crimson soup

The Emily of it all makes him smile, though the rest of the memory leaves a metal tang in his mouth. Back in those days, there were sometimes a lot of girls, but even then he was consciously aware he wasn’t necessarily doing something he enjoyed. He spent a lot of time, actually, staring at his bedroom ceiling, psychoanalyzing himself. Repetition compulsion. The insatiable desire to repeat or reenact emotionally painful experiences. Maybe he thought if he could teach himself to subsist off of emotionless hookups, he could in some way heal from his experience with Elle. Though, he’s hesitant to think of it now as healing—it’s not like he didn’t know what he was doing when a few nights after she said I don’t feel the same I’m sorry he opened up his front door for her. It’s not like he didn’t know what he was doing every time after that. So, maybe heal isn’t the right word, when one doesn’t have the right to be injured. Or when the injuries are, in a manner of speaking, self-inflicted. At the very least he could tell himself that this time around, meaningless sex was a choice he was making for himself. Spencer hates when things just happen to him. 

But you—you’re different. You were a complete surprise. At first, a cute and unexpected complication. After a few painful and short-lived attempts at real relationships, Spencer decided he was simply not to be trusted with emotional intimacy of any kind, including that which inevitably develops from physical intimacy, and would resign himself to a life of celibacy. He tried not to like you, but you were just so damn likable. Magnetic, to use a trite and perfectly honest turn of phrase. All that to say: he doesn’t regret you at all. There is no filter of putrid shame or anguish over his memories of last night. 

Just you. Perfect. Starlit. Glowing softly around the edges like you’re not even real. 

I love you I love you I love you. A hymn with no melody. You, always reminding him exactly why he is decidedly not a man of faith. At least, not in the typical sense of the word. 

How God became the idol and not Mary is lost on him. That’s why, Spencer supposes, tapping an eraser on his desk, marriage and sex were forbidden for so many ecclesiastics. After all, if they knew what it was to love a woman, specifically to love you, he doubts they’d feel like spending much time in the pulpit. Love. Humans had that long before they had any gods. It’s primeval. It’s the most natural manifestation of devotion and worship. It will always have come first. Isn’t it a better kind of religion when a man realizes he can kneel in front of a woman rather than an altar?

A heavy hand falling on his shoulder jolts him from his theological musings—which are in all practicality useless. What’s that saying about blasphemous thinking on the FBI’s dime? Right. There isn’t one. 

“I’m scared to ask,” Morgan says as Spencer jumps slightly in his chair. 

“What?” He mumbles, looking up from the document he’d only sort of been reading.

Morgan just looks at him, strong brows furrowed and a ditch between them, angles his head and glances to the side as if Spencer is missing the obvious. He almost follows Derek’s eye-line. When that doesn’t work, Derek just says your name. Like your status is somehow in question. 

“Did you two work things out, or not? It looked pretty bad when you guys were leaving last night.”

People often misunderstand an eidetic memory. It’s not like things can’t slip his mind—Spencer can actually be quite forgetful. It’s made worse by the fact that last night at the bar feels like months ago. For a moment, he has no idea what Derek is referring to. 

“Oh. Oh! Right, we—right. Yeah, we, uh—we worked it out.” Before Derek has a chance to read his face, no doubt as incriminating as his fumbled speech and an ill-timed throat clearing, he turns back to his paperwork. “Thanks for keeping an eye on her at the bar. I appreciate that.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and Spencer’s lips twist as he can feel the incoming inappropriate comment. 

“Is that the same suit you were wearing last night?” Morgan quips, his wide grin audible. Spencer can practically hear the cartoon gleam of his friend’s bleached teeth. 

“No.”

“You dog.” Derek is still smiling as he claps Spencer’s shoulder again. “What did you say to her that worked so well?”

Spencer clears his throat again and tries to look extremely involved in logging onto his computer, speaking quickly as if he’s beyond disinterested and can’t wait for the exchange to be over. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m actually trying to work so if you wouldn’t mind going back to your desk that would be great.” 

“Uh-huh. I’ll let you work. But I see you, pretty boy.”

Spencer tries not to blush like a teenager as he refuses to look up. 

Naturally the rest of the day is a slow descent into dread and madness as all those good feelings with which Spencer had started his morning begin to harden into something much worse, chilled by your lack of response to the text he sent you earlier. Which was essentially a rehashing of the note he left on your bedside table. 

Maybe it was too much. It should’ve been one or the other, but not both. He’s overwhelmed you. 

Okay, so maybe this is what religion is for. A last ditch effort when you can’t talk to your girlfriend so you have to try talking to God. 

But Spencer knows you, and he knows something is wrong. You wouldn’t just ice him out so blatantly if everything was okay. He catches himself glancing up toward Hotch’s window to see if the blinds are drawn, and considers faking an illness to get out of work early and go check on you. But he powers through the remaining hour and a half that he is obligated to stay at work, he bounces a pencil between his fingers, drums at his desk, and gets nothing else done. As soon as 4:59 rolls around, he’s out. 

Spencer can hear shuffling on the other side of your door as he stands in the hallway. A pot clatters. The walls hum with the rush of water through the pipes to your sink. He knocks, relieved that you’re okay and at the same time struggling with that weight on his chest—something cold that leans over his shoulders and whispers into his ear—so she just didn’t want to talk to you. 

Suddenly all sound from inside your unit ceases. For a few long seconds, Spencer’s confusion only grows exponentially. 

“Who is it?” You finally call, voice wavering. Also odd. Usually you just open the door. 

“Um… Spencer?”

“As in my boyfriend Spencer?”

He frowns, bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly as he tries to decipher your sudden paranoia. “I hope so?”

The click and jingle of several locks precipitates your much-anticipated reveal. 

“Come in,” you say breathlessly, more harried than usual and not giving him the tender greeting he’s selfishly become accustomed to—barely even giving him a second to look at you. But he steps inside, watching on in concern as you do up every single lock—the one on the knob, the deadbolt, even the chain. Is this really all because of his little comment last night about anyone being able to get in? He certainly hopes not. He didn’t mean to terrify you. 

When you finally turn, he takes stock of your appearance. Big hoodie, pajama pants patterned in little hearts. Hair pulled back hastily. Your skin is sort of dull where you normally glow. But you’re beautiful, like always. It always aches just a little bit to look at you. Spencer’s always been like that. Going breathless at a particularly good piece of art or pretty girl. Like yourself. Mostly you. 

You quickly turn to hurry back into the kitchen. “I was trying to make dinner, I—”

“Hold on,” he interrupts, stopping you with a hand on your stomach that is so non-demanding it’s really mostly a suggestion. He tries to clear his head, though you make it hard. “You didn’t talk to me all day. Not that you have to, but… I was worried.”

You glance at the floor and mumble, “I lost my phone,” with so much embarrassment he believes you’re telling the truth. “Did you, um—did you text me?”

Insecurity. Spencer knows well what it looks like on you. He softens. You weren’t ignoring him—but you’d been left in a vulnerable state without any ability to contact him or anyone. That couldn’t have been comfortable. 

“Of course I did.” He pauses to observe you. Still anxious. Still prepared to run at any second. Something, and he’s not sure what, did a number on you today. Maybe it’s sheer exhaustion, maybe it was the anxiety of not having your phone. But he has to figure out what it is so he can undo it. “What? What’s wrong?”

He watches your breathing pause—watches your eyes gloss over with tears and a frown contort your features. Oh, god. He’s done something terribly wrong. It’s been thirty seconds and he’s done something wrong. 

“Can we sit down? I don’t feel very good.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we can. Whatever you need.”

You cast a baleful look at him and now he has to wonder what that means. Spencer sets his bag on a pulled out dining chair and follows you to the couch where you settle on opposite sides—you’re curled up in the far corner, hugging a pillow to your chest with your legs folded in front of you. Spencer’s heart is beating fast. He doesn’t know what’s going on with you and he can’t figure it out just by looking and you don’t seem eager to tell him. 

He’s exhausted all his typical ways of collecting information, and now he’s at a loss. 

Eventually, the anxiety comes bubbling up. 

“Please talk to me,” he pleads. And you do. Almost instantly, like he stepped on some sort of landmine. 

“I know it’s my own fault for not having my phone on me and not being able to see your texts, but it really sucks that I had to find out from my creepy neighbor that you snuck out in the middle of the night without saying goodbye.”

The whiplash is so strong it’s almost a broken neck. Spencer reels, frowning deeply as he tries to process your impromptu speech, the sudden confrontation. What creepy neighbor?

“I… didn’t. I went to grab my stuff from the car around one, but I came right back. I left at 7:30. You don’t remember me saying goodbye?”

Your brow furrows, and your eyes dart over the design on the rug like you’re watching memories go by. He sees it in your eyes when you recall some hazy image of him holding your face, kissing your cheek more times than was necessary and whispering sweet things against your lips before he had to go. You shrink into the couch, clearly struggling under the combined weight of relief and embarrassment. 

“I forgot. I thought… he said…”

A moment passes and it’s clear you’ve abandoned the sentence. Spencer is concerned about this shadowy male figure who put malicious untruths into your head. He slides his hand under yours and twines your fingers together. Finally, finally you meet his gaze. 

“Someone made you believe I left without saying goodbye.”

And he almost wishes you weren’t looking at him as more tears pool before falling down your cheeks. You nod, and don’t make a sound. 

“No, honey. I didn’t do that. I’m sorry that’s what you’ve been thinking all day.”

“I was worried that you… or that I wasn’t…”

His chest aches. You’d woken up alone, no recollection of his goodbye, and without the comfort of even a text. 

“You didn’t see my note?”

The way you look at him then is heartbreaking. Eyes wide and wet and sad, lip trembling. 

“You left a note?”

Murphy’s Law. Anything that can go wrong, will. 

It must’ve fallen off the bedside table, or maybe he just hadn’t positioned it obviously enough. 

A lost phone, a missed note, and not even a memory of his departure. While none of these things are verifiably Spencer’s fault, he feels so, so guilty. 

“I did,” Spencer says gently, scooting closer and pulling you into him, head pressed to his shoulder as you try not to cry, and he rubs your back slowly. 

Your sulky words are muffled by his shirt. “I didn’t see it. What did it say?”

“A lot of very nice things about you,” he whispers. Spencer thought maybe he could get away with giving you all the sincere compliments you can’t accept face to face through a note you could read while he wasn’t around. That way you couldn’t refute them or stop him. It was a good plan. 

He feels the sigh of relief leaving your body against his neck. 

“I didn’t know.”

“I know. I’m sorry. That’s not… I should’ve just stayed. This is my fault.”

You keep your cheek pressed to his shoulder as you speak. 

“It’s not. You have a job. A really important job. You can’t just call out whenever I want you around.”

Logically he knows you’re right, but he doesn’t always think logically around you. 

“I could’ve made it work. I could’ve come in late, or the team could’ve called me if there was a case, which there wasn’t—”

“Spencer, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. Don’t worry about it.”

He pulls back slightly, frowning at your tone. You do look relieved, much less plagued than you’d been when he arrived minutes ago, but something heavy still weighs you down. The burden of it darkens your eyes and dulls your expression. When he cups your cheek, you glance up at him, and then away once more. 

He speaks softly. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?” 

Again he earns a moment of your eye contact, but it’s fleeting. He watches the words spin around your head as you try to figure out what to do with them—and then choose to remain silent. 

There is in fact something you’re keeping from him. 

Spencer hates to use work tactics on you, but he doesn’t speak either, hoping that you’ll feel compelled to fill the silence with the truth. Knowing how you’re not entirely comfortable with quiet. 

And you try, lips parting and the sound delayed as you wrestle with something you clearly don’t know how to talk about. 

“I… my neighbor,” you say, frowning like you don’t quite know why you’re speaking. “The one who told me he saw you leaving in the middle of the night. He also—he said…”

Spencer brushes hair away from your cheek with a thumb, stroking the high point in gentle passes as your words taper off. Now that he’s thinking about it, he did encounter a man in a dumpy robe standing in the courtyard and smoking a cigarette when he left you tangled in sheets and dozing contentedly to get his bag from the car. In fact, they rode back up to your floor in the elevator in mostly awkward silence. Spencer was sure his outfit told a story—shirt untucked and hastily buttoned only partway, no belt, shoes barely tied, duffel slung over his shoulder—he wasn’t really expecting to run into anyone at such an hour, to be honest, but he hadn’t particularly cared what this man thought of him, so it didn’t cross his mind again.

Now he remembers. 

Long night, huh? I remember those days. 

It was an inappropriate comment, but given his job he’s used to ignoring those. Mostly his mind had been preoccupied with the idea of returning to you, who gave him such a warm and sleepy welcome when he climbed carefully back into your arms several minutes later that it was like he’d never known anyone else at all. 

Now he resents that he hadn’t said anything, he hates the idea that you spoke to this man and he said something to upset you and Spencer wasn’t there. Usually he tries not a judge a book by its cover (metaphorically, of course) but he’s been around enough bad men to know when he’s looking at one. Last night he hadn’t even been cognizant enough to realize they got off on the same floor. 

“What did he say, angel?” Spencer whispers, incapable of being anything but soft with you at the moment. Even though he senses something a lot like a tide of preemptive anger rising in his chest, painted over with layers of anxiety and guilt. He should’ve found a way to stay with you this morning. 

You sniffle and let your head fall again, forehead resting against his collar. Instinctively his hand slides to the back of your neck and even at the awkward angle he finds a way to press his lips to yours hair. “Can we talk about it later? I don’t feel good.”

If it’s making you this uncomfortable, Spencer really wants to know what passed between you and this neighbor. In fact, he’d be willing to bet a lot of your strange behavior this evening stems from something that occurred which you don’t feel comfortable telling him yet. But he manages to bite back anymore questions. He doesn’t want to make you feel interrogated. 

“Yeah, you mentioned that,” he says eventually, kindly, hand tracing down the length of your back and up again. “Why don’t you feel good?”

He doesn’t miss the way you reach up to discreetly wipe your cheek. But he won’t make you talk about anything you don’t want to talk about until you’re ready, and it seems like you’re already having a rough day. Which is not what he wanted. This is so far from what he wanted for you. He’s cursing himself for how he handled this whole situation. 

“Um, I just… I don’t know. I feel… bad. I’m sorry I’m being so weird.”

“You’re not being weird, honey. You had a hard day. You’re having a normal reaction to an abnormal set of circumstances.”

You sit up, sniffing and wiping your tears like you can just make the whole thing go away. 

“No, I am. I am. It’s all okay now, right? So I don’t know why I feel like this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He watches helplessly. “Nothing is wrong with you. We’ve… it’s been a big couple of days. Mostly good, but I think you’re probably really tired. Emotionally and physically.” 

You bury your face in your hands and nod silently. He still feels like he’s shooting in the dark, but you’re not entirely comforted yet, and it’s killing him. 

“Whatever you’re feeling is okay. If this is… about last night, or this morning, or something entirely different—regardless of what it’s about, you’re not going to be… in trouble with me if you’re having complicated feelings. And you can talk to me. But it doesn’t have to be right now. We don’t have to figure it out all at once, okay?”

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, and for a moment, his words sink into silence. When you do raise your head, nodding, the evidence of your discomfort is all over your face—reddened eyes, cheeks polished with wiped tears. But you take a deep breath and try to project whatever it is you think he wants to see. 

The back of your hand is soft under his thumb as he sweeps it, as if he could draw forth more information that way. People speak when they’re ready.

“Is there anything I can do?” He tries, all ramped brow and soft spoken. 

You’re looking at where he’s tracing swirls on your hand as you swallow and blink the last of your tears away. 

“Um… you can say no, but—do you think it would be okay for you to maybe stay again tonight?”

Spencer sucks in a breath, painfully aware that he’s about to let you down. 

“I… I haven’t been home in a week. I’ve been wearing this suit for two days straight and I don’t think I would want to share a bed with me again until I shower.” He watches you wilt and lifts a hand to stroke your hair. “But I do want to spend time with you… do you maybe want to come stay with me instead? No pressure—”

“Okay. Yes. Is that okay?”

Spencer’s brow knits. You seem even more enthused about the idea of going to his apartment, like now that the opportunity has presented itself you can’t wait to get out. Maybe you have some sort of black mold problem. 

“Of course. Do you wanna grab a few things and then we can go?”

“Um—I also haven’t showered today. Do you mind waiting?”

“Sure. Or you could use mine. With supervision, this time.”

Spencer is attempting to make a joke about your unplanned (and unmoderated) stay at his apartment last week after he left—but looking at your face now he’s wondering if he touched a nerve. 

“Like… one at a time? Or…”

He thought maybe you’d be more comfortable around him after last night—and it’s not like he hadn’t seen you naked before then, either.

“Do you wanna do it one at a time?” He asks gently. 

There’s this sparkly sort of longing in your eyes that he’s seen before, but you tamp it down like always. You’re so cautious. About everything. Even the things you’re curious about. It’s sweet and a little sad. 

“I’ve never… showered with anyone.”

The corner of Spencer’s mouth twitches as he pushes hair over your shoulder. “I know. You don’t have to. We could save like 100 gallons of water depending on how long your showers typically last, but—”

“Spencer—”

“Sorry, sorry—I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not trying to pressure you. You absolutely can take your own shower. You can go first so you get the hot water.”

“No,” you laugh, and it’s like a sparkling cloud of gold has settled around you, fractals bouncing off the shine of your cheeks and eyes—the sound of your laughter, the look of it, is such beautiful relief he can’t believe how good it feels, but it fades from you quickly. “It sounds… I think I want to, I just… I don’t wanna, like… do… anything.”

For a split second your veiled language mystifies him and then he realizes what you’re trying to say without saying. Something has changed since yesterday, when you brazenly referred to it as fucking, and today, when you can’t even say sex. He’s gotten as far as it being something your creepy neighbor said. Maybe. He needs to know what. 

But that’s not the topic at hand. 

“We don’t have to. I didn’t mean to imply that we would do anything like that. I don’t expect anything from you.”

You swallow. 

“Okay. I wasn’t sure.”

About what?

He says your name. No response. 

“Can you look at me, please?”

It takes you a moment, and your head raises like you might need some oil in your hinges, but eventually you manage. Spencer hopes the way he’s rubbing your leg is comforting. 

“You know I’m never, ever going to make you do anything you don’t want to do, right?”

