gold-onthe-inside

Her phone buzzed, startling her, then block heels stumbled on a chair, the thermos close to overturning when you rushed to brace her, which kept her from falling, but not from her iced frappe spilling all over her dress. “Shit!” she cried out, staring at herself, ice cold liquid and whipped cream staining her dress.

You can feel the other patrons staring at the both of you and you huffed internally — people really had nothing better to do than watch a girl’s misfortune. The woman’s close to tears as she dropped everything on the table you were standing at, grabbing at paper napkins to clean herself up. “Why don’t we head to the bathroom?” you asked, your voice soft and kind and she nodded, fighting back tears. You scooped up all your things as well as hers, guiding her to the public bathroom, leaving it on the side while the woman grabbed rolls of paper towels to clean herself up.

“God, this just had to happen the day I’m running late,” the woman muttered, wiping herself dry while you fought the urge to stare, counting bathroom tiles instead.

“Murphy’s Law, right?” you asked dryly. “Everything that can go wrong will go wrong.”

“You sound like one of my co-workers,” the woman huffed, glancing at you, and actually took you in — sharply dressed, simple but expensive… “I’m Penelope,” she said, watching you smile warmly.

“Well, Penelope, I hate to see a dress that vibrant ruined,” you said, your voice as soft as silk. “So, how about we get you a new dress, and I can get that dry-cleaned for you?”

“Oh.” She flushed. Adorable. “That’s nice. You’re nice, like really nice, but I’m running super late—”

“It happens,” you countered, tilting your head to look at her. “And I’m sure your boss would rather you come into work without wearing your coffee. Let them know you’re running late, and I’ll take care of the rest. I’ll be waiting out front.”

You deliver your promise in a way that exceeds expectations, driving her home in a sparkling Mercedes that has her internally squealing and also stressing about spoiling the seat, and a fresh frappe in her hand, cutting through lanes to avoid traffic with the radio on. Once at her apartment, you entertain all her caffeine-powered rambling with a small, amused smile as she changed behind a screen, throwing on an entirely new colour-coordinated outfit, and you take the coffee-stained dress in the paper bag she gives you.

A few days later, Penelope came back to her apartment to find her dress dry-cleaned in an outfit bag, and a card with your number on it, laid on her bed by a neighbour who kept a spare key. She sent you a text, thanking you, before settling on her bed and stalking you, her curiosity getting the better of her, and once she figures out your net worth, she slammed her laptop shut, eyes wide.

Her phone buzzed, with a text from you.

You: You’re very welcome.

Penelope swallowed, staring at the text from quite possibly the wealthiest person she knew.

Penelope: How can I make it up to you?

She tried not to think of the last bank account statement she’d been sent, watching the text bubble from you.

You: How about dinner with me? Friday, 7pm?

It hadn’t been done on purpose, and Penelope was in no way using you for your money — in fact, you had been the one to insist on the little gifts. Bracelets that reminded you of her, prescription sunglasses after a vague mention that she was missing a pair in a specific colour, getting more expensive the longer the relationship blossomed. It graduated from little trinkets and flowers to branded bags and precious jewellery, and had finally hit the peak when Penelope had a brand new Mac desktop sent to her office, with a note written in your loopy handwriting — ‘So you don’t have to crane your neck.’

Penelope tried to bring up in conversation at a dinner, but you had simply charmed her out of her discomfort, delicate hands on her hips. “Why have the money if I can’t spoil my favourite girl?” you’d asked, with that stunning smile that made her heart stutter. It always felt like Penelope was floating on cloud nine around you, especially when you brought her gorgeous lingerie in exactly her size, lacy little numbers that made her curves pop and nightrobes that made her feel like a princess in your silk sheets.

She’d never felt more taken care of, and yet all Penelope wanted to do was find a way to return the favour, no matter how many times you assured her that you weren’t doing any favours. It came to her when you were out of town on business, a networking thing for your advertising firm, on the same night she wasn’t working her cute butt off in the BAU.

That was definitely all it was, she told herself, putting on a Rihanna CD and preparing to take an everything shower with candles. Not that she missed the way you touched her like she was something fragile, or the way your eyes tracked every curve of her body as if it was her possession. But no amount of delusion could stop her imagining they way you’d unmake her, gently taking her jewellery off and placing it in the hot pink organiser you’d bought for her, or your slender hands taking the pins and clips out of her blonde curls and running through them, gently untangling knots with care. Brushing it aside to place soft kisses on plush skin, slowly unzipping the back of her dress, like it was something precious. That’s why she sends you that first video, making you almost choke on the champagne at the networking party, instantly lowering the brightness on your phone. To repay the favour.

Penelope: Miss you so much tonight <3

You closed your eyes, sighing, torn between telling her off and disappearing out the nearest exit and back to her hotel suite.

You: Are you trying to get me fired?? You: I can’t believe you wear that pretty a bra to work.

Penelope bit her lower lip, grinning as she ran her bath, one hand checking the water temperature, the other holding her phone, wearing a silk kimono.

Penelope: You know you’re the only one who gets to see it ;) You: God, I wish you were here tonight. You: The things I’d do to you in my hotel room… Penelope: Well, in your absence, I’ll just have to make do with what I have.

You groaned at the message, having to put your phone away for a moment and drain another glass of champagne. Meanwhile, Penelope was busy filming another little video of herself, involving bubbles, candles, rose petals, and a vibrator, laying back in your bathtub, the phone set up on a wall-mount.

She started by touching herself to the R&B music, closing her eyes and imagining your touch, how you’d let her rest her back against yours, and caressed her neck, down her collarbone to her heavy breasts. Her breath grew shallower as she squeezed one, fingers brushing over her nipple, the other starting to rub her thigh.

If she opened her eyes, she could see the disheveled mess she was becoming, with heaving breaths and lidded eyes, flower petals sticking to her glistening body. She desperately wanted you here, eliciting breathy gasps with your lips against her shoulder, touching her exactly the way she was, murmuring sweet endearments that she could only echo in her head.

She started running her perfectly manicured hand through her folds, enveloped in hot bubbly water, her thighs sticking out, a foot against the edge of the tub. She let out a low moan as she slid her fingers over her sensitive nub, aching for you. It was only a couple of days ago that your head was between her thighs, gripping her legs wide as your tongue swirled in that magic way that sent rivulets of cum dripping between your lips. Her fingers couldn’t do you justice, but it did the job, Penelope’s first orgasm leaving her half-sated, like warm honey-like relief releasing the coil that had been building. She took a few moments to catch her breath, drying her hands and sitting up to crop the end of the video and sending it to you.

All it took was the thumbnail of Penelope in the bath that forced you to leave the party early, faking sick to cut across a few blocks and into a hotel, and sitting at a table as you watched the whole thing. The funny thing was how your hips automatically started rutting against the chair to the video, watching your girlfriend get off.

You: Christ, you look gorgeous. My gorgeous, gorgeous girl. You: I want to touch you so bad…

Just sending those two messages had taken every ounce of cognition you had left, but one look at Penelope’s beautiful curves had sent you over the edge, rocking against the plush edge of the chair.

While you were still on the way to your first orgasm, replaying Penelope’s video, your girlfriend had moved on to her toys, recording herself as she dipped her finger into her dripping hole, both from her first orgasm and the bathwater, sliding it in with a soft gasp. It was an intoxicating sight, her perfect plush lips splitting apart, where you would have slid your fingers in, or kissed her, as her finger probed at her g-spot, then curled, just about as slow as you would have gone.

The next finger slid in after that, Penelope’s free hand gripping the edge of the bathtub as her hole stretched to accommodate her fingers. She kept stroking, curling her fingers against that sweet spot, groaning and shifting her hips in water that was growing cooler by the second, incentivising her to finish quicker, crying out your name, until her hand couldn’t work without cramping.

Which meant she was twisting in the tub to reach for her toys, a beautifully long pink dildo that had served her well in the past, that she slowly slid inside her, sinking lower into the water with a groan, hitting just the right spot. The best grip she could maintain was the edge of the tub, instead of your hips, or your hands, as she moved the toy in a slow easy rhythm.

She missed you so much as she touched herself, trying to get back that initial pressure to peak. She missed the way you’d play with her hair, crooning soft things in her ear, about how pretty she was, how you could touch her all day, all while pumping a strap-on inside her, turning her into a soaked, speechless, whining, writhing mess. And so she’s muttering profanities and moaning, the bubbles starting to dissipate as she came for a second time, her toes curling, hips arching uselessly as she thrust the dildo against her g-spot, letting slip a ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ as she pulled it out.

She waited to catch her breath, sliding back in the thumb, the cool water soothing against her over-heated body, slick with water and a little sweat on her brow, before eventually drying off and draining the tub.

Penelope finally lay back in your silk sheets, wearing a feathery pink robe, and all tucked up in your champagne coloured duvet, trimming her ‘short film’ before sending it.

Penelope: Something for you to dream about <3

By the time you got the message, you’d taken a hot shower and settling into bed in your own simple cotton pyjamas.

You: Jesus Christ, woman, do not make me hop on a red-eye and come find you.

Penelope’s grinning at your text, curled up in bed like a lovesick teenager.

Penelope: Is that a promise? You: A fantasy. But you’re definitely coming more than twice when I get you alone. You: That’s a promise.

The anticipation of your return leaves a flutter in her chest, as she inhales the scent of your perfume on the pillows.

Penelope: I’m holding you to that.

And with that, she clicked her phone off, setting the bejewelled device aside (with a brand new cover paid by yours truly), turned out the light, and closed her eyes, wondering if you would dream of her like she was bound to.

Saturday arrives like a soft bell chime you can almost hear before it happens.

You’ve got the apartment half-lit, curtains pulled back just enough to let in honeyed afternoon sun. There’s a faint stack of snacks on the coffee table, a questionable amount of blankets piled like you’re preparing for emotional weather, and the TV already paused on the opening menu of Doctor Who, glowing patiently like it knows it’s about to be emotionally overused.

You hear the knock.

Not loud. Never loud with him. Two beats, careful, like he’s asking permission from the door itself.

You pad over barefoot, smoothing your hands down your dress out of habit more than necessity. The fabric is light purple, soft as early twilight. It fits you neatly at the top before easing outward into something airy and floaty that shifts when you walk, like it can’t decide whether it wants to stay still or drift.

You open the door, and there he is.

Spencer looks like he always does when he’s trying to be normal and failing in the most quiet, devastating way possible. Button-up slightly rumpled from sitting on the train. Messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Hair already doing whatever it wants, curling forward like it has opinions about gravity.

His mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

It’s subtle at first, the way his expression shifts, like a thought trips over itself inside his head and refuses to stand back up. His eyes flick up to your face, hold there for a respectful second too long, then betray him almost immediately by dropping, catching on you in a way he clearly did not intend.

You tilt your head slightly. “Hey.”

That seems to reboot him, but only halfway.

“Hi,” he says, too quickly. Then, like he’s correcting a mistake only he can hear, “Hello. Hi. I mean. Hi.”

There’s a beat where he looks like he’s considering reassembling the sentence in his hands.

You lean lightly against the doorframe, watching him with growing amusement. “You’re doing great.”

“I am,” he agrees immediately, then stops. Swallows. Adjusts his grip on his bag strap like it has suddenly become very interesting. “I’m doing… normal levels of greeting.”

“Normal levels,” you repeat.

“Yes.”

Another pause.

His gaze flickers again, just for a fraction of a second, before he catches himself and snaps it back to your face so fast it almost looks like a reflex. His ears have gone a little pink already, which is never a good sign for his composure.

You step back and open the door wider. “Come in before you short-circuit on my porch.”

“I’m not short-circuiting,” he says, immediately proving the opposite by stepping inside and nearly forgetting how to move his own limbs.

You don’t comment on it right away.

Because the thing about Spencer is that he always thinks he’s being subtle. Like his attention is something he can fold neatly into his lap and hide under polite conversation. But you’re starting to learn the language of him anyway, the small tells that give him away before he realizes he’s been read.

The couch dips when he sits, all careful angles and nervous adjustments, like he’s negotiating peace treaties with cushions. You settle beside him with the easy confidence of someone who has already claimed this space a dozen times before.

The episode starts.

TARDIS glow. Theme music. The familiar whirl of escapism wrapping around the room like a spell.

Spencer exhales softly, tension loosening from his shoulders in a way that makes him look almost younger. Less like an FBI profiler and more like a man allowed, briefly, to exist without solving anything.

You shift closer without thinking.

It starts innocently.

Your legs stretch across the couch, dangling lazily over the cushions. Your back presses against Spencer's chest as you snuggle into him. He adjusts immediately, like it’s instinct, like your body near his is something his nervous system has already been trained to accommodate. One arm settles around your shoulder, careful but certain, pulling you in just enough that your weight rests comfortably against him.

The episode keeps playing, but you feel it before you see it.

That shift in the air behind you. Not movement exactly, more like attention becoming tangible. Like someone has turned a page too slowly and the silence between words has started to mean something.

Spencer’s arm is still around you. Still steady. Still careful in the way he always is when he thinks about touching you too much.

And yet.

There’s a pause in his breathing that doesn’t match the rhythm of the scene on the TV.

You don’t turn right away.

You just tilt your head a fraction, like you’re listening to the room instead of the show. “Spence.”

A beat.

“Yeah?” he answers too quickly.

That’s enough.

You glance up. And there it is.

He’s looking at you.

Not the TV. Not the snack table. Not anywhere defensible.

Just you.

For a second he doesn’t move at all, like he’s been caught mid-thought and forgot how to pretend otherwise. His eyes flicker when they meet yours properly, caught in the act of being unguarded.

Then his brain clearly returns to the scene all at once.

“Oh—” he starts.

