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Groaning, you shift onto your other side, turning to worm your way into Emily's arms. Your head drops on her shoulder, arm curling tight around her waist, pressing you both closer like it'll stop her from leaving. She gracelessly rubs the back of your head, yawning.

"Alaska?" She slurs into the phone. "Y'sure you got that right?"

Despite everything, her soft drawl makes you smile into her collarbone. You go all warm inside when she sounds like this—a gravelly rasp in her throat, her words pulled long and sticky, rounded with the softness of her mouth. Her voice roughens, yet her pronunciation crumbles; it's like she gets sanded down, all the sharpness melted away, purely for you to hear when she's heavy with sleep or—

Your eyes snap open at the sound of Garcia's voice, tinny but clear through the phone, reminding you of the fact that you're very much not the only witness to your wife's less inhibited state.

"Yes, I've got that right. The deputy mentioned it, like, ten times—"

"Lemme guess, salmon city, Alaska." Emily yawns again, letting her forehead loll down and press against yours.

"So close, it's Fairbanks." 

She makes a grumbling sound under her breath, the vibrations seeping into your skin. You go hot knowing the sound carries, the speakers picking up what's yours, delivering it to Garcia's ears.

Sleep leaves your body very quickly.

Garcia tuts. "Up you get, cupcake. It's a ten hour flight. Pack warm."

"No," Emily rasps.

"Jet leaves at six."

"I'm resigning."

"Can't relay the news!" Garcia chirps. "Sorry, hon, in-person resignations only. Don't be late."

She hangs up with a beep and Emily throws the phone somewhere on the bed, groaning again as she curls around you—smothers you, really. You're still stewing as the tip of her nose nudges your cheek, her mussed bangs tickling you all over. 

It's just Garcia. One-of-your-favorite-people-on-this-planet Garcia. Emily's-best-friend Garcia. 

You're being ridiculous. It's fine. She's seen her drunk off her mind, looped up on pain meds. They spend an abnormal amount of time together, and this isn't the first time this has happened. Hell, it'll hardly be the last.

Had she ever answered JJ like this? Hotch?

Your fingers curl into the cotton of Emily's tank top. She exhales, the warmth of it hitting your cheek, and shifts around to rest her forehead on your shoulder.

"I should quit."

"Yeah, you should." You shoot back too fast, your own voice gravely with exhaustion.

"Wow, really?" Emily mumbles. "That was a lil' too enthusiastic."

You search for her hand amidst the covers. It's cold, limp until you thread your fingers through hers and give a halfhearted squeeze. "You just came back, Emily." You say. You can't really make out her features in the dark, only feel her, hear her. "You're exhausted. It's not fair."

She hums thickly, her lips soft on your cheek. "Don't worry your pretty little head about me."

"I can't not. Besides," your voice goes a little petulant as you twist in her arms, huddling close enough to see the faint sheen of her eyes, "no one else should get to hear you like this." You mumble.

Emily's brows furrow. "Like what?" She asks, perplexed.

"This," you whisper, tracing her plush bottom lip. "Mine."

"I'm yours all the time." She whispers back. It's so earnest, so sweetly clueless. Heat crawls up your skin again, this time from your own absurdity. 

Sighing, you press a small kiss to her mouth. Emily cups your cheek, a frown still creasing her forehead. "Baby, what're you talkin' about?"

"Nothing," you mumble, muffled into her hand. "I hate the BAU."

She pets your cheek, strokes clumsily next to your eye. You savor the kiss she drops there, a small bit of lingering warmth to chase away the cold when she slips out of bed.

Spencer lounges in your armchair, with a stack of antique books taking over your coffee table, to unwind after a long period of nonstop work. He's already so comfortable in your space, a real room of ease, unlike your workroom that sets him on edge.

"Aw, burying your head in your books like an ostrich," you tease on your way to the couch opposite him.

He grumbles back without any of the humor you'd tried for, and all the sass you've beaten out of other clients, "Ostriches actually don't stick their heads in sand to hide from predators or to fall asleep, that belief was probably popularized by Pliny the Elder when he wrote that they 'imagine, when they have thrust their head and neck into a bush, that the whole of their body is concealed'-- they actually do it to swallow rocks like many species of birds do to aid digestion--" He'd keep going if not for your interruption, in spite of the simmering disinterest dripping from his voice.

"Hey, Spencer, it doesn't matter, I was teasing you." He's been quiet, sullen, grumpy since he stood at your door after accepting your invitation. You scowl. "And if you're gonna talk anyway, especially if you're gonna sound like such a brat about it, you should come over here and do it to my face," your work voice slips out. He always listens to it.

His gaze rises from the cracking pages and smeared ink under his fingers. He stands and comes over, grumbling something else about the misconceptions of large birds. You look him up and down, drawn in shoulders, sour pout, furrowed brows.

"Who's got you so pissed off?" You ask with a bitten back grin. He huffs.

"This... Asshole cop we were working with this week--" his lips pull back in a sharp grimace-- "he talked about everything with so much confidence, but he's wrong about almost everything, and when I tried to correct him he argued back, as if everyone, even there, doesn't know... My whole deal."

"Whole deal?"

"That I read so much and remember everything, that I like studying just to study, I know about everything he was saying--"

"You know everything?" You challenge, wrapping a hand in his necktie to pull him down a smidge. He grunts an iffy confirmation to your twist of his words. He isn't gonna argue with you, at least not now, under your darkening glare and tight grip. "Do you know how hot you are when you're all mad?" The angry glint is his eye is instantly replaced by the puppy dog stare that comes with a wagging tail as a result of any praise from you. "Did you tell him off? And you forgot to turn off that bratty tone before you got here? Because I'm sure you can guess how I feel about brats." Something in your stare tells him he should fight back.

"No-- how do you feel about them?" Your eyes roll, he doesn't even know how to play the brat yet.

"Come on, baby, you can figure it out, you know everything, right?" The hand that isn't pulling his tie sits against his slim waist.

"I didn't say that, it's a physical impossibility to know everything, the total sum of human knowledge would likely surpass even the full extent of a brain's storage and processing capabilities--"

"Oh my God you're boring me," you groan.

"I- I'm not trying to." Your hand starts a motion over his side.

"I know, you're trying to be cute, pretending you can't see why I wanted you over, pretending you don't know what you're doing-- unfortunately you are cute, so sassy with your little animal facts, I bet you were adorable every time you told that guy how wrong he is, how many times was it?"

"23," he answers immediately, "but that's just the stuff he got completely, unequivocally wrong, there were 41 things I had to expand on to be totally correct."

"Everyone loves working with you, don't they baby?"

"No." You laugh, and your hand falls from his necktie to the gently convex curve of his stomach. "Most people don't find my corrections cute."

"No, you'd be unbearable if you weren't hot." You take the new place on his abdomen with opportunity, running over his body in a way that makes him shut down a bit more.

"I-I'm not hot."

"Don't argue on that one, kitten, that just makes it sad instead of challenging... Did your teachers like you at least?" His head shakes.

"I always corrected the textbook information when it was out of date, they felt I was 'trying to undermine their authority', even when-- one time-- it was a fairly new discovery that had actually made a lot of press--" your lips curl as he gets worked up. He never lets anything go. Your hands interrupt him again, climbing to his buttoned collar.

"What's the first thing that guy got wrong this week?"

"He said coffee is dehydrating."

"You would know." His lips always taste of burnt espresso. He tries his best to ignore you and continue his ranting, since you seem to be enjoying it so much.

"Caffeine has diuretic effects, but caffeine is just a component of a coffee bean, which is then diluted into a drink made almost entirely of water, therefore it is hydrating much more than it's a diuretic."

"Mm, and what's the dumbest thing he thought?"

"Dumbest? He thought allspice was every spice mixed together-- and that Caesar salad was invented by Julius Caesar, general and dictator of the Roman republic, who apparently had time for making up salad dressings." Your giggle fans over his newly exposed abdomen, followed by a gusting whisper.

"What made you the maddest?" The residing anger bubbles up easily.

"He started talking about Kitty Genovese and the 'apathy of urban America', of course I had to jump in, as a member of the emergency services he should know the real origins of the 911 system, and it wasn't some 'bystander affect' it was the apathy of cops like him--"

"Baby," you try to smooth down his fraying edges, "You're right... You're right, and you're adorable." You kiss his sternum, leading down to his bellybutton, but stop there. Without your lips on him, he continues.

"And then he started talking about a past case he'd worked, and the way he talked about the victim, just--"

You chuckle, "Did you tear him a new one?"

"I started to, but Hotch sent me away, saying I need to keep it professional until the end of the case, but then we flew out as soon as we were done," he pouts.

"So you didn't get to tell him how you really feel?"

"Not as much as I would've liked to-- now when I'm in the shower I'm just running through all the things I should've said instead of just correcting him."

"Ooh, you all angry in the shower," you giggle at the thought of his steam soaked skin getting hot enough to rival the water, hands waving frantically as he imagines an argument he'd never have the courage to really have. Your fingers run down his forearms, exposed by his rolled up sleeves that highlight every vein you follow. "So smart, because of all that Mozart you listen to, huh?" His brows furrow, abdomen tense.

"Listening to classical music doesn't actually enhance intelligence, one study in 1993 found a short-term improvement on spatial reasoning, that's it." You trace back toward his chest, over every contour of his lean sculpt.

You hum, "Then it's your photographic memory." He grimaces.

"Technically," he sounds so reluctant to correct you, but you started down this path by choice, so his voice grows more exasperated by the second, "Photographic memory has never actually been proven to exist, I don't have it, a lot of my childhood is lost or blurry, I have more like an eidetic memory, which is better than that typically only found in children, who can precisely recall an object for a short time after it's gone."

"I feel like a shark right now," you say, drawing down his stomach, "and you look too much like a seal." His brows knit tighter.

"Sharks actually don't seem--"

"Y'know global warming isn't real?"

"What?" He's too occupied with your statement to know or care when you start on his zipper.

"And evolution is a fraud."

"You- wh- when--" His hand snaps around your wrists before you can go any further. "You're doing this on purpose." Your lashes flutter up to him, deeply furrowed brows and squinting eyes trying to read you, predict your next move.

"Doing what?" His waistband provides a perfect sinking ledge for your fingertips.

"You're just saying incorrect things to get under my skin, because you think it's cute when I get frustrated."

You scowl, "No, who said that?"

"You! You did--" he sighs, "you're really good at it." Your hand leaves him as you pout.

"You're accusing me of things, I don't appreciate it, it's like when that lawyer accused Twinkies of causing assassinations." Your ankle hooks around his knee. He fights every urge to fight back. "Maybe I should get some chloroform to get rid of this attitude." He starts to speak, but it devolves into a seething hiss with a burning glare. You start to push against his knees, bringing him to them on your real hardwood floor, less forgiving than the vinyl laminate of your work room.

"You'd have to drug me with something else first for it to really work," he edits as far as he can take.

"I think I can get you to do whatever I want." It's the first statement all night that he can't find fault with.

He waits patiently for the next remark, the next misconception, the next outright lie, watching your lips even as you unbutton your own pants.

"Do something useful," are your next words, another set he can't argue with. He quickly tucks his fingers in your waistband the same way yours had threatened to do to his, and tugs the denim holding him back from you out of his way. "Don't stop there," the order is a bit softer with him so close. Your once pristine underwear are now a dampened mess, evidence of your amusement with his pulsing forehead veins and clenched fists. And in a moment, they're forgotten in favor of your glistening skin.

"Sorry if my hair's a little thicker today, I shaved it a little while ago." He seethes again, but it's offset and sweetened by his watering mouth.

You make sure to hold your thighs too far for him to use them to muffle your voice, as he's usually inclined to do, your moaning a bit overwhelming when combined with your taste and twitches. You yelp when he impatiently engulfs you, despite how terribly you'd anticipated it.

"Ugh, they should put you in the Bible with the other deadly sins." He pulls back.

"The Bible actually never--" A sharp pull at his roots stops the sentence from fully forming.

"I thought you already figured this out?" As you pull him back and he sighs, your ankles hitch behind his head, preventing any further insubordination. No matter how much you torture him. He gets a hint of revenge with a quickly flick over you. "What part of your tongue do I activate? Is it the sweet zone? You always seem to have a sugar rush while you do this." He groans, low, annoyed, vibrating.

"I hope there's not MSG in pussy, don't want you to get a headache, that would only make this attitude worse, huh?" You comb again through his hair, and laugh, "Okay-- I know the whole 'you lose all your heat through your head' thing isn't real, but you're fuming!" It's all he can do to ignore you, to try and shut you up with sharp licks and hungry devotion. It doesn't seem to be working though. "It's pretty- late to be eating, that's not good... Somehow." Though he can't quite shut you up, he can steal your focus. A soft breath leaves you next, stark contrast to your vexing words that wouldn't cut so deep into anyone else.

"Fuck, you're good," it's impossible not to praise him, the way he expertly licks and sucks is enough to wipe your memory of any other ill-conceived "facts". Until he gets greedy.

Or, more aptly, gets less greedy, an attempt to punish you back by slowing his fervor to a grind, leaving you just enough mind to come up with more.

"Um- dinosaurs were invented to test the faith of creationists." His brows furrow and his tongue presses harder again, earning a yelp. "Oh, you're really a good boy, you know that? So so good for me, even when you get mad at something." You devolve into rambling moans and his licks get harder, honed, determined to keep you quiet-- or at least incomprehensible. Your sweat soaks into the couch cushion and your slick soaks his skin. "You aren't this good for anyone else, huh? Only I get to tell you what to do?"

"I mean, I have a job," he mumbles toward your thigh, away from the spots that he'd just been using to make you squirm, "I have duties and obligations." He keeps resisting as you tug his hair, attempting to pull him back. "Sometimes I'm made to do things I'd rather not."

"Mm, but you argue, don't you? I bet you talk back all the time, you never stop talking-- but you never really talk back to me." His wet lips are on your thighs now, and both of your hands are combed to the back of his head to try and fix that.

"I never have to." He licks up your leg, still stopping just short of the mess in your center. "I never disagree with your decisions."

"So why aren't you still eating me out?" Your voice comes out choked, desperate, fingers tangled roughly in his curls. He laughs.

"Fuck, yes!" You cry, finally, after a beat of heated breath before he determined no other way to prolong your suffering. "Thank you baby, thank you, thank you!" His hands loosen from your knees to grip under your ass, encouraging the movement of your hips to meet his equally starving tongue. "I think about you every day at work now-- God, yes-- fuck--"

Your body falls limp, moans flow freely from your throat, every muscle in your abdomen and thighs spasms like you've been hit with a taser, burning up from your core with sharp lightning. His actions slow, merely tasting the gushing results of your orgasm instead of trying to egg it on further.