To his horror, your answer isn’t an immediate and resounding yes. Instead you look back down and cover his hand with your own, fiddling nervously with his fingers. 

Eventually, you reply, “Yeah… I know. I just thought… I’m not sure. Maybe it’s supposed to be different now.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Nothing has to be different. We’re still doing everything on your schedule, okay? And as for the next few days, at least—I think it might be a good idea to take sex off the table altogether.”

Your eyes narrow and you hesitate. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you worrying about it. And I don’t think it would feel good for you right now. I think there are things we need to talk about, but… we’ve probably tried enough for a while, hm?”

You give him a shy nod and hum your agreement. For a moment he lets his hand linger on your leg and then pulls it back. 

“Okay. Do you want my help packing a bag, or should I wait out here?”

“You can wait. It should only take a minute.” You pause, halfway up to look pensive. “Um, Spencer—do you think it would be okay if maybe I… if I stayed tonight and tomorrow? I just—I wanna get out of here, for a bit.”

He frowns but doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. Can I ask why?”

“It’s just… suffocating sometimes,” you call as you turn and hurry down the hallway to the bedroom. “Feels like my neighbors are on top of me, like they’re… breathing down my neck, half the time.”

Sure, bigger apartments exist—but it’s not like you’re in a studio. And you’ve never mentioned feeling that way before. That bad feeling is starting to come back—like you’re not telling him something he needs to know. But is it worse to let you deal with it yourself until you’re ready to talk or to force it from you?

A few minutes later you return, a duffel of your own over your shoulder and full to bursting. 

“So I’m an idiot. My phone was literally in the pocket of my jeans on the floor.” You drop the bag as you bend down by the door to pull on your favorite slippers. “Oh—I think I forgot my charger, can you grab it? It’s by my bed.”

Spencer of course obliges, and is secretly pleased to be in your room again, in the light this time, so he can see better. It’s sweet. The pictures on the walls, the plants and the knickknacks and the sticky notes scrawled with messy reminders on every surface and the sweater hanging over the back of a chair—the one you’d been wearing at the cafe all those months ago—it all feels so you. He wonders why the two of you don’t spend more time here. 

He lets himself linger for only a minute before remembering his task, but as he reaches down to unplug your charger, whatever dopey smile he’d been wearing evaporates. The sheets have been stripped from your bed, and he can see why—there’s a striking stain of dried blood, and several surrounding dots, soaked into the mattress. Not much, but enough to make him feel horrendously guilty. He cringes, imagining what it must’ve been like to wake up all alone to nothing but your own blood. Poor girl. Of course he’d noticed some, last night when he was doing his best at cleaning you up, but it had been dark, and he was exhausted, and he hadn’t done enough. 

“Where’d your sheets go, baby?” He asks once back by the front door with his own bag on his shoulder, setting a gentle hand on your lower back and holding out your charger for you. You jump slightly, and he makes circles on your back, wishing there was something he could do to settle you. 

“Oh! They—they got ruined. I threw them out. It’s fine. I have others.”

So you didn’t have enough energy this morning to walk a few feet to your shower, but stripping your bed, getting dressed, and walking down to the trash chute at the end of the hall had been top of your priority list. 

You swallow as he undoes the locks and holds the door open for you, and pretend like you’re not doing surveillance to either side as you stand in the hallway, locking your door again like you can’t get out of here fast enough. 

Spencer casts a sidelong glance at you and wonders if you’re intentionally avoiding eye contact. He tries not to think like a profiler. He tries not to assign meaning to your actions, but he can’t help it. He can’t not notice. 

He can’t not worry. 

When Spencer leaves your apartment on Sunday morning, he expects to find you asleep upon returning.

Sundays are for rest, you say, stay in bed, baby- no, stay, don’t… Spence… in that high-pitched whine that usually gets you exactly what you want.

And he replies, I’ll be back, baby, I– shush, I know, I know, and kisses your head.

You grumble. You pout. You snooze again soon after.

So, he expects to find you still in your sheets, fuzzy-brained and blossoming with Sunday feeling.

When he opens the front door, he hears your rustling in the bathroom. Smiling to himself, he waltzes to your kitchen and places down a paper bag of warm muffins and a bundle of baby’s breath, the tiny white petals bunching like snowflakes, and slips off his coat, frost still clinging to the vintage fabric.

You wander out of the bathroom, skin damp and complexion steamed and dewy, towel wrapping your frame.

Spencer's eyes twinkle like it's the very first time.

Heaven. Heaven. Heaven.

Boom, boom. Boom, boom.

“Sweet girl…” he rasps, tugging you tight against him, beaming down at you – pure sunlight – and presses a kiss to your forehead, “good morning.”

“Good morning.” You grin, “Where’d my sweet guy run off to, huh?”

“It’s not often I get to spend a whole weekend with you; I was trying to commemorate it.” taking your hand, he leads you into the kitchen, where he presents you with the warm paper bag and flowers.

You press your nose into the baby’s breath and grin up at him.

“My favourite.”

“I know.”

“And what’s in there?” you peel open the paper bag and gaze down at the chocolate-chip muffins waiting for you, cooked this morning, still hot from the bakery’s oven, “Perfect, perfect.”

Spencer smiles, eyes trailing the line of your towel, agreeing with you.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?”

Spencer sighs, shaking his head, and clasps you by your waist, placing you to sit upon the kitchen island counters. You bite back a squeal, and he silences you further when he takes you by your radiant cheek and pulls you in to kiss him.

It’s not gentle, but not feverish either – someplace desperate but full of adoration, passionate. He breaks away because he can’t stop smiling, and continues to press open-mouthed kisses to your dew-dropped throat.

“Spencer…”

“Honey…”

“What are you doing?”

Spencer’s heart flutters.

“You look so pretty.”

His hands run up from your knees to your thighs, dragging the coarse fabric with it until it’s tucked up by your waist.

"Stop." you chuckle, turning bashful at such comments - the way he says it always make it sound important; he is the judge to your jury, and you wait for his words always with baited breath.

“So pretty.” he gazes at you, “Like an angel.”

“Really?”

“Always look pretty. Lay back for me, honey.”

Your brows raise at him.

“Why?” you taunt, one leg wrapping around his hip, tugging him closer to you.

“Because, smart-mouth,” he chuckles, taking your other leg and pushing it aside, exposing you underneath your towel, “when you are as charming-,” your eyes roll, “and as stunning as this… there’s only one thing on my mind.”

He slides you forward then so you’re almost hanging off the counter, eyes not breaking from yours.

"And on Sundays... I can take my time with you."

His lips take to your neck then, kissing away at your jaw and collarbone until you’re perfectly placid and quiet, and then leans over, lowering you back until your cool shoulder blades bones meet the countertop and his chest is pressed mostly to yours.

“Is that okay with you?” he asks then, tongue dragging along your jaw before kissing the spot just below your ear.

Your face burns and your cheeks ache from smiling.

“More than okay…” you mumble, tongue suddenly heavy.

Your fingers lace his hair as he navigates your skin through the damp towel, then reaches your thighs.

Kisses and tenderness part them for him, and you hum contently as his fingers glide the fabric aside.

When his tongue first makes contact against your clit in a light, testing lick, your hips buck and you let out a noise somewhere between a moan and a laugh, and Spencer’s arm slides around one thigh to rest his hand on your lower stomach, keeping you steady.

“You should be in bed, you know,” he tuts, “this would be a lot more comfortable in bed.”

You murmur, fingers streaming through his hair as he drags his tongue from your entrance to your clit in one flat, weighted line that has your hips grinding against him.

On any other day, he might’ve chastised you for such impatience, but Sundays are special – they’re for you.

“’m plenty comfortable…”

Spencer tightens his hold on your thighs, your towel brushing around his forearms, drawing a line and a circle, over and over, until he's satisfied your entrance has been teased enough. Carving loops into your nerves, your desperate fingers loop and bunch in the curls of his hair, taming your hold to be as gentle as your pent-up arousal will allow.

Already hazy, the morning light dances along the curve of his clothed back and untameable curls, and your legs hook over his shoulders as he lowers further down, settling, devouring you, tongue accelerating in harsh halos that leave you halfway to heaven and halfway to hell. In your liminal space of ecstasy, there is no god except the man between your legs, indulging you just as much as you’re indulging him.

One hand comes to ground itself against the kitchen counter, head turning as you murmur your prayers to him – Dear God… Dear God… Dear God…

The gypsophilia brushes your nose and you smile in remembering their existence.

Sucking against your clit, gently at first in second-only intervals, your heels dig into his shoulder blades and your ribs expand around a sudden breath.

“Spencer…” you whine, charmed, and he smirks against your skin - the whining is his favourite part.

“Honey…” he murmurs, “you okay up there?”

“Uh…” you stumble for words – for something smart or bold or just coherent – and end up settling for a simple, “mhm.”

“Mhm?”

“Yeah… mhm, m’kay.”

“Those aren’t words.”

“One was…”

He shakes his head at your stubbornness but settles for your response, returning to his work – his praising of you – and your words return to hums and moans and whimpers for more. You wonder what he thinks with his head between your legs.

The truth is he’s thinking you taste and sound and feel perfect. Many philosophers theorised this didn’t exist. Spencer completely disagrees.

Spencer continues to lap at you as you grow wetter, as your legs tremble, as your pitch raises and he utilises his hand over your stomach to keep you against the counter. Your angel song is something to be craved.

As your thighs tighten around his head, he groans.

Back to halos, working through every trick in his book, Spencer leans in closer between your legs and wastes no energy in drawing circles on your clit, marking the same pathway he has a hundred times before. Whimpering, your hips raise, and Spencer senses your release.

He eases off and steadily flicks against you instead. You whine, murmuring nothing but sounding displeased all the same.

“Little longer, baby.” he rasps.

Worked up and clenching around air, your head shakes, but Spencer has you in the cold waves of pliancy, soft in the way you listen so well. Arching into his mouth, tugging on his hair and reminding yourself to be gentle, you drift into your own little world of please, please, please, Spencer, I’m close, need more, I need more, just-,

“I know… I know…” he mumbles, barely letting up, Sunday stubble brushing your inner thighs.

His sudden softness leaves you fluttering around air and Spencer smiles as your discontentment.

Two fingers drag across your entrance and you grind down, hoping to catch them, but failing by smug design.

"Desperate girl." he tsks.

"Cruel boyfriend." your head shakes.

"Cruel?"

Just to prove a point, he gently - slowly, making you wait for it - pushes his fingers inside you, giving you time to adjust.

"I'm not cruel, honey, I just know what's best for you."

In typical Sunday style, Spencer takes his time in opening you up around his fingers. Your hips fall against the counter and just let him do what he wants to do to you, soft sighs and whimpers leaving your parted lips.

"Look at that..." he smiles, lazily working at you.

When he’s satisfied you’ve waited enough, Spencer drags a heavy line from your entrance to your clit once more and sucks hard, rolling his tongue over it. Combined with his fingers curling inside you, Spencer has you right where he wants you.

You cry out, like he’d wounded you, glowing from the inside out – it burns, you’re sure, from the pit of your stomach to the morning light. Your head shakes – too much, too much, Spence.

“Mm… almost there… you're okay, honey..."

Fucked by Spencer's fingers, obliterated by his tongue, your orgasm creeps up on you – no doubt confused, itself, from Spencer’s incessant teasing – and you swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs. Tightening around him and growing dizzier, you search the desert of your mind for the word Spencer always wants to hear about now.

“Please…”

"Please?" he repeats, “You gonna come for me?"

You nod.

"Hm?"

"Yeah... please, Spence, please..."

"Of course… polite girl... such good manners..."

Sinful as ever, the moan that clambers your throat as your orgasm builds is panted and loud, restless and unyielding, and Spencer’s cue to hold you tighter as you no doubt start bucking your hips. Your body takes over your mind – you’re reduced to nothing but nerves and neurons – and you whine and shiver and Spencer, oh my God, Spencer, Spence… until you’re back to planet Earth, with Spencer still licking and lapping at you for his own enjoyment.

Your thighs tense around his head and your hips twitch again, this time writhing away from him.

“Too much…”

He kisses the insides of your thighs, biting and nipping as you come down from your sublime high.

"No more?" he asks.

"Mm.. no, thank you..."

"Okay, sweet girl..."

Spencer's hair is soft between your tingling fingertips.

Useless over his shoulders, Spencer moves your legs for you, guiding them down the edge of the countertop until they're fully hung over. His half-lidded gaze absorbs you in your hazy state, warm throughout, and you, continuing your neediness, reach out for him, brows wrinkled.

“Here, please.”

Spencer takes your hand and ushers you up slowly, other hand on the back of your head. You grumble at the awkward bend of your spine and settle into Spencer’s chest with a sigh.

“Love you.” your voice is a delicate mumble against his neck.

“I love you too… you okay?”

“I am… returning to orbit…”

“Oh good, I kinda need you on Earth if I wanna do that again.”

He cradles your head against his shoulder, other hand coming to wrap around your covered spine, pulling you flush against him by the small of your back. He loves how your quips and snark abandon you - how you crave his attention.

A short chuckle from his chest sends shivers through your thighs again.

"Not too much?" he asks.

You lift your head from his shoulder, shaking your head at him, still half a world away.

Spencer smooths a finger over your lips and you part them slightly, and he caresses your lower lip. Your tongue slides out to quickly taste yourself on his fingertips, and he smiles at you, pulling away so he can kiss you instead.

“Let’s get you into some comfortable clothes, hm?” he suggests.

With soft hands, he guides you off the counter on to shaky legs and you head into the bedroom, where he’d hoped to find you when he returned from his little outing. Muffins growing cold on the counter, Spencer is all too eager to get you into something cosy and sitting on the couch with melted chocolate on your nose.

As you dip into the mattress, peering up at him, Spencer smiles at your quietness. Opening your drawers, he fishes for a pair of pyjamas and fluffy socks.

“Your hands and feet account for around twenty-five percent of your body’s heat loss.” he says, “So, it’s important you wear socks – they have one of the smallest mass relative to surface area of your body.”

Kneeling in front of you, he tugs your socks on first as it’s all very important.

“Is that why you sleep with socks on?” you ask.

“Mostly,” he hums, “I like to be warm.”

“Does being taller mean you have less mass relative to surface area?”

“No, the opposite, honey.” he smiles, not holding it against you at all in your fuzzy state, “But that’s a good question.”

Sighing, you lean back on your bedsheets, crimpled and wrinkled underneath you, and Spencer unwraps your towel from your frame like a birthday present, gazing at you adoringly – though lust tinges his blown pupils, more than anything there is love.

Prayer, again.

Dropping your pyjamas to the bed, Spencer leans over you once more and kisses over your jaw, neck, collarbones, down to your chest where he licks at your nipple before taking it into his mouth. As you grow all hot in the middle once more, Spencer's hands slide over your sides, caressing your ribs down to the narrowest point of your waist. Writhing again, softly moaning, your still tingling clit brushes against Spencer's trousers and he wastes no time in giving you the friction you want, one leg kneeling on the bed between your thighs.

"So pretty... always so pretty..." he murmurs, voice half lost around your sensitive skin as your warmth drags against his trousers, "needy girl." he adds, sucking at your nipple and gently biting at it.

Your brows scrunch as you fight the urge to lean in and tug away from his attention, "Could look at you forever."

"Spence..." you whine out.

"'m not gonna push you for another one, don't worry. I just like looking at you - taking my time," he sighs, a hand caressing your jaw, "even though time isn't real, not in the way we operate around it, I... like to dedicate part of my finite existence to... your finite existence..."

Rising from your chest, Spencer's thigh slips away from your core and he kisses you. You grin against him, tender hand brushing his hair from his face.

"I disagree," you mumble, "I think you and I are infinite."

Spencer beams, blushing, head shaking. You think he might melt and compliment you again.

Instead, his nose swipes tauntingly against yours.

"That's not accurate."

"Spencer-," you grumble.

"Decomposition starts immediately after death; in fact, in our late twenties, our bodies stop operating as efficiently," he kisses one cheek, "and the telomeres shorten with each cell division, and that shorter telomeres means slower cell replication." and then the other.

"Well, what if I write about you, hm?" you ask, "What if I write songs and poems? What if I paint you?" toying with the fabric of his shirt, you continue, "Besides, haven't we always existed, in some way, within our ancestors? Wouldn't you find a splinter of me in the stone age if you looked close enough?"

Spencer tugs your pyjama bottoms up over your legs, which you hold out delicately for him, musing at his insistence on taking care of you, then ushers you up with a wave of his fingers.

"I would find you anywhere. I do."

The waistband sits snuggly over your hips and his knuckles brush around your abdomen.

You take your shirt and tug it over yourself in an attempt at independence, which he steals from you when he kisses the summit of your head.

“Come on,” Spencer calls, “believe it or not, I am actually hungry and your flowers need water.”

“Muffins aren’t a good source of breakfast nutrients anyway.”

“So, you don’t want one?”

You frown.

“No, of course I want one, silly man.”

“Is that how we talk to boyfriends that spoil us?” he grins.

Face warming far too quickly, you divert your gaze and rise to a stand, hand clasping his shoulder for support.

“Maybe not.” you mumble.

“Maybe not.” he nods, “Yeah, maybe not, maybe we don’t…”

“Stop.” you bat his arm, entirely mockingly, and he chuckles, cheeks pinkening with each dashing moment in your presence.

“Why? You get all shy when I talk to you like this – it’s sweet.”

“You’re good at it.”

“I am, am I? Well… I’ll have to bring you muffins and flowers more often.”

Clasping your cool hand in his, he continues.

“Did you know that gypsophila is actually the largest species of carnations with over a hundred and fifty different types of plants, and the sweet fragrance makes it a pollinator friendly flower attracting bees and butterflies?”

masterlist series (smut) masterlist for more pure fluffy smut, check out amber (18+) for more sweet sweet spencer, feel free to check out magic

crimson and clover - tommy james & the shondells i found you - alabama shakes sweet nothing - taylor swift

“Actually, I’m going down to Texas for a few days to speak with one of the leading doctors in experimental Alzheimer's and dementia treatment. I’m going to see if he can get my mom into a clinical trial. I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, Spencer! What are you doing still here? You should be at home getting ready to go!”

A rosy blush stains his cheeks and he looks down at the ground, laughing that little self-deprecating laugh of his. It makes your heart dance to see him so happy, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go so that he knows how much you absolutely adore him—but you settle for an affectionate squeeze where your hands have come to rest on his biceps.

