ring. 

“Hello?” Why is he out of breath? It’s the middle of the night. 

“Whatcha doing?” You try to sound casual, taking another sip of your drink. 

“What?” His voice is a mix of sleepy and guilty, it’s hard for you to place. 

“You sound… sweaty.” You giggle, high pitched and bubbly. Yikes, you’re a lot more out of it than you realized, you definitely shouldn’t have called him.  

“Are you still at Betty’s? Do you need me to come get you?” It catches you off guard how normal he sounds, like he might really be worried about you.

“No- no, I’m home.”

“Are you okay?”

“No, Doctor Reid. I’m not.” You over enunciate his name. 

“Do you need help?” Is he actually worried about you? You didn’t know he was capable of that, considering all you’ve seen from him before is disdain and poorly concealed lewdness. 

“I’m fine.”

“Okay…?”

“Okay.” You repeat it back to him in the same tone.

“You’re drunk.” Boy genius solves another case. 

“Don’t worry Doctor, I waited until I was safe at home to indulge.”

There’s a long silence, similar to when you spoke with Emily you wonder if he hung up until he finally speaks again

“Are you alone?”

Code for: did you bring someone home from the bar?

“All alone.” You swear he sighs in relief when you say it. It makes you laugh even harder, this entire situation is unbelievable.  “What are your plans for the rest of the weekend? We’ve got four more days to get through.”

“There’s a chess tournament livestreaming Friday night that I was hoping to catch.” You’re waiting for him to list anything else but he’s seemingly done.

“That’s it?”

“Not all of us are on the prowl at bars every night."

“You’re so judgemental, and- and rude.” You sneer, as if he can see your expression.

“Why exactly did you call me?”

Because you want to know if he’s really obsessed with you.

Because you’re so horny right now you hardly know what to do with yourself and you’ve run out of options.

Because for the first time in weeks you actually feel something happening between your legs as you listen to him struggling to catch his breath over the phone.

That last one’s probably the wine talking. 

“Do you want to get breakfast tomorrow?” You say it like you aren’t throwing a live grenade out into this conversation. 

“Why?” He sounds suspicious, as if you’re luring him into a trap, and he’s right, you are. 

“Maybe we can sit and talk for a few minutes, and really get to the root of our problems.”

“Really?” He sounds unconvinced. 

“No, not really. But I’ll make it worth your while.” You really do mean that part. If you can prove that he really is obsessed with you then you might be able to make this work. 

“Why would I want to spend my day off being berated by you?” 

“I told you, I’ll make it worth your while.” 

“Goodnight.”

“Spencer.” You whine, his breath hitches loud enough for you to hear it over the phone. 

“Fine, how will you make it worth my while? Contrary to what you believe, I don't enjoy your constant verbal abuse.”

“I’ll wear the shirt again, the one I wore tonight.”

You’re left in a full sixty seconds of silence again before you hear him let out a breath. 

“What time are we meeting?” He sounds defeated. Good, you need to have the upperhand if you’re going to do this. 

“You choose, text me a place and a time and I’ll see you there.” You have to stop yourself from smiling. 

“What? Why do I have to-”

“Goodnight Doctor Reid.” You click the little red button, effectively ending your call. 

Your palms are sweating. God this is so stupid, you shouldn’t have done that. 

You receive a message immediately.

White Rabbit Diner, 10:30 a.m. 

It’s twenty minutes from your place, perfect. You set an alarm before you toss your phone onto your nightstand. 

You’re already regretting your decision now that you’re alone in the silent darkness. It’s Spencer. 

Whatever. 

You don’t have to do anything, if you wake up sober and regret your decision you can just have breakfast with him, it’s fine. You just need to know if Emily’s right. You don’t have to do anything with the information, it’s just nice to have options.  

After all, a maneaters gotta eat. 

★

The BAU had a pretty serious reputation.

Highly skilled, highly specialized, and highly exclusive. 

You had a plan. Once you graduated from the academy you would get yourself assigned to a nearby field office, something in Virginia. After a few years in the field, once you prove yourself, you will go directly to Quantico and meet with the unit chief, in person, to show how serious you are about being a profiler. 

Half of your class had similar ambitions but you were serious. You already had your degree in psychology and with your abilities you could be a useful asset to their team.

You have the drive and the ambition to make it happen, you’re certain.

So imagine the look on your face when SSA Aaron Hotchner approached you one day after class. 

Your hands trembled when you shook his. 

Your head was spinning, you caught bits and pieces of what he was saying. 

“Highly recommended by your professors… Jason Gideon’s retirement… fresh new faces… good influence on the rest of the team… specialty in forensics.” 

You nodded along, and thanked him profusely when he handed you a business card and told you to call him when you graduated. 

And suddenly, a quick six months later, you were stepping out of the elevator and into the busy bull pen. Straightening the blouse you’d spent the last two weeks agonizing over.

You had a duffle bag full of clothes and toiletries, just as you’d been instructed to bring. And you’re large over the shoulder purse, filled with anything and everything, prepared for anything your first day could possibly throw at you. 

You were going to be a profiler, the best profiler the BAU has ever seen, and you’ll be damned if you let anything get in your way.

People shuffled around you, heads down in their files and phones as you weaved through them until you reached Agent Hotchner's office. He hung up the phone when you opened the door and stood to greet you. Telling you how happy he was that you accepted his offer. (As if you could ever say no.)

“Let’s introduce you to the team, and then I’ll show you to your desk. Everyone's been briefed on your arrival and I’m sure they’re all eagerly awaiting an introduction.” He gave you a practiced, professional smile as he led you out of his office and back into the bullpen. 

You followed closely behind him as he took you down a hallway, stepping into a side room you were met with a wall of screens and two people crowded around them.

“Allow me to introduce you to Agent Garcia and SSA Morgan.” He had urged you inside as you stared in awe. You’re familiar with both of them. 

Penelope Garcia, originally on the FBI’s watchlist, was arrested and offered a deal to avoid prosecution by joining the team instead. She’s a prolific hacker, she’s practically famous online. 

And of course you’re familiar with the shockingly handsome man beside her. 

Derek Morgan, seasoned member of the team with a focus on obsessional crimes and explosives. 

You know the whole team like the back of your hand and right now you feel like a fangirl at a meetup event.   

“Wow, it is- it’s so nice to meet you.” You held your hand out, relieved to be met with a handshake from both of them. 

Reserved but optimistic. 

They’re open to the idea of you, they just aren’t sure yet. 

You’ve been practicing your profiling. 

You exchanged pleasantries, nodded and laughed when it was appropriate. All of the things you promised yourself you would do to keep your cool. 

After a few minutes of small talk you followed Hotch out of the room, to a different office where you meet Agent Jareau.

Jennifer Jareau, media relations and police liaison. 

Also notably, drop dead gorgeous. 

And she couldn’t have been sweeter. Complimenting your outfit as your face burned hot as the sun. 

You run into your next introduction in the hall on the way to the bull pen. 

“This is SSA Prentiss.”

Oh, you know who she is. 

Emily Prentiss. Linguistics expert, with a specialty in terrorism and counter-intelligence. Her mother was a relatively notable U.S. diplomat. 

You must be smiling like an idiot when you shake her hand. 

You continue following behind Agent Hotchner, feeling like a kid in a candy store as you return to the bullpen. 

“And of course, saving the best for last, your deskmate, Dr. Reid.” Agent Hotchner leads you to an empty desk, directly adjacent to the young man who has his head in a book.

You’re more than familiar with him.

Dr. Spencer Reid, the youngest person ever recruited for the BAU. You’ve heard that he can read 10,000 words a minute. He has an eidetic memory, and an IQ of 187. You had a friend who met him once at a lecture, she told you that he’s a staunch germaphobe.

When he looks up you know you’re done for. 

Sharp angled features, accentuated as he tucks his hair behind his ears. 

His wide hazel eyes size you up as he closes his book. 

“I figured as the youngest members of our team you would get along well enough to share a desk. I’ll leave you to set up your space, we’ll meet in the conference room in an hour.” You watch as Agent Hotchner returns to his office, leaving you alone with Dr. Reid.   

“It’s so nice to meet you.” For the first time you don’t offer up your hand, you just smile at him. “Let me know if you like the desks a certain way or if I set anything up in a way that bothers you at all.” You take a few things out of your purse and place them carefully on the large wooden desk. A framed picture of you with some friends from the Academy, a few trinkets from home to fill the space, and several notebooks and pens.  

“You look a bit young for the BAU.” Spencer leans towards the little glass partition between you. 

“Not as young as you were when you started, what was it, twenty three?” You’re thrilled that he’s even talking to you, even if you’re being a bit overeager. Your friend had told you he was a little awkward if not outright abrasive. 

She hadn’t told you he was so pretty. 

“Twenty two actually, what else have you heard about me?” He fully stands and moves to lean on your desk as you rock back in your chair, his eyes wander across your desk, you can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to profile you. 

“I heard that you have three PHD’s, you got your first when you were only sixteen, and you’re working on a fourth. You have an eidetic memory, and an IQ of a hundred and eighty seven, and you can read ten thousand words a minute.” You ramble without thinking about it, hoping in the back of your mind that you aren’t scaring him off.

“It’s actually twenty thousand.” His eyes lock onto your face now, clearly gauging your reaction.

“Really? Do you really actually retain the information?” You give him a smile and are remarkably pleased when he returns it. 

“As far as I can tell.” 

“How was your last deskmate?” 

“I didn’t have one, Hotch says I have a personal space problem.” He looks a bit abashed at that, you’re surprised he even admits it so plainly. 

“Was there no other spot available?” You look around the room, sure every desk is full but there are several clumps of three and four, you could have joined a different group.

“There definitely were, but he seems convinced that I can be more sociable.” 

“If you want me to, I can probably move my desk to a different clump.” The last thing you want to do is upset one of your team members on your first day. 

“I wasn’t trying to imply-” His cheeks and ears burn red. “Hotch is right, it’ll probably be good for me to make a few friends.” Hesitantly he held his hand out to you. 

Your smile practically doubles in size as you shake it. 

“It’s nice to make your acquaintance then, Dr. Ried.” 

“Likewise.” 

★

You decide not to tell Spencer what you talked about with Peter.

It would only serve to stress him out. That’s what you tell yourself at least.

When you wake the red door is shut and locked once more, which puts you both on edge. What could possibly be waiting for you once it’s opened? Instead of stewing on it too much you spend the morning wrapped in Spencer's arms, enjoying a moment of normalcy before whatever the day brings crashes down upon you. 

Normalcy.

Is this what normalcy looks like now? Is this what your life will be like outside of here? You aren’t sure you could live without him after all this, and you have to imagine he feels the same way. 

He’s certainly gone to extremes to show you that. 

“What’s the first thing you’re gonna do after the team finds us?” You take his hand in yours, examining the burnt stumps of his fingers as you break the silence.

“Probably go to a hospital, and then a dentist.” He doesn’t pull away, letting you trace shapes mindlessly against his palm. 

“Well yeah, obviously. Aside from the obvious things, what will you do first?” You turn to look at him, despite everything he still smiles at you.  

“I haven’t given it much thought, I’m more focused on getting out of here first.”

“Just play along, please?” You groan. 

“Why don’t you tell me what you’ll do first?” He leans forward, bumping his forehead against yours. 

You have to think about it for a moment.

“I want to get my nails done. I was putting it off before all of this and now I definitely need it. Just the longest, most extravagant mani-pedi they offer.” Looking down at your hands now there’s blood under your nails, and your wrists are raw and bruised. 

“Then I imagine the first thing I would do would be sit in a salon waiting room until you’re done.” You aren’t sure if he’s joking or not and thinking too hard about it makes your head hurt so you change the subject. 

“What was the first thing you did after you were kidnapped by Tobias Hankel?” It’s probably too personal of a question but at this point are there really boundaries between the two of you? 

You know you haven’t crossed a line because he answers without hesitation. 

“I took a long shower, like two hours long. I just stood under the water, they had sent me home alone and I just wasn’t sure what else to do.” He pauses, chewing his lip as he thinks. “I felt alone for a long time after that.” 

You wonder if that’s how you’ll feel. That’s probably how you’re supposed to feel.

Except you aren’t alone.

You have him. 

It’s funny, you’ve known him less than a year but right now it feels like you’ve always been together. You hardly remember life without Spencer. 

“What happens when we leave here?” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. 

What happens to us?

That’s the real question on your mind.

“I guess we go back to work, that’s sort of what everyone does when something like this happens. Everyone pretends it didn’t happen.” He sounds… hurt.

You have a hard time swallowing his words. 

Something like this. 

Like this is something you’re expected to go through.  

“Are we going to be okay?” Your brain feels like it’s becoming more and more scrambled, the line between performance and reality is starting to blur and you can’t help but wonder if he’s been acting this whole time. 

He really seems to stop and think about his answer. 

“I think so, I think you and I will be more than okay.” 

Whatever that means. 

You’re starting to get a headache so you decide to focus on his wounds to distract yourself, taking your time to examine his hand properly and then his mouth. The bleeding from his gums seems to have stopped completely which is great news. The corners of his mouth are stained red from residual bleeding overnight but he seems to be doing as good as you can hope for. 

“How does everything feel?” You ask as you release your grip on his jaw.

“I… don’t really know, physically I feel a little off, nothing I wouldn’t expect to feel all things considered. Mentally, I’m mostly worried, yesterday was out of place for the usual content he’s had us make. So I have no idea what to expect today, he could regress if he didn’t like it, if he did like it we might see some escalation.” 

Hands-on.

That’s the term he used.

“Well-” You start but close your mouth the second you hear the crackle of the intercom.

“Hello, my stars, I am thrilled to see you are more talkative today.” There’s an excited edge to his voice that makes you immediately uneasy. “I continue to be amazed by your performances. Yesterday did not go exactly as I had imagined yet I was still awestruck by some of your choices.”

“We weren’t exactly given much of a choice, were we Peter?” When Spencer speaks up you’re a little surprised by his continued attitude with your captor, especially considering the soft spoken conversation you’ve been having.

“Dr. Reid, you may think me a villain but I have given you everything you have ever wanted. You should be thanking me.” 

Even Spencer, who has a response to everything, doesn’t have a response to that. 

“Regardless of your rudeness, I have a present for the two of you. Behind the door you will find a delightful surprise, and with it a promise that you won’t have to hear my voice again for quite some time, maybe ever. I have decided our communication may be better across different mediums. And of course you know that if you do not comply you-”

“Will be separated, or shot, or whatever it is you feel like today, got it.” Spencer is quick to find his voice again, what has gotten into him? 

He’s a lot of things but he isn’t this. Interrogative, sure. Analytical, always. Brazenly aggressive? Never. 

“Oh doctor, you really are in some kind of mood today. That is fine, you are entitled to that mood after the performance you gave us yesterday. What a twist.” The door creaks open and neither of you moves, you aren’t in any rush to see what gift is waiting for you. “I have been thinking, yesterday your performance was… enchanting. I keep asking myself what made it so special and I think I found my answer.” He says every word as though he is the most important person in the world, saying the most important sentence anyone has ever heard. “You two hardly need directing, you just need a motive to perform, and you do positively captivating work. So, for the foreseeable future I will cease all specific requests, let us see what you can do. I think your motivation will become abundantly clear rather fast.” He makes a horrific swallowing sound, as if he’s salivating at just the thought of what’s about to happen. “I want to be dazzled, and I think this is how I get the best show possible from you both.”

“So you aren’t going to be giving us any instruction at all? We’re just supposed to do whatever we want?” It’s your turn to speak, voice cracking as you do because that’s almost worse, at least with specific directions you had plausible deniability for all of this. That all changes if you’re calling the shots. 

“No my sweet flower, I still have my expectations. You both have your… habits. Things that I enjoy, and things that I do not. I would like to put an end to some of your less desirable habits, and pave the way for more preferable ones. So no, you will not have free reign, but I also know that with a little slack on the leash you might do some of your best work. Now go, enjoy your gift. You may not hear from me again, but know that I am always watching you, angel.”  

For what might be the last time, you hear the click of the intercom. There’s a twisted finality to the sound, followed by the creak of the door opening.

“So we’re supposed to just make up a scene?” You turn to Spencer as he gets to his feet. Watching as he makes his way across the room, when he pulls the door open you see a little pink gift bag on the floor, complete with glittery tissue paper sticking out of the top. 

He picks it up apprehensively before bringing it back to you. When he hands it to you it’s heavier than you expected for such a small bag. 

“I assume it’s for you.” The bravado he had when speaking with the unsub has fizzled out now that you’re alone again. 

You move slowly as you pluck the tissue paper out of the bag. You can’t make out the contents so you flip the bag and dump them out onto the blanket. 

And you immediately recognize what it is. 

Two collars fall out of the bag, both with a thick chunk of black plastic attached to them with two silver prongs poking out. Accompanied by two little padlocks. 

You look up at each other in sync, with the same wide eyes, a silent understanding happens in your shared look. 

Here’s the motive to perform. 

Neither one of you wants to do this, obviously, but you both take one in your hands regardless. What choice do you have? For seemingly the first time since you arrived in this terrible place, you don’t even bother to think of a way to get out of this. There is a complete acceptance within you that this is simply another thing that you must do. 

It isn’t a great feeling, but there’s an odd comfort to it. 

You don’t need to think of a way out of this because there isn’t one, there’s nothing you can do about it so why upset yourself over nothing. 

Spencer must have come to the same conclusion as you because he picks up one of the collars with a resolute look, wrapping the thick nylon band around his neck. You watch as he carefully positions the prongs against his throat and closes the latch, scooping the lock up and with his fingers he snaps it shut before he loses his nerve. Sealing his fate. 

Taking a deep breath he looks at you, almost expectantly. 

Okay.

Your turn. 

Your hands are trembling as you lay the length of the collar out flat. After a few deep breaths, you wrap it around your throat, feeling the cold, sharp metal of the prongs. Your hands are still shaking like a leaf in the wind as you close the latch, dropping the padlock in the process.  

“Here, let me help.” He takes the prongs, adjusting them to a different part of your neck. “We want to avoid the carotid artery.” He murmurs before picking up the lock and clicking it shut, sealing your fate as well. 

You stare at each other once more, now with matching accessories. 

“So I guess we should just…” God, you don’t want to say it out loud, even if it isn’t something you’re necessarily dreading. But now, with the threat around your throat you don’t have much of a choice. 

“Probably, I imagine he isn’t exactly feeling patient now that we have them on.” His eyes roam over your body like he isn’t sure of what to do, as if you haven’t already done this. Finally he leans in, one hand cupping your cheek as he kisses you. He’s so gentle with you, slow and intentional. It feels so natural to be touched by him, like you were meant for this. Maybe this won’t be so bad, if it’s just having sex until the unsub is satisfied you can handle that. When his fingers comb through your hair your entire body seizes. 

The two of you both go rigid against each other, it feels like your body is being stabbed with a million frozen needles, an endless icy pain that seeps into your bones. Your spine straightens and you feel like you’re being puppeted as you twitch. After a few agonizing moments you collapse against each other. 

“That can’t possibly be a standard shock for a dog collar.” You gasp the words out as he nods.

“We need to try something else.” You look him over as he speaks, the flesh under the prongs is red, you’re sure you have a mark to match. At least it wasn’t enough to leave you with a burn, yet. 

“Clearly.” Your head is spinning, you can’t actually be expected to think clearly right now? All you can think about is the possibility of another shock happening at any moment. 

“So we try a different approach, do you think he’s just generally looking for rough intercourse or does he want something more blatantly violent? I just don’t think this is actually that efficient of a communication method. We have no-” Spencer’s ramblings are cut off as you both seize up again.

The shock lasts much longer than this time, your jaw clenches tight as you try to breathe. You can feel the electricity running through every inch of you, for a moment you swear your heart skips a beat. That can’t be good. 

You don’t know much about the dangers of electric shock. But Spencer does, and he looks terrified.  

His expression is enough to make you throw yourself at him the second you have control of your body again. Knocking him backwards onto the floor. 

“No more talking.” You mumble against his mouth as you bite his bottom lip. You don’t know what you need to do to make the shocks stop but talking about it certainly isn’t going to help. 

There’s a moment of hesitation from him and you just know he’s fighting the urge to ask if this is okay. That’s the last thing you need right now, stopping to ask if you're alright with this will undoubtedly end with another shock.

“Come on.” You murmur, taking his hand and guiding it between your legs.  

Thank god that seems to be permission enough for him as he slips his hands past your waist band, any shame you felt a few short days ago has long since gone out the window. Based on the way he whimpers when his fingers press against your folds you’re certain he’s in the same boat. 

Gone is a sense of shame between the two of you, if this is your normal you might as well enjoy it. 

“Just do what you want to do, it’ll be better for both of us.” You press your forehead to his, gently rocking yourself against his hand. After everything you’ve been through at this point it’s hard to believe his fingers are still hesitantly hovering above your entrance. 

You can practically hear his internal monologue in your own head.

Prior consent doesn’t count as consent in future situations. Especially when you’re being coerced by electric shock, We’ll do whatever you’re most comfortable with, even if it means getting shocked until our hearts simultaneously explode. 

His erection is actively poking your hip right now and he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for the okay. 

The collar might not not be motivating enough for him but it certainly is for you, you know exactly what the unsub wants to see.

He wants to see all the things you want to do to the man staring up at you slackjawed right now.  

You bring your hand up to his face, squeezing his jaw, you force his mouth open wider, staring in his eyes as you spit into his mouth. You raise your eyebrows at him, daring him to react as his eyes manage to go even wider. 

Self proclaimed germaphobe Dr. Reid looks at you, and swallows. 

You really are the exception to his rules.

Finally he swipes two fingers against your clit, being electrocuted might have left you feeling tense and paranoid but his touch has all of that melting away. 

Thank fucking god. 

His fingers slide across the length of your cunt, he hums when he feels the wetness pooling at your entrance. He never pushes into you, only teases your hole until you’re keening against him. 

Hovering on all fours above him you’re sure you’re a sight, panting like a dog for more. 

Your noises only serve to egg him on. Using your wetness as a lubricant he focuses on your clit. You squeeze your eyes shut, almost instinctually rocking back and forth against the heel of his palm. He doesn’t seem to be in any rush, rubbing lazy circles against you until your legs shake so bad you’re worried you’ll crumble and fall down on top of him. 

“Can I get on top now?” The sound of his voice makes your eyes snap open as you nod eagerly. Holding onto your hips he flips you over so your positions are reversed. You lean back, waiting patiently for his hand to return to your cunt. When he doesn’t you whine. 

You’re rewarded with his fingers looping around the sides of your panties, yanking them down until you're bare before him. 

“Open your mouth.” His tone isn’t demanding, more like a plea. 

So you do just that, and when you meet his eyes you hardly even see Spencer anymore.

Gone is the sweet boy you share a desk with, he has been replaced by something hungry and tragic. 

He’s just like you now.

Sick. 

He leans down until your lips are almost touching, he isn’t as confident as you were but he still spits into your mouth without hesitation. Pulling back to watch. When swallowing his breath hitches. His fingers pull on the hem of your camisole, pulling it up until it’s over your arms and your head. 