It comes out small. Almost soundless. Like the word itself is embarrassed to be involved.

His cheeks bloom pink so fast it’s almost unfair, color rushing up beneath his skin in a way that gives him away completely. He tries to look away immediately, but it’s too late now, the moment already exposed between you like a page turned too far.

“I wasn’t—” he begins again.

Stops.

Swallows.

His hand, still resting around your shoulder, tightens just slightly like it forgot it was supposed to be relaxed. Not enough to pull you closer. Just enough that you notice.

“I’m not doing anything,” he says, which is objectively not an explanation but sounds like he needed to say it anyway.

You shift just enough to angle yourself toward him.

“Oh?” you murmur.

That single syllable does something catastrophic to him.

His gaze flicks away again, immediate and reflexive, like eye contact has become too loud. “I mean, I am doing things. Just… not the things you’re thinking I’m doing.”

“That’s very specific,” you say softly.

His cheeks are fully pink now.

You let the silence stretch just a little, like you’re testing how far it will go before he tries to fill it.

The TV hums on in the background, all blue light and distant alien drama, but it feels secondary now. Like the room has quietly rerouted itself around the two of you without asking permission.

You glance back at him, lips curving. “I thought this was your favorite show.”

Spencer blinks once.

Twice.

Then, a little too fast, “It is.”

There’s immediate conviction in it, but also something strained underneath, like he’s trying to hold the answer in place with both hands.

You hum, tilting your head against his shoulder slightly, settling in even more like you belong there. “Mm. Strange behavior for someone watching his favorite show.”

His throat works as he swallows.

“I’m watching it,” he says.

“You’re watching me.”

His gaze darts to the TV for half a second, as if checking whether it still exists. It does. Unfortunately for him, it is not helping.

“I’m doing both,” he insists, but it comes out softer now, less like an argument and more like a confession he didn’t plan to make.

You shift slightly so you can look up at him properly.

His arm around you tightens again, subtle enough that it could almost pass for unconscious. Almost.

“Both,” you repeat, slow and amused. “So the Doctor is saving the universe, and you’re… what? Multitasking emotionally?”

A faint huff of air leaves him that might be a laugh if it had more confidence behind it.

“I’m not emotionally multitasking,” he says. “That would imply I’m managing it well.”

You don’t answer him right away.

Because the look on his face is doing something quiet and dangerous to you too.

Spencer sits there like he’s holding himself very carefully in place, as if any sudden movement might tip the whole moment over. His arm is still around you, but now it feels less like comfort and more like containment. Like he’s forgotten where he’s supposed to stop and start.

His eyes flick to your mouth for half a second.

He catches himself immediately, of course. But you see it anyway.

That’s enough.

You lift a hand to his cheek first, slow enough that he has time to pull away if he wants to. He doesn’t. His breath catches instead, a small break in the careful rhythm he’s been maintaining all afternoon.

He looks at you like he’s bracing for a math problem that might change his life.

You kiss him.

It’s not rushed. Not theatrical. Just simple and certain, like you’ve finally decided to stop pretending there’s any other logical outcome for the way he’s been looking at you.

For a second, he doesn’t move at all.

Then he makes a sound under his breath that disappears into you before it can become anything fully formed, and suddenly he’s kissing you back like something in him has finally been allowed to exist without permission slips.

It’s Spencer in every detail: careful at first, almost hesitant, like he’s checking if this is still real.

Then it changes.

His hand shifts from your shoulder to the side of your neck, fingers curling gently there as if he’s learning your shape by memory instead of sight. The hesitation doesn’t vanish so much as dissolve into something warmer, something more certain.

The TV continues in the background, forgotten.

Time does not so much pass as it gives up.

When you finally pull back just slightly, it’s only enough to breathe.

Spencer’s eyes are half-lidded, unfocused in a way that makes him look undone. Like someone has quietly rearranged the air inside him and he hasn’t figured out where to put his thoughts yet.

You don’t let the distance last.

You shift.

It starts small, just repositioning your legs, but the intent changes everything. You move fully onto him, straddling his hips in a way that makes the entire world narrow down to the couch beneath you and the warmth of him under your hands.

Spencer goes still.

His hands hover for a fraction of a second at your waist like they’re asking questions without words.

“Is this—” he starts.

His voice is rougher now, threaded with something he hasn’t figured out how to regulate yet.

You lean in before he can finish the sentence and kiss him again.

That seems to answer it better than language ever could.

His hands finally settle.

Carefully. Like he’s choosing you on purpose.

One at your waist, steady. The other sliding up your back in a slow, cautious motion that makes your skin feel suddenly too aware of itself. He exhales into the kiss like he’s been holding it in for too long.

You pull back just enough to breathe again, forehead still hovering close to his.

The room feels warmer now. Not in a dramatic way, just subtly rearranged, like the air itself has decided to sit closer.

Spencer’s eyes open slowly.

And immediately, they drop.

It’s quick. Instinctive. Like gravity briefly forgets its manners.

Then he freezes as if he’s been caught committing a crime he didn’t realize was visible.

His throat bobs. His hands, still resting at your waist, go very still in a way that somehow feels louder than movement.

You don’t move right away. Just watch him for a second longer than strictly necessary.

“Spence,” you say softly.

His eyes snap up immediately.

Too fast. Too guilty.

“I wasn’t—” he starts.

Stops.

Swallows.

His grip at your waist tightens just a fraction, not pulling you in, just anchoring himself like he’s trying not to float away inside his own thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” he adds, quieter now.

You tilt your head, studying him like he’s a puzzle you already know the answer to. “You’ve been doing that all afternoon.”

You can see it. The way his brain tries to compute whether there is any version of reality where he hasn’t been entirely obvious.

“I have not been—” he begins, immediate reflex.

Then his gaze slips again.

Just for a second.

Down.

And that tiny lapse undoes the whole sentence.

You let out a slow breath, almost amused. “You have.”

His ears go pink again, softer this time but spreading quickly.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says, and that’s the thing that always sits under everything with him. Not denial. Not ego. Just concern, threaded through every reaction like a nervous stitch.

You shift slightly closer, fingers sliding up to rest at his jaw.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” you say.

You feel it then.

The smallest shift of his fingers at your waist. A subtle tightening, like he’s grounding himself through touch because looking is getting harder to regulate.

He notices your expression immediately and stills again, as if he’s afraid even that small movement gave too much away.

You don’t let him retreat into politeness.

“Spence,” you murmur again. 

His eyes lift again, already softer now, already a little lost.

You wait until he’s actually looking at you.

“Just say it,” you say gently.

His breath catches.

For a second, he looks like he might actually obey. Like the words are right there, lined up behind his teeth, just waiting for permission to exist.

Instead, what comes out is smaller.

“…That dress is just…”

He trails off.

His gaze drops again, slower this time, less like a reflex and more like he forgot how not to look.

His fingers at your waist twitch again, betraying him completely.

He clears his throat, embarrassed at himself, and tries to recover, but it’s already gone. The sentence has dissolved.

You let the silence sit between you, warm and expectant.

When he speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper.

“I’m trying not to be obvious,” he admits.

His eyes finally lift back to yours, fully honest now in a way that makes something in your chest go quietly still.

“And I’m… not doing a very good job.”

“You don't say?”

Spencer looks at you like he’s trying to decide whether he’s misunderstood something fundamental about language.

His hands are still at your waist, warm and careful, like they’ve forgotten they’re allowed to exist anywhere else. His thumbs make a tiny, unconscious movement against your sides, then still again as if he’s caught himself thinking too loudly.

“I’m serious,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you answer, softer now. No teasing in it this time. Just certainty.

That seems to make things worse, in the way truth often does when someone has been bracing for correction.

His gaze drops again. Not greedy. Not reckless. Just helpless in its honesty. Like his eyes keep slipping out of his control.

You shift closer instead of giving him space to retreat into his head.

“You’re allowed to touch me.”

It lands differently than everything before it.

His entire body stills.

Not tense exactly. More like all his nervous movement has been paused mid-thought, hands frozen at your waist as if the concept needs time to render.

“I am,” he repeats, like he’s testing whether the sentence is real.

You nod once. “Yes.”

A beat.

His throat works as he swallows. “I just don’t want to assume anything.”

“I know,” you say again, and there’s something warm in it now, something that softens the edges of his restraint instead of pushing against it. “You don’t have to guess.”

That does it.

You feel the shift before you see it. The smallest exhale breaking out of him, like something inside finally loosens just a fraction.

Still, he doesn’t move.

His hands stay exactly where they are, fingers slightly curled into the fabric at your waist, as if even this is already more than he’s sure he’s been granted.

So you take the decision away from him.

You reach down, sliding your fingers over the backs of his hands where they rest tensely against your ribs. You don’t ask again. You don’t give him the chance to overthink the geometry of the question.

You just pull.

His breath hitches in a way that sounds almost like a stopped note, a sharp intake of air that he doesn’t quite manage to swallow. You guide his hands upward, slow and deliberate, sliding them up your ribcage until his palms settle fully against your breasts.

For a second, Spencer doesn’t seem to breathe at all.

It’s like a system crash in real time. His eyes go wide, dark and unfocused, staring at you like you’ve just performed a magic trick that violates the laws of physics. His hands rest against your chest, heavy and warm through the light fabric of your dress, but he’s holding them so rigidly it’s like he’s terrified they might burn through the material.

“Is this—” His voice cracks, splintering on the word. He clears his throat, tries again, and it comes out thin and high. “Is this okay? I feel like I should be asking for a notarized statement of consent.”

"Jeez, Spencer, you'd think you'd take me having you touch my boobs would be enough consent," you tease.

Spencer lets out a sound that’s halfway between a huff of breath and a genuinely startled laugh, his eyes widening a fraction more.

“That is not—” He stops, his gaze darting from your face to his own hands and back again, color climbing up his neck so fast you can practically feel the heat radiating off him. “That is not the point. The point is statutory interpretation is much clearer than non-verbal cues, and I have a history of misinterpreting data sets that are… significantly less high-stakes than this.”

You smile, feeling the way his fingers are still curled slightly inward, hovering against you without actually applying pressure. He’s touching you, but he’s terrified of holding on.

You let out a quiet laugh, soft and breathless, and lean forward just enough to rest your forehead against his. “Yes, Spencer. This is okay.”

You feel the exhale leave him, shuddering and uneven, like a breath he’s been holding for weeks finally escaping.

“Okay,” he whispers, mostly to himself. “Okay. Good. This is… good.”

The word “good” has barely left his lips before his hands move.

It’s not calculated. It doesn’t feel like a decision his brain made and then communicated to his body. It feels like gravity. Like his hands have been wanting to do this for so long that the moment you gave them permission, they just… stopped fighting it.

He squeezes.

It isn't rough or greedy, though you can feel the potential for it trembling in his fingertips. It’s careful. Reverent, almost. His palms mold to the weight of you, thumbs brushing experimentally over the curve of your chest, and the sensation is so electric that your breath hitches audibly.

That sound seems to break something inside him.

His fingers curl in, just a fraction, testing the give of you against his hands. A low, broken sound escapes him—half a groan, half a sigh—and his eyes flutter shut like he’s trying to memorize the topography by touch alone.

“Oh,” he breathes out, like he’s just solved an equation he didn’t know he was working on.

He doesn’t stop. The squeeze turns into a slow, kneading motion, his palms heavy and warm through the fabric of your dress. He’s exploring, mapping the shape of you with a focus that borders on academic, but the feeling behind it is anything but clinical. His thumbs sweep over the swell of you, hesitating slightly when they graze the edge of your bra, then circling back like he’s found a favorite page in a book.

You rock forward involuntarily, your body chasing the friction before your brain catches up.

Spencer reacts like he’s been burned, but in the best possible way.

His hands stutter to a halt for a fraction of a second, palms pressing flat against you like he’s trying to anchor himself to the earth, and then his head falls back against the couch. His eyes are squeezed shut, his throat exposed, a long, vulnerable line of skin that makes your mouth go dry.

“You moved,” he chokes out. It sounds like an accusation, but his tone is ruined. It’s wrecked.

“I felt you do it,” you point out, amused breathless. You grind down again, slower this time, deliberate. “I’m supposed to move, Spencer.”

He makes a noise that is dangerously close to a whine, high in the back of his throat. His fingers twitch against you, no longer kneading, just pressing in like he’s trying to anchor himself to the only solid thing in the room.

“I know,” he gasps, his head tipping back even further, exposing the long, pale line of his throat. He looks like he’s in pain, but you know better. It’s too much sensation and not enough friction all at once. “I know you’re supposed to. I just— I wasn’t prepared for the kinetic energy transfer.”

You laugh again, but it’s breathless now, caught somewhere between amusement and the sudden, sharp heat that’s taken up residence in your own lungs. “You’re thinking about physics while you’re feeling me up?”

Spencer opens his eyes at that, blinking up at you like he’s surfacing from deep water. They’re dark, pupils blown so wide the iris is just a thin, burning ring of hazel.

“I’m always thinking,” he manages, but his voice is wrecked. It cracks in the middle, betraying him completely. He looks at his hands on you, then back up at your face, and the sheer adoration mixed with hunger on his expression makes your heart trip over itself. “It’s how I process. If I don’t categorize the input, I’m going to—” He cuts himself off, his breath hitching as his thumbs brush the underside of your breast again. “I’m going to lose it.”

You rock your hips down again, harder this time, watching the way his composure fractures like glass under a hammer.

“Then lose it,” you whisper.

You lean down, bracketing his face with your arms so he has nowhere else to look. His hair is a mess against the cushion, his lips red and swollen, and he looks at you like you’re the only gravitational constant in the universe.

It’s not a request. It’s a permission slip for a system failure.

