MAR!

The stores shared a wall, and on slow days, you could sometimes hear the faint "Ahoy!" greetings and the bell of the register from next door. Your store was all soft lighting, perfume samples, and mannequins posed in delicate bras and panties that made even the most confident shoppers blush. You spent your shifts folding panties into perfect stacks, helping women find the right fit for date nights or honeymoons, and politely redirecting the occasional creep who thought "trying on" meant something else.

It was a Tuesday in late June, the mall still buzzing with the excitement of its grand opening. You were in the back stockroom, sorting a new shipment of imported French lace panties, black, red, baby pink, with tiny bows and intricate patterns when the front bell chimed. You wiped your hands on your simple black skirt and blouse uniform and headed out, expecting another early bird customer.

Instead, standing there holding a large cardboard box labeled "Lovelace Lingerie - Fragile - Assorted Panties & Bras" was Steve Harrington.

He looked exactly like the rumors from high school: tall, athletic build, perfectly styled hair that somehow survived the sailor hat perched on his head, and that easy smile that had probably gotten him out of trouble more times than you could count. But up close, in the ridiculous navy blue shorts and striped shirt with the Scoops Ahoy logo, he looked less like the king of Hawkins High and more like a guy who was just trying to make it through the summer without losing his mind.

"Uh, hi," he said, shifting the box in his arms. His voice was warm, a little hesitant. "The delivery guy dropped this off at our store by mistake. Said it was for the place 'right next door.' I figured it wasn't for the ice cream, unless you guys are branching out into edible underwear or something."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing softly in the quiet store. "No edible underwear here. At least not yet. Thanks for bringing it over. That box looks heavy."

He grinned, and it did something to your chest you weren't ready to examine. "No problem. I'm Steve, by the way. From Scoops Ahoy. The one in the dorky sailor suit."

You took the box from him, your fingers brushing his for a second. It was heavier than you expected, and you set it on the counter with a small grunt. You introduced yourself as the girl working at Lovelace Lingerie. The one surrounded by... well, all this." You gestured to the racks of bras and the table displays of panties in every color and style imaginable.

Steve's eyes flicked to the open box: delicate thongs, bikini cuts, high-waisted briefs with lace trim, and his cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink. He quickly looked back at your face, polite and respectful, but the tips of his ears betrayed him. "Yeah. Panty central. Got it. Cool store, though. Very... lacy."

You smirked, already liking his awkward charm. "That's the point. Thanks again for the delivery. If you ever need help carrying ice cream tubs or something, I'm right here. Though I might not be as strong as you look."

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Deal. And hey, if you need any ice cream to survive the day—on the house—come on over. We have this new flavor, U.S.S. Butterscotch. It's pretty good. Not as good as whatever fancy stuff you sell, but..."

"I'll keep that in mind, sailor," you teased, and the nickname made his smile widen.

He lingered for a moment longer, glancing around the store like he was trying to find an excuse to stay. "Alright, well... see you around, panty girl."

The words slipped out casually, and his eyes widened as soon as he said them. "Wait, I didn't mean—"

You waved it off with a laugh. "It's fine. I've been called worse. Panty girl it is. See you around, ice cream boy."

He left with a wave and a sheepish grin, and you watched him go, the box of panties forgotten for a second as you wondered what the hell just happened. Steve Harrington had just called you "panty girl" and it hadn't felt creepy at all. It had felt... cute. Flirty, even.

That was the beginning.

The next day, during a lull between customers, you were arranging a new display of satin panties near the front window when you saw him again. Steve was at the Scoops Ahoy counter, serving a group of giggling teenage girls who were clearly more interested in him than the ice cream. Robin Buckley, his coworker with the sharp tongue and short hair, was rolling her eyes behind him, probably adding another tally to the "You Suck" side of their whiteboard.

You tried not to stare, but it was hard not to notice how the sailor uniform somehow made his shoulders look broader and his legs look longer. He caught your eye through the glass and gave a small wave. You waved back, feeling silly but warm inside.

Steve's internal thoughts during the first week were a constant loop of "Don't screw this up" and "She's actually talking to me." Every time he saw you through the window, arranging panties or helping a customer, his chest did this weird tight thing that wasn't entirely unpleasant. He caught himself practicing conversations in the mirror at home, trying to sound cool and not like the nervous wreck he felt around you. Robin noticed, of course. She always noticed.

"You're gone, Harrington," she said one afternoon while they were wiping down tables. "Like, full-on heart-eyes, can't-stop-talking-about-her gone. It's cute. Disgusting, but cute."

"Shut up," he muttered, but there was no heat in it. "She's... different. She doesn't expect me to be anything. I can just be Steve. And she likes that Steve."

Robin softened a little. "Then don't mess it up. Be honest. Bring her ice cream. Ask her out before some other mall guy does. There are plenty of dudes staring at that store."

The thought of someone else asking you out made his stomach twist in a way that surprised him. Jealousy wasn't new, but this was protective, possessive in a way that felt right instead of toxic. He started making excuses to walk by your store more often. "Just stretching my legs." "Checking the mall directory again." Robin called him on it every time.

Later that afternoon, when the mall traffic slowed, Steve appeared at your store entrance again, this time holding two ice cream cones.

"Hey, panty girl," he said, grinning like it was an inside joke already. "Brought you a peace offering. U.S.S. Butterscotch. Figured you might need something sweet after dealing with mall weirdos all day."

You accepted the cone, your fingers brushing again. "Thanks, Steve. That's really nice. What do I owe you?"

"Nothing. Consider it a neighborly gesture. Or, you know, an excuse to come say hi without looking like a total creep who hangs around lingerie stores."

You laughed and took a lick of the ice cream. It was creamy, buttery, with swirls of caramel. "It's good. Really good. And for the record, you're not a creep. The guys who come in here asking if we have 'crotchless options for their girlfriend'—those are the creeps. You're just... the ice cream guy who delivers boxes."

He leaned against the counter, watching you eat the ice cream with an intensity that made your stomach flip. "Yeah? Well, this ice cream guy thinks your job is way cooler than his. You get to touch all this fancy stuff all day. I just scoop frozen dairy and get yelled at by kids when we run out of sprinkles."

You spent the next twenty minutes chatting. He told you about how his dad had basically forced him to get the job after his grades weren't good enough for the college they wanted. How he used to be "King Steve" but that crown felt heavier every year. You told him about how you took the job at Lovelace because the pay was decent, the hours flexible around community college classes, and you actually liked helping people feel confident in their own skin.

"No judgment here," he said sincerely. "My exes always said I was clueless about girl stuff. Maybe I could learn something from you."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Planning on buying something?"

His ears went pink again. "For my mom! For her birthday. Yeah. Totally for my mom. She likes... nice things."

You didn't call him on the obvious lie. Instead, you spent the next half hour helping him pick out a tasteful satin robe and matching chemise set in soft lavender. You described the fabric, how it felt against skin, the way the lace details made it elegant rather than trashy. Steve listened like you were teaching him the secrets of the universe, his eyes on you more than the lingerie.

When he left with the bag, he turned back at the door. "Thanks, really. And... you can call me dingus if Robin does it too much. It's her thing."

You smiled. "I'll stick with sailor. Or Steve. Steve's good."

That night, you went home thinking about the way he said your name.

It became a routine.