He takes a moment to just stare at your chest in a way that would usually make you cover yourself up. Instead you just let him. Squeaking in surprise when he leans down and sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, making obscene sounds in the process. His tongue swirls around it for a moment before he starts dragging his tongue back and forth, letting his teeth lightly graze against the sensitive bud, never actually biting down. Alternating between sucking and lapping at your nipple until it stiffens into a peak. When he’s satisfied he switches to your other breast, repeating the process. When he pulls away to admire his work your nipples are swollen and both of your tits are slick with spit. 

The sight is enough to make him bite his lip in a weak attempt to stifle a whine.

You’ve all but forgotten about the collar around your neck as he starts to bend your knees up towards your stomach. You're caught off guard when he keeps pushing until your legs are pointed straight up with your feet over his shoulders. Turning his head he kisses your ankle before gently biting the skin there. You’re positioned in a way that his clothed cock rubs against your core, your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head. Just when you think he’s about to pull his boxers down he stops.

He opens his mouth and you just know his dumb ass is about to ask if you’re okay with this, so you kick the side of his head and glare at him as his mouth snaps closed. He nods, at least the part of his brain that uses his critical thinking skills still works. 

You both know the unsub doesn’t like when he asks you for consent, you don’t know or honestly care why. He can ask you if you’re okay a hundred times a day when you get out of here.

There’s another moment's pause from him, and if looks could kill your glare would put him six feet under. 

“For gods sake, Spence, just fuck me.” You hope you don’t sound too mean but he doesn't seem bothered, quite the opposite. 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. 

You feel a rush of relief when he kicks his boxers off, his cock stands at attention, the poor neglected thing is already leaking, leaving his tip shiny and slick.

He wraps his arms around your legs, holding you like a vice as he lines himself up and slides into the heat of your cunt. 

It stings just as much as it did the first time but you revel in it this time. Who cares about a little pain anymore? You just squeeze your eyes shut and groan. He likely doesn’t even hear the edge to your groans over his own breathy moans. 

He doesn’t give you as much of an adjustment period this time either, his hips are already rocking back and forth. Whether it’s for fear of being shocked or simply because he can’t help himself is unclear.

He holds your legs firmly in place, ankles thrown over his shoulders as he pistons in and out of you. Both of you are reduced to whimpering messes in a matter of minutes as you feel the all too familiar tightening of the knot in your stomach.

Boy genius can’t be far behind you based on the sporadic nature of his thrusts. You’d say that happened fast but you’re in no position to judge, not when your breath is catching in your throat with every thrust. He knows your body surprisingly well because you can tell he’s holding out for your orgasm before his. His quick, sloppy thrusts become focused. Shallow, just the right way to slide against that sweet spot before slamming into your cervix until the knot snaps.

You clamp down on him, the force of which draws a string of whimpers past his lips as he scrambles to pull out, coming on your stomach. You watch the way his jaw tightens, and his cock twitches, admiring the sight before you lean back. Taking a few deep breaths as you try and collect yourself. He slumps over next to you, in a similar state. 

He plants a kiss on your shoulder before pressing his forehead against yours. 

Your eyes are starting to flutter shut when your back arches. A strangled cry leaving your throat as you feel a quick shock is delivered to your body. Spencer spasms onto you, his fingers twist around his collar, pulling uselessly. 

It’s a mercifully short burst of electricity this time but still enough to make you sit up straight. 

“What did we do wrong?” Your voice is hoarse. 

He looks troubled, more troubled than you’d expect, even after all that.

“I-I’m not sure, I guess we just have to try again.” So rare is it to hear Dr. Spencer Reid sound unsure. 

“Okay, fuck, okay.” You’re trying to think back over everything you just did. He didn’t shock you the entire scene until the end so he clearly didn’t have a problem with the contents of the scene. You’re a mess of scrambling limbs as you both smash your lips together once more in an attempt to avoid any form of reprimand. “Let’s try something else.” You grumble against his lips.

You’re racking your brain for ideas, clearly he’s doing the same but it’s edged with a panic. If you choose the wrong thing you risk another shock. How much would it take to stop your heart?

Focus.

He didn’t like what you just did, okay, do something else. Do something different. 

Does he want more talking or less?

More participation on your part, less on Spencer’s?

Rougher?

Meaner?

Without the unsubs direct commands Spencer isn’t as sexually dominant as he originally had to be, maybe the unsub wants that dynamic to be included in every scene. 

You can do that.

Happily.

First things first, you need him to be as naked as you are.

You climb into his lap, straddling him as you push him back so that he’s laying back once more. Yanking on the hem of his shirt until you’re able to pull it off of him, tossing it aside you drag your hands up and down his torso. 

God he’s pretty. 

Somehow even prettier with a collar around his neck. 

Don’t think like that.  

Grinding down against him you can feel his cock already swelling again. 

“You get hard so easily.” You grab his jaw, noticing his stubble for the first time. How long have you been here? 

“I thought you said no talking.” 

“Well that didn’t work out so well, I’m trying something different. Do you not like it?”  

The dumb look on his face makes you forget about the collar for a moment, it makes you forget about the room you're in, and it makes you forget all about Peter Hill. All you can think about are ways to make him keep making that face. 

“This is fine.” He mumbles.

“You do all the work every time Spencer, you must be tired by now.” 

“I don’t mind.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He really does sound tired. Maybe not from this exactly, but in general. 

“Maybe you could let me take care of you this time?” You tuck a strand of hair away from his face as he continues to nod. 

Assuming that the unsub might see Spencer as a surrogate for himself this would be a wise course of action. Seeing you as the dominant, more active, participant might be exactly what he wants. Maybe the reason you were shocked was because he could see how hesitant Spencer was, maybe he just needs to see one of you taking the lead. 

That’s the only reason you’re doing this. 

Certainly not seizing an opportunity.

Your panties have long since been discarded so it’s relatively easy to reach back and grab his cock, lining him up with your entrance as you sink down onto him. You’re typically concentrating and rolling your eyes into the back of your head when he first enters you, but right now you get a perfect view of his face. 

Mouth open in an ‘O’ as his eyes flutter shut, a pornagraphic moan slipping past his lips. This is already so much better. 

Once you’re fully seated on his cock you fight the urge to grind against him, instead you just watch his face, the way his features twist and contort in pleasure.

“Do you like it when I spit in your mouth?” You do your best to keep your tone sultry, more condescending than actually caring about the response. 

You’re met with a frantic nod and you nearly lose your resolve when he opens his mouth. 

This is better than any romance book, sexy movie, or porno you’ve ever seen. 

You want to take a picture, since that isn’t an option right now you settle for burning the mental image into your brain before you give him exactly what he wants. You hover over him, letting a line of spit fall from your mouth to his. His cock twitches inside of you simultaneously. You don’t dare take your eyes off of him as he swallows again.

So fucking good. 

He’s too good. Maybe this is what you should have been doing all along. He never needed to be in charge, this is a million times better than any show you’ve put on. If Peter wanted a star he’s got one right here. Licking his perfect pretty lips. 

Batting his eyelashes at you like his cock isn’t lodged in your stomach. 

“I wonder what else you like?” You don’t even say it for the camera, that was forgotten the second he opened his mouth and presented his tongue to you.          

He doesn’t have a response, just that pretty, dumb look. Is this what it’s like for him? Watching you come apart so easily, you completely understand his ridiculous torture metaphors now, this is fucking torture in the sweetest way humanely possible. 

You don’t know what possesses you to do it but you tentatively at first, you wrap your fingers around his throat, careful to avoid the bulky part of the collar. It’s a move made mostly for show. But when you’re met with a frantic, impatient, nod, you squeeze. 

His hips rock upwards immediately, fucking into you, instinctively your grip tightens around his throat as if you can steady yourself. It only makes him buck into you harder. He splays his hands out across the tops of your thighs, nails digging into your flesh, leaving a trail of crescent marks in his wake. 

The room fills with the sounds of curses as you let your head fall backwards, so much for doing the work, Spencer’s doing most of the work as he continues to fuck up into you. You briefly let your  hand slip off his neck, his hand catches your wrist, holding you against his throat as you wrap your fingers back around it. 

“Fucking- shit, oh my god.” His brows furrow together as he whines, you’ve never heard him curse so much before. 

He angles his hips off the floor, grinding the base of his pelvis against your clit until you’re seeing stars. You’re definitely squeezing too hard but he won’t let your wrist go and your body is too tense from the pressure building in your stomach. Based on the sounds he’s making you’re sure he doesn’t care, his eyes are basically rolled into the back of his head at this point anyway. 

“So fucking good, Spence, oh my fucking-” Your voice trails off into a moan as rolls his hips up against you just so. The goal was to focus on him but he seems hell bent on making you come, so much so that he doesn’t even bother thrusting into you. He just keeps angling his hips against yours in any way he can to put pressure on your clit. And you reward his efforts every time by tightening your grip.

Once again your orgasm hits first, before you’re ready for it and before you’ve recovered from your first orgasm. He forces it out of you. And in return you brand your handprint across the front of his throat. Your vision is blurring white as you cry out. Your chest heaves as you gasp, fighting, keeping your eyes open as you stare down at your pretty boy. 

His cheeks are bright red as he sucks in a breath, you’re about to start riding him in earnest, it’s the least you can do. But before you can he grabs the back of your head, forcing your lips onto his as his tongue presses against yours. You start to groan his name but he swallows the sound when he sucks your tongue into his mouth. Just like that with a stutter of his hips you feel his cock jerk inside of you as he comes, spilling out around the base of his shaft as he makes a mess out of both of you. 

The corners of his eyes are damp when you look at him, you can’t help but kiss him there, moving to his cheek, and then his forehead. You both stay silent, a palpable tension replaces the lust in your cloudy mess of a brain as you wait to see if it was enough. The energy in the room shifted completely. 

You can’t imagine a world in which that wasn’t adequate. 

Yet somehow, it wasn’t.

You fall forward, letting your forehead rest on the cold cement as you feel the burning against your neck. From your throat down to your fingertips, you can feel the white hot fire burning you from the inside out. It lasts long, too long. It feels like the prongs are boring holes straight through your throat and out the other side.  

When it finally relents Spencer's fingers are pulling on your collar. 

“What’s wrong?” You mumble, your visions a bit blurry as you struggle to sit up.

“I need to adjust the prongs, we’ve got burns now and we don’t want to keep hitting the same spot or it could become necrotic.” You don’t really comprehend what he’s saying but you sit still so he can do whatever it is he’s insisting on. “Okay, now can you do mine?” He tilts his chin up as he nods and you adjust his collar as well. 

The sight of his burn snaps you out of your stupor.

A gnarly red and white blister has formed under the prongs, it hurts just to look at but the sting on your own neck reminds you that you have one to match. 

The smell of burnt flesh floats in the air around you.

Once you’ve adjusted his collar as he instructs he leans in and kisses you, pushing you back until you’re the one laying down this time. When he starts to pepper kisses down your chest and stomach until he’s between your legs you squeeze your thighs together. You cannot deal with another orgasm right now. 

“No.” You’re firm as he gives you those ridiculous puppy dog eyes. 

Good luck saying no to that look.

“I’m serious Spencer, no. Get back up here and stick your dick in me so we can give this another try.” You’re fried. Mentally, physically, literally.

“Just you this time, sweetheart.” You groan as he kisses your inner thigh. Your hands tangle in his mess of hair, pulling too hard, even though it doesn’t seem to affect him. “I can’t go again, I need a minute. For someone my age the average refractory period is between thirty minutes to an hour and considering I've already gone twice in a row I’m gonna need a moment before I’m ready to go again. Since you are someone assigned female at birth you don’t have a physiological refractory period so by process of elimination this is what we have to do.” 

All you can do is glare at him.  

“I don’t know exactly what counts as a scene but I’m pretty sure it’s an orgasm. And it can’t be mine.”

“Spencer.”

“Look, I think I figured out what we have to do, just let me test my theory.”

He buries his face in the crease of your thigh, dragging his tongue across your skin. 

“Well at least tell me!”

“You aren’t going to like the answer.” He mumbles into the meat of your thigh as he sucks a mark into the skin before turning towards his main target. “I’ll try to get this done as fast as possible.” 

Your poor overstimulated clit is where he settles his mouth. Flattening his tongue against you as tries his damndest to get you there.

And god it feels good. 

He worships your cunt, his tongue writes prayers against you as it darts back and forth. You see god everytime he jams his tongue into you, as if he can effectively fuck you with it. 

It feels so good. 

But you’re too scattered. The last shock was different, demanding. And it’s left you genuinely afraid. You’re too on edge to come right now. Your body is tense in all the wrong spaces and even with his face buried between your legs all you can think about is the burn mark on both of your necks.

“I- I can’t Spence.” It’s too much, too much of a good thing, especially when you aren’t any closer to an orgasm.

“That’s just not true, you’ve done it before you can do it again.” He’s out of breath as he rests his head on your thigh.

You whine, kicking your leg weakly in an attempt to knock him away from you.

“Get on top.” If that’s his solution he clearly isn’t listening to you.

“What?”

“Sit on my face.” He says it like it’s the answer to all of your problems but you can’t imagine more stimulation is going to be the answer when your entire body is on edge. 

“Spencer…” 

“Please?” He whines, sounding like he might honest to god cry if you deny him this. “It’ll be better for you I promise.” He says it like his dick isn’t starting to harden just at the thought. Unfortunately you need him hard for what you’re sure will be round four when this inevitably doesn’t work. Until you figure out what Peter wants you need to prepare yourself for a long day.

What if this is what he wants?

What if he just wants you to fuck each other until you pass out? Until your body simply can’t handle it anymore. 

You don’t get long to dwell on the thought because Spencer’s laying down beside you. 

“Sit on my face, now. Or he’s gonna shock us again.” You’re getting tired and it honestly isn’t worth the fight. Especially when he’s staring at you so eagerly. 

“Fine.” You grumble as you sit up on your knees, throwing your leg over his head so you’re kneeling above him

“Just relax, I’ll do everything, okay?” It’s remarkable that he can sound so sure considering the circumstances. 

You aren’t sure if you can relax in this position. 

Your knees shake, and you struggle to hold yourself up above him. You just want to lay down but he wraps his arms around the backs of your thighs. In one swift motion he yanks you down so you’re sat in earnest on his face. 

“Jesus, Spencer.” You lean forward, tangling your fingers in his hair to steady yourself. Scraping your nails against his scalp in the process. 

You’d feel worse about how you might be hurting him if he wasn’t already moaning into your cunt, the vibrations only serve to tighten your grip on his hair.    

He isn’t as focused, instead he alternates between your clit and your now dripping hole. When his tongue is on your clit it feels like you’re being forced to sit on a vibrator. He darts his tongue back and forth against you, occasionally twisting his head to the side so he can breathe. Whenever that happens you’re rewarded with the stubble on his cheeks and chin against your sensitive nub. You can’t decide if it feels good or bad at this point. He pokes his tongue against the rim of your fluttering hole and you're in an even worse position. You’re dealing with the sensation of that combined with the bridge of his nose knocking against your clit.

You hate that he was right, this is working. 

You don’t have any choice other than to let it work because his arms are wrapped so tightly around your thighs you couldn’t lift off of him if you tried. Not that you would, you’re riding that precarious line between discomfort and pleasure now that makes this so much more bearable then you’d expected. 

If you had the capacity for embarrassment right now you’d be horrified by the wet sucking noises he’s making, instead you let your head fall backwards as he forces you closer and closer to your breaking point. The tightening in your stomach is inherently different than it usually feels, the muscles in your face twitch as you focus and chase that sensation.

Almost uncontrollably, your cunt flutters around nothing and you feel a gush between your legs, Spencer doesn’t let up for a second as you come. 

“Oh my fucking god.” You straighten your knees as you manage to pry his tongue off of your clit. You’re gonna have a permanent crease between your eyebrows after this, your face has been scrunched up so long. “Spencer stop-” You roll off of him, laying flat on your back beside him, the blankets are soaked. 

You’re gasping for air as you wait for the next shock. But Spencer clearly has other plans as he sits up next to you, shoving your legs apart once more, one of his hands pushes your thigh up towards your stomach. 

“We can't stop, we have to go again.” The bottom half of his face is shiny and slick.

When he slides his fingers against your swollen clit you shove him away. 

“No- I’m done. I need a break, just a few minutes.” You feel like you might cry.

“We don’t have a few minutes, we need to do this right now. Then you can take as long of a break as you want.” He sounds so sure. 

“Promise?” 

“I promise, please, just trust me.” 

Frantic and jittery, he strokes himself. His free hand slotting back between your legs, much gentler this time. 

“You don’t even need to do anything, just lay here and I’ll take care of it. Promise, I promise.” He mumbles, careful not to use too much pressure as you continue to fight the urge to shove him away. 

Any precision he usually has is gone completely by now, replaced by sloppy circles against your clit as he jerks himself off. When you whine at the friction he spits into his hand before returning to your clit. He holds his other hand out in front of your chin, wanting the same for himself. You spit onto his palm, earning yourself an breathy groan as he uses it to properly fuck his hand. 

It becomes abundantly clear that he isn’t trying to make you come again, if anything he’s simply touching you for his own gratification. And you’re thankful for it, if only one of you needs to have an orgasm to count as a scene you’re happy to sit this one out. Your clit buzzes, hypersensitive to every uncontrolled stroke against it. He whimpers as he ruts against his hand, hips stuttering as he makes a sound between pain and ecstasy. 

His eyes squeeze shut as a filthy whine leaves his lips, forehead slick with sweat as his head falls backwards. You can see the veins in his neck straining as he has what you're sure is a rather uncomfortable orgasm, spurts of come are added to the mess between your legs. 

Neither one of you dares to move. You’re waiting, convinced you’re about to be shocked at any moment. 

But you aren’t.

Spencer was right, thank god.

He collapses beside you and the room fills with the sounds of your haggard breathing.

“How did you know that would work?” You finally break the silence, still struggling to catch your breath as he rolls over onto his side to face you.

“I didn’t, it was a lucky guess.”

You sit straight up, looking offended. 

“You promised.” You try not to sound shrill, since he did technically fulfil his end of the deal. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” You can’t stay mad at that sheepish half smile. How is he still managing a smile after everything you’ve been through? 

“I mean, I guess it’s fine since you didn’t technically break your promise. How did you figure it out?” You lay back down on your side so you’re face to face. 

“The collars are meant to be used for ‘fixing bad habits.’ I eventually realized that that meant training.”

“Training?”

“Like training a dog.” He grimaces. “When we do something wrong we’re shocked, when we do something right we aren’t. What he’s essentially doing is training us to do what he wants unprompted.” 

“So that he doesn’t even have to ask.”

“Exactly, I have to assume that the goal would be that eventually we would be having sex the majority of the time. He said he isn’t going to speak to us anymore so it’s safe to assume he plans on using the collars as his only communication.” 

“How much would it take to kill us?” Your voice shrinks as you ask the question that’s been picking away at the back of your mind.

“Electricity? It’s hard to say. It’s less about the voltage and more about the current, any amount of voltage to a human heart could be fatal. But the human body has an inherent resistance to electrical current. It’s a really tricky concept because without sufficient voltage the current would be unable to travel through the body regardless. The closest thing to an answer that I can give you is that nine volts with enough current would typically be considered enough to deliver a lethal shock.” His hands start to move in that familiar way they do when he’s lost in an explanation.

“How much do you think our collars emit?”

He hesitates before he speaks again.

“The average dog collar emits three to nine volts with a low current but it’s safe to assume that based on the feeling of the shock, and how it courses through our entire bodies, that he has modified them to have a stronger current.” 

“So it could kill us.”

“Yes, it’s possible.”

“So we should do everything in our power to not risk another shock.” 

“Yes, that would be wise.”

“So we let him… train us?”

“I don’t think we have much of a choice in the matter.”

There isn’t much more you can say about that. What other options are there? That’s the question you’ve been asking yourself since you were taken. What else could you possibly do?

“What happens when we’re trained?”

“I think we just have to hope it doesn’t get to that point.”

You know the answer, he does too. If it works then you both become obedient pets, fucking each others brains out non stop until your hearts stop. 

“So from now on when we wake up we should just have sex until we’re sure he’s satisfied?”

“I guess.”

★

The next morning when the lights come on you do just that. 

You wake up to sloppy kisses, rolling over almost instinctually onto your belly as he tugs your panties down. You lay prone as he kisses down the length of your spine before sucking a mark into the skin. And another, and another, and another. You bury your face in your pillow, letting out a series of low moans. His knee spreads your legs as he slots himself between your thighs. 

And you’re happy to let him.

He comes buried in your pussy, but not before his arm twisted around to the front of you and ripped an orgasm from you.

“Should we go again?” You turned to whisper, worry biting at the edges of your voice. 

His hands on your hips guide you on top of him, once you’re straddling him he pulls you into a lazy kiss.

“I don’t know if I can right now.” He murmurs, almost cracking a smile. “Besides, I don’t think it’s about doing it multiple times, it’s about doing it unprompted."

“Okay, we can just do this then.” You wrap your lips around his bottom lip, lightly sucking. 

It’s easy to get distracted by him, everything about him is distracting. But you’ve had an idea on your mind for sometime and you need to find a way to bring it up without drawing attention to it. 

“Do you remember when Tobias Hankle saved your life?” He stiffens up a bit at the name but he nods.

“I couldn’t forget it if I tried.”

“Why do you think he did it?”

“He wasn’t a bad person, he was just a person in a bad situation, he never had a chance to be anything else. He was a victim of his circumstances.”

“I wonder if we could be saved the same way.” You murmur it against his jaw, hoping it’s loud enough to be heard and quiet enough to not be picked up by a microphone. 

“I don’t think that would save me, not this time.” He picks up on what you mean immediately, his fingers comb through your hair as you kiss his cheek. You brush your lips against his stubble. 

“It might save me.” 

He flips you both so he’s on top, where his lips can’t be read by anyone looking down from above. 

“It hurts.” His lips connect to your throat, kissing across the line of bruises. “You would have to stay completely silent and still.”

“I can handle it.” 

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“Then we do this.” Your hand trails down his body until you can palm him through his boxers, a small part of you is pleased to find he’s already hard. “We do this forever, until we’re old and grey.” He moves up your jaw, biting your earlobe before breathing his words out against you.

“I could seriously hurt you.”

“Then do it right, put those three PHD’s to work. Do it hard enough to prove that it’s real, and soft enough that you don’t break anything.”  

“That’s a really dangerous line to ride.”

“We won’t get another chance. Make it real.” It’s the last thing you say to him before you go back to kissing him in earnest. 

Turns out he can go again. 

★

How many days has it been?

It can’t have been more than a week since you were taken, you’re sure of it. 

Without the daily presence of the unsubs voice everything starts to blend together. Wake up, have sex, stare longingly at each other as you talk about nothing in particular until you either have more sex or are shocked into doing so. 

Out of habit, you start crawling on top of him before you’re even fully awake every morning.

Just like the unsub wants. 

Just like you want.

That line starts to get blurry and the thought scares you, so you choose to ignore the nasty little voice in your head. 

After another long day you curl up against him, grateful for the dim lighting the evenings provide for you. 

“Do you think he’s won?” You whisper into the darkness, you’re certain the unsub must be asleep at this point, you’ve been awake so long. He has to sleep eventually.  

