⋆. four eyed fairy princess ⋆

Your previous assessment turns out to be wrong—the bullpen is empty.

It isn't that you're expecting fanfare when you arrive, but total solitude feels too pointed. A planned statement without a single word uttered.

Elizabeth Prentiss had it drilled in your head that clothes and grooming are the first things people notice about someone, the first shot at making an impression and controlling people's perceptions. It's a lesson you've taken to heart. Not a single hair out of place, shoes gleaming, makeup minimal. Every single inch of you screams effort and maintenance. You are burnished stone, shiny and always ready to face a crowd.

It's all a little embarrassing to be dressed to the nines, and have no audience.

You glance at your phone. Check the date, the time—all correct. You're here earlier than required, but not enough to enter a room without a single soul to greet you. You resist the urge to frown, though the suspicion keeps ringing in your ear. This isn't worth getting wrinkles over, not yet. One phone call to the Section Chief should clarify this—though you think it's way too early in the day to be dealing with Erin Strauss, and you loathe the thought of seeming incompetent—so you swipe through your contacts for her number.

"Oh my gosh, you're here!" a voice comes from your right, too bright and loud for such an hour. "I mean, they said we're getting a transfer, but you're a little early and–oh, this must be so confusing. Hi, I'm Penelope Garcia."

Thank god. You do not want to call Erin first thing in the morning like some sort of lost child seeking comfort from a parent.

A flurry of colors enter your peripheral, and you pocket your phone as you turn. Penelope Garcia. She's tall, click clacking in her stilettos—a vivid pink that matches her lips, quite a stark contrast to your sleek navy ones—and wearing an outfit that would probably get a memo if she didn't work in a department that tends to bypass the smaller bureaucratic rules.

"Hi, Penelope." you muster up some warmth and smile back at your savior. "I can see why the BAU needed me to transfer this year." you gesture around the empty room.

She laughs, and the expression seems to complete her entire look. Vivacious and bright, like sunshine slanting through windows in the spring.

"Oh, you have jokes. We're gonna get along very well. No, the team flew to Colorado last night on an active case."

"I wasn't informed of that."

"I'm sorry, that was supposed to be my job, but it slipped my mind with everything else happening." she ushers you to the staircase, talking a mile a minute. "You get your own office, of course, as the new liaison. It hasn't been cleaned out since JJ became an official profiler— both Hotch and I have our own offices—we filled in the position for time being, but Hotch wants to be more present for his son, and I really can't do it anymore, not with the other tech analyst stuff. So now you're here! We'll have to get the name on this nameplate replaced, of course, and oh my god I totally haven't let you introduce yourself yet."

Your smile falters slightly, but Penelope is too busy rattling the old doorknob to notice. Introductions. Yes. Normally, you carry your name like an honor, volunteer those facts with pride, but the circumstances here are… complicated.

"Don't tell anyone, but I was trying to open your file, but you're like, super secret for some reason. Usually Agent Strauss tells us who the new agent is, but for you it's all sealed." she adds.

For good reason. The door finally opens, releasing a muted scent of must and old paper. Your nose wrinkles in disgust, but you follow Penelope inside without complaint. It's dark and moody, even after she flicks on the light, filled with boxes of old files, probably archival cases. Jennifer Jareau's nameplate sits on the table, covered with a thin layer of dust, and you get an odd sense of intrusion.

You shouldn't be here. You don't belong here. Emily kept it secret from you for a reason and you should keep it that way.

"So, mystery agent, to what name are we changing the sign outside?"

It's almost cartoonish, the consecutive expressions on her face once you finally say your name. Once she catches that damning word—Prentiss. It's a gradual shift, a slow blink of incomprehension, before the similarity registers, her pretty eyes widening in realization. And then, confusion. It would've been funny if you weren't on the receiving end of it.

Penelope Garcia wears every emotion clear as perfectly polished glass. You file that thought away for later.

"Yes, that Prentiss."

You're prepared for it. Have a script memorized for any questions. It doesn't even offend you when Penelope laughs, disbelieving and shrill.

"She never told us she had a… a sister?"

"Emily does have a habit of keeping secrets, doesn't she?" you say lightly, a feeble attempt at humor even though the words feel like nettles clawing up your throat.

