Nobody wanted to take on a six-hour side mission—three hours there, three hours back—to speak to the ex-wife of this week’s unsub, yourself included. So, naturally, Rossi had raided the local PD of their toothpicks, snapped the ends off of two of them, and presented them to the team with this devilish smile that said I know exactly how this is going to go. You don’t even know why you agreed, if we’re being honest, because you too knew damn well what would happen when you plucked that toothpick from his conniving hands.

You pulled the first short straw, and you got to watch in silent, not at all surprised frustration as Spencer pulled the second one. You had had half a mind to take your stupid toothpick and jam it into Rossi’s eye, but you restrained yourself; after all, you’re supposed to be the better, more mature half of your duo with the world’s most idiotic genius. He had tried to protest, arguing that he was too valuable of an asset to essentially abandon the investigation, but the team were quick to throw the two of you out of the police department and into an SUV that had spent all day boiling in the Louisiana sun.

That leads us into rule number two: never trust an SUV.

After three hours of suffocating in that cursed car, choking on the thick, oppressive air, you had arrived at the home of the mysterious ex-wife. Another hour-and-a-half of questioning later, you were free to embark on your journey back to the team.

Tragedy struck not even an hour even into the drive. The car stuttered, screeched, and stopped dead in the middle of traffic. You’d tried just about everything you could to breathe life back into the overheated corpse of the SUV, but it was no use; you had broken down. 

And just like that, the dam broke and the tense, carefully maintained silence between you and Spencer shattered into pieces.

Standing there, on the side of the road, Spencer had yelled at you—or you had yelled at him; you don’t remember who started it—until you were red-faced and people in their functioning vehicles were craning their necks to watch the scene unfold as they drove on by. 

You called Hotch. Spencer dialled triple-A. Both phone calls crushed whatever remnants of hope you dared cling to.

On your end, Hotch informed you that the unsub had just taken a hostage—surprise! The BAU needed every bit of information you had gathered from the ex-wife, and they needed it now. He barked orders at you over the phone, telling you to check yourselves into a motel and call him back ASAP, and abruptly hung up.

On Spencer’s end, triple-A had kindly told him that the car was fucked—hurray! Something was wrong with the engine, apparently, and you needed to wait for roadside assistance to bring their tow truck. 

But you didn’t have time to wait, not when there were lives at stake. So, you dialled Hotch’s number right there and began relaying everything you had learned over the sound of cars speeding by: details about the unsub’s failed marriage, his childhood, and—

Spencer had snatched the phone from you the moment you dared stumble over a word, damn near tearing your arm off with it. He promptly appointed himself leader of your botched hostage negotiation, and he left you to explain the situation to the very confused—and rightfully a little concerned—roadside assistance workers.

The negotiation continued into the back of some good samaritan’s car, and the two of you were dropped off at what looked to be the shittiest motel in the entire state. It was at that point you stole the phone back and ordered Spencer to speak to the receptionist whilst you walked the team through the safest way to approach the unsub.

In the motel room, you were finally able to put the team on speaker. You set the phone on the desk and, after two hours of anxious pacing, the unsub was finally detained.

And that brings us to the present, and to rule number three: never expect the BAU to come to your aid, no matter how desperately you may need it.

You’re lying face-down on the bed, listening to Hotch’s static-laced voice as he informs you, in essence, that all is well. Spencer is still standing, hands stuffed into his pockets, nodding along with everything being said.

“When can we expect to be picked up?” he asks.

The pause that follows his question is a damning one. A death sentence delivered through thick silence.

“The two of you will be staying at the motel for the night,” Hotch says. You can hear it in his voice, a slight awkwardness; he knowswhat he’s doing, yet he’s doing it anyway.

It’s fine, though. It’s just one night in a shitty motel. Really, it could be worse—

“But I only booked one room.”

Your head shoots up so fast you’re sure you almost break your neck. You scramble up onto your knees, already shaking your head in disbelief—refusal to believe.

“You’re fucking kidding.”

Spencer looks mortified.

“Reid,” you warn, “tell me you’re not serious—”

He huffs, like you’re somehow the idiot in this situation, and crosses his arms. “I didn’t think we’d be staying here!”

“You didn’t— oh my God. How?” You bark out a hollow laugh. “How are you so fucking stupid?”

The phone speaker crackles, picking up the faint sound of Morgan’s laughter.

Spencer’s cheeks are starting to turn red. “I just assumed that—”

“IQ of 187, they said” you mutter, exasperated. “God help us all.”

“I’ll— I’ll go to the front desk.” He’s already heading for the door, raking his fingers through his hair as he walks. “I’ll get us another room—”

“The front desk closed thirty minutes ago.”

“...oh.”

You take a deep breath, turning away from him as you redirect your attention to the phone. Your lifeline. Clearing your throat, you put on the calmest, most amiable voice you can manage and say, “...Hotch?”

“You’re two hours away,” he says plainly.

“Please.”

“By the time we get you back here it’ll be almost three in the morning.”

“I’m begging you.”

“The answer’s no. The two of you will handle this like adults, and we will see you tomorrow.”

Just when you think he’s about to hang up, another voice comes through the speaker. Morgan’s.

“Have fun, lovebirds.”

Spencer scoffs so loud you’d think he was choking on something. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing!”

The call disconnects just as he lurches forward to grab the phone. He holds it in his hand for a moment, staring down at it with frustration that amounts almost to rage, before tossing it to you with a strangled huff.

“I can’t believe this.”

“I can’t believe you only booked one room,” you counter. “Seriously, what did you think was going to—’

“Alright, I get it. I’m an idiot.”

“Mhm.” You flop back onto the bed with a sigh, letting the silence hang in the air for a moment before adding, “Hey, at least we did it.”

“We?”

“Uh…yeah?”

Spencer pulls this face. Disgust mixed with disbelief. It would be comical if it weren’t directed at you. “You barely contributed.”

“Oh, come on—”

“You spent half of that negotiation just…lying around whilst I gave all the information—”

“Information that I got from the guy’s ex-wife.”

“Only because you wouldn’t let me speak to her.”

“Because you don’t know how to talk to women.”

Spencer’s pacing ceases, and he turns to you with a scowl. “Sorry?”

“I was doing you a favour.” You look up at him with a mocking smile. “You would’ve embarrassed yourself if you’d spoken to her.”

His lips curl at the corners, and you’re sure that he’d be shooting lasers from his eyes if he could, zapping you into oblivion. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, then opens it again to say, “You are such a—”

“A what?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

And he closes his mouth once more.

Sitting up, you shuffle to the edge of the bed and cross your arms expectantly. “Go on.”

You can see the tension in his jaw, the way he’s grinding his teeth subtly. He spends a good few moments just staring at you, probably trying to explode you with his mind, before he turns away with a sharp, catty huff. 

“I’m never agreeing to anything like this again,” he mutters.

“Good. Me neither.”

There’s nothing provocative about your words—you’re actually agreeing with him, for once—yet Spencer spins back around to face you all the same. 

“You’ve been nothing but irritating all day,” he spits.

“And all you’ve done is complain.”

“At least I’m not incompetent.”

“Beats being an arrogant little bitch.”

Again, Spencer turns on his heels and begins walking away. “That’s it,” he announces, “I’m taking a shower.”

“Running away. Real mature—”

The bathroom door slams, and you swear it shakes the very foundation of the motel room.

Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath. Try to calm yourself as the reality of this horror movie-worthy situation catches up to you. You’re to share a room with Spencer Reid—share a bed—because of his stupidity, and he had the gall to call you incompetent. 

The shower turns on. You can hear it through the paper-thin wall, and part of you wants to barge into that bathroom, drag him out by his hair and leave him, naked, on the side of the road. It’s the only way you’ll get any semblance of peace tonight, that’s for sure.

But what would that say about you? That you’re just as childish—as petulant—as he is? You’re supposed to be the bigger person here, the better person.

So you resign yourself to lying in wait, dreading whatever bullshit the next twelve hours have in store for you.

—

Thirty minutes later, Spencer emerges from the bathroom muttering about the disgraceful state of the bathroom. He doesn’t seem to notice, or care, that you aren’t listening to him; you’re frankly too distracted by the state of him. His hair is still wet, and his white shirt has been left untucked, held closed by a total of two buttons. Your gaze lingers, rather unapologetically, on the curves of his exposed collarbones.

Whilst he was showering, you rummaged through your go-bag and pulled out whatever pyjama-esque clothes you could find. You are, as Spencer is always so keen to point out, terribly disorganised; your bag hasn’t been restocked in over a month, and there are more “complimentary” hotel toiletries hidden in there than there are clothes.

In the end, you settled on a plain black compression top that you don’t remember owning, and a pair of grey sweatpants that you’re sure can’t be yours on account of the fact that they are far, far too big for you.

You watch as he unzips his own go-bag—no doubt perfectly organised, alphabetised, colour-coded, and packed with enough supplies to last him weeks in case of an emergency—and raise an eyebrow.

“Calmed down yet?”

Spencer spares you a single, fleeting glance out of the corner of his eye before exhaling sharply through his nose; a punctuated, silent no. But then he seems to pause. Seconds pass as he stares at his bag, unmoving, before turning his head slowly to look at you again.

You’re splayed out diagonally on the bed, taking up as much space as possible as you flick listlessly through the same beat-up book you’ve been nursing for over a month now. In your peripheral vision, you can just about make out the way his focus strays to your clothes. To the thin sliver of skin visible between the hem of your top and the waistband of your sweats. And then he clears his throat.

“You’re paying for the repairs,” he mutters stiffly.

You set your book on your chest and turn to him with a frown. “I am not—”

“I paid for eleven of your coffees last month,” he says.

“And I covered the bill for that stupid Doctor Who edible experience bullshit you took me to the month before.”

“You still owe me a dollar for that.”

“Forty-nine cents,” you correct. “We agreed to round down.”

“No, you insisted that we round down. I told you I wanted the change.”

“Are you really that broke that forty-nine cents makes all the difference?”

“No,” he mutters, pulling a folded pair of pyjamas from his bag. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Then you can pay for the repairs.”

You scoff. “There’s a big difference between some pocket change and a busted car, Reid.”

“The Bureau will reimburse you.”

“Then why can’t you just pay?”

“Because,” he unbuttons his shirt and, honest to God, throws it at you, “it’s your turn.”

“You—” You groan as his shirt lands on your face, and you throw it back at him. “You are such a child.”

Spencer catches the shirt with a cold, sarcastic laugh. “Really?” he asks. “Because it seems to me I’m the only adult here.”

You roll your eyes as he continues changing, but you can’t help but let your gaze wander across his body; his bare neck and chest, now free from the usual confines of his shirt and tie. You’d quite happily take a bite out of him if you thought you’d live to tell the tale.

As he pulls on his pyjama shirt, you sigh. “How much is it gonna cost?”

He shrugs, methodically folding his work clothes before tucking them neatly into his go-bag. “Timing belt replacements typically cost between four-hundred and one-thousand dollars.”

Your face contorts in disgust at his words and, for a moment, you think he may be joking.

Unfortunately, he isn’t.

“Fuck off,” you say. “I’m not paying that.”

“Neither am I. I wasn’t the one driving the car.”

Somehow, your expression manages to sour further. You cast your book aside and prop yourself up on your elbows. “So this is my fault?”

“Is that what I said?”

“It’s what you implied.”

“A timing belt doesn’t just break out of nowhere,” he says, perching himself on the side of the bed. He speaks slowly, clearly, like he’s explaining something to a child. “There are signs—”

No sooner has he sat down do you stand up, effectively swapping places with him. “The check engine light never came on.”

“Still, you should have—”

“Sitting in the driver’s seat doesn’t make me omnipotent, Reid,” you snap, crossing your arms as you glare at him from the other side of this much, much too small room. “You had just as much information as I did—”

“It isn’t the passenger’s responsibility to check for faults—”

“So you didn’t notice, either?” you ask. Not my responsibility is just Spencer-speak for I’m a hypocrite refusing to admit my own oversight. “You’re the one with a fucking PhD in Engineering, you know—”

“And? I’m saying it isn’t my job to notice—”

Oh, and he’s doubling down. Amazing. 

“Oh my God.” You’re talking over him now, raising your voice as you rake your fingers through your hair. “Grow up. You’re a federal agent, Reid. Act like one.”

Spencer snorts. “That’s rich coming from you.”

You really wish you were making this up. You wish this were some frustration-induced hallucination, but it isn’t. You’re actually standing here in some run-down, shitty fucking motel, arguing with a genius who was too stupid to book two rooms. You’re sure you’ve seen this be used as a set up to a straight to DVD romcom, for Christ’s sake.

You have half a mind to walk back over there and smack him across the face, but it would only make this worse.

“Maybe,” Spencer continues, entirely unprompted, “if you treated me with the slightest degree of decorum, I would act in kind.”

This is Hell. The car crashed, you died, and this is Hell. It has to be.

“And maybe if you respected me,” you snap back, “I would act—”

“There’s nothing to respect.”

The laugh that escapes you in response to that statement isn’t a pretty one. It’s somewhere between a cackle and a murderous screech. You have to laugh; you’d kill him if you didn’t.

You’re sure that, in the animal kingdom, a laugh like that would be heeded as a warning—and a serious one, at that. A real don’t fuck with me or I’ll kill you noise; a universal language.

But Spencer Reid isn’t of the animal kingdom—at this point you aren’t sure he’s from earth at all—because, in spite of your warning, he keeps talking.

“You’re unprofessional, aggressive, short-tempered, bitter, frustrating—need I go on?”

“You forgot smart and sexy—”

“There is nothing about you worth respecting,” he declares, “not when you’re…on my ass all the time.”

It’s the way that he still hesitates before saying ass, even though he has said far worse things to you in the past, that momentarily clears the resentment clouding your mind. Spencer Reid, genius supreme, the man who apparently hates you more than any unsub you’ve come across, can still barely bring himself to curse. 

…and it’s the way he’s implying that you are somehow the perpetrator in all of this that has that resentment rushing back tenfold.

“I’m on your ass?” 

“Yes,” he says. “You are. It’s infuriating.”

“Infuriating, right…”

“You do nothing but antagonise me,” he adds. “You’re pestiferous.”

“Mhm. And you’re a fucking saint.”

He shrugs. “I think most would agree I’m better than you.”

You purse your lips into a tight smile, letting your gaze wander across the room before returning it to him. “And if they knew you were fucking me?” you pose. “Would that tarnish your pristine reputation?”

Just like that, Spencer’s cocky, confident attitude vanishes in an instant. He scoffs, visibly recoiling at the mention of your relationship as his expression morphs into something half-disgusted, half-defensive. “That’s—”

“I mean, the team are already calling us lovebirds, but what if they knew?” you continue, ignoring the way his cheeks are beginning to flush. “What if the BAU knew that their obnoxious golden boy was sleeping with someone so unworthy of respect?”

When he doesn’t respond, you step closer to him.

“You know it’s funny, actually, that you say that,” you say, “because the only person on this team who doesn’t respect me, Spencer, is you.”

“You don’t respect me, either,” he mutters.

“Why the hell would I?”

You sound almost amused as you cross the room. You close the space between you, drawing closer until you’re standing right in front of him.

Spencer raises his head, arms crossed, to look up at you. He’s glaring, or trying to, but his gaze spends only a fraction of a second on your face before it begins to wander. Lingering on the outline of your chest visible through your top, and then on the waistband of your underwear that peeks out over the top of those baggy sweatpants—embroidered, ironically, with the word sweet.

You watch the way his jaw works, chewing on whatever insult he has lined up, as he finds himself painfully distracted by the sight of you before him.

And you straddle him.

“Why would I respect someone like you, Reid?” you ask as you settle into his lap. 

He makes no effort to push you away (why would he?), but he doesn’t exactly welcome you with open arms, either. He tenses up, heat rushing to his face despite his attempts to appear perfectly neutral.

“Tell me,” you purr, placing a finger under his chin so he’s meeting your gaze, “why would I respect someone so— what was what word you used? Pestiferous? Someone who goes out of his way to piss me off, even when I haven’t done anything wrong…and for what purpose, hm?” You rest your other hand on his chest and lean in close, brushing your nose against his with a barely suppressed smirk. “You wanna know what I think?”

“...not really,” he says stiffly.

“I think you like it when I’m pissed off,” you say. “I think that my short temper, and my aggression, and all those other flaws you listed, are all things you like about me. Am I right?”

“No,” he mutters. “Why would I—”

“Because you’re pathetic, and you’re a shit liar.” Smiling, you shift slightly, pressing yourself down against the tent in his pants that has been there far longer than he’ll ever admit. “And your, um, body has ways of giving you away. And I bet you’re real glad the rest of the team aren’t here, right?” you murmur, leaning down to ghost your lips along his jaw. “Because that means we can make as much noise as we like.”

You feel him suppress a shudder as you press a gentle, open-mouthed kiss to his skin. He tenses, but only briefly, as your hand moves into his hair, cradling the back of his head as you trail kisses up his jaw, and it doesn’t take much for him to melt. One hand settles instinctively on your hip, keeping you pressed against his erection, but the other tries, gently, to push you away.

“What’s wrong?” you murmur. “Can’t handle a bit of—”

As you raise your head to mock him, Spencer’s lips collide with yours. He kisses you with a kind of desperate hunger that sends a rush of heat straight to your core and, for a moment, you find yourself wanting to drop the act completely and let him have you—but where’s the fun in that? 

So you pull away, pressing your thumb to his needy lips as you don a sarcastic pout. He releases your hip, and his hands roam your waist and stomach, working their way up to your chest. You can’t help but admire him even as he’s feeling you up; he already has that look in his eyes. Weakness. Soft and pretty in all the ways that drive you crazy.

Your throat tightens. Contracting around something terribly familiar and wholly unwanted. Something you’re bound to choke on if you sit with it for too long.

So you pull him into another, harsher kiss, letting a moan slip into his mouth as his thumbs graze your clothed nipples, and it’s a sound that he mirrors as you slowly start rocking your hips against his. His hands drop down to the hem of your shirt, and you pull back long enough to let him tear it off over your head before your lips are on his again.

You set your hands on the back of his neck, gluing the two of you together as you grind yourself against him. You feel the way his breath hitches with each roll of your hips, and you’re certain you could make him finish just like this, without needing to lift a finger, but that would be far too easy on him. It would be merciful, almost, and that isn’t what you’re here for. 

Before you can start formulating your evil plan, Spencer pulls away. His lips latch onto your neck, peppering the skin with feverish kisses as he works his way down to your collarbones before dipping down, further, to your chest. Your fingers weave into his hair as his teeth graze a nipple, and you pull hard. Hard enough to make him moan as your mouth meets his and you catch him in another bruising kiss. His hips buck up into yours, shamelessly begging for more friction, but all it does is make you withhold it.

So, with impatient hands, he forces your hips down, rubbing your aching cunt against his cock through the layers of fabric separating them. You break the kiss with a sharp gasp as a violent heat twists in your core, and you push him away.

You watch the rise and fall of his chest as you catch your breath—it’s hypnotic, almost—before meeting his gaze with as calm a look as you can muster.

“I’m gonna go grab a towel,” you say, keeping your voice equal parts soft and firm. “When I come back, you better not have any clothes on. Got it?”

Spencer nods eagerly and without question. You lean back, admiring him for a moment longer before you finally dismount him and disappear into the bathroom.

You take more time than you should, deliberating between two identical motel towels as you listen to the faint rustle of clothes as Spencer strips himself of his pyjamas. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, shirtless, red-faced, and you feel that familiar pang of self-awareness in your stomach. The kind strong enough to re-awaken your voice of reason, and that voice tells you that this has got to stop. 

How many more times are you going to fall into bed with him before this blows up in your face? Before you fall further into this grave you've dug for yourselves, and find yourselves utterly unable to climb back out?

Being the bigger person is a myth. It always has been. It's just a lie you tell yourself—the same one that he's probably been tellinghimself—to further stifle the latent realisation that you are, undoubtedly, just as bad as each other. You're no better than Spencer is, and he is no worse than you are.

You can tell yourself that you're the bigger person, that you're more mature, more sensible, but that doesn't erase the reality you're in. You're standing, half-naked, in a grotty motel bathroom waiting for your coworker to strip himself bare. You're terrible.

And you can’t imagine being anywhere else.

You return to the bedroom with all the confidence in the world and find Spencer sitting, naked, on the edge of the bed, caught somewhere in the space between nervous and excited. He’s wringing his hands, trying to avoid tending to his persistent erection as he awaits your return. Hugging the towel to your chest, you watch him for a moment and let your gaze wander shamelessly over his exposed skin, savouring his anticipatory silence. His still-wet hair sticks to his forehead. Dewy collarbones shine like gold in the dim, yellow-toned light.

You feel it again. A slight tightness in your throat. The beginnings of something awful. But it’s overpowered by the palpable rush of need that takes hold of you as you gaze at him. It’s enough to drive you mad.