Spencer stares up at you, his eyes wide and wet and unblinking, like he’s seeing the solution to a problem that’s been haunting him for months. His breath shudders out of him, a ragged, uneven exhale that fans against your cheek.

“You’re—” He starts, then stops, his voice cracking on the word. His hands flex against you, no longer careful, no longer testing the weight. They just hold. His fingers dig into the soft fabric of your dress, dragging over the curve of your chest with a desperation that makes your own head spin. “You’re dangerous.”

You smile, but it’s not sweet. It’s slow, knowing, a smile that acknowledges exactly what kind of power you have over him right now.

“You have no idea,” you murmur.

You reach up, hooking your fingers into the thin straps of your dress. You don’t look at him as you slide them down your shoulders—you keep your eyes locked on his, watching the dilation of his pupils until they almost swallow the color.

The fabric sighs as it slides down your arms, pooling at your waist.

Spencer doesn't blink. He physically cannot.

His eyes track the movement like it’s the most critical data stream he’s ever analyzed, dropping from your face to your shoulders, and then lower. The air between you feels suddenly oxygen-thin.

For a moment, the world is absolutely silent.

Spencer just stares.

It’s not a leer. It’s not even particularly sexual in the way you’re used to men looking. It’s captivated. His eyes roam over the lace, the shadow of skin beneath it, the way your chest rises and falls with your shortened breath. He looks like he’s trying to commit the image to memory with the same intensity he usually reserves for crime scene photos or quantum physics equations.

"Spence."

His name snaps him out of the trance, but his eyes don't lift. They stay glued to you, dark and reverent, like he’s forgotten how to look anywhere else.

"You can touch me," you say, your voice dropping to a whisper that feels like the only sound in the room.

For a second, you think he might actually argue.

His hands hover over your bare skin, trembling slightly, fingers curling into loose fists like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching out. He looks stricken, caught between the overwhelming urge to touch and the terrifying reality that he finally can.

"I don't want to..." He trails off, swallowing hard. He looks up at you finally, and his expression is so open it’s almost painful. "I don't want to ruin this. I don't want to be too much.”

You smile, soft around the edges, stripping away any lingering teasing until all that’s left is the truth. You lean in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, feeling the way his breath stutters against your lips.

“You’d never be too much for me,” you whisper against his skin. “I want exactly what you’re giving me, Spencer. Not less.”

He breathes. A sharp intake of breath through his nose, followed by a ragged exhale that sounds like a deflation. The tension that has been holding his shoulders rigid evaporates, replaced instantly by a kind of trembling intent.

His hands aren't hovering anymore.

They settle on you with a kind of desperate, aching gravity.

His palms are warm, slightly damp with nervous sweat, and they cup the weight of your lace-covered breasts like he’s handling something volatile. Precious. Unstable.

He doesn’t hesitate this time. The second his skin makes contact with the lace, something inside him just—unspools.

He squeezes, harder than before, no longer treating you like something that might shatter. A rough, broken sound tears out of his throat, halfway between a groan and a sigh, and his eyes flutter shut as his fingers dig into the soft fabric.

“God,” he breathes, the word sounding like it’s been dragged out of him. “You're... You're beautiful."

He says it like a discovery. Like he’s the first person to ever find land.

He dips his head then, not waiting for encouragement, not giving himself time to second-guess the trajectory. He presses his face against your chest, burying himself in the soft curve of you with a desperation that makes your breath catch.

His lips are hot against the lace, dragging over the sensitive skin beneath with an open-mouthed kiss that feels more like worship than foreplay.

You gasp, your fingers tangling automatically into his hair, holding him there as he mouthes at the fabric. He doesn't seem to care that there’s still a layer of lace between his mouth and your skin; if anything, the friction seems to undo him.

His hands are restless now, roaming the shape of you with a focus that makes your head spin. He squeezes the weight of you, thumbs sweeping over the lace just to feel the texture of it against your skin. He’s mapping you. Memorizing the give of you under his palms, the way your breath hitches when his thumb grazes a sensitive spot.

Then he nips.

It’s shocking.

Not enough to hurt, just a sharp, intentional pressure of his teeth against the sensitive curve of your breast, right through the lace. A spark of heat jolts through you, electric and sudden, and your hips jerk against his before you can stop them.

“Spencer,” you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan.

The sound of his name on your lips seems to snap whatever remaining thread of control he’s been clinging to. He lifts his head just enough to look at you, his expression dazed, mouth wet and eyes completely blown. There is a desperation in his gaze that seeps right into your bones.

"Off," he says.

It comes out wrecked, barely a word at all. Just a harsh, expelled breath shaped by consonants. He sounds almost pained, his voice cracking on the single syllable like it’s costing him something just to say it.

"Please."

The addition is ragged, tacked onto the end like a prayer he forgot he was saying. His hands are still cupping you, thumbs dragging over the lace with a restless, repetitive motion, like he’s trying to soothe an itch he can’t scratch.

You nod immediately.

His hands leave you, leaving a sudden cool space against your skin that makes you shiver. But before you can miss the warmth, his long fingers are skating up your back, searching for the clasp.

He doesn’t fumble. You expected him to—Spencer fumbles with doorknobs and coffee cup sleeves—but his hands are steady on your spine. There is a terrifying precision in the way his index finger finds the hook, the way his thumb slides the metal eye free with a click that sounds loud in the quiet room.

The tension in the band gives way with a second and third soft click, and then the pressure against your back simply... vanishes.

You feel the lace loosen immediately, the support slipping away, but Spencer doesn’t pull it off you right away. He leaves his hands resting against your spine for a moment, his splayed fingers spanning the width of your back, grounding himself against the reality of what he’s about to do. He’s breathing hard, you can feel the expansion of his chest against yours, a rapid, unsteady rhythm that matches your own.

Then, slowly, so slowly it feels like time has stretched thin, he slides his hands forward. He drags his palms around your ribcage, following the line of your bra until he reaches the straps. With a gentle tug, he pulls them down your arms, peeling the fabric away until it joins your dress at your waist.

The air hits your skin, cooler than you expected, and the sensation makes you shiver. But the reaction is purely physical. Emotionally, you are burning.

His eyes are locked on your chest in pure, unadulterated awe, like he’s just walked into a library he’s spent his entire life dreaming about and realized he’s allowed to read the books.

For a moment, he does absolutely nothing but look.

He doesn’t reach out. He doesn’t lean in. He just stares, his eyes cataloging every inch of newly exposed skin like he’s trying to build a photographic memory in real-time. It’s the kind of attention that would usually make you feel self-conscious, the kind that feels like a spotlight, but coming from Spencer it just feels… heavy. Like being known without speaking.

"You're so pretty," he breathes, and it sounds like a confession.

It’s soft, barely audible over the blood rushing in your ears, but the reverence in it knocks the air out of your lungs. He doesn’t say it like he’s commenting on your appearance; he says it like he’s acknowledging a force of nature, something inevitable and beautiful that he is helpless to resist.

Before the echo of the words has even faded, his restraint dissolves completely.

Before you can process the compliment, his head dips.

He doesn’t ease into it. He doesn’t start with the slow, drag of lips you were expecting. He just surges forward, his mouth closing over your nipple with a desperation that borders on clumsy.

The contact is electric—hot and wet and sudden. A sharp gasp tears out of your throat, your back bowing instinctively, pushing you deeper into the heat of his mouth. It feels like he’s trying to consume you, like he’s been starving for this exact moment for months and finally remembered how to eat.

His other hand moves to your neglected breast almost on instinct, his palm molding to the curve with a kind of desperate, grateful pressure. He’s greedy with it, squeezing and releasing in a rhythm that matches the pull of his mouth, the circle of his tongue, like he can’t get enough of the way you fill his hands.

He’s mapping you by touch and taste simultaneously, and you can feel him trembling against you, vibrating with the sheer effort of holding himself back from completely falling apart.

You look down at him, your fingers tangling tight in his hair, and the sight nearly undoes you. His eyes are squeezed shut, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. He looks lost in you, wrecked in the most beautiful way, like the entire world has narrowed down to the feeling of your skin under his hands and the taste of you on his tongue.

He doesn't stay there long. It seems he needs to ensure equity in his research, or perhaps he just needs to know if the other side tastes just as overwhelming. He pulls away with a wet, audible pop that sends a jolt straight down your spine, his breath panting hot against the damp skin he's left behind.

Before you can even miss the heat, he’s shifting, turning his face to capture your other breast. He treats this one with the same desperate reverence, his tongue swirling over the peak before he sucks it deep into the heat of his mouth.

Your body reacts instinctively, your hips grinding down against his, seeking friction to match the wet heat of his mouth. You expect his hand to follow the lead, to switch sides so he can touch and taste in tandem, maintaining the rhythm he’d established.

But his hand doesn't move up.

Instead, his long, clever fingers trace a distracted path down your ribs, his palm skating over the curve of your waist before slipping beneath the bunched fabric of your sundress.

The air feels cool against your skin for a split second before his hand makes contact, sliding over the heated expanse of your stomach. He maps the terrain of your body with single-minded focus, bypassing the tease of your hip to slide directly toward the apex of your thighs.

He pulls his mouth away from your nipple with a wet, ragged gasp, but he doesn't give you—or himself—a moment of stillness. His lips immediately find the soft swell of your breast again, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin, his breath hot and uneven.

"You're so... God, you're perfect," he mumbles, the words muffled against your skin. He sounds delirious.

His hand doesn't hesitate beneath the fabric of your dress. His fingers trace the edge of your underwear, just for a second, a fleeting tactile confirmation of what lies beneath, before he’s hooking his fingers into the lace and pulling it to the side.

The drag of the lace against your hip is sharp and fleeting, but the touch of his fingers following immediately after is searing. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t ask for permission again—he’s already past the point of being able to form coherent sentences. He simply slides his fingers through the slick heat of you, his touch exploratory but devastatingly sure.

"Oh," he breathes, the sound vibrating against your chest. "You're... you're wet."

It’s a statement of fact, delivered with the same wonder he’d use to identify a rare botanical species. He pauses there for a beat, his fingers coated in the evidence of how much you want him, seemingly stunned by the data.

“So that’s—” He swallows hard, his voice cracking on a dry throat. “That’s for me?”

“Yes,” you breathe, your head tipping back as his fingers slide through the wetness again, testing the slickness with a fascination that makes your toes curl. “It’s all for you, Spencer.”

He makes a sound that is purely involuntary—a choked-off groan that vibrates against your ribs. He can’t seem to decide where to put his hands. He wants to touch you everywhere, memorize every reaction, but his focus keeps snapping back to the heat between your legs.

He seems to accept the data, files it away under a header labeled Miraculous, and then his brain clearly short-circuits from the overload of sensory input. Because his hand moves, but his mouth doesn't abandon its post.

He slides two long fingers inside you, slow and deliberate and the sensation makes your vision white out at the edges. It’s a stretch, a burning pressure that feels exactly like relief, and he seems just as overwhelmed by it as you are. His other hand remains on your breast, kneading the soft flesh with a rhythmic, desperate squeeze, his palm dragging over your nipple in a way that makes you gasp.

“You feel—” He chokes on the word, his breath fanning hotly over your damp skin. He presses a messy, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your breast, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make you shiver. “You feel incredible.”

He doesn’t give you time to adjust to the intrusion. He starts to move, curling his fingers in a slow, devastating arc that drags against your inner walls with terrifying precision. It’s practiced in theory, even if he’s shaking with nerves, his mind clearly cataloging the anatomy of your pleasure even as he loses himself in the reality of it.

"Spencer," you gasp, your hands tightening in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him hiss against your skin.

He takes the sound as encouragement. He shifts his weight, pressing the heel of his hand against your clit in a way that makes your hips buck off the couch, a desperate, involuntary motion that chases more friction.

He catches the rhythm of your hips immediately, his brain fast-tracking the mechanics of your pleasure even as he’s losing the battle for his own composure. The heel of his hand grinds down in slow, deliberate circles, matching the curl of his fingers inside you, and the dual sensation is so sharp, so perfect, that your nails dig involuntarily into his scalp.

“God, yes,” he breathes, the words damp and hot against your skin. He doesn’t lift his head; he’s too consumed. He presses his face into the valley between your breasts, nipping at the sensitive skin there, kissing the marks he leaves like he’s trying to soothe the sting even as he inflicts it. “You’re so tight, I can’t—I can’t believe how you feel.”

His other hand is still busy on your breast, kneading with a desperation that borders on worship. He drags his thumb over your nipple, catching the peak just as his fingers curl inside you again, hitting a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

"Wait," you gasp, the word scraping against your throat.

Spencer stops instantly. It’s not a gradual slowdown; it’s a full cessation of motion, like a puppet whose strings were cut. His fingers still inside you, his hand pauses its ruthless rhythm, and his mouth lifts from your skin, though he stays close enough that his breath fans hot and damp against your sternum.

He looks up at you, eyes wide and wild, blinking rapidly like he’s waking from a deep sleep. There’s a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, his hair is a complete wreck from your fingers, and his mouth is swollen and red. He looks dazed, dangerously undone, but mostly he looks terrified.

“Did I hurt you?” The question tumbles out in a rush, his voice cracking on the syllables. His hand twitches against you, like he wants to pull away but is paralyzed by the fear that moving might make it worse. “Oh god, I hurt you, didn’t I? I was moving too fast, I should have been more careful, I know the anatomy but I didn’t—”

“Spencer,” you cut in softly, trying to catch his frantic gaze. You reach up, smoothing a hand over his messy hair, your thumb brushing his temple. He leans into the touch immediately, his eyes fluttering shut for a split second before snapping back open to search your face for any sign of pain. “Spencer, breathe. You didn’t hurt me.”