Penelope blanches, deflates, and it's an interesting thing to witness, like watching the sun get blocked by a large cloud in real time and feeling the subsequent shade. She flounders, hands waving vaguely by her side, clearly unsure of what to do, how to handle this information that's been unceremoniously dumped upon her.

"How… why?" She finally manages, a fragile whisper drifting in that dusty room. "Who else knows?"

You blink, considering. The answers to that lies with Emily, but you can make guesses. And Penelope's line of questions isn't outright hostile, which is good. You can work with curiosity. That's easy to win over, though no less dangerous. Penelope isn't all cotton candy and rainbows, of that you're certain.

"She's the only person who can answer that." You shrug, and your smile is only slightly strained. "I think Agent Hotchner knows, but I'm not sure and he's not here to confirm."

Penelope nods, taking it all in with a crease between her perfectly plucked brows. "That's… right, of course. Um, so this is your office and—"

She's cut off by a phone call, the identical tune that's programmed into every federal-issued phone. You both reach into your pockets in unison, but it's Penelope who has to answer.

"Garcia… Yes sir," she smiles apologetically and angles her body away.

For the second time today, you feel like you're intruding. Almost like a kid playing dress up, strategically choosing an outfit that excudes confidence and respectability, only for everything to be too big. You smooth your hands over your blazer to reassure yourself it's not the case. It's tailored to perfection, hugging the curve of your waist and flaring slightly at the hips, snug without being inappropriate.

Still, your stomach turns as Garcia murmurs into her phone. You swivel, focusing your attention to the table, running your fingers over the files stacked on a neat pile and pretend not to hear. Penelope's voice is lowered, but she doesn't leave the room, so you really can't be faulted if you catch snippets—murmurs of she just arrived and I'll send it as soon as I can.

"Duty calls?" you say after she says goodbye, glancing over your shoulder.

Penelope nods. "Yes. Unfortunately. But Hotch says you can shadow me while they're gone. I can brief you on the case, if you want?"

Shadowing someone when you're a fully competent agent with a long list of credentials should feel like an insult, a slight to your skills. Maybe if it came from someone else, it would land that way, but Penelope just sounds genuine and slightly nervous.

So you nod. "Lead the way."

You did not expect to spend your first few days in solitude, nor did you expect to be summoned by the Section Chief not even a week into your transfer, yet here you are.

Erin Strauss' office is almost identical to your mother's. Well lit and perfectly kept, with a shelf of impressive books just behind the expensive reclining chair. Credentials framed and hanging proudly on the walls. Upon her desk lays a nameplate bearing her name and title, a telephone, and a neat stack of folders perfectly aligned. A cursory glance tells you nothing of her life outside the Bureau, no pictures of her family, of friends, none of the colorful trinkets that litter Penelope Garcia's office.

Impersonal. Perfectly contained and professional, just like your mother's.

It makes you feel even more on edge.

Your mother's offices, whether it's stationed at home, or across Europe, or the Middle East, were always a place to keep your guard up. There is no telling what invisible flaw will catch Elizabeth Prentiss' keen eyes, or earn her clipped, mildly disproving tone of voice. The Section Chief's office carries the same atmosphere.

In that regard, you feel like you've been trained all your life to face the likes of Erin Strauss.

Poised in your pantsuit and heels, you face her like she's another journalist asking for a statement. Polite neutrality, lips curled in the lightest hint of a smile.

"How are you finding the BAU, Agent Prentiss?" If the familiarity of the name bears any ill feeling, Erin Strauss doesn't show it.

"Well enough, there's really nothing of note so far."

She tilts her head, waiting for more.

"Ma'am, my transfer occurred while they're all on an active case in Colorado. There's not much else to tell you, unless you want to hear about how I've spent the last three days cleaning out Agent Jareau's old office."

Her lips thin, unamused. "I would have hoped you'd made yourself more useful. Your last unit chief sung praises about your initiative."

"I've helped Penelope Garcia contain the online panic, and looked through Facebook—"

"Facebook?"

"Part of the background check." You smile. "I've been helping the team from behind the scenes as much as I can, which is ironic considering my job is to be their public facing representative."