“I wanted to see you tonight because I won’t be here for Valentine’s Day... but I still really wanted to spend it with you,” he admits meekly.

If before your heart was dancing, it is now melting.

The dreaded ‘what are we’ talk has been lurking in the dark corners of every conversation you have with each other lately—at least, in your mind it has. What you have with Spencer is not easily defined, and near impossible to explain to your friends—you act like a couple, you go out on dates, he introduces you to his team like you’re his girlfriend without ever putting it into so many words—but this validation that your pseudo-relationship might be evolving is better than any flowers he could have gotten you (although the peonies he brought will look very nice on your bedside table.)

“Four whole days... what will I do without you?” you whisper, brushing a hand along his face, and your chest aches with the heavy truth of it—despite the fact that he often is gone for stretches about that length. They don’t ever start to feel shorter.

“Well, you can start by reading that copy of The Odyssey I annotated for you.”

“Depressing,” you admit. “And a little ominous, considering you’re about to embark on a hero’s journey.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he smiles.

You chew on your bottom lip, looking up at him as you think.

“Give me something to look forward to,” you say, earnestly.

“I—well, honestly, I just really want to kiss you and I’ve wanted to for a long time now and, you know, if that’s something you’re maybe also interested in then we could, uh, figure out a time to—”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Wh—you couldn’t tell?” Spencer says, like he can’t believe it.

As if on reflex, you lunge up and capture his lips with your own. It obviously catches him by surprise, but when you lower from your tiptoes he follows you, pulling you in closer and holding your face in his hands.

It’s too natural, too right, to be exhilarating. There’s no rush of adrenaline—it's more like stepping into a hot bath or warming your freezing hands at a fire. Like pieces clicking into place. It’s a relief.

You breathe into it, letting more and more of yourself melt against him. He keeps coming back to you deeper and deeper like a rising tide, and you want more than anything to keep getting closer to him—but then he stops. He stays close enough for you to breathe his air, but dodges your kiss gently before supplanting it with a gentle one to the corner of your mouth.

“I really have to go,” he breathes, before moving away from your mouth to kiss your forehead and speak softly against your skin. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be here all night.”

Which is exactly what you want, and the implication does little to make you want him less. But you care about him too much to be so selfish.

At some point, his hands found their way into your hair, and you gently grab his wrists.

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

At first when he stopped answering texts, you’d assumed he just had too much going on down in Texas. Which you could understand—you knew how stressful this situation with his mother was.

Even when four days came and went without even an alert from him that he was back in town, you thought, okay, maybe he’s been called away on a case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared because of his work. But even then, he’d at least text you enough information so that you would know he was alive. Now, radio silence.

So you tried not to be clingy. You tried to act like an adult, to focus on school and your life outside of Spencer, but when Tara Lewis cancelled your weekly meeting due to an “unforeseen work-related emergency”you called her immediately. Tara was something of a mentor, and it was she who had connected you and Spencer to begin with. You had met the other members of his team by that point, yes, but none who you knew as well as Tara.

When she had informed you that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico and was now facing prison time for murder, you laughed.

Laughed until you realized her end of the line was silent.

Realized it was not at all a joke.

In a catatonic state of tranquility, you asked her for more details. Beyond assuring you of his innocence, she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) provide them. Asked where he was now. Asked all the right things that made sense to ask.

Then you hung up and had a panic attack because Tara said something about 25 years and you saw Spencer evaporate from your future like an apparition.

Slowly, you felt him evaporating from your past, too. Those memories from the night he left, became visions of you swaying with a ghost. Holding nothing but light between your hands as you kissed the peony air of your apartment.

He doesn’t want to see you, she had said into the phone one night, her tinny voice cutting in and out. You’re not on his list of approved visitors.

“You asked him about me?” you had whispered, curled up on top of your made bed in the dark.

I tried. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.

All your days melded together like a muddied smear of paint. Suddenly you felt you had nothing to look forward to. No anchor, no goal. Yes, a PhD... and then what?

The only thing that punctuated one 24 hour period from the next was the time you spent crying because Spencer was in prison and he didn’t want to see you and by the looks of things you may never see him again. When you weren’t crying, you were thinking about how your life was a big cosmic joke. An unfortunate statistical anomaly that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and that you couldn’t do anything about.

That copy of The Odyssey, which wasn’t even bound and instead was a thick stack of printer paper organized by a single black clip, became something of a manifesto for you—a tome that your poured over, reading and re-reading each note in the margins, each word beautiful and imbued with meaning because you knew Spencer had selected every single one specifically for you. You traced the letters reverently, because in a way this was the last thing he had said to you—about Lattimore’s faith to the original text, Merrill’s strict use of dactylic hexameter, the stylings of Wilson and Lombardo, and how he thought you would enjoy Hammond’s prose just as much as he did.

Day by day it was becoming more prophetic than fictional, and you allowed yourself to sink into madness. You would rather be a deluded zealot than be nothing at all.

He didn’t want to see you.

He might as well have been dead, for all that you were grieving him. And you started to hate him, because he wasn’t dead, but wouldn’t do you the kindness of proving it. Like a festering wound, scratched open day after day so as not to ever heal, you had to live knowing he was less than an hour away. So no, you weren’t exactly over it. You lived day by day, waiting for the occasional call from Tara to keep you updated on Spencer, but either she didn’t want to share much about how he was doing, or he had specifically barred her from doing so, because she was always sparse on the personal side of things. That thought actually lifted your spirits, because it meant he was at least acknowledging your existence in some tiny way.

But your routine was becoming more regular, and so you staid on top of your classes and your non-Reid related meetings with Tara once a week, and you learned to dip your toes into existential dread and the oily black pool of depression every night without ever fully submerging yourself. You learned hope, because it was pretty much all you had, and the BAU had confidence that they would get Spencer out one way or another so you did too.

So you didn’t really think about it when you missed a couple of calls from Tara some evening in May. You were preparing for finals and had way too much on your plate academically to think about anything else which was a welcome relief so you fully embraced it. I’ll call her back tomorrow, you think, as you clean up from dinner before going back to the living room where your textbooks and papers are completely covering every available surface. Maybe I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life after school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t even make it that far.

Hours later, well into the night, you’d all but forgotten about the calls. A knock at the door takes you a bit by surprise, and you frown as you stand again, tugging your Georgetown sweatshirt down over your shorts as you shuffle to the entrance of your apartment. You’re not expecting anyone, so you crack the door, peering around the edge of it.

And you couldn’t even consider trying to hide that shaky inhalation of dead air when you see Spencer standing on the other side.

Surely you’re hallucinating.

Surely this man in front of you who looks like he just got back from a day of work didn’t spend three months in prison pretending you didn’t exist.

He looks the same. Hair a bit longer, maybe—and gaunter even more than is normal for him. 

But it's him.

You can’t think about the apprehensive look on his face—you can’t think about the impossibility of him being here. You can’t think at all. Without your explicit permission, your body surges forward into his, and he’s real, and alive, and warm, and he is an anachronism in the hallway as he accepts everything you pour into the embrace, doesn’t flinch when you move your arms from around his waist to loop around his neck and back to his waist again with crushing force because you just can’t get him close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters into your hair, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, he keeps saying, rubbing your back as you try to find a solid grip on the sleek material of his suit—try to gather all the pieces of him, already afraid he might fall apart and float away again.

“You—dis—disappeared,” you hiccup after an eternity, pulling away enough to look up at his pretty face. Tears blur your vision and darken the front of his jacket, bending the florescent lights so they form a kind of halo above his head.

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

He knows?

You scoff.

“You have no fucking idea, Spencer. What the fuck is wrong with you? I—I'm—”

The hot anger is such a relief for a second, boiling the oceans of your despair into a wrathful, scorching fog, but as soon as you try to tell him how you feel, the barbed wire cuts into your throat again. You shove him away, skin burning where his hands had been.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, hands hanging uselessly at his side. There’s that kicked puppy look about him—and it’s familiar, but now there’s more damage. You don’t know anything about his time in prison, you haven’t heard a damn thing, but beneath the glassy desperation in his eyes there is an unfathomable void that seems to be preventing him from being fully present—and you realize for the first time that he is different.

It chills you.

Before, you and Spencer shared everything. There wasn’t one part of his internal machinations that you didn’t understand, nothing you kept from each other. But as you study him now from a few feet away, you realize there might as well be a yawning chasm between the two of you.

He is so different.

Those eyes look deeper. No gears turning just behind the slashes of gold and brown anymore—only an endless dark corridor that goes places you will never go.

Gone is the perpetual boyish up-turn at the corner of his lips that always made him look slightly vacant in a way that you found incredibly amusing. Something you had been so fond of, even if you teased him.

He seems to have aged ten years—if not physically, then in demeanor. And now you feel like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

You cross your arms, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

You’re embarrassed. And pissed. And relieved. Everything is worse and better. You want to fall back into his arms, but you have been jarred by the revelation that this might not be the same Spencer. It might not be the same relationship. You have no idea where you stand.

He says your name gently, with so much familiarity you’re briefly jerked into the past. It makes you wish you could look up to find him as he was three months ago. Wish this was just a bad dream. But that’s not fair to him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, studying the grey carpet fibers instead of looking at him.

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says immediately, “you’re right. I don’t—” he clears his throat— “I’m being incredibly selfish. I shouldn’t have just shown up, I’ll just—I'll leave. I’m sorry.”

A silent moment passes.

You don’t look up as he turns and swiftly begins to move down the hall toward the stairway, leaving as quickly and silently as he had come, like a few bars of a song sighed in and away on a fleeting breeze.

Your bare feet are concretely planted, imagining him jogging down the steps and speed-walking away from your building—

And suddenly you’re sprinting after him, feeling like you might puke because Spencer was just here and you let him go again—and even though you’re still so mad and confused and hurt, the realization that he is leaving again makes the entire building spin and lurch.

“Wait!” You yell, almost wiping out as you run down the stairs and whip around corners in your slippery fucking socks. “Please, wait!”

The lobby is already empty as you spill out into it, and cold dread tightens around your neck like a fist as you shoulder your way through the double doors and right into Spencer.

“Please don’t leave again, you just—I'm sorry, I really need you to not go—” you blabber, lachrymose once more, gripping onto his forearms for dear life.

“I’m not going,” he breathes shakily. “I tried to leave because I think you were right and maybe I should and maybe it would be better for you but I can’t.”

“You can’t,” you agree, more sob than spoken word. He cups your jaw, then your cheeks, wiping tears and brushing away hair like he can’t figure out how to hold enough of you between his hands. The wild kaleidoscope of his eyes, bright and alive and real as he scans you desperately captures your attention enough to slow the tears to a trickle. He notices this and stares back, entranced.

A silent agreement is made, or maybe an inevitable fate is accepted—either way, something was set in motion three months ago and it matters to see it through. Spencer kisses you and you’re ready for it. You don’t need slow or tender. You need to feel how he feels. You need to know what he knows.

You sling your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer until you almost tip backward, chasing the bruising kiss even as you regain your footing. You want to drink him in and you do your best, breathing deeply as he kisses you deeper, backing you inside and toward the elevator.

“Is this okay?” he manages, only after blindly reaching for and mashing the up button on the wall panel.

Ideally it wouldn’t happen like this, but the world you live in obviously isn’t ideal and your personal situations as they coincide are far from ideal, so this is how it has to happen. But it’s hard to explain, and you’d rather not admit that this is so far from what you wanted for both of you and follow up with the fact that despite that you need him like you need water. So you don’t say a word as the metal doors slide open promptly. Instead you pull him in and let him press you to the chrome wall as he hits your floor button, and that very hand comes back to grab your ass like you didn’t think Spencer Reid capable of. It almost aches as his fingers dig into the flesh, but it’s a good ache because it means he’s real and he’s there.

You gasp as he hitches your leg up, arching into him. The shorts that you’re wearing leave very little to the imagination to begin with, but they become downright indecent like this.

Quickly the elevator stops and the doors hiss open. You don’t hesitate to pull Spencer by the hand down the hall. When you notice you left your door wide open, you don’t even care. Neither does he, apparently—once you’re inside he slams it shut, flipping the deadbolt while his eyes are glued to you like you’re already naked. Now Spencer is shameless in the way he drags his eyes over every curve, every place your clothes and hair are disheveled from his touch and eye-fucks you so obviously it makes your face warm. Three months ago Spencer would have at least been bashful about it when he met your eyes again, but this Spencer is far from apologetic as he pins you with his burning gaze once more. His hand stays stuck to the door like he’s holding himself back.

“Is this what you want?”

There’s an undercurrent of sorrow below the gravely arousal, like this isn’t what he wanted for the two of you either. But you’re both at the mercy of fate. This is all you have, and it might be all you can do for each other anymore. So you don’t need to say that, because he understands.

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

For just a second more he watches you from his place by the door, and there’s an unexpected softness to it. He looks at you the way he would have looked at you before. Like as long as he stays there he can entertain the idea of being that person again.

Need wins out quickly, though, and he surges forward. Immediately you’re caught in the riptide of him, helpless as he kisses you all the way to your bedroom.

He’s never been in here before. You find yourself glad it’s relatively clean—one of the pastimes you’d picked up in his absence was keeping everything tidy. It was something you could control.

A lamp glows at your bedside. You lean against the footboard of your bed, hands timidly behind your back and suddenly shy to have in him in your intimate space. Both of you set aside the heaving desperation long enough to catch your breaths, and for him to scan the room like he too is being forced to reconcile with the innate and unexpected intimacy of the moment. He cuts a harsh, dark gash in your sweetly decorated bedroom, radiating something wild and powerful and unsure of himself like a chained bull as he takes in the soft, pale bedding, the paintings and photos taped to the walls, the woven rug and the sheer drapery. His breathing slows as he studies it all—eyes eventually catching on something behind you. Looking is unnecessary. You’re sure he’s spotted the dried peonies in their ceramic vase. Or maybe the now worn stack of papers that is his Odyssey, marked up and soft around the edges from constant flipping-through.

Then Spencer looks at you, and that softness seeps in again. Along with something like... fear? Grief?

In some other universe your first time with Spencer is sweet and giggly and kind and he smiles at the decor in your room and looks around with wonder because it’s another way he gets to know you. It’s a different way to learn you from the inside.

You sense that he’s caught in between universes right now as well, painfully aware of what he would have given you that he can’t anymore.

He breathes your name like an apology, and foolishly you let a second go by in which you think he might offer you one. But he doesn’t. Not with his words, anyway. His eyes tell a different story.

“It’s fine,” you say unprompted on a whispered exhale, then a little louder as you push off the footboard, crossing the space until your hands are on his chest. You focus on his tie, not making eye contact as you rush to undo it. “It’s fine.”

He lets you do this for a few seconds before finally covering your trembling hands with his own. You still can’t meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to do—”

“No! No, please. I want to. I need—I need us to be okay.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. “We are okay. Me and you are fine.”

It’s a pretty thought, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s a hideous and abject affront to the truth. Sure, maybe you’re fine in comparison to last week. Maybe anything feels fine compared to an eight by six cell. But it would be impossible for you and Spencer, for your relationship, whatever that relationship may be, to be fine. It’s especially impossible for him to make that claim, after all he did or rather didn’t do while he was gone. What you need is for him to stay anyway. What you need is to find a way to be with him, to exist with him, even when you are so clearly not fine.

“I just need you to stay,” you whisper, and he’s already nodding, wide-eyed like he’d do anything for you. You ignore all the bitter venom rising in your throat. You pretend this isn’t all happening after he cut you out of his life with a dirty switchblade. Instead you focus on his hands on yours, the familiar smell of him, which invites you to let go of each and every thought and worry. He must’ve showered before coming here, you realize. How long has he been out? What happened? 

“Okay. Okay, I can stay. What else can I do? How do I make it better?”

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

He hesitates, then nods some more, fingers working under yours to undo the tie around his neck.

“Okay.”

A moment goes by and after that final whispered word, the tension begins to build again. Spencer senses it in the way your fingertips linger on his chest and you step even closer, dragging them down to his belt. The metallic sound of it unbuckling, despite being your own doing, still manages to flip your stomach. How many times have you pictured this? When was the first time you realized you wanted it? You’re sure you haven’t stopped wanting it even once since then.

Spencer tosses the tie away and is shrugging off his jacket now, then before you see it coming he’s kissing you again, ducking down to do it. He feels taller this close up, and especially in your bedroom, where he just seems rather out of place. But you want him here. God, you want him here.

You break the kiss, forced to look down as you fumble with his belt.

“Sorry,” you gasp, embarrassed by your lack of dexterity. The light is barely sufficient to see what you’re doing, especially when he’s wearing black on black and your eyes are still bleary.

“You’re okay,” he assures you, and it’s so Spencer a fresh round of nerves electrifies the tips of your fingers. That thing is happening—the thing you’d hoped to avoid if you hadn’t lost momentum partway through, where you’re allowing your actual feelings for him to get in the way rather than getting swept up in the pathos of the moment and letting everything be easy and mindless. “Here, can I help you?”

But he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he’s finishing off the belt for you, tugging it loose from his hips till it’s a leather coil in his hands. Your fingers brush the material and he lets you take it as if it were your prize. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be, and you just feel the weight of it in your hands for a moment, your dropped head brushing his chest.

You have a terrible feeling that if you do this now, it doesn’t mean everything will be alright. Because it can’t just go back to normal. Spencer has told you nothing of what must be an enormous trauma, and you haven’t spoken about it at all, but you sincerely doubt that after this he’s going to be ready to just jump into that committed relationship the two of you had been toying with for months before his absence. You’re almost... scared of him, now. Scared of where he’s been and what he’s endured—things you’re sure you couldn’t have taken. What that does to a person, you can’t imagine. He seems so solid and real in front of you now—but you know that’s not always enough. Maybe you’re just scared that somehow whatever he’s been through will have made him care for you less. That you were too far removed from the whole ordeal, and now you’ll never understand. If you could understand, maybe you could fix it for him. Maybe he’d stick around.

Still—even if you do end up pushing him further away in the long run—won't it have been worth it to have had him so completely, even just once?

You toss the belt to the ground, compressing all of these very complicated thoughts and feelings into a few seconds so short he can’t ask you any questions about them. Instead you find his top button, and just as you manage to undo it with relative ease he’s gently grabbing your wrists. You look up at him, immediately surrendering.