The first week after the delivery felt like a dream you didn't want to wake up from. Every time the bell above the door at Lovelace Lingerie chimed, your heart did a little flip, hoping it was Steve. Most of the time it was just regular customers: women looking for bridal sets, teenagers giggling over push-up bras, the occasional husband dragged in by his wife looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. But the anticipation made even the mundane tasks fun. Folding panties became less of a chore when you could glance over and see Steve through the large glass windows that separated your stores in the open mall layout.

Starcourt Mall was still new and shiny in the summer of 1985. The air conditioning fought valiantly against the Indiana heat, but on particularly warm days, the smell of popcorn from the theater and pretzels from the food court mixed with the floral perfumes you sprayed on test strips at your counter. Scoops Ahoy had its own signature scent: sweet waffle cones, vanilla, and the faint ocean like cologne they probably gave the employees to stay in theme. You liked it. It reminded you of Steve.

On Thursday, two days after the box incident, you were helping a young woman pick out her first "sexy" lingerie set for a college boyfriend when you saw Steve again. He was outside the store, pretending to read the mall directory map but clearly watching you through the window. When you caught his eye, he startled like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar and waved awkwardly. You excused yourself for a moment and stepped out.

"Lost?" you teased, crossing your arms.

He rubbed the back of his neck, the sailor hat tilting slightly. "Nah. Just... checking out the mall. New job, you know? Trying to learn the layout."

"Uh huh. And the layout just happens to include staring into Lovelace Lingerie?"

His ears turned pink, a recurring theme you were starting to find endearing. "Okay, busted. I was hoping to see if you wanted to try that butterscotch again. Or... I don't know. Just say hi without it being weird."

"It's not weird," you assured him. "I like seeing you. Even in the sailor suit. It suits you. Pun intended."

He laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "You're too nice to me. Most people would be making fun of the shorts."

"The shorts are... something. But you pull them off. Tall, dark, and nautical."

"Flattery will get you free ice cream for life," he said, stepping closer. The mall crowd flowed around you, teenagers laughing, moms with strollers, but it felt like you two were in your own bubble. "Seriously, though. If you get a break, come over. Robin's been asking about the 'mystery panty girl.' I may have mentioned you."

"You mentioned me?"

"Only good things. Like how you didn't kick me out when I brought the box. And how you're the only person in this mall who doesn't treat me like I'm still wearing a letterman jacket and being an asshole."

You touched his arm lightly. "I like this Steve. The one who delivers misplaced packages and offers free cones. Keep him around."

His smile softened. "I'm trying. Every day."

That afternoon, during your fifteen-minute break, you did go over. Robin was behind the counter, serving a family, while Steve was in the back restocking napkins or something. The store was cute in a kitschy way, the counter looked like a ship's deck, complete with fake portholes and a bell. The menu board listed flavors with nautical puns: "The Mint Void," "U.S.S. Butterscotch," "Starcourt Strawberry Cheesecake."

Robin spotted you immediately. "Ah, the famous panty girl arrives. Steve's in the back. Try not to make out in the supply closet. Or do. I don't care as long as I don't have to hear about it for the next week."

You laughed. "Nice to meet you properly, Robin."

"Figured. He's been 'Steve Harrington, professional ice cream scooper and professional piner' since Tuesday. It's disgusting. In a cute way. You want a cone? On the house. Or on Steve's tab. Same thing."

Steve emerged then, wiping his hands on a towel, and his face lit up when he saw you. "Hey! You came."

"Break time," you said. "Thought I'd take you up on that offer."

He made you a double scoop of butterscotch in a waffle cone and led you to one of the small tables near the window. Robin gave you both a knowing look but stayed busy with customers.

"So," Steve said, licking a bit of ice cream from his thumb in a way that shouldn't have been attractive but was. "Tell me something about you that isn't 'works at the lingerie store and is way out of my league.'"

You thought for a second. "I go to community college part-time. Business classes, but I really want to do something with fashion or design eventually. Maybe work for a real lingerie brand someday, not just sell it. And I love old horror movies even though they scare me, and my favorite color is actually green, not black like my work clothes might suggest."

"Green. Got it. Horror movies—I'll remember to hold your hand during the scary parts." He grinned. "My turn. I used to be... not great. In high school. Thought being popular meant being a jerk sometimes. Lost a lot of friends when I realized that. My parents are... complicated. Dad's disappointed I'm not at some fancy school. Mom tries but doesn't really get me. I like kids, actually—babysat a lot last year. They're cool. And I have this weird fear of failing at everything now that I'm not 'King Steve' anymore."

You reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "You're not failing. You're working, figuring it out. That's more than a lot of people do. And for what it's worth, I think this version of you is pretty great."

He looked at your joined hands like it was something precious. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Now eat your ice cream before it melts, sailor."

The rest of the break was easy conversation, favorite bands (his: The Police, yours: Madonna and some older rock), worst customer stories (his: a kid who cried because the ice cream wasn't blue enough; yours: a guy who asked if the store sold "dominatrix gear" for his "very specific" girlfriend). By the time you had to go back, you felt like you'd known him longer than a few days.

Friday brought the first real test of whatever this was becoming. A group of guys your age came into Lovelace, loud and laughing, clearly there on a dare or something. One of them kept making comments about the mannequins, asking if you were "the model" for the displays. You handled it with professional detachment, but it was grating.

Steve must have seen the tension from next door because he appeared at the entrance like a knight in sailor armor. "Hey, babe," he said loudly, striding in and wrapping an arm around your waist. "These guys giving you trouble?"

The leader of the group sized him up. "Who's this? Your boyfriend?"

Steve didn't hesitate. "Yeah. Problem?"

They backed off quickly after that, muttering about "not worth it." When they left, you sagged against Steve a little.

"Thanks," you said quietly. "I hate when they do that. Makes me feel gross even though it's just a job."

He rubbed your back soothingly. "I get it. People can be assholes. But you've got me now. Or... at least, I'd like to be that person for you. The one who shows up."

You looked up at him. "I'd like that too."

That was the day Robin officially declared you "official" on the whiteboard with a big heart and "Steve's panty girl" written in her messy handwriting. Steve didn't erase it. He added a little doodle of an ice cream cone next to it.

The weekend passed in a haze of work and growing closeness. Saturday was busy for both stores, moms buying back-to-school clothes for kids meant more foot traffic, and you sold several "date night" sets. Steve was swamped with families wanting cones before the movie theater. But during a rare simultaneous lull, he snuck over with a small bouquet of daisies he'd apparently bought from the flower cart near the food court.

"For you," he said, handing them over like they were made of gold. "Figured your store could use something that isn't lace or silk. Though those are nice too. Especially on you. I mean—not that I've seen you in them. Not that I was imagining—"

You cut him off with a quick kiss on the cheek, mindful of customers. "They're perfect, Steve. Thank you. And for the record, imagining is allowed. Encouraged, even."

His eyes darkened a fraction. "Noted."

Sunday was your day off, but you found yourself at the mall anyway, "just browsing." You ended up at Scoops Ahoy, watching Steve work. He was good at it: charming the customers, making the kids laugh with silly faces while scooping, remembering regulars' orders. Robin caught you watching and dragged you behind the counter.

"Break room," she said. "Go. Ten minutes. Don't get caught by the manager."

The "break room" was really just a small closet with a table and lockers. Steve joined you a minute later, closing the door behind him.