Her shoulders draw back, almost imperceptibly, but you catch it. You always do. Noticing these things come like breathing to you by now. You do not know the section chief well enough to put a name to this shift, but your instincts, honed by years of people watching, tell you Erin Strauss is an administrative agent first and foremost.

Read: she values agents who will play along, who move within the red tape.

Meaning, that straightening of her posture is her offense materializing, and she thinks your comment, no matter how carefully worded it may be, isn't as innocuous as you'd tried to make it sound.

"But I'm learning a lot of valuable insights from Agent Garcia." you add quickly, hoping the save is satisfactory.

"Such as?"

Such as they don't trust you. At all. At least, the few agents who know of your existence—Hotch, who you've only talked to on the phone, and Garcia, who is kind but acts skittish when there are lulls in the case and she's forced to socialize with you. You can't blame either of them, considering your identity, and the circumstances of your abrupt transfer. Fuck's sake, who assigns a new agent to a team while they are in an entirely different state?

None of this had been your fault. You've been caught by the red tape too—you'd requested this transfer last year, when Emily still worked with the team, but for whatever reason, they delayed and kept you stuck in the California office. Your mother had warned you about that—she had less sway in the west coast—but at the time, all you had wanted was to get as far away from the Prentiss legacy as you can.

But the BAU is too busy to care about specifics. And even if they weren't, you know the wound is still too fresh. Emily coming and going—dying, but surprise! not really— carrying secrets the whole time.

Terrorists. Espionage. You.

No, you definitely don't blame the team for their distrust.

But Section Chief Strauss is looking for an answer, and that feels too personal to divulge.

"Such as the growing degree of these new social media websites in relation to serial killing. Platforms like Facebook and Twitter make it easier to map victimology, track social circles and routines. So many people volunteer the information online, in ways that would take investigators week to uncover decades ago." you reply instead, deliberately keeping the topic about work.

"That can't be all you're learning from this."

You resist the urge to sigh. "Not necessarily, but a victim's social media presence offers access to a lot of things. I'm not learning anything necessarily; I'm helping out. Garcia's workload is only going to increase with all these new websites, after all."

"Interesting." But Erin Strauss sounds the complete opposite of interested. The word slips out absentminded. Unimpressed.

Your ears prick at that sound. The slow drag of syllables, the flat tone. You've heard it one too many times; in your world, it indicates the beginning of criticism. What you could improve, how poorly you're doing. For a fleeting moment, Erin Strauss morphs into your mom and suddenly you're sixteen and sobbing from anxiety.

You blink. Clear your throat. The woman in front of you is not your mother, and you fixate on the graying strands of Strauss' hair, silver melting into blonde, to keep your focus.

She's waiting for something; people in positions like to do this—drop hints, let the silence stew until it grows so unbearable the subordinate slips. Talks without an objective and stumbles into whatever is needed from them. A secret? A confession, maybe?

You can tell Erin Strauss is good at this game. Has the patience and cool authority to circle around it, stare you down for hours, if necessary. Unfortunately for her, your job is quite literally meant for this.

"Very interesting indeed, ma'am." You smile, syrupy and bright.

She gives up. "Has anyone mentioned Agent Prentiss?"

Ah. A name, then, and perhaps a story attached. No matter where you go, Prentiss carries a significance.

Your smile doesn't waver, though your brows furrow innocently, projecting a sense of confusion. You aren't above taking advantage of these social dynamics; Director Strauss clearly relishes in her power, though she would never flex it explicitly.

"Nothing beyond the usual surprise, though I must reiterate they're on an active case, and I haven't met the rest of the BAU yet. Besides, Emily has transferred, I don't understand why she's relevant to my work with this team." You say, blinking like a helpless baby deer.

She makes a sound that's half sigh, half groan. Director Strauss' next words are careful, but impatient, as if she's speaking to a dolt. "She's relevant because this unit has experienced difficulties regarding… personal loyalties."

There it is. It is easy to ignore the borderline patronizing tone that colors her voice when she plays right into your hand and reveals information like this. Personal loyalties? What on earth could that mean? Beyond what happened with Doyle, had Emily done anything else? Had the other members?

"And you're making sure I won't become another one?"