Tossing the towel onto the bed, you slot yourself between his legs.

"You're awfully quiet," you tease, carefully brushing his hair out of his face as he looks up at you. You could drown in those eyes, if you let yourself. 

His gaze hardens slightly. "Nothing to say." 

"You always have something to say."

"False."

He's running his fingers along the waistband of your sweats, barely grazing your skin as his eyes trail across your body.

"True."

He shoots you a glare. "Do you want to keep arguing?"

"Not particularly," you murmur, smirking. Gently, you reach out a hand to touch his cheek. "I'm just surprised. You're being so good—"

Spencer swats your hand away instantly.

"Don't," he warns before returning his attention to your body.

You cross your arms. "You don't like praise?"

"I don't like being mocked," he corrects.

He presses his thumbs against your waist, watching with great interest the way the soft skin yields to his touch.

"Who said I was mocking you?" you ask, feigning innocence.

He scoffs. You feel it against your skin, hot, before he presses a kiss to your hip. "You're always mocking me."

"Not always."

It takes strength to keep your voice steady when he’s doing this; appreciating your body in silent ways whilst navigating a half-hearted argument, like it’s second nature to him. And it is second nature, you suppose. He could probably fight with you in his sleep.

He looks up at you again with this dull, almost bored kind of scepticism purposefully forged to hide something deeper. Something realer. Something that has a weight to it and is far too heavy for this. For you. He tugs gently at the drawstring of your sweats, and the knot comes apart with ease under his touch. The fabric sags, barely clinging to your hips, and all it takes is a gentle tug for them to slip down your legs, leaving you in just your underwear.

His lips meet your skin again, trailing kisses down from your navel to the embroidered elastic of your waistband. His gaze finds yours, just for a moment, in a fleeting request for permission that sends a fresh pang of heat to your core, right where his lips hover. You nod, wordlessly, and he makes quick work of removing your underwear, peeling the soaked fabric away from your needy cunt as you try not to clench your thighs. 

He drops them at your ankles, and his kisses continue. Following their path down until his mouth is dangerously close to where you need him to be. Before he can get too carried away, you thread your fingers into his hair once more and pull him, gently, away.

The second those eyes are on your face, something violent turns within you. Your fingers still in his hair, caught between moments as you bury the urge to mount him right then and there. It's not like he would complain. 

His thumbs brush over your hip bones, moving in perfect sync as he watches you quietly. Studying your micro expressions, probably, searching for a crack that he can exploit; a way to piss you off, turn the tables, put himself in control. But the more you look at him, the more you realise that this isn't what this is. He's just…waiting. Eagerly, sure, but patiently. 

He's waiting for you to tell him what to do. He's read the situation, read what you want out of this, and he's moulded himself to it without question—without needing to be told. It's perceptive. Considerate, almost. How he's letting you have this; how he knows you well enough to know that you want this. 

And that? That pisses you off.

"Sit back," you say, keeping your voice soft, "against the headboard."

He moves immediately, scooting into position without question. However brief, you feel weirdly cold in the absence of his touch.

Once he's comfortable, you join him on the bed. You settle, on your knees, between his legs, keeping your gaze on his face as hisgaze roams freely across your body. A compliment tries to crawl its way up your throat—an earnest one—because God, he looks perfect. But you clench your jaw, keeping your words at bay; compliments are for couples, and you aren't a couple. 

But the words fight back. Compliments converge on your tongue, crowding your mouth, until you have no choice but to pull him into another kiss. Pouring all the things you daren't say into him, as though he may somehow understand without you needing to say any of it out loud. His hands come to rest on your jaw, not your body, and he cradles your face like it's something precious, pulling you closer and closer until you're practically on top of him, one hand braced against the headboard and the other trailing, slowly, down his body.

His breath hitches as your fingers grasp his cock. You feel it jolt in your hand, and one of Spencer's hands moves to the back of your head, hardly giving you room to breathe as he kisses you. The adrenaline, the sheer need with which he touches you, it's all starting to make you feel dizzy. He's stealing the oxygen from your lungs but, in return, you get to steal a stifled moan from between his lips. That's more or less an equivalent exchange, in your books; to have him at the mercy of your hands. To have that stupid mouth of his occupied with something that isn't just insult after senseless insult. 

He shifts his hips with a soft groan, bucking up into your hand as you continue to tease him. And he groans again—louder, sounding more like a whine than anything else—when you refuse to change your pace.

What you do instead is pull away. You hover there for a moment, breathing into his open mouth as he tilts his head up, wanting more, and you bask in that delicious, desperate look in his eyes before sitting back. You continue working his cock, slowly, as you wipe the saliva from your mouth with the back of your hand. Spencer doesn't bother tending to his moistened lips; he just watches you, eyes wide like he's seeing you for the first time. Awestricken and gorgeous and—

That noxious dizziness lingers even as you catch your breath. It breaks down your thoughts, loosening the fibres until you're sure your brain is naught but mush. Held together by the low crackle of static that grows louder with each second you spend looking at him. 

You realise far too late that you're looking at him the same way he's looking at you. Like a complete fucking idiot.

It's the kind of self-consciousness that hits like a freight train, flattening you before you even see it coming. It throws you off balance in the worst way and you feel vulnerable. exposed. More than you've ever felt in your previous encounters. You've been in far worse, far more vulnerable positions in the past—physically, at least. When you've been under him, or bent over a desk, or at his mercy on your knees.

You're in control here. And yet this is the first time you've felt truly vulnerable. Emotionally vulnerable. 

So you do everything you can to counteract it, before it leaves you seriously compromised.

You release your grip on his cock, ignoring the way he whines in protest as you move to straddle his hips. His hands settle, firm, on your waist, moulding themselves to your curves as you kiss him again. Partly to shut him up before he says anything that'll further tangle the static-laced wires in your brain; mostly to shut yourself up before you say anything you know you'll regret. You'd rather choke on your own tongue—or his tongue—than let a single, adrenaline-driven, foolish word slip out before you have the chance to scour it for cracks, for any chance that it may contain feeling.

You grasp his chin, ensuring he’s looking directly at you as you pull back. Your other hand works its way down until it's grasping his cock, lining it up with your entrance.

"You're so pretty like this," you murmur, hot breath filling the minimal space between you as you lower yourself, just slightly, so his tip kisses your entrance, "you know that?"

You almost can't believe your own words—seriously, you had one job—but the look on Spencer's face kills any trace of regret you’d dare have. His breath stutters, you see it catch in his throat as he stares up at you with this wide-eyed expression. Surprised, yes, but voracious. Like you've flipped a switch he didn't know he had. 

"I mean, you're always pretty. Too pretty. But this—" 

A sharp hiss escapes you as you lower yourself onto his cock. The pain is familiar, not unbearable, but it's there. A stubborn reminder of the importance of foreplay when you're too tight and Spencer's dick is too damn big. 

But you can take this kind of pain. When it's controlled, like this. When you can feel your body yielding to him and the pain steadily blooms into pleasure. 

You feel him tense. He goes deathly still, muscles straining with the effort it takes not to thrust up into you as you sink, slowly, onto him—that would actually hurt and, worse, it would piss you off.

Carefully, you push through the resistance, letting gravity do most of the work as you continue speaking even as your breath comes in uneven gasps and your voice starts to shake. "When you're all quiet like this, when you aren't…being a fucking nuisance, I could just—"

His fingers anchor in the soft skin of your waist. He throws his head back, eyes shut tight as you take him to the hilt. The noise you make is somewhere between a guttural groan and a needy whine as he stretches you out, and you cup his face with both of your hands, keeping him close as you touch your forehead to his.

A weak, breathless "fuck…" is all he can manage as he exhales a shaky, barely held together sigh. You can feel the tension in his jaw under your palms. The electricity that thrums, wild, under his skin.

You give a tentative shift of your hips, testing the waters, and you feel him shudder beneath you. You pull back a little, enough to get a good look at his face; the tiny twitches of his brows, his eyes, as you move against him. 

"That good?" you murmur, letting your hands trail down from his face to his chest, tracing the curves of his collarbones as you settle into a slow rhythm.

Spencer nods, humming in quiet approval as he closes his eyes. You watch the way his lashes flutter, the way the crease between his brows deepens with each rock of your hips, and you bite your lip.

"Say it."

"It—" He flexes his fingers, as though he's just remembered he has them, and his hands drop to your hips, encouraging your movements as he tries to keep his breathing steady. "It feels good," he whispers. "You feel…so good."

His words have you clenching around his cock, hard enough to elicit another soft, pretty little moan from his lips.

"That's it…" you whisper, tone sickly sweet as you lean down to press your lips to his neck.

Instinctively, Spencer leans his head to the side, allowing you access to the sensitive skin as those hands of his grow a little more confident and begin working their way back up to your chest. He cups your tits, and you feel him press his lips to your shoulder before murmuring, "there are condoms in my bag, if—"

You hum against his skin, shaking your head as you nip at his neck. "Don't need them."

"But—"

"I went on the pill," you admit. Quickly, but reluctantly. Like ripping off a band-aid. Like you’re confessing to something that runs far deeper than a simple birth control prescription.

Spencer's hands freeze mid-squeeze, and you know immediately that he's picked up on every implication you were hoping to brush over. "You— what? When?"

"After last time." you raise your head with a sigh and meet his gaze. When he tries to speak up again, you're quick to press your thumb to his lips. "Unless your next words are thank you, I don't wanna hear them."

For a moment, he looks as though he's about to protest. Five weighted words were all it took to pull him from the moment completely, it seems. His eyes are wide, frantically searching your own for something you can't let him find. 

But then, instead of probing you with any more questions, he just nods. You can't be sure if this is him giving up, resigning himself to staying on his side of your emotional walls, or if he doesn't even need to try anymore—not when you've made it all so damn obvious. The optimist in you, wherever she may be, is hoping for the former; there'll be less fallout that way.

“So just keep that pretty mouth of yours shut,” you add, slowly re-introducing that thick, mocking tenderness to your voice as you raise your hips, “okay?”

He nods again. Sharper. Eager.

You know he'll find a way to bring this up later—in the middle of the night, probably, when the air feels too heavy and neither of you can sleep—the way he always manages to bring up the things you don't want to talk about. The touchy things. The things that are bound to spark an argument, because you're uptight and he's intrusive and you both loathe each other, and you can't get along unless your tongue is down his throat or his dick is inside you, and even then you still find yourselves bickering. 

An impatient shift of his hips is all you need to know that, unlike you, a future argument is actually the last thing on his mind right now. His hands have started working again, mapping out your body like he doesn't already have it memorised as his gaze remains fixed on your face—and, really, you'd rather he be looking anywhere else. 

You raise yourself until it's only the head of his cock that remains inside of you and then, after another agonising moment, you drop back down, swallowing his length in one quick, smooth motion. He gasps, you groan, and all thought of that hypothetical argument vanishes as he thrusts up into you, burying himself deeper as your walls pulse around his cock.

Curses tumble, unrestrained, from your lips as you move against him. His hands guide you into a steady rhythm—firm, but not forceful—and you tilt your head back slightly as the tension that has been stringing you together begins to dissipate. 

Spencer takes advantage of the exposed skin immediately. He nips at your neck between messy kisses. His breath against your skin is enough to make you whine as you thread your fingers into his hair, and you raise his head just enough to bring your lips down on his, catching him in a disgustingly heated kiss. His hands stray from your hips to your ass, feeling you up with the kind of desperation that never fails to drive you insane as he moans shamelessly into your mouth.

The break in the kiss is abrupt, leaving Spencer nothing to drown his senseless whines in as you trail your lips along the edge of his jaw. You aren't sure what it is, maybe it's your breath on his skin, or the way your hand rests gently on his neck, pressing ever so slightly against his throat as you rock your hips, but something is bringing him closer to the edge. You can feel it in the way his breath catches, the way his hands begin to tremble, the way his sweet moans start to devolve into unsteady whimpers.

You kiss your way to his ear, nip at the lobe as his shoulders start to shake. "You close?"

He swallows hard. You feel it under your palm. "…mhm."

"Good. Now look at me— Reid, look at me." 

You keep your voice impossibly soft as you work your fingers into his hair, tugging on the chestnut strands to keep his head up as he tries to hide his face.

He's already a mess. face red and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, lips kiss-swollen and parted like he's waiting for you to dive into him again, but you don't. You make him hold your gaze, keeping one hand in his hair as the other cups his jaw, and you don't stop. Not until his face is contorting in those deliciously familiar ways and he has no choice but to close his eyes because he is so, so close.

And then you stop.

Your hips come to a brusque halt, stopping just as he is about to find release. You watch him blink, confused, before he meets your gaze with this adorably desperate expression. His chest heaves against your own, and you don your most charming smile.

"You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?"

The softness of your voice seems to fool him for a moment. Sugary words fail to register in his sex-clouded mind. You lean in a little closer, brushing your nose against his.

"You're not gonna come until I say you can."

That registers. His eyes widen, and he's shaking his head before he can even find the strength to speak. The words follow shortly after; a string of breathless nos that are about as useless as they are desperate. It's cute, how he thinks he might be able to talk you out of this—as though this hasn't been your plan from the start.

"I think it's only fair, after all the shit you've given me today," you continue, pouting as you brush your thumb against his cheek, "that you learn a little…respect, no?"

"You…" tension seeps into his jaw, and it isn't the pleasurable kind. His expression hardens, just slightly—probably as much as it can given the circumstances. "…are such a—"

"And that starts with being nice." You cut him off, still maintaining that smile as you look down at him. "If you start calling me names, Reid, then this is only gonna get a hell of a lot worse for you, and better for me. Understand?"

Spencer grits his teeth. His gaze flicks between your eyes and your lips, strays briefly to your body, to where his cock is still nestled inside of you, before returning to your face.

"Unless you want me to stop?" you pose, leaning back.

You don't give him enough time to respond before you're easing yourself off of his cock, but his hands find purchase on your hips and push you back down, burying himself inside of you once more with a force that makes both of you gasp.

"No." he says quickly. "N-no, don't…"

"Thought so." Smugness seeps into your voice before you can stop it, and you cock your head to the side. "So be good for me, and I'll let you finish."

Your mocking tone isn't well-received. Spencer huffs, flexing his trembling hands as he tries to act unbothered. "…I hate you—"

"Ah," you cut him off with a click of your tongue, shaking your head as you cradle his face. "Come on, honey, you're smarter than this."

Those words must be laced with something. A sedative, maybe. Something equal parts sweet and toxic. Because they quell Spencer's protests immediately. His throat runs dry. He tries to blink it away but it's no use; his mouth moves wordlessly, and he stares at you, dumbfounded, like you've cast a spell on him. 

Honey. Who'd have thought that would be his weakness?

You aren't much of a pet names person yourself, but…if Spencer is into it, then you might be open to changing your mind. 

…let's not think too hard about what that says about you. Like the birth control, it's one of those things that you're better off notlooking too deeply into—for your own sake.

"You good to keep going?" 

He doesn't seem to hear you.

"Reid."

"Yes," he says, brain finally kicking back into gear as he gazes up at you.

"Good."

You reward him with another kiss, muffling the angelic noise he makes as you move your hips. Slowly, at first. Easing him back into it so he doesn't unravel immediately.

You fall into a dance, of sorts. A sick, somewhat cruel dance, but a thoroughly enjoyable one—for you, at least. You murmur praises in his ear, fanning hot breath over his skin as you fuck yourself on his cock, bringing him closer and closer to release until he's a babbling mess and you can feel him twitching and pulsing desperately inside of you, and then you stop. You deny him. You mock him. You let him catch his breath. And you continue.

You do this two more times, and with each instance of denial Spencer grows more frustrated. More overstimulated. More pathetic. He ruts into you, or tries to, but it’s sloppy. Too weak to make any difference. Futile, because he stops as soon as you tell him to. 

By the time you even consider letting him finish, he's inconsolable and you're exhausted. But the ache in your legs is nothing; a small price to pay for having him like this. Trembling in your arms. Clinging to you for comfort even though you're the very cause of his suffering. It's terrible, really. You should be ashamed of yourself for getting off on this as much as you do; it's sick, but by God is it cathartic.

Maybe you're power-hungry. Maybe you're desperate for any semblance of control. So frustrated with your own lack of control that you've resorted to taking it out on him. It's nothing he doesn't deserve; it's his fault you feel so out of control. He stirred these stupid emotions within you; it's only right that he be the one to face the consequences—and it's not like he wouldn't benefit from being put in his place for once.

"I-I can't— I can't…"

"Yes, you can."

Spencer's face is buried in your neck, shaking his head desperately as he mumbles nonsense between dulcet whimpers. You keep your voice low as you stroke his hair, babying him in a way he'll probably kill you for later—but it'll be worth it. 

His voice is thick, strained, sounding almost as though he's about to cry. And as you gently coax his head up, that's exactly what you see. Dark eyes glazed with tears. They sit heavy on his waterline. Unshed, but there.

You'd probably feel bad, if it weren't the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen. 

"God." The word escapes you in a breathless sigh. Awe-struck. You cradle his face in your hands, rubbing soothing circles into his burning cheeks as you admire him. "Look at you. So pretty."

What you wouldn't give to snap a photo of him like this. You'd carry it around in your purse; a trump card that you could whip out every time he dared to get on your nerves.

He's still shaking his head. Words reduced to incoherent mumblings as you continue working his poor cock with your cunt. Your legs—thighs, knees, hips—are screaming at you in protest, they have been for a little while now, and your core is impossibly tight; you've been so focused on Spencer, on keeping him on the edge, that you've all but forgotten about chasing your own release. You'll be limping tomorrow, no doubt, and the team will mask their suspicion as concern when they ask if you're okay. You wonder if you'll be able to get away with telling them Spencer hit you with the car; it's not like he'll be able to argue otherwise.

You press your lips to the corner of his eye, kissing away a tear before it can escape down his cheek. 

"You wanna come?"

The string of frantic, broken yesses that fall from his lips is enough to make your fucking head spin.

"Yeah?" You tilt your head, ghosting your lips over his as you continue the steady rock of your hips. "What do you say..?"

All you get in response is a choked whimper. One that sounds dangerously close to a sob. He's gripping your hips so hard you're sure he’ll leave bruises, ten of them, mapping where his fingers were anchored in your skin. 

"Reid." You're beginning to falter yourself. Your voice is starting to shake as you near the end of your rope—and your patience. "Come on, honey, just—"

"I love you."

It takes you a moment—an eternity, it feels—to understand what was just said. Three words, uttered with such an undeniable clarity yet you're sure you've misheard him. You must have. 

But he's burying his face in your neck, hips bucking wildly as he repeats those very words. Whispering them into your skin like a prayer. Over and over. I love you.

Shit. 

Shitshitshit.

He was supposed to say please.

When your hips stutter, uncertain, he moves them for you, bringing you down onto his cock repeatedly as his whispers devolve once more into incoherent whimpers. It's enough to knock the thoughts right out of your head, and you're left with nothing but moans to choke on as you try to reorient yourself.

"That's— fuck, that's it…" you murmur, breathless, in his ear. "You can come…"

Spencer sobs—loud and raw and fucking intoxicating—into your neck, and you feel him break immediately. His self-control shatters and he finishes inside you, emptying himself into your needy cunt as you whine and writhe in his lap. But even when he's spent, he keeps going. His hips move mindlessly, feebly fucking his seed into you as he whimpers incessantly.

"Reid." His name comes out in a shaky whisper, in the space between breaths as your heart pounds and your head spins. You cradle the back of his head, holding him close as he trembles in your arms. "Reid, honey…that's enough…"

You hear him sniffle, and you hold him a little tighter, unsure of whether he's even heard you until his hips finally give up. He slumps forward, leaning his weight on you as he finally lets himself relax—lets himself breathe. You place a hand on his back as you allow yourself to do the same, and you melt into each other. 

Your fingers trail, gently, up and down his back, tracing the curve of his spine as you rest your head on his shoulder. It's too tender of a gesture. Too kind. Too loving. You know that, but you do it anyway. 

He needs this. Comfort. Reassurance. And you're ready to provide for as long as it takes for him to—

"…fuck you."

…come back around. 

He mutters those words, quietly, into your skin. The same place he had whispered I love you just minutes ago. 

Those juxtaposing sentiments react in your stomach, twisting your insides until you’re full of nothing but tense, aching knots. You bark out a weak, exasperated laugh. You have to laugh; God knows what you'd do if you didn't.

Spencer raises his head and meets your gaze, bleary-eyed and exhausted. And soft. Perfectly, painfully soft. And beautiful. He looks like you could love him.

It could be adrenaline. Heightened emotions. Embers of lust that reignite the second you lay eyes on him. Whatever it is, it has you kissing him again. Pulling him in with such urgency you almost miss his lips entirely. Some deranged part of you wants to hear him say it again. And again. And again. Until it's the only thing he knows how to say. The only thing you know how to hear.