"Spencer," with your last whispered sigh, he pulls back, trailing neat kisses down your leg that leave sticky prints of his lips.

"85% of men in one study believed that their partners finished, meanwhile only 64% of those women agreed, and 15-20% of women say they've never orgasmed." He stands, his shirt still hanging limply from his shoulders, belt sagging off of his unbuttoned pants.

"Thank you for precluding me from that statistic." Your hand finds his, to pull him into the spot beside you, warmth and softness curling around you, petting down your hair.

Spencer doesn't know why he's here.

That's the lie. The one he tells himself every fortnight, when he gets that text.

Two words: come over. Sometimes followed by a coy question mark as a facile imitation of timidity, of care. More often than not, your words aren't caged by punctuation, leaving them to sit somewhere in the liminal space between open request and direct order, and Spencer has always treated it as though it's the latter.

His phone chimes, he glimpses your message, and he drops whatever pointless thing he's doing. He starts rummaging around for his best clothes, his favourite lucky socks; he even sprays the expensive cologne that he bought himself for his birthday years ago that has since sat, scarcely used, on his shelf. You pop back into his life by means of a single message, and everything outside of you loses its colour.

On the unfortunate instance where he's been out of town, he's crammed messages with apologies and stuffed his phone into the depths of his messenger bag, leaving it to burn holes into the leather as he's awaited your response in silence-clad agony. He's presented profiles whilst tearing itself to pieces over the prospect of you hating him for having to reschedule and forgetting, momentarily, that to be hated by you is a privilege which he is not, nor likely ever will be, afforded.

Hate is visceral. It seizes the body, the mind, with flames. Every thought is made kindling. Hatred burns; it requires fuel, feelings to ignite and add to the blaze. But what you feel toward Spencer is cold to the touch; there's no room for fire in your heart.

He isn't important enough to be hated by you, that's the conclusion he's arrived at following almost eight months of slow, clinical asperity. He takes up no space in your mind, not unless he's right in front of you, kneeling at your feet, offering parts of himself for you to take. Humiliating himself week after week for a fleeting glance, a chaste kiss, a premature orgasm.

At times, he finds himself wishing that you did hate him—that you cared enough to hate him. Wishing you felt anything that extended beyond cool indifference; maybe then there'd be some way of changing your mind.

His reality is a simple one: he's Astrophil, chasing his beloved star that hangs, out of reach, in the night sky. Doomed to want what he cannot have, to disdain the very disdain which you feel for him, to let himself be damned to misery by his own want.

He's read Sidney, he's aware of what a fool he is, yet he'll still answer your every beck and call. He'll still crumble under the gaze of his Stella, wondering when exactly he decided to forsake his own liberty.

—

He remembers meeting you in the art gallery, deep into the Winter of 2002. You, pen pressed to your lips as you stood scrutinising one of the older paintings, and him, across the room, too busy studying you to care for the rest of the art around him—both of you anointed with the remnants of melted snow. He remembers scouring his mind, thinking of a million ways to start a conversation and scrapping them all.

You were too peaceful. Too pretty. And he never learned how to talk to pretty girls. He always had it in his mind that they'd bite him. Not literally—hopefully not literally—but verbally. Sharp tones. Harsh words. Glossy lips twisted into mocking smiles.

He vowed to keep his distance. If not to save you the discomfort, then to save himself the humiliation; it was better to be safe than sorry.

You were so far out of his league it was laughable. The kind of girl who wouldn't look at him twice, if you looked at him at all. You were his North Star, Polaris, bright and beautiful and sacrosanct. It wouldn't have been right to approach you, not when you were so at ease and he was so…not.

Spencer Reid, freshly twenty-one and looking even younger, was not calm, or confident, or anything that would have typically classed as "desirable" to a girl like you. He wasn't what you wanted; he couldn't have been. He decided that the moment he laid eyes on you.

Which is why he almost burst into tears when you approached him. You asked for his name, his number—both of which he could no longer remember—with a smile that left him paralysed.

There was an acute kind of assertiveness about you; sharp and smug as all hell, but not mocking. You didn't bite him, verbally nor literally, but your teeth had an almost inviting quality to them, and he found himself, without rational explanation, imagining how it would feel to have them sink into his skin.

How he managed to go on a date with you is beyond him. He can't chalk it up to his totally-real-and-not-at-all-imagined charisma, or a sudden increase in his confidence, because it was you who decided the two of you were going out for dinner. All Spencer did was say yes and try not to collapse when you told him all he had to do was "sit there and look pretty".

You called all the shots, from where you'd go to what time you'd meet, and he let you. You could have ordered his food for him, told him what to eat and when to eat it, and he would have gone along with it. Licked the plate clean. It felt nice, not having to think for once.

He did however have the brains to at least give you his card and offer to pay, but even that gesture was a flimsy one, one that could have been easily dissuaded by a single wave of your pretty hand, or a single brush of your foot against his leg—an action he believed was innocent, if not accidental, until the third time you did it.

Conversation was a feat he could barely manage; his tongue felt too loose, too big, mouth too crowded with teeth to produce anything of sense, let alone substance. He wanted to speak with meaning, to impress you with words that he knew he possessed but could not find, so that you'd like him. He was (is) somewhat comparable to a lost puppy, in that sense; always begging for love, pawing at anything that so much as glances his way.

As pretty as it was, Spencer wasn't convinced that your smile was anything other than polite, cordial, forged to hide the regret that started seeping in as soon as you sat down. And there was something artful in the way you spoke to him, and in the way you acted in general. It wasn't exactly disingenuous, but it was…sharp, again.

He remembers the way you looked at him, how your eyes bore holes into his, engraving your initials into the squishy, impressionable part of his brain that hadn't yet solidified. He left that date certain of one thing: that his very molecular structure, in a fantastic defiance of natural law, had been rearranged to spell out your name.

Your foot touched his leg every time he stammered. It took him too long to notice that.

—

Agent Morgan thinks you're his girlfriend.

Spencer has been persistent in his avoidance of discussing his personal life at work, no matter how many times his coworkers probe him about the unexplained messages and the subsequent shifts in his behaviour, and apparently this means he simply must have a secret lover. He's never had the heart to deny it, nor the stomach to tell the truth; he's the BAU's freshest face, and Morgan had seemed genuinely impressed by the thought that he was (in his words) "getting some action".

He values honesty, of course he does, but if the shadow you've cast over his life can do a little bit of good, make him seem a little more normal, then he can live with the guilt of misleading the team. They'd only pity him—look down on him, as you probably do—if he were to come clean about your relationship.

They'd think him naive, so starved of affection that his self-awareness withered away, too, but that isn't the case.

Spencer's sense of self-respect has crumbled to dust, blown away in the wind, but his self-awareness has remained in tact. He often finds himself wishing, selfishly, that you had been cruel enough to crush them both under your pointed heel, maybe take a couple dozen IQ points with them; this would be easier if he were a complete idiot, rather than half of one. He'd be able to live in blissful ignorance, if he lacked the sense to feel his misery.

Self-awareness is no saviour. Simply knowing what a fool he is isn't enough. For all of his brains, and for all the years he spent pretending he isn't one, Spencer Reid is painfully, fatally human.

He comes here for the same reason you seek him out: pleasure. Quick, reliable catharsis. Because the BAU's genius, regardless of what people may think, has needs not unlike everyone else, gaps in his self that need filling—that you fill, even if it's just for one night. It's a viscerally human trait, something too ingrained in his biology for his brain to correct; that thick-rooted, innate desire for intimacy, for connection.

Spencer, like any other mammal, is driven by an intrinsic, insatiable hunger. And he's attracted, he supposes, to what he fears most: someone cold, someone not too dissimilar to the popular, pretty girls who stalked his high school hallways like predators. He's always had a habit of picking at scabs.

—

"You still don't drink, right?"

"No, um— no. I don't. Not really."

He's standing in your kitchen, looking like a cornered animal with his back pressed to the counter top, already feeling the heat in his cheeks, the perspiration collecting on his forehead.

You drum your fingers against the slim neck of the wine bottle, deliberating. The quick, rhythmic click of your nails on the glass has his hairs standing on end. Goosebumps. Philoerection. Often brought on by intense emotions like awe and excitement, or by a perceived threat triggering the sympathetic nervous system, activating the fight-or-flight response—it could be both; maybe attraction and terror are one in the same.

He wants to tell you that it's fine, that he doesn't not drink; he's willing to have a glass of wine, or two, maybe three (something to calm his fraught nerves before he becomes the first confirmed case of spontaneous human combustion), but his mouth has run dry, and you're already moving both wine glasses to the sink, filling them with water.

"Good." You offer him a glass, lips curled into a calm smile. "It's probably best for FBI agents to keep their wits about them." 

Spencer clears his throat. He cradles the glass with both hands, holding it close to his chest like he's afraid he's going to drop it. "I suppose," he says, "and—um—statistically speaking, federal agents are more likely to develop an alcohol dependency as they age."

You pause, glass pressed to your lower lip, and raise an eyebrow.

"Not that I think I'm—" he shakes his head. "I don't think I'm…at risk, or anything, I-I have my own ways of coping with—um—stress, and I—"

Both of your brows are raised now. Your smile has sharpened, morphed into a smirk.

"…I do prefer to keep my wits about me," he adds in a quieter voice before bringing his glass to his lips, ensuring he drowns whatever humiliating words may want to come spilling out next.

"Sure," you murmur, taking a small sip of your own water.

Your voice is honey. Thick and sweet, but laced with something tart; an addictive edge that Spencer has never been able to name, but something he's sure would be lethal if he were given too strong of a dose.

"I hope I'm not just your stress toy, agent."

Spencer almost chokes on his water. He spits it back into his glass and shakes his head like you've just accused him of murder. "No! No, that's— that's not what I'm saying at all, I was just…"

His voice trails off, defeated, and he stares down into his glass as you bite back a laugh. The sound makes his stomach churn, full of nauseous embarrassment and something…warm. A hoard of butterflies brought on by a single, stifled little chuckle.

You've taken to calling him agent since he joined the BAU. He's told you several times now that "doctor" (what you used to call him) technically outranks his special agent title, but you responded by informing him that "agent" was cuter, and that was all it took for him to drop the matter completely. It still twangs that obsessive, anal-retentive part of his brain, echoes like the strum of an out of tune guitar string, but he keeps his mouth shut.

He used to worry you'd forgotten his name completely, given how little you used it. He wouldn't have been surprised if you had; most people he knew at the time resorted to calling him "doctor" in lieu of the name they never cared to remember. To think that you were any different would be to cling to false hope.

Three dates in, he had brought you back to his apartment. It wasn't a choice made out of naivety (he was inexperienced, sure, but not stupid); he knew what to expect, what he was asking of you, even if he never voiced the exact request out loud. He was desperate, there's no sugar-coating it, and whether or not you remembered his name didn't matter to him—it never really had to begin with. Respect was something he had learned not to expect, not from anyone outside of his circle, and certainly not from anyone like you; it made no odds, what you thought of him, as long as you said yes.

To say he was nervous would be an understatement. He still is nervous whenever he's around you, drinking water in your kitchen, pretending not to know what will become of the evening. Even now, his veins still light with a burning electricity whenever you're together, like he's trapped in that permanent state of fight-or-flight, but nothing compares to that first time.

He thought he was going to die. He thought he was dying when you climbed into his lap, straddling him. You moved so slowly, so carefully, as though he were something fragile—and he was, he supposes.

Spencer, far too starved of the right kind of touch, had finished in his pants. He likely would have held on longer if it hadn't been for you murmuring his name in that soft, intoxicating tone, mouth so close to his ear he could feel your steady breath against his skin. 

You remembered his name when he had forgotten it, and you taught it back to him, repeating each syllable until they were so embedded in his debauched mind he'd never dare to forget them again.

Maybe that was what got him hooked. Maybe that was when you went from out of reach to right in front of him, when you became the drug he'd never be able to wean himself off of.

—

DC weather is never on his side. It always seems to rain whenever he's summoned to your apartment (that first rendezvous at his apartment ended up being the only one. From that point on, you decided that further hookups would be held at your place, exclusively. Spencer wasn't sure whether he should take this as an insult to his home or not—was his personal library not to your taste?).

Or maybe it's you. Maybe you sit by your window, waiting for the first droplets to his the glass before you send that text. It's possible you get some kind of enjoyment of making him walk in the rain (because yes, he does walk), be it minor sadism or the simple fact that you just like it when he shows up at your door looking like a wet dog.

"You know, your hair has a slight curl to it when it's wet."

"Wh-what?"

It is exceptionally difficult for Spencer to process what you're saying when your hand is where it is. It's hard for him to process anything, period, other than the feel of your palm against his crotch.

He sinks back into the couch cushions, blinking long and slow—but he isn't closing his eyes; you don't like it when he closes his eyes. You're kneeling beside him, sharp eyes studying his expression with one hand nestled between his thighs and the other reaching out to brush some hair from his face. East of Eden is playing on your TV, James Dean reduced to nothing more than background noise.

"Your hair," you repeat, softly, "do you straighten it?"

"Um—" he stammers, searching for the simplest words in the vast, barren expanse of his mind. "N-no."

"Blow dry?" you ask.

Spencer hisses softly, leaning his head back. "Yes."

You make quick work of his belt, nodding along thoughtfully to his answer (which, in truth, sounded more like a moan than anything) as you undo his fly. "You should try using products, or something," you say, keeping your voice light and casual as you dip your fingers under the waistband of his underwear, "you'd look cute with curly hair."

If you keep teasing him, he is going to die (can a person die from teasing? Will he be the first?). It's one thing to mess with him as you pretend to watch a movie older than both of you, but to make such mundane conversation whilst doing so is nothing short of cruel.

"You…you think so?" he asks. He tries not to react as your fingers graze his shaft, but his body is quick to give him away; his cock twitches, already uncomfortably hard, against your hand.

"Mhm." You nod. "I'm sure you'd get loads of girls."

Somewhere in the back of his rapidly melting mind, Spencer makes a note to keep his hair straight.

"Of course, I'd like it, too," you add, running your free hand through his hair. Your nails drag lightly along his scalp, sending shivers shooting down his spine. "I'm a sucker for a guy with curls."

And he's correcting that note, declaring that he'll stop and buy all the hair products in the world on his way home—if he survives this, that is.

He forgets how to breathe when you pull his cock from his pants. He shifts, trying to suppress the urge to whine and buck up into your hand, to show you just how badly he needs this as you stroke him, keeping your movements so purposefully slow it's almost painful.