"But if it wasn't pain..." He falters, his brow furrowing so deeply it looks like it hurts. He looks confused, genuinely baffled as to why you would call a halt to something that seemed to be going so well. "Did I do it wrong? I know the statistics on female pleasure are often exaggerated in media, and I thought I was hitting the anterior wall but I might have miscalculated the angle, and if the pressure was too much—"

You can't help it; a soft laugh bubbles up in your chest, spilling out before you can stop it.

Spencer blinks, the rambling cutting off mid-syllable. The confusion in his eyes shifts, melting into something softer, though no less intense.

"Sorry," you murmur, your thumb stroking his cheekbone, feeling the frantic pulse of his heart hammering against his ribs where your bodies press together. "I didn't want to come yet."

The silence that follows is absolute.

Spencer stares at you, his mouth slightly open, the frantic apology dying on his tongue. The sheer confusion on his face would be funny if he didn't look so completely floored.

You just smile, shaking your head gently at his disbelief, and drop your hands to his waistband.

It takes him a second to process the shift. His brain is still stuck back on the confession, trying to calculate the variables of why exactly stopping is a good thing when the outcome was so promising, but then your fingers are working at the button of his dress slacks, and his thought process whites out entirely.

His breath hitches—a sharp, jagged intake of air that sounds almost like a sob. His hands, which had been hovering uncertainly over your hips, snap down to grip your thighs, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

"Is this—?" he starts, his voice pitching up high and tight, cracking on the question. He doesn't finish it. He can't. His eyes are glued to your hands, watching your fingers deftly slide the metal button through the loophole.

The sound of his zipper lowering in the quiet room is obscenely loud. It feels like a gunshot in the heavy atmosphere between you.

You tug the fabric of his slacks and boxers down just enough to free him, and the reaction is immediate. Spencer gasps, a full-body shudder racking his frame, his hips jerking up off the couch to help you, desperate to be rid of the barrier.

He’s hard—achingly, undeniably hard.

The sight of him, flushed and straining against his stomach, makes your mouth go dry. He feels heavy in your hand, hot to the touch, and when you wrap your fingers around the base, his entire body jerks like he’s been electrocuted.

"Ah—!" The sound is sharp, startled out of him. His head falls back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing violently as he swallows. "Okay. Okay, that’s—God.”

"Do you want to keep going?" you start to ask, your voice dropping to a whisper that feels too loud in the quiet room. "Or should we—"

"Yes."

The answer cuts you off before you can even finish the sentence. It’s immediate, desperate, breathed out on an exhale that sounds like he’s been holding his breath for a lifetime.

"Please," he tacks on, his eyes snapping open to find yours, wide and desperate and completely unguarded. "I need—please."

You smile, soft and reassured, and shift your hips. You line him up, the head of him nudging against your entrance, hot and insistent. The stretch is slow as you lower yourself down, inch by inch, taking your time to adjust to the sheer size of him.

Spencer makes a sound like he’s dying.

It’s a low, broken noise that starts in his chest and rattles its way up his throat, sounding for all the world like a prayer that’s gone horribly wrong. His head drops back against the couch cushions, his eyes squeezing shut so tightly his lashes tremble, his mouth falling open on a silent gasp that looks almost painful.

You go slow, torturously slow, sinking down until your hips meet his. The feeling is overwhelming—a thick, impossible fullness that makes your breath hitch and your thighs tremble. You can feel him everywhere, the heat of him searing you from the inside out, the way his body strains to stay still under yours.

"Oh god," he chokes out, his voice wrecked. His hands find your waist again, but instead of gripping you, they just hold on, his fingers pressing into your skin like he's trying to anchor himself to the earth. "You're... you're tight. I can't—Jesus, you feel like..."

He doesn't finish the sentence. He can't seem to find the words in the English language—or any of the other ones he knows—that adequately describe the feeling of being inside you. Instead, he just exhales, a long, shuddering breath that ruffles the hair falling near your face.

His grip on your waist tightens, not to steer you, but just to hold on. His thumbs press into your hip bones, his long fingers spanning nearly the entire width of your torso, and he looks at you like you are the only thing keeping him from floating away.

"You can move," he breathes, the permission falling from his lips like he’s granting you access to a restricted section of the library. "Please, you can move.”

You lift your hips experimentally, dragging yourself up his length before sinking back down, and the friction is enough to make you both gasp. Spencer’s fingers flex against your waist, his breath hitching in a rhythm that matches your movements.

And as soon as you start to find a steady pace, his attention snaps right back to where it’s been desperate to go all night.

His hands leave your waist, sliding up your torso with a reverent urgency that makes your skin prickle. He doesn't ask; he just reaches, cupping the weight of your breasts in his palms like he’s checking their density, confirming their reality. He squeezes, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with a pressure that borders on possessive, his thumbs sweeping over your nipples in time with the roll of your hips.

It’s like he’s trying to physically merge with them. He pushes them together, his palms pressing inward to create a deep, soft valley, and then he’s burying his face in it with a groan that sounds absolutely wrecked.

He breathes you in, his nose brushing against your sternum, his exhale hot and damp against your skin. He turns his head, rubbing his cheek against the curve of your breast like a cat claiming territory, his hair tickling your skin in the sweetest, most maddening way.

"Perfect," he mumbles, the word vibrating directly into your chest. "You're so—God, I can't believe I'm touching you. Who gave me the right?"

"I did," you gasp out, the rhythm of your hips making your voice shaky. You bury a hand in his hair, holding him close to you as you move. "You literally asked permission five minutes ago."

He lets out a huff of breath that might be a laugh, but it sounds more like a sob of relief. He presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the inner curve of your left breast, right over the hammering of your heart. "Best decision I ever made."

He seems to lose himself in the slide of skin against skin. He’s not just touching you anymore; he’s interacting with you, experimenting with what makes you gasp and what makes your internal muscles clamp down around him. When you grind down particularly hard, he whines low in his throat, his hands spasming against your ribs, and he ducks his head to capture a nipple in his mouth again.

He sucks hard, the sudden pull of his mouth sending a sharp jolt of pleasure that arcs all the way to your toes. It makes your rhythm stutter, a broken moan tearing from your throat as your walls flutter around him.

He groans at the reaction, the vibration humming against your sensitive skin. He’s completely lost to it now, any remaining semblance of his usual control shattered. He lifts his head just enough to switch sides again, but he doesn’t let go with his hands. Instead, he kneads the heavy weight of them, pushing them up and together, burying his face between them with a desperate, breathless sound.

"Spence," you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss. He doesn't pull away; he just leans into the sting, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt-sweat gathering in the valley of your cleavage. "I'm gonna—fuck, I'm gonna come."

He doesn't stop. If anything, the confession acts like a detonator.

He pulls his face out from the valley of your breasts just enough to look up at you, his eyes dark, blown wide, and utterly frantic. He looks like a man watching a supernova, terrified and awestruck all at once.

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice cracking on a desperate whine. “Please, let me—let me feel it.”

The coil in your belly snaps, heat flooding your veins with a force that makes your vision blur. Your body seizes up, your back arching instinctively, pushing your chest further into his hands as the wave crashes over you.

You cry out his name, your voice breaking, and Spencer takes it like a revelation.

He doesn't stop moving, but he gentles the roll of his hips, guiding you through the aftershocks with a terrifyingly precise intuition. He watches your face with rapt attention, his eyes darting across your features like he’s trying to memorize the exact expression of your pleasure. The feeling of you pulsing around him drags a guttural sound from his throat, raw and unfiltered.

"God," he chokes out, his hands trembling against your ribs. "I can feel you... I can feel everything."

The sensation of you coming around him seems to be the final straw. His control, already hanging by a thread, evaporates. His hips snap up to meet yours, a sharp, involuntary thrust that punches a startled moan out of you, but he’s gone too far to stop it now.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't—" The apology is a fractured chant, breathless and desperate. His head falls forward, burying itself back against the soft sanctuary of your chest as his rhythm breaks apart completely. "You feel too good, I can't hold it—”

"It's okay," you breathe out, the words hitching in your throat as his movements turn sharp and erratic. Your hands find his hair again, tangling in the messy curls to hold him against you, grounding him as he starts to unravel. "Spence, let go. It's okay."

The permission seems to break the last dam.

He lets out a sound that is half-groan, half-sob, muffled completely against your skin. His hips snap up one last time, harder than before, and then he’s freezing, his entire body growing taut.

A moment later, he collapses.

The tension in his frame releases all at once, leaving him heavy and pliant against you. He shudders violently, a full-body reaction that feels like it’s rattling his bones, and you feel the pulse of him deep inside as he falls apart. He’s making low, broken sounds against your chest, frantic little noises of relief that taper off into wet, shaky breaths.

For a long time, the only sound in the room is the ragged harmony of your breathing. The air feels thick, charged with the static of what just happened, the smell of sex and warmth hanging between you.

Eventually, his breathing slows, the ragged gasps smoothing out into something deep and rhythmic, but he doesn’t move. If anything, he seems to be actively trying to merge his skeleton with yours.

He keeps his face tucked firmly against your chest, his nose pressing into the soft curve of your breast, his hair a wild halo of sweat-damp curls tickling your skin. Every so often, a small, involuntary shudder ripples through him, an aftershock of the intensity, and he tightens his arms around your waist like he’s afraid you might evaporate.

You can feel the frantic thud of his heart where his chest is pressed to yours—fast, too fast, like a bird trapped in a cage.

You run your fingers through his hair, the damp strands clinging to your fingertips, and scratch gently at his scalp. The simple touch seems to soothe him immediately; you feel the tension drain out of his shoulders, his muscles turning liquid against you. He sighs, a long, contented exhale that ruffles the skin over your heart, and presses a kiss there—lazily, without any of the earlier desperation, just a soft, reverent press of his lips.

"Spence?" you murmur, your voice raspy in the quiet.

"Mhm," he hums, the sound vibrating through your chest. He doesn't lift his head. If anything, he tries to burrow deeper, nuzzling into the softness of your breast like he's found the perfect pillow. "Don't talk yet. I'm rebooting."

You smile, your chest rising and falling with a quiet laugh that he feels instantly. You keep stroking his hair, letting your nails graze lightly against his scalp, feeling the way he leans into the touch like a starved plant leaning toward the sun. He feels heavy in your arms, a solid, warm weight that pins you to the couch in the most grounding way possible.

"Take your time," you whisper.

Spencer Reid is either busy, or he’s talking. Rambling in soft tones about work, or physics, or quite literally anything—you’ve heard him talk at length about centipedes before—because that’s just the type of person he is. So to see him just…sitting there, picking at the skin around his nails, neither speaking nor acting, is uncanny. 

Your boyfriend has been replaced with a statue, and it’s been like this all day. You noticed something was off when you first woke, and you were immediately able to identify the problem. You had hoped—evidently in vain—that Spencer might broach the topic himself, exercise his usually excellent communication skills, but no; he stayed quiet, grew quieter. And now it’s 6pm and you’re elbow-deep in the sink washing dishes, and Spencer’s still sitting on the couch, fidgeting in silence.

Or you think he is, until you feel a pair of arms wrap around you from behind. His chest against your back, nose pressed into your hair. You purse your lips, wait a beat, then two, for him to speak before setting the dishes in the sink and reaching for a towel.

“You okay?” you ask, voice light.

“Mhm.”

After drying your hands, you shimmy around until you’re facing him, brows set in a small frown. “Sure?”

Spencer flashes you a small, visibly strained smile. “Yeah, I’m sure. Are you, uh—” he clears his throat. “Are you all packed?”

“Yes sir.”

“And you’re not missing anything?” he asks. “You, um, forgot your toothbrush when we went on that road trip, and—”

“I have my toothbrush,” you say softly. 

Spencer nods. He swallows like it’s painful. “Good.”

For a moment, you just watch him, hoping that he might take your look of concern as a sign to speak up but, of course, he doesn’t. 

So, with gentle hands you reach up to cup his cheeks. “Spence,” you murmur, “I know something’s up.”

He lets his eyes flutter closed, and he leans into your touch with a soft sigh. But he doesn’t speak.

“You worried about this trip?” you prod.

You feel it under your palm, the way he bites the inside of his cheek before answering, “No. I’m not— well, I…” he sighs. “I don’t know.”

Leaning back against the countertop, you wait with patience. You keep your hands on his face, thumbs brushing tender circles against his skin as you let him organise his thoughts, giving him as much time as he needs.

“It doesn’t make sense, logically,” he eventually mutters. “What I’m feeling, I mean. I-I keep trying to…reason with it, but there’s just this— this voice in the back of my head.” He lowers his voice until he’s speaking in almost a whisper. “I just can’t help but worry you’re not gonna come back.”

His words catch you off guard. Your brows twitch, and he immediately begins to backtrack.

“And I know it’s stupid, and— and I know that, obviously, you won’t—"

“Spencer.” You cut him off carefully, hands moving from his face to his neck.

He falls silent, lowers his head. Shame seems to taint his entire being, weighing him down.

You wait a beat, trying to gauge where he’s at, what he’s thinking, before asking, “Is this about Gideon?”

All he does in response is smile. Self-conscious. Sardonic.

And it breaks your heart.

You know he’s been sensitive, more so than usual, since Gideon left—since Elle left, even. Since the awful incident with Tobias Hankel, the weight he carried—still carries—in the wake of it all. You can’t imagine how he must feel, and it’s rare that you see it at all because he handles it all so silently. Like he’s afraid of being too much. Too human. 

“Spence,” you murmur his name again so he meets your gaze, “of course I’m gonna come back.”

“I know.” He shakes his head, takes a deep breath like he’s trying to will himself into being okay, and then he deflates once more. He leans forward and touches his forehead to yours like you’re the only thing keeping him upright, and he closes his eyes. “I just can’t stop…thinking.”

“About what?”