“What do you mean? I’m sure the team is still looking for us.” He holds your face in one of his hands, an action that is starting to feel familiar to you. 

“Yeah, but look at us.” You motion at yourself dramatically. “He did it, we’re just animals now, doing whatever he wants and now we… we enjoy it, all we do is have sex. He won.” You notably haven’t been shocked in some time. 

“I don’t think that’s how we should view it.”

“How else are we supposed to look at it then?”

“We… take comfort in each other, despite the things he makes us do, we still-” He stops abruptly, swallowing loudly before continuing. “We still care for each other, that means we’re still human.” 

“He doesn’t even have to tell us what to do anymore, Spencer. We just do it.” Your voice cracks, this whole situation has made you insufferably emotional. 

“I think you’re being too hard on yourself.” His thumb traces little shapes against your cheek.

“How much of this is real?” You hate how needy you sound.

“All of it’s real. All of this has happened and is continuing to happen.” He tilts your head up, forcing you to look at him.

“You know what I mean, Spence.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” He looks at you like he feels bad for you and you hate it. 

“Why didn’t this happen organically? Why did it have to happen here, where it was forced?” The words are clunky as they force themselves out of your mouth.

“I think it would have happened organically, eventually. I can’t count the amount of times I almost asked you out.”

“Then why didn’t you? I would have said yes.”

“I realize that now but I just couldn’t be sure.” How the fuck could he be unsure? He’s the most intelligent man you’ve ever met and you certainly weren’t subtle.

“I was obsessed with you.”

“You were nice to everyone.”

“I was extra nice to you.”

“You never realized that I liked you either.” He scoffs. 

“Yeah, but I’m not a genius.” You poke him gently in the chest and he cracks a small smile. 

“We could still do that, go out. When we get out of here.”

Could you?

It’s hard to imagine a world where you sit across from him in a restaurant after all of this. 

Before this? Sure, you spent plenty of nights imagining it. You would style your hair down, and wear mascara. And you’d wear one of your dresses, something he’d never seen before that showed off your shoulders and legs. He never got to see that at work, you wanted to wow him. 

Now he’s seen it all, and he seems pretty pleased with it but you aren’t exactly fantasizing about a little italian restaurant with him these days. Not when you know what awaits you after dessert. 

Could you sit across from him, eating complimentary bread out of a basket, talking about the weather? Your relationship seems to be pretty far beyond that at this point. 

“Maybe.” You murmur.

“Maybe?” His voice hitches up as he cocks an eyebrow at you. “If you turn me down for a date after all of this I’m quitting my job and moving as far away from Virginia as possible.”

“I’m not saying that- I’m just saying… I don’t know. Can you really see us going back to normal after this? Just acting like this never happened, we start dating and- and what? We hold hands everywhere, we go out to dinner, go to the movies, we act like a normal couple? I just don’t think we’re a normal couple, Spence.” 

“We don’t have to be a normal couple, I don’t want to be a normal couple. We can be a couple that gets takeout and only watches movies at home because we’re scared to go outside. We can be disgusting with our public displays of affection, just to show everyone that they could never understand the devotion we share. Instead of dates we can stay in bed and I’ll show you every night just how much I want to be with you, I don’t care. We can do whatever you want to do, as long as it’s done together.” He sounds like he’s already made the decision for you and honestly, you’re glad. He makes it sound so easy. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean it, whatever you want.” He plants a kiss between your brows before resting his chin on the top of your head. “That also means that if we get out of here and you want nothing to do with me I’ll respect that choice.”

“You’re an idiot.” The absurdity of the idea makes you laugh.   

“You have that effect on me.” 

There’s a beat of silence where you simply enjoy the feeling of his arms around you before you bring up the question that’s been quietly building up in the back of your mind.

“Do you think it’s possible I’m pregnant?” You don’t feel too different but you have to ask. With the amount of unprotected intercourse you’re having it’s entirely possible. Spencer only pulls out half the time, it doesn’t seem like something he’s even concerned with. Yet when you look at him now he looks pale. 

“I- I hadn’t even thought about that. I guess I just assumed we’d be out of here by now, I hadn’t considered the possibility.” So rarely does he sound as unsure as he does right now. 

“What do we do if I am?” 

“We… handle it. We can handle it.”

No you can’t.

Not when there’s no end in sight. Imagining giving birth in this tiny room with only Spencer to help you makes your blood run cold. 

“Maybe we should handle it before it becomes a problem.” 

By putting your plan into motion and getting the hell out of here. 

What other choice do you have? You’ve all but given up on the team at this point, and you know he has too. Even if neither one of you wants to say it. 

“If you’re ready for that.” You can tell purely based on his wary tone that he knows exactly what you mean. 

“I’m ready.” You hope he is too. You’re only gonna get one shot at this, and if you fail there might not ever be another chance at getting out of here. 

★

This is it.

Hopefully you’re as good of an actress as the unsub seems to think you are. 

Okay.

You’re dead.

Your heart stopped, probably from all the electric shocks, it makes perfect sense.

You aren’t sure if Spencer’s awake yet, but you can’t check. You try to recall the original videos you watched on the jet of the victims. You don’t remember the quality being that good, there were multiple angles but they were all grainy. Hopefully the quality is poor enough that they can’t pick up the tiny movements of your chest as you try to stay completely still. 

After what feels like hours Spencer finally sits up beside you, mumbling a greeting to you before going quiet. He whispers your name, when you don’t respond he shakes your shoulders before repeating your name louder. 

“Sweetheart, wake up.” You’re doing everything in your power to keep your breaths shallow, keeping your chest as still as possible. “Come on, time to get up.” You aren’t the only one putting on a show, the panicked lilt of his voice is exactly what you asked for. Dejected and frightened. 

His fingers slide under your collar, pressing against your pulse point. You know he feels the beat of your heart but the hitch of his breath says otherwise. 

“No, no no no.” His voice is barely a whisper as he presses his ear to your chest. 

You’re both caught off guard when a shock is delivered to both of you. You grit your teeth immediately, it takes every ounce of strength you have left to not react. You let your body twitch, keeping your face free of any reaction to the best of your ability. It’s a full ten seconds of electricity through your veins, when it finally stops you fight the urge to take a deep breath, instead returning to your brief little inhales and exhales.  

You don’t dare to open your eyes but you can hear Spencer struggling to get back up. Your entire body feels fried and you’re almost thankful for the excuse to stay laying down. 

You can hear him sniffling, his hands are on you, locked together over the center of your chest. 

Just like when Tobias Hankel saved him. 

You brace yourself as he begins chest compressions, a steady rhythm against you. It’s exactly as you’ve been trained, hard and consistent, when performing CPR you should be pushing in at least two inches. He’s certainly doing that, you want to wince in pain but manage to resist when he stops, carefully opening your mouth with a hand on your chin before locking his lips to yours. He pinches your nose shut, when he blows the air you’re eternally grateful when he breaks the seal between your lips and lets the air escape instead of forcing it into your lungs. 

You make sure to let your chest rise regardless. 

After one exaggerated breath he sits back up and returns to the compressions, his own breathing is shaky and you can hear him gasping, scared little sounds. You count each agonizing slam against your chest, a small whimper escapes your throat when you feel a sharp pain in your ribs. He doesn’t relent, when he hits thirty on the dot his mouth is back on yours, your cheeks are wet this time when he pulls back, when he returns to the chest compressions each one sends a jolt of pain directly to your ribcage. 

“Come on, please, please, just wake up.” His voice trembles and it’s clear now that he’s crying. “Please I can’t do this without you, I can’t do anything without you, please, wake up for me, please sweetheart.” He’s a rambling mess, his voice a strained whine. 

You aren’t the only one acting like your life depends on it.

There’s no more shocks, and no voice over the intercom. Just the two of you putting on the performance of a lifetime, praying that this works. 

With each push you feel the pain in your ribs grow sharper and more focused on the left side of your body. 

You don’t know how many rounds of compressions you do, eventually you go numb, you briefly wonder if you’re actually dying as Spencer sobs over your body. Maybe you really did die, and these are your last moments in your body. 

Eventually he stops. His body folds forward, his forehead resting over your heart. 

“I’m so sorry, I should have kept you safe, I should have protected you.” His body trembles against you as he scoops you up holding your limp body in his arms. 

When do you call it quits on this?

You don’t have a plan for if this doesn’t work, do you just sit up and act like everything’s fine?

“Just wake up, please, I love you.” His voice is so soft and vulnerable. 

That almost makes you open your eyes. 

Instead you stiffen up at the sound of the door creaking open. You don’t dare move now, not when you’ve already come this far. 

You can feel Spencer's body go rigid against yours as foot steps cross the room.

“I- I never wanted her to get hurt. I never meant for this to happen.” You recognize the voice as Peters immediately, even without the crackling robotic tone of the intercom. “Oh god…” You can’t help but finally open your eyes to stare at him.

He’s so… ordinary. 

Mid to late thirties, white, balding, polo shirt and khakis. He’s crying, his head is in his hands as he whimpers. You don’t get a good look at his face before Spencer is on him. 

You’ve seen Spencer in the field before, this is nothing like that. 

Any of the calculated, deliberate restraint he usually exhibits goes out the window as his hands grip his shirt collar, his fist slams into the side of his head. Peter stumbles, falling onto his back, staring up with a look of horror as Spencer kneels over him. 

You watch, frozen as his fist connects to your captors face. 

Again, and again, and again, and again. 

You watch as his face goes from a terrified expression to a smashed mess of flesh and teeth. He struggles for a little while, weakly clawing at Spencer's chest, but it does nothing to deter him. 

At one point Peter looks at you, both eyes so swollen they’re barely visible. You hear his garbled voice.

“Please.” 

Spencer grabs him by the jaw, forcing him to look back towards him. You think back to something he said. 

“He doesn’t get to touch you, he doesn’t get to talk to you, he doesn’t get to breathe your air.”

He really meant it.

All for you.

He remains deadly quiet as he slams his fist into him until he stops twitching beneath him. His knuckles are split, but it’s nothing compared to Peter's face. He doesn’t even look like he used to be a person.

Just a lump of gore with teeth. 

Because he loves you.

There’s a moment of silence where Spencer’s chest heaves as he struggles to catch his breath, your own heart racing as you stare at him, sitting up and clutching your ribs. Eventually his fingers wander down and into the pockets of what remains of Peter Hill. Tossing his wallet to the side before carefully setting a cell phone beside the corpse.  

Finally he turns, a splatter of viscera coats his face and torso.

And you know all he can see on your face is the hunger behind your gaze. 

He has the same look in his eyes. 

Pupils blown, encompassing the rest of his iris.

No amount of therapy is ever going to fix you after this. 

“You did it.” You whisper as he sits up, crawling over to you as he holds your face in his blood smeared hands. 

“It was all you, you did so well.” He kisses your cheek as he tucks your hair behind your ears.

The logical thing to say right now would be ‘let’s get out of here.’ The logical thing to do right now would be to run out the now open door and scream until someone, anyone, comes to help you. Instead you turn your head towards his hand and kiss his palm.

“Tell me that you meant it.” You whisper. 

“Every word.” 

You slide your hand up and across his chest, making your intentions pretty clear as you lean forward to catch his lips in a kiss. Gentle and sweet to start, eventually becoming something with more fire behind it. He’s the one to pull away first.

“You’re hurt.” His hand traces over the back of yours, leaving a slick trail of red. 

“It isn’t too bad. I promise.”

“Are you absolutely sure?” He lifts your top to examine your ribs, you doubt anything's broken. 

It’s probably just a fracture. 

Probably.

It isn’t important right now, nothing is as important as the look in his eyes. 

“Say it again.” You pull your shirt down, lifting his chin so he focuses on your face instead of your potentially broken bones.

He knows what you want, he always knows what you want. 

“I love you.” 

“Again.” You mumble, unable to take your eyes off of him. 

“I love you.” 

And you know it isn’t for the cameras, it isn’t fearing punishment, it isn’t to keep you safe. 

He says it for you, just for you. 

You grab the collar of his now stained shirt and smash your lips against his. He devours you, all consuming and possessive with every lap of his tongue and every nip of his teeth. His hand is sliding up your leg, you don’t bother being as subtle as you shove your hand down the front of his boxers, you’ve never been as pleased as you are right now to find that he’s already hard. He groans into your mouth and you happily swallow every one. When his fingers graze against your inner thigh you gasp, the sharp intake of breath makes you wince as you yelp. The pain in your rips taking all of your focus as well as his. He immediately pulls away from you. 

“Hospital first, everything else later.” His tone is firm and you know it’s a command for himself as well as you. 

You whine for a moment but when the stabbing pain in your ribs continues you give it up, letting him help you to your feet. He practically carries you as you limp beside him, but not before taking the blood stained cell phone in his hands. 

Past your makeshift bed, past what’s left of your captor, past the red door, and through the hallway to the door at the end that’s now swung open. 

You’re both faced with a ladder. 

As you’re forced to climb up the rungs you’re less convinced your ribs are just fractured. You whine with each step up.

When he lifts the latch climbing out into the sun, he’s quick to turn around to help you up and out. Once you’ve managed to fully exit the bunker with what you hope is minimal damage you’re left standing barefoot in a suburban backyard. White picket fence and all. 

He kicks the hatch closed and you can see that the top of it is made to look just like patchy grass, blending right in with the rest of the yard. The rest of the team never would have found you here. 

You stay behind Spencer as he walks towards the front yard, your hand locked around his.

You aren’t really sure what you’re supposed to do now, outside of the basement you suddenly feel small compared to the rest of the world.  

Spencer's hand never leaves yours as he flips the unsubs phone open, dialing the number without looking at it as he brings it to his ear.

“Garcia, can you get a trace on this number?” He says it so casually, like it’s any other day.

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line until you hear a quiet voice.

“Spencer?”

He hesitates, almost as if he isn’t sure.

“Yeah.” 

She starts to speak again but you don’t have a chance to hear what she says as he clicks the phone shut, tossing it onto the grass in front of you both. 

In the unforgiving light of the sun you get a really good look at him. 

He looks awful. 

The dark circles that seem to be permanently under his eyes have practically doubled in size. His jaw is lined with a sprinkle of stubble and god he looks thin. 

Of course he always looks thin but now he’s thin. 

And none of that even touches the fact that he’s still actively bleeding out of the gashes that decorate his knuckles. When you look him in the eye you can see he’s sizing you up as well.

You’re certain you’re as much of a sight as he is.

A perfect pair.

You stay standing, you’re a little worried that if you sit down you won’t get back up. You thought it was the morning but it looks more like evening, people pass in cars, slowing down at the sight of you and neighbors step out onto their porches. 

It isn’t long before you hear sirens. But it isn't the police that pull up first, it’s a black SUV, followed by an ambulance. Hotch and Morgan rush out of the car, guns drawn. You don’t have to tell them he’s already dead, one look at Spencer and they both holster their weapons. 

The way Morgan looks at you makes you nauseous. 

You’ve seen him look at corpses in a similar manner, scowling like he arrived at the scene a few minutes too late. Hotch seems to sense his reluctance, directing him towards the house. He’s all too happy to get away from you. 

You’re glad it’s just Hotch. 

He doesn’t try to embrace you, and he does his best to keep his expression neutral, even if it’s obvious he’s profiling you both right now. 

You zone out, focusing on the dozens of cop cars that come screeching down the street. Spencer and Hotch are having a conversation but you can’t focus on it when you’ve got half the Seattle police force storming the little blue house. Several of them stop in their tracks, gawking at you. 

To be fair, you are standing out on the lawn in panties and a tank top. 

A paramedic tries to lead you away from Spencer as he continues to talk with your unit chief, he stops abruptly as you let out a sob that catches you by surprise, a little hiccuping sound as they put an arm around you and try to take you away from him. 

Spencer reacts before you can even say his name, yanking you backwards as he shoves the paramedic to the ground. Standing in front of you defensively.

Everybody freezes. Hotch, the other medics, even the cops.

You feel everyone's eyes on the two of you as you cling to Spencer's arm. You want to say something, anything, but your tongue lay uselessly in your mouth.

Hotch is quick to help him to his feet, apologizing profusely as he puts a hand on the paramedics shoulder. You can hear him whisper under his breath. 

“I think it’ll be best if we don’t try to separate them.” 

When he approaches you his hands are out where you can see them and he speaks softly. 

“Reid, we need to get her checked out, from the way she’s walking I would imagine something is probably broken.” You recognize his tone of voice. It’s how he talks to victims on a case once they’ve been rescued. Technically that’s what you are now. “You can go with her but you need to get checked out too, you’ve lost a lot of blood.” 

You squeeze his arm, turning to look at him as he nods. 

Hotch escorts you both to the ambulance, when they lay you down on the stretcher Spencer stays by your side, silently watching, with his hand always holding yours. 

As they examine your ribs someone takes a look at Spencer's  fingers, you take the opportunity to finally try and speak.

“How long were we gone?” You don’t recognize the shaky, soft voice that leaves your mouth. 

You have seen him smile a single digit number of times since you joined the BAU, right now he gives you a sympathetic smile. Like he’s looking at a wounded animal. 

“About three and a half weeks.” 

That catches Spencer's attention.

“How is that possible?” He pulls his hand away from the doctor looking him over as he comes to sit beside you on the edge of the ambulance. “We couldn’t have been in there for more than a week.”

“Based on what we saw in the videos he was depriving you of sleep. He kept you awake for long periods of time and let you sleep for short bursts.” He almost looks like he’s about to put a hand on your knee but he thinks better of it when his eyes dart towards Spencer. “Garcia is in the process of recovering all of the footage, we promise we will keep it as private as possible, the rest of the team will not have access to it.” 

Three and a half weeks. 

“Where’s the rest of the team?” It’s like Spencer can feel how stressed you are as he tries to change the subject. 

“They had to return to Quantico.” He looks ashamed of himself as he says it. “We negotiated a deal to keep Morgan and myself on the case for an extended period of time but everyone else needed to return to work.”

“How much time did you have left?” You say it before you can stop yourself. 

How much time before you abandoned us completely?

Not that it mattered, it wasn’t the team that saved you. 

“We had another week and a half.” You have to give it to Hotch, he doesn’t try to lie to you. You only nod in response, squeezing Spencer's hand before he can say something he regrets. 

The paramedic poking at your ribs tells Hotch that they need to get you in for an x-ray as soon as possible, there aren’t any signs of internal bleeding yet but that could change at a moment's notice. 

You wish he’d talk to you directly, it makes you feel like a child when they don’t address you. 

★

You can see them through the glass. 

Emily, Morgan, J.J, even Penelope. 

You can also assume what he’s telling them. Usual protocol for someone in the state you’re in is to ease them into interactions with loved ones. At the very least you don’t have to worry about all of them running in here at once.

“We could be in worse shape.” Spencer mumbles from across the room. You refused to be in separate rooms, instead you stand opposite each other in your shared room. Neither one of you is ready to lay down, not after the day you’ve had, you’re too jittery. 

He’s right, you really could be. 

There aren’t words for the amount of relief you felt when they told you that your urine test came back negative for pregnancy. Your period was likely late because of the stress your body was under. Sure, having his baby wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but in those circumstances? You don’t know how you’d ever live with conceiving a child in those conditions. 

Spencer narrowly avoided sepsis, his gums were in bad shape, he’s on an IV drip of a pretty strong antibiotic. They said there was nothing that could be done for his fingers other than eventual cosmetic surgery to try and reconstruct the ends into something other than a smashed, burned mess. And of course he had several fractures along his knuckles. 

You did in fact have a broken rib, and two fractured ones. Spencer wasn’t happy to hear that but he never once expressed any upset towards you. You’re pretty sure you could kill someone in front of him and he wouldn’t so much as bat an eye. 

And now you’re here. 

Your stomach and chest are covered in bandages, his hands are in a similar state. Both sentenced to bed rest for quite some time.

You cringe at the sound of the door opening as Emily steps into the room.

She pulls you into a hug that you struggle to return.

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” She whispers as you hear her sniffle.

You aren’t, but you nod anyway.

“Me too.”

“We have the best nursing staff assembled to do your kit, everyone is female. I can stay with you or I can wait right outside the door.” She gives your hand a squeeze and you instinctively pull away.

“What kit?” You’re hyper aware of how shrill your voice sounds, it makes Spencer stand up straighter across the room. 

“The rape kit.” Her expression softens and she speaks like she’s scared you’ll run away like a frightened animal. 

You scoff.

“I don’t need a rape kit.”

“We really think you should, hon.” She takes a step towards you and you lurch backwards, Spencer is quick to cross the room to stand beside you, angled imperceptibly between you and Emily. 

“I don’t need a rape kit.” You say it more firmly this time, enough to catch the attention of the rest of your team in the hall, Hotch steps into the doorway as you look back and forth between them. “I wasn’t raped.” 

A hush falls over the room. 

“Maybe we could talk alone, you might be more comfortable-” Emily starts to walk towards you but Spencer steps forward, stopping her in her tracks.

“I’m not going anywhere without Spencer.” You accentuate your point by grabbing his arm and pulling closer.

“No one is saying that this is his fault.” Hotch doesn’t step into the room, he speaks in that steady even tone of his. “You are both victims in this situation, we just need to assess the extent of your wounds.” 

“They already did.” You wish they would all stop looking at you like you’re made of glass.

“With wounds of this… genre, it’s best that we get them checked out immediately, we have up to ninety six hours to-” Hotch starts again in that painfully gentle tone, like you might shatter into pieces if he speaks too loudly.

“The answer is no. You can’t do it without my permission, and I’m saying no.”

“I really think we should talk about this privately.” You glare at Emily when she speaks again, you’d always considered her to be your closest friend in the BAU. Now you feel on edge around her, around everyone. 

“I said no.” You hiss.

“You can’t legally force her into any testing without her explicit consent.” Spencer finally speaks, measured and authoritative. His tone reminds you of Hotch’s. 

It makes Emily flex her fist, they both stare at each other until Hotch steps in between them.

“And we have no plans to do any tests without her permission, if she doesn’t want the kit then we won’t do one.” You can tell Hotch is desperate to deescalate the situation. 

“I wasn’t raped.” You repeat yourself, watching as the entire room flinches as you say it. 

Including Spencer. 

No one has anything to say to that. 

“I think I’d like to be alone.” You manage to steady your voice as you glare at them. Hotch is the first to step out of the room, when Emily reaches the doorway she turns back. 

“Let’s go Spencer.” The second the words leave her mouth your hand squeezes his. Her eyes dart down as she catches the movement, when her gaze returns to your eyes her expression is devastating.

You don’t want their pity. 

Yet they seem resilient in their attempts to shove it down your throat. 

“We’ll talk to you all tomorrow. I’d like to sleep.” Your words are the final nail in the coffin.

You are a we now.

An us.

When you’re with Spencer you are alone. Without another word he helps you into your bed before pushing his own bed against yours. Neither one of you speaks as you lay down, you simply hold hands until you feel his breathing become even and steady, the all too familiar indicator that he’s fallen asleep. You take the opportunity to slip into the bathroom. When you flip the lights on you finally know why everyone keeps staring at you. You make Spencer look good in comparison. 

You don’t recognize the terrified woman in the mirror. She looks like she survived something much worse than being trapped in a basement for a month.