"I thought you liked this movie," you say.

"I-I do." He chokes on a moan, forces himself to breathe. "Kazan is a brilliant…director, and— um…the cast are— they're all…good."

"Hm." Pressing your lips into a thoughtful pout, you let your thumb circle the head of his cock, smearing precum across the sensitive tip as you say, "It's just…you don't seem to be paying very much attention."

Biting his tongue, all Spencer can manage in response is a low hum. He knows you're asking— no, telling him to focus on the movie, but he doesn't. He can't. His gaze remains glued to your face, watching with poorly concealed desperation the way you narrow your eyes.

"Am I distracting you, Spencer?"

He nods.

"Do you want me to stop?"

He shakes his head.

He might cry if you stop. Epididymal hypertension, "blue balls" is real. Rarely serious, often overdramatised, but real—and uncomfortable. If you stop, he'll for sure have to pay a conspicuous visit to your bathroom, and there's no way you'd let him do that; no, you'd make him watch the rest of the movie, sit in the discomfort, and you'd enjoy every torturous minute of it.

"Please."

The word jumps from his tongue in a whisper, saturated with a need that mounts almost to genuine distress.

"Please what?" You tilt your head, smiling. "Tell me what you want, and I'll make it happen."

Your gentle, breathy tone does little to ease the unbearable heat raking through him, not when your hand continues to tease, focusing on his sensitive tip. A whine escapes him as his composure steadily crumbles away under your touch.

"Pretty little noises won't get you anything," you murmur. There's a mocking edge to your voice now, one that threatens to pierce his brain, deflate it like a balloon. "Be good, and use your words. You can do that for me, right?"

His head moves of its own accord, jerking up and down in a frantic nod as his words continue to fail him. When you raise an expectant brow, all he does is give a weak little whimper. You're killing him. 

"You— please…you know what I want," he eventually manages.

Disappointment washes over your expression, and your smile vanishes as you give a helpless shrug. "I can't read minds, agent. But…" You sigh, click your tongue before giving the flushed head of his cock a gentle, but nonetheless firm, squeeze. A warning. "I can always make you talk. Is that what you want, Spence? You want me to be mean?"

"Nonono—"

"Then what do you want?"

"I—" His throat closes around the words, breath stuttering as he teeters uncomfortably close to orgasm. Your hand stills, allowing him room to breathe, to recuperate, and to really hear his own voice as he whispers, "…wanna be inside you."

Your response is preceded by a gasp, over-dramatic and sarcastic, the kind that makes his stomach do somersaults, curdles nausea with arousal, burns him in the best possible way.

"Good boy. That wasn't that hard, was it?" Your lips curl into a grin he can only describe as sinister; one that may appear innocent out in the sun, but in the half-light of your living room is all pointed teeth and sharp edges. It acts as a counterweight to your praise, throws him off balance.

Spencer wilts in the absence of your touch as you lean back. Your hands are cold, they always are, yet they imbue him with a kind of paradoxical warmth; the embers continue to pulse in his core even after you've pulled away.

"I'll go grab a condom—"

"Wait."

He's already rummaging in his pockets, pulling out condoms—five of them—before you can get up. He gives them to you without thinking, like you have any use for them, and curses himself when you gently press them back into his hand.

"As prepared as always," you observe, biting back a smile as you watch him fumble with his collection of condoms, "and…optimistic."

—

"A girl gave me her number today."

He isn't sure why he says it. To fill the silence, maybe; to poke you with his flimsy, proverbial twig that he seems intent on using as a bridge, forever trying to broach conversations it cannot bear the weight of. He wonders whether he'll spend the rest of his life circling the elephant in the room, if he'll always be too scared to address it out of fear it'll trample him.

All his statement earns from you is a hum; a dull sound, void of any substance, produced only to confirm that you heard him.

Spencer never talks about other women, mostly because there aren't any. Even if there were, he wouldn't bring them up; neither of you discuss relationships outside of this one, sexual or otherwise. 

Keeping each other in the dark wasn't something you agreed upon; there was no conversation, no discussion—but when is there ever? Your life outside of him is none of his business, and his isn't any of yours, no matter how badly he wishes it were. The silence was never introduced; it was already there.

It's easier for him not to question it, it would only cause problems. He'd have to question this, you, himself, re-evaluate all the things he's been ignoring, all the factors that led him to you—his complexes, his insecurities, the things he tries to keep stowed away in their little boxes. He doesn't want to do that; he'd much rather just lay here.

And that's what he does, most of the time. In the lull between your moments of passion, Spencer's gaze is usually glued to your ceiling, counting the bumps in the popcorn texturing, re-spooling the parts of himself that unravelled in the heat.

You're lying on your stomach, face pressed into the pillow. He worries, sometimes, that you might suffocate like that. So, when he isn't studying your ceiling, he's watching the rise and fall of your naked shoulders as you breathe and counting the moles on your back, wishing you'd let him connect the dots, cover your body in constellations—and he chides himself for getting too carried away.

Thankfully, he's still staring at the ceiling when you raise your head. "Are you gonna call her?"

Being able to infer meaning from nonverbal elements of speech—pitch, pace, volume, inflection—is a key aspect of profiling, of communication in general, and it's something that Spencer should be good at by now. He can get by in most cases; reading people's emotions through speech patterns and word choices is something he's become quite proficient in since joining the BAU, though sarcasm can still throw him for a loop, especially when it's directed at him.

He is good at reading people, he just isn't any good at reading you.

Maybe it's your neutral tone, your blank slate of an expression, or the fact that his head is still foggy from sex—whatever it is, Spencer has no idea how to interpret your question. Is it intrigue? Jealousy? Do you want him to call her? Is this another social game he doesn't know the rules of?

"I, um— I don't know," he says quickly—too quickly—before adding, in a quieter voice, "…maybe."

He couldn't sound more unsure if he tried, and he really, really shouldn't be trying to talk about this when you're lying, naked, barely two a foot away from him. You're watching him with this unreadable expression, and he can almost feel you picking him apart piece by piece, dissecting him like a frog in a high school biology class. 

Something heavy settles in his stomach, and he recognises it as guilt. 

Guilt. What does he have to feel guilt over? You don't care if he talks to other women—do you?

You nod calmly. "Just let me know if you do."

"Okay." He's averting his gaze before your words register, and then he's turning back to you with a slight frown. "Why?"

"Well, if you're gonna start…dating her," you mutter, shrugging, "we won't be able to keep doing this."

"I know that," he says. He sounds almost defensive.

"Same goes for me, obviously," you add, "but, you know…"

He feels his chest tighten as your voice trails off. Heart muscles contracting, holding their breath.

"Are you looking to start dating?"

Damn it, now he sounds hopeful.

The dry chuckle that escapes you causes him to flinch, as though you've just spat in his face. "No," you say, shaking your head. With a sigh, you lower your gaze, and he thinks for a moment that you're about to bury your face in the pillow once more, putting an end to the conversation before he can derail this evening further, but then you raise an eyebrow. "Are you?"

It's the obvious question, yet it still catches him off guard. He stares at you, wide-eyed, like a computer stuck in a buffering loop; he isn't sure he's even asked himself that question.

"I don't know," he says, truthfully. "If the right person came around, then…maybe. I-I haven't really thought about it."

Well, it isn't entirely truthful; Spencer has put a lot of thought into the idea of dating, it's just that his list of potential partners begins and ends with you—and that, for obvious reasons, isn't a fact he wishes to share.

"'The right person'?" you repeat the phrase with a quizzical frown. "What are you, twelve?"

"You don't believe in finding the right person?" he asks.

"You do?"

"I don't mean—" He shakes his head, feeling heat rising in his cheeks. "I'm not talking about soulmates, or anything like that—it's a nice sentiment, but it isn't realistic. However, it is proven that— that some people are more compatible than others. It's science."

You don't look at all convinced. "Is there a metric for this? Do you have a spreadsheet?"

Spencer purses his lips. His gaze drops to the bedsheets, and he gives a vague shrug before muttering, "I don't have much data to work with."

He's fast realising that this conversation was a mistake. He never should have brought this up; not only has he essentially admitted that you're the only person he's sleeping with (least obvious fact of all time), he hasn't even been able to gauge your reaction at all—as always, all he sees when he looks at you is quiet indifference, tinged with a slight awkwardness (or amusement, he can never really tell) in the wake of his words.

"…well." You press your lips into a thin smile, and Spencer begins mapping his escape route, calculating the most efficient path out of here without leaving his lucky socks behind. "I wish you luck on your adventure: 'Spencer Reid and the search for the lost soulmate'."

He shoots upright, frowning. "I just said—"

"Are you gonna call her?" you ask.

His shoulders slump, deflating under the weight of an answer he's known from the start—an answer that you've likely known, too.

"…no," he says.

He was never going to call her. 

Words rise like lava in his throat; he wants so badly to tell you how he threw away the note with her number on it, how he never even glanced at it, because that's how serious he is about this, about you, but he doesn't. He bites his tongue, the last dregs of his self-respect saving him from complete humiliation.

That girl, as pretty as she had been, wasn't what he wanted—nor were any of the girls who have flirted with him over the eight months he's spent under this spell. None of them ever stood a chance, because they weren't you.

Loyalty is a virtue. It's praise-worthy, commendable. Everyone wants a loyal man.

Everyone but you.

You give another vague hum; an acknowledgement, nothing more. If he could stomach looking at you, he'd see that you're smirking, just barely.

Your fingertips skim along his arm, tracing his freckles and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"Break's over," you murmur. "Come here."

To Spencer, loyalty feels a lot more like a vice. A metal rung that sits heavy around his neck.

You don't want a loyal man; a loyal man carries a suitcase of baggage, leaves his belongings in your apartment, promises commitment and expects it in return. A loyal man is a boyfriend, and you want a lapdog.

And that's exactly what Spencer has allowed himself to become. You didn't shackle him against his will, you didn't trick him into this; he threw himself at you, offered his neck for your collar whilst his tail wagged behind him.

His skin burns under your touch the way holy water scalds a sinner. He's forever torn, in still moments like these, between tearing himself away, before you can burn any more holes into him, and giving into the heat; he can nurse his wounds, his pride, upon his return home. Wake up to burn scars in the perfect shape of your hands.

In all the time he's spent with you, he's never once found the strength to pull away. He's sure he'd rather let his skin melt under your touch, have his body become a canvas for your scorching palms, than be without you—without this.

Maybe he's grown accustomed to the pain. Maybe he doesn't know how to accept anything else. 

He remembers high school, the sharp-tongued girls, the brutish boys. He was quick to learn what it meant to be weak, exploitable; a cheat sheet when he was needed, a punching bag when he wasn't.

He never told you about the bullying. He supposed it wasn't necessary; anyone with half a brain can see it, the lingering insecurities, the stench of a life-long lack of self worth, all of it too embedded in his bones to grow out of.

He figured, at the very least, that his experiences would make him stronger, wiser; he'd see the patterns, know the signs, learn to avoid situations that end with him hurt and missing pieces of himself he'd never recover. He wishes he could say he was right, but he wasn't, and you weren't the first person to prove him wrong.

Repeated exposure builds habit. Habit builds familiarity. You get hit too many times, you stop feeling the pain. You let yourself be used too many times, it starts to feel like your purpose. Eventually, you start to seek it out, gravitate towards people you know will find some use in you: failing classmates, pretty girls in art galleries, FBI agents who'll never be your fathers. 

He never learned how to form relationships that weren't inherently transactional, never learned to see himself as anything other than a tool. He wouldn't know where to start, if he tried.

So he's fine, really, with being a lapdog. It satiates his base desire for sexual pleasure, and it allows him to pretend, for a night, that this might be something more. That you might pull him back in and never let go. That you might one day want him, all of him.

But Spencer's heart is a black hole. He'd drain the life out of any meaningful relationship he tried to nurture; he's too anxious, too needy. All the love in the world wouldn't be enough to fill the cavities in his self. It would flow straight through him, he's sure of it.

It's probably for the best, then, that you don't want him; he'd only find a way to ruin it, if you did.

At least he gets something, this way. Closeness is closeness, however temporary. It may not be real, but it doesn't have to be; it's not like he knows the difference.

—

You always make a point to offer him a cigarette once you've had your fill of each other.

You curl up on your windowsill in a shirt two sizes too large, shoulder pressed against the glass, knees pulled to your chest, and you hold it out to him like he might take it—like he hasn't told you a dozen times that he doesn't smoke, and that he has no intention of starting. You assume the role of the devil, the snake hanging from the tree, lips twisted into a coy smile.

He lights it for you, encourages your bad habit without inheriting it. But he'll still breathe in the smoke, and he'll act as though he isn't choking on it as he tries to force into gear a conversation that won't start.

He'll spend a long time staring at your face, your reflection in the glass, the way the cigarette sits perfectly between your lips. They'll always be a little chapped. Kissed and bitten raw.

The cigarette will burn out, and you'll leave it abandoned in the ashtray before lighting another. On occasion, he'll try to chastise you for chain-smoking, read off the list of risk factors all while pondering what he feels most for the still-hot cigarette but: kinship or jealousy.

—

Your mouth is heaven, or the closest thing to it. 

Faith is something he's always found himself to be lacking. He'll idolise anything that's tangible, get on his knees for anyone that glances at him twice, but he's never had much of a relationship with God. He's read every version of the Bible, memorised the holy word in a dozen languages, but no amount of scripture could awaken any long-sleeping disciple within him—that's what he tells people, at least.

Reality isn't as black and white. It's human nature to look to something bigger than yourself, to find solace in divinity. It's a hell of a lot easier to believe “He's got the whole world in His hands” than it is to reconcile with the alternative. Spencer isn't immune to that kind of thinking, not entirely; his science-driven mind prevents him from any overt religious zeal, but nothing's truly impenetrable. Somewhere along the line, he managed to adopt the guilt without adopting the faith.

He's never felt any reverence for any god, never knelt at any altars. He's never understood latria as the Catholics do, but when you're on top of him like this, divine in your own right, he's sure there can't be much of a difference.

It's idolatry, plain and simple; you're his false god, and his worship of you will damn him to Hell, if such a place exists—if his soul wasn't already forsaken from the start.

If divine punishment is the price he pays for being with you, then so be it. The sight of you in just a shirt and underwear, and the feel of your bare thighs straddling him, is worth a hundred lifetimes in Hell.

His fingers curl into your sheets, white-knuckling the fabric without you needing to move; the weight of you against him, the thin layers of clothing between you, is already enough to flood his brain with dopamine, adrenaline, all the things that turn him to mush. He isn't even touching you, isn't sure he can; the feel of your skin under his palms might just kill him, or make him finish far too soon—he thinks he'd actually prefer the former.