"Hey," he said, suddenly shy again now that you were alone in the small space. "Didn't expect to see you today."

"Couldn't stay away," you admitted. "Missed the view."

He stepped closer, backing you gently against the lockers. "The sailor suit view?"

"The Steve view," you corrected, pulling him down for a kiss.

It was the first real kiss, deep, exploratory, his hands on your waist, yours in his hair. He tasted like the sample spoons of ice cream he'd been trying. When you broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against yours.

"This is crazy," he whispered. "I've known you less than a week and I already... I don't know. Feel like this could be something big."

"Me too," you said. "Scary big. But good scary."

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was memorizing the feel of your lips. "I want to do this right. Take you out. Show you I'm serious. Not just the guy who flirts in the mall."

"I'd like that."

The rest of the break was spent talking in low voices, sharing more stories. He told you about the time he and his old friends had spray-painted something stupid on the school and got caught. How it was the beginning of the end for his "king" status, but also the start of him realizing he wanted more. You told him about your family, supportive but distant, proud you were in college but not understanding why you liked "frivolous" things like fashion and pretty underthings.

"They're not frivolous," Steve said firmly. "They make people feel good. Confident. That's important. You're important."

By the time Robin knocked on the door with a "Time's up, lovebirds," you were both grinning like idiots.

Monday brought more customers and more tension-building. A regular at your store, an older woman who came in every week for "something new to surprise my husband," asked about Steve when she saw him wave from next door.

"That's the ice cream boy, isn't it?" she said with a knowing smile. "He's been mooning over this store for weeks. Good for you, dear. He seems sweet."

You blushed but didn't deny it. "He is."

She bought an extra set "for your honeymoon" and winked on the way out.

That afternoon, Steve came over with a proposition. "So, Robin and I were talking. There's this thing at the food court this weekend—live music or something. Not a date if you don't want it to be, but... it could be. If you want."

"It's a date," you said immediately. "But only if you promise to wear the sailor hat. It's growing on me."

He groaned but agreed.

The days leading up to the "date" (which was really just hanging out in public as more than friends) were filled with more visits, more ice cream, more stolen moments. You helped him practice "cool guy" lines for customers, which mostly ended in both of you laughing. He helped you carry a heavy box of new inventory without being asked. The sexual tension was simmering, little touches that lasted too long, looks that said more than words, the way he'd bite his lip when you described a particularly sexy piece of lingerie to a customer.

One evening, after closing, you were both lingering in the hallway between your stores. The mall was mostly empty, janitors cleaning, a few stragglers heading to their cars.

"I can't stop thinking about kissing you again," Steve admitted, leaning against the wall. "Is that okay to say?"

"Very okay," you said, stepping into his space. "I think about it too. A lot. Especially when I'm folding all those panties and wondering what you'd think if I wore some of them for you."

His breath hitched. "You..."

You kissed him then, right there in the semi-public hallway, his hands sliding under your blouse to touch bare skin. It was heated, a promise of more. When you pulled back, his eyes were dark.

"Friday," he said roughly. "After the food court thing. My place. Or yours. Wherever. I want... I want all of you."

"Yes," you said. "Friday."

The anticipation made the rest of the week deliciously torturous.

On Friday, the food court event was a local band playing 80s covers: Madonna, Michael Jackson, some Springsteen. You and Steve danced a little, his hands on your waist, your head on his shoulder during the slow songs. Robin was there too with some friends from band, giving you both thumbs up from across the court. It felt normal and special at the same time. Like you were just two people falling for each other in a mall, not aware of any bigger dangers or futures.

After the music ended, Steve drove you to his house. It was nice, suburban, a little empty feeling, but clean. His parents were out of town, he explained. You didn't care. The second the door closed, you were on each other.

Clothes came off in a trail to his bedroom. Your sundress, his nice shirt. You pushed him onto the bed and straddled him, still in your bra and panties, the black lace set you'd worn specifically for this.

"Jesus," he breathed, hands roaming your thighs, his voice cracking a bit in that awkward but endearing way he had when he got flustered. "You're... fuck, you're everything. I mean, wow, I can't even—your skin is so soft and this lace... it's killing me already."

You ground down against him, feeling how hard he was through his jeans. "Show me."

He flipped you gently, hovering over you, his cheeks flushed as he tried to play it cool but his voice came out a little shaky. "Tell me if you want to stop. Any time. I don't want to rush or anything, I mean, you're just so... perfect, and I don't want to mess this up."

"I won't want to stop," you reassured him, pulling him closer.

He kissed down your body with hesitant reverence at first, his lips brushing your collarbone, then lower. His fingers fumbled slightly with the clasp of your bra before it gave way, and he let out a soft, awkward laugh. "Got it. Sorry, I'm usually better at... never mind." He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently at first, then with more confidence as your back arched and you moaned, his other hand kneading the soft flesh of your breast. He switched sides, lavishing attention, his tongue swirling and teeth grazing lightly, drawing out whimpers from you.

Then he moved lower, kissing a trail down your stomach, his breath hot against your skin. He peeled your panties down your legs slowly, reverently, like unwrapping a gift, his eyes dark with desire as he took in the sight of you. "My panty girl," he murmured against your inner thigh, voice thick. "All this lace and you're still the prettiest thing in the room. God, I can't believe you're letting me do this."

His mouth found your center, tentative at first with soft kisses and licks, learning what made you gasp and buck your hips. He grew bolder, tongue circling your clit, two fingers sliding inside you, curling just right as he listened to your moans and adjusted. The sensations built quickly, his warm mouth, the slight stubble on his cheeks brushing your sensitive skin, the way he hummed in pleasure against you. You came hard, thighs shaking around his head, fingers tangled in his perfect hair, chanting his name like a prayer.

When you recovered, panting, you pushed him onto his back. "My turn." You took him in your mouth, slow and teasing at first, tongue swirling around the head, then taking him deeper, using your hand in tandem. He was a mess of gasps and awkward praises: "Oh fuck, that feels—wow, you're amazing, I don't deserve—shit, keep going." He threaded his fingers in your hair gently, not pushing, just holding on as he panted and begged. "Baby—please, I'm close—"

You climbed on top, sinking down slowly onto him, both of you gasping at the tight, hot stretch. It was perfect, slow rolls of your hips building to a steady rhythm, his hands guiding your movements, mouth latching onto your breasts again, sucking marks into your skin. He sat up, arms wrapping around you tightly, thrusting up into you as you rode him harder, skin slapping, breaths mingling in messy, desperate kisses. "Love you," he panted against your neck, voice breaking with emotion and pleasure. "Love you so much already. Feels so good, so tight and wet and—fuck."

The coil in your belly tightened again. You came with a cry, clenching around him, pulling him over the edge too. He followed with a broken moan of your name, burying his face in your shoulder, hips stuttering as he spilled inside the condom.

Afterward, you stayed connected for long moments, catching your breath, before cleaning up and collapsing tangled in sheets. He held you close, pressing soft kisses to your hair, your forehead, your lips. "I think I'm falling in love with you, panty girl," he said softly, almost shy. "Is that crazy? It's only been a few weeks."

You smiled against his chest. "Not crazy. I feel it too. My ice cream sailor."

Later, cleaned up and curled under his blankets, he traced patterns on your back. "Stay the night? I can drive you home in the morning. Or... whenever. No pressure."