So much of your skin is covered in bruises. 

If he didn’t leave a bite mark or a hickie somewhere he squeezed you so tightly he left handprints. His grip hadn’t felt that tight in the moment. 

You look straight out of a horror movie. 

A shell of who you once were.

Your hair is still damp from when you had taken a shower earlier, pulling it away from your face while looking at your neck. Dark purple splotches cover your throat, spreading down your clavicle. A line of blisters and burns decorate your neck. 

You feel like a monster. No wonder everyone looks at you like you survived something horrifying. Maybe you did. 

You flick the lights off after just a few seconds, you don’t want to look at the creature staring back at you anymore. 

 When you step back into the room and he’s sitting up, and he looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

“C’mere.” His voice is thick with sleep as he motions you towards him. You climb into his bed, smoothing his hair down with your hands. “You’re so pretty.” 

“You’re delusional.” Your voice sounds like your own again when it’s just the two of you. Not the trembling quiet voice that seems to come out when anyone else is around. 

“So, so pretty.”

“Everyone's been staring at me like I’m a ghost.”

“They’re staring because they’re jealous. They can’t believe that you’re so pretty and you’re all mine.” Ang god, you believe him. Forgetting all about the monster in the mirror. He could tell you the sky was pink and that grass was blue and you’d believe him right now. 

“I love you.” He wipes a tear from your lash line with his thumb.

“I love you.” You don’t doubt that for a second. 

★

Everything is different now, how could it not be?

Neither one of you could have guessed how your time in the bunker would affect you in the long term. 

You both go back to work after a mandatory three month sabbatical. You avoid field work, opting to work from a desk most of the time, no one ever questions the choice. And Spencer always takes the stairs when you come in to work, he says the elevator makes him nauseous.

You moved out of your studio a week after you left the bunker. The single room space you once found cozy now made you feel like you were suffocating. Besides, neither of you slept well when you were apart, it just made sense to move in with him. 

Instead of the flowy and light pajamas you used to wear you now sleep in long sleeves and layers, even if it means waking up covered in sweat. 

Spencer never falls asleep before you, most nights you wake up to find he’s wrapped himself so tightly around you it’s impossible to get comfortable. You never complain, it doesn’t bother you. 

You don’t go to girls' nights anymore and Spencer never takes up Derek’s offer to grab a drink. When there’s the occasional team bonding trip to the bar you both go, never separating your hand from the others. 

The picture on your desk of your friends has been replaced with a photo of you and Spencer at your cousin's wedding. The trinkets that once sat under your monitor suddenly seemed silly, eventually they ended up shoved in the back of a drawer. You don’t need them anymore; your deskmate always makes sure you have fresh flowers to brighten up the space.  

Instead of being charmingly awkward Spencer’s been described as a bit more blunt and offputting than he used to be. And fine, you aren’t as bubbly as you used to be. You have every right to act the way you do. You still find him plenty charming.

Sure, you miss your friends. You miss spending your lunch breaks trying new local restaurants with Emily, and you miss long nights spent in Penelope's cave working on a case. And maybe you miss early morning trips to the gym with Morgan. But those things aren’t an option for you anymore. You try to be away from him but you can’t, it’s like you’re addicted. If you spend too much time apart you start to break down, hyperventilating until you find your way back to him. 

You’d feel worse about it if he wasn’t just as bad. 

Maybe worse.

The first time you interrogated an unsub after your sabbatical Spencer had burst into the room and Morgan had to put him in a headlock to stop him from strangling the unsub. 

They don’t look at you the same anymore. 

Hotch looks at Spence like he’s dangerous.

Morgan doesn’t joke around with you anymore. 

Spencer made Penelope cry on your first day back.

And Emily looks at him like he’s holding you hostage.  

You don’t care what they think. They didn’t save you, Spencer did. And you’d much rather have the ring that’s around your finger than a cuff around your wrist. 

They just don’t understand your relationship, they couldn’t. None of them know what it’s like to be loved like this. 

All that matters is that you’re happy, even if they don’t seem convinced. 

You aren’t a normal couple. 

And you don’t want to be. 

★

blackout | ⚡︎ ❀

⤷ a power outage strands you and reid in the basement records room. his flashlight is useless, your lighter keeps flickering out, and you’re pretty sure you said too much — but somehow, he never makes you regret it.

bullseye | ❀

⤷ you didn’t plan on staying late at the bar, hustling reid at darts, or flirting with him after trivia. you definitely didn’t plan on the coffee waiting on your desk the next morning, either.

gambit | ❀

⤷ spencer pulls out a travel chess set on the jet and offers to teach you. it’s a harmless way to kill time… until you realize how much you like the way he looks at you across the chessboard. // ficlet written for my 2k celebration event!

hot topic | ❀⚡︎ᢉ𐭩

⤷ after an injury in the field, you patch spencer up with a skull-print bandage. he gets a little jealous, you get a little deflective, and a quiet moment passes at 30,000 feet where you both admit more than you mean to.

fever dream | ꩜ ❀

⤷ you don’t get sick. you don’t let coworkers into your apartment. and you definitely don’t have vivid, full-body sex dreams about spencer reid. except today, apparently, you do all three. 18+ MDNI

night watch | ❀ ⚡︎

⤷ ever since he showed up at your apartment (and ever since that fever dream you’re pretending didn’t happen), you’ve avoided being alone with reid. unfortunately, hotch has another plan: assigning the two of you to an overnight stakeout.

liquid courage | ❀

⤷ you never call anyone when you’re drunk — except tonight, you do. margaritas, glitter, and one reckless drunk dial later, you’re in spencer reid’s car at 1am, wearing his coat and trying not to notice how good he smells.

head rush | ❀ ⚡︎

⤷ dayton, ohio. one asshole cop, one concussion, six hours of stay-awake poker, and a kiss that makes you see stars — right up until you slam on the brakes.

lies | ⚡︎

⤷ after ohio, you rebuild your armor and pretend the kiss didn’t happen. two weeks of awkward distance, a charged moment at the gun range, and a stairwell conversation later, you tell spencer the cruelest lie you can think of. it should end there — but then he finds the only evidence that can prove you wrong.

truths | ⚡︎ ❀ ᢉ𐭩

⤷ spencer shows up at your door with irrefutable proof you’ve been lying — to him and to yourself — but that doesn’t stop you from trying to deny it anyway. what follows is a late-night reckoning: small truths, careful boundaries, and the soft kind of honesty you usually run from.

adagio | ❀

⤷ at work, you and spencer try out adagio tempo until a hotel room debrief tests just how slow you can go.

heart eyes | ❀

⤷ spencer tries to focus on the case, but watching you translate grief into gentleness ruins his concentration until morgan snaps him out of it. // ficlet written for my 1k celebration event!

limited exposure | ⚡︎ ❀

⤷ at rossi’s book release party, the team’s playful teasing pushes you and reid’s “not-a-relationship” into a quiet fight, a real apology, and a red-velvet photo booth that develops more than just pictures.

october nights | ❀

⤷ you can’t hide the fact you love autumn from anyone — especially spencer. he gives you all the best parts of the season in a single day: leaves in the park, halloween decorations, classic horror films, and a night that spooks you in a way you hadn’t planned for.

just socks | ⚡︎ ❀

⤷ you buy spencer funny socks because they reminded you of him. which is totally normal. and casual. and definitely not girlfriend behavior. // ficlet written for my 2k celebration event!

scorpio season | ❀

⤷ you’ve never been a fan of birthdays, but celebrating spencer (and reluctantly allowing him to celebrate you too) might just change your mind.

out of the doghouse | ❀

⤷ your neighbor’s shy, sweet dog doesn’t trust men, and she definitely doesn’t trust spencer when he shows up to your place like he belongs there while you’re dogsitting for the weekend. // ficlet written for my 2k celebration event!

raincheck | ❀ ᢉ𐭩

⤷ you finally say yes when spencer asks to take you on a real date, but work interrupts the night before the entrees arrive.

shelter from the storm | ⚡︎ ᢉ𐭩 ꩜

⤷ in the cold aftermath of a fight left unresolved, you & spencer get stranded as a storm rolls in. with the roads underwater and only one vacant room at the motel, you’re left with nowhere else to run but straight into him. 18+, MDNI. sfw/under 18 version

call it what you want | ⚡︎ ❀

⤷ things between you and spencer are perfect, right up until a flirty grad student and a mandatory ethics training force you to decide what, exactly, to call the thing you’ve been pretending doesn’t need a name.

wear & tear | ꩜

⤷ after a brutal week on a case and an evening at o’keefe’s spent hiding your relationship from the team, you and spencer finally get each other alone — and your fishnets do not survive the night. 18+, MDNI.

can’t keep my hands to myself | ❀ ꩜

⤷ spencer can’t keep his hands off of you during a rare day-off movie marathon, so you call him out and turn it into a no-touching bet with paperwork on the line. 18+, MDNI. // ficlet written for my 2k celebration event!

operation mystery girl | ᢉ𐭩 ❀

⤷ when the team realizes spencer has a secret girlfriend, garcia launches a glitter-covered investigation that’s equal parts profiling and meddling. the only problem? their “mystery girl” profile is so wrong it hurts — and then the case cracks wide open, whether you’re ready or not.

something borrowed | ❀

⤷ a very simple, very sweet, very boyfriend-coded gesture from spencer in the BAU bullpen becomes the team’s newest obsession. // ficlet written for my 2k celebration event!

the comet | ❀

⤷ you wake up in spencer’s bed to feather-light fingers tracing your freckles like they’re constellations. // ficlet written for my 2k celebration event!

tethered | ᢉ𐭩

⤷ spencer has spent so long being the one who steadies you, up until an unsub he sees too much of himself in knocks him off-balance. he asks for space but ends up at your door anyway, and you become the tether you didn’t know he needed.

liminal | ⚡︎ ᢉ𐭩

⤷ you’re caught between breaths, between doors marked STAFF ONLY, between the life you had and the one you might not wake up to. spencer waits on the other side, choking on words he should’ve said sooner while a ghost from your past sits beside him in the waiting room.

house rules | ᢉ𐭩 ⚡︎ ❀

⤷ getting shot was dramatic, but recovering is worse. especially now that spencer reid has a key to your apartment and a color-coded plan for your survival.

like real people do | ꩜

⤷ a follow-up doctor’s appointment leaves you with medical clearance, a filthy dream, and a rapidly deteriorating ability to act normal around your boyfriend spencer reid.

nothing serious | ❀

⤷ you agree to girls’ night to celebrate your first week back at work and end up a little too drunk, a little too honest, and very much forced to confront how serious your relationship with spencer has gotten.

you’re all i have to lose | ⚡︎

⤷ after spencer is exposed to anthrax, the hardest part isn’t being afraid. it’s knowing you love him for the same reasons you’re furious with him.

& more, coming soon!

what are greenaway!reader’s vibes .ᐣ.ᐟ

extras

⟢ greenaway!reader pinterest finds

⟢ headcanons 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

⟢ text messages 📱💬 | text messages pt 2

⟢ greenaway!reader fanart by gummy-cat-writes

⟢ apartment moodboard

⟢ hotch & emily’s relationship w/ reader

⟢ spencer said he “notices things” about reader. what does he notice?

⟢ why is greenaway!reader so avoidant/afraid of relationships?

⟢ greenaway!reader’s complex relationship with her sister Elle

⟢ how would greenaway!reader react to spencer going to prison? / part 2

⟢ things spencer has said to greenaway!reader that made reader not want to run

⟢ what did spencer & greenaway!reader each do with their photo booth strips from limited exposure?

⟢ greenaway!reader timeline

⟢ greenaway!reader marathon event

⟢ greenaway!reader’s MySpace page

⟢ greenaway!reader series playlist

⟢ a peek inside greenaway!reader’s camera roll

You yank off your vest and storm away from the perimeter. Your boots crunch against the dry earth with every furious step, dust kicking up in your wake. Your heart is still pounding from the chase, your skin buzzing with leftover adrenaline, but all you can feel is rage.

The unsub had been right there. Cornered. Vulnerable.

And then Spencer pulled you back.

He yanked you out of the way like you were some rookie who couldn’t handle yourself. Like your judgment didn’t count.

You hear your name shouted behind you, sharp and breathless. Spencer’s voice. “You don’t get to be mad at me for saving your life!”

“Don't get to–?” You scoff. “Maybe I wouldn’t need saving if you trusted me to do my job!”

Gravel skitters under your boots as you whirl a corner of the crime scene tape. His hand catches your arm. Firm, but careful. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make you stop. You spin on him.

His curls are tousled, cheeks still flushed from the run. His eyes—usually soft—are wild, furious.

“You’re cocky,” he snaps, breathing hard. “And that cockiness is going to get you killed.”

Your jaw clenches. “And you’re scared. So scared that you’d rather let a murderer walk than risk anything going wrong. That kind of fear is what’s going to get someone else killed.”

The words hang between you like lightning about to strike. For a second, you swear he flinches. Then his expression hardens, voice dropping to something quiet but weighted.

“I was trying to keep you alive.”

You take a breath, steadier now, though your heart still hammers like a warning. “I don’t need a savior, Spencer. I need a partner.”

His gaze flicks away like the words cut too close. Then he looks back at you—cool now, composed in a way that feels almost distant.

“Maybe I’m not the partner you want.”

The sentence lands with more force than you’re ready for. Before you can respond, before the sting of it can fully register, he turns on his heel and walks away, posture stiff, steps heavy.

You almost go after him.

You shift forward, a breath already forming—but Hotch calls your name. It's not loud. Not angry. But there’s weight in it. A warning.

You stop. Shoulders tense, jaw tight. You don’t look back at Hotch, just huff out your frustration and rake a hand through your hair. Then you turn back to the scene, back to your job.

The aftermath of the fight settles in fast—and cold.

You expect tension, maybe even a little snappiness, but what you get is something worse: indifference. It gnaws at you.

Spencer barely looks at you the next morning, his words clipped and only ever related to the case. No warmth, no lingering looks, no small touches. 

He keeps his tone neutral, his eyes carefully distant, like you’re just another member of the team. Like he doesn’t sleep in your bed. Like you’re not his. 

The others pick up on it fast. Maybe because of the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Maybe because of the way your eyes follow Spencer when he pretends not to notice you. Either way, Hotch starts pairing you off differently.

Spencer goes with Prentiss. You go with Morgan. Every time. Clean split. No room for conflict.

Two days of that, and it’s driving you insane.

So you decide to push.

If he’s going to keep pretending you’re just another coworker, fine. You'll make damn sure he remembers you’re not.

You start with a shirt—a subtle choice. Lower neckline. A little tighter. You know how it fits. You know how he looks at you in it.

And sure enough, during a tense debriefing, his eyes flick down for half a second.

You catch it.

You also catch the way he looks away fast, jaw clenched. 

It fuels something in you. Maybe childish. Definitely petty. But cathartic.

You don’t stop there.

When one of the local deputies starts flirting with you—clearly more charm than substance—you let it happen. You let him hover too close, don’t shut him down right away. You don’t flirt back, but you don't back away either. It’s harmless. Harmless and petty.

Spencer doesn’t say a word. But his back stiffens. His shoulders go tight.

He keeps his focus on the whiteboard. Pretends like nothing’s happening.

So you keep going.

You lean over desks more than necessary. Let your shirt ride up just enough when you reach for files or pens or coffee. You wear your hair the way he likes it, loose and soft around your face, knowing exactly how much it makes his fingers itch to touch it.

Then, during a profile briefing in the sheriff’s station, you make a move.

Spencer’s standing near a desk, flipping through a folder. With a sweet smile and an innocent-sounding “Excuse me,” you step in front of him to get to your seat. 

The space is narrow. You don’t make it easier.

Your back brushes right up against him—soft, slow, and unmistakable. Not quite a grind, but definitely not innocent. Your ass presses into his front for the briefest second, and you feel it.

The catch of his breath. The way his body locks up, like he’s doing everything he can not to react.

You sit down like nothing happened. Flip open your tablet. Lean forward casually, pretending to study the crime scene map. Your shirt tugs just slightly. Your hair falls over your shoulder—the way he likes it. And you don’t have to look to know he’s burning a hole in the back of your head.

He doesn’t say a word.

But his silence says plenty.

It’s petty. You know it. But at this point? You don’t care. You like seeing him uncomfortable. You like knowing you’re under his skin—because you’re still mad, too. And he can ignore you all he wants, but you won't make it easy for him.

By the time the suspect is in cuffs three days later, you’ve run him ragged.

Spencer’s tense. Coiled. You’ve seen his hands shake when he thought no one noticed. Seen how much effort he’s putting into not reacting.

You’ve been under his skin for seventy-two straight hours. And it shows.

On the flight home, you slide into the seat beside JJ. Start talking before Spencer even boards. You don’t look his way—but you know he sees it.

You know he gets the message.

He doesn’t speak on the drive home either. No music. No glances. Just the quiet hum of silence, tense and thick.

You don’t try to break it.

You just drive. Hands tight on the wheel. Frustration simmering low in your chest—twisting with something else. Something that feels a lot like hurt.

This is the first fight that’s lasted more than a few hours.

When you pull into the driveway, the silence is so thick it feels like a second passenger. The car idles longer than it should. You kill the engine. Spencer gets out without a word.

You follow, shutting the car door a little harder than necessary.

Inside, he drops his go-bag by the door like it weighs a thousand pounds and heads straight down the hall toward the bedroom without a glance back.

“Seriously?” you snap, the word sharp in the quiet. “You’re going to keep giving me the silent treatment?”

He stops but doesn’t turn. His voice is tight. “I’m tired.”

“That’s not an excuse and you know it.”

He finally turns, eyes flashing. “What do you want me to say, huh? That I’m pissed you put yourself in danger? That I hated watching you flirt with some deputy while pretending I don’t exist?”

You cross your arms, biting back a grin even as your anger simmers just under the surface. “I wasn’t flirting. And you do exist. You were the one acting like I didn’t.”

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, exasperated. “I was trying to stay professional. I didn’t want our personal issues affecting the case.”

“It was already too late for that,” you mutter.

He turns again, done with the conversation—or trying to be.

“Spencer,” you say sharply. He hesitates. “Sit down.”

He glances back at you. His jaw ticks. “Why?”

You just raise an eyebrow and point to the couch.

He stares for a beat too long. You can practically see the battle behind his eyes—pride, frustration, and something darker flickering beneath the surface.

Eventually, with an annoyed huff, he flops onto the couch. “Fine,” he grumbles.

You bite your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. You step fully into the living room, leaning against the back of the couch, arms still crossed. The heat between you is shifting, softening into something slower, heavier.

“Good boy,” you murmur under your breath, just loud enough.

His head snaps toward you. His cheeks flush, but he rolls his eyes and turns away like it didn’t land.

You know better.

A smirk twitches at your lips. Petty? Maybe. Satisfying? Absolutely.

You circle the couch slowly, letting the silence coil tight. Spencer doesn’t look at you, but his fingers twitch on his knee, his jaw clenched too tight. He’s trying too hard to seem unaffected.

Which only proves how affected he is.

“You’ve been a brat all week,” you say.

The words are soft, but they land like a punch. Spencer’s spine goes rigid. His hands ball into fists in his lap.

You let it breathe. Let it simmer.

“I’m not the one who was flirting with strangers and using sex appeal like a weapon,” he mutters, low and bitter.

You cock your head. “No. You were the one pretending we’re nothing.”

He flinches. Barely, but you catch it. His lips stay sealed.

"You going to keep ignoring me, Spence?" you ask, voice low now, tinged with something soft, something dangerous.

Nothing. No response.

So you move.

You plant a knee on the couch beside his thigh. Then the other. His eyes flick to your legs, watching the way your skirt rides up your thighs before darting away again. Slowly, deliberately, you lower yourself into his lap, straddling him without giving him the chance to squirm away. Not that he does.

He stiffens beneath you—shoulders going ramrod straight, legs locked in place, his breath catching for just a second. But he doesn’t stop you. His hands twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for you but won’t let himself.

“Still don’t want to talk?” you murmur, close enough for your breath to brush his ear.

He says nothing.

You shift your hips slightly—just enough to drag your center along the bulge already forming under you. His breath stutters.

“I think you do want to talk,” you say softly, dragging your fingers down the line of his chest, over his tie, down the buttons. “You’d rather pout. Is that it?”

Still no reply. But his fists clench again, knuckles pale.

The control he’s using? Delicious.

“Look at me,” you say.

Nothing.

You trail your nails over his sternum. His chest rises slow and shaky beneath your touch.

“Spencer.”

His eyes flick to yours for half a second—burning with want—before darting away again.

“You want to act like a brat, fine,” you murmur, fingers teasing the edge of his collar. “But I know what you want.”

No answer. 

So you lean in closer—your lips brushing the edge of his ear. "You want me to make you stop."

You roll your hips again—slow, steady, not even trying to hide it now. His breath hitches hard, his head tipping back against the cushion with a low groan.

Still, his hands stay where they are.

"Good boy," you whisper again, just to watch the way he shivers. Just to feel the tension radiate off him.

This time, he grits out, “Stop.”

But it doesn’t sound like he means it. Not really. His voice is thin. Strained. Like his restraint is about to snap.

"Stop what?" you ask sweetly, hand around his tie. “Stop reminding you who you belong to?”

His nostrils flare. His fingers flex.

“You want to touch me so badly it hurts.”

His jaw clenches.

“Don’t you?”

He hesitates. Then barely, barely whispers: “Yes.”

You smile against his skin. “Then beg.”

That gets a reaction. His head snaps toward you, eyes wild. Frustrated. Needy.

“You want me to—” He cuts himself off, voice fraying.

“I want to hear you say please,” you murmur, grinding down once more, slow and deep, feeling every inch of him through his pants. “I want to hear how bad you need it.”

“I—” He gasps as you rock again. “Fuck. I hate you.”

You grin. “No, you don’t.”

Your hands drift up, fingers threading into the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Say please,” you whisper again, lips brushing his jaw. “And maybe I’ll let you.”

You can feel how badly he wants to break—see the restraint unraveling in his every twitch, every hitched breath. His knuckles are white against his thighs.

“I’m not—” he starts, but then your hips roll again. A helpless, broken sound escapes his throat.

You smile.

“Say it.”

He doesn’t speak. But his hands shoot up—grab your hips, grip them tight—and you freeze.

“Oh?” you say, tilting your head. “Did I say you could touch?”

His hands instantly let go, like the contact burned him. You sit up straighter on his lap, reaching down and grabbing his wrists. Gently, but firmly, you guide his hands above his head—pinning them against the back of the couch.

His breath is shaky. Pupils blown. Face flushed.

“Is this what you wanted?” you ask. “You wanted me to make the first move? To climb into your lap and make you break?”

He groans, head falling back . “You’re killing me.”

You lean in, lips barely grazing his. “You like it.”

He doesn’t argue.

You rock your hips again—slow and teasing—and feel the way his cock throbs beneath you. His mouth falls open again, breath shaky.

You reach down between your bodies with one hand and unbutton his pants. Slow. Teasing. He watches, eyes hooded, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. When you finally get him out, his cock is flushed and leaking, twitching against his stomach.

His thighs tense beneath you, and his hands curl into fists above his head.