“Sleeping in an empty bed for a week,” he mutters.

“And?”

He sighs. “The hypothetical—very hypothetical—scenario where you…enjoy being there, away from me, more than you enjoy being here.”

“Oh, honey…” your hands slip down further, fingers curling into the neckline of his sweater. “Spence—”

“I know it’s unfounded,” he says. His hands find your wrists, and he holds onto you like you may disappear if he lets go. “I know I’m being…clingy. Ridiculous.”

“You’re not being ridiculous.” You release his sweater, opting instead to entwine your fingers with his, holding his hands. “You’re allowed to worry.”

“I keep—” A laugh cuts through his words. Soft, light, but still laced with that slight self-consciousness that just makes you want to hug him and never let him go. “I keep hoping that Reagan will end up…falling down, or something. That way you won’t have to go.”

“Hopefully not while I’m there?”

“Oh, no— of course not!” His voice cracks as he pulls away, wide-eyed. “God, I’d never wish for—”

“I know, I know.” You squeeze his hands with a quiet chuckle, one that, thankfully, he mirrors.

You pull him back in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek as his lips curl into a small smile. When you lean back, you find that smile to be tainted, still, with a subdued sadness—less than there had been previously, but still more than what you want to see.

“Hey,” you murmur.

“Hey,” he echoes.

“I’m gonna come back, and— Spencer, look at me.” You cup his cheek as he tries to turn his face away, gently guiding him back to you. “And I’m gonna call you, okay? Every day, I promise.”

A frown crosses his face at your words, and he shakes his head. “You don’t need to…placate me,” he says. “I’m being childish—”

“I want to call you,” you interrupt, voice firm. “I wanna hear your voice. I’m gonna miss you, too, you know.”

His gaze drops to his feet, but even as the silence starts to sting you take care not to rush him. It takes him a few moments but, eventually, he meets your gaze once more, holds it like a lifeline. “You’ll call me?”

“Every day,” you repeat.

He nods. Slowly, like his head weighs twice what it should—but it’s still a nod. You pull him closer, press a kiss to the tip of his nose, before releasing his face.

“Here.” You fumble with the clasp of your necklace, removing it so you can press it into his palm. “Hang onto this for me, okay?”

A stretch of silence. Spencer stares blankly at the necklace, like he doesn’t know what to do with it, before shaking his head. “I can’t,” he says. “This— this is your favourite. You never take it off—"

“Then it gives me all the more reason to come back, right?” you ask, smiling. 

Of course, Spencer himself is reason enough to come back. You could tell him that a thousand times, but there’d still be a part of him that doesn’t—can’t, for whatever reason—believe it. 

It’s your favourite necklace, sure, you wear it every day, and going without it will undoubtedly feel weird, but you’d happily leave it behind for Spencer. You’d leave every piece of jewellery—no, everything, period, for him. You just wish there were a way to make him understand that. 

So you settle for putting the necklace on him, not because it “gives you a reason to come back”, but because it gives him part of you to keep with him. Something that he can hold onto; a physical reminder of how much you love him.

You pull him into a hug, squeezing him tight like it may somehow convey, wordlessly, all the things you wish he’d believe. Like, if you hold him tight enough, you might infect him with just a fraction of what you feel for him. 

His arms wrap around your waist once more, and you feel the tension that’s been wracking him all day begin to ease. He presses his face to your neck, mumbles “I’m gonna miss you” into your skin like a prayer, and you murmur back “I know, I’m gonna miss you, too.” 

Time seems to stop existing entirely, and you have no idea how much of it passes during your embrace (a minute? Five? Maybe more?), but when you pull yourself away Spencer seems as though he’s had new life breathed into him. He smiles, kisses your lips, holds your waist not like you’re going to vanish into thin air, but like you’re something precious. And you think for a moment that maybe your hug did work, even if it’s only for a short time. 

“So.” You run your fingers up and down his arms, tracing the creases in his sweater. “Are you gonna drive me to the airport tomorrow, or am I gonna have to call a cab?”

“Why would you call a cab?” he asks, frowning. “I’m not at work.”

“I dunno, in case you feel like driving us off of a bridge, so I miss my flight.”

Spencer’s jaw drops. “I would never—”

“I know.” You chuckle, poking his shoulder as a playful grin creeps up your face. “I’m kidding.”

He rolls his eyes, very obviously suppressing a smile of his own, and kisses your forehead. “I’ll drive,” he murmurs, “don’t worry.”

Morgan is leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight enough that his knuckles have gone pale. He looks like he’s aged ten years since this morning. 

“He woke up once,” he says quietly. “Couple seconds. Doctor said that’s good.”

You nod without looking away from Spencer. “Good.”

“He’s gonna be okay.”

You try to hum some sort of acknowledgement, some half-hearted agreement you don’t entirely mean because at this point you can’t really know if that’s true, but no sound comes out. Instead, you reach for Spencer’s hand.

His fingers are warm. The plastic hospital bracelet brushes your wrist when you thread your fingers through his, and you feel almost burned by it. Spencer is supposed to have ink smudged on his hands and paper cuts from case files and maybe chalk dust from a man impromptu lecture no one asked him to give. He is not supposed to look fragile under a hospital blanket.

Morgan studies your face for a second, then stands.

“I’m gonna grab some coffee,” he says.

You don’t point out the fact that he already has a half-full coffee cup in his hand. You just nod.

At the door, he pauses. “He was asking about you earlier. Before they brought him here.”

Your grip tightens around Spencer’s hand.

“Just thought you should know,” he says.

Then he leaves, and the room gets even quieter.

You sit there with Spencer’s hand in yours and stare at his face until the anger sharpens again, because anger is a much easier emotion for you to deal with than fear. 

“You absolute idiot,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

—

You had been with Rossi and Emily when you found out.

The day had already felt a bit off-kilter since it started. Anthrax in a park in Annapolis. Dead civilians, sick children, hypermasculine military personnel taking over the BAU and breathing down everyone’s necks. Dr. Kimura from the CDC explained the intensity of this strain in a voice so calm it made the information hard to process. The team had swallowed Cipro in a lame attempt at some sense of control, then scattered across the Washington metropolitan area trying to build a profile before the unsub executed another attack.

You went with Reid and Dr. Kimura to the hospital earlier. You noticed the way his inflection turned clinical as he talked about infection rates and symptom onset, the way his eyes stayed focused on the numbers in the patients’ charts because if he let himself see them as people for too long, he’d feel all of it. You saw the way his focus faltered around Abby, a young woman who just wanted to go on a bike ride around the park and was now experiencing aphasia and severe respiratory distress as she tried to stay alive long enough for a cure to be found. You desperately wanted to touch the back of Spencer’s wrist as you walked beside him in the hallway, but you chose not to, because you were surrounded on all sides by sick people and your relationship did not belong in the middle of it.

You regretted that choice later.

Of all the stupid things to regret, that was the one your brain kept returning to. The touch you hadn’t taken. The two seconds of warmth you’d decided could wait.

By early afternoon, you and Emily were with Rossi following a lead away from the rest of the team, chasing down information on Dr. Lawrence Nichols, a disgraced military scientist who’d been downgraded to working on the flu. Emily was having a tough time with the casual deception a case like this required, so you were talking with her beside the parked SUV when Rossi got a call from Hotch. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as his expression changed and his gaze flicked quickly toward you before it shifted away again.

It was small. Practically nothing. A slight narrowing of his eyes. An almost imperceptible shift.

But still, your stomach went cold.

“What?” you asked.

Rossi lifted one finger, still listening to Hotch on the other end.

Your voice came out sharper. “Rossi.”

He lowered the phone. “Morgan and Reid went to check out Nichols’ house.”

You waited.

Rossi’s jaw tightened. “Nichols is dead. The house is contaminated with anthrax.”

For a second, your hearing went thin, and the whole street seemed to drop underwater. Emily shifted beside you. A car passed behind the SUV, tires hissing against pavement, and all of it reached you half a second late. Emily said something, but you didn’t catch it. Your eyes were fixed on Rossi because you knew there was more coming. You’ve been around the block enough times to know that people always pause before saying the worst part out loud, as if a few seconds of silence can soften the impact of devastation.

“Reid discovered the body and the exposure site inside,” Rossi said. “He sealed himself in before Morgan could enter.”

All at once, heat rushed up the back of your neck. Your hand went tight around the car door handle you hadn’t realized you were holding. Somewhere at the edge of your vision, Emily went still.

“Is he in decontamination protocol now? Or is he already at the hospital?” 

Rossi didn’t answer fast enough, which was an answer in itself.

You turned away from both of them and walked three steps before bending forward, hands braced on your knees as you searched for breath.

Emily approached cautiously.

“I’m fine,” you snapped automatically.

“That’s not what I asked. I said Hotch wants to talk to you.”

You straightened slowly, smoothed your hands down your blazer, and took the phone from her.

“Tell me exactly what’s going on,” you said too fast as soon as you got the phone up to your ear.

Hotch did. He gave you all the facts he had: Nichols had been dead for days. There was anthrax spilled in the lab and the AC was blasting it through the house. Definitely a homicide, and whoever killed Nichols was likely responsible for the recent attacks. Reid had gone inside and accidentally stumbled upon the scene, shutting Morgan out before he could follow him inside. Kimura and the CDC team were on their way with protective equipment and a decon shower, but Reid was refusing to leave, instead insisting on working the profile from inside since he was already exposed. 

Already exposed.

Those words had a sharp, horrible finality to them. 

“What do you mean, he’s refusing to leave? You’re his boss, Hotch. Make him leave.”

Hotch’s voice stayed even, but there was strain under it. “He believes there may be an antidote or identifying information on the partner inside the house. He’s continuing to work the scene until one or both of those things are located.”

You pinched the skin between your brows. “Get him on this call for me.”

Emily turned fully toward you then. Rossi was watching with the careful stillness of someone standing near a live wire. Hotch said nothing.

You swallowed hard. “Hotch, transfer me to Reid’s phone, now. I think we all know he won’t answer if I call him myself, and I need to talk some sense into him.”

“He’s working.”

“Hotch. Please.”

The silence that followed was very, very loaded.

Then Hotch said, “Give me a minute.”

You lowered the phone a little and stared at nothing for a second. Your chest felt too tight, your blood too loud, every part of your body braced for impact. Emily came to stand beside you, but she didn’t try to touch you, and you appreciated that more than you could say.

“He’s going to do everything he can to find the cure and track down the unsub and get out of there,” she said.

“I know.”

“He’s Reid. If there’s something in that house to find, he’ll find it.”

“I know.”

And you did know. That was the problem. You knew him so well there was no room to be surprised. Spencer would knowingly stay in a room full of anthrax because people were dying and he had a chance to stop it. He would put his lungs and brain and life on the line to prevent the person responsible for the prior attacks and Nichols’ death from taking any more lives. You’d expect nothing less from Spencer Reid, and right now, you hated him for it.

A muffled voice came through the phone before you could fully catch your breath.

When you lifted it back to your ear, you heard movement first. Then Spencer.

“Hi.”

He sounded too normal.

You gripped the phone so hard your fingers hurt. “Do not hi me right now, Spencer Reid.”

A tiny pause. Then, softer, “Okay.”

“Are you symptomatic?”

“Not really.”

“Spencer,” you said.

“I’m okay right now,” he said, before you could ask again. “Kimura’s team is coming in soon. We’re currently in a limited window where I’m still useful and the scene is still viable.”

“Oh, goodie. Well, as long as you’re useful, everything’s just fine then,” you bit out.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, “you know what I mean.”

Emily looked away. Rossi did too, like they were granting you privacy by pretending not to hear the sharpness in your voice.

Spencer was quiet for a second. You pictured him inside Nichols’ house, phone held close, hair falling in his face. You pictured powder on the floor, sealed doors. You pictured him alone in there.

“I found a second workspace,” he said. “There’s a bunch of notebooks filled with different handwriting, so it definitely doesn’t belong to Nichols. Whoever this desk belongs to is probably our unsub.”

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you leaned your forehead against the SUV door and forced yourself to breathe through your nose. “You need to go to the hospital.”

“I will.”

“Now, Spence.”

He paused. “I’ll go as soon as I can.”

Your throat tightened. 

“You do realize you’re a person too, right?” you asked. “Not just a brain with a badge and a duty to uphold.”

Despite everything, you heard the faintest breath of a laugh. “I’m aware.”

“Great. Then act like it.”

“I am acting like it,” he said, and there it was, his signature stubbornness. “Leaving now wouldn’t make me safer in any meaningful way if we still can’t identify the unsub and still don’t have an antidote for the strain. If I can figure it out from in here, there’s a chance we can save the patients at the hospital, and me.”

You pressed your free hand over your eyes.

“Don’t do that,” you said.

“Do what?”

“Make sense.”

His quiet inhale caught slightly. Maybe from the anthrax, or maybe from you. It was hard to tell.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“But you’re still staying.”

“For now,” he said.

You sighed softly and rubbed your temple with your free hand. “You’re so frustrating.”

“I know.”

“And arrogant.”

“I can be, on occasion.”

“And so ungodly, unbelievably stupid.”

“Well, technically, I’m quantifiably a genius, although I don’t believe—”

“Spencer.”

“I know you’re angry with me,” he said quietly.

“You have no idea how much.”

“Well, I think I have some idea. I know you.”

“No, you really don’t.” You looked down at your boots. “Because if you did, you’d be walking out of that house right now.”

His voice went softer. “If I thought walking out was the thing most likely to get me back to you, I would. I promise you, I would.”

That took every bit of air out of you.

Spencer didn’t rush to fill the silence. He just let the words sit there, awful and sincere and completely unfair.

Then he said, “I’m not trying to scare you.”