Strauss says nothing, but that's answer enough. So this team is loyal, perhaps to a fault, but Strauss isn't just worried about that—she wants to information. About the team. Perhaps from a fresh set of eyes.

You could almost respect it, if she'd say it outright.

"By all means, ma'am, be blunt and tell me what exactly you're looking for so I can give you better answers the next time you decide to check in." you say.

Erin Strauss looks caught, both by your audacity, and the unexpected call out. Her mouth parts, then clamps shut, a little like a fish, before her gaze sharpens like steel.

"I am not looking for anything."

"My apologies, then. For a moment, I was worried you got the wrong sister. Emily's the one trained in espionage, not me."

You wait for the subsequent chill, for the air to grow cold. Instead, Erin Strauss huffs, frustrated but… amused.

"You're just like you're sister."

You bite back a smile. Better Emily than your mother.

"Most people seem to mean that as a criticism."

For the first time since entering the office, Strauss' mouth twitches into something resembling a smile. "Merely an observation. And maybe a warning—your name inevitably carries assumptions, agent. This team might embrace you for it, but that loyalty usually comes at a cost."

The team does their best to welcome you, considering the circumstances. At their arrival, there's confusion and betrayal stitched into their very being, stiffening their handshakes and freezing their cheeks so their smiles never quite reach their eyes. It's all so awkward you find yourself thinking Strauss is wrong—your family name isn't making them embrace you. It's acting more like a wall, involuntarily erected and keeping you away from certain members of the team.

Alex Blake has it easy. She receives you with open arms, aware of the history but detached enough to evade the awkwardness. She's kind and warm, but is close enough to your mother in age that you're always half expecting some form of criticism to fall from her lips whenever she asks your opinion over something—usually language related, her field of expertise. Nothing ever does; in fact, she seems eager to know your thoughts, engages in your ideas with genuine curiosity. It always takes you by surprise. You are always braced for the ball to drop, ramrod straight and perfectly polished, just in case her eyes wander to your hair, or a smudge in your make up.

David Rossi just seems happy you know they have a new liaison. Told you that job drove poor Garcia to tears, like he's warning you about the horrors you're about to face. Once in a while, a syllable slips and you know Emily's name was at the tip of his tongue. Instead, he shifts and calls you kid like you're 23 and green, instead of someone with years of experience under your belt. Somehow, the word never drips with condescension, and the familiarity with which he says it tells you he probably called your sister the same thing. At some point, you begin to welcome it.

With Derek Morgan, things get a little complicated. He looks at you like he's looking for traces of Emily, but he's not sure if he actually wants to find them. Some days, it seems like the similarities—your manner of speaking, the sharp intellect, the obvious rich kid background—gives him relief. Even brings a fond smile on that handsome face, however reluctant it may be. Other days, he can't look you in the eye, choosing to address the files in front of him instead of you, as if even a glance is risky. Part of you understands; your presence is not only new, it is secrecy personified. Emily's mysterious past made even worse. You don't push. You value workplace dynamics over being fully accepted, and if this is the inch he's willing to give, then you'll be content. For now.

And your predecessor. JJ, trained in communications and appearances, and you can tell she was good at her job because you can't quite get a read on her. She spent an entire year fooling her teammates, so every interaction with her is tainted with layers of this knowledge. You never know if anything she says is genuine. Or perhaps it's your resentment manifesting as distrust. She knew your sister was alive. If her feelings mirror yours—after all, Emily trusted JJ with her "death," but still kept her little sister a secret—she doesn't show any hint of it. Every interaction with JJ is warm, if a little awkward, and you can never tell if it's because she's smoothed over the rough edges, or if they were never there to begin with. Maybe the problem lies only with you.

Spencer Reid doesn't have a social life. At least, that's what you've concluded from the short amount of time you've spent here. He stays in the bullpen almost as late as you do, but somehow manages to avoid you entirely. It's easy to do, considering you spend the evenings holed up in the liaison's office, and he's always bent over paperwork—Rossi's and Morgan's, never his own. According to Penelope, it's a playful arrangement between them, though Spencer never tells you about it. Never tells you anything, really. He doesn't talk to you unless it's directly related to the job, so everything you know about Spencer is from observation. Gangly and smart—the type to make you know it, too, with his constant statistical tangent and information dumps, aka unbearable. Currently, his avoidance means you've never had to be on the receiving end of his rambles, of which you are thankful.