"I'll stay," you said. "But only if you make me breakfast. And maybe bring me ice cream in bed."

He laughed. "Deal. Anything for my panty girl."

The next morning was domestic and sweet: pancakes (slightly burnt), coffee, him in boxers and you in his t-shirt, making out against the kitchen counter between bites. He drove you home with the radio playing loud, both of you singing along badly.

From then on, it was official. You were Steve Harrington's girlfriend. The panty girl to his ice cream sailor. You spent nights at each other's places when you could, weekends exploring Hawkins beyond the mall, introducing him to your friends, meeting his (Robin was already your favorite). He brought you coffee in the mornings before shifts, you brought him lunch from the food court. The whiteboard at Scoops got so many hearts and doodles that the manager made them clean it, but they just started a new one.

One particularly memorable night, you convinced him to let you "close up" the lingerie store with him there. After the last customer left and the lights dimmed, you locked the door and turned to him with a mischievous smile.

"Want a private showing?"

He nodded, speechless, eyes wide as you disappeared into the back. You came out first in a delicate white lace babydoll that skimmed your curves, the sheer fabric leaving little to the imagination. Steve's jaw dropped, his hands twitching at his sides. "Holy— I mean, wow. You look... incredible. Like, I don't even have words. Is this real life?"

You twirled playfully, then moved to the next piece, a red corset set with matching garters that cinched your waist and pushed your breasts up enticingly. Steve stood, reaching for you with trembling hands. "Can I... touch? Please? This is better than any fantasy I've had."

You let him. His fingers traced the lace edges, clumsy at first in his eagerness, then more sure as he kissed along your neck, down the swell of your breasts. He fumbled with the hooks of the corset, muttering, "These things are tricky, but worth it." Once it fell away, he worshipped every inch of exposed skin with his mouth and hands, whispering awkward but heartfelt compliments: "Your body is insane. Soft here... and here. I could do this all night."

Piece by piece, the lingerie came off. You ended up naked on the plush fitting room carpet, Steve's sailor hat perched comically on your head as he knelt between your thighs again. His tongue and fingers worked you open until you were writhing, begging. Then you pulled him up, rolled a condom on him, and sank down, taking him deep. You rode him slowly at first, savoring every inch, then faster, your hands on his chest, his on your hips, guiding and thrusting up to meet you. The store's soft background music mixed with your moans and his grunts, the mannequins silent observers to your passion. He came with a groan, holding you tight as waves of pleasure crashed over both of you.

After, wrapped in a discarded silk robe, you fed him pieces of chocolate you'd stashed in the break room. "Best closing shift ever," he said.

"Even better than scooping ice cream?"

"Way better. Though I might need to bring some butterscotch next time. For... reasons."

You laughed until your stomach hurt.

As the summer wound down, the reality of the future loomed, college for you, maybe a better job for him, the mall still standing but your time there feeling temporary. But Steve made it clear he wasn't going anywhere.

One evening, as you closed up together, he pulled you into his arms in the quiet hallway.

"Whatever happens," he said, "I'm in this. You and me. I love you. More than I thought I could love anyone this fast.

You kissed him, slow and deep. "I love you too, Steve. My unexpected summer romance. My favorite person in this whole ridiculous mall."

He smiled against your lips. "Even with the sailor suit?"

"Especially with the sailor suit."

And as the mall lights dimmed around you, the scent of ice cream and perfume lingering in the air, you knew this was just the beginning. The king had found his match in the most unexpected aisle right between the ice cream and the lace.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

Mattheo couldn’t lose his temper without a thunderstorm rolling in overhead. The louder he yelled, the closer lightning struck the mortal world. Entire weather systems developed trust issues, even worse so whenever he participated in monopoly night.

Alongside him, Theodore had been blessed with control of fire. Unfortunately, he also had the attention span of a goldfish. Each time he got bored, something mysteriously caught alight. National forests, curtains, sacred temples. Once, rather impressively, a lake.

To counter this, Blaise was blessed in ruling the sea and had the confidence of a demigod who genuinely believed he was helping. Every attempt to put out one of Theodore’s fires ended the same way: a tidal wave, several flooded villages and an apology fruit basket.

Draco’s emotions affected meteorology in the most inconvenient of ways imaginable. If he watched a sad movie? Rain. If he heard one heartfelt compliment? Snow. If he endured a bad breakup – shit… the authorities issued monsoon warnings.

Last but not least, there was Enzo; who never really needed to raise his voice. He merely whispered secrets into the window which caused doors to slam shut, rock formations to crumble and someone’s deeply embarrassing diary entry to somehow find its way into public circulation.

The Gods called them boys with gifts. Humanity called them natural disasters. Their parents maintained that they "were going through a phase.” Insurance companies called them uninsurable.

And somewhere… on Mt Olympus which had been taken over by Salazar Slytherin himself many centuries ago, it had been decided by the founders of Hogwarts that perhaps giving teenagers divine powers had been a spectacular lapse in judgement.

None of this, however; was the boy’s biggest problem.

fraser minten...

realizing you like his biceps, maybe too much. ⭑

thinks you're being mean. ⭑

forgets his glasses at the worst times. ⭑

is a punk rocker, yes he is! (superman!fraser minten)

when the couple behind your table starts fighting

finds out about your secret.

whose patience gets tested by your texts. 2 3

likes to confuse you. ⭑

will smith...

doesn't believe you could beat him.

fucking up his eyebrow.

as not your boyfriend (but not friend either) texting you. 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

when the couple behind your table starts fighting

never meant to cause you any sorrow (situationship!will)

loves his sunday mornings. ⭑

can't keep his hands to himself. ⭑

macklin celebrini...

wants in on the trend.

can't get enough of your praise.

when the couple behind your table starts fighting

connor bedard...

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

Sleep was impossible for him after your interaction at the bar. 

How was he supposed to sleep with your threat looming over him? For all he knew, you had already called Hotch and convinced him that he was some sick pervert who couldn’t be trusted around the women of the office. 

Instead of sleeping he did the next best thing. 

He returned to his bed and thought about you in that shirt. 

One hand wrapped around his dick with the other wrapped tightly around his throat. 

Thinking about how you sneered at him and called him a creep. 

Pushing his head back against the pillow, squirming like it’s you holding his neck. Squeezing hard. You would squeeze too hard, you would want it to hurt. You would call him a creep, disgusting, a freak. 

His groan comes out as a strangled whine as he runs his thumb across his leaking tip. 

He recalls how the black fabric clung to your waist, cinched just above your belly button. Revealing that thin strip of flesh around your midsection, your skin looked so soft and smooth, what he wouldn’t give to run his fingers across your waist. 

He’s snapped out of his self-gratification by the sound of his phone. Whining at the interruption.  

He had your contact saved under your full name, first, middle, and last, just like everyone else's in his phone. As if you knew what he was doing, there you were.

He answers without a second thought, he couldn’t possibly dig himself into a deeper hole. Maybe you want to give him a chance to explain himself, maybe you want to blackmail him, maybe you got too drunk and you need someone to drive you home, who cares, anything is better than nothing.

“Hello?” He has enough courtesy to stop stroking himself as he brings the phone to his ear. Glancing at the alarm clock beside him, when did it get so late?  