And when you do move, he's fucked. There's no polite way of phrasing it. He jolts like he's been shocked, whines like he's been kicked, and he watches in awe the way your hips move against his, dimly aware of how the wet patch in his boxers has almost doubled in size since he took his pants off, and he considers saying a prayer.

What he says instead is please. Pleasepleaseplease. He hears his own voice break, and he concludes that he's going to come and die. 

"What is it?" You lean down, one hand braced against the mattress, the other trailing along his jaw. "What do you want?"

"Any— anything," he whispers. He's on fire. Hell is inside him already. "You could do anything, I-I don't care. I promise I don't…care—"

An awful little strangled noise escapes him as your hand moves to his neck. His throat bobs under your palm in anxious anticipation, but you don't put any weight on him.

"Please. Please you— you know I'm not very recept—" He shakes his head. "Well, no, I am very receptive to t-teasing…and that— that's the problem. I can't— oh God, I can't last—"

"Spencer."

"—with you…doing this, I-I'm sorry. Please, I'm begging— oh crap…shit, 'mgonna—"

Your hips stop moving the same moment you squeeze his throat, and Spencer swears he feels his soul leave his body. He stops breathing, not because you're preventing him from doing so (you aren't choking him, not yet), but because his brain has completely ceased function. He whimpers, and his hips buck up against yours in unconscious search of an orgasm he was so sure was about to wreck him.

You tilt your head to the side with a frown. "You can't handle it?"

"I'm sorry—"

"I don't think any of that babbling's doing you any good, Spence."

He twists his face into a tight, painfully self-conscious smile. "I-I talk a lot when I'm…nervous."

"Aww, poor baby. How about we put that mouth of yours to good use then, hm?"

You'd think you'd just offered him a million dollars by the way his eyes almost pop out of his head. He's nodding before you finish your question, quick and eager, and completely void of shame.

You lean down, levelling your face with his. He flinches when your breath hits his skin, and the contact turns to static, shooting sparks through his veins. Your lips ghost over his, and he tilts his head up, hoping—praying—for a kiss.

"You gonna make me come, Spence? Yeah?" you murmur. "You gonna take care of me?"

"Please."

His hands finally anchor themselves on your hips, something to keep him grounded as you press a kiss to his jaw, then another as you murmur "you're so fucking eager" before dismounting him.

Spencer, if he weren't missing so many brain cells, would argue you're both eager; you're shimmying out of your panties before he can sit up to help you, and you always let him help you. He doesn't think to complain—hell, he doesn't think at all—he just settles between your legs, and he moans louder than you do when his mouth finds your swollen clit.

For all his unending nervousness, there's nothing careful about the way Spencer handles you when you're like this. The self-consciousness that defines so much of his being vanishes, replaced by something free and uninhibited—something unapologetically animal.

He searches for God in your cunt, finds something better: soft gasps and intoxicating moans, and praises—God, the praises. He'd have each wholly depraved word tattooed onto his body if he thought it would preserve the feeling that racks through him every time you tell him how good he's being or, Heaven forbid, how pretty he looks with a mouth full of pussy.

At some point, he shifts so he's lying on his stomach, erection pressed flat against the bed. If past experience has taught him anything, it's that pleasing you is a sure-fire way to get him to finish hands-free (he's just that devoted), but he's horny and desperate and a little too drunk on the taste of you to think straight, so when his hips start grinding against the mattress, he doesn't try to stop them. 

He's pretty sure he blacks out, achieves nirvana, glimpses Heaven. Your voice turns hymnal as his tongue circles your clit, fingers working your cunt like he has something to prove, like if he fucks you good enough you might just let him stay. He'll sleep on your floor, if that's what you want; he isn't picky.

He knows you're close when your words lose their edge. Your thighs clench around his head, canting your lips like you're trying to pull him in, and his efforts are rewarded with a tumble of angelic curses and a gush of warmth that soaks his chin.

When he raises his head, he's crying. Red-faced and dizzy. The tears are barely distinguishable from the slick mix of sweat and arousal that coats his poor face.

"…fuckin' perfect," you breathe, reaching down to brush some hair from his face as you sit up. "Such a good boy for me, making me feel so good. Shh, come here, let me see how pretty you are."

As Spencer pulls himself up, your gaze trails down his body, admiring him with such hunger it makes him feel a little sick—the good kind of sick, if that's even a real feeling; he may just be losing his mind, at this rate. But your expression shifts, hardens, when you notice his lack of an erection. The new stains in his boxers. The matching ones on your sheets.

"You couldn't wait?"

It isn't a question.

He actually shrinks back, covers himself with his hands. Humiliation burns in his veins as he makes himself smaller, cowers like a frightened animal.

"Is that how desperate you are? Come here."

Your voice is soft. Soothing. Deceptive. It ignites that impulse to curl up in your arms, relax his body against yours as you run your fingers through his hair, whispering sweet nothings into his ear—but he knows that isn't what he's going to get.

"Spencer, come here."

He shuffles forward anyway, head hung in shame like a puppy waiting to be kicked. Your fingers are like ice against his cheek, but he leans into your touch all the same.

"And to think I was gonna reward you for being so good— shh, don't speak. You think I wanna hear your excuses?" You press your thumb to his lips, silencing him as you cradle his face with both hands, guiding him to look at you. When he sniffles, you pout. "Oh, I know. Poor baby. You're sorry, right? For being so dumb? I know, hon. I know it's hard when that big brain of yours stops working…"

"I-I didn't mean to—" He stumbles over his words like he's never spoken before in his life. His mouth feels foreign, tongue working against him as he tries to choke out an explanation. "This— this kind of…thing, it doesn't happen. Only…only with you. I can't help it, you've— …I don't know." He can't look you in the eye. "You've…done something to me. I can't—"

"Look at me." You're nodding along with his words, expression full of false sympathy. Your thumbs trace halos over his flushed skin as you pull him close. "Come on, princess. It's okay…there we go. So pretty…"

Whatever's been holding him together shatters when your lips meet his, and the pieces burst into flames when your hand trails down to his sodden crotch. He whines into your mouth, tries to drag you back in when you pull away.

"You wanna make it up to me? You wanna show me how sorry you are?" you murmur, breath hot on his face.

"Sorry…" he repeats the word under his breath, nodding like he's caught in some kind of trance. He's already getting hard again, or trying to; his cock presses weakly against your hand, his body responding to your touch even when it's spent. "Yes. Please."

"That's my boy."

Your boy. Your perfect, pretty, stupid boy. Your devoted Astrophil, bound to you by the chains of an unrequited ardour. It's what Sidney knew as courtly love, but the Romans had a different term for it: servitium amoris, slavery of love, and Spencer thinks that is far more fitting. 

⋆ he’s a cuddlebug in the most extreme and literal sense.

⋆ like he can’t get enough, he’s constantly touching her.

⋆ if they’re holding hands and she needs to pull away to do something, he’s whining and wrapping an arm around her waist to keep her close.

⋆ if he needs to pull his hand out of her grasp, he’ll hold it with the other hand, or wrap her arm around his waist, or place her hand on his arm to maintain the contact.

⋆ she wasn’t sure how he’d be about pda, especially around his coworkers, but he’s completely insatiable with his touches and kisses.

⋆ obviously he loves kissing her on the mouth the most, but he loves kissing her forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, anywhere and everywhere he can reach.

⋆ he’d even ask her to give him a forehead kiss when he’s feeling especially needy (always).

⋆ he loves wrapping his arms around her waist from behind her, fusing his chest to her back. he’ll dip his hands under her shirt or her waistband, just wanting to feel her skin.

⋆ when they’re at home and he’s reading next to her on the couch, he’ll try to keep a hand on her leg, but it’s easiest if he just lies with his head in her lap. this way he can hold his book properly and still be close to her. she’ll play with his hair and his eyes will start drooping and he loooves falling asleep like that. he’ll turn to press his face into her stomach and wrap his arms around her waist in his sleep.

⋆ in his sleep he still tries to get as close to her as possible, enclosing her waist with his arms and nuzzling his head into her neck.

⋆ obviously spooning her is his favorite, but she’ll wake up on her back or stomach with him all over her in any way possible, even if it’s just his legs tangled with hers.

⋆ he encourages her to lay completely on top of him.

⋆ he’ll even wrap his arms around her thigh and hold it to his chest when they’re lying together, just constantly holding her in any way possible.

⋆ he loves cuddling with her on the couch the most because of the forced proximity.

⋆ if she’s across the couch from him, he’ll pull her feet into his lap, wrapping a hand over her ankle and running his hand up and down her shin as they watch tv together.

⋆ they are absolutely that couple that sits on the same side of the table at restaurants.

⋆ god forbid he has to sit across from her for any reason, he’s playing footsie with her under the table: linking their ankles together and holding one of her feet between his.

⋆ and she worries about him when he leaves for cases and he has to sleep all alone, so she sends him with a sweater that smells like her. she jokes about making him a build-a-bear with the voice recording device inside so he can still have a piece of her when he’s away.

he doesn’t realize that she’s kidding and nods excitedly, wide-eyed, because ultimately him being away so often is one of the main reasons he needs to be as close to her as possible when he is home.

⋆ (oh and nothing is better than naked cuddling with her. he neeeeds the skin-to-skin contact.

⋆ he’s absolutely into cockwarming and fingerwarming(?): he’ll keep his fingers inside of her, not moving them, just feeling her, until she’s begging and whining and grinding on him.

⋆ if he finds her lying on her stomach, he’ll lay his head on her ass. she’ll ask him if he needs something, and he’ll say nope. eventually, he’ll start playing with her waistband, needing to get his head between her thighs. you know, just to get even closer to her.

⋆ he loves having her sat between his legs, his chest to her back, as he slowly toys with her breasts and pussy. he’ll wrap his legs around hers to keep her even closer to him and to spread her open for him to play with.)

He doesn’t tell her on purpose, but he hadn’t been keeping it from her on purpose either, he just wasn’t ever planning to. Spencer had never admitted his attraction for all people to anyone before. In the back of his mind, he knew that she wouldn’t judge him, but he didn’t know how to bring it up and didn’t find it totally necessary.

It kind of comes up in conversation one evening, while eating dinner with her at the dining table. Their ankles are hooked together under the table, and they leisurely pick at their meals.

She casually asks him which cartoon characters he crushed on when he was little. He doesn’t know what to say. He thinks about playing it safe and saying Belle from Beauty and the Beast. She loves books, he loves books, easy answer.

But he doesn’t think he should take the easy way out.

She tells him that Christopher Robin was probably the first character she found cute. “He was cute in a wholesome way, always taking care of his friends.”

He laughs lightly at her admission, but she can tell he’s uncomfortable about something.

She visibly deflates, “...I’m sorry, maybe this was a dumb question. I didn’t mean for it to upset you?” She tentatively says. He normally entertains her silly conversations, but now she’s confused and fearful that she’s hurt his feelings somehow.

“No,” he says too fast, then clears his throat. “No, baby, I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Spencer tries to give her an encouraging smile, but he can feel it falling flat. 

She quietly hums in response, not fully convinced.

Staring down at his plate, he mumbles, “I… um…” His voice catches in his throat. “I think the first character I had a crush on was Peter Pan.” 

A small smile appears on her face. “Oh, that’s a good one! He’s definitely adorable.” 

He pushes food around on his plate, “It wasn’t just… him.”

She places her fork down on the table and pays closer attention to him. It’s clear to her now that he is debating something in his head, and his discomfort really wasn’t her fault.

“No?” She gently inquires.

“No, there were… other boys. Not just characters.”

“Okay,” She reaches for his hand across the table, brushing her fingers over his knuckles.

“But there were girls too!” He scrambles to justify, unnecessarily. “Belle from Beauty and the Beast was really pretty to me, too.” He finally meets her gaze, wide-eyed and a little terrified.

“Oh, definitely. I thought Meg from Hercules was absolutely gorgeous....” Her tone is so soft and understanding that he thinks he might cry. “...Are you trying to say that you had crushes on both boys and girls?” 

“I– Yes, I did… I do.” He shakes his head, frustrated at how jumbled his words are. His grip tightens on her hand, “I didn’t really understand it at the time, and I never spoke about it with anyone. I just knew that I liked boys the same way I liked girls...” 

She nods along and watches him attentively as he speaks. 

He swallows, “I didn’t really have anyone I could talk to about it. Then, eventually, my crushes on both boys and girls turned into crushes on both men and women.”

He focuses downward, on the feeling of her hand in his, on the slow grazing of her thumb across his knuckles. His cheeks are completely flushed, and his heart is pounding in his ears.

Spencer always felt like there was something wrong with him, especially when he was a boy. He wasn’t interested in the things that other little boys were, like baseball or video games. Because of this, he didn’t want to be interested in boys. It was just another thing about him that made him too different. The last thing he needed was another reason to stand out, particularly at school, among classmates who were four years older than him. He was dissimilar enough, isolated enough, strange enough.

He didn’t think there was anything wrong with other boys who liked boys – it was just something he avoided confronting within himself.

“Baby, that’s totally okay. Thank you for telling me.”

His head shoots up like a rocket. “Really? I didn’t know how to tell you because I didn’t know if it really mattered. I only want to be with you, anyway.” He squeezes her hand reassuringly.

“I get that, but it does matter to me – because you matter to me.”

“You don’t see me any differently?” His head slightly tilts to the side in question, and he chews on the inside of his lip. His eyes glisten with unshed tears.

“I see you exactly the same. I just see more of you now.” She rises from the table to pull him into a hug. His head rests on her stomach as she soothingly rubs his back.

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you.” He endearingly admits, voice small like a child’s.

“I know, honey. I didn’t think that.” She places her hands on his cheeks and tilts his head upward to look at her. “Nothing is different between us, okay?”

He nods inside of her hold, “Okay, thank you for understanding.”

“Of course. I’m really glad you told me.”

“There is one more thing…” A tear falls from his rounded eyes, and she swipes it away with her thumb.

“Okay, what is it, honey?” She tries to maintain a gentle tone, but she can’t deny that this statement flipped her stomach with nervousness.

“Do you remember my friend Ethan?”

“From Vegas?”

“Mhm,” His eyes dart around the room, too unsettled to look at her while he says, “We… We never dated or anything… but we would kiss sometimes when we were hanging out.”

“It was before you!” He rushes to add. “Many years before you, and not when we were together, I would never, ever–”

“Spence–”

“I really didn’t mean to hide it from you. He and I never talked about it either, so I didn’t know what to call it. We never did anything more than kiss!”