"How were your first three weeks so far?" Aaron Hotchner's office is surprisingly more homey than the Section Chief's had been—pictures of his son on the desk, a couple more family pictures displayed proudly on the shelf behind him. Ironically, it feels more imposing, but that might have more to do with Hotch's presence than the decor.

If you opened the dictionary and looked for the word 'impassive' you're almost certain a picture of Hotch is provided there instead of a linguistic definition. But maybe you just haven't learned to read him yet. That'll come with time. So far, he's made no mention of Emily, but talked about your mother, which is so much more embarrassing. It seems like you're stuck chasing away the shadows of two impressive women before you, and doomed to fail no matter what you do.

"It's been going well, sir. I think I'm adjusting to your team's rhythm."

"Our."

"Sorry?"

"Our," Hotch looks up from the file. His eyes are pitch black, but warm. "You're part of this team now too."

"Right. I'm adjusting to our team's rhythm." When you smile, it's not forced. Hotch is perhaps the last person you expected to accept you explicitly, but the relief it carries breaks past your usual politeness. Still, Erin Strauss' voice lingers in the back of your head like a broken record. This team might embrace you for it, but that loyalty usually comes at a cost. Any efforts to silence it is futile.

Your new chief responds with a friendly nod.

"And yes, I'm inclined to agree. The request for your own nameplate should come in today." Hotch says, thumbing through a file one his desk. "Along with that, I think you're ready to take over fielding the cases on your own."

You blink; the only reaction you allow yourself to express. He and Garcia had been easing you into the job, allowing you to handle the older cases—closed ones, some needing follow ups and check ins—while they taught you the ins and outs of going through the newer reports that come in. What you need to look out for—not just victimology, but time frames and geographic patterns. Cases involving children get prioritized, but only if there's an existing pattern, otherwise they get redirected to ViCAP. While it's true that you've slipped into the team's rhythm near seamlessly, you hadn't expected them to give you full reign after only a couple of weeks.

"If you're certain, sir, then I would be more than willing to do it." Your back straightens even more, if that's possible.

"I am. Your work prior to this unit has been exemplary, and I'm allowed to overrule the probation period on account of the skills you've shown. And you've been doing a good job, agent, I see no reason to keep you under our supervision."

You nod, "Thank you sir. Honestly, I was beginning to think Garcia was going to lock me in her techno cave to start organizing her glitter pen collection."

Hotch's mouth curls up for a fleeting second, but vanishes before it becomes a full smile. "Garcia knows not to waste your skills on her collection, as expansive as it is."

A stack of files slide towards you, teethering comically from the action. "I trust that you'll choose with vigilance and care. It's easy to get overwhelmed by the cases that come in, but quantity does not always dictate urgency."

"That's noted, sir." With a last nod, you rise and step out of his office. Your heart pounds, but you're unsure if it's from nerves or excitement. Likely both. Likely both, and then some. Because as you leave Hotch's office, you catch Spencer and JJ, heads bent together like they're sharing a conspiracy, take one glance at you and jump apart.

Your smile is plastic. Erin Strauss' words ring in your head, louder this time, as you lock yourself in your office.

series masterlist.

"Like, it makes sense to get it out of the way, you know."

"Yes. Figure out what works for us, note it down so we'll remember." he replies, nodding along.

"Right. Establish boundaries. Well, make adjustments to the current ones and stuff." you glance down at the journal lying innocently beside you, opened to a new page with the word "Addendum re: Kissing" written on top.

Spencer's sat facing you, cross-legged and casual like this is no big deal, him on your bed. And maybe it's not. This isn't the first time he's sat across you after all, a spill of spindly limbs and shining amber eyes. Some traitorous part of you thinks, hopes, it won't be the last.

That might be acceptable, but the context is new.

"Okay, so how do we… you know," your hands flail uselessly.

"Kiss?" Spencer says. He tilts his head with a small, teasing smile, bares the line of his jaw and neck and oh maybe you shouldn't have suggested this in the first place. Maybe you should relocate somewhere less… personal. "Two people normally just get close enough to press their lips together."

"Don't make fun of me." You grumble.