Finally relinquishing his grip on your hips, Spencer's hands move to your face without thought, and he kisses you with everything he has. When you try to pull back, he whines. Pulls you in closer. Refuses to let you go even for a moment. You have to reach out blindly in search of the towel. You feel around behind you, leaning back as far as he'll allow you to until, at last, your fingers graze the soft fabric.

And then you feel yourself falling.

You topple over, pulling Spencer down with you as your back hits the mattress. He groans against your lips and pulls away to find you still reaching for that damn towel. He grabs it for you and, before you can get a word in, kisses you again. You raise your hips, hoping he still has enough brains to understand what you're asking of him, and he positions the towel underneath you. 

Pulling out feels like a dam breaking. Punctuated with a wet pop and followed by a gush of something warm. He whines, you shudder, and you don't stop kissing each other until you forget how to breathe. When his lips finally leave yours, his breathing comes ragged. He sits back, kneeling between your burning thighs, and takes in the sight of you with this dazed, almost drunken look that has you throbbing despite your exhaustion. His gaze trails down your body until it settles on the mess between your legs. 

"…Reid—"

By the time you're able to find your words, his face is already level with your cunt. He spreads your folds and watches, transfixed, the way it leaks out of you. He licks up your slit, gathering his own release on his tongue, before diving into you. You're so caught off guard you don't think to try and stifle the outrageous moan that tears through you, and you promptly clamp a hand over your mouth as your head falls back. 

No amount of oh Gods and expletives can account for the expertise with which Spencer Reid uses his tongue. If he isn't fucking you with it, he's circling your clit with it, teasing and sucking on the overstimulated nub until you're writhing so much, he has to pin your hips down with one hand and finger you with the other. 

You're seeing stars before you know it, hurtling towards an orgasm so fast you can barely form a coherent thought before you're there. And you think, for a fleeting moment, that he may keep you there. That is his revenge. And you have never been gladder to have Spencer prove you wrong. Your back arches off the mattress, and you're moaning things that you can't make out through the haze of an aggressive orgasm. It could be his name, a prayer, a curse, or something worse—you don't know.

Your fingers are numb. Your toes, too. They tingle with a static that persists even as your orgasm subsides. You feel Spencer shift. Feel the weight of his head as it rests against your hip. The heat of his breath against your skin.

For a moment, it all goes quiet. Thoughts give way to white noise. Feelings evaporate into a gas that cannot be weighed down by labels.

But peace only lasts as long as it takes for the fog to clear. You return to your sweaty, exhausted body just in time to be swept off your feet by a tsunami of feelings. Anxieties. Emotions that shouldn't exist.

You aren't sure when Spencer and you drifted from the shallow end to the deep end. You aren't sure when things changed. When you crossed that line and cast aside your life jacket when you know you don't know how to swim.

The only thing you're sure of now is that you're drowning. And the only thing keeping you from sinking entirely is the fact that Spencer hasn't noticed yet. 

You nudge him with your foot, navigating your way around the lump in your throat to grumble "needthebathroom", or something vaguely along those lines. Spencer rolls off of you, mumbling something equally incoherent—or maybe you just don't care to hear it—as he rubs his eyes. 

It hurts to move, but you do it anyway. You sit up, trying not to wince as your entire lower half screams in protest, and drag yourself to the edge of the bed. Spencer asks if you're okay, you think, and you give him a vague hum in response. 

Your trembling legs barely manage to carry you to the bathroom, where you collapse with your back to the door and breathe out a long, shuddering sigh. You'd probably scream if you thought he wouldn't hear you. 

I love you.

Immediately, you're dismissing those words. Waving them away like an unwelcome guest. You tell yourself he doesn't mean it. That he can't have meant it, he just…he just…

He wasn't thinking straight. He wasn't thinking at all. Hell, he probably won't even remember it. It's insignificant. Unimportant. 

That’s what you tell yourself, at least. And you really, really hope you’re right.

And if you aren’t...then this might just kill you.

Not… this. Regarding you with a frank, unblinking calm that has you shifting in place.

“Oh, right,” you roll your eyes teasingly, unwilling to let him see how easily his nonplussed reaction has fractured your easygoing facade, “You’ve read about it extensively, haven’t you? What do psychology textbooks have to say about whips and blindfolds, Dr. Reid?”

“Quite a lot,” he replies with a serenity that unnerves, “Some attribute it to the feeling of being safely back inside the womb.”

You scoff, “Right, because thinking of your mother during bondage is so sexy.”

“But,” he presses on, narrowing his eyes at you, patient but warning, “There’s often explanations that go hand in hand with biology. Deprivation of one sense tends to heighten the other. Physical restriction offers the same feeling, which then leads to altered states of pleasure. In a more emotional sense, surrendering your power to a partner communicates the highest level of trust, offering a deeper sense of intimacy for some people.”

So he does know a lot about it. Still, you don’t drop your teasing grin as you reply, “God, how do you manage to make BDSM sound so clinical?”

“Because it is a little clinical, if I’m just explaining it in polite conversation. The communication is better enjoyed if the actions match.

“Is that so?”

“Mhm hmm,” he smiles, dimples flashing, a show of innocence. A mask. 

“And this information is from experience?” you tease.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

His tone carries implication and it settles upon your stomach, heavy and warm. That makes you perk up, but you fight the urge to show your intrigue. Instead, you scoff, “As if there’s anything to know.”

He’s quiet. Sipping at his coffee, honey eyes twinkling over the rim of his mug. It’s infuriating.

“No way.” you huff, finally breaking. The lightness of teasing leaves your voice, shifting to something darker, more accusatory, “You expect me to believe you have experience? In BDSM?” 

“Announce it to the entire office, why don’t you?”

You pause, looking at him almost in betrayal. Really, how could you not? Spencer Reid, who looks like his nose would start bleeding from the slightest sexual attention from a living, breathing person, has BDSM experience? The man who wears sweater vests and slicks his hair back like he’s a seventy year old librarian? You survey him today, in all of his rumpled, mismatched glory, trying to find one hint of his apparent favored pastimes.

He looks almost smug as he meets your gaze, cocking his head to the side.

“No way.” you repeat.

“You possess an awfully limited vocabulary for today.” 

“Shut up, stop pulling my leg,” your eyes narrow suspiciously, still in disbelief. 

“I’m not pulling your leg,” he says, allowing a small, almost imperceptible smirk to curve up his lips for one split second, before his face gets hidden by the coffee cup again.

“Prove it, then.” 

The words startle both of you, but you’re stubborn enough to see it through. Meeting his gaze with a confidence that would seem sincere to the untrained eye, but Spencer has worked with you long enough to know it’s all bravado. 

He looks at you, unsure. “Prove it?”

“Look who's vocabulary is limited now.”

He scoffs and lowers his voice, “I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into.”

“I know what I’m getting into, I’m a grown woman, thanks.” 

“Then I’ll fax you a copy of my rules. If they still seem like something you’d want to try out, come to my apartment Saturday night—that is, if we aren’t called in for a case.”

You shrug, the perfect picture of nonchalance. “Great, sounds like a plan. Don’t forget to fax.” You both know he wouldn’t.

By some universal twist of fate, that Saturday is devoid of any last minute cases. You spend the whole morning poring over the sixteen-page document that Spencer had sent over on Friday, reading through the risks—a lot of which you already know from your own research—his specific set of rules, and what he’d normally allow for a beginner. You don’t have the same perfect memory he does, but you’re sure you’ve memorized everything by the time you knock at his apartment.

“So you came,” he says, offering you a cool glass of lemonade, looking perfectly at ease as he leads you into his bedroom. 

“Of course,” you say, looking around as you sip on the drink, taking it all in, “I was serious when I said prove it.” It’s dim, but nothing else is inside that rouses suspicion. It looks completely normal—a neat bed, a messy desk, haphazard piles of books—until your eyes land on the items on the dresser. 

Silk ties. A paddle. Something that looks similar to a feather duster, but you assume it’s made with a different activity in mind. Your cheeks are aflame.

“You know the safe word?”

“Yes. Jupiter—you’re such a nerd, by the way.”

He laughs, taking you half finished glass and setting it down. “Do you have any objections to the terms I’d laid out? Additions?”

“I just need you to make a promise.”

“For what?”

“That this stays between us.” You face him, searching his eyes for any deceit. It’s always a risk, being a woman and engaging in anything that could be considered deviant, especially in an environment like the BAU, which is honestly a glorified boy’s club.

“You have my word. Everything that we do stays in this room.” he vows, stepping closer.

“And,” you bite your lip, “No sex, right?”

He shakes his head, “None. We’ll focus on sensations tonight, just to let you get a feel for things.”

It seems more intimate, just trusting him to tease and play with your body, but you’re glad that the boundary is set in place. Spencer seems to have gotten a lot of experience at this, and briefly, you wonder just how many other people has been in your place.

You push the thought away and smile at him. “Okay. Then that’s all on my end. I accept all your terms, and I remember the safe word.”

He hums, turning you around. Standing so closely behind you, his heat warms your back like a gentle fire. Long, elegant fingers that carry the lingering musk of old books and coffee gather your hair into a ponytail at the base of your neck. He secures it with a thin elastic, before leaning in, breath whispering goosebumps into your skin. 

“Strip.”

There’s a sudden loss of heat as he steps back. You’re surprised to miss it, already, but even more surprised by his command. “What?”

“I said strip, angel.” he says, walking to your front with an expectant look on his face, “Down to your underwear.”

You sputter, looking up at him incredulously, but his face is serious. Patient, but serious.

“Do you need your safe word?”

You don’t reply, realizing that it’s begun and this is exactly what you agreed to do. To submit to him and his commands. The weight of this reality sinks in, rendering you mute and frozen, and he immediately softens. 

Hands cupping your cheeks, Spencer looks at you with concern, “Hey, we can stop.”

“No,” you reply, forcefully. Stubborn pride pulsing through your veins—no way you’re stopping before you’ve even done anything, “I don’t want to stop, it’s okay. I just—okay. Strip.” you step back, nodding and muttering to yourself, “Okay, yes, I can do that.” Looking down, you fumble at the buttons of your blouse, undoing them with clumsy, unsure fingers.

He steps back to the dresser, retrieving the bundle of feathers, never averting his gaze. Wide brown eyes take you in as you lose your shirt, and then your pants, standing before him in matching lace underwear. A slow grin spreads over his lips, “You dressed up for me?”

You feel your cheeks burn, “No.”

“So you just wear expensive lace sets for no reason, even on Saturdays?”

“You don’t know what I like.”

A step closer, “I’m about to,” he says in a low, smug tone that has your breath catching, “Stay still.”

Stay still. Easy enough. Your eyes follow his movements, the way he brandishes the feathers in his hands. Your head cranes back as he circles you, and he tuts in disapproval.

“I said stay still,” he murmurs, hand cupping your jaw and adjusting your head forward.

“But—”

“But?” 

“Nothing.” you squeak as you look ahead again. Your heart makes itself known, drumming in an exaggerated, hurried way that makes you want to shift. But Spencer said stay still, so you do.

A small part of you wants to scoff—why are you following Spencer Reid’s orders? This is ridiculous. Say the safe word and this would all be over. He’d never mention it to anyone else, like you both agreed earlier. You can get out, and you know for a fact that Spencer wouldn’t judge or protest.

But you don’t.

Because a larger, more significant part of you finds this whole thing incredibly hot.

Several seconds pass. Agonizingly slow. He’s drawing it out, you realize, testing how long he can get you to stay still. Or maybe he left. No, he wouldn’t—couldn’t, you’d hear his footsteps.  Finally giving in, you look over your shoulder, brows knitted in confusion.

You’re met with a disapproving look and a shaking head. “Didn’t I tell you to stay still?”

“You’re taking too long,” you pout.

“That’s the second time you’ve disobeyed me, angel,” he tuts. The heat of his body envelops you as he steps into your space again, his chest pressing to your back. A hand skims over your side, warm and firm as it finds the swell of your hip, and sits there. A warning. “You know what’s going to happen when you do it thrice, don’t you?”

Your mind flashes back to the conversation and the list, the rules he laid out so painstakingly for you. Thoughtful and attentive, Spencer had made you read through pages of what he expects from this dynamic, the rules you must follow as his submissive, the punishment that will be enforced should you disobey.

Three strikes and you get spanked.

“I do,” your words drift out the most delicate breath, heart hammering even more now. “I remember.”

He hums when you are finally still. Lips land on your bare shoulder, chaste and warm, while his hand travels up your side, featherlight and teasing. They skim up your ribcage and you can’t help but gasp, fighting every cell in your body to keep from moving. Your compliance is rewarded by another satisfied hum, and then finally it touches you. 

The feather. 

Crawling up the back of your left thigh, soft as a whisper. 

Ticklish.

“Fuck,” you gasp, jerking away from his grasp in surprise. You find yourself missing the feel of his hand on your waist before you realize your mistake. 

“That’s the third.” he says, shaking his head.

“I wasn’t expecting it on my thigh!” you snap, suddenly feeling so exposed. To shield yourself, your arms cross over your shoulder defensively, voice lowering by way of apology, “I’m ticklish!”

He considers it for a moment, sitting on the edge of the bed, but his eyes remain trained on you. Gauging your reaction, the same way he’d talk to a skittish witness. You find yourself shifting again, unused to being on the receiving end of such a stare. When he speaks, his voice is calm, as if he’s soothing a ruffled creature, “You’re welcome to say your safe word.” 

The easy way out. But you’ve already gone this far, stripped out of your so-called armor, down to your lace underwear and allowed him to regard you in ways far too intimate for coworkers. It would be such a waste to back out now. Besides, he said the punishment would just be spanking, how bad could that be?

“No,” you reply finally, voice breaking through the silence that settled and swelled in the room, “No, I’m okay, I’ll—I’ll take the punishment, like I agreed to.”

He sits up straighter, “Are you sure?”

A gulp. “Yes.”

He pats his lap, “Come here then.”

You’ve lost count of how many times you felt warmth at your cheeks, but this feels like a wildfire has started now, smoothing over your face before spreading all over your body in an all consuming blaze. Flashes of those kinky magazines and news articles you’d rolled your eyes over flit through your mind, the models now replaced by the image of you and Spencer. He’s asking you to bend over on his lap to receive your punishment.

With a nod, you join him on the bed, your torso draping horizontally over his lap. Your legs are laid on the bed, and you hold yourself up by your elbows. From this position, he has perfect access to your ass, a large hand smoothing over one cheek. 

You squirm, “Your hand’s cold.” 

He laughs, “God, you never stop complaining, huh? I should add another one just for that.”

“Sorry, I can’t help it.”

He sighs, “I know. You’re doing fine, all things considered. I’ll just do three, okay? For every time you moved.”

“Okay.”

“I want you to count.”

You inhale so sharply you almost choke on nothing. That had no business being as hot as you found it. His hand is on your ass again, and you have to dig into your brain to focus and answer, “Okay.”

The first strike comes quickly, a sharp sting followed by a cool, gentle hand soothing over it. You exhale a gasp along with the word, “One.”

“Good girl.”

Jesus Christ.

Another smack, this time on the other cheek. “Two… three.”

It’s over before you know it, barely even lasting three minutes, but it’s still managed to take your every breath away. You find yourself wishing he had added another strike, just so you could feel the sharp sting again. 

“Are you okay?” his voice pulls you from your reverie, hands helping you sit back up beside him, “Do you need a break? I could get you some lotion—”

You tune him out, staring as he offers different ways to soothe the stinging. His hands keep making lazy strokes up and down your arms, eyes completely focused on you. Words are flying past his lips, attempting to reach you through this haze, solutions and probably another reminder of your safe word, but all you can think about is how close he is, how pretty with his earnest brown eyes and pouty lips, but also how hot and since when was Spencer Reid hot? 

A familiar sensation settles low in your belly, slickness between your thighs, and oh my god you just want to kiss him.

So you do.

His lips are soft, pausing mid sentence for just one moment, before he’s kissing you right back, open mouthed and desperate, his hand cradling the back of your head, tilting it up so his tongue can dive deeper into your mouth. You moan, kissing him back with just as much fervor, scrambling forward in an attempt to get even closer. He tastes like mint and cinnamon, the oddest combination that has you sucking on his bottom lip, eager for more.

An arm wraps around your waist, and you find yourself on his lap again—no, on his thigh. Singular, straddling it with nothing but a tiny scrap of lace and his trousers in between your skin. Two degrees of separation. You moan again, biting down hard.

“Wait,” he pulls back, breathless, thrown off, “Wait this isn’t part of the agreement.”

You laugh, “I’m sorry, I don’t really care about it right now.”

Soft brown locks tickle your jaw as he ducks his head. Lips run over your collar, moist and gentle as he speaks, “I wasn’t really prepared for this. I don’t have a condom.”

“Oh.” you seem to deflate in his arms, despite the incessant pounding in your chest, the buzzing at your fingertips.

He looks up, surveys you like a puzzle to be solved. On his thigh, with barely anything on, practically throwing yourself at him. Muscle flexes and shifts beneath you, eliciting a gasp from your lips. It moves again, just as his hands hold onto your hips and keep you in place. 

Your lips fall open, “Oh.” you repeat, but this time, it’s a low, breathy moan. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, watching you with a small smirk, “Move those hips for me, angel.”

You don’t need to be told twice, pressing down hard onto his thigh. The pressure gives your clit enough stimulation, pulling another moan from your lips. Louder this time. Loud and pretty, as his hands keep you steady, and your arms wrap around his shoulder, fingers finding the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Oh god,” you gasp, staring right at him, at those intense hazel eyes that have turned nearly black. You ride his thigh shamelessly, finding a rhythm that you know will have the pleasure snapping within minutes. Paired with Spencer’s praise, the sweet kisses he’s laying on your jaw, you find yourself trembling in his arms as you rub yourself along his muscular thigh. 

All of the anticipation seems to have built up to a fever pitch, his teasing, the spanking, it all floods back until your orgasm hits you like lightning. Razor sharp, every nerve of your body seems to sing and tremble from pleasure as Spencer keeps his thigh gently moving, helping you come down from your high. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, burying your face into his neck. 

He laughs, wrapping his arms tightly around you, “Are you okay?”

“Better than okay.”

Slender fingers card through the back of your head, tangles into your hair, “You did really well. We went a little off script, but it seems like you found it pleasurable, which is always the goal.”

Pleasurable is the understatement of the century, but your only response is a breathless chuckle. At the moment, that’s all you’re capable of. 

“Okay,” you whisper into his neck, losing all ability to extricate yourself from him. He doesn’t seem to mind though, his hold on you just as tight, free hand rubbing warm circles over your bare back. “Okay, you’ve proved your point. You seriously are a dom.”

“Mhm.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“What? You can’t believe it? I literally just gave you one of the most hands on demonstrations anyone could ask for.” he says with a laugh. It rumbles through his chest, and the feeling makes something in your stomach clench pleasantly. 

You lift your head, finally meeting his gaze. Your eyes flash with mischief when you reply, “I don’t know, I might need another one to fully understand it.”

He smiles back, wide and catlike, “Well then, I think that calls for an encore.”

Thank you for reading!!! also if you could give me some encouragement for my thesis that’d be much appreciated i’d give you so much brain kisses MUAH.

“Is Spencer hugging?” Emily says, staring at the two across the bar, the whole team doing the exact same unabashedly.

“The guy won’t even shake hands.” Penelope gasps, grabbing onto Derek’s arm.

“A woman?” Dereks brain almost short circuits at the sight. “I didn’t know he could do that.”

“Past lover?” Rossi questions, “We all have a past.”

They’re all still staring, watching your hand grip onto his forearm and the huge smile on Spencer’s face.

Penelope taps on Derek’s arm, “Go over!”

“Alright, alright.” He holds his hand up, shuffling out of the corner booth and striding over to the two of you at the bar. “So, Pretty boy, you going to introduce me?”

“Pretty boy?” The shit eating grin on your face is apparent as you stare at Spencer and he turns a lovely shade of pink.

“This is Agent Derek Morgan.” He introduces and you hold a hand out to shake. He does, it’s firm. “And over there gawking is the rest of my team.” He points over your shoulder to the people who you had heard doubling over in laughter earlier. They all dart their eyes away, pretending to be engrossed in another conversation.

“So how do you guys know each other?”

“Straight to the point, I like you.” You laugh at Derek shaking your head. “We went to college together, well second college.”

“Are you another super genius?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Ha! No I’m.” You start but Spencer cuts you off.

“Yes she is, she’s smarter than me.”

God, you’d missed those brown eyes.

“Umm, do you want to meet the team? I don’t think i’ll ever hear the end of it, if you don’t.” He rocks back on his heels nervously.

“Sure!” You agree, Derek walks in front of the two of you and you feel his hand on the small of your back, guiding you to the booth.

They all scoot up so you and Spencer sit on the end. “Sorry in advance.” He whispers into your ear and almost immediately you are met with a colourful hand.