“Honey, it’s okay! I know that you’d never cheat on me, and you don’t have to defend your past to me.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“I feel like I broke your trust.” His shoulders cave in on themselves.

“My trust in you is perfectly intact, honey. I’m so grateful that you confided in me with all of this.”

More tears trail down his cheeks, “I’ve never told anyone any of it.”

“No one?” She asks softly.

He shakes his head no.

“Oh, Spencer, that must’ve been so lonely.”

He nods and whispers, “It was.”

Ethan was his first kiss – his first crush that ever paid any attention back to him. The two of them never defined what they were doing, though. Spencer was too scared to ask the what are we question, and Ethan left Quantico before he had the chance to.

Her heart constricts in her chest knowing that he’s been carrying this all alone his entire life. Her wonderful boyfriend, who spent so much of his energy on caring for those around him, had been silently bearing the weight of this on his own.

She tucks his head back into her stomach, leaving a hand on his crown and rubbing his spine with the other. Holding back her own empathetic tears for him, she murmurs, “You’re not alone anymore, okay? You can tell me absolutely anything.”

He nods in her hold, “Thank you for not judging me.”

“Honey, you don’t have to thank me for that.”

He inhales shakily, arms tightening around her. “I’ve been holding it in for so long. It feels weird to say it and not have it turn into something bad.”

“That makes sense, but it’s not going to, not here, not with me.”

“Promise?”

“I pinky promise.” She pulls away from their hug just enough to show him her little finger. He keeps one arm around her hips as he slightly smiles, linking his littlest finger with hers

She wipes the rest of his tears away before pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. Spencer can’t help but smile into it, feeling so grateful and relieved. 

He feels like this one conversation shed him of one hundred pounds of guilt and disarray. The thoughts regarding his sexuality seemed so large inside of his head, even amongst all the knowledge he held on various topics, it was the one thing that took up the most space. It had been living inside of him under lock and key for the majority of his life, and now it –and himself– have been set free. 

Spencer feels even closer to her after telling her. He didn’t realize the internal wedge the topic was taking up between them. She now knows every single thing about him, from the way he organizes his sock drawer to the ginormous secret he’s kept from everyone.

She offers to reheat his dinner and proposes they finish eating their dinner on the couch, cuddled up in front of the TV. 

Eagerly nodding at her plan, he asks, “Would it be weird if I wanted to watch Peter Pan?”

She smiles, “Not at all. Let’s do it.” 

He lets himself enjoy the entirety of the movie without feeling guilty or wrong for his feelings for once. He points out how adventurous and magical the character is, and she engages in animated conversation with him about it. 

He wasn’t planning on ever telling her, but he is delighted that he did.

2 She’s only been working at the BAU for a few weeks when Spencer scrambles into the bullpen 45 minutes late. He’s never late. He was awake until the early hours of the morning, too wrapped up in a new book to notice the time. When his alarm sounded at sunrise, he turned it off and accidentally fell back to sleep. 

His hair is ruffled and his tie is crooked and his dress shirt isn’t all the way tucked in. Even his messenger bag is half open and on the brink of spilling papers everywhere. He feels so discombobulated, and he just knows that this is going to ruin his entire day. 

She’s the first to see him. great. She’s so beautiful, and she’s seeing him as a sloppy mess. 

“Hey, Spencer! You okay? We were worried about you.” He knows that she said we, and that means it wasn’t just her who was worried, but his heart feels warm at the thought of her missing him. 

He nods and tells her, “Yeah, I overslept.” He’s embarrassed and shakes his head before ducking it down. He takes in his messy appearance and wishes he could start the whole day over. 

She reaches out to him and carefully tightens and straightens his tie. She then reaches up to his collar and gently folds it over. He can feel himself blushing at the feeling of her fingertips brushing against his chest and then his neck. 

She almost reaches down to the hem of his shirt before she whispers, “I’ll let you take care of that part,” while shyly giggling.

“Right, yes- Um… Thank you.”

“No problem, Spence.”

“Uh… does my hair look okay?” He dares to ask her, pointing up at his head. 

She’s about to reach up to smooth some pieces down when Emily calls her over to speak to her. 

“You look good, Spencer. You always do, don’t worry,” She smiles before she leaves him. 

He’s left gazing after her as she treads towards Emily’s desk. He’s cursing Emily in his head for pulling her away from their moment together. He smooths his shirt down and tucks it in properly as he walks to his desk. 

As he traverses through the bullpen, he just barely catches his name in the conversation she’s having with Emily. 

“...Spencer doesn’t really like being touched. Something about the germs bothers him.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize.” Her brows furrow, “Thank you for telling me,” and she sadly smiles.

He really wants to curse at Emily, now. 

3 Weeks go by before she touches him again. Spencer is sorely missing the day that she fixed his tie. He’s starting to consider coming into work with it crooked again to see if that can tempt her to fix it for him, again. 

Luckily, he doesn’t have to do that or anything more extreme. 

They’re inspecting a scene together, and he’s crouched down over some papers scattered all over the floor. A piece of his hair keeps falling in his eyes as he reads them, but he’s wearing gloves, so he can’t push it back properly. He keeps trying to use his air to blow it out of his eyeline, but it keeps falling back down. 

She comes over and crouches next to him, “Need any help?” 

He looks over at her and sees that she hasn’t put both of her gloves on yet – she has one on and is about to put on the other. 

“Actually, could you help me with this?” He blows air at the piece of hair again and gestures toward it. He’s so proud of himself for asking her. 

“Oh, are you sure?” She says as she reaches toward him with her bare hand, freezing mid-air. 

I hate you, Emily, he thinks. 

He nods with a shy smile, so she completes her movement and tucks the piece of hair back for him. 

They have twin blushes on their cheeks as they look away from each other and focus back on the documents in front of them. 

4 They’re packed into the backseat of an SUV, Spencer, her, and JJ, in that order. 

She climbed into the backseat after him and before JJ, and pressed her entire side against him – their arms and legs completely fused together. 

After JJ climbs in, he looks over to see if she’s also touching JJ like this, and they must have at least 6 inches of space between them. 

He’s absolutely basking in the feeling of her body pressed against his. He can barely contain his smile. 

She softly nudges her leg against his at a red light, so he’s absolutely sure that it wasn’t an accident or a result of the car jostling. He gets the confidence to nudge her leg back, and she looks over at him with a smile. He blushes and ducks his head down. 

5 He gets a call in the middle of the workday about his mom's health declining. The center needs his consent for a new medication. 

He’s sitting and crying in a random hallway with his knees to his chest. He never sees anyone near here, so he thinks he’s safe to do so, just for a little bit. 

“Spence! There you are, I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

He looks up at her with red-rimmed eyes and tears streaming down his cheeks. 

She crouches down in front of him and places her hands on his knees, rubbing soft circles against him. 

“Spence, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” A few more of his tears fall at the endearment.

He frantically wipes his tears away. He doesn’t want her to see him like this. “I’m okay, it’s just my mom… she’s sick.”

She wordlessly moves to sit next to him, and he feels guilty that she’s settling onto the cold, hard, dirty floor. 

That is, until she wraps an arm behind him and starts rubbing his back. Her hand rubbing up and down his spine is the most comforting thing he’s ever felt. 

He whispers, “She has schizophrenia and lives in a treatment facility.”

She shifts her arm to wrap across his shoulder, then pulls him in closer to her. She places a hand on his head and guides it to rest on her shoulder, soothingly rubbing circles with her thumb. 

♡♥♡  He finds her outside of a local precinct, sitting on a bench. As he approaches, he sees her shoulders shaking. Without even thinking, he starts unraveling his scarf to put it around her neck. He’s not sure why she’s out here at 9 pm, but he surely doesn’t want her to be cold. 

He stands in front of her with the scarf draped over his hands, ready to place it around her neck, when she looks up at him, and he sees tears streaming down her cheeks. 

He’s immediately reminded of how caring she was to him when she found him in a similar position, and hopes he can take care of her half as well as she took care of him. 

As he drapes the knit around her neck, she whispers, “I don’t really want to talk about it. Is that okay?”

“No-yes, I mean, of course.” He’s disappointed that she doesn’t want to confide in him, but he would never push her to talk when she doesn’t want to, so he accepts that her wearing his scarf is enough of a win. 

He turns on his heel to walk back inside when she stops him, “Wait, um, would you mind just sitting with me?”

“Of course,” He immediately replies. 

He lowers himself on the bench next to her and thinks about when they sat side-by-side in the SUV. He wonders if he should press his leg against hers or if it isn’t the right time. That was more of a silly thing that they did, and he doesn’t want her to think that he’s not taking her feelings seriously. 

“Thank you, I’m sorry, this is kind of embarrassing.” She feebly says.

“No, no, you’re fine, don’t worry,” He really hopes that he’s being reassuring enough for her. He knows how to calm down unsubs and victims and his mother, but this feels like entirely new territory. 

As they sit in silence, he looks down and sees her wringing her hands in her lap. His own fingers twitch as he debates what to do. Normally, he’d fill the silence with questions or facts or statistics.

He tentatively reaches over and places his hand over both of hers. 

They don’t talk much, as she requested, and normally that would make Spencer uncomfortable. Typically, he tries to avoid silence and fills it with his rants and ramblings. He even avoids silence in his own head by constantly having a book or headphones in his bag available.

This is different, though. Just her presence makes him feel calm and comfortable. 

Eventually, she pulls one of her hands out from under his to wipe away her tears with her sleeve. His heart sinks at the thought that their moment is over. 

That is, until she turns her remaining palm over and he realizes she’s trying to hold his hand properly. 

She scoots closer to him and points up at the shining stars in the night sky. 

“Are there any constellations we can see?” She asks. 

He smiles at the opportunity to share his knowledge with her; this is something he knows that he’s good at. 

He points out the various constellations above them and tells her about the ones that are present at other times of the year. He doesn’t notice that she’s shifted even closer to him on the bench until their hips touch and she’s lowering her head onto his shoulder. 

“Is this okay?” she whispers 

“Definitely,” He replies, and he bends his neck to place his head on top of hers, gently squeezing her hand as he does. 

pretty pls comment and reblog if u liked! i love talking to u guys and seeing ur cute rambles in the reblog tags <3

(tagging those who asked for this part!)

Your voice was disgustingly velvety and it was one of the many things that infuriated Spencer because every single thing that came out of your mouth made him itch to argue. He never had a real reason to hate you, not technically. Maybe it was the way you never seemed amused by what he says. Or the fact that you were — in his words — “childish” and “immature”. You never missed a chance to tease him and challenge his thoughts to watch him unravel. 

“No, I'm just saying that the game needs focus and Emily is kinda tired right now. I do also think it requires cognitive maturity, but you wouldn’t know much about that.” he shrugged. 

A small smirk crept up on your lips, he’s so predictable. You huffed, shoving your earbuds in the small pocket of your jeans, “Oh I’ll show you cognitive maturity, Reid.” 

He wanted nothing more than to ignore you, but he couldn’t help but glance up at you. You slid into the chair next to Emily, your movements graceful and unbothered by the tension radiating off him.

“Do you even know how to play chess?” Spencer asked as he laid the two-toned brown chess board flat on the table in front of him. 

“I’ve never lost a single game.” you shrugged. That was a lie. You were a good chess player, but you’ve definitely lost some games in your day. It’s hard to keep a “forever” winning streak in a household full of chess freaks. 

A wide grin formed on Morgan’s face, and he whistled to ruffle Spencer’s feathers, “Oh she’s coming for your throat, Reid.” 

“You just wait and watch me ruin him.” you picked the black side, cupping your hands against the table to pull all your pieces to your side. 

Spencer let out a short, dry laugh, “Hm, you wish.” 

At this point of the flight, everyone was bored out of their minds, so they were getting to that stage of stirring anything up for a bit of amusement. 

JJ was snacking on some salted chips in her seat that was close to yours, with only the narrow aisle between the two of you. She was watching you two as if you were a show on TV, “What do you get if you win?” she asked you with a subtle smile.

You gave her a small laugh and looked up in thought. 

Spencer scoffed, “She’s not going to win.” he looked at you, his index finger pointing at you, “You don’t have to think of a reward. We won’t be in need of that, don’t worry.” 

If you wanted to beat him a few moments ago, now you needed to. You had no other choice. 

“If I win you have to make my coffee exactly how I like it every morning and get me a glazed donut with that.” your smile widened, “I don’t wanna burden you, but you’ll have to warm up the donut before I come to work.” 

“What- No!” Spencer’s voice shot up as his face scrunched in disgust. The way he was so dramatic always fucking annoyed you. 

“Why not?”

Morgan let out a laugh and raised a brow, “What, are you scared, Reid?”

“I’m not scared. I don’t wanna humiliate you in front of everyone.”

“If you’re so sure you’re gonna win, why be worried?” you tilted your head, “Unless you know I’m gonna drag you to filth.” 

He placed his elbows on the table between you two. Glared at you, in the lovely, endearing you he always did. Then leaned back, “Fine but when I win, you’re gonna be delivering my paperwork to and from Hotch’s office.” 

When. 

The arrogance in that single word made you want to beat him even more. And it’s exactly why you never missed an opportunity of twisting his mind and nerves and pinning him down —figuratively— to show him just how pathetic he truly was. But when you think about it, pinning a completely dazed, breathless Spencer beneath you —literally— would taste even sweeter. 

“Deal.” you smiled sweetly. 

And now the game shall begin. 

You crossed your arms on the table and straightened your back while he moved his first pawn. You made your opening move the second his fingers left the piece.

Quick. 

Spencer’s eyes flicked up briefly before returning to the board. 

You hid your smile. 

 You knew the classic traps and techniques wouldn’t work on Spencer, so you tried to be creative. As creative as you can get in chess without being too reckless. 

Spencer’s brows never relaxed once, and he was biting his lip with so much force as if it would ignite new ideas. He usually didn’t need much effort to find a way around people’s moves.

But you played unpredictably enough for his brows to slightly twitch every few moves. Changing the rhythm, and ending every pattern before it was recognized was key to confusing him. 

His moves finally became slightly slower. 

You leaned forward, eyes locked on his hands that hesitated between two pieces, “You’re stalling.” 

“I’m not.” he finally settled on a piece to move, “I barely took eleven seconds. I played six moves in under 49 seconds and you took 55.” 

“You’re keeping track?” you looked up at him,watching his eyes lock onto yours in an instant.

That was the perfect time to make things go a bit faster.

Your fingers brushed the board lightly, nudging the knight one square to the left, a square it shouldn’t be able to reach.  

 You were just giving the game a push. Trying to be more efficient wasn’t a crime. Not if your intentions are pure. 

His eyes flicked back down to the board, “Of course I’m keeping track.” he muttered,”We don’t have a clock.”