“Well, you’re doing a damn good job for someone who isn’t trying,” you replied. You blinked hard, furious at your body for even considering tears when rage was so much more useful.

“Listen to me,” you said. “Find what you need to find, and then you get the hell out. No extra detours or noble self-sacrificing bullshit. Got it?”

“I’ll be careful,” he said.

There was more noise on his end now. Another voice. Hotch, maybe, through the sealed door closing him inside. 

“I have to go,” Spencer said, pausing before he added: “I love you.”

You dug your fingernails into your palm.

“Don’t say it like that,” you whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re only saying it in case it’s the last thing I hear from you.”

He took a shaky breath. “I’m saying it because it’s true,” he said firmly. “And because I want to say it. That’s all, okay? I love you.”

You swallowed, and when you spoke again, your voice was steadier than you felt. “I love you too. Stop being a hero and get back to me.”

“I will.”

The line clicked dead a second later.

You kept the phone against your ear long after there was nothing left to hear.

—

The next time Spencer let himself think about you, really think about you, he was sitting on the floor with poison in the air and sweat cooling at the back of his neck.

By then, his body had started showing signs of distress. The cough had come first, small enough that he tried to classify it as irritation from the environment, from dust, from the pollen in the garden outside. Then came the ache behind his eyes, the heat under his skin, the faint tremor in his hand that he could ignore if he kept it busy, if he kept turning pages, pulling drawers open, reading notes, forcing pieces of Dr. Nichols’ life into order.

He was aware of each symptom with miserable precision. He knew exactly what they meant. He also knew the unsub was still out there with a larger attack planned, so his personal awareness changed nothing. His body could be evidence later. Right now, he had work to do.

Still, there came a point when he had to step back and admit how serious things had gotten.

Garcia’s voice shook through the phone when he asked her to record a message for his mother. She tried to be brave about it. He could hear the effort it took, could picture her sitting at her desk with all that color and joy around her while despair leaked through anyway. 

He recorded his message to Diana as steadily as he could.

He said all the things a son should say when he’s trying very hard to say goodbye without sounding like he’s saying goodbye. He kept his voice gentle. He tried not to cough in the middle of it. He nearly failed once, clearing his throat to get the urge to pass. When he finished, Garcia was silent for a few seconds.

“Okay,” she said finally, and he could hear the tears in her voice. “Okay, I got it.”

Spencer swallowed. He was covered in a sheen of sweat. His throat hurt. Everything hurt, actually, in a diffuse, widespread way he disliked for its lack of specificity. “Garcia?”

“Yeah, boy wonder?”

He closed his eyes.

He had been trying not to ask. He had been trying to tell himself that the message to his mother was already indulgent enough, that he did not have the right to take more time away from the case for something that served no immediate operational purpose. But the thought of you never getting to hear his voice again if this went badly kept pressing against the inside of his ribs until it became impossible to ignore.

“Can you, uh, record one more message for me?”

Garcia inhaled sharply.

“Oh,” she whispered, understanding immediately. “Of course. Yeah, of course I can.”

Spencer opened his eyes and looked around the room. Papers were spread across the floor in front of him, Dr. Nichols’ handwriting scrawled across margins and folders and binders. Somewhere outside, people were moving around in protective suits, building a perimeter, preparing to come in as soon as they could. Out in the field somewhere, you were trying to work despite your fury and fear. He knew that with the same certainty he knew his own name, the same certainty with which he could recite the periodic table in order by atomic number. You were angry because you were scared. You were scared because you loved him. That thought — that you loved him — probably should have brought some comfort; instead, it made his chest ache worse than the cough did.

“Ready whenever you are,” Garcia said, softly enough that it almost didn’t sound like her.

Spencer tried to take a breath deep enough to steady himself. It caught halfway down. He turned aside, coughed hard into his elbow, and waited for the room to stop tilting.

Then he looked down at his hands, at the pale dust along his cuffs, at the pulse ticking too fast beneath his skin, and began.

“Hi,” he said simply, because every other possible opening sounded wrong — either too formal, or too casual, or too final. He let out a breath that was almost a laugh and tried again. “You’re going to hate this. I know that. You’re probably already furious with me, and you’ve got every right to be, so if this message makes you even more furious, I’m sorry.

“I just need you to know that I wasn’t trying to be a martyr. I know you’ll think that’s what it was, some ‘noble self-sacrificing bullshit’ like you called it earlier, but that’s not what this is for me.” He paused, eyes stinging. “I keep thinking if I find the right thing fast enough, if I can connect the dots, then maybe we can stop the next attack and everyone at the hospital would have a chance. Maybe I would, too.

“And I keep thinking about you. I don’t know if that helps or makes it worse, but I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I thought about you being mad at me, and about the way you must’ve been rolling your eyes when we were on the phone earlier, and about your apartment, and the coffee you pretend to like when I make it too sweet, and the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

A cough broke through him. He bent forward, eyes squeezed shut, one hand braced against the floor. It took too long to stop. When he lifted the phone again, his voice had gone hoarse around the edges.

“I wanted more time with you,” he said. “I wanted more ordinary days. That’s— that’s what I keep coming back to, which is strange, because technically, ordinary days are the least remarkable kind, but I think those are the ones I’ll miss the most. You at my desk stealing pens, and you pretending not to smile when I say something you think is ridiculous, and you falling asleep before the end of a movie and denying it in the morning. 

“And if you’re hearing this, I know you’re going to want to do the thing where you decide this proves some terrible theory you’ve always had about what happens when you let people matter too much, but…”

His eyes burned. Because of the fever, maybe. Heartbreak, definitely.

“Don’t do that. Please, please don’t do that. Don’t let this be the reason you shut everyone out. I know it took a lot for you to let me in, and I know asking this is unfair, and I hate that I can’t say it to you in person, but I need you to keep letting people love you. You have to let them stay.”

He coughed again, violent enough this time to make his whole chest seize. 

“The team loves you,” he said. “You know that. Garcia will smother you with affection and care packages. Morgan will check on you constantly and won’t even pretend to act cool about it. JJ will know when you’re lying about being fine before you can finish a sentence, so don’t try. Emily will sit beside you casually and pretend she isn’t worried, because she knows you hate being handled.” A faint, broken smile pulled at his mouth. “Rossi will feed you, so get ready to eat a lot of pasta. Hotch will give you space and somehow still make sure you’re never truly alone.”

He swallowed hard.

“And Elle… Call her. Please. She was there once when you needed her. Let her be there for you again.”

The words felt intrusive, maybe, as if he was reaching into parts of your life he had no right to touch. But if this was all he got, if this recording became the last shape his love ever took, he needed it to be honest.

“I don’t want you to be alone,” he said, voice breaking. “I don’t want you to decide that losing me means you were right to keep the door locked. I can’t bear it, so please, do this for me.”

He pressed his thumb into the crease of his palm until the tremor in it settled.

“I love you. I know you know that. I know I say it all the time now, probably too much, and if I get out of here you can complain about that for the rest of our lives and I won’t argue with you. But if I don’t,” he said, forcing himself through it, “then I need you to know that loving you was never something I regretted. Not for one second. And being loved by you was… it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

A sound came suddenly from outside the room. Movement. Voices. The heavy plastic rustle of protective equipment. He looked up and saw shapes gathering beyond the doorway, bright orange suits and face shields and Dr. Kimura’s focused eyes as her team entered the house.

He looked back down at the phone. There was so much more he wanted to say. There would always be so much more. That was the terrible thing about loving you — no matter what he said, it could never be enough to cover it.

“I have to go,” he said. “I’m going to try very hard to make sure you never have to hear this.”

Then, quieter:

“I love you. I really, really love you. Keep letting people in, okay?”

Garcia made a tiny broken sound through the phone, then cut the recording and the call before he could hear her cry.

—

The day stitched together in pieces after that.

Rossi and Emily kept you updated as information moved through the team, and Morgan called whenever there was a concrete update on what was going on in the house. Garcia called once too, telling you they had a name now — Chad Brown — and that Reid had been right about Nichols not working alone. There was a protégé. A student. A man with knowledge and access and ideology and rage.

You remember standing with your arms folded so tightly across your chest that your shoulders started to ache. You remember Emily offering you water and you pretending not to hear her. You remember Rossi telling you to sit down, not as an order, but in that low, paternal way of his that made you want to be even more difficult on principle. You remember staring at your phone until your eyes burned, as if your fear could force Spencer’s name to appear on the screen.

Mostly, you remember waiting.

When Hotch finally called, his voice was steady. They had Brown. The attack on the Metro had been stopped. Reid and Kimura’s team found what they needed. Reid was out of the house and had been decontaminated. Paramedics had transported him to the hospital where the treatment was being prepared, and Kimura was hopeful, and they would know more soon. 

“Is he conscious?” you asked.

“Last we heard, yes,” Hotch said, and the words scraped through you. “Morgan is on the way to Walter Reed now to see what’s going on.”

You wanted to ask if Spencer had asked for you, but you didn’t. It felt too naked, somehow. Too pathetic. So you just said, “I’m on my way,” and Hotch didn’t waste anyone’s time pretending he could stop you.

Garcia found you before you made it out of the building.

She looked wrecked. Her mascara had smudged at the corners, and she had one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee she clearly hadn’t touched. She stopped in front of you like she wanted to hug you, then thought better of it, although it looked like that decision pained her immensely.

“He really, really loves you,” she said quietly.

The words were so abrupt, so earnest, that for a second you could only stare at her.

“I know,” you said.

Garcia nodded too fast. “I know you know. I just—” Her mouth trembled, and she pressed it together. “I just needed to make sure. I wanted you to hear it.”

Something about her face made your chest tighten. There was more to it — something she wasn’t saying, something she was holding back. You could see it in the way she looked at you, nervous and guilty and gentle all at once.

But Penelope Garcia, for all her usual glitter and gossip and inability to mind her own business, could keep a secret when it really mattered.

So you let her.

You just reached for her hand, squeezed once, and pushed through the doors to the parking lot.

—

Now, as you sit in an ungodly stiff chair next to his hospital bed, Spencer’s fingers move against yours.

It’s small. Barely anything. An involuntary twitch, maybe. But it’s enough of a movement to assume it could mean something bigger if you’re desperate enough, and apparently you are, because you go still so suddenly Morgan looks up from the cup of red Jell-O he’s been eating with a plastic spoon.

“Reid?” Morgan says.

Spencer’s brow furrows.

For a second, nothing happens. Then his eyes open slowly, heavy and unfocused at first. He blinks up at the ceiling like he’s trying very hard to decipher what type of room the ceiling belongs to.

Morgan moves, relief breaking over his face. “Hey, kid.”

Spencer’s gaze shifts toward him. It takes effort. Everything about his movements right now looks like it takes effort.

His voice comes out rough. “Are you eating Jell-O?”

Morgan cracks a wide grin. “Man, you almost die from a bioweapon and this is what you wake up concerned about?”

Spencer blinks slowly. “Is there any more Jell-O?”

Your laugh escapes before you can stop it. It’s small and wet and humiliating, and Spencer’s eyes move immediately toward the sound.

The drowsy confusion in his face shifts, turning into something so relieved and so sorry that all the air you just got back leaves you again.

“Hi,” he says.

You swallow. “Hi.”

Morgan looks between the two of you for half a second, then pushes himself out of his chair. “I’m gonna go tell Dr. Kimura that Sleeping Beauty here is awake,” he says. “And apparently find more Jell-O.”

Spencer’s mouth twitches faintly. “Green, if they have it.”

“You’re lucky I’m pretty much obligated to be nice to you right now,” Morgan tells him sarcastically, but his hand lands on Spencer’s shoulder for a second before he leaves, firm and warm and full of things he’ll probably never say out loud.

Then the door closes behind him and the room is quiet again, but it isn’t the same quiet as before, because Spencer’s awake now. His eyes are open. His fingers are caught between yours, weak but there, his thumb making the smallest attempt to move against your skin.

There’s too many feelings to parse through. Relief, first. Relief so enormous it can barely fit inside your body, but somehow it does, pressing against the anger and terror and frustration you also feel, against all the miserable little aftershocks of the day. 

For a moment, you just look at him.

He looks terrible. Pale, sweaty, hair mussed, lips dry, throat probably raw from coughing and whatever else his body has been through. He also looks alive.

You want to kiss him.

You want to hit him.

You settle for tightening your hold on his hand and saying, very evenly, “I’m so mad at you.”

Spencer closes his eyes for a second.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t,” you say. “You really, truly do not. I possess levels of anger right now that are previously unrecorded in modern psychiatry.”

His mouth curves faintly, but it fades almost immediately. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

Spencer looks at you for a long second, too tired to dress the truth up into anything gentle. “I’m sorry for what it did to you,” he says. His voice is rough and low, dragged out of a throat that still isn’t ready to cooperate. “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, and I’m sorry that when I did, I couldn’t tell you what you wanted to hear.” He pauses, breathing carefully. “But if I had left before we found what we needed, people could have died.”

You stare at the bed rail.

You know the exact reason behind the choice he made, because you’ve made choices with the same bones. Spencer’s been on the other side of this with you before. Not with anthrax in your lungs, obviously, but in basements and alleys and warehouses and too many places where you put the job before your own safety without a second thought. 

You hate that. You hate him a little for making it impossible to be purely angry.

“I know,” you say, voice quieter now. “I know you’re right. Or close enough to right that I can’t even enjoy being mad at you properly.”

Spencer gives you a weak, exhausted almost-smile. “I’m sorry for that too.”

You look back at him, and the sight of him ruins you all over again.

“You could have died, Spencer,” you manage to say in a hoarse whisper.

His expression changes. The humor disappears, what little there was of it. His fingers tighten around yours with visible effort.