“If we’re going to do this I need you to relax a little bit.”

Gears grind in your chest. You feel need and anxiety comingling in every square inch of your body. It’s a sick buzz—a high on an empty stomach.

“I can’t,” you admit.

“Yeah, you can,” Spencer gently disagrees, slowly lowering your hands. When he’s sure you’re not going to try ripping his clothes off again, he releases, and his eyes lower to the zipper of your hoodie. His fingers follow, warm against the soft triangle of revealed skin at your chest as he grips the small piece of metal between barely shaking fingers. “You can.”

You match his eyeline, breathing shallowly and watching as he slowly drags the zipper down. You wonder if that sound has haunted his fantasies the way the sound of his belt has haunted yours. If he’s seen this hoodie on you and wondered what’s underneath, staring at you and daydreaming during movie night with you none the wiser.

Both of you have your eyes glued to the span of skin as the zipper parts. Spencer stalls with the zipper at your sternum, just below the band of your bra.

Right. No shirt.

You look up and find his eyes already on you, tinged with a curious kind of humor.

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

The words come out shy. Spencer’s chuckle has its own nervous airy quality as he resumes tugging on your zipper, leaning down until your noses bump.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Then he kisses you again, a little sweeter now. Sweet enough to give you butterflies and for them to flutter right out of your stomach and spill from your lips in a little whimper against his.

It comes as a surprise when he pushes the fabric from your shoulders without looking or asking. Not that you’d have said no—you're just underprepared for how assertive he is in this foreign context.

Left just in your flimsy shorts and your thin bra, you feel quite exposed—but Spencer’s hands are as demanding and hungry as his mouth. They skim up your sensitive sides and sweep lower, suggesting less proper placement over your ass and pulling at your bottoms until you gently put a stop to their wandering.

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

It’s a struggle to get any words out at all when he keeps chasing your lips, nipping at you like he physically can’t stand not kissing you, but they catch his attention and he laughs airily, pulling back to let his gaze pour over your less clothed form. It lingers and catches and lights you up everywhere it touches, drops of heat soaking into your skin and making you feel all fuzzy and needy.

“We are,” he acknowledges, tone low and colored with the faintest smile. “You’re a lot prettier without your clothes on than I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The challenge comes immediately and thoughtlessly. Spencer’s golden eyes flash up to yours. He’s breathing a little harder than usual.

“You want me to show you what I mean?”

If that means getting him naked, then yes, absolutely.

You nod, but rather than immediately stripping, he takes your hand and holds his own open next to it. A thick pink scar bisects some pretty significant palmistry lines, but you don’t mention that. Instead you swallow—your thoughts, your words, your nausea.

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

It sounds almost like he’s challenging you—there's a kind of tremulous force in his voice, despite the perpetual softness there, like he’s inviting you to say it’s ugly. And you realize he’s referring to more than just the glowing scar cutting an asteroid trail against the flesh of him palm. The scars he obtained in prison must form a constellation over his body.

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

Spencer swallows, cupping your face with the scarred hand once more. You can’t feel it against your cheek but you know it hasn’t gone away.

“I’m sure you think you do,” he permits, and that’s where the conversation ends for the moment—with his hand on your face and his lips back on yours. “For now why don’t you let me worry about you?”

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

This is, for whatever reason, amusing to him. The brief levity dies as quick as it comes like a snuffed-out brush fire as soon as he lets his hands fall back down to your hips.

“I want... I want to give you slow. But...”

But slow is for people who didn’t lose three months of their life. Slow is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be starving. Slow is not for the desperate.

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

You’ll let him use you up like quick-burning fuel if that’s what he needs. You’ll go as fast and as bright and as hot as he tells you.

“But you want slow,” he murmurs, a secret acknowledged into your own waiting mouth. You’d keep it there forever. You could be the object he hides his soul in. “I know you do. You deserve to get what you want.”

“I can go fast. I want whatever you can give me.”

Spencer’s shuddering exhale is like a drug, dizzying as you inhale it and your eyes flutter at the high, pressed head-to-head with him. For so long you’ve needed him so badly. It’s overwhelming to have him now, all over you. If only your walls could breathe him in the way you are, if this room could remember what it feels like to hold him the way you will, if any inanimate object could bear witness to how you’ll give yourself, any part of yourself, over to him, so willingly.

“I’m going to try.” Spencer’s voice is hoarse as he walks backward to the bed, taking you by the hips as he goes. “I want to do it right. I want to do this the way I... the way I imagined it, before...”

Now he’s sitting, and you’re standing between his legs as he finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it, his fingers a comforting pressure where they ghost down the slope of your back. Your heart is pounding at the confession, at the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip and his fingertips journey back up to your straps, looking up at you with haloed irises as if he’d find anything other than the most dangerous kind of smoldering devotion in your eyes—the kind cult-leaders seek and spend years nurturing, and he’d earned with a mere brush over your bare skin.

The fabric slides down your arms, and as it falls to the floor, you watch something like despair flash-flood his eyes. It is a deep, distinctly human grief. The ineffable kind where something is almost too beautiful; so perfect it offends the mortal senses because it should be permanent, but nothing is, and the clash of divine beauty with unstoppable time which oxidizes copper and covers marble with vine is almost as grotesque as metal rending delicate flesh. It is the grief that drove the first poet to write and the first parents to press their baby’s painted hands to the walls of a cave. It is the desire to do the impossible—to capture ephemeral perfection and make it eternal, and the knowledge that it is hopeless. You recognize it because you’ve felt it for him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he whispers, doesn’t bother calling you beautiful but you don’t mind because he’s telling you with his hands and his eyes and the waver of his voice. “When I was gone, I thought about you—”

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

He doesn’t get to tell you about when he was gone. Not now. Not after he acted like you didn’t exist.

“Okay.” He swallows the things he’d wanted to tell you like you choked on the things you needed to tell him for three months. “I’m sorry.”

But his hands—his hands are perfect over your waist and his lips are perfect where they kiss your ribs like they’re his homeland. You could forgive a thousand wrongs for each kiss he puts to your skin. Light from the full moon stretches over the room like a blessing from the cosmos, and you have every intention of making the most of that gift, how the silver gilds the planes of his face and highlights curls like they were carved, and invites you to search for something in each shadow.

Some of his kisses land over the sensitive skin of your breasts though you doubt he has much intention or that there is any sort of end-goal with the trail he blazes—in fact, you have to root your hand in his hair and pull gently back when he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s making you wait again. His eyes are glassy and cheeks slightly pinkened—you weren’t expecting this wave of fondness to knock you on your ass but here you are, falling all over again.

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

A slow smile splits the heart of his mouth at your bashful tone and he’s emboldened to bring his hands higher for a moment, thumbs brushing particularly delicate though not downright indecent spots. Nonetheless, your breath catches.

“Impatient girl,” he scolds, and though it’s lighthearted it still inspires heat to dance across your face. Oh, I think I’ve been plenty patient, you itch to say, but you bite it back because it’s only sad and true and unkind.

Still, he gives you the beginning of what you want, really only the tip of the enormous iceberg that is your desire for him, by slipping his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down. His hands slide up the fronts of your thighs, tracing the trim of your underwear, and you’d swear he’s not even breathing. The moment one of his hand loops behind your knee and pulls forward until it’s pressed to the mattress and you’re half-kneeling, half standing, desire begins to truly cloud your mind. Manhandling never seemed like Spencer’s style, but when paired with how softly he reveals your hip, pulling gently down on the fabric of your underwear just to admire you up close, you don’t mind it.

More kisses are littered over your stomach, and he takes you by surprise a second time with a quick maneuver landing you on your back and him on top of you.

“I wasn’t doing you justice with my imagination,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have known what?” you pant as he shamelessly digs his fingers into the plush of your ass. You almost hope it bruises.

“How pretty you would be,” he coos like he means it, and you dissolve, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “You were holding out on me.”

It’s a tease, not at all serious, but you manage to hit him with a, “Was not, asshole,” and he chuckles, placating your little hurt with another sticky kiss, and you get another disorienting glimpse of some other timeline where you’re both a little less damaged. Where it’s a little easier.

But in this timeline, his touch becomes starving and ragged and urgent, and you accept the drag of his thumb up your thigh and between your legs, gasping when he runs his knuckles up the center of you. This touch is metal on screeching metal. It does not pretend to be anything more than what it is—brute, powerful, executed to elicit sensation. You get the sense that Spencer’s never touched anyone this honestly, and while you do envy the girls who got to have him gentler, you’ll take this as the compliment that it is. A kind of vulnerability that is nearing primal.

His lips, though—always his lips—are kind when they brush and land on your skin guided by some invisible map. A dip down your neck and chest and then a plunge, his tongue dragging over your hips, chasing the fabric of your underwear as he almost pulls it off and then reroutes, making room for himself between your legs and pushing lace aside to mark the hinge of your inner and upper-most thigh. Your chest heaves and you don’t dare move for fear he’ll stop leaving signs of himself on your body and you won’t be able to reassure yourself that it was real and he was here and it was not another dream.

Because something in you knows, if only consciously recognizing it for the first time now, that he will disappear again. That this may be your only chance.

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

He’s clearly losing himself to something, eyes shutting blissfully. You wonder when the last time he let his guard down even a  little was. You’re okay with being the thing he gets lost in, even if you’re not exactly okay with him—something you are becoming more acutely aware of as each touch makes a part of you want to cry. Maybe you still have some things in common. A strange pain that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you, for one thing.

You slam back into your body as his nose nudges against you through fabric, and his lips catch on cotton as he drags himself up, eventually settling a kiss against the little bow at the waist of your underwear. There he stays, eyes closed, mouth pressed to you.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow, buzzing. Is this really what he wants? After everything?

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

Nothing more than an airy whisper, you reply, “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Being emotional at this point seems wrong, but it’s difficult to ignore the fact that you have thought about this before and it’s finally happening but it’s not exactly as you’d imagined it. There is an indelible sadness to it, to the way he’s so hungry for you because he’s been deprived, to the desperation with which he touches you because he’s had everything taken from him.

For a moment, before he tugs your underwear down, he pauses, and you wonder if he’s freezing one moment in time, this moment, and grieving all the other ways it could’ve been, and accepting that this is the way it is going to be. You are.

These higher realms of thought abandon you as he finally pulls the last barrier down your legs and encourages you to spread them further. You don’t have time or energy to be embarrassed, not even by his staring, or the way his eyes dart up to yours and back down again, wide and shining, as if to say, have you seen yourself? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

All you feel is the lack of him on you, the pull to have him closer so strong it’s almost sickening because he could be gone at any second. Maybe he understands that because he doesn’t waste anymore time before he’s kissing the most sensitive part of you. The drag of his tongue has you loosing a shuddering cry.

His mouth wanders, making connections you wouldn’t have realized the value of until you feel them on your skin. Your hips buck as he traces you and you’re unable to stop yourself from tangling your hands in his hair. Speech fails you—hell, you can hardly breathe as you watch his with a furrowed brow and parted lips, only expelling air from your lungs in the form of little cries and gasps and failing to hold your hips down to the bed.

The tip of his tongue teases around your entrance and he catches your leg as your foot rises off the bed, slinging it over his shoulder and consuming you more fervently until you have no choice but to moan though you’ve never been one for theatrics. Nobody has done this for you like he’s doing it for you. Locks of hair fall in front of his face and you hold them back for him, shuddering as he shifts his weight and presses the tip of his finger to your cunt.

“Ah—please,” you manage, your first words since he started. Spencer groans against you and the sound is so wonderfully unexpected, so much better than in your dreams. You cant your hips up in further invitation, chirping as he takes it, pushing two fingers into you at once. Your eyes screw shut and you bite back a whine at the slight stretch, unconsciously writhing your hips either to get further away or take him deeper, you’re not sure.

Spencer pulls back, kissing your hips and thighs and pumping his fingers very slowly as you adjust.

“’M sorry,” you pant, “it’s been awhile, I...”

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says like it’s simple, his own breath coming quicker. “How’re you feeling? Need me to stop?”

“No! No, it feels really good, I feel good.”

He holds your burning gaze, matching it with his own, and his hair is tousled and his cheeks are flushed as he continues to move his hand.

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

This little show of obedience, of call and response, has him smiling before he occupies his mouth with something else once more. It’s a different smile than you’re used to from him, but you decide you don’t at all mind it.

Like that, with his tongue and fingers working tirelessly, your orgasm comes on quickly. The feeling is rare but not entirely foreign, and in that brief moment of utter disconnect between your brain and reality, of sheer white-hot pleasure, you don’t feel you’re missing out on anything at all. How could you be, when you are here and Spencer is here and for a moment all your neurons are lighting up and flashing neon? How could there be anything more to life than the searing feeling of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from you, than your hips between his hands like he’s cradling the world, and his lips, indiscriminate with where they kiss because every part of you is worthy of attention?

You’re reeling, and your legs are gelatinous as he so affectionately sucks the darkest mark yet onto your inner thigh like a parting gift, like he’s signing his trembling work. If you could clamp your legs shut around the almost painful aftershocks you would, but he’s climbing back up your body, so all you can do is wriggle against him and release delayed, stunted little moans. He stops to kiss your neck before he makes it to your mouth and drinks down all your sounds until you’re gentle and pliant for him like you haven’t been yet.

His voice is soft and sympathetic when he speaks. “Better?”

Wordlessly you nod, both comforted and unsettled by how well he knows you. What, exactly, has been made better, you’re not sure. Not trust. You don’t trust him anymore. Something cheaper, but temporarily effective. A sense of permanence, maybe, however fleeting it may be. You’ve completed something with him now, and he’s still here, still sweet.

He looks into your eyes, then, for a moment—and there is just enough light in the room for you to tell yourself that the shadows dancing there as he looks at you are love.

They morph as you watch into haunting, wild hunger. Pained even now.

He sits up abruptly and so do you, scooting back against your headboard and pulling your knees to your chest to protect your pounding heart as Spencer takes you in with darting eyes and quick breaths. His fingers find the collar of his shirt and he begins to unbutton.

“I need you to remember it’s all going to heal.”

He swallows, and you hardly have the wherewithal to study the way he unbuttons his shirt, a way he exists in the world that you had previously not been privy to. The words are too distracting.

“What?”

Sometimes he reminds you of a deer, with those big brown eyes that can’t help betraying anxiety. Moreso in those old pictures he’d shown you from his early days at the BAU—but it shines through occasionally even now. It’s reassuring to know that something inside of his has remained soft.

“Just...” his fingers don’t stop at their task, and you come to the disturbing realization that his knuckles are bruised. “Please don’t freak out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the lengthening span of revealed skin.

And before he even has his shirt fully undone, something isn’t right.

He’s like a Pollack of bruises—starbursts and watercolor blots of discoloration blooming over his side and stomach.

You’re glad the light is off for two reasons: one, being that you don’t think you could handle the bruising in all its glory, and two, you hope the look of horror painted on your face is at least partially obscured from Spencer.

But you can’t. You simply don’t have the gas in the tank to freak out, as he’d said—at least not externally. Those bruises shouldn’t be there, but 96 days is a long time to be gone.

You drag your eyes back to his—nervous, deeply insecure and mistrustful. A deer. Just like those pictures of a 24 year old Spencer in an FBI jacket that was too big for him.

It’s enough to have you scooting on your knees across the mattress to him. Those big eyes stay glued to you as you draw near, falling as you carefully push open his shirt, cautious not to bump any tender spots as it falls to the bed. A flash of white gauze wrapped around his forearm that makes your stomach flip. How? You want to ask. Why?

He doesn’t seem to know what you’re going to do, and neither do you, until you’re grabbing his hands, bruised knuckles and all, and just... holding them for a minute.

“I lost weight,” he says quietly, as if that’s the most shocking thing about his current appearance, though it is noticeable.

“You’re still pretty.”

He smiles at this—a true Spencer Reid smile. Flattened lips, eyes tinged silver with sadness, voice quiet and anxious and wavering.

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

“I’m not going to ask you about them,” you promise, though you care so much and you want to know but you already understand that he won’t want to tell you.

Another moment. It doesn't surprise you to watch the shiny vulnerability in his eyes to freeze over completely. But he squeezes your hands once in thanks, and you know it’s still the same Spencer.

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

You do as he says, taking a deep breath to try and exhale the concern twisting your stomach like a poison. Somehow your room feels so unfamiliar, so new with him in it. Even the whorls on your ceiling look different as you study them, trying to time the pattern of your breathing with the pattern of the paint and plaster and not let the sound of Spencer further undressing quicken your heartrate too much.

Soon he’s coaxing your legs apart again, reverently, and kneeling between them, studying every part of you—lingering not on the parts you’d expect. He traces the scar on your knee with his thumb, follows a line down your thigh to the freckle on your hip. The scrutiny is unnerving and warms you everywhere. Perhaps he senses the microscopic clench of your thighs as you imagine pushing them together, if he weren’t in the way.

“You alright?” He asks, still stroking your hip. Tender again. It’s so hard to keep up.

“I...”

Suddenly your heart beat is a deafening echo in your own ears. The tide of your breathing is too powerful, too in and out and whooshing, leaving you always too empty or too full but never comfortable.

Maybe he’s changed, and he’s harder to know now, but he is the same Spencer. He is the Spencer you’d fallen in love with. The hard part is knowing that now you may never get a chance to tell him that. You don’t know if he’d be able to hear it.

There are things you can’t have with him anymore. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. But you can have this. It will be different, but you’d rather him be different and here than the same and only in your memory.

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

Tangling your hand in his hair once more, you pull him down into a kiss. It’s hesitant, at first—maybe he can taste your thoughts, where they’d been balancing just on the tip of your tongue. But the uncertainty fades and he kisses you deeper, harder, in a way that is hard to keep up with. You like the messy overwhelm of his lips, teeth, tongue. That’s the only way he knows how to want you.

When you go to wrap your leg around his waist he catches it, running his hands over the soft plush of your thigh. The hard line of him presses against you like memory foam and you gasp and he breathes it in deeply as your brain short-circuits, as you realize this is really going to happen, that you’re going to have him like you’ve never had him before and in ways you’ve only imagined and immediately felt ashamed for.

“Spencer,” you whisper. He ducks to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your eyes flutter shut, craning your neck but not losing sight of your objective as you reach down blindly. When you find what you’re looking for he freezes, groans against your neck at the same time as you breathe the tiniest whimper. Just in your hand he feels impossible, hot and imposing and hard. Your heart palpitates.