“Whatcha doing?” He can tell immediately based on your slurred speech that you’re drunk, and based on the obnoxious slurping you’re still actively drinking. 

“What?” It’s all he can say as his cock twitches at the sound of your voice, like a dog hearing its favorite word. 

“You sound… sweaty.” Your voice trails off into a fit of giggles, he doesn’t hear anything in the background so you must have left the bar but he’s desperate to avoid addressing his sweating.

“Are you still at Betty’s? Do you need me to come get you?” He isn’t sure why you called him, you’re drunk enough that you probably just did it by accident. 

“No- no, I’m home.” You’re still giggling, the sound makes his cheeks burn. Contrary to what everyone on the team thinks, he actually enjoys the sound of your laughter, he just likes it less when you’re laughing at him. 

“Are you okay?” He softens his voice, he’s a little worried that you’re too drunk. Even if you’re safe at home, what if you brought someone home with you and they’re over there taking advantage of you? Or what if you invited someone over for drinks and they slipped you something?

“No, Doctor Reid. I’m not.” You drag out his name, he can picture the way you flick your tongue when you use his title. It makes him sit up straight. 

“Do you need help?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay…?” Then why did you call him?

“Okay.” Your voice pitches up in that overly sweet way as you mock him.

“You’re drunk.” He’s stating the obvious but he feels like one of you should address it.

“Don’t worry Doctor, I waited until I was safe at home to indulge.”

“Are you alone?” He can’t imagine you left the bar empty handed looking the way you did. You could have taken any of those losers home. 

Any of those losers but him. 

“All alone.” He can’t help the sigh of relief that he lets out. “What are your plans for the rest of the weekend? We’ve got four more days to get through.”

“There’s a chess tournament livestreaming Friday night that I was hoping to catch.” It’s true, there’s no reason to make up an active weekend full of plans. He’ll watch the chess tournament and spend the rest of the weekend with his dick in his hand scrolling through your Instagram. It’s the only time he actively indulges in social media usage.  

“That’s it?” 

“Not all of us are on the prowl at bars every night." He can’t help himself as he snaps back at you, you started it with your tone anyway. 

“You’re so judgemental, and- and rude.” You stutter through your sentence, he can imagine the way your lips curl back as you say it.

“Why exactly did you call me?” He finally asks the question he’s dying to know the answer to. 

You’re quiet for a moment before you clear your throat. 

“Do you want to get breakfast tomorrow?” 

“Why?” This has to be a trap. 

“Maybe we can sit and talk for a few minutes, and really get to the root of our problems.” Definitely a trap.

“Really?” He makes his skepticism clear. 

“No, not really. But I’ll make it worth your while.” This phone call is harmless but he absolutely should not subject himself to one on one time with you. What’s your angle here? 

“Why would I want to spend my day off being berated by you?” 

“I told you, I’ll make it worth your while.” 

“Goodnight.” He needs this conversation to end while you’re still on mostly good terms.

Before one of you ruins it with something too mean. 

“Spencer.” The world around him stops when you whine. His hand involuntarily squeezes around the base of his cock, he’s going to spend the next several hours repeating that whine over and over again in his head.   

“Fine, how will you make it worth my while? Contrary to what you believe, I don't enjoy your constant verbal abuse.” He swallows, fighting the urge to start fucking his hand again. At the very least he should wait until you hang up. 

“I’ll wear the shirt again, the one I wore tonight.” He sucks in a sharp breath, holding it trapped in his lungs as he flashes through the mental images he’s branded into his brain of the shirt. Involuntarily flexing his hand around his cock again. 

“What time are we meeting?” His resolve is thrown out the window immediately at the thought of getting to see you wearing it again. He doesn’t even care if this is a trap at this point. 

“You choose, text me a place and a time and I’ll see you there.” 

“What? Why do I have to-” He starts but you interrupt him.

“Goodnight Doctor Reid.” And just like that the phone clicks. 

With his free hand he types out a place that he likes that isn’t too far from you, all the while his other hand has already started stroking his aching cock again. 

White Rabbit Diner, 10:30 a.m.

He tosses his phone towards his nightstand as he rolls over, burying his face in his pillow as he arches his hips, fucking down and into his hand as he recalls the exact way you whined out his name.  

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

You should have texted him and cancelled. 

It would have been so easy to blame everything on your intoxication but for some reason you couldn’t. It’s eating you up inside, Emily’s words are driving you fucking crazy. 

There’s no reason to be nervous, yet you still gripped the steering wheel until your knuckles were white on the drive here. You have the upper hand here, you have all the power and he’s still just Spencer. 

He’s still annoying, bratty, creepy, Spencer. 

And until you prove anything Emily claimed, you shouldn’t act otherwise. 

Scratch that.

You shouldn’t act at all, you should just get the information you want and learn to live with it. You just want to know, there’s nothing wrong with knowing. 

You’re in a rut. You don’t know what you want anymore and Emily threw a firecracker into your already confused brain. Now you’re scrambled, maybe having an adult conversation about adult topics with an adult will fix you. You don’t actually want to fuck him. You just want to know that someone wants you, it’ll help you get your mojo back, that’s all this is.

True to your word you’re wearing the same shirt you wore last night, paired with a baggy pair of sweatpants this time. You don’t want to look like you’re trying to impress him, quite the opposite actually. You want to prove Emily wrong, if he’s obsessed he’ll be obsessed even if you look like this. 

You hold the strap of your purse tightly as you approach the entrance, a coping mechanism to try and soothe your nerves as you scan the inside of the empty restaurant. Only one booth is occupied. 

Of course he’s already here. 

You’re ten minutes early and he’s already on his second cup of coffee. 

When you start towards him he looks up, to no one's surprise his eyes linger too long on your chest before he meets your eyes. Neither one of you smiles or waves. 

There are no words exchanged between the two of you as you take a seat on the opposite side of the booth. 

He really is doing his best to look at your face. It looks as though it physically pains him to not look down but he gives it his best effort as he chews his lip. You want to keep him on the edge of his seat for a little while longer, so you take this as an opportunity to look him over. 

He’s dressed like he would be for a day in the office, of course. At this point you’re certain he doesn’t own casual clothes, his closet must just be a never ending supply of dress shirts and sweater vests.

And he looks tired, even more so than he normally does. 

Good. 

You’re glad he didn’t sleep well after whatever the fuck yesterday was. You hope he had a long night spent fretting over this whole situation. You spent your night and morning coming up with a game plan. 

You’re gonna feel things out, do a few “experiments” to test Emily’s theory, and that’s it. At the end of the day he’s still him and you’re still you. 

You just need to know.

That’s all. 

You just need to remind yourself that you have all the control here, he isn’t going to run and tell Hotch anything you say because he doesn’t want you to do the same thing. 

“When was the last time you had sex?” No reason to beat around the bush, you know this conversation is going to be uncomfortable for him. 

He chokes on his coffee, grabbing a napkin he dabs at his chin.

“What kind of question is that? Why does every conversation with you have to be about sex? It’s ten in the morning, what is wrong with you?” It’s ten in the morning and his voice is already high pitched in a way that normally takes hours of teasing for you to achieve. 

“We’re here because I want to talk about sex.” 

“Well I don’t want to, and if that’s all you want to do then I’ll just leave.” He starts to slide out of the booth but you reach across the table, grabbing his arm. 