"Sorry." He doesn't sound it. You watch him scoot closer, his knee touching your thigh. "You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"Because you can, you know, back out." he gets serious quickly. His fidgeting stops and he rests a warm hand over your knee, "We don't actually have to do this, if you're not comfortable."

"I am!" you squeak, flushing at the pathetic sound. "I-I mean, I'm comfortable and I want to get it over with." you wince at how crass you make it sound, and curse the version of yourself from yesterday who came up with this idea. The one that panicked over an offhand comment from your best friend after you told her that yes I will be bringing a plus one, I'm actually dating someone right now.

Melissa had gushed on and on about how hot and steamy the honeymoon phase of a new relationship is.

You wouldn't know. This whole thing with Spencer is a farce, there's no phases to speak of. Just friendship—and lightly begrudging, on your part.

But of course, your brain had latched on to the words, spiraled at the idea that people expect a newly dating couple to act a certain way. And not that you want to bend to these arbitrary norms, but still. You don't want to be caught off guard.

So you'd suggested this. Practice, a trial, preparation.

On kissing.

And where else would be the most logical spot to practice than in your apartment? At the time, it seemed like a good idea. It's close, he's been here before, and it's private.

Now, you're starting to lose your nerve.

Spencer is still, like he's waiting for you to make the first move.

"You don't think I'm just trying to make out with you for the hell of it, do you?" you ask Spencer, teeth worrying your lower lip.

He laughs, soft and painfully endeared. "No. Although, I wouldn't be mad about that either."

You smack his hand off your knee. "Shut up."

"Okay." he's grinning. Hasn't stopped since you've started this conversation, actually. You're here, feeling raw and tender like skin on the verge of breaking, barely able to breathe, and he's grinning. Has the gall to tease you. "I get it though. It's less of a practice and more… doing it on our own terms. In a controlled environment."

You nod, deflating with relief. "Yes. And no one to witness us flounder around awkwardly."

"You really think I'm that bad at kissing?"

"I didn't say that!" You huff, then add, "Should I take my glasses off?"

"Are you planning to wear contacts to the wedding?"

"No."

"Then keep them on. You know, for realism."

You can't stop the soft giggle from escaping. "Right, yeah. Realism."

"Are you done stalling?" Spencer asks.

"I'm not stalling!" To prove your point, you shuffle even closer, the bed dipping beneath your combined weight. Immediately, it's dizzying. His scent is even more potent up close. Nutmeg and cedar and who knows what else, all you know is it's borderline intoxicating. Spencer's eyes are fixed upon you. On your lips, the pen in his hand carelessly tossed aside.

Your eyes follow the pen as it drops to the bed, but his hand curls warm and firm over your cheek and tilts your head up. He's much closer now, lashes shading his pretty brown eyes. Pupils blown wide as he holds you there and lets the moment linger.

Your nerves feel serrated, the brief spark of courage stretched torturously thin. You take the plunge before it snaps, close your eyes and bridge the gap.

It's awkward. Skin smushed against skin, clumsy and juvenile.

His lips are chapped. Even with your stiff, tight lipped peck, you can feel that, small bits of skin that tug and shift as he moves and kisses you back. Nothing more than a brush at first, a slow, warm thing that you can't help but melt into. Can't help but return, just as tender, your lips finally moving like shaping out a question. Testing waters and boundaries.

It's been years, embarrassingly, since you've kissed anyone, but muscle memory kicks in like a dying ember catching kindling. Your mouth parts and welcomes his tongue. Deepens it. Pushes into him where he's treading lightly.

A faint taste of mint clings to his lips, cool unbidden sharpness.

You hear him groan, feel slim fingers tangling into your hair as he matches your passion, and he's kissing you now, properly, deeply, the type of toe curling, movie-esque kiss you'd convinced yourself you don't want, don't need.

All those years of repressed emotions claws back to the surface, curling hot and raw low in your belly and between your legs. Some deep instinctual part of you knows he's done irreparable damage, cracked open something you thought you had ensconced under layers of ambition and self preservation.

Each slide of his lips weakens whatever fortress you'd previously thought impenetrable.

He kisses you again, and again, and again.