“Hi I’m Penelope!” She’s all smiles and brightness as you reach out and grab her hand back. “Ooo! I love your nails, you’ve got to tell me where you get them done!”

“Derek Morgan, Penelope Garcia, Jennifer Jareau, Emily Prentiss, David Rossi and Aaron Hotchner.” Spencer lists, pointing around the table.

“Call me JJ.” The blonde says and locks eyes with the dark haired woman next to her, Emily.

“What do you do? As a job I mean.” Emily asks, sipping from her drink.

“It’s no where near as interesting as yours.” You chuckle, “I’m just a lawyer.” You shrug and also sip from your drink.

You can feel all of their eyes on you and you don’t even want to know how it feels to be interrogated as a suspect.

“What branch?” The man next to Spencer says, Aaron. “Also call me Hotch, everyone does. I used to be a prosecutor.”

“Property. Mainly closing on houses and making sure let agreements are fair.” You explain.

“She’s being humble, she’s about to own half of the lawfirm she’s working for.” Spencer interjects.

It was as if they were passing a ping pong ball between them with their eyes. All unable to go a second looking you in the eye before darting to another persons.

“You know for a bunch of people who read people for a living.” You start and you’re sure all of their head whip to you at once. “You’re really terrible at hiding what you’re thinking on your face.” You almost laugh. Spencer does.

“How do you guys know each other?” It spills from Penelope’s lips the second after you stop talking.

“We went to college together. Both did a chemistry PHD.” You explain, crossing one leg over the other.

“Another doctor!” She exclaims happily.

It continues that way for a while, bouncing questions around the group and buying rounds of cocktails and shots. They told you stories of their cases and that time Spencer got shot in the knee. You tell them stories from college and how you were there when he did his first ever shot of vodka, and how he threw it up right after. Hotch and Rossi go home then, leaving the “Young ones” to their fun.

“Soo.” JJ starts and you can tell Spencer shoots her a look but she’s too buzzed to care. But so was everyone. “Did you guys date in college?” There’s a smirk on her face, you choke on your drink and Spencer turns pink again.

“No!” The both of you exclaim at the same time. “Just friends.” It was a rehearsed play at this point, hearing it almost everyday as you both got your doctorates. Everyone asking when the two of you were going to get married and have super genius babies.

Another round of eye contact goes around them. “We’ve never seen him hug someone before.” Derek smirks, “He tells people it’s safer to kiss than shake hands.”

“Hey I’m sitting right here!” He complains, running his hands through his hair. It wasn’t slicked like it used to be, you liked the curls.

“I know that, was the first thing he said when he met me.” You smirk at Spencer, your shoulders bound as you chuckle and you can feel the alcohol hit your feet.

The team sends eachother a pointed look, but it’s Emily who opens her mouth, after taking the shots that Hotch and Dave had left behind. “So just fucking in college then.”

Now, you both turn the shade of red you had giggled at Spencer for earlier. You advert your eyes and bury your face into your shoulder. Spencer chokes on his beer, bringing his hand up to clear his throat.

“See the two of you can’t even deny it!” Penelope laughs, pointing at the two of you. “Even when he had that slicked hair and looked like a little sad puppy?” She gasps, now enquiring. Her green framed glasses slide down her nose and she pushes them up, both elbows on the table and leaning in.

You look at Spencer, he looks as if he wants to crawl out of his skin rather than talk about his past sex life with his coworkers.

“I didn’t always look like this.” You shrug, not wanting to make Spence any redder than he already was. “I was also a nerd.”

Then, JJ’s phone rings. She pulls out her phone, you can’t hear what she’s saying but you can tell that something isn’t right from the scrunch in her brow.

“Sorry guys, I’ve gotta run. Henry’s thrown up and is apparently coming down with a fever and he’s asking for me.” Her shoulders dip and she goes to shuffle out of the booth and everyone goes with her.

“Wait!” Emily calls before she can leave, “I’ll get an uber with you, those extra shots did me in.” She holds a hand up to her head for extra sympathy.

You almost roll your eyes.

They disappear out of the door, pulling you up for a hug before they left, promising to invite you to a girls night at some point in between cases.

Penelope and Derek wander off to the bar and jumping up to the bar seats, getting cozy under the yellow lights.

“Are they?” You ask Spencer, nudging his shoulder and hinting their way.

“None of us know.” He smiles. “They’re always flirting at work, Babygirl this, Chocolate thunder that.”

“Chocolate Thunder?” You widen your eyes.

“Once he got big black twelve pack.”

You can’t help but burst out laughing at that, tears pooling in the corner of your eyes and he laughs along. It was like how it used to be when you were in college and you’d tell him some horrific chemistry pun and he’d double over, holding his sides.

“I mean, they call you pretty boy.” You smile, eyes scanning over his face. The age looked good on him, so did the light facial hair and curls. You thought about how it would feel in between your-

He clicks his fingers in front of your face and you snap out of your daydream. The smirk on his face tells it all, his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip. “Do you remember,” His eyes flick over your shoulder to see Derek and Penelope gone, leaning in closer. “When we had that one chem final, by that horrible professor.”

“God that was gruelling, we both studied for like 30 hours straight before it. He hated us I swear.” You chuckle lightly, however it catches in your throat as one of his hands brushes the inside of your knee.

He’s closer now, and you can feel his breath on the shell of your ear. “And after the exam.” He kisses the crook of your jaw. “We went into that supply closet, and I ate you out for so long you couldn’t stand, and I had to hold you up as we fucked right there.”

You’re sure you were wetter than the river nile, panties 100% soaked through and you wouldn’t be surprised if there was a mark on the seat.

“Oh, I remember.”

The next thing you know his lips crash onto yours, big hands grasping the sides of your face and pulling you into him. He tasted exactly as you remembered, but with the beer he’d been drinking added. He was a man now, not the boy you used to know.

His tongue slips into your mouth and the moan you let out is far too loud for the public setting you’re in. Luckily, it’s drowned out by the soft jazz music playing through room.

“Do you want to get out of here? My place is free, I’ll get an uber.” You scramble up, grabbing your purse.

“My place is closer, like walking distance.” He says, wrapping an arm around your waist and guiding you out of the bar and down the road.

“Ok.” You feel the excitement coursing through your veins, making your fingers tingle and a skip in your step as you do the five minute walk to his apartment. You feel his hand snake down and to your ass and give it a hearty squeeze. “Hey!” You laugh and swat his hand away.

“I couldn’t help myself.” He kisses the top of your head and guides you up the stairs of his apartment, hand firmly planted on your ass again.

His apartment was exactly what you’d imagined. Book filled, all browns and greens and warm lights. Autumn personified. “Do you want a tour?” He’s behind you kissing down your neck.

“Mmm” You hum leaning onto his kisses. “Give me one in the morning.”

“Then I’ll show you the way to the bedroom.” He mumbles, guiding you forward into the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him. The new facial hair covering his cheeks rubbing at your neck.

His room was the exact same as the rest of the apartment. Warm and cozy but it smelt of his cologne. It was suffocating.

His hands shake around your front, popping each button open. Fingers grazing the swell of your tits, then down nine soft skin of your torso. “Get on the bed.”

You almost squeal with excitement and crawl onto the bed, throwing your shirt onto the floor beside you. The way he crawls up you is almost predatory and you were sure you’re going to be eaten alive, not that you minded.

Fingers fiddle with the zip at the back of your pencil skirt, then yanking the whole thing down your legs and joining your shirt in the pile on the floor. “You wear these for me?” The lace of them is soft under the pads of his fingers.

“I didn’t even know you were in DC!” You laugh, bare calf resting on his shoulder exposed by his own shirt slipping off his shoulders.

“You wore these for someone else?” Spencer almost growls, roughly pulling them off you and throwing them behind him somewhere, the flash off black flying through your vision.

Opening your mouth to fend off his misplaced jealousy, his tongue licks a full stripe up you. Sucking your clit into his mouth and replacing your defence with a loud moan.

“You were saying?” He smirks and dives back into your pussy, eating you like he was a starved man.

“Spence, fuck!” You cry out, hand jutting to the sides, gripping his sheets and pulling them up with the arch of your back. His hand slides under your back and yanks you closer to his mouth, making you gasp and your toes curl desperately.

The fleeting thought crosses your mind, how did you ever let this go?

You felt like you were floating as his tongue circles your clit softly, and a constant string of whimpers pull from your chest then turn into a high pitched moan as you feel two fingers slip into you. You feel him smile against you.

Tongue lapping at you and fingers pumping in you make you feel transported to the edge of heaven, the pearly gates filtering in at the edge of your vision. You know he can tell you’re close by the way you’re squeezing his fingers like a vice and how your wetness is covering the entire bottom half of his face.

You can feel the scruff of his beard on your inner thighs, you felt like you were floating.

“Spencer!” You cry. A particularly harsh suck on your clit pushes you over the edge, hands darting down to his hair and yanking on his curls as he licks you through your orgasm.

The grin on his face says everything as he pulls up from you, popping his fingers into his mouth and licking them clean. “Better than I remember.”

“Shut up.” You glow red, chest heaving and staring at the ceiling as you recover. “Take your pants off.” You order.

He laughs as he pulls them off, and his boxers all in one go. His legs have more hair than they used to, he pulls his shirt off too. He’s toned, and God you just wanted to lick him.

“Another day.” He knows exactly what you’re thinking, clambering on top of you, the heat radiating off of him is intoxicating. “Are you clean?”

“Yeah and on the pill.”

There was one thing that hadn’t changed at all. He pushes into you and you feel transported back 15 years. He stretches you as he slides in, his head coming down to rest on your shoulder, groaning and placing a kiss on the top of your tit.

He stays there for a moment, the two of you adjusting to each other again.

“Please fuck me.” You whimper into his ear, teeth scraping at his ear.

Spencer starts to pump in and out of your pussy. Cock coming out all the way to the tip and then slamming into you roughly. A hand pulls one of your legs up, pushing it to your chest, making his cock plunge into you deeper. The squelch that echo’s around the room makes you bite your lip and cheeks turn pink. Each of his rough thrusts knock air out of you, a squeak coming with each one.

“I love this pussy.” He whispers into your ear, between groans and thrusts.

“Jesus.” You whisper out, feeling your brain melt out of your head.

The tip of his cock brushes against that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back into your head. His hands pull into your hair, fingers scratching at your scalp gently, it sends a cold shiver down your spine.

His lips press to yours, sealing them together and you feel his tongue swipe at your bottom lip. You give him respite, letting him in. His tongue slips onto your mouth and yours into his, it’s a light teasing fight between you. The pair of you are moaning into each others mouths, his thrusts never faltering.

Wrapping your legs up and around his waist and pulling him closer and deeper into you. “You’re so deep.” You whisper, then nipping at his bottom lip.

The pleasure you were in was indescribable, back arching up, pressing your chest against his. Hands grasping at his shoulders, they were bigger and more muscular than they used to be. Your nails dig in, scratching up his back leaving red scratch marks all over his back.

He was invading every single one of your senses, the smell of his cologne, skin and shampoo. The taste of him, in your mouth. All of his moans and whimpers close to your ears. However what you feel most is his cock pounding in and out of you, his pelvis nudging your clit and the weight of his body pressing on top of you.

You clench around him, eyebrows pulling together. “So-close.” You pant.

“Me.” Thrust. “Too.” You can tell by then way the rhythm falters and his hand comes down to rub your clit furiously.

“Oh fuck!” You scream, eyes rolling back and you tighten your hold around his back. A hot rush pulls through your body as you cum, thrusting yourself up on him.

He fucks you through it, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as your legs tremble. With one last clench you feel him let out a groan and release inside of you.

Resting his forehead against yours, you both burst out into laughter.

“I have a feeling I’m going to be sore tomorrow.” He shakes his head, pulling out of you and thumping down on the bed next to you. Neither make an effort to get dressed.

“Well we aren’t 23 anymore.” You snort, resting on his shoulder.

His tone is softer now, “How long have you been in DC?” He asks, a finger fiddling with your hair.

“Like three years.”

“Three years!” He exclaims, “Why did I not know you were here?”

“I didn’t want to get in the way of your life.” You shrug, “It looked like you had everything going good.”

“Let’s try it. For real this time.” He grabs your chin and turns your face to his. “We’re in the same city, at the same time. I’m about to go part time at the BAU, and start lecturing at GWU. And well I think we just proved the sex is still great. It’s fate.” You could melt into those eyes for the rest of your life.

“You don’t believe in fate.” You shake your head but you can’t hide the huge, beaming smile on your face.

“Let’s give it a go.”

a/n: sorry this is completely self indulgent lol, i miss my ex xxxx and he’s a munch (KILL ME). hope you enjoyed! i also don’t usually write for spencer so.. i hope it’s good! PLEASE REBLOG!!!!!

He sucks in a haggard breath, hands reaching up and messing up his hair even more. His thoughts are everywhere and nowhere at once and he just needs to- needs just a moment to-

“Uh, yeah, just a second!”, he calls back, voice scratchy and used from the- the moaning Jesus Christ because he was about to come with your mental image and he somehow, magically, managed to apparently conjure you up in front of his door with his pathetic pining and oh god-

He has to- ugh- has to wash his hands and make it go away and –

“Okay, I’ll just…chill with that weird plant here.”

An overwhelmed whimper slips past his lips and he just, stands there for at least another five seconds before something in his mind snaps back into place and he rushes to the small, adjacent bathroom of his room.

After he thoroughly washed his hands, his erection has flagged off enough so that it’s not the first thing greeting you when he opens the door and thank god for that.

And oh- seeing you after doing that actually knocks the wind out of his lungs because you are just so goddamn lovely it makes Spencer want to do stupid, stupid things like cry or kiss you or spontaneously combust into a million pieces.

For once, he does something okay-ishly sensible though.

“Hi.”

You look at him, one eyebrow raised in amusement or scepticism, he doesn’t know for sure. Your eyes hold mirthful sparkles in them when he finally manages to meet your gaze, so he settles for the former of the two options.

You’re not wearing your work clothes anymore. Rather, you went for a cozy looking, oversized sweater and funkily patterned leggings. Your fashion sense outside of work always reminded Spencer of Penelope’s.

“Hi to yourself”, you chuckle, “Can I come in or are you too busy reading ten books at once?”

Spencer feels himself flush under your gentle teasing.

“Only seven books. But, yes, of course you can come in.”

He turns out of the way, creating room for you to pass him into his room. As soon as you are inside, you don’t hesitate to jump onto his bed and flop on your back with your arms spread wide.

Spencer’s breath hitches and he has to do some very extensive mental gymnastics to supress all the inappropriate thoughts from escaping the box he banished them into. Controlling his body’s response to seeing you in the same bed he was just jacking off in is… a different story. He pulls down the hem of his shirt as discreetly as possible, as he takes a seat next to you. Making sure that there is not too much distance between you two as to raise any suspicion and make it obvious he’s trying to get some distance between you, but also enough space so that he isn’t enticed to do anything unwise. Like, reach out and feel your warmth underneath his fingers. Or the softness of your skin. Or anything else really.

The more seconds tick by in which neither of you say anything, the more nervous Spencer becomes. He starts fiddling around with his fingers, aborting more than one move to steal a glance at your face to see what you’re thinking.

“Spencer”, you then finally say, voice kind of pout-y and if that didn’t make Spencer whip his head around to face you, the next thing you say for sure does. “Do you hate me?”

“Wha-“, he sputters your name, “No- no! Of course, I don’t- whe- why would you think that?”

You let out an exasperated groan, moving around until you are lying on your side, head propped up on your arm and frowning up at him. “Because you’ve been acting hella weird these last few days and you won’t tell me whyyyy”, you drag out the last syllable, pout on your lips and Spencer has to look up at the ceiling or else he’s just going to confess everything without second thought and that will definitely not happen.

“I haven’t been acting weird, really, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You remain silent again and Spencer feels the judging glare you send his way without having to look at you. Yes, he has been acting weird, he knows that, but you can never ever know the reason why tha-

“Is it because you saw my nudes?”

Spencer almost breaks his neck with how fast he whips his head down to look at you again. A strangled noise escapes him without permission and what. What.

“Because, that would actually explain so much, especially the way you’ve been acting and really, that’s probably on me because I’ve always been telling myself to put them behind a password block but I somehow always manage to forget that because apparently I have only one braincell left that’s stuck spinning on the deep-fried version of Funky Town and well, I guess I’m glad it was you that found them and not someone else and-“

“What? No, no, I didn’t- What- that’s not- what-“, Spencer cuts off your rambling with a horrified, screeched version of a protest because how- how could you have guessed what’s going on with just one try? Is Spencer so- so absolutely besotted with you that he’s so obvious? Spencer is so very confused and overwhelmed with whatever the hell is going on, he kind of misses the slight twitching of your mouth.

“Come on, Spencer. I said it’s fine and basically my own fault. Uh- well, actually… sorry. Because, well, that’s probably not very work-appropriate… I will pay for your therapy session, just send me the bill.”

Spencer thought he’d reached the limits of confusion seconds ago but apparently, he hadn’t. What. What are you even saying?

“Therapy sessions?”

You just- ignore him.

“Oh, also, please don’t tell Hotch? He’ll be pissed, despite me literally just doing hot-girl shit, y’know-“

Oh, Spencer cannot take it anymore.

He says your name and, “Stop, please, please, just-“

You snap your mouth shut, pulling your lips between your teeth and Spencer definitely doesn’t miss the way you have to force your mouth to stay still this time.

“Are you- is this a joke?”, Spencer asks, frazzled and desperate and so confused he just wants to bury his head under the duvet and never come out again. Because if you don’t actually know but- are just joking around, oh Spencer is overwhelmed, alright.

Your expression changes into something panicked then. “No, no, Spencer, sorry. I’m- sorry. Of course I’m not joking, I’m so sorry. It’s just a little bit too easy to tease you. Sorry.” You actually look apologetic now, lips downturned and frowning slightly.

“Not joking- so… so, you know?”, there’s something big and anxious pressing inside of Spencer’s chest. The urge to hide away and never face daylight again intensifies tenfold. He’s flushing before he realizes, hands trembling and breathing a bit too fast to be considered normal. Oh god, you know, you actually know, you’re going to- you’re never going to speak with him again you are probably here to tell him how weird and- and-

You must’ve noticed the frenzy he is thinking himself into, because you reach out with one hand and gently nudge his thigh with one knuckle. “Spencer”, you say, voice serious and steady and not the slightest bit disgusted or harsh and it snaps him out of his anxiety spiral.

“I knew the second I walked back into that room after you basically fled the precinct. I am, really, genuinely, sorry for making you uncomfortable. Like, it wasn’t actually my intention for you to see them. And then, after I realized what… I just wanted to wait and see what you’d do, if you came to talk to me or, well…”

You sigh, the hand that nudged him ruffling through your hair.

“I didn’t handle this situation very well. I’m really sorry. So… “, you trail off, scrunching your nose in that adorable way of yours that makes Spencer want to kiss it until it scrunches even further because you’d laugh and try to fight him off.

“We can just- forget about this. Forget that it ever happened, or-“, you hesitate again.

Spencer feels suddenly breathless. Like he stands in front of a cliff face, seconds before taking the step to send himself careening towards something immeasurably great or devastatingly fatal.

“Or…?”, he breathes, voice small and unsure.

You meet his eyes again after what feels like hours. There’s something intense in them, burning, and it’s like an electric shock to Spencer’s system. He’d give anything for you to keep looking at him like that forever.

“Or”, your hand returns to his thigh, but this time you let your fingers travel along the shape of it and Spencer whimpers. The burning in your eyes intensifies and Spencer feels hot, suddenly, so hot he’s burning with it. “Or we can do something else.”

“Something else?”, Spencer basically croaks because his throat is so dry and it’s difficult for his body to function properly when you are touching him like that.

You hum in agreement. “Whatever you want. You can tell m-“

“You.”

You look a bit startled when he cuts you off with that one, desperate syllable. Startled but also endlessly amused and Spencer just- his mind is apparently turned off, what the-

You laugh quietly, and your eyes soften, and it does something to Spencer that leaves an ach-y feeling in his chest. Oh, he loves you so much he can’t take it.

“Sure. You can have me”, you say simply, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world for you to admit, “Tell me what exactly you want, because I’d give you the world if you asked.”

And suddenly there’s hot pressure behind Spencer’s eyes, at the back of his throat. You’re just- just- amazing and so lovely and so kind to him, no one has ever said something like that to him, he doesn’t know how to handle it.

Spencer blinks up to the ceiling, desperately willing these stupid unwelcome tears away because crying about you treating him kindly is so on the bottom of the list of acting casual about this, so he rather feels than sees you sitting up next to him. Your hand slips from his legs and he feels the loss of your touch as if someone sucked the marrow from his bones. Before he can say something embarrassing like ‘please touch me again’ he feels your hand covering his. It fills him with a heady kind of courage.