Your voice shakes, and that irritates you enough to make your eyes burn. “I know you. I know you weren’t actually trying to be some self-sacrificing hero, even though you have a very irritating talent for landing there by accident. I know I probably would’ve done the same thing, which is frustrating because it makes my moral high ground very unstable.” You inhale, careful and shaky. “But I was so scared, Spencer. I was so scared I couldn’t pretend to be normal about it.”

He looks at you like that sentence hurts him worse than anything else.

“I thought about that too much,” he says.

You frown. “About what?”

“You. Being scared.” His eyes drift down to your joined hands. “I thought about you being angry, and about you pretending you weren’t afraid because Rossi and Emily were there. I kept thinking…” His brow creases faintly, concentration pulling through the haze. “I kept thinking if I could just find the answer, then maybe I’d get back to you before anyone else could see your fear. I knew you’d hate it if they could.”

You let out a breath that breaks in the middle. Your free hand lifts before you really decide to move, fingers hovering near his face. He watches you do it, quiet and trusting, and that almost makes it worse.

You brush his hair back from his forehead, and his eyes close.

The simple trust of it dismantles you a little. You had spent the whole day imagining him behind sealed doors, breathing poisoned air, making logical arguments while his body betrayed him by degrees. Now he’s here, under your hand, alive and exhausted and still somehow trying to be gentle with you when he’s the one in the hospital bed.

“I love you,” you say. “And I genuinely hate you right now.”

Spencer’s eyes open again, slow and soft. “That seems pretty fair.”

Your laugh comes out wet. You look away, but he squeezes your hand before you can get far.

“I love you too,” he says. “And I know it doesn’t make it better, but I was trying to make sure I could get back to you. That was the point. I know it looked like I was choosing the work over everything else, but I wasn’t. The work was my way out.”

You turn back toward him.

He looks exhausted by the length of his own words, breaths a little uneven, but his eyes stay on yours. 

“I know,” you whisper, because you do. “I know, Spence.”

You lean forward carefully, giving him time to shift away if he needs to, but he doesn’t. He tilts his face up the smallest amount, and you press your mouth to his.

The kiss is soft by necessity. There’s no heat in it, not really — not the kind the two of you are used to. His lips are chapped and warm and careful beneath yours, and for one long, holy second, all you can focus on is that you get to do this again. You get to kiss him in a hospital bed and hate the reason for it, but you still have him here to kiss. You get the fragile press of his mouth, the weak squeeze of his fingers around yours, the proof that his body is still a living thing and not a memory you’ll spend the rest of your life surviving. It isn’t enough to undo the day, but it gives your fear and love somewhere to go. It’s a promise made with whatever energy he has left.

When you pull back, your forehead rests near his temple.

“You scared the hell out of me,” you murmur.

“I know.

“If you ever do that again, I will murder you myself.”

“I know.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I know.”

You pull back enough to glare at him. “Normally you’d argue with at least one of those.”

His tired smile is tiny and perfect. “I’m conserving my energy.”

The door opens after a soft knock, and Dr. Kimura steps in with Morgan hovering behind her, a green Jell-O cup in one hand and a fresh coffee in the other.

“Look who I found,” Morgan says.

Spencer nods at Dr. Kimura before his gaze flicks to the Jell-O. “Is that for me?”

Morgan chuckles. “Yeah, kid, it’s for you.”

You wipe quickly under one eye with your thumb and try to regain whatever dignity you can scrape off the floor.

Kimura checks Spencer over. Vitals, pupils, lungs, cognitive questions he answers with enough impressive precision to make Kimura’s eyebrows lift. Morgan stays near the doorway, and you don’t let go of Spencer’s hand the entire time.

Eventually, the room settles again.

Morgan leaves the Jell-O on the tray and tells Spencer not to be a pain in the ass to you or any of the nurses. Dr. Kimura tells him he’s on the mend but needs a lot of rest, and Spencer nods, probably because he knows you wouldn’t give him a choice anyway.

Once it’s just the two of you alone in the room again, your anger has gone a bit quieter. It’s still there, and knowing you, it’ll probably stay there for a while, tucked stubbornly behind your ribs, ever-present but currently overshadowed by disgusting amounts of relief and love.

Spencer’s eyes are already slipping closed.

“Sleep,” you say.

“Will you stay?”

You sit back and wrap both hands around his. “Yeah, genius, I’ll stay. Obviously.”

The corner of his mouth turns up into a crooked, sleepy smile. “Good.”

It takes less than a minute for him to fall asleep again.

This time, watching him sleep doesn’t feel like waiting for the floor to disappear beneath you. His breathing is still rougher than you’d like, and his face is still too pale, but the monitor keeps a steady rhythm. Alive. Alive. Alive. His fingers are warm under yours, and there’s a green Jell-O cup sitting unopened on the tray because, apparently, even near-death experiences cannot kill Spencer Reid’s bizarre snack preferences. You know he’ll ask for a spoon as soon as he’s awake again and his appetite comes back.

You do not know about the recording.

You do not know that somewhere, locked carefully behind Garcia’s cyberdefenses, there is a version of his voice trying to love you through the worst possible outcome. You do not know that he spent the better part of what might’ve been his last hour on earth trying to make sure you would be okay. 

But maybe it’s better you don’t know.

You don’t need the version of him that said goodbye. You need this one: alive, stubborn, fever-warm, breathing steadily with Jell-O waiting untouched beside him.

His fingers twitch against yours again in sleep.

You keep holding on. You hold on, and you stay. ᝰ.ᐟ

this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️

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

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

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

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

That might be acceptable, but the context is new.

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

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

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

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

"Yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

On kissing.

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

Now, you're starting to lose your nerve.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

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

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

"Are you done stalling?" Spencer asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He kisses you again, and again, and again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It isn't meant to get this far.

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

Addendum re: Kissing.

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

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

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

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

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

"Spencer."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No making out in public or private.

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

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

Lastly, he writes keep kisses brief.

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

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

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

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

"Exactly. Of course not." You lie.

+ Autistic Spencer, engrained into all of my one-shots re: him. (should’ve been canon i say as they drag me away kicking and screaming)

Warnings: sub spencer (like total, tell me what to do i am beneath you spencer), soft dom reader (with explicit mentions of her being hard dom, she’s versatile i love her), inexperienced spencer (but not a virgin this time !!!! oh my god, we’re making progress), crying, condescension, praise, some light degradation, copious amounts of begging (take a shot every time spencer uses his manners and says please), handjobs, head (reader receiving, spencer mentioned to receive), sex on every surface — SEX MARATHON (oh my god someone sedate them holy shit???????), they’re cute if you can believe me after reading all of that.

— this one is kinda academic!! learn something new while you goon guys!!! intellectual gooning!!!

w.c: 3.2k

A/N: tap tap tap is this thing on??? I apologise, it has been like a year and I can’t promise how consistent I will be with posting henceforth, but here i am…..

────────────

Spencer doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Midnight. The world feels pale and weightless, rinsed out and left to dry. He’s airy, courtesy of the Cabernet Sauvignon split over dinner.

Not drunk, he tells himself. Outside the restaurant, the light bleeds off the street lamps in a slow haemorrhage. He stumbles, wayward in movement: flushed cheeks, wine-soft mouth, half-unraveled already.

You’re standing beside him, and he never learnt how to talk to pretty girls. Not really. Not when it matters.

His mind won’t stop. Alcohol affects cognitive function, warnings smeared across college bulletin boards. He can confirm; right now, he is not functioning remotely. He should’ve told you, god he really should’ve told you that you’re beautiful. That he saw you a month ago and has been ruining himself in the weeks between.

If this is a humiliation ritual, then he will gladly regard it as a kink.

What do you think of him? The question nags.

Spencer, Spencer who you think is too soft. He wears a halo like the crooked glasses he traded last fall. Intellect like the black-hole in his stomach.

He is too good, too good for you, too good for anyone. He’ll stare at you like a wounded animal, but feed from touch regardless.

He’s a mess and you’re relating him to divinity. Well, divinity and wing-clipped birds.

Here. Now. In this moment that spills back into time, his brain is a blur of obscure facts, futile etymology, half-formed footnotes. Freud’s death drive loops behind his eyes, fucking Thanatos—right now?

“Good?” you ask. “Maybe we shouldn’t of ordered a bottle, ostentatious.”

Spencer laughs boyishly. He can’t believe you agreed. Internally, he’s 14 again; all elbows and unbrushed hair, holding the kind of loneliness that calcifies into something permanent.

He remembers the way girls used to approach him: lacquered nails tapping against lockers, mascara-heavy eyes, dressed in body spray and spite. Daring each other to flirt with the boy who could recite the periodic table backwards.

He fell for it. Fell for it until it carved something mean into his stomach. Something he never quite outgrew.

“It’s etiquette,” he argues, too earnestly.

“Ettiquette. Right. Next time, we should order everything off the wine menu and see how long it takes for us to get kicked out.”

Spencer is too strangled by the notion of a next time to even discern the rest of your sentence.

He blinks at you. ”Next time?”

“Yeah, Einstein.” your shoulder knocks into his. “Next time.”

You say it so definitively. Like you know, are terrifyingly consciously aware, that you own the noose looped around his throat.

Spencer is fine suffocating, if it means his mind will call cease-fire. Shut up shut up shut up. That last glass of wine was a big mistake.

He thinks of Pascal’s wager, betting on belief, even without certainty. No, he thinks of Camus’ absurdism, the conflict between humans search for meaning. No. Japanese ma (間) - the space between, the silence that holds tension. Fuck fuck fuck.

The smart ones always make dumb decisions. He should’ve never picked up the bottle in general.

So what’s he going to do? Word vomit. (…. nothing screams successful end-of-date behaviour like a spontaneous lecture on metaphysics and emotional dysfunction).

“You know, Schopenhauer believed that existence is driven by this blind, irrational force—The Will—and that it, um… well, compels everything to keep striving, desiring, even though fulfilment is always temporary.“

Great start. He’s going to die alone. “So we chase, we want, and we think that when we get the thing we want, we’ll be at peace, but we’re not, because..”

He makes a small, helpless gesture, like he’s trying to pull the words to him..

“The Will just,… finds something new to want. We’re built to be dissatisfied. We’re—we’re biologically wired for hunger, for longing. Even this, even you, saying next time—it lights up every neuron in my brain, every craving, every ridiculous, hopeless part of me that wants to hold onto you and know there’ll be more. But if Schopenhauer’s right, it’s all just… another loop. Another itch I can’t scratch.”

Spencer wonders if there’s a fault in his binary coding. “I’m sorry— that’s a lot. I just…. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to just… let myself want something without dissecting it to death.”

He’s still half-laughing, half-apologising, all stuttered ‘i’m sorry’s’ and ‘Derek is going to kill me for fumbling this’ when you cut through.

“Spencer. Genuinely, who cares?” You catch his wrist, sharp enough to register. “I’m not telling you there might be a next time. I’m telling you there will be.”

When you make decisions for him, it feels like a relief his prefrontal cortex can’t justify; you’ve short-circuited his need for autonomy by offering something even more seductive: certainty.

If he pops a boner right now, please have the decency to look away.

You sigh, “Stop running theoreticals in your head, genius. You just have to show up. Think you can manage it?”

Spencer swallows. “Um—yeah. Yeah. Definitely. I’ll uh,” he gives you this awkward, ‘I’m really trying!’ smile, “I’ll write it into my calendar…?”

“Preferably in red ink. With a little exclamation mark.”

“Oh. Okay. Yes ma’am.”

─────────

Spencer likes dates. Like when your knees knock under tables, likes your ankle hooked around his, likes the drag of your thigh when you shift in cramped spaces.

His favourites exist in coffee shops, when you overstay, just to psychoanalyse a stranger three tables over. When you stand up to stretch, soft and godless. He picks lint from his sweater like it means something, shows up with flowers and dumb memorabilia; pressing receipts into your palm, ‘Keep this, it’s from the night we first met,’ all wide-eyed intimacy that comes in a soft package.

He wears your hair tie like a wedding band around his wrist. Starts to humour horoscopes, simply because your star-signs match. If they decide to deem you ‘incompatible’ one day, he will resort back to fuck the stars, what are they anyway? Hydrogen and helium gas bombs. They’re wrong,… baseless.

Seventh date. You have him up against a bookcase, and he can only recite [ Boron, Carbon, Nitrogen, Oxyg… ] as you carve your way down his neck.

He keeps pausing, to highlight the legal risks of public indecency, to compare you to the Golden Ratio. 1.618: he can trace the sequence in your bone structure. He’s found it in autopsies and blood spatter and now, somehow, in the curve of your eyebrow.

“You should um…. come back to my place.” Spencer winces. “Ha, that sounded like a proposition. It’s not. I mean—I don’t think it is?”

He laughs, dropping his head to your shoulder. “I just…. have this list of movies I want to watch with you. Because people, normal people, do that right?”

“Last time I checked…”

“Okay. Yeah. Good. Um, here’s your warning. My TV buffers randomly, and the subtitles are stuck in Dutch for some reason, but… I have good snacks?”

Your hands bleed through his hair, sinking to the scalp. If he moans right now, he will kill himself.

Instead, he just blushes, pulling his head up to meet your gaze. “I’m aware I’m not selling this well.”

“Heeey. I like subtitles. Subtitles are good. I’m a talker, so it’s probably for the best—“

“—You like talking. I love talking. Everyone always looks at me weird when I pause 12 angry men to explain how Juror 8’s entire argument hinges on cognitive bias theories that weren’t even formalised until decades later, but! but! they’re so obvious if you just know where to look—“

He cuts himself off, goes to apologise (for the nth time this week). You beat him to it.

“Or when you try to explain how Solaris isn’t about space at all, it’s about the impossibility of human connection and how every interaction we have is just a projection of ourselves on the other person. Yup. Been there. My friends hate me. Movie nights are banned. It’s a crime.”