Without thinking, you angle your hips up and encourage him closer, until the tip of him is smearing through your folds, and you both go utterly silent like the breath had been stolen right from your lungs. The moment crystallizes, time around you hardening like preserved amber to keep you frozen there forever.

And then he rolls his hips, catching the underside of his cock on the crux of you, and then he does it again, and you choke out a moan and so does he, and it’s beyond perfect—it's nirvana, more than you could ever have conceived of, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, arms caging you in, his heavy breaths hot against your neck and vice versa as you twine together like serpents on a rod, your foot floating in the air as you widen your legs to make more room for him.

And you’re not even fucking yet.

“Oh my god,” you whine, just for him, barely audible under the heavy cloak of night, the thickened air in your bedroom and the sound of panting and fabric shifting. It’s like your heart is trying to reach through your chest to his own where they’re pressed together—that is how hard it’s beating.

Spencer only breathes a long, low curse and shifts so he can grasp himself. Your fingers drift down the shaft of him as he slots himself at your entrance, notching half an inch in and you hold your breath, and you brace yourself—and then he’s kissing you again, but gentler this time. Reassuring. You soften, you can’t not, releasing all your air in a soft gust through your nose, and then he’s pushing in.

Your lips part at the stretch as it fuzzes your mind, but he stays right there, nose pressed to your nose, lips ghosting over your own. He’s not going anywhere, you think, and you’re glad for it, when it burns ever so slightly, and the tiniest whine escapes your open mouth.

“Shh,” he soothes immediately, low and soft, only fractionally louder than you had been. “You’re okay.”

Spencer. Your Spencer.

For a moment, you’re living in that alternate universe. The kinder one. The flash of pain you feel then has nothing to do with the way he’s opening you up.

This is the closest you have ever been, and in some strange way, the furthest apart.

Together, fingers brushing, you guide him until he settles at not quite your deepest point. You can feel that he’s not giving you everything yet, but you’re okay with that, as you adjust to the full feeling. Spencer again senses your desire to close your legs against the deep intrusion, and gives you the best he can by encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers tenderly, nudging at your jaw with his nose and dragging kisses along the ridge of it. Your stomach flips at the moniker and your brain turns to warm sludge as your eyes flutter shut. It makes you feel all light-headed and you flutter around him. Spencer chuckles into the junction of your neck and shoulder and the vibrations send a chill down your arching spine. “I thought you might like that one.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

“You’re ready?” His tone is dripping sarcasm and faux-disbelief as he pulls back the slightest bit only to push right back in deeper, this time. Your toes curl, one thigh sliding higher up his waist as you cling to him.

“Fuck,” you manage, a pitiful, high pitched curse tossed to the wind. He echoes the sentiment.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, continuing with that slow pace, “you feel so good, angel.”

You grapple at his back, searching for purchase as your brow knits. “Faster.”

This inspires another breathy chuckle, but he obliges, and you cry out softly. It’s almost unreal, your head buried against his neck, drunk on his scent and the drag of him like a shock felt in the far reaches of your body, again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will accurately demonstrate what you’re feeling, so you elect not to speak, to remain silent and try to get a grip on this cacophony of sensation and emotion. But it’s too much to be alone with. You feel you have to get it out, to seek understanding. You can’t do it alone.

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know...” the sentence trails off into a gentle keen. He moves to kiss you, speaking against your lips.

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

It’s like he can sense your need for comfort. For something grounding.

And while this topic was off-limits earlier—you're softer now. The stone walls that form your boundaries have been chipped away and lowered.

Spencer continues unprompted.

“I thought about you every day. Every night while I was falling asleep. You were always on my mind, angel girl.”

You whine. Whether it’s pleasure or distress is anyone’s guess—including your own.

“You were gone so long,” you whisper, eyes shut.

At this, Spencer slows again, and the tension that was building settles back to a simmer.

“I know. I wish I could—I wish I could change that. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Then he makes sure you feel every last inch, and it takes your breath away. If your thoughts were any more coherent, they’d be something along the lines of: but for how long? How long until you leave again?

“You’re here.”

You say it like a mantra, once out loud, and then again and again in your head, timed with every clash of your hips. With each repetition he becomes more real. Every little ache, every tingling, head-emptying brush against that most sensitive spot inside proves to you that he could not be any closer. This can’t be faked. It can’t be another dream to wake up in tears from.

“You’re here,” you gasp as it hits you, as it truly sinks in.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

There’s so much you want to say—three months of words you need him to hear, of things you need to talk to him about, things you need to yell at him for and things you can only say crying in his arms and things you can only say laughing or whispering or drunk or half-asleep—and in this moment you can’t manage any of it. Every word condenses into one drop of salt water, drifting away from your eye and down your cheek. Spencer doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He only kisses the tear away, and murmurs I’m here I’m here I’m here over and over again against your skin until he’s not even speaking it out loud anymore. But you feel it. With every brush of his lips, every breath, every movement, you feel it.

Soon he’s adjusting his angle, gradually picking up the pace but retaining that unforgiving depth, and your nails bite into the skin of his back as your jaw drops. Spencer hisses, pressing impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

“Please,” he begs, low and hot against your jaw, just beneath your ear. “Do it again, honey.”

Honey.

You’d do anything for him if it meant he calls you that again.

When he shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down between your bodies to play with your aching clit in exactly the right way, you don’t really have a choice. You arch and moan wantonly enough to feel embarrassed as your nails scratch down his back. At the same time he’s making noises of his own, and you almost feel guilty for marking him up like this only you think he likes it. The most perfect and troubling tension is building in your core, so taut you almost fear the inevitable rebound when it snaps. But you’re driven to be exactly what Spencer needs right now, and to let him try and be what you need. Even if it scares you. Even if you’re not sure how.

Spencer groans, head tucked to the bend of your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last.”

Any response you might’ve been about to muster is annihilated by a sudden, deep bolt of pleasure.

“’M gonna cum,” you mewl like it’s a secret.

“Are you?” he asks, coming up breathless. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d see him above you.

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

It is unmistakably a command—one you fight to follow.

You cry out as you meet the intensity of his gaze, those shadowy corridors suddenly ablaze and alive. They are not unending, like you’d thought. They are a door thrown open to let the light in, or maybe to let the fire out. They’re open in this moment for you.

No more words are spoken after that—you cum hard, gasping as you fall and spin. Spencer follows very shortly after, like he was holding it together just for you, and your eyes are still locked though everything is a bit bleary.

“Fuck,” you whine as he continues to fuck you for as long as he can, despite your writhing hips, but you’re entranced by him, unable to look away now that you’re hooked. Until he slows to a halt, glances down at your mouth, and you just have time to pray that he’ll kiss you before he does. You whimper against his lips—a plea for understanding. A plea for him to stay, even though this is over. He kisses back so soft and sweet it’s like he can read your mind. Echoes of I’m here I’m here I’m here still buzz across your skin. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. Your heart stops beating quite so quickly, melting and warm like the rest of your body.

Soon the kissing ceases and you’re just breathing together, trapped and faced with the knowledge that it must end just the same as you had waited for it to start.

Eventually the air between you becomes mostly carbon dioxide and you let your head fall to the side, dizzy and giggling breathlessly as you nearly avoid asphyxiation. Spencer laughs too, letting his head fall to your shoulder once more, and you finally let your eyes flutter closed. To do something as simple as laugh with him again is its own small euphoria. It’s unexpected, and a soft landing once all that tension breaks underneath your combined weight.

It can’t last forever, you know that well. But the slow fade of it makes the next parts a little easier.

Spencer presses a kiss to your neck. “Is your bathroom through that door?”

You hum a confirmation and are only slightly disheartened when he pulls out and rolls off of you. You’re further disturbed when you see there’s gauze around his thigh, matching what’s around his arm, and you wonder how you missed that. Spencer scoops up his clothing and disappears into the adjoining restroom, assuring you he’ll be right back and leaving you alone with your thoughts and the whorls on the ceiling which have seemingly shifted into entirely new constellations.

He leaves the door cracked which is oddly reassuring—the sliver of warm light and the sound of the sink running. Only a few moments pass before he’s returning clad in boxers once more to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing away the sheet you’d just pulled over your chest and pulling one of your legs over his lap. Your face warms as he brings a washcloth between your thighs. As soon as he glances up at you and catches your eye you’re looking back to the ceiling.

“I should’ve asked first,” he says quietly as he cleans up the mess he’d made of you.

You speak just as softly, like you’re both afraid of disturbing some peace, of waking some sleeping giant. “It’s okay. I would’ve told you if I didn’t want it.”

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

When he’s done, he rises to toss the dirtied cloth in the laundry bin, and with his back to you (as scratched up as it might be) you feel braver.

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

It was a mistake. That’s clear by the way he turns around, brow knit deeply and grimacing slightly like even the suggestion offends him.

“Am I going to hate you?”

Again you pull the sheet up, and again you look away, studying the pattern of moonlight stretching out over the floor and scooting to make room for him when he steps in it.

“Not hate, I just...” the bed dips beside you and you are indescribably glad he’s not immediately running out the door. “I’m not dumb. I know what this was.”

He pulls you into him and you settle against his chest. It feels good. “I never thought you were dumb.”

This is your first real conversation since he’s gotten back, you realize. And how quickly you’re falling into familiar patterns, familiar syntactical beats. You know when to speak. You know when to bite your tongue and keep him talking.

The silence goes on longer than you’re used to. Maybe he got good at not speaking while he was away.

Eventually your eyes wander, falling to the white strip over his thigh where it is parallel to yours on the bed, only over the sheets.

“What happened?”

You said you wouldn’t ask, but that was then, and you’re upset again. You almost want to hurt him. To piss him off. You don’t know.

But it doesn’t work.

“Do you really want to know?” There’s a note of something heavy in his voice, and you look up at him. It’s a privilege to have him this close—his beauty is a constant surprise that you’d become unaccustomed to over the months. You say nothing, and he takes that as the yes that it is. “I... I did it to myself.”

He may as well have reached down your throat and grabbed for fucking heart for all its clenching. Tears well almost immediately, though they’ve been waiting in the wings all night.

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

“No! No, honey, no.” You wilt as he gathers you closer, a deeply confused frown still contorting your features, too heartbroken even to cling to him, or to appreciate the ease with which honey slips past his lips again. “No. I was—it's complicated. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, but I had to—I had to do it before someone else did something worse.”

The bruises covering his abdomen.

You sniffle and pull back enough to look up at him tearfully. “Why would they want to hurt you?”

Mist fills his eyes even as he’s looking down at you, a layer of separation, as if he’s two places at once. Even as he goes to brush your hair behind your ear, to stroke your cheek.

“I’m... not... the same, as I was.” It’s not an answer to your question—but it’s the beginning of the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to put into words.

“Don’t say that,” you beg, because you know where this is going. He keeps smoothing your hair like it’ll make this easier.

“But it’s true,” Spencer says gently, the slightest waver betraying his own emotion.

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will,” you insist, like a child crying to a parent come to comfort them after a bad dream.

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough. 

You cry on his shoulder. He kisses your head and doesn’t tell you to stop. 

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes. 

“We were so close. Before you… we were almost there.”

You’re sure of it. You’re sure that if he hadn’t gone when he did you would’ve been a real couple. You would’ve told him you loved him. 

“We’ll get there again,” he promises, rubbing your arm. “I just… I need a little bit of time. I think you do too. But we’re going to get there again.”

Maybe it will never be like it was. 

But as so often is the case—Spencer is right. Difference doesn’t mean it won’t ever be good again. 

You have to believe that, just as you had to believe you’d see him again. 

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table. 

The sun has been obliterated from the sky, and an unlucky darkness invades the world. 

But the sun has a habit of rising, time and time again, after the longest nights, after the darkest storms. 

Derek was known to be a funny guy. Not the kind of funny guy you'd actually laugh at, but the kind who kind of pissed you off sometimes. Yeah, that kind. While he meant well at heart, it just royally pissed you off. You couldn't help that!

You leaned your elbows on the table, listening to the coffee pour into your cup. "Hello my little fox," Penelope greeted, her face frowning when she saw the look on yours. "What's wrong?"

"Bad day so far," You muttered. "Everything's just going wrong."

"It's only seven," Derek said as he walked in, smile on his face. "Come on, sugar. Go on and sit down at your desk. I know how you like your coffee." You thanked Derek quickly as you went to your desk. It was right next to Spencer.

Oh, Spencer. The boy who fell hard for you, who made you fall for him. Neither of you knew that, though, your crushes remaining secret still. "Y/n," Spencer frowned, "what's wrong?"

"It's alright, Spence," You forced a small, pathetic smile. "Just a bad morning."

Spencer gave you a half smile, "Positive attitudes actually give you a higher likelihood of having a better day by ten to thirty percent," Spencer rambled, "and that actually is the same for social connections, being a twenty to forty percent. You're on the right track."

You loved Spencer's rambles. They were adorable. "Thanks, Spence." You smiled.

A few minutes later, Morgan came to your desk with your coffee in hand. "For you, sugar." He grinned like the Cheshire Cat. You quickly took a generous sip.

It left your lips quicker than it entered. You spit it out into the trash can next to your dest, face turning sour at the taste. It was so bitter, so salty. "What the hell, Morgan?!" You cried out, "What is this?"

"Salt, sugar." He teased.

Your face turned hot, "How old are you, six?" His face slowly fell as you became angrier, "Genuinely, how old are you? Because last I checked, children don't have jobs."

"Hey," Derek tried to calm you down. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to actually upset you."

"Oh, of course you didn't!" You replied with sarcasm dripping from your lips. "You just don't get when people don't want you to make them feel worse!"

Derek's face fell into a frown. You didn't mean to hurt his feelings, but you couldn't stop your words. "Y/n," Spencer said firmly, "Sit down, now."

Before you could even think, you followed his command. The whole event caught Penelope, Emily, Rossi, and JJ's attention. JJ was quick to rush over, grabbing your coffee. "I'll get you the right one, it's okay." She comforted as Emily quickly lead Derek away. Rossi and Garcia decided to mind their own business, smart.

You groaned, head in your hands. Spencer was quick to kneel by you, taking your hands into his own. "Y/n," He said softly, "Take a deep breath. I know, I know." You followed his instructions, inhaling and holding it like he demonstrated, softly letting it out after. "Good job, sweetheart, do it again for me, okay?"

After a few more times, your face cooled off. You closed your eyes, sighing. "I didn't mean to hurt his feelings."

"I know, he knows, too." Spencer assured. "He knows he was out of line. You reacted the same way anyone would. It's alright."

Spencer raised his hand to your face, softly brushing your cheek with his thumb. JJ walked over, unsure if she was ruining.. something?

"Hey, I got you your coffee," She hesitantly spoke. You looked up, reaching out quickly.

"Thanks," You mumbled, taking a cautious sip. When you realized the taste was right, you took a bigger sip, sighing at the warmth flooding down your throat.

Spencer gave you a small smile, "See? It's okay now."

You nodded with a smile, thanking him softly. He went back to his desk, re-opening his report. You did the same, clicking your pen open.

"Okay, now what the hell was that?" Derek asked, the previous team members crowding around Rossi's desk.

"I felt like I was walking in on them," JJ mumbled awkwardly. "The tension was so strong I thought it was gonna slice me clean in half."

Emily smiled, "I bet they're in love or something, only love can make a person react like that. She would've bitten anyone else's head off." Everyone mumbled in agreement.

"I bet two weeks," Rossi said after a moment.

"Nah, knowing Reid, it's gotta be more like three." Derek shook his head.

Emily laughed, "I bet a week and a half. Y/n's too badass to not admit it first."

"I don't think they ever will until we do for them." Penelope sighed, knowing how stubborn both individuals were.

"I say one week, solid." JJ nodded. "I felt that tension."

Hotch's voice came out of nowhere, "Four days."

Everyone turned around, shocked. "Hotch, you sure about that?" Derek asked, a slight tease in his voice. "You know them."

This time you don’t try to speak. Your tongue is like a lead weight in your mouth and your brain is running on dial-up. The best you can do is to cling to him, hiding your face in the curve of his neck and hoping he’ll understand that your firm hold on him is a request for him to tighten his own arms around you, until you’re sure you won’t float away. He reciprocates and it makes you feel more secure immediately. 

“Can you answer me?” He murmurs, all sweet solicitation, lips brushing the top of your head in this new airtight position. And then, a moment later— “Baby. I wanna hear your voice.”

“Mhm,” you manage. 

Spencer rewards you by rubbing your back in slow circles. His hand feels nice on your bare skin. The way you love him is too big for words. It could make you cry. 

“Wasn’t too much? You’re not hurting anywhere?”

You shake your head and try to ignore the ache in your bones when you can’t seem to get him close enough. 

“Mm-mm.”

It’s not entirely true—your legs are sore, but it’s nothing that needs tending to, and your lower back is a bit crampy, but he’s already working on that. 

He hums. “You’re pretty out of it, sweet girl. What’s going on with you?”

Spencer is always careful with you. He’d never hurt you, or sacrifice your comfort for his pleasure. That said, he’s just as passionate as you are. The stretch of your arms above your head is still fresh in your mind—the ghost of his grip, pressing your wrists into the mattress, or pushing your leg up, or pulling you exactly where he wanted you by the hips. It’s all wonderful, and you never feel safer than you do when you’re with him, but it doesn’t make you feel any less vulnerable, any less raw, after all is said and done. Maybe it’s precisely because you trust him so much that you’re so sensitive afterward. But he never, ever makes you feel bad for having an intense reaction to an intense experience. He always meets you where you’re at. That in itself makes you emotional. Spencer is different than any of the partners you’d had before. 

Again, he’s patient as you try to process his question and work up a response. Maybe a minute later, you’re breathing out something that feels true. 

“Overwhelmed.”

The word is a tap against glass you didn’t know was there until it’s fracturing like a spiderweb. With no warning, and for no good reason, you find yourself choked up. 

“Oh,” he says, sympathetic and drawn out as understanding sets in. “Do you need me to back off for a minute?”

You squeeze him even fiercer and shake your head, unable to stop the tears from drawing their shiny paths down your cheeks and sinking into the weave of the pillow case. 

“Shh. You’re okay,” he murmurs, quiet and slow and almost sing-songy as he smooths your hair, though you know he doesn’t really expect you to stop crying. “You’re okay, pretty. Remember what I said about all the hormonal shifts in your body after you come?”