You shift your hips and grind down, the seam of your underwear rubbing against him—just enough pressure to make him gasp.

He hisses through his teeth. “You’re—fuck, you’re not playing fair.”

You lean forward and kiss just below his ear, your breath hot against his skin.

“I’m not here to play fair,” you say. “I'm here to make you beg.”

He whines. Actually whines—quiet and desperate—and it sends a bolt of heat straight through you.

You keep going. 

Not fast. Not enough for release. Just enough to keep him on edge—tormented, trembling, right on the verge. His thighs shake. His hands keep twitching, desperate to move, to grab, to ground himself. But he doesn’t. He’s too trained. Too obedient.

Too fucking good for you.

You press your hips down again and stay there, letting him throb against you, not giving him anything more.

He’s a wreck now—eyes unfocused, skin flushed, mouth open like he’s trying to breathe through it.

“Please,” he chokes out. “Please, let me touch you—I’ll be good, I swear.”

You drag your fingers down his chest, slow and firm, nails catching on the fabric. He arches up slightly, involuntarily chasing the contact.

“I don’t believe you,” you murmur.

“Wha—why?”

“Because good boys don’t sulk. Good boys don’t ignore their girlfriends for three days and act like they’re above feeling jealous.”

He flinches.

And you don’t let up.

“Good boys ask for what they need instead of acting like they don’t care.”

His throat bobs. “I do care.”

“I know.” Your voice softens just enough to sting. “But you still acted like you didn’t.”

You lift your hips off his cock, just barely. His whole body jerks. He bites back a sob.

“Please, don’t—don’t tease—”

You kiss the corner of his mouth, featherlight.

“You haven’t earned it yet.”

“I-I’ll do anything,” he gasps. “I’ll apologize—I’ll make it up to you—just, please—I need you—”

You settle back over him and reach between your bodies. You stroke his cock slowly, thumb brushing the tip as you position yourself. He shakes as you sink down onto him with a soft moan.

You ride the edge for a few beats longer, letting every twitch of his hips, every ragged gasp, feed something deep in your chest. This is where you have him—bare, trembling, begging. Not because you’re cruel. Not really. But because this? This is the only way he lets go. When you make him.

When he doesn't have to think. Doesn’t have to control.

Just feel.

You lean forward, lips barely brushing his jaw. “You want to come?” you whisper, voice syrup-sweet, cruel in its softness.

He nods desperately, breath hitching, eyes clenched shut like he’s holding something back. “Please—yes—please—”

You press your lips to his throat and grind.

He moans–high-pitched and shameless–hips bucking up before you still him with your hand on his chest. His whole body is on fire under you, desperate and undone.

His voice breaks, fragile and raw. “Please—I’ll do anything—you own me, okay? Just… please.”

The confession hangs heavy in the air between you. Final. Shattering.

And perfect.

You pause, just long enough to let it sink in, your lips hovering over his skin, your breath hot against the damp flush of his throat.

“Say it again,” you whisper.

His eyes find yours now, wide and glassy, overflowing with everything he’s been holding in. “You own me,” he repeats, softer this time. “I’m yours.”

That—that—is what you were waiting for. You rock your hips, slow and deliberate, taking him deeper. His breath stutters into a gasp, his head falling back with a groan before you still your hips, buried deep, and wrap a hand around his throat—not tight, just there. Just a reminder. His eyes snap open. Dark. Dazed. Aroused beyond reason.

“You come when I say, Spencer,” you murmur. “Not a second before.”

He nods, eyes wide and desperate.

“Good boy,” you murmur. “Now keep your hands where they are. Don’t move unless I tell you to.”

His fingers twitch against the couch, but he nods again.

You set a rhythm—steady, controlled, the kind that punishes more than it satisfies. Every grind is slow, every drag of your slick heat over him measured to drive him closer and closer without tipping him over. His muscles are straining now, sweat blooming at his temples, his jaw tight with effort.

He’s trembling. Desperate. Every breath a plea in disguise.

“Do you still hate me?” you ask, voice like honey and poison all at once.

He shakes his head wildly. “No—no, I never—I just—fuck, please—”

You slide your hand into his hair, grip it gently but firmly, tugging his head back just enough to bare his throat.

“Then tell me what you do feel.”

He swallows hard, chest heaving. “I love you,” he says, the words ripping out of him like he’s been dying to say them. “I love you, and I’m sorry—I’m so fucking sorry.”

You freeze for half a second.

Not because you’re surprised. But because the way he says it—like it’s the last thing keeping him tethered to earth—makes something inside you fracture and melt at the same time.

Your grip on his hair softens. Your lips brush his jaw, his cheek, his mouth.

“I know,” you whisper.

Then you move.

Not slow this time. Not careful. Your hips snap against his, hard and fast, and he chokes on a cry, finally breaking. His hands fist above his head, his whole body straining for release. He’s panting now, barely holding it together, every muscle coiled and trembling beneath you.

“Are you going to come without permission?” you ask against his throat, biting down just hard enough to make him whimper.

“No—no, I won’t—I’ll wait—please, just don’t stop.”

You smile. “You really are a good boy.”

You don’t let up after that.

Even as he gasps beneath you, cock twitching inside you, even as his thighs tremble and his breath stutters—especially then—you keep moving.

Your rhythm is ruthless. Not frantic, not fast—deliberate. Deep, grinding, claiming strokes, every roll of your hips angled for your own pleasure, not his. You chase your own high with single-minded focus, riding him hard. He whines, the sound barely human. His head falls back, jaw slack, eyes wide and glassy.

He’s wrecked. Flushed. Glowing with sweat and need and desperation.

And still, you don’t stop. You use him, ride him like he’s yours to take—and he is.

He is.

He’s gone pliant under you now, barely able to hold on, but still obedient, still holding himself back like the good boy he wants to be. You can feel how close he is, how much it costs him not to give in.

And gods, that makes it better.

Makes you wetter. Tighter. Closer.

Your climax crashes into you hard—hot and sudden, your body clenching around him as you gasp his name, your thighs shaking, your head falling forward as you grind through every wave, using him to wring it all out of you. You ride it out without mercy, letting it wrack through your body, letting him feel how good he made you come.

Only when you’ve taken everything you need—when your breath finally starts to steady, when your muscles go warm and loose and satisfied—do you slow.

You don’t move off of him. You stay seated right where you are, still wrapped around him, feeling every twitch and pulse of his cock still buried deep inside you.

And then, finally, you lean down, breath brushing his cheek.

“Should I let you come now?” you murmur, soft and cruel. “You think you’ve earned it?”

His eyes snap to yours—wide and glassy with tears he’s too proud to let fall. His voice is hoarse, completely wrecked. “Please.”

You tilt your head, smiling faintly. “Please what?”

His throat works as he tries to form the words. “Please let me come.”

“You’ve been so good,” you whisper, rocking your hips just slightly, just enough to make him choke on a breath. “Beg me again. Like you mean it.”

He crumbles.

“Please,” he gasps, the words tumbling out now, unfiltered, raw. “Please, I’ve been trying so hard—I didn’t—I didn’t mean to be like that, I’m sorry—please, I’ll be better—I'll be so good for you, I swear—just let me come—please—I need it, need you—I’ll do anything—please.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Then come for me,” you whisper, grinding down again. “Come for me, baby.”

He does—loud and helpless, crying out your name like a prayer. His whole body seizes under you, hips jerking up into yours as he spills inside you with a groan, his arms finally wrapping around you like he’s falling and you’re the only solid thing left. He shudders through it, shaking, panting, broken open in your hands. You keep moving, riding him through it, watching every twitch and shudder and gasp. He whimpers through the comedown, wrecked and beautiful.

You don’t stop until he slumps back fully against the couch, panting and boneless, chest rising in short, uneven breaths.

You brush a hand through his hair, gentle now, letting him come back down.

“You did good,” you murmur.

He lets out a shaky breath, like the last of his resistance leaving his body.

Wrecked.

Used.

Yours.

You let the silence stretch a moment longer, both of you still tangled together, bodies slowly settling, breaths syncing. Then, carefully, you shift back just enough to see his face.

You take it in your hands, fingers brushing the damp curls from his forehead, thumbs cradling his flushed cheeks. His eyes flutter open, heavy and glassy, but they lock onto yours.

Your voice is quiet, but firm.

“Don’t ever act like that at work again,” you say. “Especially not in the field.”

He doesn’t flinch—just swallows hard, guilt flickering across his expression.

“I need you to trust me,” you continue, steady now. “To let me do my job. I need to know we’ve got each other’s backs, not that you’re going to panic or shut me out because you’re scared.”

He nods slowly, barely more than a tilt of his head. “I know. I’m sorry.” His voice is wrecked and raw. “I just—I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”

You soften.

You lean in and kiss the tip of his nose. “That being said…” you murmur, “I get it. Why you pulled me back. Why you got so pissed.”

His eyes close for a moment. You feel the tension drain from him like an exhale.

“I’m sorry too,” you say softly. “I’ll be more careful. Less reckless.”

His arms tighten around you a little, present. Grounded.

You lean in and kiss him—slow this time. Soft. Full of everything you couldn’t say earlier. No anger. No power games. Just you and him and the mess you made trying to protect each other.

His lips move against yours with that same honesty, slow and sweet and worn thin. There’s no urgency now. Just truth.

When you pull back, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Are we okay?”

You nod, thumb brushing along his jaw. “We’re okay.”

“I’m so glad you’re finally awake, you almost slept for the full twenty four hours.” Your hands are soft. They smell like neroli. When you stroke his cheek and lean down to give him a chaste peck, he almost passes out there and then. “It's a good thing, obviously,” you say, and then kiss him again distractedly. Spencer squeezes his eyes closed. “You heal more when you’re asleep. Or so I’ve heard.” 

You pull away, Spencer blinking for his life. You have such a nice mouth, but Spencer’s never thought about what it might feel like on his. He doesn’t have the audacity: in what world would you ever kiss him? That’s the joke, right, when you flirt with him in the office?

“How are you feeling?” you ask, losing some of your pep. “How’s your head, handsome? You know, there are easier ways to get a haircut.” 

“They cut my hair?” he croaks. 

“Shaved it at the back to stitch you up. Not much, don’t worry. They were pushing for a buzz cut but I put my foot down on that one,” you joke. You nudge his legs aside without worrying about sitting on him as you get comfortable. “It’s not much. You can’t tell.”

“I…” 

“You feeling okay?” you ask softly. Your nice mouth purses. Your eyebrows pinch. They’re cute eyebrows. 

“You look different than the last time I saw you.” 

He doesn’t mean to say it aloud. He’s noticing things now. You’re wearing less powder under your eyes than you used to. You seem to have gained a little weight, and you look good. You didn’t look bad before, but this is different. Your hair isn’t too different, nor your brows, but you’ve begun lining your lips in a new way. Your blush is a subtler hue. Spencer doesn’t claim to know everything about you, but he can say that you look neatly the same each time you visit. Why the sudden change?

“It’s hard to sleep when your favourite person in the world gets his head cut open,” you say, taking his hand where he’d left it loose in the blankets. 

Your fingers slip into his with ease. 

“Can I tell you something?” he asks, attempting to swallow his nerves. 

“Of course you can.” 

He licks his lips. “Uh, I think I’m confused. I don’t– I don’t remember what happened, and…” 

“Oh, right. They told me this might happen.” You draw yourself up with a breath. He’s fascinated by the movement, an air of heat around him as you begin rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb. “You got hit in the back of the head with a cinder block, honey. Went down like a lead balloon.” You turn your face to show your cheek. “We’re even now on good scares, yeah?” 

You have a scar on your face he’d missed, carefully concealed but yet not invisible. Your hand in his feels so alien he holds it wrong, fingers twined but palms apart. 

“What happened to you?” he asks. 

Your brow crinkles. You go very still. “My cheek?” you ask. 

“What…” 

“Spencer, what’s the last thing you can remember, honey?” you ask, all the horror in the world to be found in your eyes. 

“Uh…” He feels sick to his stomach.

“Spencer?” 

Without having to be told, you slip off of the bed with two taps of your shoes and reach for the bedpan, thrusting it into his lap. 

His mouth fills with spit. “I’m fine,” he says. 

“No, I don’t think so. Let me get a doctor.” 

“Wait,” he says, clutching the bedpan and pushing his wave of nausea as far down as he can. “Please don’t go.” 

“My face was months ago, honey. I got hit in the face with a hammer by a UnSub, you don’t remember?” you ask incredulously. 

“Why do you keep calling me honey?” he asks. He knows the answer, but it’s not computing. 

Your face drains of any happiness. “I’m going to get a doctor,” you say, shoulders rigidly tight as you exit the room, leaving Spencer in your wake wishing he’d just pretended he knew who you were, just until you kissed him again. 

—

“And he really can’t remember you at all?” Morgan asks. 

You’re a little less startled than you had been, and you’re trying not to punish poor Spencer, but realising your boyfriend forgot years of flirting, and yearning, and friendship —years of kissing in secret and otherwise, years of holding hands, and staying at each other’s places to get that extra time together, even if it was just getting to sleep in the same bed between cases— was a slap. 

“He remembers me,” you say, leg crossed over the other, arm over the railing of Spencer’s bed to hold his hand. “He just doesn’t remember a thing after Gideon came back, after Boston.” 

“I remember when you had hair,” Spencer says to Derek. 

Derek glares at him, “This Spencer doesn’t get to sass me.” 

“But I do eventually?” 

“How come you’re holding hands if he doesn’t know who you are?” Derek asks pointedly. 

You shrug. “We talked about it, didn’t we?” you ask Spencer, who perks up every time you talk, which isn’t unlike your usual Spencer. Whenever he catches himself doing it he flusters. Every time you call him baby he loses his mind. “He doesn’t remember me, but he wants to. And I remember him.” 

“This must be pretty weird for you, kid,” Derek says. 

“Sort of,” Spencer says. 

It’s funny. Now you know Spencer thinks he’s twenty three again, you can’t not notice his shyness and his awkward tries at casualness. You’d forgotten what he was like back then. 

“Wait, does that mean you don’t remember Emily?” Derek asks. 

Spencer frowns. “Uh, no?” 

You sit up in your chair. “Emily’s one of your best friends, honey. She joined the BAU when Greenaway left.”

“Not you?” he asks. 

You dramatise your pain as Derek laughs. “Not me. I didn’t transfer for a long time, unfairly. It’s okay, though, you’ll remember Emily eventually.” 

When you realised Spencer wasn’t as okay as you’d thought, you gathered a gaggle of agitated doctors to assess him. He knew his name and birthday. He was wrong about the date, the president, and the state. You’re in Arizona where he’d thought Indiana. Your bag talks to the heat: Spencer’s fan, his sunblock, his antihistamines. He couldn’t believe it when he asked where his stuff was and you passed him your handbag. 

You’re trying to drive home to him that you’re not just dating, you're common-law partners, Spence. He adores you. You’d spend life in his lap if you could afford it. 

“How’d she get you to believe her?” Derek asks Spencer. 

“Uh.” 

“I kissed him a couple of times before he came clean about the amnesia,” you say. “So I didn’t have to explain.” 

“I didn’t mean to lie,” Spencer says. 

He’s looking less haggard now you’ve brushed his hair. It was sweet to watch his shoulders relax. He shuddered when you tucked a strand behind his ears, and didn’t flinch when you asked if you could kiss his cheek. It’s hard to have him vulnerable here and not be allowed to lick his wounds for him. You feel better the better he feels. You’ve fluffed his pillow, wrapped him tighter in blankets. When he got up to pee and you offered to help, he gave a resolute No Thank You, which in hindsight is hilarious but at the time made you wanna squeeze your eyes out. 

“It’s okay,” you say softly, “I don’t mind kissing him, even if he doesn’t remember me. Just so long as he doesn’t mind it back.”

Spencer manages to squeeze your hand. It’s a soft one, but it’s real. “I don’t mind.” 

“You dog,” Derek says. 

“Stop, stop. He’s not doing anything wrong, is he?” you ask. “I’m the evil one, forcing kisses on him when he doesn’t know me.” 

“I do know you,” Spencer says. 

“What’s it like to have a crush on your own girlfriend?” Derek asks, unwilling to quit his teasing where he’s crossing his arms in the chair opposite, his cup of coffee drained on the side table. 

Spencer swallows. “Uh, nerve-wracking.” 

“Believe it or not, that’s not so different to now,” Derek says. 

Spencer looks to you for confirmation, which you love. You slide your chair closer to him and clasp his wrist with your free hand. “Sometimes you're still a little shy, but it’s not so bad. Full of myself I may be, Spencer Reid, but you do love me. It’s easy with us.” 

“Do we really live together?” he asks. “You said common-law.” 

“Not technically. I stay at your place four nights a week. You stay with me for the weekends.” 

“Every week?” he asks.

“Yeah.” 

“We’re never apart?” he asks. 

His face is turning pink. You could kiss every bit of colour on his cheeks. 

“Derek, would you get Spencer something to eat from the cafeteria? Please?” you ask, levelling your friend with a pleading gaze. 

Derek gathers himself up. “Sure. We gotta feed the string bean something, don’t we?” he asks. 

Alone again, you draw lines up and down Spencer’s arm with your nails. You’re going to be indulgent in yourself, and ask him everything you’d ever wanted to know. And then a little extra, too. 

“You’re not as skinny anymore, have you noticed? You’re quite lean.” You stand to sit where you’d put yourself before he confessed. Your hand falls to his knee. “Solid, sometimes. You and Derek go for walks occasionally.” 

“We do?” 

“Mm-hm. And me and you do yoga in the living room when we can summon the energy. We tried couples Pilates, but Pilates is hard.” 

“We did?”

You smile warmly. “It’s nice to be in love with someone who loves in the same way.” 

“How do you love?” 

His ears are bitten-red. “Oh, you know. I’m too affectionate. It’s hard not to be with you. Everyone used to think we were… I don’t know, playing a game.” You slide your hand up his thigh, leaning on him to watch his pupils blow. “But I love you for far more than your constant propensity to blush. You get me flowers every time you see my favourites, and you never let me go to sleep without a kiss. Usually here.” You poke the skin beside your eye. “But sometimes you’ll surprise me and kiss my nose.” You're going lax with love, remembering things he’s done, and does every day.  “On a Saturday morning we make tea and I put my hands in your t-shirt. You do the crosswords for fun. Sometimes we time them.” 

“That’s not how you love, that’s what you love,” Spencer says. 

“Oh, you want a play by play of things?” He ducks his chin, but he smiles when you laugh. 

“I just can’t believe this is happening.”

You try to think of things you don’t think about anymore. “You love my sugar lip gloss, so I always wear it.” 

He reaches out tentatively. Shy as a wren in a hedgerow. You let him curl a hand over your elbow, feel the crook of it with his index finger. 

“I buy you stamps, and t-shirts for bed, and stupid stuff you wouldn’t get yourself. We’re… it’s like, it doesn’t feel like gift giving anymore because we’re always getting stuff for each other. You’re just as sweet, you know? When I first started sleeping over you bought me this huge pack of socks ‘cos yours are all odd,” you laugh. “I knew I loved you already, but…”

It’s a little sad, actually. He can’t remember all the stuff that makes you the couple you are. It’s not what you’d meant to get into. 

“Can I ask you something?” you ask. 

“Anything.” 

He’s slept-in and breathless, like he ran laps in his dreams. 

“What do you think of me now? I always wondered if you liked me back then, or if I just caught you off guard.” 

“Who wouldn’t like you?” 

“But did you?” 

He looks away hurriedly, his hand dropping from your elbow. “I guess so. But it’s not– not real. I have a crush on you.” His mumbling is sweet. “I have no idea why I’m telling you that.” 

“I had a crush on you, too, back then. It wasn’t anything serious, but it wasn’t a joke. And the more time we spent together, the more I thought we could fall in love,” —you take his hand and put it back on your arm— “and we did.” 

You toy with his fingers. Without looking, ashamed of your own self-indulgence, you ask another question. “What do you think of me now?” 

“I can’t remember,” he says sorrily. 

“What do you think?” 

“You feel like a dream.” He shakes his head. “You’re the most beautiful girl in the world. I don’t really get how this is real.” 

You shouldn’t be surprised that he’d say it, you practically begged for it, but you can’t stop yourself from sitting up to kiss his forehead gently. “It’s real. Promise. And for the record, you’re handsome. They stopped saying ‘aged like fine wine’ a while ago. Now they just say ‘aged like Spencer Reid’.”

He gives a choky laugh. 

The door opens again. You lift your head expecting Derek and find a weather worm Hotch in the doorway. “Reid, you’re awake,” he says, not bothering with a smile. “Morgan said you have amnesia?” He directs it at both of you. 

Spencer’s looking at Hotch in clear shock. 

“He hasn’t aged that badly,” you chastise teasingly. 

“Hotch, you’re– I thought you would’ve– You’re still–?”

Hotch squints. “You didn’t think I had the stamina for it?” 

Spencer squirms under his gaze. “No, sir, it’s not that–”

“Sir,” Hotch says, and then he smiles. “I forgot when you both used to respect me.” 

“I have the utmost respect for you, sir,” you say through your own smile. 

“Has she been kind to you, Reid?” 

“Uh, yes? Is she not usually?” 

Hotch presses his lips together rather than answer. There’s a sympathy in his expression you resent.

—

It’s a thankfully quick bout of amnesia. The memories start to draw in like a dusting of powdered sugar, his head finely silted, one particle at a time. He finds that the more you talk, the quicker his memory is jogged. You tell him about your first kiss —I tried to kiss your cheek but you moved, it was the funniest thing— and your second. You spin stories of cases, the worst ones and the best, all the times you held hands without people knowing, the times you’d been caught. He can’t imagine it, goes hot with the memory, picturing kissing you as you’d described and the mortification of being walked in on. 

You tell him about your vacation to Nevada a few months ago and he thinks about how you’d fallen asleep on the plane. Your nose in his arm, your unhappy sigh at the tight leg space. 

Remembering you is more than half of remembering himself.

Your hands —his hands. Your smile —his laugh. The way you fold his hands in your lap —the urge to catch your chin for a kiss. 

He doesn’t know how to deal with it, and then suddenly he feels like Spencer. Your partner, your love, his proudest title for years. You’re standing at the end of the hospital bed in pajamas folding your clothes, allowed to stay the night while he’s so urgently confused and upset, you can’t make him stay here alone, please, I know you guys have those little cots for the kids ward, and he just knows you completely. 

Hours of diligent if embezzled storytelling gives it all back to him. 

“I like the lipgloss because you used to wear that perfume that smelled like sugar donuts,” he says, scratching a hand through limp hair. “And every time I crossed the square by the station–”

You let out a surprising squeal of joy. “Spencer!” you say, racing to take his hands, “Yes! The donut truck!” 

You go in for a kiss he gladly returns. “Oh, you remember,” you say, softening as he takes your neck into his hand. “I was getting worried.” 

“Some of it’s still hazy, but not so much you.” 

You wrap your arms around him for a hug, careful of his sore head. “I missed you, Spencer. I still loved you when you couldn’t remember me, but I missed you. Do you remember you?” 