You bit back a smile.

You could feel the moment he was finally trapped. His posture shifted and his teeth switched to his top lip. 

You clicked your fingers close to his face that was practically moving into the board with every move. 

“The clock is ticking Reid!” 

He slightly swatted your hand away from his face and made a move he wasn’t too sure of, “Your knight couldn’t have gotten there.” 

You lazily pointed at the knight, “It literally did. Look at it.” 

“No, because your rook-” his brows drew together. 

“Sounds like someone’s losing.” you murmured, leaning back in your chair like you hadn’t just shifted the entire balance of the game. 

Suddenly, playing chess was a million times more fun. 

“I’m not losing.” he immediately bit back. 

He slowly moved his rook, his fingers lingering on it for a moment too long. 

You made your move confidently without a second thought.

“..that knight shouldn’t be there,” he said again, his chin now resting on his palm. More like digging into it.

“It was there for a while.” 

“That’s impossible,” he shook his head, replaying the game in his head.

“It is possible,” you said simply.

“You couldn’t have gotten it into that spot with that little amount of moves.”

“Well, I did,” you gave him a shit-eating grin and leaned closer across the table, “you just weren’t paying attention when I made that move.” 

“I was paying attention.” 

You faintly smiled, “Not enough.” 

“Oh my god,” his eyes widened and he pressed his palms on the table on either side of the board. “You fucking cheated.”

“I did not.”

His hands moved above the board, “You absolutely did.” 

Your final move landed and his eyes zeroed on your bishop. 

“Oh.” he quietly said. 

You tilted your head slightly, “Oh?” 

“That’s checkmate.” he simply stated, trying to convince himself of this unexplainable mistake. He knew you cheated. 

“I told you I’ve never lost a game, Reid.” you smiled, “Maybe you’re a bit tired. The game requires deep concentration." you mocked, quoting him back to himself.  

“This doesn’t add up,” his fingers twitching over his captured queen, “The probability of your knight ending up in that spot without at least three intermediate moves is zero. It’s literally zero!”

“Just take the L, kid,” Morgan chuckled and patted Spencer’s shoulder, “she dragged you. Accept it.”

“I didn’t get dragged,” Spencer snapped, his face flushed in frustration. He looked up at you, eyes burning with sheer vexation, “You did something. I don’t know what, but you did something.” 

You slipped your earbuds back into your ears, relaxing your head on the headrest behind you, “Don’t forget Spencer. Two sugars and no creamer. Oh and microwave the donut for exactly fifteen seconds. I'll send it back if it’s cold.” you closed your eyes with a triumphant smirk plastered on your face. 

You could feel his eyes burning into your skull and you loved it. 

An hour later, you finally touched ground. JJ nudged you awake and you rubbed your eyes in exhaustion, your headache thumping behind your eyes harder than it was before napping. 

Spencer had already gotten up from his seat, grabbing his bag and swinging it over his shoulder stiffly before getting off the plane with only a few long strides.  

“Jeez, is he still pissed?” you yawned and slowly got up, your muscles gradually defrosting.

Emily chuckled, holding out your black leather bag, “He barely read twenty pages this past hour.”

You took your go bag, the weight of it on your shoulder easing some tension, “Thanks.”

“Have a good night everyone. Paperwork can wait till tomorrow morning.” Hotch announced when everyone got off the jet. 

“Ugh. You’re an angel.” you clasped your hands together, still half asleep, thanking Hotch. 

Hotch paused, glancing at you as you fell into step next to him, “You did a good job. Not that I approve of your illegal knight movements.” 

Your heart skipped a tiny beat, a small guilty smile forming on your face, “You saw that?”

Hotch didn’t break his stride, and his lips slightly turned up, “I did. Go home and get some sleep.” 

He probably didn’t say anything in the moment because you were Spencer’s karma to the time he cheated on cards while playing with Hotch and JJ on the jet a few weeks ago. 

The sleep fully faded as soon as you got to the door of your apartment. 

You were physically exhausted but your head was never more awake. 

You took an hour long hot shower as a form of meditation. You didn’t bother turning on the main lights or changing into your clothes. You held the towel around your body and collapsed face-first into the mattress. The sheets were cool against your skin, a welcome relief from the long two busy days you spent in Los Angeles. 

When you finally decided to stand and properly get ready for bed, your phone started ringing, pulling you out of the static ease you finally forced your head to fall into. 

You turned your phone over. 

Spencer. 

“Tell me how the knight got to b5.” he blurted out.

You sighed, rubbing your eyes and moving toward your closet in the corner of the room, “Are you seriously still crying over this?”

“I’m not crying. And I didn’t lose. The game doesn’t count because you cheated.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I did not cheat? Maybe I’m just a prodigy and you don’t know it.”

“Oh please,” he scoffed, “You are not a prodigy.” 

Spencer sounded deeply irritated and sleep-deprived. 

“You’re adorable when you're spiraling.” you teased with a coy smile.

You knew your words would only stimulate a reaction. Anger. 

“You disrupted the entire structure of the game-” 

“Reid, if you’re so sure I cheated, come over and prove it.” you interrupted him, your voice dropping to a lazy tone, “I have a board. Come beat me if you can, Spencer.” 

The silence on the other end stretched for a few seconds. 

Spencer huffed, “Fine but if I-”

You hung up before he could continue. What’s better than irking him even more.

You decided to get comfortable and change into a graphic tee and cotton shorts. You needed a clear mind, a good plan, and all the luck in the world to “recreate” the game.

As expected, he was at the door in under twenty minutes. Three firm knocks pulled you out of your peace, just like every other thing he ever did. 

You were met with a polite looking Spencer. He changed out of his work clothes into another one of his work outfits. He was overly prepared for this and it was starting to worry you. He is not letting you win again—not when he has his suspicions now. 

“You hung up on me.” he accused, stepping past you into the warm, dimly lit apartment.

“Your voice was annoying me,” you shrugged, locking the door behind him, “and I told you—if you want to prove I’m a fraud, do it on the board.” 

The black and white wooden chess set was already laid out in the middle of your green couch.

You sat sideways, cross-legged on one side of the couch, facing the board. Spencer gently lowered his bag onto the floor next to the couch and sat across from you, his long legs bent awkwardly to fit his tall frame into the limited space. 

“White or black?” he asked, his eyes settling on the board. 

“Take white. Give yourself the advantage,” you teased, resting your palms on your knees as you gave him a calm, challenging look, “you’re going to need it.”

“I don’t need an advantage to beat someone who can’t stick to basic rules of the game.” he muttered, moving the white pawn regardless. 

The game progressed quickly, both of you taking only a few seconds per turn. 

Unlike the jet, there were no distractions. The rhythmic, aggressive snapping of pieces cut through the silence of your apartment. 

You quickly realized that even if you wanted to play clean, you were getting further away from winning with every turn. But you kept your confidence strong, making every move with undeniable certainty. 

You pulled your eyes off the board, keeping them on him. 

He glanced up for a second, “What are you doing?”

“I’m playing the game.” you kept your eyes fixated on the curls that fell over his face, “Your moves are very predictable and it’s getting boring.”

He looked up at you, “I know, playing by the rules must be very boring for you.” 

The subtle dig hung in the air. You chose to not say anything back and give him a lazy smile, refusing to break eye contact. 

You slowly uncurled your leg from your crisscrossed position, draping it over the open edge of the couch—letting your bare thigh rest only a few inches away from Spencer’s knee, close to the board separating the two of you.

Spencer’s eyes flicked to your leg for a fraction of a second. It was agonizingly obvious that the sight had thrown him off his axis.  

You bit back a smirk. “You seem kinda tense, Reid.” you whispered, cocking your head to the side. 

“I’m fine.” the words were sharp. 

You decided to press your advantage. Your finger slowly grazed the right edge of the board, reaching the corner close to him, then bringing it back to your side.

He took a deep breath, trying to regain his focus. His focus was fracturing under the weight of the room that only kept getting heavier.

“Are you losing your focus, Spencer?” you whispered, a barely-there smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. 

“No.” His eyes were completely pinned to yours now, dark and dilated. A faint shade of pink was trailing up his neck, finally settling on his ears, giving him away. Poor Spencer was nervous. 

Every time he looked down at the board, all he could see was your bare thigh invading his peripheral vision. All he could hear was the soft rhythm of your breathing as you kept getting closer above the board. 

He had to stare at your face whenever looking at the board wasn’t an absolute must. So when it was your turn his eyes were wide and fixated on your face as if it took monumental physical effort to keep them there. 

Luckily for you, you’ve been running different possibilities of how the game could go every few moves. 

You looked down, crunching two moves into a single turn—which completely altered the route of the game. 

He hesitated for a moment, but didn’t want his distraction to be too obvious, so he made the impulsive choice of moving the piece that his slender fingers were hovering over. 

“Ha! Checkmate!” a wide smile took over your face.

“What- no this isn’t possible-” he was stuttering with so much frustration, only making your smile widen. 

You teasingly leaned forward, right on the boundary line of his space, “You just can’t handle losing to me.” 

At this point, the normal thing to do was to start packing the pieces back into their place silently, but where’s the fun in “normal”? 

So you didn’t move. You were still leaning over the board. Waiting for something you couldn’t figure out. 

Who would’ve known that making him lose focus would be this easy. 

“You did something, I just know it.” his voice lost its sharp edge, now sounding heavier, “You were distracting me on purpose.” 

“What? Having normal conversation is illegal during a fun, friendly game?” you tipped your head a tad bit closer. 

“It’s not my fault you couldn’t handle the heat.” your heart was hammering against your ribs at the intensity of his eyes glaring at you. 

You always teased Spencer, but you always took a step back just before it got too much. And now, it was getting too much. 

Spencer’s gaze dropped to your lips for a moment, his throat bobbing. “You’re so insufferable.” he rasped. 

The underlying tension that had been building between you over the months of constant psychological warfare finally snapped. Spencer reached across the short distance, crashing his lips onto yours clumsily. 

It wasn’t smooth at all. His teeth bumped against yours— a physical manifestation of his lack of composure. He froze and his hands awkwardly hovered in the air between you two, having no clue where to rest them. 

You didn’t pull away. Your hand cradled his jaw and you leaned into the kiss, parting your lips slightly. A low, desperate sound caught in the back of his throat, making the corners of your mouth twitch. 

Your fingers tipped his head and he immediately obliged, letting his head tilt backwards. You slightly tugged on his bottom lip before pulling back slightly. His eyes were frantically scanning every feature of your face as if you were an odd, foreign object in a dream. 

His breath was heavy, and weirdly enough—you didn’t mind breathing it in with your own mingling breath. Your hands moved down to his chest, gently pushing him back to rest on the back of the couch—his shaky legs uncrossing and slipping down on the floor to sit properly.

He didn’t know what you were doing, but he was so dazed and weak that he’d do whatever you told him to. You crawled over the chess board, knocking off some pieces that Spencer tried catching so they wouldn't fall on the floor, “Don’t,” your voice made him stop and lean backwards immediately. 

You slid your right leg over his lap to sit properly. Your mind was fuzzy and you weren’t thinking straight. The way his body was leaning into yours hypnotized you in a way that made it impossible to stop now.

His brows drew together once your weight settled on his lap as he let out a small grunt. His hands immediately, gently gripped your hips without much thought.

You connected your lips again, but this time the clumsiness was gone. The initial shock was now replaced with mutual desperation. He opened his mouth further, giving you permission for more. Your hand moved to his soft curls, tugging on them as you slid your tongue into his open mouth. 

You shifted your weight slightly, grinding your core against him, and Spencer let out a small whimper. Your body was desperate for friction, just like him, but you couldn’t let yourself get too carried away just yet. 

“What was that Spencer? Already a whimpering mess?” you struggled to keep calm. 

His eyes flew open, completely blown out, his brown irises completely swallowed by his pupils. 

“No.” 

You rolled your hips with more force, pulling another whimper from his wet, parted lips, “please.” he whispered.

His hips bucked as you deliberately shifted again, a slow torturous grind that had his fingers gripping the fabric of your shorts. 

You lowered your voice to a honey-sweet tone, “Did I say you could move, Spencer?” 

“No,” 

You could feel his bulge straining his pants between your thighs. “So needy.” you shook your head with a smug smirk. 

“Already so hard, Spencer?” you looked at his face with fake sympathy, keeping the slow rhythm of your hips. 

He couldn’t bring himself to speak, but his shaky hands trailed up your back reverently, trying to hold onto every bit. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, making you gasp softly. 

You leaned in to kiss his slightly open mouth, then kissed your way to his jaw. You nipped at the sensitive spot behind his ear, “oh my god,” he murmured, trying to keep his voice to himself so you’d stop teasing him. 

You couldn’t help but smile, “I didn’t know you were this weak, Spencer.”

“I’m not,” he whined, his eyes squeezing shut. 

He looked so beautifully, entirely at your mercy. 

He slid his cold hands underneath your tee, his thumbs pressing right under your breasts, his long fingers splaying across your ribs. The coolness of his hands against your skin spread goosebumps all over your torso and made your hips stutter for a moment. 

“So handsy for someone who hasn’t been given permission,” you teased, leaning down so your lips hover closely over his. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice trembling. 

He picked his head up, trying to reach his lips to yours. 

You pulled your head back just an inch, denying him the contact. 

He let out a defeated whimper, his head falling back against the couch. 

“You can touch,” you whispered, as much as you wanted to keep him restrained and away from feeling you; his touch had this hypnotic pull that you couldn’t resist. 

He placed his hands higher on your chest, cupping your breasts in his hands, letting his thumbs brush over your nipples that were already hard and sensitive. The contrast of his cool palms against your feverish skin dragged a gasp from your throat. 

You pulled your shirt over your head, tossing it on the chess board next to the two of you. 

Spencer’s face warmed fast and he went completely still. This was the first time he’d gotten so intimate with a woman-- not because he was entirely inexperienced, but because no one ever had this much control over his mind. 

“Spencer,” you murmured, “You have permission. Don’t freeze up on me now.” your words vibrated against his soft lips. 

Your words broke the spell. His trembling hands returned to your boobs, kneading them slowly, testing the soft fullness. He leaned up, peppering kisses on your chest, getting closer and closer to your sensitive spot.

He looked up at you once he reached one of your nipples, he tenderly pecked the peak before swirling his warm tongue over it and taking it between his lips. Your hands carded through his locks, letting the string of whiny, desperate sounds leave your agape mouth. 

You slid one of your hands down his shaky chest and to his covered crotch. 

The sudden sensation of your palm resting directly over his throbbing covered cock sent a shockwave through his body, making his movements immediately falter, his teeth slightly biting your nipple. 