“I want…”, Spencer starts, feeling entirely too uncomfortable with having to state his deepest and darkest desires. There’s the old familiar urge to start picking at his nails nagging at him, but you just interlace your fingers with his and start tracing random patterns into the skin there with your thumb. Spencer melts against you and tenses up at the same time because it’s just so- so nice. It feels so nice and Spencer never thought he’d ever get to have things like that with you but you’re here. You’re here, with him, and basically offering Spencer the entire world on a silver platter but it’s still so so unfathomably difficult just saying what he so badly wants.

“You want…?”, you hum slightly, voice soft and so tender as you continue painting patterns on his skin and Spencer would literally die for you. And that’s the entire problem. Spencer doesn’t know if you’d do the same. Well. Maybe not die die for him but. He can’t just sleep with you, and it not meaning anything to you. It would kill him. It would kill him, if after you give him tenderness and pleasure and acceptance in a way he’s never dreamed of receiving, you would go back to normal. Always politely distanced, close, but never close enough and it already twists his chest just thinking of that possibility.

“I just-“, he tries again, but when the words are stuck in his throat, sticky molten sugar that tastes like bile and fear, he pulls out of your grip and buries his face in his hands. He’s so bad at this. He’s the worst. No wonder he’s never had- had something like Morgan has, one night stand after one night stand (not that he particularly wants that, god no, but just-) because Spencer is just so bad at spilling all of the things that plague his gut and keep his thoughts in overdrive at night. No wonder he’s never even had a girlfriend or boyfriend before.

“Hey, hey, Spencer”, he feels your hands cupping his own, still over his face. Not taking them away, but just – there. “It’s alright, penguin, we can always come back to this another time. I’ll wait.”

Spencer’s face crumples and his breath hitches a little because- penguin. That’s the frankly ridiculous nickname you’ve been using for him ever since he apparently once looked like one, with that white scarf and knee-length black coat he wore during one of your cases where a blizzard surprised not only the team, but also the unsub. Spencer, like most of you, wasn’t prepared and thus, had to make do with what the helpful officers provided them with. And well, Spencer drew the penguin stick it seemed.

It’s ridiculous but sweet and it always makes him feel so loved, loved by you, because it’s adorable and theirs and he just loves it irrationally much, okay? And also, penguins are just really fascinating because-

“Did you know that most penguins live monogamously? The Emperor penguin is actually one of the only ones that mate seasonally, they only have one mate per breeding season. But most others have a mate for life, like, like swans and bald eagles.”

Before Spencer even opened his mouth, he was aware of the fact he was going to ramble on about some unimportant stuff. It’s always like this, it always feels like a breath he’s been holding in for too long, like an itch somewhere in his weird brain that only stops when he opens his mouth and infodumps and he cannot stop it. No matter how consciously he is telling himself to cut it out or screaming at himself to shut the fuck up you weirdo, it’s unavoidable. As soon as his brain latches onto a statistic or a fact it is reminded of, it’s an unstoppable force.

Like now. He is kicking himself. Why, oh why can’t he ever be normal? He feels himself flushing bright red from embarrassment and shame and frustration. He can’t believe he is rambling about birds while- while whatever the hell you two are doing right now. While in the middle of a conversation that started out with you confronting him about him seeing your nudes, jesus christ.

Spencer is about to suffocate himself with a pillow when you let out a graceless snort.

It confuses Spencer so much he lowers his hands to look at you and- oh.

Your eyes are shining with something that looks so close to what he would call affection, and it makes him want to bawl his eyes out and at the same time, smile so hard there’ll be laugh lines on his cheeks for the rest of the week.

“Well, that fits perfectly then”, you say, and Spencer doesn’t understand.

“What do you mean?”

You smile just a little wider, a little more teasingly but in a nice way, in a kind way and it leaves Spencer’s chest blooming with warmth.

“If you’re my penguin, I’ll be your penguin.”

Youryouryouryouryour-

Spencer feels entirely braindead. Only the fact that you called him yours registers. Because yes. Yes. Spencer is so yours he’d gladly let you make every decision for him from now on in his life and yes. That’s not exactly a very normal thing to think. Or to want. Spencer doesn’t care. He’s never felt normal about you for a day in his life and he definitely won’t start now.

“You- you mean- like, as, as mates?”

You scrunch your nose in disgust. “If you want to call us that, I think I’ll take back my offer.”

It punches a giggle out of Spencer, sudden and kind of light-headed. He watches your face break into a wide grin.

“But you- you’d like that?” You’d like me?

You pull a face, sniffing in a nonchalant way, direct your face to your nails in fake disinterest.

“Sure. Whatever.”

And Spencer can’t help himself. He sobs out a laugh- laughs out a sob or, whatever that weird noise he makes is, because you’re so ridiculous and he loves you more than anything in the world.

You roll your eyes, fondly, shake your head slightly.

“Of course, Spencer. I’d like that very much because I like you a very unnormal amount. Literally. On my knees, crying, screaming etcetera”, you say just like that, smiling just like that.

Spencer feels like he’s dreaming. He must be. There’s no other explanation for it. He just can’t wrap his head around the fact that you could like him. You. You’re so, so lovely and amazing and you deserve everything good in this world and Spencer is just. Spencer.

“You- you like me? Me?”, Spencer can’t hide the incredulous tone that seeps into his questions because you like him?

There’s no traces of humour in your eyes anymore. Your eyes look painfully honest, face suddenly serious, and it steals Spencer’s breath away.

You lean closer to him again, grabbing his hands with yours. Your gaze bores itself into his, intense and steady and he can’t look away. “Spencer. I know it’s- I know life has been hard on you for way too long. And that leaves its marks on you. That’s fine. It’s human. But. You do not deserve any less love because of that, do you understand me? Of course I like you, what isn’t there to like? You’re kind and funny and sweet and just so- Spencer. You’re so lovable and it kills me to know that you don’t see how you are so worthy of being loved.”

Oh.

Oh.

You can’t just- can’t just say things like that and expect him to not cry a little. Can’t expect him to act completely nonchalant and cool about all of this when you say things like that to him. Are you trying to kill him? Because it sure does feel like that.

Spencer is so completely at a loss. He doesn’t know what to say to that- not to mention what to do. How do you always do this? How can you see straight to the hidden, bruised core of him, littered with all these ugly and bad things and. Just. Figure out what to say to strike him exactly there.

It should scare him, being known so deeply. It should, but it doesn’t because it’s you. You are warmth and acceptance like his favourite place in front of a fireplace, book in hand and rain gently knocking against windows. You are quiet mornings at work, you are soft rays of sunlight in his hair, you are gentle hands helping you up when you fall and bruise your knees. You are –

A touch to his cheek startles him. He opens his eyes – when did he close them? – to your fingers brushing some stray tears away, so softly as if he’s something precious, something to be held delicately. That thought sends new tears spilling down his cheek. He can’t believe this is affecting him so much, so completely he simultaneously feels like he is going to shatter and be stitched back together again.

He never knew he needed this so much.

“Sorry for making you cry, penguin. I didn’t think this discussion about my lack of nude etiquette would get this emotionally damaging”, you say, voice hushed in the big silence of the room, a small smile on your lips and eyes so kind.

Spencer snorts, despite himself. This has really been a very bizarre evening. He feels almost drunk on the weirdness of it all, on the rollercoaster that his emotions have ridden all evening. That’s probably why he does what he does next.  

“Neither did I, especially after you interrupted me while I wa-“

Spencer shuts his mouth so fast he clicks his teeth together, eyes wide and suddenly horrified. He- what-

Why?

Why can’t Spencer ever keep his big mouth shut? Is he completely and utterly insane?

There’re alarm bells going off somewhere in Spencer’s head and a concerning warmth settling deep in his stomach when your grin takes on a slightly devilish edge, one he knows all too well and. And. Oh. He’s in trouble. So much trouble. Why did he have to say that?

“After I interrupted you while?”, you prompt him, eyes electric and hot and oh god-

Spencer is so dumb. An idiot. Of the highest order. High IQ, where?

“Nothing”, he says, voice high-pitched and rushed and he curses himself and his ability to act everything else but nonchalant. He’d be the worst actor of all time.

“Spencer.”

The tone of your voice rearranges something in his neurons. He can feel himself sit up just that little bit straighter, can feel his mind buzz at the edges. He’s never felt like this before.

He loves it.

“Hmm?”, is all he gets out. Trouble, so much trouble.

Suddenly you’re standing up, away from him and Spencer wants to whine because you should stay there next to him, forever fixed to his side. He doesn’t have to despair long, because you take one of your knees and gently nudge his legs apart with it and okay. Okay. That definitely didn’t just send Spencer’s mind reeling. That wasn’t just totally the hottest thing that ever happened to him.

You slot yourself between his legs as if you own that space and. In his humble opinion, you do. You so do. Spencer is willing to give you a map of his entire body and a marker and tell you to please demarcate every part of him you want. He’d give it to you, no questions asked.

He is looking up at you, at your burning eyes that still hold something so soft in them that makes the lump in his throat bigger again. And by god, Spencer just needs to hear you say it again-

“You like me?”

You move closer to him, lifting one hand and placing it underneath his chin. Your thumb traces along his jaw and Spencer feels like he is going to burst into a million embarrassed pieces.

“Yes”, you say simply, but the way you say it. Spencer can’t help but shiver and exhale shakily. He feels so warm, everywhere. His skin burns where your fingers are touching him. He never wants this to stop.

“You- You want me?”

Your hand grips his face a little stronger, your other fingers splaying over and down his throat and there’s a high noise coming from somewhere and there’s goosebumps on his body everywhere and oh, wait- it’s him. The noise. Well, how embarrassing but. He doesn’t care. Nope. Not at all.

…Okay maybe a little. His face feels warm, suddenly, warmer than the rest of him and yes. He’s blushing, okay?

“Spencer”, the way you say his name it- god, “I want you. I said it before, but. I will give you anything. Tell me what you want, Spencer, and you will get it from me.”

Your eyes are so dark and your voice so low and Spencer actually whines and. He’s hard again, so hard, because he didn’t come before and now, he’s even more pent-up and his thoughts are a mess, but you haven’t even touched him more than this and he’s already so worked up from you just saying these things to him-

“I want you”, Spencer pants, currently finding no other English words in the dictionary of his mind. And well. Emily was right about him. IQ slashed to zero when pretty person do thing.

He watches you take a deep breath, as if to steady yourself, as if this whole thing is affecting you as much as it affects him but that’s- ridiculous. Impossible. Because. Have you seen yourself?

“I know that, Spencer. But what do you want from me? Do you want me to kiss you?”, you ask, face suddenly so close to his Spencer feels your breath fan over his skin, and he whimpers because yes he wants that wants that- “Do you want me to touch you more?”, your other hand grabs his side, gentle but just a little bit roughly and Spencer is suddenly vividly reminded of the fact how strong you are and he feels kind of lightheaded-

“Do you want me to fuck you, Spencer?”

Spencer is going to pass out. And die. And moan and say, “Please yes yes yes”. Maybe not in that particular order.

“Okay, angel, anything you want”, you say, smiling softly at him as if he’s the best thing in the world and angel. Angel. Angel.

Before he’s even started to process you calling him angel, he sees a glint in your eyes, that edge in your smile again and before he knows what’s happening, you’re kissing him.

You’re kissing him and it’s- everything.

Your mouth is soft against his, and Spencer’s insides twist and flutter and his brain is kind of lagging behind, but he wants to be closerclosercloser-

It’s so good Spencer completely blanks on everything. There’s nothing in his mind except the feel of your lips moving against his. There’s no insecurity, no embarrassment tainting this moment even though this is literally like, only the sixth kiss or so of Spencer’s life and he has no idea what he is doing. But it’s so good.

A noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper escapes him when you lick into his mouth and Spencer’s soul almost leaves his body. He feels you shudder where you are pressed together, chest to chest.

“Spencer, Spencer”, you breathe against his lips, in between wet, hot, kisses. You rub your nose against his, eyes closed.

“Hmm?”, he hums, his voice somewhere in Canada or wherever. His mouth is too busy smiling so wide it hurts, anyways. No time for articulating anything.

“You’re amazing, Spencer, amazing.”

And he wants to shake his head, no, because the only one amazing here is you. But it’s impossible to disagree with you when your mouth has returned to his in a way that is probably ruining him for anyone else. (He’s okay with that.)

You peck him on the lips once, twice more, before you press your lips against his jaw, exactly where you had your fingers before. Your hands are basically the only thing holding Spencer up in a sitting position, because he feels like molten chocolate in your hands. Muscles apparently forgetting to do their job and well. Who can blame them? Spencer has stopped thinking in proper sentences the moment you had walked into his life, so. Only a matter of time until you broke the rest of him as well.

You kiss his neck and Spencer gasps. It’s really been a hot minute - three years, one hundred, twenty-one days and twenty hours to be exact – the last time he made out with someone. Everything feels heightened on his heated skin, especially you opening your mouth against him and licking him oh god-

It almost feels like a reward when you gently bite at his skin next. Spencer almost screams.

“So good, so so good for me”, he hears you whisper into the skin of his neck and this time, Spencer does make a noise. Because yes. He wants that. Be good for you. That’s the only thing in his fuzzy mind that feels clear, that feels graspable.

He can see your pupils dilate. Can see the wicked lilt to your lips. “You like being good for me, don’t you, angel?”

ANGEL. Spencer is nodding his head before he knows he does so. “Yes, yes.”

“Fuck”, he hears you breathe against him and it’s strange, seeing the effect he has on you. Did really he do that? “I can’t believe how incredible you are, sweetheart.”

And you need to stop. If you keep calling Spencer these things- he’s pretty sure he won’t survive this. The team would need to find another genius to solve cases with. His cactus Greg would dry out and wilt and die. You and Penelope would need to find another victim to send confusing memes to.

“Did you like my pictures, Spencer?”, you then ask and that’s so not fair. You can’t just ask him that while he’s so utterly in your hands that he’s sure he’d tell you about every little fantasy he’s had about you ever if you asked.

Because Spencer wants to be good, feels that need so deeply in his bones, he nods frantically. “Yes, I- I liked them.”

At the same time the words leave his mouth, something feels wrong. There’s an ugly thing twisting in his stomach, so unpleasant it momentarily occludes the high-octane bliss-fuzz fogging up his mind.

You notice the shift in mood almost immediately. “What’s wrong, angel?”

And well. It’s just- that guilt. Of not saying anything to you about Spencer seeing your nudes, of just ogling you like that without your permission. That wasn’t very good of him. Actually, the opposite. He’s been bad and he hates that. Hates that so severely that there’s suddenly tears on his cheeks and oh no. That’s mortifying. Who cries before sex? Jesus Christ he’s such a virgin it is genuinely embarrassing.

“I’m- I’m sorry”, he stutters, a little bit hysterical, creating distance between you, arms slung around himself, “I should’ve, should’ve said something, I’m so so sorry, I’m the worst friend and now I’m- I’m crying, oh god, I’m so sorry-“

“Hey, hey hey whoa. Spencer, darling. Penguin. Look at me, please?”

But he shakes his head. He doesn’t deserve to look at you again. What was he even thinking? He was- so creepy and now- now-

Two warm hands grab his face and then Spencer is looking into your eyes again. He squeezes his own shut, but all that it does is send more tears spilling over his cheeks and he’s so fucking stupid-

“Baby, please.”

Spencer sobs.

Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. That’s the best thing he has ever heard but he doesn’t deserve these things.

“Of course you deserve it, silly goose”, you say and oh. He’s said that out loud.

Your thumbs brush over his cheeks and Spencer can’t not lean into your touch, despite everything. Because that’s just the way it always is. He’s drawn to your warmth and tenderness like a moon revolves around its planet.

“I thought we’d established that it was an accident? And if it was someone’s fault, then mine, because no password, remember?”

Spencer opens his eyes. The deep affection swimming in yours makes him sob again. He’s a mess. A crying, horny mess and Spencer definitely fucked this up. Why does Spencer always ruin the few good things in his life?

“Spencer, Spencer. Hey. It’s okay, I promise you. We wouldn’t be doing this, if it wasn’t, okay?”, you kiss his nose. “Do you want to lay down, maybe?”

He nods, not really thinking clearly. He moves up the bed, under the covers and curls up on his side. He waits for you to get up from the bed, for you to walk over to the door and leave. To say that this was a mistake, he was a mistake. To say that you take back everything you said to him in the last half hour.

He’s not just a little surprised to feel your weight dip the mattress, to feel even more sudden warmth engulf him when you spoon him from behind. You start tracing swirly patterns over the skin of his arm and he feels goosebumps spread all over his body.

Some minutes tick by, you still holding him, when his tears have finally dried up. He doesn’t remember crying so much in one day. Spencer feels miserable.

“Do you still like me?”, he asks, and yes, it’s pathetic and stupid but. He doesn’t care if you never have sex or if you’re not going to be more than his friend now. Because the thought of you not being in his life in any capacity anymore- just no.

He can feel you freeze and take in a sharp breath. “Wha- Spencer. Of course, I still like you. I don’t care what we do, I just want to be with you. In any way you’ll have me.”

You sound so understanding and sincere and actually confused about his fear as if you’d never even think of not liking him anymore and and and-

And something in him just- snaps. He wants you, needs you so much he’s going to die if he doesn’t-

He shuffles and turns in your arms until he’s face to face with you. You look at him, eyebrow raised in question but so beautiful and lovely and you still like him-

“I want you so bad”, he says and then he presses his lips against yours again.

You respond immediately, low moan escaping you and Spencer is greedy, he wants to hear more, feel more, feel everything with you.

He’s kissing you as if he’s going to die if he ever stopped, which, yes, he absolutely would, and you kiss him back as if you can’t live without him. It makes everything become hazy again, like before, and every bad feeling suddenly feels eons away. Like he’s underwater, floaty and relaxed. Safe, he feels safe in the way you kiss him and hold him. Like you always do.

You move your kisses to his neck, sucking and biting and Spencer is moaning and moaning and can’t stop and then suddenly, you’re gone, what –

“Spencer, Spencer, wait”, you pant, out of breath and flushed and he wants to cry again, “Sorry, sorry I just-“

You frame his face in your hands, a little bit roughly. “I’m so sorry for making this so hard, you’re being so good for me, but Spencer. Have you done this before?”

Somewhere in the fog that is his minds, Spencer finds his voice. It’s high and airy but he doesn’t care. “No, no, I haven’t.”

He watches you take a deep breath, feels your fingers digging into his skin a little bit more.

“Tell me. Do you want this, Spencer?”, your voice is shaking as if you need to keep yourself in check and Spencer can’t believe he’s getting to see you like this.

“Yes”, he says because he can’t ever want anything else, and, “Please make me feel good.”

You inhale sharply, your grip on his face bordering on painful. “Spencer, you’re incredible, amazing, the best- I’ll make you feel good, okay? I’ll make you feel so good because you deserve it.”

“Yes”, Spencer is not ashamed of how whiny he sounds. No. He’s owning it now. This is his thing now, okay? He’ll gladly be your pathetic wet cat, or whatever the term was that you sometimes use to describe him with. Whatever it even means.

“Good”, you grin, and then you push on his shoulder hard and he’s on his back. And you. Sitting on top of him, thighs on either side of him. Straddling him exactly where he wants you most and he exhales a needy ‘ah’. His hypothesis of liking being manhandled is… yet to be disproven. He’s discovering so many things about himself today.

Pleasure radiates in waves from where you’re passively giving pressure to his hard cock and yeah okay. This is good. Amazing. He’s never felt better. But-

“Please.”

“Please what, angel?”

“More?”

“More what?”

Your fingers trailing along his throat and jaw, down his chest and teasing ghost-like over his nipples are not really helpful in finding the right words to what he wants. You take pity on him.

“More touch?”

Spencer nods his head, so fast he almost gets dizzy because he’s at that point again where everything feels liquid, hazy, a little bit unreal. So, speaking is already quite the task.

You smile at him as if he just solved the most difficult equation. “Doing so good, Spencer. Incredible.”

He moans. Okay. Another hypothesis to add to his ever-growing list of scientific discoveries today.

“Where do you want touch, Spencer? Here?”, there’s hands in his hair. He shakes his head.

“Hmm… Here?”, fingers drawing circles on his chest and yes, that feels nice, so nice but he wants-

“Here?”, you ground your hips down and jesus-

“Yes!”, Spencer almost chokes on the sound. Pleasure shoots up his spine and he whimpers. “Please.”

You exhale shakily, looking flush. “Okay. Because you ask so nicely.” There’re two little taps on his lower stomach through his shirt. “Do you want to take this off first? Or no?”

The way you give him the chance to say no- the way you respect his autonomy so deeply-

It’s basic human decency, yes, but it’s also the hottest thing and Spencer feels so valued and understood and safe that he’s not even hesitating when he mutters a quiet yes.