It's slow. Careful, like he's mapping your mouth, testing out the perfect angle of his palm to cradle the curve of your jaw. Different from any kiss you've had before. Deeper, more sure, despite the strange ambiguity of this relationship.

Faint sounds form and ascend from the back of your throat, sounds that he swallows before they take shape beyond your lips. Your own hands reach up, clutch a handful of his sweater. Beneath fabric and skin and bone, his heart pulses like it's determined to rupture straight out his ribs.

You find yourself wanting to feel more of that. Chest to chest, just to figure out if your hearts are as in sync as your mouths are.

You've moved without realizing. Closer, and closer still, until he's toppling back from your insistence, the physical weight of you burdened tenfold by the frightening gravity of your desire.

His hands leave your face in favor of steadying your hips. Fingers dig in, clinging too tight, too honest, not enough.

You feel teeth catch on your bottom lip, and you're not sure if it's a mistake or something deliberate, something heavy with meaning. You wonder if he means to repeat it.

It isn't meant to get this far.

The break is abrupt, strident, punctuated with a heady, wet sound, and the bitter disappointment of things parting too soon. Spencer's fully supine, blinking up at you on top of him.

You're nestled snug between his legs, staring down at the blurred edges of him. Your glasses have fogged, and yet there's so much of him everywhere. Lips saturated with each other, the firm, unmistakable press of his arousal against your stomach.

Fuck.

Neither of you speak. The silence curdles into something heavy and uncomfortable.

"Sorry," you blurt out, scrambling back for space, desperate to replace the silence with anything. "Sorry, that—um, sorry."

His hands fall from your body. Prop him back up to sitting, slow and methodological. He clears his throat. You notice, for the first time, how pink he's gotten.

He shifts his hips. Adjusts his pants. You keep your gaze on the now crumpled page of your journal, and pretend not to see.

Addendum re: Kissing.

What the actual fuck are you even supposed to write there now?

"So, that probably wouldn't be appropriate to do in public." Spencer says.

Your laugh comes out shrill. When you glance at him, he's smiling back, bashful, a little tense. But smiling.

"Absolutely not," you take your glasses off, wipe the foggy residue away and welcome a sharper world, "I'm sorry, seriously. I feel like I attacked you."

"I've been attacked many times, but attack by kiss is very new to me, so thank you."

"Spencer."

The pink creeps up his ears, down his neck.He clears his throat again. "It's all right. I'm sorry too, for, you know… enjoying it too much."

"It's fine, at least I know I haven't gotten bad at it," you say, reaching for the pen which had miraculously survived the impromptu make out session and hadn't rolled off the bed, but find that you're still blanking on what to write. You look at him again, "I'm very much out of practice."

"I couldn't tell," he pats a hand over his sweater, smoothing down where you've clung as if that would somehow erase the fact that you had just been on top of him, tongue deep in his mouth. But he tries to redirect focus, perhaps for your sake, by taking the journal. "So what have we learned?"

"That we're really good at it?" That you want to do it again. That you've missed it. That your body isn't as immune to this as you had thought.

You expect a laugh, but Spencer gives you a look that suggests perhaps his thoughts aren't so far from your own.

You squirm, burning under his gaze. You roll the pen over to him, willing your heart to stop racing and your lips to stop tingling. You want to crawl under the covers and hide. You want to lean over and kiss him again.

He scribbles something on the page, and it takes you a moment to decipher as it's upside down from your perspective.

No making out in public or private.

"We already had that in the original." You point out.

"And then promptly broke it." He underlines the sentence twice. Under it, he adds, No kissing with tongue, and your gut twists sharply in disappointment. You want to throw up.

Lastly, he writes keep kisses brief.

"There," he turns the journal, "I don't think there's anything else, but tell me if you have any suggestions."

You pore over it like you haven't already decided the entire page is an insult. Your glasses slip down your nose and Spencer pushes it up like it's reflex, and it's all very distressing. The kiss, this strange robotic focus you've both decided to hide behind, and now these rules.

You shrug. "Um, maybe we should make it… nice? Enjoyable? There's no reason we should be like, weird and stiff about it."

Spencer nods and add that. His voice is low, hoarse when he says, "But not too enjoyable. Wouldn't want a repeat of earlier."

"Exactly. Of course not." You lie.