“If you stay I’ll forget everything that happened yesterday.”

He shakes you off as he sits back down.

“I told you, I’m not scared of you and I didn’t do anything wrong. Going to a bar isn’t a crime.” Based on the way he crosses his arms defensively while his jaw ticks you know that he is in fact scared. 

“That’s fine and you’re welcome to go if that’s the case.”

He should know you’re telling the truth, your whole job is knowing.

“You swear you won’t tell anyone if I stay?“ He speaks softer now, less defensively.

“If you have breakfast with me and answer my questions I promise I’ll forget everything, I won’t coyly tease you about it, I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be like it never happened.”

He buries his face in both of his hands for a moment before dragging his fingers through his hair as he sighs. He always does that when he’s stressed, it’s why his hair is always a mess. 

“Okay, sure, fine. But I need collateral.” You knew he’d agree/ 

“Collateral?”

“Yeah, you have to give me something, or- or tell me something in exchange. I’m not just gonna tell you my embarrassing secrets without something in return, otherwise you could just go and tell everyone everything I’ve told you and that I was at the bar.”

“Fine, we can go back and forth, any questions at all, and you have to tell the truth, I’ll know if you’re lying.”

“And I’ll know the same.” He says it like he says most things, smugly, despite the way his leg bounces nervously under the table. 

“And obviously all of this never leaves this table. If you even tell anyone we had breakfast I will deny it.”

“Obviously. A mutual agreement of trust.”

“Agreed.” You hold your hand out, out of habit, and much to your surprise he shakes it. “I thought you didn't shake hands?”

“Is that your first question?” 

“No, when was the last time you had sex?” You’re itching for the answer, if it’s been a while he’s more likely to cooperate. The more desperate he is the easier it’ll be to get him to talk. You know how to play this game, if you want him to cooperate all you have to do is just your chest out and pout.  

“With Lila Archer, two years ago.” His eyes dart away from you down towards his coffee, his pinky twitches around his mug.

Fucker. 

“Are you seriously already lying to me?” You throw a sugar packet at him, he doesn’t so much as flinch as it hits him in the chest. You both watch as it falls under the table. 

“We already established that I don’t need to be doing this at all, why does it matter if I lie? This is just a stupid game, I gave you an answer. Let's just be happy about that.” He mumbles, always with the mumbling. 

You’re about to stick the end of his tie in his coffee when a pretty older woman in an apron smiles as she approaches the table.

“How are the two of you doin’? You look like you’re havin’ the sweetest mornin’.” She has an adorable tooth gap and a voice like honey but he doesn’t even look up at her, with you distracted he doesn’t tear his eyes off your tits. 

“We’re doing so great! We were just talking about the funniest thing that happened last night over at Betty’s, have you ever been?” You flash her a grin as you kick Spencer under the table, finally he looks up at her, just for a second before he looks back at you. 

“I haven’t but I’ve heard good things from a couple’a girlfriends of mine. How was it?” She pulls a pencil out of her apron pocket.

“Oh it was so great, we actually work together and ran into each other there completely by accident,” You point at Spencer as he glares at you. “do you wanna tell her what happened, Reid?” You turn your smile from her to him as his lips settle into a sulk. 

“You know what, it’s a long story and we don’t want to bother you but I think my friend and I are ready to order.” He speaks in a controlled and calm tone, despite his expression. He closes the menu in front of him, handing it to her. “I’ll have the un-birthday breakfast and she’ll have an order of chocolate chip pancakes with a seasonal fruit assortment.” You open your mouth to object but he just carries on speaking. “Could she also get a coffee and some water, and a cup of flavored creamer please, vanilla or mocha are fine, thank you.” He takes your menu before you can say anything, giving your server a tightlipped smile as he hands yours to her as well before she finishes scribbling in her notepad, turning on her heels and disappearing back into the kitchen. Once she’s out of sight he sighs. “Okay, fine, I won’t lie, let’s start over.” He’s pouting as he takes a sip of his water.

“How do you know my breakfast order?” You sit up a little straighter as you squint at him, studying his mannerisms. 

“You like sweet things for breakfast, you usually opt for a donut or a pastry over a breakfast sandwich. When there are donuts in the bullpen you always take a chocolate one, and you circled your finger across the seasonal fruit option at least four times when you were looking over the menu.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe he does spend a lot of time staring at you specifically, you seriously doubt anyone else on the team would know your breakfast order.  

“I- wow, I don’t even know what to say to-” You really don’t, you normally have a snarky quip to throw back in his face but this is uncharted territory. 

“When was the last time you had sex?” You don’t have time to think of something to say, he beats you to it.

“What?”

“You asked your question, and I answered, now it’s your turn, that was the deal.”  

“Two months ago.” You speak without another thought, if you tell the truth he’s more likely to as well. The second you say it he’s suspicious. He tilts his head like he does when he’s watching an unsub from behind the glass. 

“How is that possible? You said just last week that you… hooked up-” He says it like it’s a phrase in another language, completely foreign to him. “-with some vet tech?” 

“I was lying. I haven’t had sex in two months.” You shrug, you aren’t exhibiting any signs of lying and he knows it. You're telling the truth. 

“Why even bother telling everyone-” You hold a finger up in front of his face. 

“It’s not your turn. When was the last time you had sex? And don’t lie.” You put on the most serious face you can muster given how ridiculous this conversation is.  

“It’s been…” He mumbles something, reaching for another sugar packet, emptying the contents into his coffee. 

“If you keep mumbling I’m going to pour your coffee into your lap.” As you reach for his mug he pulls it back. 

“I suppose technically I haven’t.” The words tumble out of his mouth in quick succession as his eyebrows furrow.

“Haven’t what?” You draw your hand back. 

“That was your turn, you already set a precedent that there are no follow up questions.” He takes a long sip of his coffee, refusing to look at you as you stare at him. 

Oh. 

He hasn’t. 

“Why are you lying to everyone about having sex?” He sets his mug down a little too hard, the table shakes as your server reappears, offering a smile as she silently sets down your coffee, a small silver pitcher of creamer, and a glass of water before disappearing again. 

You have to clear your throat as you try to collect yourself. 

He’s twenty five, and despite how annoying he is you can’t deny that he is sort of attractive. If you’re into librarians, or guys who don’t know how to style their hair. You’re certain he could pick someone up at a bar if he tried.  

“I umm- I guess I just didn’t want to make a big deal about it when I stopped having sex.” Your brows are drawn together in a sharp motion as you continue to try and make sense of this. “Is this a voluntary celibacy?”

“Absolutely not.” His jaw ticks, just a little bit, his hands are in his lap but if you had to guess you’d say his nails are digging into his palms. 

Something must be wrong with him, aside from the obvious. 

You might not like him but you aren’t blind. Underneath his terrible haircut he has an objectively nice looking face. Sharp jaw, strong chin, pretty round lips…

It just doesn’t make sense.

“Why are we here?” He doesn’t mumble but he does whisper. 

“I told you, I wanted to talk.” You pour your creamer into your coffee, trying to keep your tone light.

“I get that part but why? We’ve never hung out before, you ignore me at after work functions, and you obviously don’t like me. You make a conscious effort to let everyone know you don’t like me. I just don’t understand why you’d want to spend one of your rare days off bickering with me.” The look of concentration on his face tells you he’s genuinely struggling to understand your motive.