Your finger traced the strained line of his erection. 

“You’re not gonna come now, are you?” you whispered, your voice dropping to a cruel purr. 

He quickly shook his head, clearly struggling, “I’m not,” 

“Yeah, cuz that would be really embarrassing, right?” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his, your hand moving with more precision now. 

Spencer didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

“Admit that I won, Reid.” 

His brows furrowed, “What?” he panted.

“You heard me, Spencer. Admit that I played better than you.” 

“No- but you cheated- I know you did.” 

Your hand stopped, stalling your movements entirely right when he needed you most, “I won’t let you come if you don’t admit that I rightfully won.” 

“Please.” the desperation sounded like music to your ears. 

“Just say it, Reid.”

“This is so unfair.” he looked up at you with a silent desperate plea.

You punished his stubbornness by rolling your hips forward, a slow friction-loaded press against his aching length. The burning friction made your core pulse, the tight knot in the pit of your stomach tightening. 

“Don’t be so stubborn, Reid. Come on, just tell the truth.”

“But it’s not the truth,” he stammered. 

You raised your hips, denying him the release he was so desperately chasing. His hands lingered on your skin, not wanting to let go as you stood up. 

“Take your clothes off.” you pushed the chess set further away from where he was sitting.

He blinked up at you before quickly standing and working to unbutton his shirt. 

You calmly walked over to the wooden coffee table, pouring yourself a glass of water, needing something to cool some tension and heat out of your body. 

You sipped the chilling water as you looked back at Spencer who was fumbling with his belt buckle, “Want some water?” you asked.

He nodded, “please,” you poured some more in your glass before handing it to him. Spencer took the glass from your hand, his fingers trembling as he brought it up to his lips. 

The sight of him trying to hold onto a shred of his dignity, shirtless, belt unbuckled, exposing the strain of his erection against his boxers more clearly now was intoxicating, 

“So what’s the limit? How far are you willing to go?” you tilted your head to the side. 

“I don’t.. I don’t want to stop.” he whispered, the words tearing out of him as if physically pained him to admit it. “You completely turn off my head and I don’t want this to stop. I want to go as far as you’re willing to go.” 

The raw intensity made your head spin and your stomach turn. Were you nervous? 

You took the glass from his hand, nodding your head once toward the couch, gesturing for him to sit back in his place after he’d stripped out of his clothes—minus his boxers. 

“I really.. really need this. Any of it.” he sounded like he was about to cry.

You took slow, delicate steps until you were standing in front of him, “God, you’re so pathetic.” you shook your head, looking down at him—completely undone. 

Spencer didn’t even try to defend himself. He just stared up at you as he tried to even out his breaths. 

You felt a little nice, so you didn’t keep him waiting much longer. You climbed back onto his lap, straddling his hips and resting your hands between the side of his jaw and neck. He immediately held onto your thighs and surged forward to kiss you like a man gasping for air. 

You glanced down to where your hips met, seeing a small dark, wet stain on his navy boxers. It wasn’t big enough to prove that he came without your permission, so you smirked, “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” he choked out. 

Your hand slid down between your bodies, your fingers trailing down his burning chest, finally reaching his waistband. Your index finger hooked the elastic of his boxers before pulling the fabric, letting his cock spring against his stomach. 

Your body shuddered, suddenly needing some sort of warmth to soothe your frayed nerves. 

“God..” he dropped his head back against the couch, taking a deep breath to steady his violent heartbeat that filled his ears. 

His thumbs brushed over the goosebumps on your thighs on instinct. 

You wrapped your fingers around his painfully throbbing cock, bringing your thumb to the slit of his tip, swirling the precum around the crown with minimal pressure, making him drop his head on your shoulder with a stifled moan. 

You leaned your flushed cheek against his curls, letting your fingers tighten lightly around his cock.

“Look at you, Spencer,” you whispered against his ear, your voice a soft, teasing hum, “you can’t even hold your own head up. Where did all the smart words go, huh?”

You gave his shaft a few slow, tight pumps, looking down at the new forming precum. You hadn’t expected him to be this big, pulsing against your hand in a way that sent a sudden thrill straight to your core. 

It only took two minutes for him to lose control over his hips, which were now helplessly, involuntarily twitching against your hand, letting you know that he was close to the edge. You pressed a short soft kiss on his temple, abruptly releasing your hand, completely cutting off the friction just as you felt his veins hammering against your palm.

“Please don’t do this to me..” he picked his head up to shake it, giving you those devastating puppy eyes that made your heart ache just a little. 

You tapped your ear, “ I didn’t hear you say the magic words yet, Spencer,” you stood up, walking to your brown coat that was hung by the door. 

“But you didn’t win fairly,” he whined, following your movement with his eyes.

“And you’re not gonna come.” you shrugged, walking back to the couch with a condom in your hand, “are you sure this is okay?” your voice was a bit softer now, the teasing toning dropping for a second to make sure he’s fully onboard.

He shook his head frantically, “Yes. One hundred percent.” 

You gave him a small smirk, tossing the condom to him. He quickly tore open the wrapper before rolling the condom down his length, giving himself some friction to ease the aching.

You took off your cotton shorts before returning to your comfortable spot on his lap, immediately being held by his trembling, reverent hands. 

You slid your hand down to your folds, swirling your thumb on the tight bundle of nerves before slowly pushing two fingers into your entrance to warm yourself up before doing anything with Spencer. 

After pumping your fingers into your dripping heat a few times to slick yourself up, you were ready to take him in. You slowly pulled your wet fingers out, trailing them up his chest before bringing them to his lips.

Without waiting for a command, Spencer wrapped his lips around your fingers without a second thought, sucking them clean with needy, heavy hunger that pulled a soft moan out of your pretty lips. The knot in your core only tightened further, a throbbing ache settling between your thighs. You slowly withdrew your fingers from his wet mouth, leaving his lips glistening and parted. 

You raised your hips, using your hand to line him up with your aching entrance. You took a deep shaky breath that made Spencer press a tender kiss to your collarbone, his hands trailing up and down your sides in an attempt to soothe you. 

You slowly lowered yourself down, letting his tip stretch your tight entrance. A shaky gasp caught in your throat as you moved your hips down an extra inch. He didn’t move his hips, he looked up at you with quiet patience, waiting for you to move, “We don’t have to-” he whispered.

You cut him off by sinking down with a broken moan, your hands clawing his shoulders. 

“Spencer,” you breathed out, feeling him fill you up completely before lifting your hips slowly, dragging the friction against your walls.

You pressed back down, burying him deep inside you again, feeling him throb against your pulsing pussy. He murmured incoherent words that sounded a lot like your name in a loop against the crook of your neck. 

You found the perfect pace after a minute of fractured rhythm while you were adjusting to his size. You adjusted your position, making his tip hit just the right spot, a sharp gasp tearing from your lips as a wave of blinding pleasure rippled straight through you. 

Spencer’s grip tightened on your hips, holding you with more confidence now that he felt your inner walls clench around him.

“Right there,” you panted, shutting your eyes as you lifted your hips and rolled them back down to hit that same spot again. 

“Oh god,” his words vibrated against your skin, filling all your senses. 

“Say it, Spencer. Tell me I beat you.” you whispered, shifting your hips in an agonizingly slow circle, making him cry out as his eyes rolled back into his head. 

“You won..” he whined into your neck, “you beat me.”

“And was it- fuck- was it fair?” you choked out, struggling to keep up the teasing because you were just as needy as him right now. 

“So fair. So fair, and I know I had no chance of winning,” he lied, his voice breaking entirely.  

You smirked, a deep wave of satisfaction washing over you at the sound of his absolute surrender. 

“Spencer,” you took a shaky deep breath in, “fuck, I’m so close..” your words were cut off by your own overwhelming noises. 

“Let me come with you,” he pleaded, his voice breathless, “please,” 

You nodded, pressing your forehead against his, for some reason trying to hold back the unraveling knot that was taking over your senses. 

His glassy eyes locked onto yours as his hips bucked upwards one last time, hitting that perfect, sweet spot, shattering whatever was left of your control. 

A high, strangled gasp tore from your throat as your walls convulsed around him, your back arching into him, pressing you to his chest as your muscles went weak. The intensity of your release triggered his own; Spencer’s head nuzzled further into your neck, biting down before kissing the spot in apology, his arms wrapping around your back tightly as his hips continued moving to draw out both of your staggering orgasms. 

It took a few moments to come down and melt onto one another. You both panted with closed, heavy eyelids. 

You pulled your head back to look at his hot, damp face, “See what happens when you admit the truth?” 

Spencer was still heaving with closed eyes, a faint shade of crimson still painting his neck and chest. Your brows slightly knitted, “Are you okay?” you murmured softly. 

“Yes. You’ve proven how truly evil you are.” he admired your flushed face, focusing on your swollen pink lips. 

You let out a soft chuckle, “Good.” 

You slid off of him, the emptiness immediately hitting you at the loss of contact. “I’ll go shower. I won’t take long, you can go in after me.” you kept your eyes on the floor as you picked up your clothes to head to your room. 

Disappointment settled in Spencer’s chest. He knew that this was nothing more than releasing some built up tension between them, but he hadn’t wished for the aftermath to last only a few seconds. Barely any words were exchanged, and he didn’t know what she thought. 

Did she regret this? 

Was he bad at it? 

For the first time, he didn’t really know what he was expecting, but his chest was completely hollowed out by your subtly shielded mind. Even after such an intense experience, you didn’t attempt to connect—to let him take a quick peek into your head. 

He slowly stood up, taking quiet quick steps to the tissue box that was neatly placed on the coffee table. He cleaned himself up before disposing of the condom and putting his stained boxers and wrinkled shirt back on. He contemplated putting his slacks back on but decided against it. 

Once the plane begins its descent, he stirs awake. He shoots upward like he’s been shocked, immediately blushing a tomato red.

“I’m so sorry!” He squeaks out while scrambling to smooth his hair.

“It’s okay,” she reaffirms with a soft smile.

He ducks his head and hurriedly packs his belongings into his satchel.

Once the plane lands, he’s the first one to place his feet on the tarmac.

2: The whole team is eating at a restaurant that Rossi dragged them to, insisting they served the best Italian food on the West Coast.

Spencer is sitting across from her, and she can’t help but admire how the candlelight creates soft, flickering shadows on his face.

As they’re all eating their meals, she feels a soft pressure on the front of her shoe. She glances under the table and sees a sliver of a bright colored sock. Her eyes flicker back to him, and he’s invested in a conversation with Hotch about their recent case. She chooses not to say anything and continues indulging in her food – it is the best pasta she’s ever had.

Eventually, her foot involuntarily twitches while she’s laughing with Emily. Spencer looks under the table and sees what he’s done.

He jerks his foot backward before tucking his crossed ankles under his chair.

With flushed cheeks and wide eyes. “I’m so sorry, I thought I was touching the table.”

She’s just started chewing a bite of food and gestures that she needs a moment before she can reply.

“...With my shoe. I thought I had rested it on the table leg. I’m sorry.”

“Oh! No, you’re fine.” She replies sweetly.

He’s relatively quiet for the rest of the meal, only speaking when he’s directly addressed. 

She misses the light weight of him against her; it felt strangely intimate.

3: He’s in an elevator with her and Derek – each of them are on either side of him. The elevator is rickety, decrepit, and antiquated. He would’ve just taken the stairs if the apartment they’re visiting wasn’t on the 14th floor.

After Derek pressed the button, they were lurched so violently that Spencer white-knuckled the handrail behind him.

His breathing is erratic with each floor they pass, his eyes glued to the display screen.

Derek laughs, “Remember that time we got stuck in that elevator?” 

Spencer whines, “Don’t mention that right now.”

She giggles, “Wait, what?”

Derek continues, “One time, Pretty Boy and I got stuck in an elevator – it was a lot like this one, actually – and he squealed like a little girl-”

Spencer exclaims, “You were scared too!”

“Not as scared as-”

The elevator suddenly plunges, affecting everyone’s balance. She and Derek stagger into the side walls. Spencer stumbles into her side, hand lifting to support himself on the wall above her head.

His other hand lands on her waist.

For a moment, she’s cornered by his body. His warmth radiates through him, and onto her skin; she’s sure that’s why her face feels so hot. 

Their faces are only a few inches apart. If she were a braver woman, (and if Derek wasn’t standing three feet away,) she’d lean in and kiss him.

His eyes are squeezed shut, and his minty breath fans over her face.

Derek whistles, “Damn, no concern for my safety?”

Spencer’s eyes blink open, and he jumps back from her like she burned him. 

“Oh! Oh my- I’m so sorry.”

The elevator continues its ascent, and they all wait silently with their backs against the wall. Spencer purposefully avoids Derek’s pointed gaze.

4: Spencer enters the break room to make his umpteenth cup of coffee for the day. He finds her standing at the counter, stirring her cream and sugar into her own cup. 

She looks up as he walks in, “Hey, I just brewed a fresh pot.”

He softly smiles, “Oh! Great, thank you.”

As he reaches up to the mug cabinet, she shifts to move slightly behind him to toss her coffee stirrer into the trash. Thinking she’s walked away, he steps to the side to grab his favorite mug that he keeps hidden on the top shelf. 

His step brings him directly to her side, bumping their hips together. Her stance falters into a wobble. His hand instinctively reaches behind her to grab her elbow, steadying her.

“Whoa– Sorry!” 

“Oh– You’re fine!” 

Her body feels so warm and supple against his. She fits into his side like a puzzle piece. His hand remains on her arm for just a second too long, savoring the way she feels tucked against him.

He pulls his hand off of her and takes a small step away from her. After clearing his throat, he stutters, “I-I’m so sorry, I thought you had walked away.”

“No, it’s okay!” she replies quickly. “Thanks for not letting me fall.” She giggles and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, exposing her rosy cheeks. 

“Of course, I’m sorry, though… again.”

“You don’t have to be sorry, it’s all good, Spence.” She’s looking at him with such intense sincerity that his breath falters.

He nods sharply, “Right! Okay! Good!” 

There’s a moment of silence as she picks up her mug and walks toward the door. He turns around to face her.

“Sorr–” He blushes and looks down at his feet. “I mean, thanks for making the coffee.”

She amusedly breathes out and gives him a knowing smile, “No problem.”

5:  The whole team has gathered around a conference room of a small-town precinct. Their only printer is down, so there’s a limited amount of files. Everyone is shoulder-to-shoulder, leaning over the documents. Everyone except her and Spencer. She doesn’t want to crowd him and make him uncomfortable, so she asks if she could see the report he’s holding after he’s done with it.