Once more you nod against him with a small, shuddering sniffle. 

“And how sometimes your body regulates by crying? Kind of like a… a reset button?”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm.” He shifts from rubbing your back to tracing light lines in shapeless patterns with the blunt edges of his nails, and your breath catches before you’re melting in his hold. “It’s okay to have big or confusing feelings after sex. It’s actually really common. I just want you to be honest with me about those feelings, right? So we can keep you safe?”

“Right.”

“Would you tell me if you were hurting, or if something I did or said was bothering you?”

“Yes.”

If you were looking at him you know he’d be smiling ever so slightly at your monosyllabic responses, charting an upward path with his hand and pushing it through your hair at the nape of your neck. “You can just nod, baby. You don’t have to talk. I know you’re tired.”

You make a small noise of gratitude and nuzzle closer, feeling better as the tears slow, quickly as they’d come. 

“Do you want a bath in a little while?”

Another nod. He scratches at your scalp. “Okay. We’ll do a bath, and then dinner, and then I’m finally going to make you watch that documentary about Helvetica. It’s a little outdated, and there are a few basic errors about the origin and development of the font as well as misinformation about the typeface subgroup in general, but I can amend those as we watch and afterward we can read the director’s tenth anniversary statement. I was waiting to read it until we watched it together.”

Spencer knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’ll fall asleep ten minutes in, curled up on the couch under a blanket in your biggest hoodie with your head on his lap and his hand in your hair, just like this. 

once the car was parked in the cavernous underground garage, spencer was out before you could blink, his movements swift and precise. he opened your door with a courteous nod, his hand outstretched to help you step out. the cool air was a stark contrast to the stuffy gala, sending goosebumps racing across your skin.

his hand was firm yet gentle as he helped you out, his eyes scanning the garage before nodding towards the elevator. "after you, miss," he said, his voice a soothing balm to your frazzled nerves.

as the elevator whisked you up to the main floor, you leaned against the cool metal wall, feeling the weight of the evening pressing down on you. spencer remained silent, his eyes on the numbers as they climbed, his jaw set in a firm line.

you took a deep breath, the sudden need to express your gratitude overwhelming you. "reid," you began, your voice shaky. "i just wanted to thank you. for everything tonight."

his eyes met yours, the intensity in them making your heart flutter. "it's my job, miss," he said, but there was something more in his voice, a warmth that didn't usually accompany his professional demeanor.

you felt the elevator come to a gentle stop, the ding echoing in the quiet space. "it's more than that," you insisted, your voice barely above a whisper. "you didn't have to… lie for me like that."

spencer's gaze remained on the elevator doors, his expression thoughtful. "i didn't lie," he said, his voice even. "i told you i'd support you, and that's what i did."

you felt a lump form in your throat, his words resonating with something deep inside you. "but what about my father?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "he'll never believe that i'm engaged."

spencer's eyes flicked to yours, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "leave that to me," he said, his voice filled with a surprising warmth. "i've dealt with more stubborn people than your dad."

you couldn't help but smile back, feeling a sudden camaraderie with this man who had been forced into your life. "thank you," you said, the words feeling sincere for the first time.

spencer's eyes searched yours, a silent understanding passing between you. "don't mention it," he said, his voice gentle. "now, let's get you inside and out of those uncomfortable shoes."

you stepped out of the elevator and onto the plush carpet of the mansion, the weight of the evening's events slowly lifting from your shoulders. spencer walked alongside you, his stride matching yours, his eyes still scanning the surroundings despite the late hour.

as you reached the grand staircase leading to your private wing, you paused, unable to shake the feeling that something had changed between you. you turned to face him, his gaze meeting yours. there was a moment of silence, the air thick with unspoken words and unexplored feelings.

"reid," you began, your voice tentative. "i know i've been… difficult. but i do appreciate you being here."

his eyes searched yours, the corners crinkling slightly with the beginnings of a smile. "you're not difficult, miss carter," he said gently. "you're just trying to live your life on your terms."

his words hit you like a soft punch to the gut, the truth in them resonating deep within you. you nodded, feeling a sudden urge to confide in him. "it's just… hard, you know?" you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "being the daughter of such a powerful man, everyone has expectations of me. i feel like i'm constantly being judged."

spencer's expression softened, his eyes searching yours with a gentle understanding. "i know," he said, his voice low. "but you don't have to carry that burden alone. i'm here for you, not just as your bodyguard, but as someone you can trust."

his words washed over you, filling you with a warmth that had been missing for so long. "i… i think i can do that," you said, your voice shaky. "trust you, i mean."

spencer's smile grew, the warmth in his eyes unmistakable. "i'll do my best not to disappoint," he said, his tone earnest. "now, let's get you to your room."

his hand rested on the small of your back as you made your way up the grand staircase, the chandelier above casting a warm glow across the marble steps. your heart raced, not from fear, but from the unfamiliar feeling of having someone truly on your side. the weight of the evening's events seemed to lessen with each step, his presence a comforting anchor in the sea of uncertainty.

once you reached your suite, spencer paused, his hand lingering for a moment before dropping away. "goodnight, miss carter," he said, his voice formal yet filled with genuine concern.

you felt a sudden pang of loneliness, the grandeur of the mansion feeling more like a prison than a home. "reid," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "could you… stay for a bit?"

his eyes searched yours, the question hanging in the air between you. "are you sure?" he asked, his voice gentle. "i don't want to overstep."

you nodded, your grip on the banister tightening. "i'm sure," you said, the words surprising even you. "i just… i don't want to be alone right now."

spencer's expression softened, the unspoken tension between you dissipating slightly. "of course," he said, his voice gentle. "i'll stay as long as you need."

you walked into the massive walk-in closet, the rows of designer clothes and shoes a stark reminder of the life you'd been born into. the floor-to-ceiling mirror reflected spencer sitting on the armchair by the door, his eyes on the book he'd pulled from his pocket. you felt a strange comfort knowing he was there, his presence a silent reassurance.

the cool air kissed your bare back as you unzipped the dress, the fabric sliding down your body like a whispered goodbye. you stepped out of it, the red fabric pooling around your feet like a lake of regret. you pulled on a pair of comfortable pajamas, the soft fabric wrapping around you like a warm embrace.

sinking onto the edge of the bed, you turned to spencer, his eyes never leaving his book. "it's always been like this," you began, your voice barely above a murmur. "my father, i mean. ever since my mother… passed."

his eyes flicked up to meet yours, the understanding in them making your throat tighten. "i know," he said gently, setting the book aside. "it's not easy losing a parent."

you nodded, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. "my father's always been… overprotective," you managed to say. "i've never had a boyfriend who lasted more than a couple of dates because he's always found some reason to not approve."

spencer leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "i understand," he said, his voice gentle. "it's his way of trying to keep you safe."

you scoffed, pulling your knees to your chest. "safe?" you repeated, the bitterness in your voice clear. "i feel like i'm in a cage."

spencer's eyes remained on yours, his expression filled with empathy. "i can imagine it's tough," he said, his voice gentle. "but he's just trying to protect you in the only way he knows how."

you sighed, leaning back against the plush pillows. "i know," you said, your voice weary. "but sometimes i just wish he'd let me live."

spencer's gaze never left yours, his eyes filled with understanding. "i'll talk to him," he said firmly. "i'll make sure he understands that you're an adult who deserves the freedom to make your own choices."

his words hit you like a gust of fresh air, filling you with a hope you hadn't felt in a long time. you felt the knot in your stomach loosen slightly. "you will?" you asked, your voice filled with a mix of disbelief and gratitude.

spencer nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "i will," he said, his voice firm. "you're my responsibility, and i won't let anyone, not even your father, make you feel trapped." he finished, looking back down to his book.

his words were like a balm to your soul, and before you knew it, you had sat up and walked over to him, the fabric of your pajamas whispering against the soft carpet. you stopped in front of him, your heart racing in your chest. spencer looked up from his book, his eyes widening slightly as he took in your approach.

slowly, he stood up, his movements fluid and graceful despite his size. you felt the distance between you shrink, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the quiet of the night. "reid," you said, your voice shaky. "i… i don't know what to do."

his eyes searched yours, the intensity in them making your heart race. "you do what you want to do," he said, his voice low and steady. "make choices for yourself, not for your father or anyone else."

you took a deep breath, the weight of his words settling heavily on your shoulders. and then, without thinking, you leaned in and kissed him. spencer's eyes widened in surprise, his book slipping from his hand, but his arms came around you almost instinctively, pulling you closer. his lips were soft and gentle, a stark contrast to the firmness of his embrace.

the kiss grew deeper, more urgent, the unspoken connection between you two igniting into something more. you felt his heart racing beneath your palm, his breath hitching in his chest. it was as if all the tension and frustration of the evening had coalesced into this single moment, a silent promise of understanding and support.

spencer's arms tightened around you, his hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you closer. you could feel the heat of his body against yours, the fabric of his suit a stark contrast to the softness of your pajamas. your own heart was racing, the thrill of your sudden boldness mingling with the warmth of his embrace.

his mouth moved against yours, his tongue slipping between your lips, exploring the contours of your mouth with a gentle yet insistent touch. you moaned softly, your hands moving to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. the need to be closer, to feel more of him, overwhelmed you, and you reached down to unbuckle his belt.

his eyes searched yours for a moment, a silent question hanging in the air. when you nodded, he stepped back, allowing you to push his suit pants down. his cock sprang free, thick and hard, and you felt a thrill of desire shoot through you as you took it in your hand. it was a heady feeling, the power to make this strong, stoic man react so viscerally to your touch.

you leaned down, your eyes never leaving his as you took him into your mouth. spencer's hands tangled in your hair, his breath hitching as you began to move your head, your tongue swirling around the tip. the sound of his quiet gasps filled the room, his hips moving slightly in response to your rhythm.

his taste was new and thrilling, a heady mix of desire and need that made you want to deepen the kiss. you took him deeper, feeling him hit the back of your throat, his grip on your hair tightening. you could feel his muscles tensing, his breath coming in ragged pants as you worked him over.

his eyes never left yours, the intensity in them sending shivers down your spine. it was as if you could see every thought, every feeling, every need reflected in the depths of his gaze. you felt powerful, in control, and for the first time in a long time, alive.

his cock was hot and hard in your mouth, and the sound of his quiet moans spurred you on. your hand gripped the base of his shaft, stroking in time with the bob of your head. you felt him swell, his hips jerking slightly with each stroke of your tongue. it was an addictive feeling, knowing you could make this strong man tremble with just your touch.

spencer's eyes never left yours, his pupils dilated with lust. his hands tangled in your hair, guiding you, but never pushing. you could see the struggle in his gaze, the desire to let go and just lose himself in the sensation warring with his ingrained need to maintain control. but tonight, in this quiet corner of the mansion, you were the one in charge.

you moaned around his cock, the vibration making him jerk. his grip on your hair tightened, his hips moving slightly to match the rhythm of your mouth. the salty taste of him was intoxicating, making your own desire pool between your legs. you could feel the wetness of your panties, a silent testament to how much his touch affected you.

spencer's breath was coming in harsh pants now, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to hold back. but you weren't going to let him. you wanted him to lose control, to feel as alive as you did in this moment. you took him deeper, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat, the muscles in your neck straining.

but before he could reach his peak, you pulled away, your eyes meeting his with a fiery determination. "i want you to fuck me," you whispered, your voice hoarse with desire. the words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the gentle sounds of the mansion's nighttime ambiance.

spencer's eyes searched yours, the question in them clear. "are you sure?" he asked, his voice strained. you nodded, the need for his touch overwhelming any doubt that may have lingered.

you took his hand, leading him back to the bed, the plush comforter inviting and warm. your heart raced as you sat on the edge, watching him tuck his cock back into his pants, his hands trembling slightly. the sight of his arousal, so potent and undeniable, made your stomach flip.

spencer followed, his eyes never leaving yours as he approached. his gaze was filled with a mix of desire and hesitation, the weight of his duty to protect you clear in his expression. but as you took his face in your hands and pulled him down for a kiss, the doubt in his eyes faded away, replaced by a fierce need that matched your own.

his lips were soft and gentle, the kiss a silent promise of passion and comfort. your hands roamed his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath his shirt, the rapid beat of his heart syncing with yours. the warmth of his body was like a brand against your skin, setting every nerve ending alight.

spencer broke the kiss, his eyes searching yours for permission. when you nodded eagerly, he began to kiss his way down your neck, his tongue tracing the delicate line of your collarbone. he reached the top of your pajama shirt, his fingers deftly unbuttoning it, the fabric parting to reveal the soft swells of your breasts.

his mouth moved lower, kissing each inch of exposed skin as he went. the sensation of his breath against your skin sent shivers down your spine, making you arch into his touch. his mouth reached your stomach, kissing the soft flesh with a tenderness that belied his firm grip. his hands found the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head, leaving you in just your panties.

his eyes took in the sight of you, his breath catching in his throat. "you're beautiful," he murmured, the words a barely-there whisper. you felt your cheeks flush, the heat of his gaze warming you from the inside out. his hands trailed up your body, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples. you gasped, the sensation shooting straight to your core.

spencer's eyes searched yours, the question in them unspoken. when you nodded, he leaned down, his mouth capturing one of your nipples, suckling gently. you moaned, the pleasure of his touch sending waves of heat through you. your hands found his hair, tangling in the soft strands as you pulled him closer, urging him to give you more.

his mouth moved to the other breast, his tongue teasing the sensitive peak before moving lower. his hands slid down your body, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your panties. you lifted your hips, helping him as he slid them down your legs, leaving you bare and exposed before him.

spencer's eyes took in every inch of you, his pupils dilated with desire. you felt a thrill of power at his reaction, the knowledge that he wanted you just as badly as you wanted him. you spread your legs wider, inviting him closer, the wetness between your thighs a silent plea.

his hand slid down your stomach, his thumb brushing over your clit, making you gasp. the touch was feather-light, a promise of what was to come. you watched as he took a deep breath, his control slipping away. "spencer," you whispered, your voice needy. "please."

his eyes met yours, the hunger in them unmistakable. without a word, he leaned in, his mouth replacing his thumb. the sensation was exquisite, his tongue circling your clit, sending bolts of pleasure through your body. your hands tightened in his hair, your hips rocking against his face.

his touch grew more insistent, his tongue moving faster, his fingers sliding into your wetness. you moaned, the pressure building, your body arching off the bed. the sound of your pleasure filled the room, the tension between you two unbearable.

spencer's eyes remained on yours, watching your every reaction, learning what made you gasp, what made you moan. his other hand found your hip, holding you in place as he feasted on you, his mouth and fingers working in tandem to push you closer to the edge.

the pressure grew, the tension in your body coiling tighter and tighter. your breath came in short, panting gasps, your eyes squeezed shut as the sensation built. and then, with a final flick of his tongue, you shattered. your orgasm ripped through you, your body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you.

spencer's eyes never left yours as you came, his gaze filled with a fierce possessiveness that sent shivers down your spine. as the last tremor of your climax subsided, he leaned back, his own need clear in the dark hunger of his eyes. without a word, he undid his tie and shrugged off his jacket, his shirt following suit.

his body was a sculpted masterpiece of muscle and strength, a stark contrast to the suave exterior he presented to the world. you felt your heart race as he stepped closer, his cock hard and ready. "are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice thick with lust.

you nodded, your desire for him overwhelming any remaining doubt. "yes," you whispered, your voice breathy with need. "i want you."

spencer's eyes searched yours for a moment longer before he reached down and untucked his cock from his pants. the fabric fell away, revealing his hard length once again. you couldn't help but stare, the memory of his taste still lingering on your lips. he stepped out of the fabric, leaving them in a pool at his feet.

his eyes never left yours as he climbed onto the bed, his body moving with a predatory grace. the mattress dipped slightly with his weight, and you felt your heart racing in anticipation. your legs spread wider, inviting him closer, the heat of his body radiating against your skin.

his hand reached out, his fingertips brushing against the wetness of your pussy, making you gasp. "so wet for me," he murmured, the awe in his voice sending a thrill through you. you nodded, unable to form coherent words as he positioned himself at your entrance.

his cock was hot and heavy, the tip nudging against you. you felt a moment of apprehension, but it was quickly replaced by a desperate need to feel him inside you. "please," you begged, your voice a whimper.

spencer's eyes searched yours, his own need reflected in the depths of his gaze. with a groan, he pushed forward, filling you inch by inch. you gasped as he stretched you, the feeling of fullness unlike anything you'd ever experienced. his pace was slow and deliberate, his body moving in perfect harmony with yours.

you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him deeper. spencer's eyes never left yours as he thrust into you, his movements powerful yet gentle. the friction was exquisite, the feel of his cock inside you sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body.

his hands held onto your hips, guiding you, as he began to move with a rhythm that had you moaning his name. your fingers dug into the sheets, your body moving in time with his. the room was filled with the sounds of your lovemaking, the heady scent of desire hanging in the air.

spencer leaned down, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered words of encouragement. "you're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with passion. "so responsive."

you couldn't help but let out a soft moan, your body already anticipating his next move. with surprising strength, he flipped you over, his hands gripping your hips as he positioned himself behind you. your cheek pressed into the pillow, muffling your gasps as he entered you again, his cock sliding into your wetness from behind.

his hands found their way to your ass, squeezing and spreading your cheeks as he began to thrust. the angle was new, sending sensations through you that you'd never felt before. your eyes squeezed shut, your breath coming in ragged pants as he filled you completely. the feel of his body pressing into you, his hands holding you firmly in place, was both overwhelming and incredibly arousing.

his hips slapped against your ass with each movement, the sound echoing through the quiet room. your cheeks were flushed, your body trembling with the effort to hold still. but spencer was relentless, his movements growing more intense, his breath hot and ragged in your ear. "you like that?" he whispered, his voice a dark promise of more pleasure to come.

you nodded, unable to form words, your body already on the edge of another orgasm. "yes, sir," you managed to gasp out, the honorific slipping from your lips unbidden. something about the power dynamic, about being with a man who could both protect and pleasure you, sent a thrill through your veins.

spencer's grip tightened on your hips, his thrusts growing more urgent. "you're so good," he murmured, his voice low and gruff. "so fucking good." the way he said it, with such raw, unbridled passion, had you feeling like you were melting from the inside out.

his hand reached around, his thumb finding your clit, the touch making your eyes fly open. you arched your back, pushing back into him, the sensation too much to handle. "sir," you moaned, the word slipping from your lips like a prayer.

spencer's grip tightened, his strokes becoming more erratic as he neared his own climax. "you're going to come for me, aren't you?" he growled, his teeth grazing your ear. the pleasure was building, a pressure that threatened to consume you. "yes," you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper.

his thumb worked in time with his thrusts, the dual sensations pushing you closer and closer to the edge. you could feel his cock swelling inside you, his hips moving with a desperation that mirrored your own. "now," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "come for me now."

you did, your body convulsing around him as you came, the sensation so intense it was almost painful. spencer's own release followed, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his seed. the feeling of him coming inside you was like nothing you'd ever experienced, a claiming that went beyond the physical.

his body collapsed onto yours, his breath hot and heavy against your neck. your heart raced in your chest, the sound of your combined panting filling the room. for a moment, you just lay there, basking in the afterglow, the weight of him comforting rather than suffocating.

but reality soon intruded, the sound of a car pulling up outside jolting you both to attention. "your father," spencer murmured, his voice still thick with desire. "i should go."

you nodded, the spell of the moment broken. with a final, lingering kiss, he pulled away, his body sliding out of yours with a reluctance that mirrored your own. the cold air rushed in to fill the space he'd occupied, leaving you feeling empty and exposed. spencer quickly pulled his clothes back on, his movements efficient despite the tremble in his hands.

before he could turn away, you reached out, grabbing his wrist. "spencer," you said, your voice urgent. "before you go… promise me you'll talk to my father." you took a deep breath, the words tumbling out in a rush. "about how i need more freedom. about how i'm not a child anymore. about how i need to live my own life." the vulnerability in your voice was stark, a stark contrast to the powerful woman you'd been moments ago.

spencer's eyes searched yours, the understanding in them clear. he nodded, his grip on your wrist tightening slightly. "i promise," he said, his voice firm. "i'll talk to him. i'll make him understand."

you felt a weight lift from your chest, the hope of change fluttering in your stomach. "thank you," you whispered, the words filled with a sincerity that went beyond simple gratitude. you knew he would keep his word, that he would stand by you in this fight for your independence.

spencer leaned down, placing a soft kiss on your forehead, his eyes filled with a gentle concern. "you don't have to thank me," he said, his voice low and earnest. "i'm here to protect you, but that includes fighting for what you want, even if it's against your father's wishes."

his words resonated within you, filling you with a warmth that had nothing to do with the passion you'd just shared. you nodded, a small smile playing on your lips. "i know," you murmured. "that's why i trust you."