You’re struggling with that yourself right now. 

You don’t want to lie. But you also don’t want to outright say, “because I want to see if you’re hot for me.” Because you aren’t really sure why it’s so important for you to know that in the first place.

“I- I don’t know.” Is finally the answer you settle on.

“Are we allowed to give super vague responses that don’t actually answer anything?” He almost smiles as he says it, it helps you relax again.

“How about we each get a pass?”

“Well that’s not fair, I would have used mine if I knew that was an option.” You love that tone of voice, argumentative and louder, more confident but without the seriousness that was starting to settle onto your conversation.

“Well now it is, and I pass, you get one too.”

“Fine, why did you stop having sex? At one point I assume you really were taking men home while you were out with Emily, otherwise you wouldn’t have earned your nickname. So, you stopped two months ago, why?”

Now you wish you hadn't used your pass. 

“I just… needed a change. I wasn’t satisfied by the-” You struggle to find the words to accurately explain the feeling. Once again, you don’t want to lie but you aren’t entirely sure of the answer. “I… stopped having fun. So there really wasn’t a reason to keep doing it if I wasn’t having a good time.”

It’s objectively true. 

You don’t mention that you stopped feeling the spark you used to get. You don’t feel that pang of arousal in your stomach when you’re with a partner anymore. 

You stopped getting butterflies. 

He nods, both of you taking long sips of your water and sitting in silence as you hear the kitchen door swing open, both of your breakfasts are brought out. You’re thrilled to have a reason to sit and think, even if it’s just for a moment as you cut up your pancakes. 

“Why haven’t you just gotten it over with? You’ve had options, I’ve been on cases with you where women are giving you the time of day.” You wave your fork in his direction before sticking it into a strawberry.

“I have standards, you know. Just because I haven’t had sex doesn’t mean I want to stick it into the first person that offers.” There’s a harsh snap to his voice that is reserved just for you, familiar and engaging as he takes a bite of his eggs. 

“I’m not saying you should fuck anything with a pulse, I’m saying that there have been plenty of pretty, nice women, who I’ve seen hit on you.” 

“I’m fully aware of that, but I wasn’t interested in them.”

“Why not? You clearly don’t want to be a virgin, so why not just get it over with?” You reach across the table for the syrup, coating your pancakes.

“Like I said, I have standards. I might be a virgin-” He whispers it, looking over his shoulder as if the diner isn’t still empty. “But I know what I like and what I want.”

“Hmm.” You hum around a bite of your pancakes. Fuck this place has good food, you’re gonna have to come back here.

“You asked two questions so now I get two. What is fun to you?” He tilts his head to the side, with an air of confidence you don’t normally see from him when sex is the subject matter.

“Hmm?” You hum around your fork.

“You said you stopped having fun, what’s fun? Shouldn’t all sex be fun?” 

Oh you sweet summer child. 

“What’s the second question?” 

“Depends on your answer.” One good thing about Spencer is how engaged he is in every conversation he has. 

“I like to try new things.” You tilt your head a bit to the side.

“Like what?” 

“You’ll need to be more specific if you want a specific answer.” You love the way he hangs off your every word.

“What was something fun you wanted to do, that one of your partners turned down?” The smile you get from him as he says it is unlike anything you’re used to from him. You like this side of Spencer, you much prefer this Spencer. 

This is like chess with him but better because you actually stand a chance of beating him. 

This conversation just got fun. Any dread you felt when you first arrived is gone. 

“I wanted him to beg for it.” When you see your server step out of the kitchen you smile and wave at her as she heads in your direction to refill your coffees. “I wanted him to ask nicely, and use his manners. He didn’t want to, he puffed out his chest like the big strong man he thought he was and told me that he doesn’t do that, because he expects it. So I kindly asked him to leave.” You continue to speak as she fills both your mugs. “Thank you.” You give her another big smile as she leaves.

“And what do you expect? What requirements do your partners have to meet?” He doesn’t seem to even notice that she came and went, he’s too focused on you now.  

“My standards are high these days, begging is obviously the bare minimum, which is probably why it’s been two months.” You pick up your mug, feeling the warmth beneath your fingertips. “It’s important to me that my partners feel grateful when they’re with me.” 

“Doesn’t seem like you’re asking for too much.” It’s your turn to almost spit your coffee out as he says it so casually. 

Clearing your throat you set the mug back down.

“I expect devotion.” 

“And what do these men get in return?” He’s like an interviewer. His questions come quickly, as if he has them written down.

“That would be your third question, Doctor.”

“I’m trading in my pass for an extra question, since we’re allowed to make up rules whenever we want.”

You pause for a moment, trying to meet his gaze as he avoids yours. 

“They get me.” You smile as he raises an eyebrow, his eyes are still down on the swirling of his coffee. 

Oh, you could absolutely pull the trigger on this if you want to. 

That’s the question you need to ask yourself. Do you want to? If you look at this as an abstract concept where he’s just a guy in this diner and not Spencer, he’s the perfect choice. 

And Emily’s right, he doesn’t even know it. You’ve never properly looked at his body language but he leans into every word that falls from your lips. He isn’t so brazenly staring at your chest today but he certainly steals glances. Even if parts of him hate you, that’s fine, parts of you hate him. But there’s an undeniable fascination for you that you’d never noticed before today.  

What’s the worst that could happen?

“My turn. Do I live up to the high standards of Dr. Spencer Reid? Would you have sex with me?” 

“Now you’re just being mean.” His confident tone falters a bit as he continues to stare down, tucking his hair behind his ears. 

You can’t exactly blame him for that reaction, You’ve spent the last year teasing him relentlessly. You’ve taken every opportunity handed to you to embarrass him, after the first month you stopped with the pleasantries. What reason would he have to assume this was anything but a cruel joke. 

You grab his mug, pulling it across the table so it’s in front of you. You take a handful of sugar packets as well, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Remind me, how many sugars do you take in your coffee?”

“Six, I can do it myself.” Jesus, he likes his sugar. He starts to reach towards you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You just click your tongue in response.

“No, no I’ve got it.” One by one you rip open each packet, when you empty the sixth one you look up to find he’s watching you closely. You lean over the mug, your tongue poking out from between your teeth as you spit into his coffee before you slide it back over to him. 

“Come on, seriously-”

You shake your head as he starts, effectively shutting him up.

“It’s still my turn, would you have sex with me if you could? Since you’ve played so nicely I won’t even make you say it out loud if it’s too embarrassing. You can just enjoy your coffee and I’ll know the answer.” Your tone is still teasing but you look at him with a fondness that is unfamiliar to him. 

He stares down into his coffee, his cheeks are red, and that squiggly little vein on his temple looks like it’s about to pop.

Okay maybe this was a step too far. 

But you seriously doubt you misread this situation, your entire job is to read situations. 

You watch with bated breath as he hesitantly lifts his mug. And just like that, the biggest germaphobe you know takes a long sip of his coffee. You can’t help the smile that plays on your lips. 

“What about you?” He mumbles, staring down like he doesn’t want to see your reaction. 

Hook, line, and sinker.

You take your mug, holding it out towards him, his eyes look like they might pop out of his head. 

“Go ahead.” Your smile only grows as he chews his lip. 

Tentatively, he leans forward, his every move is unsure but he spits into your cup, finally looking you in the eye. You don’t break eye contact as you take a sip of your coffee. 