You help him sit up because he’s currently not really heir over his body like he usually is. Help his head out of the shirt and thread his arms out. And then, he’s half naked in front of you and suddenly, the doubt and insecurity that’ve been so quiet so far are back with a vengeance.

The urge to cover himself is so big it’s impossible to stop his arms from wrapping around himself.

Spencer knows he’s not ugly. He’s not that bad looking actually. Can’t be too bad if Morgan keeps insisting on calling him pretty boy, even though Spencer sometimes still has the sneaking suspicion that he’s teasing him. But his friend wouldn’t be so cruel.

But other people like to be. Pipe-cleaner, leek, straw, big-eyes. He’s heard it all before. He has matured enough and grown into himself so that these things don’t bother him like they used to. But still. Still. These things are arduous to scrub from under his skin.

Your gaze on him though- he’s never felt so, cleaned from all of these mean words before. You look- you look reverent while mapping his skin and maybe that’s the reason why he lowers his arms again.

“Spencer. You’re a dream”, you say, almost in trance. Almost as if you’re hypnotized by him, and he’s flushing. But. Being watched so intently, being admired like that. He feels his dick give an indigent twitch against your clothed core. Another thing for the list.

“So impatient”, you tut and Spencer flushes more. He thinks he’s waited long enough for this. But he doesn’t say that. If you stopped now- he would definitely combust spontaneously.

You lean down, over him. Hands trailing along his sides like you did earlier, but without any clothes between your skin and his. It’s almost too much. And not enough. He feels electrified, where you touch him. His heart is hammering against his ribs so hard you must be able to feel it. His stomach is in knots, fluttery. He’s never felt more alive.

You connect your lips to his throat, placing kiss after kiss along the arched length of it. Follow the same path with your tongue and Spencer whines, curves up against you a little. Everything feels so good Spencer is floating in it.

You shift your attention to his collarbones next, kissing but then gently biting and Spencer feels the indents of your teeth all the way through to his back and he hopes, wants, you to sink them into him so deep they’ll leave marks. So that he carries the evidence of this with him for the rest of this case, so that there’s absolutely no more doubt to who he belongs to. That thought alone makes him whimper, makes him feel that tiny little bit more lost in you.

You start kissing along his chest, down his stomach. Open mouthed, wet kisses and Spencer shivers when the places you put them feel cold after because of your spit. The lower you get, the noisier he becomes and at one point, Spencer would’ve been embarrassed. Well, he kind of is, but he’s also so turned on that the embarrassment doesn’t feel as stifling like usual. Rather, in a weird way, it makes everything hotter, and he does not own enough brain capacity right now to decipher that. But he does add it to the list.

When your face is dangerously close to the waistband of his pyjama, Spencer tenses, holds his breath. Being shirtless is one thing, but… well.

“It’s okay, Spencer. We only do as much as you feel comfortable with”, you murmur, giving a small peck to the left of his belly button. You calmingly follow his sides with your hands, smiling at him with so much affection in your eyes that Spencer feels speechless, breathless, until the tension releases his muscles again and he melts into the sheets.

“’m just…”, he tries, he really tries so hard to tell you that he wants this more than anything he’s ever wanted but that he just feels… insecure.

You kiss his stomach again. “How about we only take off the pyjama? For now? If you want to take off your underwear too later, we can still do that.”

That… that’s actually a good idea. So, he nods.

“Words, angel.”

“Yes, yes. That’s- good.”

You look so proud of him. “You’re so good, Spencer. Perfect.”

He moans embarrassingly loud. He really should be more concerned about this. About how you are basically pulling him apart, thread by thread and he just lets you, willingly. How you know which threads to pull to reduce him to a sweaty mess in what felt like 0.2 seconds.

There’s a finger dipping beneath the waistband, moving back and forth along the newly exposed skin. Your eyes watch him intently, almost predator-like. A question is in there somewhere as well and Spencer nods again.

You help him lift his hips, help him pull down the pants. Spencer is kind of busy kicking his legs a little to shake them off completely but when he looks back and down himself to where you are hyper-focused on the outline of his cock through the thin fabric he blushes.

Even more when he notices the big, dark blue splotch in front of his underwear. That’s definitely never happened before. How embarrassing.

When you look up at him again, you’re also flushed. Eyes dark, wide, voice kind of unsteady. “Spencer, Spencer, can I?”

“Please”, and then you palm him with your hand, and it feels so good it takes all of his concentration to not come on the spot. He doesn’t know if he’ll survive this until you arrive to the main thing.

It’s not the first time someone has touched him like that, but it is the first time you are doing it, and it already feels better than anything he’s ever felt before. You’re either a wizard or Spencer is just biased because he thinks everything you do is ten times better than the same thing done by someone else.

Probably the first reason.

He has his head angled back, one of his arms thrown over his eyes. If he looked at you now, he’s pretty sure, he’d come. Visual stimulation on top of physical would probably be the end of him. It’s already too much, just feeling your hand move up and down his dick in various pressures. Almost as if you are testing what he likes best, and Spencer is definitely here for it. Definitely. He’s happy to just let you experiment with him until you know all the different ways to drive him mad with pleasure with just a few moves.

Which, you apparently already figured out, judging by the way Spencer can’t form a single coherent thought anymore. It’s already, so good, so freaking good holy shit, and you’re still not touching him. Still a layer of fabric between your hand and him and he kind of- just-

“Take it off?”

You still your hand, looking up at him. You look kind of crazed, almost a little pained. It takes two deep breaths for you to process what he just asked, eyes a little unfocused before they fix Spencer to the bed with an intensity that makes him feel unfocused. “You sure, angel?”

Spencer literally can’t do anything but nod. You stay in your position for some moments longer, before you sigh out a long breath, mumbling something that suspiciously resembles you’re gonna be the death of me. Spencer misses your warmth on top of him the second you hoist yourself up. It’s kind of crazy and destitute of him. You are literally right there but he’s waited for this for so long it feels like he’s suffocating without your weight pressing him down. Which is ironic and also, insane.

Your fingers are gentle, when they move under the stretchy fabric of his underwear. Even gentler when they pull down and down and down until Spencer is entirely naked in front of you.

Oh, he feels so exposed. While he has been the recipient of a mediocre hand job before, it’s been in his trousers. This is kind of the first time someone sees him naked like that, because school locker rooms and his mother don’t count.

He doesn’t dare look at you. If there’s anything akin to disappointment, not to mention disgust on your face- Spencer probably would have to jump out the window, stat. His gaze is frozen on his cock, steadily leaking precum on his stomach (which, embarrassing). He’s abashedly trying to insert himself into your point of view, tries to imagine what you think about seeing him like this. What you might think about his dick, if it’s too short or too thin or if it looks weird, if he should’ve shaved. If his legs look strange and too gangly now, or if his stomach connects to his pubic area wrong or-

“Holy shit”, you say, and Spencer is too curious for his own damn good sometimes, because he can’t force his gaze to stay away from you.

You look at him- like before. Reverent but more, so much more. He almost feels like a deity, the way you look at him. Someone to be awed by, someone that should be worshipped. Spencer feels his already in overdrive heartbeat quicken even more, blood flushing his cheeks so much it leaks down his throat, to his chest.

Spencer would literally kill to have you look at him like this for the rest of his life.

“Holy shit, Spencer”, you repeat, eyes now meeting his, “You’re like- a literal fucking dream. I cannot believe- you’re so beautiful, how are you so beautiful everywhere?”

Spencer whimpers and he needs you to touch him kiss him fuck him anything please now or he will absolutely die from heart palpitations.

Some of his despairing thoughts must’ve come through to you, because the next thing you do is moan, which is the best thing he’s ever heard. Then, you take off your sweater. Second to go is your cropped tank top and you aren’t wearing a bra and good heavens.

Pictures could never compare. Not even Botticelli could’ve adequately committed you to canvas.

Spencer must’ve taken some brain damage from seeing you half naked. He doesn’t remember you taking off the remainder of your clothes, nor does he remember you straddling him again. But, fuck.

Spencer kind of doesn’t use the f-word that often but-

fuckfuckfuckufuckfkcufuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckcufkc-

You’re warm against him, and wet, so freaking wet, and it feels so mind-blowingly good- it’s a miracle he’s still holding on. But-

“Won’t last long”, he gets out, breathy and whiny and just so goddamn fuzzy from pleasure. The world could literally perish right now, and he wouldn’t care. He can’t care, because this is the best thing that ever happened to him and he won’t ever care about anything else ever again other than feeling you, you you you you, against him.

“Spencer, Spencer”, you breathe, gasp, and fuck, the way you keep using his name. “Are you okay? Do you still want this?”

It’s ridiculous you even ask. But the warmth in his chest, the feeling of comfort and safety and ease – because everything with you is so easy, so natural - he feels with the way you look after him-

He feels your thumbs caressing his wet cheeks. You put small, sweet kisses all over his face. Take the time to brush away some of his sweat-sticky hair from his forehead. Place kisses there too. You end with a drawn out, gentle kiss to his lips.

“What do you say, sweetheart?”

There’s really only one way for him to answer that. He trusts you. Plain and simple. There’s no one else he could ever do this with.

“Yes, I want. Please.”

You kiss him again. “So good Spencer, you’re so fucking good to me. I can’t believe you are trusting me with this. You are incredible, angel.”

Spencer doesn’t know how it’s anatomically possible, but he blushes even harder. Also, feels his cock twitch against you because he apparently likes to be called good almost as much as he likes being good. For you. Only you. Jesus Christ.

“Do you have a condom?”, you ask and ah. Well.

“Suitcase”, and wow. First word with more than one syllable since you straddled him the first time. He’s being so brave right now. He deserves a medal. Proof of Being Able to Speak Polysyllabic Words While Getting Fucked (Almost).

There’s humour glistening in your eyes, when you hide a fake gasp behind your hand and say, “Oh my god, Spencer you dog. Can’t believe you planned this entire thing.”

Spencer almost chokes on his own spit. “N-no! I just- uh, like being prepared.”

You grind down a snort, drive your teeth into your lower lip. “In case you accidentally saw your coworker’s nudes and them being down to fuck you about it?"

Oh my god, you’re the most ridiculous person he’s ever met. He can’t stop himself from grinning because seeing you trying to keep your laughter at bay-

“Yes. That.”

“But what if- what if it was Rossi instead of you seeing them? How would’ve your plan worked out then, huh?”, you wheeze, shaking from literal suppressed laughter and Spencer makes a sound like a dying horse.

“Rossi? Rossi?”

“Oh my god, imagine it would’ve been Hotch. He would’ve probably fired me so hard and then called me a week later to disappointed-dad-talk me to come back but to please, refrain from bringing personal files to work in the future.”

Spencer laughs. He’s still rock-hard underneath you, but he’s laughing because that’s what you always do. Being so absurd and silly that he’s shocked to laughter.

He adores you with every fibre of his being.

“What the fuck?”, you ask, incredulous but laughing yourself, “Is my misery amusing to you?”

And Spencer feels like being a little bit of a brat. “Very.”

You flick his nose. Grumble something like I’ll show you misery and then you move your hips against his and Spencer sees stars. Let’s out an embarrassingly high whine.

Ah well. It was still worth it.

“Don’t move”, you order, when you climb down from him to retrieve a condom. Spencer watches you, lets himself look at you. All the times he’s wondered how it would be, how it would feel like, being in this kind of situation with you. He’s never in a million years thought it would feel so familiar. Like you’ve done this before, so many times that it’s just become something normal between you two. He’s actually relaxed. So turned on it feels like he’s going to burst any second, but he’s calm. He feels comfortable, so much so that it doesn’t even matter that it’s the first time he’s doing this and he’s so clueless about all of this.

But he knows, if it’s with you, he never ever has to worry about anything.

“Do you have lube as well?”, you ask, rifling through his suitcase and distracting him from his sappy thoughts.

“Hmm. No, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, angel”, you say while returning to Spencer, and the nickname kind of switches something off again in his brain. Perfect. He’s never going to be able to be normal again about that word.

“We’ll have to get some, for next time. Always feels better with it.”

Spencer hasn’t really registered more than next time next time next time-

He’s pulled out of his daze of knowing your intentions of this not only being a one-off thing, when you straddle him again, a bit lower on his legs. Spencer moans, loud and high, when you grab him by the base and god, fuck, his skin is tingling with anticipation.

With your other hand, you grab the condom and then use your teeth to open the packet, and his cock jumps in your hand. How are you so hot. How does everything you do turn him on so much, what.

He watches you take out the plastic ring as if he’s watching from above, out of his body. He watches as you position the condom over his tip and then pull it down, down and Spencer’s brain must be lagging because he feels everything with at least a two second delay and shit, god, son of a-

“You ready, baby?”

He makes a noise between a sob and a whine. He’s losing his mind. “Please please please-“

“Fuck, Spencer”, you whine, lift yourself up a bit with your legs and then you are sinking down on him, inch by agonizing inch.

It’s so good, it’s so good, you are so warm, so hot, and Spencer can’t stop making noises until your hips are flush to his and he’s inside you.

You let out a loud, drawn-out moan above him. “Fuck, fuck, Spencer. You feel so fucking good, holy shit.”

He feels like he’s one move away from coming. God, oh god, it feels so incredible.

“Can I move? Spencer, please?”, your voice is wrecked, you’re flushed down to your navel, and you’re the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Please please please please”, it’s the only word he remembers how to pronounce.

“Fuck”, you almost sob, lifting yourself almost completely off him. You lower yourself back down again, one swift move, and you both moan.

You pick up the pace a little, fucking him with still languid but purposeful thrusts. Every time his cock sinks back into you, Spencer feels bits and pieces of his sanity crumbling away. He can’t think, can’t speak, his mind so fogged up and fuzzy he’s having troubles remembering who he is. He’s so completely at your mercy he’d let you do anything to him.

That turns him on a worryingly huge amount. List, something about a list somewhere.

“Oh, god, look at you. Spencer, baby, angel. You feel so good inside of me, so good.”

He keens, grabs at your strong thighs bracketing his slim hips. Arches up into you, closerclosercloser-

“You like being good for me, right angel?”, you ask, hips slowing down to a gentle grinding that absolutely drives Spencer insane and he’s too far gone to even nod, “It suits you. Being so wrecked for me, moaning and shaking. God, fuck, you’re divine, Spencer, fuck.”

The pressure behind his cock, low in his stomach, that’s been building all evening, all week, holy shit, it’s too much. Spencer feels delirious, feels your hotness around him, feels your hands pressing his chest down into the bed. He’s going to die it feels so good.

“You going to come for me, Spencer? You gonna be good for me and come inside of me?”

Please please please please- it’s all he can think, all he can feel, because because-

You give a particularly hard thrust and-

Spencer’s coming, moaning and moaning, shaking everywhere. He’s coming and it feels so good, so fucking good. He’s never come so hard in his life before.

He might have blacked out a little. The next time he’s aware of something, it’s you cleaning him with a wet washcloth. Slow, and gentle and Jesus.

“What?”, is the first thing he manages to say, and you snicker beside him. You caress his face, hand running through his hair, down his chest. Peck his lips. You’re both still naked.

“Feeling good?”, you ask and what kind of question even is that. You just fucked the soul from his body, and you ask him-

“I almost died”, he says, tagging your name at the end with an incredulous tint to it.

You snort, setting the washcloth on the nightstand behind you. You lie down close to him, cuddling into his side. “That was the plan.”

“Killing me with sex?”

“Yep. That’s for ogling my nudes without my permission, you creep.”

He says your name again, exasperated but so fucking fond it’s a miracle you’ve never noticed his pining before. You shrug, pull a ‘what can you do face’. Spencer rolls his eyes and then, unceremoniously, flops on top of you.

“Uffff”, you press out. “You’re smothering me, penguin.”

Spencer shrugs and copies the expression you just did. You bark out a laugh.

“Ha! Didn’t know post-sex Spencer is such a cheeky little shit. I’ve created a monster.”

He can’t entirely control his face, some parts of a smile slipping into his features. He does manage to poke out his tongue at you though, before he buries his face in your neck.

Some minutes tick by, you both enjoying the other’s presence and warmth and idleness, before something in his brain-

“Wait-“, Spencer splutters, pushing himself away from you so that he can look at you. “Did you- did you even finish?”

He’s kind of horrified. He was so focused on his pleasure- he- how did he forget? He doesn’t remember you coming and oh no, he’s such an asshole, who doesn’t make sure the other person has come as well and-

“Spencer, Spencer”, you shush him, fingers trailing along his back, and he shivers, eyes rolling back.

“I made myself come right after, don’t worry. You were kind of busy in your post-orgasm, pussy-drunk coma.”

Spencer flushes. “But I wanted to…”

You laugh softly. “You can do whatever to me, next time, sweets. This was about you. We’ll go on a date as soon as we’re back home. Fucking Florida is driving me nuts.”

Oh, he suddenly feels shy. A date? You want to go on a date with him?

“Really?”, he asks, and he hates how insecure he sounds.

You send him an unbelieving look. “Uh, what about the last hour makes you think otherwise? Seriously, Spencer, we need to work on your confidence.”

“Okay”, he mutters, a little bit pout-y and you scoff, pulling him down on top of your chest again.

There, with your hands painting patterns on his back and him completely lost in your warmth and familiarity, Spencer thinks that maybe, Florida isn’t that bad.

--

Bonus

“So, then. Made any scientific discoveries last night, pretty boy?”

Spencer chokes on his coffee.

“What?”

“Nothing”, his ‘friend’ says, smirking and leaning against his table, “You just seem to have figured out that little problem that’s been keeping that pretty head of yours all messed up.”

Spencer feels himself flush. Stupid body and stupid involuntary, physiological reactions. Morgan picks up on it, of course.

“Ohhhhh, want to share with the class what those discoveries were?”

Briefly, so very briefly, Spencer thinks of his self-compiled list but- no no no no.

“Shut up, Morgan.”

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

tags: @sebastiansstanswhore @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @wasitforrevenge @wannabewolf @tommorecommendedfics @winterhi09 @theoraekenslover @chaewondrful @okeyhoezayy @busy-buzzing @laurakirsten0502 @redros3y @trashxqueen @kitty-kei @so-long-daisymay @hayleythecannibal @jsnsnsnszjzj @reeidsluv @kayane28 @moonysreid @desperately-seeking-serotonin @munsonslunchbox @tul1p-mimi @anuttellaa @pinkgomie @elizabethmidnight2017 @evrmorets @cyanidebitsg @bangchansdog @pinterestwhore145 @some-one-yiu-dont-kno @emma-e-a

On good days, he's reverent. Who wouldn't be, if they have someone like you in their life? Reverence seems like the bare minimum. But that reverence does not interfere with his daily functions, or impede his sense of judgment. In fact, it's often the opposite—he loves you to the point of betterment, of motivation, doing more stuff just to make himself worthy of your affections.

Tonight, he's sad to say, is one of his bad days.

Tonight, he is so overcome with his devotion he's practically dripping in it. Convinced that every pore of his body is leaking with I love my girlfriend pheromones and that the whole bar can smell it.

Tonight, he can't move for every clumsy action seems offensive to you and your presence.

And, despite consuming zero alcohol, he still feels so utterly inebriated. Swaying on his seat, dizzy with want, eyes trained on you and you alone. Hazy neon and blinking flashes do nothing to dim your appearance, only serving to highlight your beauty, the way you spin and shimmy on the dance floor without a care in the world.

He had declined your multiple invites to dance. On another night, perhaps he'd muster up the courage to join you, but he doesn't trust his own body right now. Not that you'd ever complain about his graceless dance moves, but he's convinced any sense of coordination will disappear the moment you press into him.

Worse, Spencer knows, with a thousand percent certainty, that he would not be able to control any bodily reactions if you start dancing the way he knows you like—swinging your hips flush against his. Sensual. Torturous.

He'd rather not be arrested for public indecency tonight. Or ever, actually. Imbecilic as he is right now, he's got enough presence of mind to at least avoid that.

So he contents himself with watching. You are angelic in this light, transforming even the pounding, fast paced music into something he'd enjoy, all because now he associates the song with the memory of your smile, the sheen of sweat on your forehead that glints neon pink when you twist your head just so.

Beside him, Emily yells with a flashing smile. Something teasing, no doubt. He's used to it, being on the receiving end of jokes (playful and told with love, of course), but somehow he's much more relaxed when he's with you. Anxieties of being too weird, or too smart, or too scrawny, all seem to collapse because the entire time he's dated you, you've never made those things seem like flaws.

So he grants Emily a sheepish smile, and a shake of his head. She laughs and calls him 'Lover boy' and he doesn't bother disputing it. He's proud of it. It feels like a badge of honor, especially after years of thinking he'd never be the kind of man to have this sort of love in his life.

In fact, he'd wear a physical badge of it, if such a thing existed—Penelope probably would make one if prompted—simply because it's true.

And then Emily says 'Uh oh' and her face shifts enough to make his spine stiffen. Spencer follows her gaze and frowns.