"honey," your father's firm voice called out as you stepped into the room, his eyes never leaving the paperwork scattered across his desk. he looked up, the stern lines on his face softening slightly as he took in your appearance. "this is spencer reid, your new bodyguard."

spencer stood by the door, his posture ramrod straight, and his eyes met yours. there was a flicker of something in them, an intensity that made you pause. he was tall, with a lean build and a sharp jawline that spoke of discipline and experience. his suit was impeccable, but there was a hint of something else beneath the surface, a wildness that the tailored fabric couldn't quite conceal. he looked older than you, maybe thirty-five, if you had to guess.

"daddy, i don't need another babysitter," you protested, crossing your arms over your chest. "i'm twenty-five, not five. i can handle myself."

your father sighed heavily, setting down his pen and folding his hands together. "sweetheart, it's not about that. it's about keeping you safe. with everything that's been happening, i just want to make sure you're protected."

you rolled your eyes, feeling the familiar ache of frustration in your chest. "what's been happening? i've had one stalker in the last year, and that was just some lovesick fan. i can handle myself."

spencer cleared his throat, his gaze shifting between you and your father. "miss carter, if i may, i understand your concerns. i've studied the case files and the potential threats are minimal. but in the line of work i've been in, it's always better to be safe than sorry."

his words hung in the air, and you felt a spark of curiosity. there was something about the way he spoke, a calm confidence that was hard to ignore. maybe he wasn't just another incompetent bodyguard your father had hired.

"fine," you relented, unable to argue with his logic. "but i don't need you following me around like a shadow."

spencer nodded, a slight smile playing on his lips. "i understand, miss. i'll do my best to respect your privacy while ensuring your safety."

the week flew by in a whirlwind of meetings and social engagements, with spencer a constant presence at your side. your father had informed you of the annual gala in a week's time, a grand affair where the crème de la crème of society mingled and networked. "you need to make an appearance," he'd said, his tone brooking no argument. "and i expect you to look the part."

"spencer," your father announced, his voice carrying a hint of finality, "you will accompany my daughter to select a suitable gown for the gala. it's an important event, and i want her to be dressed to the nines."

you felt a pang of annoyance at the thought of being dragged around by a bodyguard to pick out a dress, but the idea of escaping your father's scrutiny was tempting. "fine," you said with a resigned sigh, "but i can't believe you're making me go to this thing."

spencer's eyes met yours for a brief moment before he nodded. "i'll be there to ensure nothing goes wrong, miss."

the shopping trip was a delicate dance of wills. you wove through the racks of haute couture, your mind racing with thoughts of the gala and the dreaded encounter with the man your father insisted on setting you up with. spencer remained a silent sentinel, his eyes scanning the room, his presence both comforting and stifling.

you slid a sleek, black dress from its hanger, the fabric whispering against the others as it glided through the air. it was perfect for the gala, elegant yet understated, a stark contrast to the flashy outfits you knew the other attendees would be wearing. you held it up to your body, the soft fabric brushing against your fingertips. "what do you think?" you asked, not bothering to hide the challenge in your voice.

spencer's gaze flicked over the dress and then back to your face, his expression unreadable. "it's… appropriate," he said, his voice measured. "but i suspect you're looking for something more than just appropriate."

you couldn't argue with that. you wanted to make a statement, to show the world that you weren't just a billionaire's daughter to be bartered off to the highest bidder. you wanted to be seen as a woman of substance, not just a pretty face in a sea of designer labels. "i need something that says 'hands off'," you murmured, your eyes searching the racks for the perfect dress.

spencer's gaze sharpened. "you worried about someone in particular?"

you nodded, your thoughts drifting to the smug grin of the man your father was so keen on setting you up with. "his name is alexander. he's… persistent."

spencer's eyebrows shot up, the first real sign of emotion you'd seen from him. "oh, i know the type," he said, his voice tight. "well, let's make sure you're dressed to make him understand that you're not interested."

you felt a strange thrill at his sudden protectiveness, and you found yourself smiling slightly. "okay, let's do this."

as the gala night approached, the tension in the air grew thick. your father had been dropping hints about alexander, reminding you of his wealth and status, and his potential as a suitable match. you, on the other hand, had been preparing your speech, rehearsing the perfect way to tell alexander that you had no interest in him without causing a scene.

the evening of the gala arrived, and you found yourself in a whirlwind of hair and makeup artists, turning you into the picture of sophistication. the dress spencer had helped you choose was a stunning blood red that made your eyes pop and your skin glow. it hugged your curves in all the right places and had just the right amount of flair to make you feel powerful.

as you descended the grand staircase, your father's eyes widened with approval. "you look… incredible," he said, his voice filled with pride. "exactly what a future lady of the house should look like."

you bit back a retort, choosing instead to smile sweetly. "thank you, daddy. i'm sure reid will make sure i'm well protected tonight."

your father nodded, his gaze flicking to your bodyguard, who was standing a respectful distance away, watching the exchange. "he better," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

the gala was a dizzying array of lights and sounds, the chatter of the elite echoing through the opulent ballroom. spencer was a silent shadow at your side, his eyes never still as they swept the room, looking for any sign of trouble. you felt a strange comfort in his vigilance, his presence a buffer between you and the world that so often felt suffocating.

as the evening progressed, you spotted alexander cutting through the crowd, his eyes locked on you like a hawk on its prey. your heart sank, but spencer was there, his hand lightly on your elbow, guiding you through the throng of people with an ease that belied his size. "just keep walking," he murmured in your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "ignore him."

but alexander was not so easily deterred. he reached you before you could escape, his smile as plastic as the flowers adorning the tables around you. "so, the elusive miss carter," he said, his voice oozing with false charm. "how are you enjoying the gala?"

you felt your heart race, his presence setting your nerves on edge. "i'm enjoying it," you replied, your voice cool and even. "thank you for asking."

alexander's gaze slid to spencer, a hint of suspicion in his eyes. "and who is this charming man at your side?"

your heart pounded in your chest, your mind racing for a way to shake alexander off. without missing a beat, you reached for spencer's hand, squeezing it tightly. "this is my fiancé, spencer reid," you blurted out, the words surprising even you.

spencer's eyes widened slightly, but he recovered quickly, his hand closing around yours. "hello, alexander," he said smoothly, a polite smile playing on his lips. "i've heard so much about you."

alexander's gaze darted between the two of you, his confusion clear. "fiancé?" he repeated, his voice skeptical. "i had no idea, your father said nothing about this."

you felt your cheeks heat up, but you held your ground, flashing spencer a desperate look. "it's a recent development," you said, your voice surprisingly steady. "we wanted to keep it private for a bit."

alexander's smile faltered, his eyes narrowing slightly. "recent?" he echoed, his grip on his champagne flute tightening. "how recent?"

you swallowed hard, your mind racing. "very recent," you said, the lie slipping off your tongue with surprising ease. "we just got engaged."

spencer squeezed your hand in reassurance, his eyes never leaving alexander's. "yes, it was quite a whirlwind," he said, playing along flawlessly. "we didn't want to make a big deal out of it."

alexander's expression shifted from skepticism to something darker, his grip on his drink tightening. "well, congratulations," he said, his voice tight. "i wish you both the best."

you felt a wave of relief wash over you as he turned and disappeared into the crowd. you looked up at spencer, your heart still racing. "thank you," you murmured, your voice shaky. "i can't believe that worked."

spencer's smile was tight, his eyes still scanning the room. "it's not over yet," he said, his grip on your hand still firm. "let's get you somewhere quieter, away from prying eyes."

you allowed him to lead you to a secluded corner of the mansion, the music and chatter of the gala fading into a distant buzz. the walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, the moon casting a soft silver light over the manicured gardens outside. it was a stark contrast to the bright, flashy lights of the ballroom, and the calmness of the night seeped into your bones.

spencer's hand was still wrapped around yours, his eyes never leaving the partygoers as he scanned for any sign of danger or unwanted attention. "are you okay?" he asked, his voice low and concerned.

you nodded, trying to compose yourself. "yeah, i just… i didn't expect to lie like that." the words felt heavy on your tongue, but the truth was, you had no intention of letting alexander near you again.

spencer's gaze softened, his grip on your hand loosening slightly. "it's alright," he said gently. "i've seen worse at these types of events."

you couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt for dragging him into your personal drama. "i'm sorry," you whispered. "i didn't mean to get you involved."

spencer's gaze finally left the crowd, his eyes meeting yours. "it's part of the job," he said, his voice gentle. "and i'd rather be involved than see you miserable."

you looked down at your hand in his, feeling the warmth of his skin. "thank you," you said again, the words feeling inadequate. "i just… i don't know why my father can't see that i'm not a little girl anymore."

spencer's eyes searched yours, filled with understanding. "he's just trying to protect you," he said. "it's hard for parents to let go, especially when they've lost someone as important as your mother."

his words hit you like a ton of bricks, and you felt the familiar ache in your chest. your mother's death had left a void in your life that no one had ever truly filled, not even your father's overbearing attention. "i know," you said softly, "but it's like he doesn't trust me to make my own decisions."

spencer's expression grew serious. "it's his way of dealing with his fear," he said. "but you're more than capable of taking care of yourself, and i'm here to support you in any way i can."

his words resonated with you, and for the first time in a long while, you felt seen. "really?" you asked, hope flickering in your eyes.

spencer nodded. "really," he said, his voice firm. "you're a strong, independent woman. and if your father won't give you the space you need, i'll do my best to make sure you have it."

his words echoed in the quiet corner of the mansion, and you felt a sudden urge to get out of the suffocating atmosphere of the gala. "can we leave?" you asked, your voice small. "i don't think i can handle much more of this."

spencer's eyes searched yours for a moment before he nodded. "of course," he said, his voice calm. "let's go."

you felt a wave of relief as he led you through the throng of people, his hand at the small of your back a reassuring presence. the cool night air hit you like a slap in the face after the stifling heat of the gala, sending a shiver down your spine. the stars twinkled overhead, a stark contrast to the artificial lights of the mansion.

spencer opened the door to the sleek black sedan waiting outside, his hand on the small of your back as you slid into the passenger seat. you felt his eyes on you as he took his place beside you, the leather seats sighing beneath your weight. "are you okay?" he asked again, his voice low and concerned.

you took a deep breath, the cool leather calming your frazzled nerves. "i'm fine," you said, your voice shaky. "i just… i hate those kinds of events."

spencer's eyes searched yours, and without a word, he reached over and gently took your hand that was resting on your lap. "i promise," he said, his voice filled with a quiet resolve, "i will talk to your father. you're an adult, and you deserve to make your own choices."

his hand was warm and comforting, and you felt a sudden surge of gratitude towards him. "thank you," you whispered, your eyes welling up with unshed tears. "i just want to live my life without feeling like i'm under a microscope."

To be with your one, true love was something that only a few lucky souls in the world got to experience. Whether someone found their happiness with a romantic partner, a platonic friend, or a loving family, it was true bliss to be with the person you cared most about. David knew he had found that kind of love when he had crossed paths with his boys long ago.

But Michael? This was an entirely different feeling. Something fresh and exciting and full of hope. Michael was the first person he wanted to see when he awoke after sunset, and the one he would kiss farewell before hiding away from the sunrise. What made their newfound love even sweeter was the fact that he could tell Michael felt the same way. 

For the first couple of weeks after they made love together, David would occasionally peek into Michael's mind, ever-so curious as to whether or not the cowboy was still pleased with their relationship. It made his heart soar whenever he heard thoughts of joy, adoration, and occasional lust. 

Though as the season shifted from summer into autumn, David found no use in his vampire tricks any longer. He didn't need to pry into Michael's mind to understand him. It was far easier to notice when the brunet wanted something or was enjoying their time together. It was interesting, and certainly not unwelcome. Change could be a good thing, and Michael was proof of that.

And he had full intentions of enjoying every moment they shared together. Tonight was one of those times.

“You really trust me enough to be here for this?”

“‘Course I do! Don’t you worry yourself, alright?”

Michael had his hand fully grasped around David’s, eagerly guiding him to the barn on the Emerson property. As per usual, they had just finished enjoying a filling, delicious dinner made from scratch by Lucy. Now Michael was ready to wrap up some chores around the place before spending the night having fun. 

Usually, David would take the opportunity to sneak away with the other boys in order to find and drain a victim. Lucy knew how to keep their bellies full, but they still relied on the taste of fresh blood to keep their vampiric powers going strong. But this time was a bit different. Michael had asked David to join him for one particular task he had to do. Something that was incredibly important, according to him. 

“I think you’re really gonna like this, David,” Michael assured him with a bright smile. “It’s one of my favorite things to do ‘round here.”

David’s curiosity grew with each step as they walked further into the barn, the sound of hay crunching under their boots filling his ears all the while. It was the only thing he heard until a second, much louder sound surprised him.

“MOOOOOOOO”

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to hear the noise of a farm animal in a place like this, but what truly caught the vampire off guard was hearing a bold noise come out of a small creature. 

Standing in one corner of the barn was a little calf. A fluffy coat of black and white fur, a shiny, wet snout, and a swishing tail. She seemed to perk up at the sight of the two boys, as if it knew they were there to give her plenty of attention. Michael giggled at such a sight. 

“Yeah yeah, I know, girl,” Michael said. “You know what’s comin’, dontcha?”

The cowboy leaned down to get on the little cow’s level, giving her a nice scratch under her chin as a greeting. Her big, brown eyes fluttered shut, and she leaned into his hand more, no doubt enjoying the sensation. While he kept petting her, Michael turned his gaze back to David.

“This little lady is Cookie! She’s a Lineback. Sam and I picked her up at an auction across town last week!” he explained. “She’s spoiled rotten ‘cause of how plum cute she is~”

You’d have to be an absolute monster not to melt at the sight of such a sweet little creature. And that was saying something, since David technically was such a thing. He softly smiled at the calf, kneeling down to meet her at eye level. She was still a bit spooked, backing up suddenly when he moved towards her. A twinge of guilt ran through him at the sight. 

“Aww don’t feel bad, David! She’s just a little shy when it comes to meetin’ new people,'' Michael assured him. “Besides, you’ll become her best friend once you give her this.”

Michael reached into a bag he had brought along for their trip. It took no more than a moment for him to fish out exactly what he needed. In his hand, he held a large, rectangular plastic bottle with a thick, white liquid sloshing around inside. A rubber nipple was secured at the end of it, much like a baby bottle. 

“She’s still bein’ bottle fed. I do this a couple times a day. Since she doesn’t have her mama, this’ll be how she gets big and strong,” he explained, giving the bottle a light shake. Cookie’s eyes widened at the sight while her tail swished around some more. The two boys giggled at the sight of her excitement. It was like seeing a dog wag its tail when being offered a treat. 

Michael gave David a smile as he held out the bottle for him to take. “Why don’t you try feedin’ her?”

“Well, I’ve never done this before, so I may need some help so that I don’t look like an idiot,” David admitted. 

“No worries! It’s a lot easier than ya think!”

After giving him some pointers on how to position the bottle and how to get her to latch on, Michael stood back in order to let David do his thing. Careful to follow the advice given, David allowed Cookie to come up to him and take a drink at her own pace. Sure enough, she became a lot more friendly with him once she got a taste of the milk. 

A bright smile spread across his face as he watched the calf drink. Michael was right when he said it was easier than he realized. She snorted and gulped, noisily taking as much milk as she wanted. He had to admit, it was quite precious. It really felt like he was bonding with the little creature. 

That was, until she pulled away and pushed her head against the bottle, causing it to slam against his leg. 

“Ow! What was that for?”

Michael let out an amused laugh, clearly enjoying seeing David get flustered by a baby animal. 

“She’s nudging! When calves are around their mothers, they do that to the udders as a way to get more of the milk to come out. But since it’s just you with a bottle, she thinks the same thing will happen ‘cause she doesn’t know the difference. Hurts like a bitch, don’t it?”