He traces the scar on your lower cheek with his thumb. He’s genuinely relieved to be able to say he does. He’s not scared of what you think of him anymore, ‘cos he knows that everything he feels for you is mutual. “I remember you telling me my bad feeling was just a case of the heebies.” 

You bend into his touch. “Honey, I’m sorry. How was I supposed to know you’d get your skull whacked with a cinder block? It was a bakery. I thought the worst that could happen was getting a face full of red velvet or something.” You kiss his nose quickly. “I’m so glad you’re you. Now I can sleep in the bed with you, and not that collapsible camping cot.” 

He shushes you. “Don’t give us away. They’re not gonna let you stay if they think I’m fine.” 

You giggle excitedly, arms around him again for another squeeze. “I missed you so much. You’re so devious now.” 

He rubs your back. “I missed you too. And I still have a crush on you, I swear.”

“Thank you, honey, that means a lot to me.” 

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚⋆

If you had to remove one state from the contiguous union, it would be Iowa. 

You’re standing in a rusty hotel room, which, according to Hotch, is the best they could do to accommodate you. And Spencer. He’s one room over. Your feet vibrate against the rug. You tell yourself it’s the thought of him, one wall over — thinking, sitting, reading, whatever he’s doing — and not some rare kind of bacteria you’re going to catch from the stink of this place.

Hotch sent you and Reid here for a death row interview. One of the inmates, having spent the past seventeen years as a self-proclaimed monk, decided he was done with silence. He answered the bureau’s request for an interview in a letter addressed to Hotch’s desk, written in red ink. It’s your first prison interview — you usually wear the bad guys down before they’re locked away forever — but Spencer has done one or two, he said. You think it might be more.

You’d never been to Iowa, never had a case here. You’re not great with time off, even worse with real vacations. You don’t look out your window for fear the corn fields have gotten closer since you last peeked through the curtains. You swear you can see twenty miles out; the flatness makes it easy to mistake the horizon for something that never, ever ends. 

You’re picking at the skin of your fingernails, toes curled as they still rest but resist against the carpet, when there’s a knock at your door. You don’t check, because you’re not really fearful. It might make you a shitty FBI agent, but you doubt anyone is tracking you down in Iowa. (Iowa. It gets worse each time you think it.)

“Hi,” Spencer says, lips pulled flat. Flat. You think of fields. Corn. Emptiness. Your stomach churns then lurches when you think of your own bed in your own home in a state that has real hills and mountains and trees. 

“Hi.” 

“Thought you might want to look over the file before tomorrow?” He frames it like a question, and you offer a soft smile at his hesitancy before opening the door to let him in. He turns his body to the left to avoid making contact with you as he accepts the invitation and walks on through.

Your bed is still made, your suitcase resting on top of it. He scrunches his nose before recovering.

“I’m not a germaphobe, like someone we both know,” you mock.

“Maybe you should be.” You laugh. You’ve been his teammate for three years now, and it still gets you when he decides he can lighten up and make a joke.

He looks around, still awkward in the yellow tint of the hotel lamp, then decides to sit in the desk chair in the corner.

“You look so ominous,” you say, shaking your head as you pull the file out of the nightstand. 

“Why is your casefile in there?”

“Where do you keep yours?”

“I never put it away.”

“Checks out,” you say, raising your eyebrows and sitting criss-crossed on the edge of your bed, facing him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Gary Foster,” you read off the top of the page, ignoring his bait. “Killed twenty-three women in his basement. His wife never knew.”

“Or claims she didn’t know,” Spencer corrects. 

“You think she did?”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter what I think.”

You glance up at him to find him staring intently at the file in his hands. He’s gripping onto it like it’s all he knows. You store your observations away in your head under a tab titled Perhaps Ask Later. 

You’ve gone over this file a dozen times. It’s virtually seared into your memory. Still, you let him tack off the rest of the information to you, compile the intensive profile Hotch gave you into a bullet point list. 

“He’s gonna focus on me,” you say once he reaches a lull in speech.

“Because you’re a woman?” he confirms. You nod. “Maybe.”

You tap the file a few times with your fingers as a yawn creeps up your throat, threatening to escape. Spencer seems to get the hint before you even let it out. 

“We’ve got a long day tomorrow,” he says before standing. He takes a step forward before turning around and tucking the chair back into the desk. You smile at the politeness. “See you tomorrow?”

“Is that a question?” you tease as you lead him to the door. “I promise I won’t jump out of the window.”

“There’s not much out there.”

“No, there isn’t.” He fumbles with the key for the door across the hall. You wait for him to open it before you start to close yours, the way you would after driving a friend at home. “Night.”

“Night,” he says, though the latter half of the word is muffled by the shut of the door. 

The room is barren again. You open the curtains now that it’s nearing total darkness outside.

It takes six more hours for you to drift off into sleep.

– 

Your hand is immediately on your temple when you awake, rubbing at the budding headache you know will consume you once you get up. This is the punishment you get for allowing yourself only three hours of sleep.

The sunlight hits your bed in fluttering intervals of perfect warmth and scorching heat. This time, when the hindmost rolls around, you force yourself up and place your feet on the ground. You hold your tongue to refrain from releasing a long string of fucks and shits and realize your hand is still refusing to move from its spot rubbing circles in your face. When you make your way to the bathroom, you realize the bed is so hard you’ve left no indent. 

The sting of the shower is pelting, boiling enough that it feels purifying. After a night spent in sheets you’re sure dozens have sweat through, it’s more than welcome. The heat is the perfect substrate for the anticipatory dread of today’s interview. Speaking to monsters as if there’s a hint of human behind the stitching has never pulled at you in the right way. 

If anything, it’s slowly pulled you apart.

The outlet in your bathroom is broken so you’re forced to dry your hair sitting on the carpet of the room, right next to that window that stares out into nowhere. You feel itchy just sitting on it. You swear the fibers are pressing into your skin, merging with your skin. 

The file is open on the floor in front of you, and you use your thumb to wipe the water falling from your damp hair. The pages already begin to curdle like the feeling in your stomach. 

You put your hair in a ponytail, then worry it’s too sexual — because you’ve absorbed the profile and you know what earns a check on this guys list —- so you take it down and let it rest on your shoulders again. Your knees crack when you stand up and your hip tenses up like it might, too, when you slip your legs into your pants. 

There’s a knock on your door and you mutter fuck as you balance your time between finishing the rest of the buttons on your blouse and stumbling to the door.

“I need a couple minutes,” you say, before you say hello. You leave the door open as you retreat farther into the room. “You can wait in here.”

You squeeze your feet into your heels — half a size too small, and in your head you call the saleslady who insisted on that being necessary for this brand a word that would make your grandmother sour — and peripherally watch him step into the room, hands stuffed in his pockets. 

“You ready?” he asks. You can feel his eyes on your unmade bed. 

“Mhm.” You glance in the square mirror facing the bed and smooth out your clothes. 

“I mean for the interview,” he says after clearing his throat.

“My answer remains.”

“Cool.” He says it in the way that feels fraudulent, but is really just the way he speaks, you’ve come to realize.

“Are you ready?” you ask back, muffled by the file placed between your teeth as you fumble around your desk for your car keys and room card. You make eye contact with him as you head for the door.

“Don’t really have much of a choice, do I?”

“Stand up straight,” you say, holding the door open for him as you both step into the hallway.

“What?” he mutters. He does it anyway.

“He’s gonna zero in on you if you seem to lack confidence.”

“Right.”

It’s silence between you two in the hallway, the elevator, the lobby, and until you’re pulling out of the parking lot. There’s overgrown wheatgrass in the field to your left and plowed corn crop to your right. The furrows stretch on until the curve of the earth swallows them up.

The sky is dull, slate-colored, and bears striking resemblance to something that could wipe you clean. Grain silos whir by every couple of minutes. These people really own a lot of fucking land. Every few miles, a new one, along with a rusting tractor or collapsing barn or crop that looks about ready to dry up and blow away. It gets predictable after mile seven. 

The prison doesn’t appear so much as it settles into your vision. It’s low to the ground, sprawling, gray. A scar pressed into the ground. 

You feel like Spencer the way you’ve completely memorized the profile. You flash your badge at the gate, sign some kind of form and drive into a parking lot that feels as far from the prison as your hotel was.

Spencer lingers in the car two seconds after you get out. He’s nervous, and he’s trying not to show it. You don’t want to mention it, but you need to be on the same page, so you don’t stop your lips from unfurling.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The anxious math,” you say. “You’re calculating the probability of saying the wrong thing before we even walk in.”

“That’s-” He seems to think better than arguing and redirects his sentence. “That’s not entirely inaccurate.”

You give him one of those closed lip smiles. “He’ll spot it in five seconds. He feeds on nerves like that. First, he’ll comment on your hands, because you fidget when you’re trying not to.”

“You sound like Hotch.”

You scoff out a half-laugh and choose to ignore the comment otherwise. “And he’ll ask how long you’ve known me. If we’re sleeping together. He won’t say it like that, of course. He’ll be crude. He wants to gauge what version of you shows up when you’re off-balance.”

“Why would that knock me off balance?” he asks. The hesitancy has stolen his tone again.

“You fluster easily.”

“Do I?”

“Mhm. You blink three times, touch your collar, and then deflect with statistics. You did it the first time I challenged you during a case.”

He tuts then holds the door of the prison open for you. “You’re profiling me.”

“Of course I am,” you say, then turn your head over your shoulder, waiting for him to walk back up beside you again. He’s close behind you, so close you can almost feel his breath on you. It makes you feel warm. “So will he.”

You greet two more guards inside before shaking hands with the warden. He thanks you for coming with that grim look on his face that everyone in this field seems to have permanently etched into the creases of their skin. The prison is colder inside than it has any right to be, as if the concrete has learned to hold onto every winter it’s ever survived. 

“Still nervous?” you whisper to Spencer. 

He smiles, shakes his head no. 

Good, you mouth.

You pretend not to notice his eyes fixate for a beat longer than necessary on your lips. You lick them in response. When he meets your eyes again, you pretend not to notice that something undecipherable is hidden behind his lids, too. 

—

Foster smiles when you walk in. He doesn’t look at Spencer. You let Spencer pull your chair out for you, which immediately catches the guy’s attention. You think of still water, use it as a guide for being calm.

“Well,” Foster says. He hasn’t dropped the smile from his face. “They sent a good-looking one.”

“We, the FBI, are really grateful you chose to cooperate with us,” you say. “You know, in your final days.”

“Hm.” He turns to Spencer, finally. “She yours?”

You don’t look at him, and you will him to ignore him, to start asking him the standard questions. What’s your name? What year were you born? 

“She’s her own,” he says instead. It comes out even and flat. 

“You hesitated,” Foster says. His smile shows his teeth, now. “I suppose that’s not a crime.”

“No,” you agree. You open your file and lay a picture of his mugshot on the table. You can tell he was expecting photos of one of the women whose life he stole away. “But murder is.”

Spencer clears his throat and nudges your ankle with the tip of his shoe. You give him no reaction, but the next time you reach for the file, you let your fingertips brush against his wrist. 

—

“That wasn’t awful,” Spencer says when you step out, though he says it like he’s releasing one big breath born out of a collection of accumulated air trapped in his lungs. 

Foster did say something crude. You’d prefer not to repeat it, mostly because you’re not sure if Spencer was blushing or if he was just hot. 

The prison was freezing, you remind yourself. Then you shove the thought back down. 

“It wasn’t great,” you say. “I wish I’d pushed him further about—”

“Stop,” he says. His hand is on your bicep now. “Don’t overthink it, you did great.”

“Okay,” you say. “Don’t profile me, now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The walk back to the car leaves you sticky and hot. You note, aimlessly, that Iowa gets hot enough if you let it — if you stay long enough to let it swelter.

“Our flight’s not till the morning,” you groan, slamming the car door shut.

“Not a fan of Iowa?”

“In how many languages do you know how to say fuck no?”

“Twelve," he says. His eyes flit to the ceiling. “No, fourteen.” 

“Ridiculous.” 

—

You crash as soon as you get back to your hotel room. You sleep for what feels like two hours but you know is way longer than that, and when you finally peel your eyes open you’re sweating. You’re clinging to your sheets, and you consider yourself bed-ridden as you roll over and check your phone. Hotch has sent you three messages asking for updates. Your stomach twinges with guilt for not answering, though you figure he probably moved on and texted Spencer.

Spencer.

You feel bad. You had ditched him, retreating to your hotel room the second you guys got back. You wonder what he did, if he got food, though there’s not much to do in Iowa. In fact, there’s nothing to do in Iowa. 

You slip out of your clothes and take a quick rinse-off in the shower. Your hair is still wet when you adorn yourself in a gray t-shirt and sleep shorts and creep over across the hall. Your fist raps against the door three times, then twice more for good measure. 

“Hi?”

“Hi,” you say, inviting yourself in as you push past him. It’s identical to yours, but everything’s on the opposite side. “Nice room.”

“Much nicer than yours.”

“Oh, for sure.” You clap your hands together, then flop down on the bed. “So, whatcha been up to?”

He nods his head at a book on the nightstand. You stretch over and pick it up. The History of Iowa’s Small Towns.

“Little on the nose, isn’t it, doctor?”

“It’s interesting.”

“Your mind amazes me,” you whisper, then place it back on the nightstand.

“Have you eaten?” he asks.

“I’m not really hungry,” you say. When he quirks his eyebrow, you add: “Really, I can’t eat for, like, at least two hours after I wake up.”

“You were asleep?”

You nod. “Couldn’t last night. You didn’t think I just ditched you, did you?”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

You place a hand over your heart. “Well, doctor, I’m just plain offended.”

He smiles, real, genuine. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How’d you mean it?” you ask. You move up on the bed, as if it’s your own, making space for him to sit next to you. 

He sighs, like he really doesn’t want to indulge in this conversation, but his lips pry open and you know he will. “Morgan always says I ramble too much.”

You shrug. “What’s much, anyway?”

“Well, if you’re not hungry,” he starts, lifting himself off the bed and over to the mini fridge, “are you thirsty?”

“My, my.” You smile, teeth and all. “I didn’t know you drank on the job.”

“Not technically on the job anymore, am I?” He holds up a little bottle. “It’s not exactly a martini, but it’s all I’ve got unless you want lukewarm ginger ale.”

You accept the bottle with mock ceremony and open it the second it’s in your hands. “Guess federal per diems only cover motel whiskey. Honestly, this is probably the classiest thing happening in Iowa tonight.”

He laughs softly, twisting open his own cap. “From what I’ve read, and seen, that’s a low bar.”

You raise yours. “To meeting the bar.”

He tilts his head, scrunches his nose. “To stepping over the bar with minimal effort.”

You both take a sip. It’s terrible. You make a face.

He sees it and raises an eyebrow. “Too refined for hotel whiskey?”

“Just surprised it didn’t come with a warning label,” you say, setting the bottle down on the nightstand. “Or a tetanus shot.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, taking another sip of his. “I’m sure the Iowa Department of Health is on it.”

You nod solemnly. “They’re probably just as fast as the Wi-Fi.”

That gets a small smile from him. He sits on the edge of the bed, a little closer than before, but still careful. He’s always so careful.

There’s a lull, full of quiet until the nighttime air-conditioning kicks on and you’re too tired to pretend anything really matters for a while.

“You ever drink from the mini bar before? Like, during a case?” you ask eventually.

“Only when I expect to be stranded somewhere like this.”

“Smart,” you say. 

He glances at you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t profile your way out of a cornfield without it.”

You hum in agreement. “I’m not sure if that’s depressing.”

He shrugs, taking another sip. “Probably.” His hand falls to his side, dangerously close to your thigh.

You accept another one. And then another one. You’re sure he’s going shot for shot with you, but you can’t really tell because your head is full and everything’s hazy and suddenly this bed is so, so comfortable. 

You lie back, legs still dangling off the edge, and stare up at the popcorn ceiling like it might reveal state secrets. “Did you know Iowa had one of the highest populations of covered bridges?”

Spencer blinks. “Iowa doesn’t.”

You squint. “It doesn’t?”

“No,” he says, amused. “That’s Madison County. Which is in Iowa. But it’s a specific — actually, nevermind. I’m not sure either of us are in a state for nuance.”

You wag a lazy finger at the ceiling. “I knew that.”

“Sure,” he says, and leans back beside you with a soft thud, hands crossed over his stomach. “Next you’ll tell me Iowa invented jazz.”

“It didn’t?” You cant your head to the side, a smile playing at your lips. 

“God, no.”

You sigh dramatically. “And here I thought this trip was educational.”

He turns his head just slightly toward you. His breath is hot, hotter than it was earlier, and his words are all slurred. You think you might sound the same but don’t keep yourself in line long enough to actually check. “You’ve learned a lot. For example, you’ve learned not to trust the minibar.”

“And that your idea of a good time is reading municipal histories.”

“I sensed you were captivated.”

You pull an arm over your face. “Do you always get this cocky after drinking?”

He tilts his head like he’s genuinely thinking about it. “I think I just feel safe knowing I’m not the only one embarrassing myself.”

You haul a leg up to bend into the bed with you and nudge him with your knee. “You’re not embarrassing. You’re weird. Like, in the good way.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but you can hear the smile in his voice when he finally says: “Thanks. You’re weird too.”

“Weird and drunk.” You repeat the word drunk a few more times, drawing out a different syllable each time. “Spencer?” 

“Hm?”

“Don’t let me fall asleep here.”

“You say that like I have any control over you,” he murmurs. Your breath catches. Neither of you move.

You peek at him from under your arm. “Are you flirting with me?”

“What?” 

“Whatever. Then don’t speak with that— that tone. Or I’ll start to think you’re flirting with me.”

“I’m not really flirting with you.”

You let the arm drop, but not to the mattress; it finds its way to the sleeve of his shirt, playing with the fabric. “Not really or not yet?”

“That depends,” he says, voice dropped low to a whisper. “Would yet be a problem?”

You roll onto your elbow, looming over him. “Guess we’ll have to find out.”

It lands like a match.

“What are you doing?” he asks. Your lips are the closest they’ve ever been.

“I don’t know.” Your eyes move to where his hand has started to creep onto your thigh. “What are you doing?”

He moves first, but only barely. His head tilts up, lips parting like he’s about to ask a question. 

He gets his answer in the shape of your lips.

Your hand finds the edge of his jaw, fingers skimming up the side of his face. He’s warm. Still flushed from the whiskey or maybe just from you.

You’re kissing, you think. You. Spencer. Kissing. It should make you pull back. You work with him. This is strictly forbidden — that should definitely make you pull back.

But then his fingers press into your hips, grounding you, and you shift, and you’re straddling him before you’ve thought it through. It’s automatic, desperate, like the tension finally cracked open and all that’s left is the pull.

“Still not on the job?” you murmur between kisses, breath brushing his lips.

He shakes his head. “Not even a little.”

He starts to kiss you deeper, like he wants to memorize it. You wonder if he is. Your hands move up under his shirt, and his breath slips, just for a second. Just long enough to make you smile into his mouth.

There’s nothing quiet about any of this. Just heat. And want. And finally.

You roll your hips once as a test. When he tightens his grip on you, you have half the mind to do it again, and again, and again. 

Suddenly, all you can think of are your clothes on the ground and him inside you. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. You release his lips from yours.

“Fuck?”

“Shh,” he hushes, trying to silence you, but you’re already laughing.

“Oh my god, Dr. Spencer Reid, esteemed supervisory special agent, holder of three PhDs, just said fuck.” You whisper the last part, hand clutching at your chest.  

“Will you please resume what we were just doing?”

“My fucking pleasure.”

“Jesus,” he squeezes out. Your hands remove themselves from where they were resting under his shirt and head to the waist of his pants. You watch his chest rise a little quicker, fall with a little more readiness. His hands release your hips and come up to grip your wrists. “I say fuck one time and I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

“Maybe we can put it in another context.” You unhook your legs from their desired place around his hips and scooch yourself down his body. Your fingers, which were just barely, ever so delicately toying with his waistband, curl into both the cotton of his pants and his boxers and tug down at once. He helps you, hips coming off the bed just enough for you to drop them both to his ankles. 

He’s already hard, and your mouth is already hollow, already anticipating something to fill a long-lasting void. You say his name, but it sounds off, because your mouth is already imagining itself wrapped around something far less innocent than words.

His hand comes up to your face, brushing your cheekbone, and the feeling is too soft to name but impossible to ignore. You feel as though all the heat in the room has gotten sucked between your legs, and it pools low, desire biting at the edges of restraint.

“You don’t have to,” he says, watching you spit in your hand. You roll your eyes before wrapping the newly wet hand around him. 

“I’m going to. Just stay like that.” 

You stroke him softly, just a few times before spitting on the tip and working it back down. He whispers your name like its wax, made to melt. You’re not thinking and your voice is velvet when you ask him how long it’s been since he’s been touched like this, the way he deserves to be. Too long, comes his response, and you vow to yourself to show him what he’s been missing.

The next time you bring your lips up to release more spit, you reach down and kiss it. Just the tip, and just ever-so-slightly. You’re not sure he noticed at first, so you do it again, this time more pronounced, and then he’s removing his hand from your face and bringing it up to your hair. His grip is firm enough to anchor, not enough to command. 

When you open your lips more, he tightens his grip. When you make your way down, syrup-slick and mouth dripping of sin, he coils his want at the nape of your neck and pulls. You moan around him, which earns you another tug. 

“That feels good,” he whispers. “So fucking good.”

You’re drunk enough that the praise feels more than trembling and temporary. You take it for more than it probably is and pick up your pace.

He lasts not a minute longer before he’s guiding you off of him, and you couch as you come up for air. 

“I don’t want to finish yet,” he mumbles.

“No?”

“No.” He pulls you up off the ground, one hand on your wrist and the other still in your hair. “Wanna take care of you too. Do you want that? Yeah? Lie down for me.”

You do as you're told, nodding along the way, agreeing fervently and with little free will. You’re drooling, enough that it slips past your lips. He brings his index finger up to your face, collecting it on the pad of his finger and pushing it back into your mouth. Instinctively, you suck. He groans, low, a noise you never would have expected to hear from him, and it makes you shut your legs, thighs rubbing together slightly as you try to fight the feeling festering around your limbs.

He kneels before you, the same way you had with him. “Is this what you want?” You nod. “No, use your words.” He pries your legs open, blows between them. 

Your back is coming up off the bed, enough for him to bring a hand up and grab your waist again. “Yes.”

He wastes little time attaching his mouth to you, tongue everywhere, while his fingers leave bruises in your side. One of your hands is gripping the sheets so hard you can feel your fingernails digging into your palm even through it. This can’t be real, you think, because nothing real feels this good. And this feels so, so good. 

You feel fucked out and he hasn’t even put anything inside of you. It’s just his tongue swiping against you, swirling around your clit, sucking your clit, kissing your clit. You can’t think. At some time you stop being aware of what he’s doing and just let him do it.

His hand leaves your hip and you feel it pulse, throbbing at the loss of harsh connection. Then, he forces your fist to open, to release the white fabric, and he locks your fingers together. It feels intimate, more intimate than his mouth on you, and if you were sober you might have shrugged him away. But you’re not. You’re drunk. Very drunk. So instead you hold his hand harder.