He's always known you're beautiful. Had always admired how you bore it—proudly, never shrinking from the attention, always taking up the space like you owned it. He knows you're beautiful, knows that other people are aware of it too. Rightfully so.

But sometimes, they make it too obvious.

The man on the bar would be subtle, if Spencer isn't trained to watch out for signs like this. Body language, profiling training paired with his heightened senses in everything about you, all lead him to the same conclusion: you're being hit on.

And you, sweet perfect angel you, are doing everything in your power to reject the man.The stern line of your mouth, the arms crossed over your chest, body angled from this stranger.

Spencer doesn't like imposing himself in your space. Doesn't consider himself to be someone possessive, or a savior. He believes you to be strong enough to handle this without his intervention.

But the man lingers. Reaches, drags his unworthy fingers down the length of your arm, and finally Spencer moves, his brows furrowed.

He's shouldering his way through the crowd when you smack the man's hand away. Even through the pounding music, Spencer can hear your voice—snapping and testy—and the man's indignant exclamation of bitch. He pushes through and puts himself between you and the man before anything else escalates.

"Is there a problem?" he snaps, glaring at the stranger, "You want to explain why you're calling my girlfriend a bitch?"

The man sputters.

Behind him, Spencer feels you press closer, chin resting on his shoulder. He can feel your smugness emanating in waves.

"I told you, I wasn't interested. Now look, you've pissed off my honey."

Your breath tickles his neck. Spencer has to suppress a shudder, but manages to maintain his intimidating stance. He finds it surprisingly easy, channeling everything he's learned from his coworkers and his job to ward away this stranger.

The man holds up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right, jeez. Thought you were just lying about the boyfriend."

"Uh, no. And even if I didn't have a boyfriend, I still wouldn't be interested."

"Oh please, you're not even—"

"Watch your mouth." Spencer doesn't think he's ever sounded so angry as right now. He's faced impudence of many kind, and only a select few had ever been at the receiving end of this. But he finds himself ready to pull whatever stops for you. "Unless you want a problem."

"Whatever, man, I was just talking to her." with a scoff, the man finally turns and stomps off.

The tension in the air turns lax, but Spencer keeps an eye on the man until he's swallowed by the crowd. He feels your laugh before he hears it, feels the hitch in your breath, the shuddering shoulders against his side that tells him it's one of those laughing fits that overtake your entire body.

He glances down and instantly brightens at your giddy expression, free hand cupping your cheek.

"Hey."

"Hi, handsome."

All the anger he's felt eases from him from those words, simple and sweetly uttered. Just for him. Only ever for him. At once, he feels the effects of alcohol despite avoiding it—lightheaded and trippy and effervescent—all from the sight of your smile.

He presses his forehead to yours. "You okay? He didn't try anything else, did he?"

"I'm perfect. You came just in time."

"I hate that I had to," a muscle ticks in his jaw, "he shouldn't have pushed after you said no."

"Well, that's just how a lot of men are."

There's nothing he can say to that. He knows it's true, has seen several versions of the aftermath of an offended man. Spencer moves behind you and wraps his arms as if that act alone could protect you from any more harm.

At least it signals one thing: you're taken; everyone else back off.

He feels you sink into his chest, soft and content, hair tickling his chin.

"That was really hot, by the way."

He chuckles. "What was?"

"You getting all pissed off and protective. Didn't think you had it in you."

"Excuse you, I'm in the FBI! I've interrogated worse people."

"Really? I couldn't tell. You don't ever act like that around me."

"It's important to keep a work life separate from my personal life, you know that. I already study cases at home, I shouldn't bring that energy when I'm around you as it–"

Your giggle tells him he's being baited into a reaction, and he sags against your back. "You're mean."

"Me? I just said you were hot, how is that mean?"

"You know how."

"Explain it to me, genius."

He huffs. "I hate you."

You twist to face him, gasping dramatically. "You what?"

"Nothing."

"Not nothing, you said you hated me. Apologize!"

Spencer answers with a kiss to the tip of your nose and an acquiesce. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

"Hmm, not convincing. I need compliments."

"You possess an incredible ability to still look fresh after being in a dance floor surrounded by forty other people."

You giggle and tilt your head up for another kiss, which he eagerly grants. Sticky, artificial sweetness clings to your lips, a mix of your lip gloss and whatever drink you have been nursing. Your next words are uttered into the kiss, muffled and teasing. "How'd you even come to that number, you nerd?"

"Capacity estimation based on the width and length of the dance floor." he answers without a beat, grinning when he earns one of your full-bodied laughs. "Am I forgiven?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, good. You look like an angel." he adds. Not for good measure; just because he wants to. Because he can. Because it's true.

"I've already forgiven you."

"I know. I just thought I'd say it anyway." he watches, somewhat smugly, as you fluster, chin tipping down and fighting a smile.

He won't ever get enough of this—the weight of you, the way his angular body feel less disjointed when it's doing its job to hold up yours. Not completing him—neither of you believe in the idea of another person completing someone else. But being with you somehow augments his existence. Adds to who he is, what he can do.

He cups your face again, tips your chin up and captures your lips in a kiss. Slow and deep and completely inappropriate for the setting, judging by the pointed coughing from the bartender.

There's matching sheepish looks on your faces when you pull back.

The bartender looks unamused.

Spencer tucks his face in the crook of your neck, partly in shame, but mostly so he can keep peppering your skin with kisses. The longer he spends time with you, the more his earlier hypothesis is proven: his body is traitorous in its reactions. Already, his pants are beginning to feel strained and all he's done is share a few kisses.

Still, he can't stop. Finds any excuse to keep touching his lips to the sweat-slick softness of your neck, your shoulder. Something earthy and herbal hits his nose, the notes of your perfume melting into your skin, fusing with your natural musk. Chemical reactions have never been sexier.

He bares his teeth, nips at your ear. Your shiver reverberates right through his chest, straight to his heart, and all he can think is good, good, more.

"Excuse me, can you put this on David Rossi's tab?"

Spencer blinks, pulling back enough to stare at you, confused. There's a knowing smirk on your face, and he feels dizzy, undone by just the mischievous curl of lip. You aren't even addressing him; the words had been said to the bartender.

His heart stutters in anticipation. That smile is a promise; he will be remade before the night is over.

The bartender punches several buttons on the register, before lifting his thumb in affirmation. Successful.

You slip off the stool, lacing a hand through one of his. "Come on, baby, let's get out of here before the entire bar notices your raging boner."

Spencer sputters, but doesn't deny nor protest. It's all true.

It knocks air from his chest, this casual familiarity. How you've memorized his tells enough to make a decision for both him. How well you just know him. Your acceptance—encouragement, even—of his oddities. Sometimes questioning them but not to judge. Only to understand, to learn parts of himself that he thought had been hidden, but were really simmering right past the surface. No one has just bothered to dig before. Until you.

It should make him shrink back. Should make him feel like a topic of study, like one of the profiles he pores over, academic and impersonal.

Instead, Spencer welcomes it. It's scary, being seen in this light, but your gaze is always so full of adulation, and so the intimacy never feels violent or intrusive. Only sacred.

He follows you with single-minded focus, his vision myopic, singular, honed on the sway of your hips, the way your hair flutters when the late night breeze hits it after the two of you spill out the exit.

He moves to the sidewalk, intending to call a cab, but is stopped by a tug and a laugh.

"Spence, honey, you drove us here, remember?"

Oh. Right.

He chuckles, stumbling with you to the direction of the parking lot. His arm wraps over your shoulder, and your form melds into his side. Head tucked against him, strides in perfect sync, magnets snapping in place.

His car comes into view, but his attempts to unlock it is impeded by your mouth. Soft, lazy kisses along his neck, and already his hands are trembling.

"Angel," he croaks, gone, and you laugh, taking pity on him. Back off enough to let him open the passenger's side, slide in. Spencer rounds the vehicle and climbs to the driver's seat, and you're on him the moment the door slams shut.

Leaning over the console, your mouth finds his. Spencer returns it like he's been expecting it. Instantly, the kiss is messy. Full of greed and desperation, the tension from the bar culminating right here. In his vintage car, at a public parking lot.

Well, at least it's in semi-privacy.

At least there's no one around.

He's a little too far gone to make rational judgments. All he knows is you, you, you.

He kisses you with a low, throaty moan, hands everywhere, mapping out the familiar contours of your body, so warm and pliant under his ravenous palms. He squeezes handfuls of you through your clothes, one hand on your ass, the other on your thigh, guiding you from the passenger's side and straight on his lap.

You straddle him with ease, the action almost reflexive after how many times you've done it. Both your legs planted by his thighs, never breaking the kiss as you sit balanced on the tops of his knees like you belong there—and you do.

He'd be whatever you want of him, be the throne, altar, and object of your affection. All three things have converged in his mind anyway; entire linguistic and symbolic fields fracturing at the power of your hands and heady kisses. Meanings warp because he says so, because he's convinced that preexisting ideas are not nearly sufficient enough to describe you and the way he feels for you.

You moan into his mouth, and he responds with a needy thrust upwards. Your hips are too far for any proper friction, so he holds the span of your waist in both hands and hauls you closer until you're positioned over his crotch.

"Oh, you're a little aggressive tonight," you giggle, fingers threaded through his hair.

A soft whine of protest fills the car when you pull away from the kiss.

Another giggle. "Ah, there's the Spencer I know."

He laughs too, barely more than a choked breath misting over your chest. "S-sorry. If it's making you uncomfortable–"

"Oh, baby, it's doing the exact opposite." You grind down on his straining erection lazily. He fights back another whimper; he knows you can tell. In the darkness of his car, your teeth gleam, bared in a smile that's bordering on feral. "I told you earlier, it's hot. Not really aggressive, just more… assertive."

"It-it's hot?"

"Uh huh. I like when you get all confident." You lean in for another kiss, slow and deep like you have all the time in the world. Like the threat of getting caught isn't looming over both of your shoulders.

He feels your hands on his belt, hears the metals clanging softly as you unbuckle the leather.

"Y-you kind of help," he admits. His fingers flex anxiously into your skin, and he hopes he doesn't accidentally give you bruises, "it's easier to… just be… like I never have to second guess myself when I'm with you. I get to just… exist."

He feels your hands pause. For a brief moment, he wonders if he said something wrong, but your eyes are glimmering when they meet his, little sparkling bits clinging to your lashes.

Tears, Spencer realizes. You're crying. Or about to, at least.

"Angel." he breathes, cupping your face with both of his large hands and kissing away those tears before they have the chance to spill.

"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

Despite his attempts to prevent your crying, your voice still gets choked up in sobs. He kisses you through those too.

"It's true. It's true, you just… You make me lose my mind sometimes, but in a good way. I can get so in my head, but with you, I just am." He whispers with a breathless chuckle, holding you flush to him, as if eradicating distance will help his words sink bone deep.

"Don't lose your mind too much, though," you sniffle, and nuzzle into the side of his neck sweetly, "You also need to think to be, or whatever it was Descartes said."

He laughs. This time, when your lips meet, it's a slower tangle of tongue and teeth. His hands move from your hips to slip under your skirt, higher until his fingertips skim over soaked lace.

You shudder and rock into his grasp, seeking friction through fabric, and he lets you have it for a few languorous moments. Watches with bright eyes as you find pleasure from the gentle circles of his thumb, catalogues the way your lashes flutter like delicate wings over your cheeks.

When he feels like you've had enough teasing, he slides two fingers under your panties, slipping one past your entrance.

The familiar flutter around his digits is a welcome feeling—your body gently accepting him. Human anatomy never ceases to amaze him. The way something so tight and small can open up with a few simple caresses, the right attention. And Spencer intends to shower you with all of his focus right now.

Another finger joins the first, stretching you further, curling up until he finds that familiar spot deep inside you.

Your whole body trembles on his lap, and Spencer can't hold back a moan.

Foreplay is necessary, both of you realized early into your relationship, not just to keep you wet, but also to get these muscles to relax. He'd never fit inside you otherwise, and he'd rather be celibate for the rest of his life than to ever hurt you deliberately.

So he finds a rhythm with his fingers. Watches every reaction with large, honey eyes, committing every hitch of your breath to memory. He's hard under you again. Hell, he's afraid he'd come just from this—the exquisite friction of having you on his lap and taking in your reactions while he gives you pleasure. He wouldn't complain if that's how he comes, actually, would be perfectly content to fall apart just from pleasuring you.

But you've other ideas and he's utterly beholden to you. So when you whisper, "Stop, stop, I don't want to finish yet," Spencer halts every action.

He keeps his fingers buried in your warmth as you lean in for another kiss. Somehow, you still taste sweet after making out with him. He marvels at that, at you. But then you're rocking into his palm again, and he knows that you want—need—more.

"Condom's in my left pocket," he mutters against your lips, laughing when you pat the wrong side, "No, angel, my left."

You giggle, shoulders shaking uncontrollably until you finally pull the packet out. The unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone fills the car, and then finally he feels relief as the length of him is freed from his boxers. He's hard, so red it looks almost painful—and it had been, tenting under layers of clothes though he's not about to complain now.

Spencer's forced to pull his fingers from you in favor of tugging your panties down. It's awkward and messy, with you contorting just to get the panties off, and by the time it's gone, you're both giggling.

"Maybe we shouldn't have done this in a car." he says, nipping at your lower lip.

"Would you have been able to wait until we got home?" you retort. The foil tears open in one clean yank, a testament to your resolve.

"Honestly, I would wait for you forever."

"Okay, Orpheus." your sarcastic tone is blunted by the hint of giddiness, the slight lift at the corners of your lips. You reach down, patting along the side.

"Angel, my seats don't recline." he reminds you.

"Fucking hell," you groan, glaring at him as if it's somehow his fault. He rubs circles into your thighs and waits patiently while you contemplate whether or not to continue. "Whatever. Condom's already open."

He laughs and lets you roll the condom on, groaning when your hands wrap around his girth. He's so large that you can barely fit your palm around it, squeezing slightly at your teasing strokes. Spencer moans, his head already thrown back against the headrest.

You silence him with another kiss, tongue sweeping hungrily into his mouth, and he surrenders. Any amount of his assertiveness you claimed to find hot vanishes. Spencer is always ecstatic to give away control, let you take over.

You part for air, although he's convinced the car is running out of it, that it's getting so thick and heavy with tension that you'd both end up suffocating. Oh well. Not a bad way to go.

He helps you lift up, skirt bunched up to your hips and pinned there by his palms. With a confident grip, you glide the length of his cock over your folds, gathering slickness, and offering a glimpse of what's to come.

After a few teasing passes, it becomes evident that you're both desperate for this, because you finally line him to your entrance and sink down. Gravity does its job, but he keeps you steady with his hands, nails carving crescent moons into your skin.

You're tight. That shouldn't come as a surprise, but he whimpers all the same, brows furrowed in concentration as he fights every instinct to just buck up and take. But no. Not while the broadest part of his cock is barely past that tight ring of muscle.

He feels your walls flutter, then tense, and he's reaching between your legs and thumbing gentle halos over your clit. Your heaving breaths warm his skin, but he feels you beginning to relax again.

"Fuck," you groan, face buried in his neck. "God, this first entry is always so–oh!"

Spencer mirrors your groan as he finally breeches your entrance and he's surrounded by the most heavenly, velvety warmth.

"You okay?" he asks, raining kisses to your temple, your cheek like a shower of starlight. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, this—mhm, fuck." you're already grinding on top of him, chasing your pleasure.

Spencer gasps, expecting a little bit more adjustment time, but he isn't about to complain. Not when you're mewling above him, sweaty and dazed and all his. Already, you're whispering filthy words in his ear, crude and just on the verge of blasphemous.

He moans and nods and shifts. Mutters broken little yeses like he's substituting them for hail Mary's. When your hips start moving up and down in earnest, Spencer swears his vision whites out. He sits back, slack jawed and rapturous, blinking up at your figure. The pace you've set is quick and sloppy, perhaps because you've realized as well that this is being done in a public parking lot.

Distantly, he registers that the windows of his car have fogged up. That the creaking metal is directly caused you bouncing on his lap. That if anyone were to pass by, they would know exactly what's happening inside his vehicle.

For some reason, it's that thought that makes him shudder and hurtle straight to his orgasm. The recklessness of it all, the threat of being caught. It's thrilling. Kinks and fetishes had always seemed so abstract to him, but now, he understands them with frightening clarity.

And then, on top of it all, the fact that he never would have done this with anyone else. Just you, only you, oh god.

"That's it, baby," you pant, grinning at his every whine and whimper. "God, I can feel you throbbing."

He is. And it isn't just his cock. Every single part of him is overcome with tremors, so out of his control that his hips jerk up into you. He breaks your rhythm by mistake, hears a sharp gasp, followed by a moan.

"God, Spence, yes, just like that."

"Yeah?" he repeats it again, head still cloudy from the aftershocks, and eager to get you there as well. "Like this, angel?"

He thrusts up, again and again, eyes and ears perked for any shift in your tone or breathing, afraid to get too rough and hurt you. But you've turned to putty in his hands, body slumped against his chest, face buried in his neck.

Feeling bold, Spencer gets a firm grip on your hips and starts moving you with him. His cock is sensitive, and the tips of his fingers feel electric, but he doesn't stop. Keeps thrusting up into you despite the tears gathering in his lashes from over stimulation.

Your legs are trembling around him as you find the rhythm and move without the help of his hands, teeth sinking into his neck to muffle your desperate moans. He has no such restraint, his head titled back and whining, loud and shameless.

There's a familiar clenching around his length, telling him you're close, almost there, and he doubles his efforts. Feet planted firmly on the floor, he moves with more confidence, taking cues from your trembling body to keep himself in check.

The car's rocking is obscene.

And then you're crying out, shuddering, a rush of slickness coating his cock. Spencer locks his arms around your waist and breathes you in. Lets you ride out the waves in the firm comfort of his embrace.

"My god." he mumbles. Soothing kisses run down your neck, along the curve of your shoulder. "Are you okay?"

You can only nod, legs feeling delicate and immovable. Spencer is content to keep you on his lap while you recover, nosing through the tendrils of hair plastered to your temple. He feels elated, content, and mildly disbelieving.

"Angel," he breathes, sheepish and worn out, "I don't think I can drive."

Your laughter is bright, slurred, and so, so angelic. You are the picture of ruin when you finally emerge from his neck and look up at him. "Maybe I should have let you call us a cab earlier."

He tilts your chin up, grinning and so in love. "Really? I'm glad you didn't."

He watches you laugh again, and he swears that's enough to help him recover feeling back to his lower body. Just the sight of you and the sound of your laughter.

Spencer leans in for another kiss. The last for right now, in this car, but definitely not for the night. In fact, the first of many, forever, if he could help it.

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 the 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.

‘you look beautiful as always,’

“thank you, Scott,” she chuckled, drawing circles on her bare thigh. Scott sat up in his chair, straightening his back, and his fingertips hovered over his keyboard. he gulped a lump down his throat as he began typing. thousands of people flooded in, sending her dozens of compliments and gifts.

she was trying to read out and thank every single one of them which is why he typed out:

‘i love your necklace :), it suits you,’ in a hurry, hoping it would capture her attention.

she was too busy replying to other comments they were all comments about her gorgeous body, breasts clad in a lacy black bra, and her cunt hidden away with matching panties. Scott watched her carefully as she adjusted her position in front of the camera, curling her hair around her finger and smiling brightly at the camera.

“oh my necklace,” she giggled, reaching up for the necklace hanging between her breasts. it was a simple red pendant and it went exceptionally well with the red tint on her lips and cheeks. “thank you, Scott, you’re such a sweetheart,” she cooed.

he’s been addicted to her…addicted to you. he was lonely, pathetically so. he’s been so busy with work and unbelievably pent up. starting a new job is never easy, everyone loves fresh meat, and they love chewing fresh meat to the bone.

coming home from a stressful day at work, his muscles were taut, and he was frustrated with his coworkers, with his boss, and with the stupid speeders on the highway who could read him like a book — taking off as soon as they find out, he’s just a naive rookie.

he’s jealous of his coworkers who are married or engaged; they have a partner to return home to. a partner who can rub their sore shoulders and kiss their lips to welcome them home. what welcomes him home is an eery silence and the creaking of his ceiling fan.

but he wasn’t lonely anymore. he found you. after a long day at work, he needed some way to relax, some way to get rid of all this pent-up frustration and anger. what’s better than a quick cum? or so he thought.

whilst scrolling through a random porn site, he found himself even more frustrated trying to find the right video to watch. everything looked so fake; the pleasure, the passion, the moans, the bodies … it was all just so fake.

and before he could give up, he found you.

this specific website was advertising the website they created specifically for cam girls, or women who go live, pleasing themselves, pleasing the men watching them with solely their voice, or just sitting there looking pretty for the camera.

you captured his attention instantly. every night you went live, you’d have on a pretty set of lingerie and then sit on the edge of your bed. you never showed your face, only your lips and you’d tease your audience, playing with the hem of your panties tauntingly, toying with the straps of your bra — always so nervous to touch yourself on camera, and that only added to the experience.

he was one of the few viewers who sent kind gifts and messages that warmed your heart. he enjoyed seeing your face light up when his message would be read aloud to you and the way you’d read out his username with a small laugh.

he was slowly starting to become your favorite viewer. it’s like he saw you as a person rather than just entertainment for his hard dick. though, you were pretty sure he was just another creep wanting praise and compliments from you.

he was probably a balding old man with a wife and kids like most of the men in your chatroom. but is it still wrong that you look forward to his small compliments and cute smiley faces? streaming was easy money. actually. men are easy. they don’t need to see a nude body and a pretty face to get off, just a woman’s existence could get them off.

which is why it was so easy to make money dressing prettily and playing with yourself for the camera.