He begins to pass it over without hesitation; he already has the contents memorized, anyway. He looks away as he hands it over, sharing a niche statistic that's relevant to the case with the room.

Someone in the far corner has called her name, so she turns away from Spencer and toward the voice. Her hand is open, ready to take the file from him.

Then, the side of his hand, the one holding the papers, lands directly in the palm of hers. 

He doesn’t jerk back immediately. Her palm is so soft and tepid that it brings him a moment of comfort. For once, he’s not thinking about the millions of bacteria that live on human hands.

Their eyelines meet at their (sort of) joined hands. Her fingers have reflexively curved to brush the back of his hand, expecting her grip to find papers.

Her expression falls a little as he pulls his hand away from hers. Although the movement is less abrupt than she thought it might be. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

He hands the file to her properly, before crossing his hands in front of his body. Pink blooms on his cheeks as he turned his head away from her, seeking a distraction.

*** The team is in New York City investigating a scene in the middle of Times Square. The NYPD has blocked off the area, but there are hordes of people gathering at the edge of the tape lines.

The BAU parked their SUVs as close as they could and are walking the rest of the way to the scene, squeezing through groups of people and dodging elbows and rowdiness. 

She’s walking next to him and keeps getting jostled into his side. As they approach a tighter gap between clusters of onlookers, Spencer places a hand on the small of her back to help guide her through.

He does it without even thinking. 

He looks down at her to gauge her reaction to his touch, hoping he doesn’t see discomfort painted in her eyes. She looks up at him with a thankful smile, and they both blush before returning their gazes forward.

He keeps his hand on her for as long as he can. He rationalizes that he’s just being a helpful friend, but he can’t deny his enjoyment of the contact and her proximity.

The crowd gets thicker the closer they get to the scene. She instinctively shifts closer to his side, and he’s mentally reciting the periodic table in an effort to keep his heart rate under control. He presses his hand firmer against her back as they wave through the sea of people.

He’s disappointed to see the yellow crime scene tape getting closer and closer. Part of him has forgotten that they’re there for work. For a second, he could imagine that just the two of them were on a trip to the city together.

She looks up at him and thanks him just before they have to duck under the tape.

“Of course, it’s really crowded.” He nods affirmatively.

The small of her back feels cold after the removal of his hand. His hand feels empty as it now dangles at his side.

Once they’ve passed the tape and are talking to the NYPD about the case, they’re standing side-by-side as they listen to the details. She presses her shoulder against his, making him lose his train of thought. He has to force himself to focus on the men in front of him.

They separate as the team traverses the scene, but they glance at each other sporadically, hiding small smiles.

(tagging those who asked for more!)

“Don’t say that.” He pouted, his hand drifting to your knee and giving it a gentle squeeze. “You went and did something you were afraid of- that falls under the literal definition of the word brave.”

You scoffed but leaned into him all the same, delighting when his arm moved from your knee to drape around your shoulder as he pulled you in closer. “I don’t think the people making the dictionary were thinking about someone being a baby at their doctor’s office when they wrote that one.”

He’d been a true gentleman the entire time, holding your hand in the waiting room and steadying your knee when it just wouldn’t stop bouncing. He’d leaned in close to you, his voice low and gentle as he rambled to you about anything and everything. He knew you weren’t taking any of it in, not really, but it stopped the heaving of your chest and that was enough for him. When you were sat before the doctor he rolled your sleeve up for you, rubbing the goosebumps on your skin while your dose was prepared. When the needle broke your skin and you gasped, he took your free hand, letting you squeeze until his skin was red and still he never complained.

You’d felt somewhat embarrassed. This was the man who’d survived being shot, survived an explosion- survived being poisoned, and now here he was kissing your temple and whispering in your ear while the doctor applied possibly the world’s smallest bandage to possibly the world’s smallest wound on your arm. You might as well have been given a sticker and a lollipop when they sent you on your way.

“You’re not being a baby.” Spencer said as if reading your mind. “Trypanophobia is one of the most common phobias in the world. It affects at least one in ten adults worldwide- it’s completely normal.”

“Is that what you told your boss when you called off work this morning?” You asked, cringing at the thought of him explaining this to Hotch. “That you couldn’t fight crime today because you had to babysit me at the doctor’s?”

“I told him,” Spencer started, pulling your legs into his lap and pulling a giggle out of you in response, “that I couldn’t come and do paperwork today because you had an important medical appointment and needed someone to make sure you were okay. And he was very understanding provided I make up the time.”

Shifting slightly, you made sure he could see your eyes roll as you spoke. “That’s borderline lying. It was not that important and it’s not like I’m dying.”

“It was a slight exaggeration.” He nodded slowly, considering your point. “But it’s not uncommon to experience side effects afterwards- headaches, nausea, fevers. And with the anxiety you’ve been feeling all morning I’d imagine you’re feeling pretty sick right now.”

“I think I’ll live.” You shrugged, trying to hide the fact you had actually been sneaking some deep breaths in since you got home.

“Maybe.” He shrugged back. “But how are you feeling right now?”

He got you. The fight drained from your body, the bravado falling from your face as you felt it melt into a pout. The cooing tone of his voice had worked its magic, making your tense body fall limp against him as he held you closer. Your voice was quieter when it left you, a little sadder, a little more tired. “Pretty sick.”

“Exactly.” Spencer spoke impossibly soft, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “And if I wasn’t here who would make you soup and tell you you’re so brave?”

You hummed thoughtfully into his shoulder as your head fell to rest on it. “I think I could probably handle the soup part myself.”

His brows pinched like the concept personally offended him, a frown tugging his pretty lips downwards in protest. “But why should you have to?”

A laugh escaped you, your shoulders shaking under his hand which squeezed at you affectionately, careful to avoid the sore ache in your arm. You could tell from the way he rested his cheek against your head that you were going to be pampered for the rest of the day, that he was going to hone in on your every minor symptom as an excuse to tell you to sit back and not lift a finger.

“This seems a little dramatic, still.” You smiled up at him. “At worst I’m probably just going to feel a little queasy for an hour. I really don’t need you fussing over me.”

“Maybe so,” he hummed, turning his head to press a kiss to the top of yours. “But technically, I am a doctor so…”

tonight is different though, the team is out for drinks, but you’re with him. scott, jerk, bitch boy, butt face–whatever his name is. you had declined, you never decline, saying that you and scott had plans. and in a desperate attempt to not think about you, he gave in. 

what's in his cup, he's not entirely sure off. penelope had handed it to him earlier, elated that he was joining them, and that he won't taste the alcohol. he stares at the blue fizzy drink in the cup, and although he likes how sweet it is, he could say with certainty that the taste was distinguishable. 

a hand slaps him on the back, “that's gonna give you the worst hangover, pretty boy,” derek says, arm now across spencer’s shoulders. “why’d you let penelope get you that?”

“because,” she interjects out of nowhere at the mention of her name, her own colourful drink in tow, “he doesn't like bitter.” she waves her hand dismissively, “now, leave him alone and go drink your scotch” she says, her face twisted in distaste. 

the two of them waddle off together, leaving spencer victim to his damn thoughts. what are you doing with scott? you should be with your friends instead. this is a time to unload and relax together, not be away with your ratty boyfriend. maybe if he could convince hotch to make these outings essential to team building, you’d be less likely to cancel-

no.

he is not doing this. he needs to not think.

he takes a long sip from his drink, swallowing fast so the taste doesn't linger. he works on it like this, long and fast, until he moves on to his second and third. it doesn't take long for him to get drunk, tolerance being next to nothing. 

-

the bar is dim and loud when you walk in, greeted with a whiff of something too strong when a stranger walks past you. you scan the place, looking for familiar faces. your fingers twitch nervously by your leg, you're not supposed to be here, or atleast thats what you told them. but you couldn't stand the eerie silence of your apartment any longer. your eyes screech to a halt when you spot the back of a head of curls you know oh so well. 

-

“hey.”

you slide into the booth beside him, and he freezes. where did you come from? 

“hi,” he says curtly. suddenly overly aware of himself, he straightens.

“what are you…” you trail off, eyebrows creased in amusement. he's so frigid, almost guilty. your breath catches and you lean in, nostrils flaring slightly, is that gin? you peer at him, confused. “have you been drinking?”

as if on instinct, spencer drags his drink further away from you on the table. your eyes dart down to the half-filled glass you had previously thought was a mocktail, and snap back to his.

“wait, really? you're drinking?” your tone a mix of surprise and concern.

“so what? i can drink, i’m allowed to drink,” he retorts, defensiveness bubbling up. 

taken aback, you look down for a moment, then meet his gaze again, seeing the apology in his eyes. “it's okay. you can do whatever you want. so… how are you feeling?”

a lazy smile creeps up as he leans his head back against the wall, “drunk.”

you chuckle, “it tends to work that way.” you pause, scrutinising him before repeating your question. “how are you feeling?”

your emphasis on the word eats at him, he knows you know why he doesn't drink. you'd been on the team only a year and a half, yet you knew him better than anyone. he concedes, incapable of not giving you what you want.

“good, fine, okay. i'm okay, i’m… okay,” he stammers, as if convincing himself along with you.

a quick flash of apprehension passes through your face, eyebrows momentarily creasing, “yeah?”

“yeah.” 

it's quiet for a minute, as quiet as it can get in a bar blasting 90s hip-hop. you're leaned against the heel of your hand, elbow to the table and body angled his way. he’s fidgeting with his fingers on his lap. you're trying to figure out what's different about tonight, itching to ask him but you don't. he’ll tell you, you hope. letting out a sigh, you cease your analysing.

before he can stop it, he starts speaking again, “so where's scott?” he drags out the ‘t’ sound at the end, words slurring together. 

you briefly tense, but he doesn't notice, circumstances rendering spencer’s profiling abilities inept. “um, he's home.” no he's not.

“didn't you guys have plans?”

“yeah,” you respond shortly.

“so why are you here?”

“plans ended early. i wanted to stop by.”

you hope your answers are enough for spencer, enough to stop the interrogation. you didn't want to tell him that you and scott had broken up, 2 weeks ago. by the way spencer’s attentions drifts to a piece of lint on your shoulder, you conclude that he's content. 

“are you not getting anything?” he asks, referring to your lack of a drink.

“nope, pulling a spencer tonight,” you chirp, he smiles. “want me to take you home? i brought my car.”

your face warms as he nods eagerly, taking a sip from his abandoned cup. you tuck a piece of hair behind his ear, determined to make sure he gets taken care of, and exhale slowly. your eyes glint mischievously, “okay, talk to me, pretty boy. i wanna see how much more unfiltered you get when you're drunk.”

-

the night goes on, you and spencer holed up in the corner, deep in conversation though it's more giggly than normal, very giggly. your teammates pass by the table now and then but get pulled back to the excitement eventually. spencer's expressive hands become languid, aimlessly waving around in the air as he rambles on about whatever comes to mind; the fibonacci sequence, the golden ratio, nautilus shells, speaking of shells, one time a hermit crab pinched me when i picked it up. the fact itself isn't funny but the way he raises both hands to imitate claws is and you start laughing again, and he realises he wants to make you laugh like that for the rest of his life. 

your eyes drift to the clock on the opposite wall, it's something past midnight though it's too far away to tell. you decide to call it. 

“c’mon, let's go.”

“but-” he protests.

“spencer,” you press, softly, “it's late, i wanna take you home.”

he puts up no further protests as he lets you drag him out of the bar, hands laced together, can he even complain when your hand feels like it does in his. you say goodbye to everyone as you leave, penelope pulling you in for a tight hug. the drive to spencer's apartment is fairly silent, the sleepiness taking over. he leans his head against the window, watching the streetlights, you steal a glance at him, smiling to yourself. 

you walk spencer upstairs, reaching your destination. you wait in his living room as he changes into his pyjamas, a matching dark blue set, and tucking him into bed when he's done. you brush a piece of hair away from his face again, his eyes are barely open. pleased with the state he’s in, you feel ready to leave. you begin to walk away when you feel his hand weakly grab onto your pinkie. 

“stay,” he whispers, more a breath than anything, he's afraid you don't hear it.

you don't. “what, baby?”

baby. he repeats himself, louder. “stay.”

“i gotta go home.”

“i want you to stay, it's not fair that he gets to have you all the time,” he slurs, the drowsiness makes him sound a little petulant but you find it endearing. 

“spence-” you lightly tug your finger from his grasp, though it would be easy to pull away, he's hardly holding on.

“no,” he retorts, firmly. “it’s late, you're not driving back this late.”

you contemplate for a moment before letting out a sigh, cementing your place for the night. he lets go and you walk over to his dresser, looking for something to wear. finally, you settle on a t- shirt that seems too big to be owned by him and a pair of shorts with drawstrings that you can adjust to fit you. you change in the adjoined bathroom, the getup has you smelling like him. 

“i hope you don't mind, i took your clothes,” you say, slipping under the covers after turning off the lights. you lay on your back, looking up at the ceiling.

spencer only hums in response as he turns to face you, legs curled up. he feels unbearably close but you know there's a good 2 feet between you two. you listen closely to his breathing, a slow inhale and an even slower exhale, you find yourself trying to sync your breaths with him. you think he’s sleeping, only you're proven wrong when he quietly says your name.

you take this as your sign to turn on your side too, facing him. “yeah?” you respond, maintaining the quiet.

“how come you can stay like this?”

“cause you asked me to.”

“i know i did but you have someone waiting for you at home.”

he waits expectantly, though it wasn't phrased as a question, it felt like one. why didn't you go home?

“we broke up,” you answer, meekly. “a few weeks ago.”

he immediately dreads his curiosity, opening his mouth to apologise but you stop him, “it's ok, i’m fine.”

his eyes search for yours in the darkness. he can’t find them. he settles for holding your hand and giving it a gentle squeeze, you squeeze back. 

you're wrapped in silence for the umpteenth time that night, a comfortable weight that settles over you. there's something so impossibly easy being with spencer. the mattress dips as he scoots closer, knees brushing against yours. your thumb glides over his knuckles in slow passes.

“go to sleep,” you say softly, almost a coo. “i'll be here in the morning.”

spencer lets his eyes fall at your reassurance. the haziness drowns out any instinctual hesitation, maybe there's lingering alcohol too, which is why he feels compelled to say it.

“i love you,” he murmurs, a barely there whisper that hangs in the air around you. the words tug at your heartstrings, you feel a little pained by his drunken admission. you know it's anything but platonic when he says it, because he's not one to say it often. you’re silent for a minute, unsure of what to say. does he mean it?

“tell me again when you wake up,” you respond, though you're not sure whether he heard it before he dozed off.

you'll just have to wait.

part 2