His free hand is trailing along your thigh, and when you glance down at him his eyes are closed, and he looks content, satisfied, and you’re not sure you ever want to unfold from this position. He uses his other hand to trail up and down your thigh before his errant fingers find their way farther up your legs. 

When he slips two inside you, both at once, no warning, you mewl.

He detaches his mouth from you, like he wants to focus solely on finger fucking you. When you glance down at him again, he gives you a perfunctory smile before focusing back at the task he’s chosen to take up. He’s practically gift-wrapping your orgasm. 

“Right there,” you choke out when his fingers curl at the exact right moment in the exact right spot. You don’t announce that you’re coming, but Spencer is a genius. You’re sure he can figure it out. Everything comes undone in waves, the way seafoam spits back into the sand before dissipating, carrying itself back out into a vaster part of the water. 

“Good job,” he says. He kisses you. You can taste your slick on his lips.

“Spencer.”

“You’ve said that already.” You’d laugh if you weren’t so unraveled. “I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?”

“Mhm.”

“What did we say about using our words?”

“To… use them?”

“You’re so smart,” he says, and you can hear him breathing in the way that means he’s trying not to laugh as he presses scattered kisses across your cheek, jaw, lips. “Can you speak up and show me how smart you are?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Knew you had it in you.” One of his hands is pressed into the mattress next to your head, and the other is absent from your body. When you finally open your eyes, you look down to see him lining himself up with you.

There’s a pinch in your throat as you feel him ease himself inside, slowly, deliberately, like he’s scared you might crumble and break beneath him. You won’t, which you assure him by using one hand to grab onto his bicep and the other to rest on his hip, guiding him all the way inside of you. 

"I got so mad, earlier," he says. "When he was talking about you like that."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he whispers. "Don't fucking apologize."

The heat is back, swirling in your stomach, rushing up your chest like every vein you have has replaced blood with feverish fire. Spencer throws more gasoline on it when he slides almost all the way out, then pushes himself back in. You’re quiet, and even the air around you seems to have hushed itself. 

When he finds a rhythm, he takes advantage of it. Fucks you a little harder, just enough that you can’t close your mouth, can’t quiet yourself even when you try. You’re trying to tread carefully, but you don’t have it in you to not tip your chin up and search for a kiss. You move your other hand to wrap around his forearm, the one right next to your head, and you can’t stop yourself from digging your nails into the skin when he gives you one particularly hard thrust.

“Do that again,” you whisper.

“This?” he asks, though it’s more of a mock. He does it again, this time a little slower. You feel like crying, because you have no other outlet for what exactly it is you’re currently feeling. When he does it again you have no choice but to squeeze your eyes shut. He kisses you again, idly, like you’ve got all the time in the world. You’re not sure you have more than five minutes in you before you pass out. “You feel so good.”

“Needed you.”

“Yeah?” he says. Your words seem to have made him snap his hips against yours a little harder. 

He uses one of his hands to grab under your thigh, then pushes your leg up. You let out a broken moan you don’t even register as your own until he stretches you farther apart and you do it again. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t clawing at an indescribable edge. You feel ripe. Nothing holy is coming for you. You arch your back like it might. 

"Mine." He says it while looking down at you. He says it with his chest. He says it like it's an absolute.

You bring your hand to the back of his neck and make him kiss you. Once for the thrill, twice just to feel the burn of it really settle in. 

Then you come. And everything else does, too. It’s unraveling. Not fingers but friction, not skin but static, not breath but flood. The room is slipping sideways, hips first, mouth second. you forget your name or maybe you give it away. There's no shape to anything, to the sting between your legs, only pulse — wet, reckless, existing in the hollows of your thighs. When he bends down and lets out a sound that sounds suspiciously like your name, your teeth catch on his shoulder like a warning. He doesn’t flinch. You bite down harder.

Nothing makes sense for a while except the sound of the air-conditioner. 

Spencer says something. Then again. Then, he taps your cheek twice, says your name until you come to.

“Hm?”

“You okay?”

“‘m okay. Are you okay?”

He laughs. It’s quiet and hoarse and still warm. “Yes ma’am.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Hmm what?’

“I like that. We’ll use that ‘nother time.” You let out a heavy sigh as he chuckles. He slips out of you and you suck in a breath that catches in the pockets of your teeth, cold and shocking against the roof of your mouth.

“Sorry.” You shake your head and hope it conveys that he has nothing to apologize for. He rolls over next to you. “You should pee.”

“Pee schmee.”

“I think I’m gonna retract my previous statements about your high level of intelligence now.” You smack him with your hand and laugh, hearty and probably too loud.

“I’m still drunk,” you say after a few more moments of silence.

“I think that’s how that whole drinking thing works, yeah.”

“Do you regret it?”

“No.” His answer comes quicker than you were expecting.

“Okay. Me neither. Just checking.” You blow hair out of your face, and when that doesn’t work you bring a palm up and use the strength of four fingers to wipe it away from the sweat gathering in satin sheets across your skin. “I hate this room.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t hate you,” you whisper.

“Well,” he whispers back. “I don’t hate you either.”

“Do you wanna maybe… I don’t know. Not be on the job tomorrow morning?”

It might just be the alcohol, but his expression is soft and lush, like when dawn’s light shudders through early morning fog. 

Of course, sneaking out at 6 a.m. had been its own mission. It took you twenty minutes to escape Spencer’s sleepy, koala-like grip. He kept murmuring thank-yous against your skin, kisses trailing from your collarbones to your jaw, like punctuation marks of affection. It had taken everything in you not to crawl back into bed with him.

Now, back in the briefing room, you had even more reason to catch this unsub.

"I got it." Spencer’s voice broke through the silence.

His head snapped up, and the words came pouring out of him like a dam breaking. Facts, patterns, dates, connections. The rest of the team, who had been working in silence, immediately turned their attention to him, hanging onto every word.

“Okay. Morgan and Reid—I want you with me,” Hotch announced the moment Spencer finished unraveling the unsub’s pattern.

Garcia’s fingers flew across her keyboard, sending the coordinates to their phones in a flurry of clicks. This was one of those rare, high-stakes cases where even she had to join them in the field. “Location’s live on your devices,” she said, her usual bubbly tone subdued. Hotch gave her a curt nod of thanks before striding toward the door, Morgan right behind him.

Spencer, however, seemed miles away as he snatched his brown coat from the back of his chair. His mind was already elsewhere, locked onto the unsub. Then, just before following the others, he turned to you.

You were still standing by the board, capping the dry-erase marker and watching him with a soft, worried smile. He seemed exhausted.

“Be careful,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

He blinked, as if snapping back into himself for just a second, and mumbled, “I’ll be okay. I’ll see you later.”

His fingers caught your chin, thumb beneath your jaw, index curled gently under your bottom lip. Time stuttered. His kiss was fleeting, achingly tender, and then his lips brushed yours again as he whispered, "I love you," like it was the simplest truth in the world. And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

Silence.

Absolute, suffocating silence.

A pin drop would’ve echoed like a gunshot.

“Oh. my. god.” Garcia’s shriek could’ve shattered glass.

Your fingers flew to your lips, still tingling from the ghost of his kiss. The rest of the team was frozen, Rossi’s eyebrows had nearly disappeared into his hairline, JJ’s mouth was slightly open, and Emily looked like she was torn between laughing and demanding an immediate explanation.But you barely registered any of it.

Because Spencer had just said I love you. For the first time.And he’d done it in front of everyone.

Garcia was already flailing her hands, rapid-fire questions spilling out of her“Since when? How did I not know? Oh my god, the touching, the lingering looks, the—!”

But all you could hear was the echo of his voice, playing over and over in your mind like a broken record.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Your face burned. Your heart threatened to beat out of your chest.

You didn’t even notice Emily waving her hand in front of your face until her voice cut through the haze. “Earth to lovergirl,” she teased, grinning.

Blinking, you turned toward the team, all of them staring at you with varying degrees of shock, amusement, and sheer anticipation.

“What?” you managed, voice still breathless.

“That’s all you have to say?” JJ asked, plopping onto the edge of the desk in disbelief. She grabbed a Cheeto from an open bag, crunching loudly. Garcia was still gaping at you, hands pressed dramatically over her mouth. Behind her colorful glasses, her eyes were massive. Rossi sipped his coffee slowly, clearly judging the entire situation.

“Huh?” you repeated dumbly.

Emily’s smirk softened just a fraction. “You okay?”

You stared at her, still dazed, before muttering, “He said ‘I love you.’”

Another beat of silence. Garcia gasped. “That was his first time saying it?” Her hands flew away from her mouth, gripping the sides of her head like she might explode.And then chaos. Again.

“Oh my god—”

“Since when—”

“Wait, wait, wait—that was the first—”

You spent what felt like hours fielding an avalanche of questions, barely able to catch your breath between them. At first, you tried to dodge them, played dumb, gave vague smiles, busied yourself with the files on the table, but it was pointless. Garcia saw straight through you, pinning you with a look that practically screamed, You’re not getting out of this, sweetheart.

So you caved. “Six months,” you said quietly. There was a loud collective gasp. Garcia clutched her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. ( She was. ) “Six?! Six whole months? And you didn’t say anything?”

You winced. “We were trying to be subtle.”

“You failed!” she cried, throwing her hands up.

Emily laughed. “Okay, next—who made the first move?”

You hesitated, cheeks burning. “He did.” Another round of dramatic gasps echoed around the room. Even Rossi raised his brows, murmuring, “Didn’t peg him for the bold one.”

“He’s… not. Not usually,” you admitted with a smile you couldn’t quite suppress. “But with me… I guess he was.”

And on it went, question after question, as if they were making up for six months of missed gossip in a single sitting. It was messy, chaotic, borderline embarrassing, but it was also kind of nice. Being known. Being happy. Then came the final question.

JJ’s voice was quieter than the others, softer. “Do you love him too?”

You froze.For a moment, the whole room seemed to hold its breath. Even Garcia stopped typing. You looked at JJ, then down at your hands, then back up again. And nodded.

Garcia screeched, practically launching herself out of her chair. “I knew it!” she howled.

Emily beamed, her smile so wide it crinkled the corners of her eyes, and even Rossi let out a low chuckle, shaking his head like a proud uncle.You were a little overwhelmed, okay, maybe a lot, but underneath the chaos, you also felt a sheer amount of happiness that you've never felt before.

Hotch interrupted the moment by calling Garcia. “Unsub’s in custody. We’re on our way back. Everyone’s okay.”

Your breath left you in a rush. Spencer was okay. Your heart, though, it hadn’t quite gotten the message. It was still thundering in your chest, hammering against your ribs with every second that ticked by.

The others must’ve noticed the way you kept glancing at the door, because JJ finally nudged you gently toward it. “Go wait. We’ll clean up.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Garcia waved a dismissive hand. “Honey, please. You’ve got heart-eyes so intense it’s blinding. Go stand dramatically in the doorway like you’re in a movie or something. We’ve got this.”And so you did.

You found yourself hovering in the doorway of the conference room, a half-hearted folder in your hands, pretending to sort through paperwork as you stared through the glass. Watching. Waiting.

Then you heard it, the sound of the SUV pulling up outside. Every head in the room snapped up like it was choreographed. Honestly, for a team of professional FBI agents, they acted like a bunch of high schoolers most of the time.

You glanced back over your shoulder. Sure enough, all of them were watching you, wide-eyed and waiting like you were the final act in a romantic drama. You rolled your eyes with a half-smile, dropped the stack of files onto the table and walked out of the conference room.

As you left, you heard Emily mutter, “Garcia, don’t follow her.”You didn’t wait to hear the response.

The moment you reached the main hallway of the precinct, the doors opened and there he was.

Spencer stepped inside, his curls slightly mussed, cheeks flushed from the cold, and as soon as his eyes found yours, he smiled. That gentle, crooked smile that always made you smile.You barely registered Derek behind him, hand gripping the cuffed unsub and throwing you a confused look when you didn’t even acknowledge him. Even Hotch glanced over in surprise as you made a beeline for Spencer.

“Hey—wait, what—?” Spencer managed, eyes widening as you grabbed his arm and all but dragged him down the corridor.

You shoved open the nearest empty office, tugged him inside, and closed the door firmly behind you, leaning back against it.

“Did you mean it?” you asked, your voice urgent, breath a little uneven.

Spencer blinked. “Mean what?”

You stared at him in stunned disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“What?” he said again, completely baffled. “What did I do? Did Morgan tell you about what happened in the field? I know I wasn’t supposed to go near the unsub without backup, but I swear, I had it under control—”He started to ramble, hands gesturing as he pouted in that way he did when he was simultaneously nervous and a little too proud of himself. “He had a weapon, but I de-escalated him. You would’ve been proud.”

“You did what?” you interrupted, your mind now juggling two emotional crises.

Spencer blinked again. “Wait—so Morgan didn’t tell you?”

“No,” you muttered, your voice flat with disbelief. You shook your head slowly, trying to process it all. The nerves, the kiss, the I love you, and the fact that Spencer genuinely hadn’t realized what he’d done.

Spencer’s expression shifted from confusion to concern in a heartbeat. “Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer, his hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Did I do something wrong?”

His voice was careful, gentle, and far too kind for how scrambled your brain felt. “Can you tell me what it is?” he added, tilting your chin up just enough so your eyes met his.

Your mouth opened slightly, but the words were stuck. How could he not know? How could he be looking at you like that, all wide eyes and soft brows and pouty lips, and not know?

“Spencer,” you said finally, his name sharp on your tongue.

“Yes?” he replied immediately, those puppy-dog eyes locking onto yours like he was bracing for impact.

“You kissed me.”

His brows pulled together. “I’m—I’m sorry?” he said, clearly confused.

If you weren’t so worked up, you might have laughed at his face. But your heart was hammering, and your nerves were tangled in knots.

“You did it in front of everyone,” you clarified. And then you said it , softly, barely above a whisper. “And then you said—”

“I love you.” His voice cut in before you could finish.You watched as the memory clearly snapped back into place. Realization washed over his face, followed immediately by a bright, burning blush that crept up his neck and across his cheeks.

“Mhmm,” you hummed, nodding slowly, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as you studied his reaction.

Spencer rubbed the back of his neck, eyes wide, flustered in a way that only made you want to kiss him senseless. “Oh,” he breathed, glancing away for a second before meeting your eyes again. 

“Yeah… oh.” you repeated. Both of you stayed silent for a second.

“I did mean it,” he stammered out.

A smile tugged at your lips, finally. After an hour and a half of bouncing knees, chewed lips, the words you’d been dying to hear had finally landed.

“I love you,” Spencer repeated, a little firmer this time, like he needed to hear it aloud again to make it real. Like maybe saying it twice would help his brain catch up to his heart.The warmth that bloomed inside you was instant. You weren’t sure you’d ever felt this happy in your entire life.

Then, of course, Spencer kept talking.

“Did I say it too soon? I’m not sure. On average, men say it around three to three and a half months into a relationship, while women usually wait closer to four months,” he rambled, already blushing furiously, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “And I know we’ve been dating for six months, so technically it took me twice as long, which isn’t statistically ideal, but honestly I almost said it on our first date, which definitely wouldn’t have been optimal and—”

He was spiraling. Fast.

So you did the only thing that would shut him up. You stepped forward, gently grabbed his face in both hands, and said, soft but certain: “I love you too, Spencer.”

He stared. Just stared, like he was trying to memorize this exact moment, burn it into his brain with all its warmth and disbelief and wonder. You watched his expression shift, first stunned, then relieved, then something so bright and boyish it made your heart lurch.You’d never seen him so happy before.

Well, once. That first time you kissed him. He’d looked a little like this, dazed and blissed out. But now he looked like his whole world had just clicked into place.

“Yeah?” he breathed, voice shaky with excitement, his grin stretching so wide it practically crinkled his entire face.

“Yeah.” You laughed through the word, nodding, the emotion bubbling up in your chest and spilling into every part of you. Your smile was a mirror of his.

Spencer let out a breathy laugh and pulled you into him, arms wrapping tightly around your waist as if he couldn’t stand the idea of space between you anymore. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, grinning against his skin.

“This is real, right?” he asked into your hair, voice muffled. “I’m not dreaming? Because sometimes I do dream about you saying that and then I wake up and it’s just—”

You cut him off with a kiss to the warm skin of his throat.“It’s definitely real,” you mumbled against him.

Spencer let out a shaky breath and held you tighter. You stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, both of you grinning like idiots. It felt absurdly, wonderfully perfect. Then you muttered into his neck, “You do know you outed our relationship to everyone, right?”

Spencer’s arms stiffened around you just slightly. “Yeah. Totally. I knew that. I did it on purpose,” he lied, too quickly, voice pitched a little too high.

You giggled and pulled back, hands still resting on either side of his neck. “You’re a terrible liar, Dr. Reid.”

He didn’t even bother to defend himself, just gave you an adorable, crooked grin and leaned in to peck your lips. “Yeah, I am,” he mumbled, brushing his nose against yours.

You kissed him back, just once, then poked a finger into the center of his chest. “Also, we’re going to talk about your little superhero stunt at home.”

Spencer blinked. “Right,” he echoed, suddenly very aware of his earlier reckless attempt to talk the unsub down without backup. “Are you mad?”

“I’m not not mad,” you replied, giving him a look. “But I love you, so I’m saving the full lecture for later.”

He winced slightly, then smiled. “Fair.”

You let your fingers drift through the curls on his forehead, brushing them back gently. “Well,” you sighed, “for now, we have to go out there… into the land of chaos and gossip.”

Realization dawned slowly on Spencer’s face. His eyes widened. “Oh no. Garcia definitely filled Morgan in already.”

“And Rossi’s probably already told Hotch,” you added grimly.

“And JJ and Emily—”

“—were there when it happened,” you finished.

You both stood there in mutual silence for a moment, dread creeping in. Spencer cleared his throat. “Maybe we could… go out the window?”

You laughed, smacking his chest lightly. “Nice try, genius.”

He gave a helpless little shrug. “I had to try.”

Taking a deep breath, you grabbed the handle of the door behind you. “Ready?” you asked.

“Absolutely not,” Spencer said without hesitation.

You squeezed his hand anyway. “Come on, lover boy.”

To say that the conference room was chaos would’ve been an understatement.Garcia let out a sound that could only be described as a squeal-gasp hybrid, immediately launching into a breathless barrage of questions that involved timelines and pet names. Morgan clapped Spencer on the back so hard he nearly stumbled, muttering something about “my boy finally growing up.” JJ just smirked from the corner, quietly sipping her coffee.Hotch had walked by at one point, muttered something that suspiciously sounded like “About time,” and kept moving without missing a beat.

The jet ride was somehow worse.

You’d sat next to Spencer, hoping for a quiet, post-case decompression. Instead, you were subjected to Garcia and Morgan playing twenty questions from across the aisle. Rossi, pretending to read, chuckled behind his wine glass the entire time. At one point, you tried to rest your head on Spencer’s shoulder, and he’d blushed so hard you thought he might combust.

You weren’t sure if he was embarrassed from the attention or just overwhelmed from finally saying what he’d been keeping in for months. Probably both.

But the days that followed? Even worse.

Because the teasing never stopped. Emily sent you heart emojis during briefings. Morgan kept calling Spencer lover boy, which you regretted giving him the vocabulary for. Garcia had created a mood board on her computer and refused to delete it. Even Hotch raised an eyebrow when you asked to share a rental car with Spencer.

But through it all, Spencer stayed by your side. Every awkward joke, every embarrassing comment, every not-so-subtle glance,he never flinched. If anything, he leaned into it. He held your hand in the bullpen and he kissed your cheek at the end of the day. It was domestic chaos.

The thing about Spencer was that he remembered everything. Most people found that impressive, however you found it comforting. You could mention something once and Spencer would remember it months later.

A favorite author.

A movie you loved as a kid.

A food allergy.

A random story from college.

It all stayed somewhere inside his mind. One afternoon you were searching your desk.

Spencer looked up from a file.

"What are you looking for?"

"My charger."

"It's in conference room B."

You blinked.

"What?"

"You left it there after the briefing."

"How do you know that?"

"You forgot it."

"As opposed to?"

"You forgetting it somewhere else."

You laughed, what made Spencer smile. The room collectively watched. Then looked away before either of you noticed.

A month later the team was flying home from a case. You fell asleep halfway through the flight. Nothing unusual.

The unusual part happened afterward, when the jet landed. You woke up covered with Spencer's suit jacket. Garcia nearly bit through her lip trying not to smile. Luke immediately looked toward Rossi. Rossi silently updated the betting pool.

You simply handed the jacket back.

"Thanks."

Spencer looked almost embarrassed.

"Of course."

Like covering you with his jacket was the most natural thing in the world. Which, to him, it was.

The problem wasn't that Spencer was subtle.

The problem was that he treated you differently in a hundred tiny ways, that only became obvious when people paid attention.

He always sat beside you during briefings, partnered with you when possible, saved you a seat on the jet, noticed when you were tired or stressed, or hungry, or upset.

The rest of the team noticed.

You didn't.

One afternoon Emily walked into the bullpen and stopped. Spencer was talking and you were laughing. Neither of you seemed aware that everyone else had stopped working. Your eyes blurry with tears, Spencer vividly gesticulating as he was telling you an old story about prank war he had with Derek, years ago.

Luke slowly slid into the chair beside Emily.

"How long do you think?"

Emily sighed.

"At this rate?"

"Yeah."

"Six months."

Luke nodded thoughtfully.

"Optimistic."

Across the room Garcia was already adding notes to the betting spreadsheet.

The funniest part was that Spencer thought he was hiding it.

Everyone knew. Everyone. Including suspects, witnesses, local police.

Once, during a case, a detective looked between you and Spencer and casually asked how long you'd been together.

You nearly choked. Spencer looked like he forgot how talking worked.

The detective immediately apologized.

The team spent three days making fun of him. Spencer never recovered.

The jealousy started by accident.

At least that's what Spencer told himself.

The team was interviewing witnesses at a local bar. You were speaking with one of them. A very attractive witness. A witness who was clearly more interested in you than helping with the case.

Spencer was trying not to stare.

He failed. Spectacularly.

The witness leaned closer, what made Spencer hate him immediately.

The witness said something and your smile vanished.

"Oh no," Luke muttered beside Spencer.

"What?"

"The poor idiot crossed a line."

Sure enough, you folded your arms.

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

The witness smirked. Spencer couldn't hear his response. Whatever it was, he didn't need to.

Your eyebrow lifted.

Three minutes later the witness looked like he'd lost an argument with a lawyer, a professor, and a disappointed mother all at once.

He practically fled.

You walked back toward the team.

"What happened?" JJ asked.

"He told me I'd be prettier if I smiled more."

Emily winced.

"Oof."

"He also suggested women usually aren't greatat this job."

Luke barked out a laugh.

"Well, he deserved whatever you said."

You shrugged.

"I simply informed him his confidence was unsupported by evidence. And that if he thinks me smiling more would help finding the killer, I'm glad his job is cleaning tables."

Rossi laughed into his coffee.

Spencer tried to hide his grin and failed. You caught it immediately.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You look pleased."

Spencer shrugged.

"I enjoy watching arrogant people get embarrassed."

Your smile widened and Spencer forgot how breathing worked.