Scott was one of your biggest donors, and there have been times when he’s been the only one in the chat sending you messages. he’d ask you about your day or compliment your new set of lingerie and how the color looked good on your skin.

he once took notice of the jazz in the background. even though he isn’t much of a jazz fan himself, he still acted like it solely for your attention. now, every time he hears jazz, it reminds him of you. the image of your plump lips and curvy body flashes into his mind and he finds himself thinking, ‘i can’t wait to get home.’

it’s pathetic, really. he’s found a comforting company in a random woman who was probably miles or even states away. he’s tried going on dates with other women, trying to cure his loneliness but something inside of him can’t deny that there was something between you and him — an unspoken relationship. he was your delusional fan and you were his idol.

he hasn’t missed a single one of your streams. most viewers would get bored of you and stop tuning in, but not him. he was the sweetest, always saying hello, always wishing you goodnight, and thanking you for the entertainment you provided. you would be lying if his messages didn’t make you blush a little.

so after a few weeks or so, you sent him a private message.

‘hi Scott, you’ve been tuning in for a while, and i wanted to thank you. if it doesn’t bother you, why don’t we call? just you and me, one on one. XOXO’

it shocked him when you messaged him privately. asking if he’d like to meet you on a private call, just you and him, no one else. he almost dropped his phone upon receiving the message. he knew it couldn’t be real, that this was some scam and someone was using your name to out him.

but here you are. your hair was tied up, showing off your neck and shoulders. you wore a set of white lingerie. lace trimming and sheer fabric. he could see that you were nervous, too, idly playing with the bow on your panties or your earlobe. a cute habit that you had.

“hi,” you smiled at him, straightening your posture. he did the same, sitting up straight with his sweaty palms rubbing at his joggers.

“hi,” he smiled back.

“i just want to say thank you, i mean for supporting me,” you shrugged, nervously playing with the small bow on your white panties.

“of course! i mean, it’s the least i can do,” fuck. he was so hard it was starting to hurt. his abdomen was burning, and he felt lightheaded, all his blood was rushing to his jumping cock. you were a stranger but in his own twisted fantasy, you knew each other on a much deeper level.

that you were his partner waiting at home. welcoming him home with sweet words and kisses, massaging his shoulders while praising him for how hard he worked today.

“i’m glad that i finally get to talk to you…one-on-one,” you smiled prettily, placing your hands on your knees and leaning forward. this new position gave him a view of your plump breasts. his eyes shot from your lips to your buxom and then back up to your lips.

“yeah,” he replied with a shaky breath.

“Scott, right?” you asked, tilting your head to the side.

“no, no, that’s an alias,” he admitted with a breathy chuckle.

“oh okay,” you hummed, “if you don’t mind me asking, what’s your real name?”

he gulped down a lump in his throat, bouncing his leg nervously, “it’s Leon,”

you leaned back, “Leon,” you said in almost a whisper as if you were letting the name sink into your memory. Leon was the name of the faceless man who’s been making your heart skip a beat. it’s silly really, receiving gifts and kind words from a man you didn’t even know would make you so excited to stream.

“what do you look like, Leon?” Leon had his camera off, too nervous to turn it on. what if you aren’t attracted to him? what if he isn’t your type?

“what do you think i look like?” he answered your question with a question. his nerves somewhat subsided, who knew you were so easy to talk to? and who knew you were so curious about him? here he thought it was a simple thank you call, but you care to know what his name is and what he looks like.

he would be lying if that didn’t excite him a little.

you brought your finger up to your chin, thinking to yourself for a moment.

“brown hair, green eyes or brown eyes, and a handsome smile,”

he chuckled deeply, “so close yet so far,”

“damn,” you said with a click of your tongue.

“why is that your type? brown hair, green eyes, and a handsome smile,”

you shrugged, leaning back a little from the camera and crossing your legs over one another, “i don’t particularly have a type but i do like handsome smiles, but let me guess again, are you a balding forty-year-old man with a big mean wife and spoiled teenage kids?” you rambled out.

“ha! god no!” he exclaimed, a low laugh reverberating from low in his chest. funny too?

“then why don’t you show me?”

his heart stopped. his blood ran cold, and his breath hitched. “what?”

“why don’t you show me what you look like?”

you must’ve noticed his silence and hesitation because you followed up your question with,

“if you show your face, i will too. i’ll show you everything, Leon. so please, let me see your face, i want to see you,” you were practically begging, a small whine in your voice only amplifying your desperate need.

he sucked in a shaky breath, carding his fingers through his blonde hair a few times before nodding his head, “okay, but don’t be too disappointed,”

he reached forward, moving his mouse toward the small camera icon. then with a simple click, his face was revealed. the camera took a second to adjust to the lighting in his room before finally focusing on his face.

your lips dropped agape as his face popped up onto your screen. you were very wrong. he wasn’t a lonely old man with brown hair and green eyes. he was a young blond man with gorgeous blue eyes, plump lips, and the cutest chin she’d ever seen.

he looks like he was straight out of a movie, one of those teenage romcoms. he had a certain boy charm to him. his shoulders were wide, and you could see the outline of his muscles through the simple grey t-shirt he had on. he was nervously playing with the strings of his joggers and he was hiding his face. cute.

“you aren’t saying anything,” he laughed nervously.

“Leon,” you finally have a face to the name. you reached up for your camera, adjusting it upwards so it showed your face and not just your lips. Leon watched curiously as you sat back down on your bed and fuck he wasn’t disappointed.

the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. doe eyes staring back at him, long lashes fluttering, and a light blush on your cheeks. your cheeks rounded as your lips lifted into a smile. you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, “now look who’s quiet,”

it makes sense that your beautiful voice matched your face. he was so special. being the first one, out of so many men who watched you, to see your face and to hear your voice say his name. you chose him.

“i’m sorry, you’re just breathtaking,” he replied, still leering at you but not in a creepy way. rather, in a way where he was taking every feature of your face into intricate detail.

“i could say the same for you, Leon. if i’m being honest, i thought you were another sweet-talking forty-year-old man,”

he laughed at your comment, “is that so?”

you nodded your head, tilting your head to the side again, “at least i was right about one thing,”

“and what was that?” he hummed curiously.

“you have a handsome smile,”

fuck, he needed you so bad. your chemistry was undeniable, and the tension in the air was thick. he wanted to kiss you so badly, suck off the pink gloss on your lips until they bruised. he wanted to taste the sweetness of your skin, run his fingers over your curves, and sink his fingers into the plump skin of your thighs. he wanted to touch you and whisper sweet nothings into your ear.

your eyes followed his every movement like a curious cat. “tell me what you want, Leon,” your tone of voice switched, thick and lustrous. he adjusted his hips, licking over the dry skin of his lips.

“you,” he admitted.

“what of me?”

“everything,” he said in a breathless plea, “i need to see you, to hear you, to touch you,”

you nodded, reaching up for the strap of your bra, and slowly, you dragged it down your shoulder and then proceeded to do the same with the other. Leon palmed at his throbbing cock through his joggers, watching your movements with blown-out pupils.

“what do you want to do to me, Leon?” each time his name slipped past your lips, it was like a rush of serotonin through his veins. a warmth that numbs every one of his senses and blurs the world around him, right now it’s just you and him.

“i want to kiss you,” he heaved, “i want to kiss you slowly,”

“mhmm,” you hummed, reaching for the hook of your bra at the front.

“oh fuck,” he moaned to himself, watching as your bra dropped into your lap. the prettiest breasts he’s ever seen, nipples pebbled by the cold air, and smooth skin glistening in the light from your lamp. you reached up, taking one into the palm of your hand, and gave it a small squeeze.

“tell me more,” heat rushed through you, and directly to your swollen clit, you clenched your thighs together wanting some relief. his voice was like music to your ears, slowly putting you into a trance. you could feel each small groan he let out, it vibrated in your chest and shook your core. you closed your eyes as you imagined his weight on top of her, and he was whispering into your ears.

“i’d undress you slowly, kissing the new areas of skin revealed to me,” he reached into his boxers, gripping the base of his cock with a small grunt. he gripped the arm of his chair, watching as you leaned away, throwing your head back as you continued to fondle your breasts and pinch at your nipples.

“i’d make my way down your navel and take off your pretty panties slowly,”

“mhmm,” he was such a pretty talker. he was the type of man to make a woman swoon. he knew what to say and what to do. he’s a dangerous and charming man, and you’re a liar because you have a type: dangerous and charming men.

he began to slowly stroke the length of his cock, the heartbeat in his chest matching the pulsating of his dick. he watched intently as your fingers moved down your navel, you was matching the actions in his words. your eyes were still shut as you imagined it all playing out in your head and god you could feel it. you could feel him.

“but i won’t touch you,” his words vibrated deep in his chest, and a weak breath left his mouth as he pressed his thumb into the tip of his cock. “i’d watch you just like i am now,”

if you were with him now, he would take his time with you. slowly and gently destroy you. he’d revel in the way you’d fall apart piece by piece as he brought you higher and higher. then he’d piece you back together. kissing your sweaty cheeks and coaxing you with gentle words.

“please,” he could hear you whisper out.

“touch yourself for me, i want you to feel good,” you looked back at him with a drunken gaze, your cheeks were hot, and your chest was heaving up and down. he watched as you spread your legs for him, propping up your heels at the edge of your bed.

he could see the wet stain in the gusset of your white panties, fuck you were dripping and just over a few words. there was a slight tremble in your legs as your fingers inched closer and closer to your throbbing clit. it was hot, it was so hot.

your entire body ached. you needed something more. you needed him.

you needed to feel the stretch of his cock, the weight of his hips pounding into you, and his tip slamming into your cervix. you needed his lips on yours; you needed to taste him, the salty sweat that dripped from his hairline and the sweetness of his tongue.

you rubbed at your pantie-clad clit, electricity ran through you, and a small moan elicited from your mouth. “Leon,” you whined, begging him to continue talking.

“look how wet you are,” he chuckled, bemused. he freed his cock from his boxers, stroking it slowly to your rhythm. your eyes flickered from his face and down to his lap, and the ache in your core only grew more. he was big, thick with veins running up to his pretty pink tip. he was curved upwards and his balls were taut.

you could just imagine what he’d feel like inside of you.

“fuck,” you clenched around nothing, rutting your hips up into your fingers. you’ve never been so turned on in your life.

“fuck yourself, baby, let me see you,” he groaned out, squeezing the base of his cock even harder. you were quick to abide by his wishes, watching his visage closely as you pulled your panties to the side, revealing the dripping heat that had been aching for him all this time.

he gulped upon seeing you, running his thumb over the tip of cock; precum was dripping all over his hand. god, he felt pathetic. just upon seeing your pretty pussy, he’s going to cum. he’s so close but he wants to make this last. he wants you to finish first. he wants to hear you, to see you, to watch you.

you dragged your two fingers through your trembling folds, biting down on your lower lip and squeezing your eyes shut. “so pretty, look at you,” he cooed.

the most lewd noises filled your room, the sound of your squelching cunt and your small moans and the wet faps of his cock and his heavy breaths. you slowly dipped your middle finger into your clenching hole and the subtle stretch and drag of your finger against your trembling walls had you reeling. but it wasn’t enough.

“follow my lead, baby,” he heaved out. you peeled open your eyes, looking at him. you watched him closely, matching the strokes of your finger to the strokes of his cock.

“oh my god,” you moaned out, dipping another finger into your cunt. the stretch only burned a little bit, but you knew it wouldn’t compare to the stretch of his girth. your breathing picked up, and you were focused on his voice and the movements of his fist.

he was so pretty. his lips wet with his saliva and red from biting down on them with his teeth. his pale cheeks were dusted over with a pink tint, and the pupils of his blue eyes were blown out. he looked crazed, his hair a sweaty mess, his lips agape, his muscles taut from trying to hold back from coming undone.

how beautiful he’d look in between your legs. that smooth tongue flicking at your clit and plunging into your dripping hole over and over.

“faster baby, fuck yourself faster, make yourself feel good,”

“Leon,” you dragged out, plunging your fingers into your cunt faster and faster. your eyes rolled into the back of your head, and you arched your back into the air, “fuck,” you whined weakly. you clamped your legs shut, overwhelmed by the pleasure that was until you heard a tut of his tongue.

“nuh uh, don’t hide from me, baby,”

“it’s too much,”

“you can do it,” he urged, watching as you slowly spread your legs for him again. there was a sheen layer of sweat on your skin, glistening in the warm orange-red lights. your thighs were trembling, a layer of your sticky essence coating your inner thighs and your plump lips — not the ones on your face.

your hair was coming loose from how you tied it back, how beautiful you looked all disheveled and messy just for him. your other hand gripped at the sheets beneath you, twirling the fabric in your fist — tugging at it helplessly as you continued to moan out his name like a martyr.

each curl of your fingers sent electricity through every nerve of your body, sending it up to your brain until you were ultimately a mess.

“Leon, I-“ you choked on your own words as the apple of your palm came in contact with your clit.

“i know, sweetheart,” he breathed, tightening his grip on his pulsating cock. fuck, he was leaking so much. he knew he was going to cum soon, his balls were so heavy, slapping against his fist with each stroke and he was lightheaded.

he watched as your eyes rolled into the back of your head, your back arched, and your cunt clenched around your fingers. a throaty moan left your lips as you came undone around your fingers. Leon wasn’t too far behind as his name left your lips in a weak whine. his muscles went taut, and a pathetic moan spilled from his swollen lips.

hot ropes of cum erupted from the tip of his cock and onto his joggers and fist. the grip he had on the arm of his chair was tight, but as his high came down, he was finally able to relax back into his seat. you were laid back on your bed; your thighs were still trembling, and your fingers were still between your legs, slowly circling your clit.

there was a small silence between them, a comfortable silence.

“that was…really good,” he sighed, running his palm across his forehead, wiping away the sweat. you chuckled, reaching behind your for your silk robe. an apricot-colored robe that matched the color of your lingerie that was now discarded somewhere in the room.

she pulled the robe over your shoulders, “i enjoyed that,”

you did more than just enjoy that. it was the best fucking orgasm of your life.

“i did, too,” he smiled. you sat back up, adjusting your appearance, tucking strands of hair behind your ear, and wiping the smudged mascara beneath your eyes.

“i meant it when i said you’re beautiful,” he spoke up.

“thank you, Leon,” you said, laughing nervously. you avoided eye contact with him as you rubbed at your thighs; your heart was still pounding in your chest, and that same feeling you were getting earlier was starting to come back.

“i don’t want this to be the last time i see you,” you admitted timidly.

Leon was taken aback by your sudden confession, did you mean like this? through a computer screen. or in real life? even with all these questions, he didn’t deny the buzz that pulsated through him. the raw excitement. it was like he was in high school all over again like his crush had just asked him out on a date.

“me too,” he gulped. you sat up a little bit, unable to hide the smile on your lips.

and it sure wasn’t.

“fuck!” your nails dragged down the skin of his back, and your other fingers were tangled in the strands of his blond hair. one of his hands gripped the headboard while the other had a vice grip on your hip. he was focused on the joining of your hips, how his cock pounded into your pretty cunt over and over again and the way with each thrust a deep moan was punched out of you.

“it’s so good,” you drawled out, leaning your head back into his pillow. he bent down, placing a kiss over your wet eyes. how many rounds have you gone? 2? 3? who knows, all he knows is that he’s caught in this loop. you’d fuck and then lay in each other's arms for a few hours, then fuck again, then relax, then fuck.

the drag of his curved tip was driving you crazy; he was stretching you so perfectly; it was all so overwhelming, yet you still craved more.

“so beautiful,” he bellowed through clenched teeth, “so fucking good,” your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him even closer and forcing him even deeper. both of you sucked in a gasp at this new feeling, his thrusts faltering at the way your cunt fluttered around his pulsating cock.

“fuck, baby,” he chuckled amusingly. he ground his hips into your slowly, nudging his tip against your cervix. each shallow thrust had your fingertips itching and your toes curling; it was so good, and it was even better because you’d been waiting for this.

you’ve been craving this. his weight on top of you, the smell of his cologne, the stretch of his girth, the feeling of his fingertips, the weight of his voice in the shell of your ear, and the taste of his plump lips. he dug one of his arms beneath the arch of your back, holding you close to him as he continued to grind into you.

“oh my fuck!” this new angle elicited another gasp from your swollen pink lips; the drag of his tip only got better, and he felt bigger. you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, burying your face into the crook of his neck where you could muffle your pathetic moans and calls of his name.

“fuck, you’re so tight,” he cursed. his fingertips sunk into your back, and his lips found your shoulder.

“i’m gonna cum,” you cried out. he continued thrusting into you at the same pace, taking his other hand and slipping it between their sweaty bodies. his calloused fingers found your swollen clit and he began rubbing in small circles.

a shuddering breath left your mouth, and your eyes rolled into the back of your head. you arched up further into him, begging him not to stop but also pleading that it was too much. your nails dug into his skin further, causing him to wince. it hurt, but it hurt so good.

when he looked at himself in the mirror, he could see the red lines all down his back and the multiple hickeys and bite marks littering his neck. you were the same; he had marked your body up and a sense of pride filled him as he looked down to see what he’s done.

red and purple bruises between your thighs from him nipping at your skin, hickeys all over your neck and breasts, bruises forming on your hips from the grip he’s had on her. red and purple marks decorated your beautiful skin; there was nothing you could want more than that.

getting lost in dirty sex and pleasure. rough and gentle. fast and slow.

you clenched down around him, burying your face deep into his neck, and with a loud cry of his name, you came undone around him. your release trickling down and staining the inside of your thighs and the front of his.

you locked your ankles around his waist, keeping him sheathed inside of you. “wait, baby-“

“i need it inside, Leon, i want to feel it,”

fuck.

he couldn’t say no. they both discussed safety before meeting each other. you were on the pill, and he had enough condoms, at least, he thought so. it wasn’t long until you ran out. two people lost in a forest of lust, blinded by pleasure and deafened by passion.

one last thrust, and his muscles went taut, his heavy balls clenched, and the hand between their bodies went to grip your thigh. chills ran through you as his hot cum flooded your cunt, you could feel every pulse of his cock and every heavy breath he let go.

just knowing that he finished inside of you enough to have your aching all over again.

he collapsed, wrapping his arms around her, and brought you along with him as he laid down. your eyes were already shut, your brain suddenly aware of the aching pain in your muscles and the pulsating of your skin.

his heart was still pounding and he lay in silence listening to it. he could feel sleep taking over him but he didn’t want to close his eyes. he was afraid that this was all a dream, all a part of his fantasy. he was afraid you’d disappear from his grip and he’d wake up to you two being strangers across a screen again.

he didn’t want that. if anything, he wanted to stay like this, enjoying passionate sex and continuing to build this newfound relationship with you.

you had driven down from your city to meet him for the first time. he took you out to dinner by the shore, and you two walked along the beach, you had on his jacket, and you two just talked and talked for hours. then in a rush of lust, you ended up in his bed.

he didn’t want this to end.

“why don’t you stay in Racoon City for a few weeks?” he whispered out, half asleep.

“huh?” his question sprung you back awake. “Leon, i brought like barely any clothes with me,”

“I have a washing machine, and my closet is all yours,” he smiled, his eyes halfway open and halfway closed, but he was very aware of what he was saying, and he meant every bit. you sat up, propping yourself onto your elbow, and placed a hand on his chest.

“you’re serious, aren’t you?”

“very,” he nodded.

you couldn’t deny the fact that you really wanted to and even though there were so many reasons to say no, Leon sat above all those reasons. he was the sole reason to say yes.

(divider creds to @saradika ,, photos off of pinterest)

a/n: official welcome to my kinktober yayyy!! sorry guys i'm so late i've been vv busy with school lols, but i hope you enjoyed this. i've never done a kinktober before, and even though i'm not posting a fic for all 31 days, i hope these few i will post this month will suffice. anyways bai bai until next time :3 - V!

notes: if you wanna be on my tag list pls message me or fill out the form below (just to make it easier on me :D)

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