“It’s a good thing she’s cute. Otherwise, I’d have to scold her,” David said with a smirk. Cookie’s ears fluttered while she went back to work on drinking her milk. 

The two of them enjoyed more of Cookie’s feeding time, encouraging her and cooing at how adorable she was. The little cow was practically eating up the attention the same way she was eating up her meal. By the time she was finished with the bottle, the fur on her chin was soaked with milk. She seemed quite pleased with herself. 

“Atta girl,” Michael said. He took a rag from the same bag he had carried the milk in order to clean up the mess all around her face. Just as she did before, she tried to nudge Michael’s hand. “Sassy lil’ thing.”

“And definitely a daddy’s girl. She’s gonna miss you if you go back to school, Michael.”

The brunet let out a snort and a hearty laugh at such a comment.

“Hell nah, I ain’t goin’ back to school! I graduated a year early back in Texas. I ain’t doin’ more of that shit. Let Sammy deal with all that. I’ll stay here with my lil’ buddies,” he laughed, giving Cookie a playful rub behind the ears. 

The blond leaned up against one of the walls of the barn, letting out a sigh of relaxation while his boyfriend took care of Cookie. It put him at ease seeing Michael working hard. He did so much for his family and all the animals on their farm. Considering he used to only value partying hard and spilling blood, it was comforting to see someone who cared about doing things for others without expecting something in return.

“I don’t know how you do it,” David said.

“Whatcha mean?”

“I mean, I don’t know how you do all of this! How you take care of animals, do all the chores, take on a bunch of hard labor, and then still have time and energy to do stuff with me and the boys. Honestly, you’ve got a crazy amount of stamina. How do you do it?”

Michael pondered over David’s words. He stayed quiet for a moment, reflecting on them as he finished up with Cookie. He let out a tired sigh as he sat down in the hay and let the calf snuggle up on his lap.

“Honestly? I don’t really know myself,” he admitted. “It’s actually a lot more exhaustin’ than I make it look, David.”

It wasn’t an answer that David had been expecting. Growing curious, he stopped his leaning so that he could kneel down and be more at Michael’s eye level. He raised an eyebrow in curiosity, wordlessly asking what the human’s response meant. Michael gave him a sheepish smile, realizing he couldn’t take back his choice of words. 

“Between you, me, and Cookie, I take on as much as I possibly can because I don’t know how long I’ll get to do this.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s like this: I’m the man of the house in the eyes of my mama. Sure, Grandpa’s still kickin’ but he ain’t no spring chicken. He needs my help with so much ‘round here. You weren’t here for it, but he nearly threw his back out just carryin’ some horse feed. He needs me, especially ‘cause Mama’s worried about him.”

Michael’s smile slowly faded as he spoke. The calf he held nuzzled up against him, enjoying being held as he spoke. Michael gently pet her, letting her relax into his hand. He always felt better around the animals. 

“I don’t mind helpin’ out. I care about my family. I want to look after them. But…I don’t wanna miss out on life while I’m young. It feels like….I dunno…like jugglin’, I guess. I wanna go wild, drink myself stupid, do some partyin’, go on adventures. But someday I’m gonna have to grow up. Maybe settle into some work for other farms to make more money. Get Sammy what he needs when he goes to college someday. Make sure Mama doesn’t have to work. There’s just so much to do in so little time…”

David’s eyebrows creased, and he frowned as he listened to Michael. In all the times he listened to the boys' thoughts, he never heard such things in his head. It was almost as if Michael was trying to act and not think. He pushed his thoughts and feelings aside so he could just focus on what was in front of him. It made David wonder just how long his boyfriend had been carrying around such burdens. Never acknowledging the work. 

“What about you, Michael?” David spoke up. “You keep talking about your family, but what about the stuff you want?”

“I already do the stuff I want!” Michael tried to assure him. “Every night we go ridin’ or raise a little hell on the boardwalk or even havin’ our jam sessions is always fun. I honestly haven’t felt so happy since the move.”

He carefully moved the hand that wasn’t petting Cookie in order to reach out and grab David’s hand. Out of a reflex, David immediately intertwined their fingers together. He never got tired of doing that.

“And you. I get to be with you, David. Every second we’re together makes me forget I even got troubles. You keep me in the moment. Don’t make everything feel so rushed.”

David softly smiled at the kind words Michael shared. He brought the human’s hand upward so that he could kiss the back of it. All the while, he ran his thumb over Michael’s knuckles. 

“I feel the same way, Cowboy,” he sighed. “I’d do anything to make you happy. I just….want to take away all those troubles you have. Life is meant to be savored, not rushed through. You deserve to enjoy all the stuff you like and not have to carry the pressure of your family.”

Not satisfied with just the smooch on his hand, Michael grabbed hold of David’s shirt, tugging him closer so that they could share a proper kiss. He giggled as he pressed his lips, enjoying the familiar scent of David’s cigarettes on his skin. When they broke apart, David had a grin of his own. 

“Carryin’ these things is my burden, darlin. As long as I’ve got you in my life, I’ll be just fine.”

“Well, I’ll still help when I can. We all will,” David assured him. 

Michael smirked at him, amused by such promises. Even if David was true to his word, he found it cute to see this bad boy turn into a loyal farm hand. 

“And if you just so happen to change your mind about all this work and just….I dunno….want to run away together and become a country and rock music duo and have a home of our own back in your hometown, I would absolutely go along with it.”

The human boy burst into a fit of giggles. Clearly such a specific scenario had been playing around in David’s mind for sometime. He really was crazy about that guy. 

“You’re too sweet, y’know that, Huckleberry?” 

“Only for you, Cowboy~” 

The two of them were so close and eager to share another kiss together. But as they leaned in to do it again, they were rudely interrupted by the fussy little cow on Michael’s lap.

“Mooooo!!!”

“You are such a drama queen,” Michael playfully scolded Cookie. “You’re not the only one that gets affection ‘round here, missy. Learn to share.”

David watched in amusement as Michael got back on his feet and hoisted the fluffy calf into the air. He followed the lead and stood back up as well, dusting off the hay and dirt from his beloved jacket. One of these days, he’d ask Michael to loan him some proper work clothes to wear around the farm. Or at the very least, he’d swipe them off some sucker after a hunt. 

Speaking of hunting, he hadn't heard from the boys yet. Usually, one of them would let him know when they were cleaning up after feeding. Had they not found a good meal yet?

“Michael, do you mind if I go looking for the boys? I'd love for them to meet Cookie too.” 

“Absolutely! The more the merrier,” Michael said. “Just do me a favor and take the bag and the bottle back inside. I'll put everything away once I'm done with the other animals.” 

With a quick nod and another peck, David was off for the Emerson house. He twirled the bag around his wrist as he followed the path to the back porch. Before he cut through the hall in order to get to the kitchen, something caught his eye in the dining room. 

“Oh! Hey, Sam!” 

Sitting in a chair at the dining table was the younger Emerson brother. Across the table were a variety of textbooks, looseleaf paper and composition notebooks. Sam was deep in focus, hunched over his work, with a pencil tapping in between his fingers. He barely gave David a glance as he read over his notes. 

“Wow! Better lower the enthusiasm before you break a blood vessel!” David said sarcastically, ready to leave the kid alone since he was clearly in a mood. 

Then again, maybe he shouldn’t be so harsh on him. He and Michael already messed with him enough with their pranks and roughhousing. David turned back around and softened his expression a little. The same look he usually had around Laddie.

“Sorry ‘bout that, Sam. Didn’t mean to sass you,” he apologized, leaning over one of the spare dining chairs. “Can I make it up to you, bud?”

Sam’s sour expression didn’t budge while he continued writing down answers for his homework. He only gave David a side glance rather than proper eye contact. 

“I dunno. Can you do ninth grade geometry?” 

“Uhhh….’fraid not,” David admitted. 

“Then no, you can’t. So you can just leave me alone. Stop botherin’ me already.”

David was growing more and more frustrated by the minute. He was itching to bare his fangs again and hiss at the boy. He didn’t take kindly to any attitude from bratty kids. Still, he wanted to keep his cool and make things right. If not for his own sake, then for Michael’s. 

“Sam, I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m not your enemy here. I’m trying to make nice with you here, so why do you still wanna act like you hate me?”

The younger boy flicked his pencil down onto the table and slammed his math book shut. Now David had his full attention, and Sam wasn’t looking too happy about it.

“You wanna know why I hate you?” he snapped. “It’s ‘cause I know you’re nothin’ but trouble! You’re dangerous! Bad to the bone!”

“So what if I am? Everyone has their flaws. Is it really fair to hate me for that? For trying to be better? I’m trying to do that for your family. For Michael!”

“How can I possibly trust that? How do I know you’re not gonna go and hurt my brother?”

David’s breathing was heavier and his stomach was churning. The more Sam argued with him, the more he wanted to prove himself. It was all so frustrating. This was the first time in ages he wanted to have a connection with humans. He didn’t want to be seen as a monster as others had for decades now. Letting out a sigh and lowering his guard, David allowed himself to be vulnerable to Michael’s brother.

“Because I love him.”

Silence hung in the air between the two of them. Sam’s baby blue eyes widened and his expression softened at the words. He could have expected any response except that. 

Though he already knew of Michael’s sexuality and blossoming relationship with David, he hadn’t been too enthusiastic about it. Paranoia about cryptic creatures trying to claw their way into Sam’s home life had put him on edge. Even if others broke bread with the Lost Boys, he hadn’t trusted for a second.

And yet….the look in David’s eyes was genuine. Not one bit of deception to be found. 

“You love him?”

“Yeah, Sam, I do.” 

Before Sam felt like he could rant a mile a minute to David’s face. Now he was quiet as a mouse, looking rather embarrassed for being so harsh before. David figured he would keep talking to get rid of some of the awkwardness. 

“Sam, I get it. You’re feeling protective of Michael. He’s your brother. I feel the same way about Marko, Dwayne and Paul.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. But we like it here. We like your family. And we take care of our family. I want to make Michael happy, just like he’s done for me. So I want you to know that I don’t want to hurt him.”

David offered a gesture that not too many had the honor of experiencing. He held out a gloved hand, ready to give a shake with Sam. 

“I just want to be your friend.”

Sam looked as if he was still on the fence about whether it was right to trust David. The warnings of Edgar and Alan echoed in his head. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe he had misread the whole situation with Max. Hell, maybe he even hallucinated that burn on his hand when they were at the party. 

After all the shenanigans, maybe it all boiled down to the fact that he was just a scared kid. Scared for both his mother and brother. Max wasn’t right for their family, but David was. What he and Michael had was real.

So with an ever-so faint smile, Sam accepted the offer and shook hands with David. The blond seemed to physically relax more, no doubt glad to get Sam’s acceptance. 

“Thanks, Sam,” David said. “I apprecia-”

“DAVID!”

A voice screamed out in the blond’s head. He tensed up, recognizing it was Dwayne calling out to him. He sounded so urgent and loud. Such qualities were very out of place when they talked.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Sam now had a look of concern on his face, worried by how shaken up David suddenly seemed to be.

“I-I...Sorry, I just realized I need to check on something…” David nervously explained. He let go of Sam’s hand and the bag he had held before sprinting off to the back door that he had come through. Something wasn’t right, and he couldn’t keep Dwayne waiting.

“I’m here! What’s wrong?”

“Emergency….help….us….”

“What’s going on? Dwayne, where are you guys??”

At that moment, David was sure his heart was going to drop into his stomach. The feeling only grew stronger when he got his answer.

“Max’s…..house…h-hurry…”

He was off like a shot. David didn’t even bother with his motorcycle. He didn’t care about how fast and reckless he was with flying into the night sky. His boys were in danger. There was no time to be cautious.

He didn’t even notice Sam coming out the back door. Just in time to see David taking flight. 

spencer sighed, setting the file down. "staring at me, pen in hand, but no words on the page. come on, focus."

you looked down at the pad in front of you, the once sharp tip of your pen now dulled from tapping against the paper. "sorry, just distracted."

spencer leaned back in his chair, his blue eyes meeting yours with a knowing smile. "what's on your mind?"

you felt your cheeks flush. "nothing important." you tried to laugh it off, but the air between you thickened.

spencer's smile didn't falter. "if it's not important, then why don't you tell me?" his voice was gentle, coaxing.

you hesitated, glancing around the room to make sure no one was listening. the rest of the bau team was engrossed in their own work, their heads bent over computers and files, the clacking of keyboards a constant backdrop to the low murmur of conversation. "i just…" you trailed off, unable to put your thoughts into words.

spencer's smile grew a little wider. "just what?" he prodded, his eyes never leaving yours.

you took a deep breath, the room suddenly feeling too warm. "it's your hands," you finally admitted. "i can't help but stare at them."

spencer's eyebrows shot up in surprise, his gaze dropping to his own hands. "my hands?"

you nodded, feeling your cheeks burn even hotter. "they're just… so… pretty."

spencer's surprise morphed into a self-conscious chuckle, his eyes darting down to his hands again. "pretty?"

you nodded, unable to articulate just how much you admired the grace with which he moved, the way his fingers curled around the pen, the way his knuckles bent as he flipped through pages. it was something you had noticed since the first day you started working together, but had never been able to put into words.

spencer's chuckle grew louder, a hint of arrogance creeping in. "i had no idea i was so fascinating to watch," he said, raising his hands in a dramatic flourish.

you rolled your eyes, trying to hide your smile. "you're not that bad," you teased, your voice low so no one else could hear.

spencer's grin grew, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "not that bad, huh?" he leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms out along the back of his desk. "i'll have to give you more to watch, then."

his words sent a shiver down your spine, and you swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sudden rush of heat between your legs. you knew that look on his face, the one that said he had an idea, and it was usually one that would end with you both in trouble. but the thrill of it was too much to resist.

"spencer," you warned, but it came out more as a breathy plea than a protest.

he just smirked, his eyes never leaving yours as he leaned forward, his elbows now propped on the desk. "i've got the perfect way to help you focus," he said, his voice dropping to a murmur.

before you could protest, he was up and out of his chair, his hand wrapping around your wrist, pulling you gently to your feet. "where are we going?" you whispered, trying to sound more authoritative than you felt.

"for a little… inspiration," spencer replied, his eyes gleaming with that cocky smirk that made you want to both smack him and kiss him at the same time. he tugged you towards the back of the room, where a storage closet was tucked away.

once inside, he kicked the door shut with his foot, plunging you into semi-darkness. you could see the outline of his body, his shoulders blocking the sliver of light that peeked under the door. "spencer, what are you doing?" you whispered, your heart racing.

he didn't answer, instead he paused for a moment to allow your eyes to adjust before he stepped closer- his hands reaching out to cup your face. "trust me," he murmured, his thumbs brushing against your cheekbones. his eyes searched yours for permission, and you found yourself nodding, unable to resist the thrill of his touch.

his hands slid down to your waist, pulling you closer until you were pressed against him, the fabric of your clothes the only barrier between your bodies. you could feel his heart pounding in his chest, a mirror to your own racing pulse. "spencer," you breathed, his name a question and a plea.

his hands moved to the hem of your skirt, lifting it up, his fingertips skimming the sensitive skin of your thighs. your breath hitched as his touch grew more deliberate, his fingers dancing higher and higher. "just a little distraction," he whispered against your ear, his breath hot and tantalizing.

his hands reached the apex of your thighs, and you gasped as he found the edge of your underwear. his touch was gentle but firm, the pad of his thumb tracing the line of your panties before dipping beneath. your knees went weak, and you leaned into him, your hand fisting the fabric of his shirt. "spencer," you moaned, his name a prayer.

his eyes searched yours for a moment before he gave a tiny nod, confirming your silent consent. then, with a swiftness that belied his usual meticulous nature, he slid his fingers under the fabric, touching your cunt where you were already wet and aching for him. your eyes rolled back in your head, and you bit your lip to keep from crying out.

spencer's thumb circled your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make you squirm. "spencer," you breathed, your voice barely audible.

his other hand slid around to the back of your thigh, pushing your leg up against his hip. "shh," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. "let me help you focus."

you nodded, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as his fingers began to move in a rhythm that matched the racing of your heart. the closet was tight, the scent of old files and dust mixing with the clean scent of his cologne. it was claustrophobic, but in the best way possible. you felt safe, surrounded by him, his body heat seeping into you.

his fingers worked their magic, sliding in and out of you with an ease that spoke of experience and a deep understanding of your body. your hand tightened on his shirt, pulling him closer as your hips began to rock against his palm. you could feel the beginnings of your orgasm building, a delicious tension coiling in your belly.

spencer's eyes never left yours, his gaze intense and focused, watching every little reaction that played out across your face. "that's it," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent vibrations through your core. "just focus on this."

you couldn't help the little whimpers that escaped your throat as he picked up the pace, his touch growing more insistent. your eyes drifted shut, the sensation of his fingers inside you becoming your entire world. every stroke sent waves of pleasure through your body, making your legs quiver and your toes curl.

spencer leaned in closer, his breath hot against your neck as he kissed the sensitive skin just below your ear. "i know you're close," he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. "let go."

his words were the final push you needed. with a gasp, your body tensed, and you came hard, your muscles clenching around his fingers. spencer's eyes never left yours, watching as the pleasure washed over you, his own need evident in the tightness of his jaw and the darkened hue of his irises.

just as your climax began to subside, you heard the sound of footsteps approaching. your eyes snapped open in panic, and spencer's hand stilled. "shit," you murmured, recognizing the rhythm of hotch's footsteps heading towards his office.

spencer quickly pulled his hand away, and you straightened your skirt, your cheeks flaming. he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, whispering, "we'll finish this later."

you nodded, trying to compose yourself as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. you watched, your eyes still glazed with passion, as he meticulously wiped his hands clean. his movements were so precise, so deliberate, it was almost as if he was dissecting a puzzle rather than wiping away the evidence of your shared intimacy.

spencer tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket and offered his hand to help you straighten your clothes. "ready?" he asked, his voice a low murmur.

you nodded, your legs still trembling slightly. "yeah," you managed to say, your voice a hoarse whisper.

spencer opened the door just a crack, peering out into the hallway. "coast is clear," he murmured, opening the door wider and stepping aside to let you out.

you slipped past him, trying to ignore the way your body was still humming with the aftershocks of your orgasm. "thank you," you whispered, your voice still shaky.