The breaking point came another two months later. The team was flying home after a case. Everyone was exhausted. Luke was asleep with his head tilted back. Garcia was scrolling through her phone. Emily and JJ were discussing paperwork. Rossi had somehow fallen asleep the second the jet left the ground.

You sat across from Reid.

He sat with a book open in his lap. Supposedly reading. You knew he was reading because he always read.

What you didn't know was that he'd been staring at the same page for fifteen minutes. Because you were sitting directly across from him. And because he was trying very hard not to think about how good you looked. He was failing miserably at that.

You sighed and stretched.

"Can I ask you something?"

Spencer glanced up.

"Of course."

"Why don't you date?"

A few seats away, Emily immediately looked interested. Luke cracked one eye open.

Spencer tried to focus back on the book.

"That's a broad question."

"I mean, you're smart."

He turned a page. The wrong page.

"Kind."

Another page. Still not reading.

"Funny."

The book lowered slightly.

"And ridiculously attractive."

Reid nearly dropped it.

Across the aisle, Luke looked ready to choke.

You continued obliviously.

"Anyone would be happy to be with you."

Spencer stared at the page, not reading a single word. Then he said, almost casually:

"Well, you don't seem interested."

You blinked.

"What?"

The words came out before he could stop them. His eyes widened slightly. The entire jet suddenly felt very quiet.

You stared.

Spencer stared at his book, very intensely.

Like maybe if he focused hard enough he could disappear into it.

"What do you mean?"

He swallowed, slowly lowered the book and looked at you.

"I mean..." He hesitated.

For once, Spencer Reid seemed completely unsure of himself. Then he gave a tiny shrug.

"You don't seem interested in dating me."

The silence was immediate. Absolute.

Across the jet, Luke's eyes snapped fully open. Garcia looked up from her phone. Emily stopped pretending not to listen. JJ pressed her lips together. Rossi looked awake all of a sudden.

You simply stared. Because surely you hadn't heard that correctly.

Spencer realized exactly what he'd just admitted. A faint blush spread across his face.

"Oh."

He looked away.

"That wasn't how I intended to say that."

You were still staring. Because suddenly everything made sense.

The coffee.

The jacket.

The attention to detail.

The jealousy.

The way he always found you first.

"Oh my God."

Spencer let out a quiet laugh.

"Yeah."

"Oh my God."

"I know."

You pointed at him. Completely horrified.

"You're flirting with me?"

Luke physically buried his face in his hands. Garcia made a noise somewhere between a scream and a laugh.

Spencer finally smiled.

Warm.

Fond.

A little smug.

He tilted his head.

"For like... two months now, thank you for noticing."

"Two months?"

Emily snorted.

"Try six."

Spencer groaned.

"Emily."

"What? She deserve the truth.

You looked confused.

"You knew about it?" You looked at everyone, trying to figure out what exactly is happening.

"Technically Rossi had the betting pool."

"I financed the betting pool," Rossi corrected.

You looked back at Spencer, furrowed brows, thinking. Analysing.

"You really like me?"

Spencer's expression softened immediately. Like the answer was obvious.

"Considering I haven't stopped thinking about you for almost a year?"

Your heart completely stopped.

"A year?"

Spencer closed his eyes.

"Please stop repeating that."

"A year?"

Luke laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his seat.

Garcia was openly crying.

And Spencer looked like he wanted the jet door to open so he could jump out.

"Yea" he admitted quietly. You smiled, not taking his eyes off of him.

"That's good" you said eventually and that made him curiously look at you.

"Good?"

"Yea. Because I like you too. For quite some time" you admitted, smiling fully now.

"You do?"

"Yes. Thank you for noticing" you couldn't help but mock him, as you intertwined your fingers on the small table inbetween you.

Garcia already started planning your wedding. JJ and Emily exchanged looks, knowing smirks. Luke just silently handed Rossi fifty bucks, mutting something that sounded like "one week too soon".

2. Derek’s being Derek and is flexing his arm for her and Penelope, and telling them that it was arm day. Spencer is barely holding back an eye roll.

Penelope does it. She wraps her hand around his bicep and coos praises at him.

“C’mon, pretty girl, don’t leave me hanging,” he says to her, and Spencer is internally panicking. He’s mentally begging her not to do it. She’ll never get close to his scrawny arms if she does.

She rolls her eyes at him and crosses her arms across her chest. Spencer is so relieved.

Penelope then encourages her to do it. “Do it! He’s so strong, it’s so impressive!”

She teasingly just pokes at his bicep instead of wrapping her hand around it like Derek and Penelope want her to. Spencer internally cheers, but then wonders how her fingers would feel wrapped around him.

He fantasizes about walking down the street with her by his side, with her hand curled around the inside of his upper arm. He’s seen couples do that in movies. He’s seen JJ hold Will’s arm like that. He’s sure that it would feel so nice.

3. He sees her ruffle Henry’s hair. Being jealous of a child is a new low for him. He can’t help but wonder how her fingers would feel as they carded through his strands. How they would feel against his scalp, if she’d gently scratch his head like he’s also seen in the movies and like his mom used to do for him.

He’s then even more embarrassed and humiliated that his main experience with comforting touches is with his mother.

4. Spencer stumbles over the leg of a chair, and her arms reach out to steady him, but she pulls away just before she can grasp him. She knows he’s uncomfortable about being touched and doesn’t want to unsettle him. He’s so sad that he missed the opportunity to have her hands on him.

He wonders how her hands would feel on his waist; the thought of it alone is making him feel light-headed. He doesn’t dare to think about how her fingertips would feel brushing against the bare skin there.

5: She’s rubbing JJ’s shoulders for her in the middle of the bullpen. JJ is extremely pregnant and has been rolling her shoulders back, wincing. She’s so kind and caring and nurturing – of course, she offered to help JJ.

Spencer watches this occur from across the room with envy. JJ deserves this. She could give birth any day now and he knows how hard pregnancy is on the body and he absolutely should not be so jealous right now.

But would she rub his shoulders for him after a long day of work, too? He’d return the favor! 

*** When she does finally touch him, he wishes it could have been under better circumstances. 

They’re walking down the street in a major city, cars flying past them as they leave a storefront after questioning an employee.

He’s talking to her animatedly about what he thinks about the store owner when he trips on a crack in the sidewalk. The toe of his shoe gets stuck, and he staggers sideways. He nearly falls into the steady traffic. 

She gasps and reaches out to grab his hand, yanking him towards her. 

They’re both too shocked for words. 

He stumbles forward against her, and they’re chest to chest. 

He’s breathless because he could’ve just died, definitely not because her fingers are in his palm and their torsos are pressed together. 

“I think you just saved my life.” He feebly says. 

“I definitely did.” She cracks an uneasy smile and squeezes his hand. “Gotta be more careful, Spence. I can’t lose you.”

He’s blushing from his ears to his chest, where he’s still leaning against hers. 

“I’m sorry.” He weakly replies. 

He spent months wondering what her skin would feel like against his. Her fingers are warm, smooth, and so soft. Her grip is firm, and he wonders if she would grip him like that in other-

Context shows that she was just being a good friend, a good person, really. But he hopes this isn’t the last time that she touches him. Maybe he’ll be brave and reach for her sometime.

this has been sitting in my drafts for like a month and idk if i'll ever be completely happy with it so here it is!

i have 2 other similar drafts: "5 times spencer lets her touch him, and the 1 time he touches her first" and "5 times spencer accidentally touches her, and the 1 time he does it on purpose"

You were too busy dabbing concealer onto your neck like a madwoman to look back at him. “You’re literally the smartest person in the Bureau and you let this happen.”

“Excuse me?” he shot back, slipping on his button-up with a hiss. “You bit me like I was a chew toy!”

“Only because you said—” You stopped yourself. “Never mind.”

He raised a brow. “‘Only because I said…?’ What?”

You muttered something about having a latex allergy and being turned on by fucking raw and kept blending.

You arrived at Quantico seven minutes late, coffee in hand, silently daring the elevator to move faster as you and Spencer stood like statues inside.

You sit down two chairs away from Spencer. Not next to him. Never next to him. You learned that lesson last week when you accidentally let your knees touch under the table and Morgan nearly imploded from curiosity.

He’s wearing a scarf.

Spencer Reid is wearing a scarf. In July.

JJ arches a brow. Morgan outright snorts. “Pretty boy, what’s with the neckwear? You join a jazz band?”

You immediately shove a too-hot sip of coffee in your mouth to avoid making a noise. Spencer blinks at Morgan like a man choosing violence.

“Had a sore throat this morning,” he says too quickly. “Didn’t want it to get worse.”

Garcia, bless her meddling heart, swivels around in her chair. “Oh no! Are you sick? Do you need tea? I have lemon ginger in my desk—”

“No! No. I’m fine.” Spencer coughs, like he’s trying to make the lie more convincing. “Just… precautionary.”

Emily’s eyes flick from him to you, to the scarf, to your turtleneck, then down to your wrists, where you accidentally forgot to cover one of his bruises with foundation. A ring-shaped imprint from his hand still lingers faintly. Her brow arches. Her mouth twitches.

You pretend not to notice. You focus on the whiteboard.

Hotch walks in, files in hand.

“Morning,” he says. “Briefing’s starting now. Let’s keep it efficient.”

9:12am Post-Brief Coffee

You’re waiting for coffee when Emily walks in, holding a mug and a smug look.

“Nice neck,” she says casually.

You freeze. “Excuse me?”

“You and Reid are really subtle, you know that?”

You nearly spill your drink. “We’re not—”

She holds up her hand. “Relax. I don’t care. Just… maybe cool it with the murdery makeout sessions before team meetings.”

Your face burns. “Noted.”

“And FYI,” she adds, stepping past you, “you’ve got a bite mark on your shoulder. Left side. Might wanna rethink the short sleeves.” You glance down and swear under your breath.

Walking back to your desk, coffee in hand before you collapse into your chair. Spencer sent you a text from across the bullpen:

SPENCER: We are so bad at being secretive.

YOU: I told you not to leave a fingerprint on my neck.

SPENCER: You told me to choke you.

YOU: I was drunk on your nerd dick. That doesn’t count.

SPENCER: Fair. Still. We need a new plan.

YOU: New plan: no more fucking before briefings.

SPENCER: Counter-offer: we fuck gently next time.

You met his eyes across the room.

That smug little smile was back. You bit your lip.

God help you.

You were going to do it all over again.

That weekend, while on a stakeout in Denver, it came to a head.

You’d both been posted together, alone in the SUV, surveillance gear buzzing softly in the back seat. It was two a.m., freezing outside, the heater running on low to avoid drawing attention. You were in one of his FBI windbreakers, swamped in the sleeves. He smelled like coffee, ink, and his mother’s perfume—that subtle powdery scent that always lingered on his shirt collars, like the past was stitched into his clothing. And he wouldn’t stop smirking.

“What?” you asked, suspicious.

“Nothing,” he replied innocently. “You’re just… tense.”

“I’m cold.”

He turned toward you, eyes dancing behind his glasses. “I think you’re nervous.”

“You wish.”

“No,” he said softly, “I think you’re waiting for me to make the next move.”

“Is that what this is?” You gave him a sweet smile, your eyes narrowing. “Foreplay?”

He looked at you for a long beat. “Maybe.”

You blinked. The shift in tone was so subtle you almost missed it. His posture relaxed, but his gaze was pinning. Heavy. You didn’t move. Neither did he. Eventually, you turned and stared out the window. It didn’t die down after that.

The next morning at HQ, he dropped a file on your desk with the phrase “Checkmate, sweetheart” scrawled on the cover. Inside were ten pages of surveillance photos.

You. Switching his sugar packets with salt.

You. Programming the audio file on his computer.

You. Changing his pens. Wearing gloves as if you were stealthy.

He'd been documenting everything, always one step ahead of you. The smug bastard. And somewhere deep in your chest, something cracked open like a fault line.

The knock came just after ten. You had just stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around you, when a knock came at your door.

You opened it without thinking. And there he stood. Spencer Reid. Wearing his FBI windbreaker, rain dripping from his hair, holding your misplaced badge and house key between two fingers.

“I assume this fell out of your bag in Quantico,” he said. “Or maybe you left it on purpose.”

You blinked. “Why would I—”

“Because you wanted me to come over.” There was no accusation in his voice. Just fact. You stared at him. You realized you were only wearing a towel. He realized at the same time. And yet—he didn’t move.

“I came to call a truce,” he said quietly. “But that might’ve been a mistake.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to call a truce.”

You stared at him for a moment before replying, “You gonna stand there or come in?”

The door clicked shut behind him. You didn’t speak. You just looked at each other for one long, slow second. His eyes flicked down your body. He exhaled shakily. There was no one else around. No Garcia keeping score. No Morgan making jokes. No Hotch in the corner giving the two of you side-eye like you were one “Daddy” autocorrect away from being fired.

Now it was just you and Spencer. Alone. No whiteboards. No excuses.

“I’m not here for a prank,” he said finally.

You tilted your head. “No?”

“I wanted to call a truce. That was the plan.”

You took a step toward him. “And?”

His eyes dropped to your collarbone. Your towel had started to slip. “And now I don’t want a truce.”

He didn’t move. Not until you reached for the zipper of his jacket and pulled it down, slow. Peeling it off his shoulders, letting the rain-damp fabric drop to the floor. His hands stayed at his sides, fingers twitching.

“You’re wet,” you murmured.

“You’re—” His voice cracked. “Wearing less than usual.”

You smiled. “Observation skills still sharp, Dr. Reid?”

“Terrifyingly so.”

Your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt. “So what happens now?”

His answer was not verbal. He surged forward—suddenly, finally—and kissed you like he’d been waiting to do it for months. Years, maybe. You gasped into his mouth as his hands slid up your waist, firm and wanting, towel falling to the floor as he backed you toward the wall.

His mouth was on your throat then, hot and hungry—sucking, biting, tasting. You let your head fall back, a soft gasp escaping as his hands roamed. His touch was worshipful but firm, like he was imprinting every inch of you into memory. His fingers cupped your breast, thumb brushing your nipple—slow at first, then faster, until your knees nearly buckled.

“Bed,” you whispered.

He swept you there like it was nothing. Your legs hit the mattress and you fell back, pulling him with you. Spencer climbed over you like a man possessed—crawling between your thighs, kissing down your collarbone, dragging his mouth across your sternum and lower.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said, pausing at your navel, voice hoarse. “I mean it.”

“Reid—” Your hand tangled in his hair. “Don’t stop unless the building’s on fire.”

He groaned. “That’s a reasonable threshold.”

And then his mouth was on you. Hot, careful, devastating—his tongue circled your clit with the same concentration he gave to serial profiles and rare languages, and Jesus Christ, you had underestimated him. He licked and sucked until your hips were arching off the bed, thighs shaking around his shoulders, breath breaking into gasps you couldn’t control.

“Spencer—fuck—” Your hand fisted in the sheets. “Don’t stop—”

“You’ve been like this the whole time?” he asked softly, like he was marveling, the fucking menace. “When you were programming my computer? Or when you were planting that Lila file? You were this wet?”

You let out a little whine. “Reid—”

He groaned, shifting above you, and then you felt him—the hot, heavy drag of his cock against the inside of your thigh. One slow thrust and he was teasing you with it, rubbing along your slick folds but not pushing in.

“Beg,” he whispered.

You almost laughed—almost—but then he gave a tiny roll of his hips, barely nudging the head of his cock into you, and your pride crumbled like sugar glass.

“Please,” you hissed. “Fuck, just—please.”

He pushed in slow, groaning into your neck, both hands braced above your head as he filled you.

You clawed at his back, your ankles locking behind him, his name falling from your lips in broken syllables.

“You feel—” he whispered, panting, forehead against yours, “you feel so fucking good, I can’t—”

“Harder,” you begged, nails raking his spine. “Please.” He was deep. Thick. Stretching you in the best kind of way. You arched beneath him, clinging to his shoulders, breath stuttering.

Pushing in to the hilt and staying there, letting you feel every inch before pulling back. Then again. Again. Your body rising to meet him, gasping for more.

Your fingers clutched at him, his chest slick against yours. You could feel the taut pull of muscle in his back, the trembling restraint in his hips as he tried not to come too fast. The way his mouth found yours again and again, greedy and messy, like he’d never learned how to stop.

“Fuck, you’re so—tight,” he rasped. “I thought about this—god, I thought about this so many times.”

You bit his shoulder, gasping as he drove into you, angle perfect now, hitting that spot that made you see white. “You waited too long.”

He shifted his weight, one forearm bracing beside your head as the other hand snaked between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with the precision of someone who cataloged sensations like data points.

“Fuck,” he muttered, watching your face contort with pleasure. “You look so pretty like this.”

Spencer’s name ripped from your throat as your orgasm hit hard, you came around him hard, mouth open in a silent cry, walls clenching, trembling. “You feel so amazing—” His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering, and then he was groaning deep in his chest, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he came with a ragged, helpless sound. You felt it—the hot rush of him, buried deep—and the way he trembled above you, forehead dropping to yours, breath shattered.

The room was silent except for your gasps. Then, after a long, aching moment, he moved—carefully rolling off of you, still panting, pulling you into his chest like he couldn’t not touch you.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. The silence stretched for a beat. Two. His fingers drifted along your back, soft and absentminded.

Finally, you broke the silence with a muffled, “So… truce?”

Spencer let out a breathless, wrecked laugh against your hair. “No,” he said. “Absolutely not.”

You lifted your head. “Excuse me?”

“We’ve gone too far. The war is eternal now.” He kissed your temple. “We’ve crossed the Rubicon.”

“You’re quoting Caesar after fucking me raw in my own bed?”

He grinned against your skin. “Would you expect anything else?”

You groaned, flopping back against the pillow.

Spencer turned onto his side, propped his head up on one arm, and stared at you like he was studying something rare.

You tried not to squirm under the weight of it. “What?”

“I think this might’ve been inevitable.”

Your voice was dry. “The sex?”

“This.” He gestured between the two of you. “The… whatever we are.”

Your heart thumped. “You saying you want this to happen again?”

Spencer leaned in and kissed you—soft, unhurried, less like a demand and more like a promise. He pulled back just enough to whisper, “I’m saying I already know it will.”

a/n: 3 PhDs and not one in self-restraint

You scoff. “I’d have fewer headaches if you stopped using ten-dollar words to say shit like hello.” He licks his lips, and you hate that your eyes follow the movement. Hate more how he notices.

“I think you like it,” he says. “The way I talk. Gets you all worked up, doesn’t it?”

You’re across the room before your brain catches up, planting one knee on his bed and leaning in. He doesn't flinch—just tilts his head up like he’s daring you. “You think I’m turned on by your verbal IQ?” you whisper. “if that’s what did it for me, I’d fuck a crossword puzzle.”

He hums. “Is that your way of admitting you’d fuck me again?” You freeze. His pupils are blown wide now. The little shit is outsmarting you again.

“Oh really?” You taunt, “move the case file then.”

His voice is hoarse. “I’m trying to read the case file.”

“You’re trying to hide your boner behind it.” You watch the blush creep up his neck. Watch the twitch in his fingers like he wants to adjust himself—but he doesn’t.

He’s still not moving the file.

So you reach out—slow, deliberate—and drag one fingertip along the edge of the manila folder resting precariously on his lap. Your nail taps it once, twice. "You don’t have to read," you whisper, voice gone velvet and sweet. "I can give you a much more interesting distraction."

“I don’t—” he swallows, hard. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You say that every time.”

“And it’s always true.”

“And we always do it anyway.”

That earns a twitch of a smile, one that cracks his resolve and makes your core clench. Spencer Reid, cocky and flustered, is a delicious paradox. You love to watch him try to square the two. You love to make him lose the fight.

You don’t give him time to pretend he’s still thinking about the case. You shove the file aside and swing your leg fully across his lap, settling over him, ass pressing right down on the hard length he’s been failing miserably to hide.

“Use your words, Doctor. I know you like to hear yourself talk.” you hum into his ear.

“You insult me constantly,” he groans, his hands grabbing your hips. “It’s not my fault you’re hot when you’re mean.”

You roll your hips against him. Feel the way his cock stirs under the cotton. His breath stutters. His lashes flutter.

“You’re hard,” you whisper.

“Statistically speaking, that’s not surprising,” he mutters, flushed. “There’s—there’s a high correlation between psychological tension and—”

You press down harder. “God, you’re such a nerd,” you hiss.

“And you’re so—” He gasps when you grab him through his pants. You shift back and reach between your bodies, dragging the zipper of his slacks down slow. His breath hitches when your fingers brush him through his boxers. He’s hard—so fucking hard, already leaking.

“Someone’s eager,” you tease.

He pants against your hand. “You’re torturing me.” You grip his shoulders. He buries his face in your neck, trembling. You sink onto him with a gasp.

“This is a terrible idea,” he groans, voice muffled by your skin.

“Uh-huh,” you say, riding him slow, relentless. “Awful.”

He’s thick and warm and already twitching. You take your time—slow, excruciating, watching him unravel beneath you. His head tips back. His hands dig into your thighs like he’s grounding himself.

“Spence,” you breathe, rolling your hips. His whole body jolts. His hands tremble where they grip you. You grind down slow, drawing a broken sound from his throat. He bites his lip and tries to stay quiet. You hate when he does that.

He thrusts up into you, hips stuttering, and you dig your nails into his chest. “God—fuck, you feel so good,” he groans.

You fuck him harder—riding him like it’s your goddamn job. His hands grip your ass, pulling you down harder each time you bounce, like he can’t stand to lose an inch of you. Sweat slicks your skin. His shirt is bunched under your hands. His glasses are long gone. You brace yourself on his chest, watch him moan with pleasure. “You’re so loud for someone who said this was a bad idea,” you pant.

His tongue slides against yours, and his hips stutter up into you. “I’m gonna—fuck—if you keep going—” You cut him off with another roll of your hips, His body snaps. Hands grabbing your ass, he thrusts up, meeting your rhythm now, pounding into you. “I hate you,” you pant, nails digging into his back.

He kisses you hard, “No you don’t.” You kiss him back, biting his bottom lip just enough to draw a gasp. “Fine. I tolerate you.”

“You came on my cock last time you tolerated me,” he grits out, hips grinding deeper. “So forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

He hooks your legs over his shoulders suddenly and drives deeper, drawing a loud, broken cry from your lips. You slap a hand over your mouth and he smirks again, dangerous now.

“Quiet now?” he murmurs. “Thought you liked to talk.”

You glare at him but it’s weak, trembling. You’re too close. “You’re so—fucking—”

“Genius?” he offers smugly, pounding into you. “Multilingual? Three PhDs?”

He leans down, kisses your neck, sucks just under your jaw. You clench again, and his whole body shudders.

“Fuck—do that again and I’m not gonna last.” You dig your heels into his back, flip him again, breath ragged and needy, and ride him hard moaning loud from your own orgasm. His whole body locks beneath you, hips stuttering, cock pulsing deep inside as he spills into you. You roll over next to him, both of you panting as you stare at the ceiling.

Minutes pass. “You know,” he says, voice wrecked and hoarse, “technically, this constitutes fraternization in violation of FBI policy.”

You groan. “If you cite a rule at me right now, I swear to god I’ll suffocate you with a pillow.”

A pause.

“…Kinky.”

a/n: anything for you doctor reid