Fuck. Everything. You simply exist, talk all your pretty intellectual words, and now nothing else feels sufficient for him.

Queue the vows.

Sometimes, he gets off on the thought of exclusivity, commitment. Statistically, he knows that’s not marketable. Porn doesn’t cater to emotional stability.

Monogamy. Eye contact. Not exactly a thriving niche in adult content.

“Right. OK. You just summarised Solaris in one sentence. Cool.” he blinks, then again…. “Let’s get married.”

He stares. Kicks himself mentally. Attempts to backtrack. “I mean… platonically! Intellectually! The cost of living is too high right now to live alone— not….”

You scoff. “Platonically? You just had my tongue down your throat.”

“What? And you don’t kiss your friends?” he says, before holding up his hands in surrender. “That’s um, I was joking. I have never done that, won’t ever do that—can we leave now?”

“Scared we’re gonna get caught?”

“Yes, actually. I’m ah, a very serious FBI agent. It would be…. distasteful?… to be seen in such a compromising position.”

“You’re into it.”

“Yeah…” he sighs, like he’s disgusted by his own perverted actions, “Potentially.”

─────────

Spencer’s place is quiet, paper-soft around the edges—patchwork blankets thrown over mismatched furniture, books stacked into every miscellaneous corner.

The city outside is slick. Shitty late night weather: puddles that reflect sodium streetlights, fractured constellations smeared across the asphalt. It’s humid, everything outside smells of petrichor and old stone.

You’re both splayed across the couch, watching old re-runs as you debate over a movie. Dumb little arguments, interrupted by messy kisses that escalates into tangles of limbs and skin, and ‘oh? what was I saying?’

He lives in his own untouchable haze of domesticity. Leaving behind pen smudges and ringed coffee stains. He’ll let you kiss him, sweater half-on, collared shirt underneath creased. Pausing to pull himself together, only to ruin it all over again when his lips return obediently to yours.

Right now. Present moment. You’re straddling him. Bunched up fabric and heated touches He makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

He wonders if you believe in limbic resonance. Wonders if his nervous system has attuned to yours emotionally.

“I want…” (he pauses, the words you, you, you lingering in his horny, sleep-deprived mind). “I want to.. be able to show you how I feel,” he says, which is an odd way of saying ‘I want to make you feel good.’

He’s just glad he can speak. Everything feels like glass and balanced china.

“This… yeah, .. shit Spence. “ — you can feel the pressure, the prominent bulge that presses between your thighs.

Maybe you’re hedonistic for dragging your hips against it. Earning a choked whimper from Spencer, who looks like he’s about to unravel.

“But—“ your voice drops mean. But what? You have the physical manifestation of warmth beneath you? What could possibly be more important than taking care of him?

“We should really figure out what movie we’re watching. I still haven’t seen Rashomon, which is a crime in itself….”

Interesting use of free-will.

It’s bait. Spencer knows it’s bait. Still, he’s a naive loser with a hard-on and prominent inexperience, so he bites, predictably. “Yeah. Huge crime.” pause. “Oh— ohmygod, you’re torturing me. That’s worse. That’s the actual crime here.”

His hips arch up to meet yours. Yes, yes please. He does not get out a lot (read: at all), and this is an amalgamation of every wet-dream, come to reality.

If he wakes up to tangled sheets, sweaty with damp in his pants, he will sue.

“You’re the worst.” he whines, “I really really don’t care if it’s bad manners, I want to kiss you again. I want to do a lot—don’t… please, I will beg. I have no dignity, I don’t care.”

You think there might be fatal consequences if you don’t remove his clothes in the matter of seconds. So, diligently, like a good house-guest, you work on his tie: tugging at the knot, unravelling it to start on his shirt.

“Thank you,” he says , genuinely terrified you’d leave him half-hard to watch a movie about the philosophy of justice.

Torso bare: he’s lean under those grandad clothes. Skinny, with olive-toned skin and sensitive nipples. Whore, you think, virginal, you settle on.

“Please—“

“Please what?” you repeat, pushing your hand against his chest, palm outstretched, forcing him back against the cushioned surface. “Use that big brain of yours to tell me what you actually want. I need words Spence, i’m sick of hearing pointless begs.”

“Anything,” he whimpers out. Little ah ah’s that bounce off the walls of his very grown-up apartment. In contrast, he feels like an angsty teenager now. “You could do anything to me. That’s what I want— I’m… I’m very good at following instructions!”

He will debase himself. Because, hello? He’s hard, throbbing and needy, and if you want to use force to coax him into coherence, then yes please…

No complaints here.

Your top comes off. Discarded fabric marking its way across his hardwood floor. Something incriminating. Perhaps it constitutes as evidence; that you have him, painfully awkward Spencer Reid, who averts his eyes and fumbles over sentences, all blushed and undone on the same couch he litters with academic journals.

Of course anything academic has been sidelined; he’s too busy marking his way across your breasts, messy lips latching onto nipples, leaving behind tethered strings of saliva, to care about…. IQ’s and WAIS scores.

“Do you think about this often?” you tug at his hair, pull him off your skin like a leashed dog. “Spencer. Listen to me when i’m speaking to you.”

“Mhm,.. ‘m sorry…”

He looks like he’s about to cry. He’d argue tears of fucking joy.

“Do you touch yourself and think of me?”

Everything is coming out wrangled. “Yes—“ he whimpers, “All the time. I can’t stop…. That’s bad. I’m sorry. That’s really bad….”

The TV is still playing. To Spencer’s dismay, it doesn’t muffle every indecent word that leaves his bruised lips undisclosed.

“I think about you every time I do—do that.”

They’re going to take away his badge, demote him to some office rookie. He will be punished for every night he’s stuck his hand down his pants and came to your name.

“The other day… when you dropped me off, when you got really close, I had to um,… you know, in the shower.”

He has the audacity to follow that confession up with: “I respect you, so much. But—you’re making me dirty. And I—“

Spencer’s hand clasps around your wrist, dragging your palm to his erection, the fabric soaked through with pre-cum.

He bucks up. Whines, like he can’t handle the consequences of his own actions.

“It’s a— a psychological process.” he says, in a last ditch attempt at maintaining (some) semblance of control. “When you see something you like, the visual stimulus affects your autonomic nervous system, which is.. um, linked to your hypothalamus. I’m, ah.. I’m a little overwhelmed,… if that helps?”

A pained whimper tears through him. “Oh— oh,” he can’t help himself in grinding against your palm.

You’re having a psychosexual effect on his brain. Everyone point and call out shame shame shame. “I need you,… just, just take care of me. Please?”

“Oh look at that, you asked so nicely. That was an actual request, well done.”

“I can be nicer.” Spencer argues; pathetic. So pathetic that it aches.

Someone collect his backbone on the way out.

You remove his pants, his stained boxers. If there’s anytime to play coy, it’s now, when you’re wrapping a hand around his cock: long, curved, with cum pearling around the pretty flushed tip

Everything is messy. The soak of saliva and lubricated arousal. “How does that feel? Poor baby, so deprived…”

It might be time to admit that he’s in over his head. How you’ve managed to reduce his thought process to base instinct is beyond comprehension.

It’s impressive. Spencer wants to study your skills in a lab.

“Feels,..” his words spill into sloppy whines, head falling back against the couch to bare the unmarred expanse of his neck. “You’re good. Too good! This is— you’re… I can’t last. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

It’s mean. Mean, making him watch as your hand drags down his length. He’d take notes, if he wasn’t so gone, because fuck, his own palm never felt this good.

This is corruption. Everytime you brush your thumb over his tip, he is being tainted. Left with too much pleasure for his big, yet so so dumb, brain!

Swollen lips part, forming a little o. He’s liquid, melting, coming apart at the seams. The orgasm itself makes him choke back mewls; it feels like warmth, it feels like he just debunked Schopenhauer, because for the first time, in his jagged life, he’s satisfied.

Personal record. He lasted 30 seconds. At least he didn’t cry,… improvements improvements. (A mercy kill sounds ideal right now.)

He doesn’t care about eloquence. Noise control, a filtered disposition. You’re kissing him through it, gentle parenting at this point, talking out soft praises that he’ll repeat later as he pre-orders a ring.

( ‘So perfect. There’s my boy. Shh shh, I know it’s a lot, you can take it.‘ ) Spencer wants your words under his skin. ( ‘Mm. You really needed this. It’s okay, princess. I’ve got you.’)

This is a well-respected FBI agent. Condolences to the victims of the cases he works on.

“I didn’t know it could feel like that—“ he’s clambering over you, a fervid tangle of limbs, trying to communicate through actions.

He fumbles with the button of your jeans, stuttering out sorry! sorry! when his hands fail at simple tasks.

“Shh—slow down. Hey, eyes on me.” you say, coaxing his gaze to yours. “Chill out, Einstein. I’m not going anywhere. Literally, you’ve kinda got me cornered here.”

“Mm, yup. Can we stay like this forever?” he laughs, abandoning task to kiss you again. “Well, y’know… after i’ve gotten you off, of course.”

“Wow, a real gentleman.”

“The best. You should probably keep me.”

“Every intention. Knees.”

Spencer drops immediately. Like he was born to be reduced to such a demeaning position. There, he hooks his hand around your ankle and repositions you: legs draped over his shoulder, thighs parted - adequate room for him to slot between.

“I have an oral fixation. So, yeah. You can shut me up like this anytime. In fact,” he looks up, smiles, inches from your clit. “I insist.”

He’s not careful, nor considerate. He’s still strangled by the belief that he needs to repay you for making him see constellations. Burdened with the holy weight of being wanted, his tongue drags across your swollen clit, collecting wetness, before drawing it into the heat of his mouth.

Face drenched, cheeks smeared, he buries himself, sees god as he traces halos. He really really doesn’t want to do a subpar job. His mind has fixated, so now he’s going to overcompensate.

He is so so good at pleasing. He wants you to be proud, to give him a gold star and glowing reviews. He wants to be needed, to find some use in himself. To appease and provide and let you dictate his entire existence.

Your thighs tighten, groans, punctured moans crowding the stuffy air with noise. You feel the push of his fingers, long, deft digits, filling up hollow space, carving their methodical touch inside.

“Fuck—Just like that. There we go. So much better when your mouth is preoccupied.”

You can hear him whimpering, muffled little begs, careless and hurried, as he suffocates. He pushes through, abandoning trivial concepts like oxygen, pft—unnecessary. It’s a myth, Priestley was wrong. Lavoisier named a fallacy.

“Good boy. Good fuckin’ boy.”

Spencer stares up at you with a mouthful of pussy. Doe-wide eyes, glossy. “Just for you.”

Then, he’s returning to the task: tongue dragging between folds, leaving him to sloppily suck at your swollen clit.

He’s not sure who’s getting off on this more.

His fingers curve, earning a strangled gasp that has him nudging closer. You can only cant your hips upwards, limbs flagging, squirming as the bliss runs through. Snaking its way around your body until you’re overstimulated, hiccuping broken sounds.

In the aftermath, he has the audacity to press a chaste kiss to your clit. To clean up his mess, like a respectful citizen.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Pointless. Every inch of him is smeared. There’s cum on the couch, and Spencer is currently situated on his knees, looking all too confident in his ministrations.

“Maybe we should’ve done this in the shower,” you say, knocking your thigh against his flushed cheek. “Shit, i’m going to ride you so hard for that.”

“Right now? Is that an option? Please say that’s an option.” he stands, stumbles, nearly knocks over a book as he fights the need for friction. “Because im hard again. And yeah—ow.”

He eats his own words.

Every sexually-suppressed nerve in his spent body is assiduously destroyed. You christen his kitchen, his bathroom, bed and dining table. He cries into the sex, let’s you bully him through every thrust: ‘Cmon, harder. I know you have it in you. Don’t make me disappointed.’

He genuinely, hand over heart, sobs when you take his overused, very confused, cock into his mouth later. His entire body is a bruise. You own every scrape. Tears spill down his flushed cheeks, wetting the soft skin there. “Shut up,’ you say, ‘Just stand there, look pretty and fucking take it.’ Or, ‘Behave. Show me that I’ve trained you well.’

And you have! You really have! Because he does shut his mouth, and he does thankyou after.

Refractory periods are apparently banished, you seem hellbent on corrupting him in every position, angle, and—

He has blame. Vindictive, censurable blame. If, mid-way through attempt 2 of after-care, he gets a little too fixated on the sight of your slick-wet skin, the steam of the shower, and his wandering touch.

And sure, maybe he drops to his knees the moment you suggest Star-Trek for background noise.

Every part of him is impure. Maybe he was born to live inside you.

Post-touch, stretched out across the mattress, the sheets are kicked aside: relinquished, probably in dire need of being burnt, entropy spilled between linen. Spencer turns to meet your stare.

“This is so unhygienic,” he mutters, pressing the pad of his forefinger to your bottom lip, cracked open, still branded by his teeth. “I’m gonna have to bathe myself in hand sanitiser.“

“Well I clearly can’t trust you in the shower.”

“Hey.” he pouts. “I want a do-over. Let me wash your hair. Then you can wash mine, and it’ll be just like that one shampoo ad I saw.”

“Mm, nothing makes stocks sell like the promise of domestic bliss.”

“Exactly!” he rolls over, rests his chin between your breasts—the same ones that are stained red, imprinted with Spencer-owned bruises. “Hear me out on this: shower, nap, movie marathon.”

You laugh, gather his face in the palms of your hands. Watch, real time, as he softens into molten gold “Yeah, OK. You’re on.”

There’s this study on Oxtocin, how it creates memory impressions during intimacy; a clinical way of saying that he will remember every detail of this until the day he dies.