He looks enamoured by you.

“You know… I’ve been thinking, I think that our work is being affected by our antagonistic relationship. Hotch is always telling me that I should be nicer to you. And I don’t know about you but I know that my current lack of… sexual fulfillment has made me irritable and distracted. Has it made you feel that way?” You brush the tip of your shoe against his ankle, immediately he jolts up, his knees hitting the table. 

“Why are you doing this to me?” You can feel his leg bouncing under the table again as he groans, taking another sip of his coffee, as if more caffeine is going to soothe his nerves.

“It isn’t your turn.” You click your tongue. 

“Fine.” He grumbles. “I don’t let this kind of thing get in the way of my work.” His fingers flex around his mug. “Can we just be done with this game?”

“I want one more question.”

“Better make it a good one.”

You intend to.

“Do you beg when you want something?” You figure you’ll floor him with that one.

He catches you off guard with an immediate whispered response. 

“Only if I want it badly enough.” This conversation has been full of surprises.  

“Your turn.”

“If I were to beg, would I get what I want?” There’s no confidence behind his voice anymore, he doesn’t even try to sound sure of himself.

Emily was absolutely right in every regard. He’s perfect. You don’t bother concealing the wild grin that you know is creeping across your face.

“If you want it badly enough.” 

He takes in a shuddering breath, his lips parting slightly as he stares at you. He looks like he’s still waiting for you to pull the rug out from under him. 

“You said you don’t have any plans for the rest of the weekend right? Other than your chess thing?” 

“My schedule is empty.” He says it just like the eager puppy Emily claimed he was, his tail might as well be wagging for a treat. 

And it’s only Thursday. 

This might be the best long weekend Hotch has ever forced you to take.

“You know, I get a little nervous with the maintenance people coming over when I’m home alone. Would you want to come over tonight and maybe stay for the weekend? I could order us a pizza.”

“You hate red sauce.” He says it like he’s found the missing piece of a puzzle, like this is a break in the case that proves this is all some big plot against him. 

“Why do you know that?” He shrugs as you roll your eyes. “I don’t like certain red sauce pastas, I like it a specific way. I still like pizza.” 

“Okay.” He nods, and a part of you knows he’s cataloging that information away somewhere in a mental folder with your name on it.

“And you understand why you’re coming over?” You say it slowly, nodding as you do. 

“I assume when I get there you’ll have a bunch of your friends over so they can point and laugh at me for thinking this was actually happening.” His tone is only half joking. 

“This is gonna be a lot of fun if that’s the mindset you’re in.”

“I’m not sure what other mindset I could be in right now, this has all been very… confusing.” And no one hates to be confused as much as Spencer does. 

“What do you think the chances are that this is real? You have a statistic for everything.” 

“I’d say about five percent.”

“That’s higher than I expected.” You bump his leg with your shoe again, he flinches but he stays in his seat.

“As unlikely as all of this is, I don’t think you lied to me at all. I think that you’re lonely, and unsatisfied. And that might just be enough for you to settle on a sure thing.”

Lonely and unsatisfied.

No reason to deny that, you wouldn’t still be here if that wasn’t the case. 

“You’re a sure thing? Even with five percent odds?” Your smile only grows. A sure thing.

“I’m a sure thing with one percent odds.”

“So you’ll come over?”

He chews on his lip as he nods. 

You eat the rest of your breakfast in silence, he seems to be lost in thought and you don’t want to say anything that’ll make him change his mind.

When your server returns you reach for your wallet but before you can he hands her some cash, telling her to keep the change. You don’t object, you just stare at him.

“Thank you.” Your smile never falters as you finish your coffee. 

“You’re welcome.” 

“Are you ready to go?”

“Mhmm.” He hums and as he stands you join him, following him out to the parking lot. He walks you to your car, watching you lean against the driver side door. You take a moment to look him up and down.

You immediately find yourself staring at the tent in his pants. Good lord he’s like a teenager. You can’t remember the last time you were able to get a guy this worked up just with a conversation.

“Jesus, are you okay to drive like that?” You flick your eyes downwards.

“Shut up.” He gets so red so easily, you can’t wait to find out how low that red goes. 

“Seriously, are you sure that isn’t like, distracted driving?” 

“It’s human nature, if you spend an hour throwing yourself at me I’m going to have a physical reaction.”

“And throwing myself at you? That seems like a bit of an exaggeration.”

“If you say so.” He fidgets with his car keys. 

“Does six thirty work for you?”

“Six thirty is perfect.” Something tells you any time you offered would have been perfect. 

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He feels like he might pass out.

What the fuck just happened?

Once your car is pulled out of the parking lot he palms himself through his slacks, hissing as he finally relieves a bit of the pressure that’s been building for the last hour. 

Is it possible that you killed him at the bar last night and this is all some fantasy he’s having as he bleeds out on the floor? 

He still isn’t convinced that this isn’t just some kind of joke. 

You can have your pick of any guy.

You’ve had your pick, and he’s heard the descriptions of these men, they aren’t like him. They aren’t lanky, greasy, guys who can’t last more than thirty seconds.

He doesn’t really care if it is a joke at this point, if it’s a joke he might as well get what he can out of it, maybe he’ll get to see you with your shirt off before you laugh in his face and send him packing. 

The parking lot is empty, it’s a Thursday before noon in the middle of nowhere. 

He should wait until he’s home. 

But you were true to your word, and you wore that shirt again.

He has to stop at the drugstore before he heads home. He’s never done anything like this before but he’s pretty sure the guy is supposed to bring the condoms.

He can’t go to the store like this. 

The smart thing to do would be to just handle it here.

He doesn’t bother unbuttoning his pants, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t even get that far. 

Pressing his palm against the bulge in his pants he imagines it’s you, in the diner, brushing your foot up against him. He would have told you every single embarrassing secret he had if you’d have slid your foot up the length of his pants and pressed down. 

He’s practically drooling at the thought of being in your apartment. It’ll smell like you, he’ll be alone with you. And god willing, you’re going to touch him.

He feels like he won the lottery.

He got caught following you to leer and you and he’s being rewarded with the possibility of finally losing his virginity to the hottest person he’s ever met. 

With a whimper he rests his head on the top of his steering wheel as he makes a mess out of the inside of his pants. 

Hopefully you aren’t depending on him to last any longer than it takes for him to get inside of you. 

He’s glad he wore dark colored slacks. With a turn of his key he starts his car.

For the first time in his life he’s going to buy condoms. 

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The knock on your door makes you jump. 

Shooting a glance towards your clock tells you that it’s only five minutes after six. 

Yet there he is when you open the door.

Thankfully you spent the day cleaning and picked up the pizza a few minutes ago.

“I thought we said six thirty?” You don’t bother greeting him, you’re already irritated enough by the fact that he’s in the same clothes and you’re in your PJs.

“On time is late, early is on time.” He is quite possibly the lamest person you’ve ever met. 

“Twenty five minutes early is early. Sounds to me like maybe you just couldn’t wait.” You grab his arm, pulling him into your apartment. He’s still in a brown blazer and a dress shirt with a fucking tie, who dresses like this for a hookup? “Are you seriously still dressed like that? “Go change, I can’t have a conversation with you like this.” 

“How else would I be dressed?” Thank god he has a backpack with him.

“I hope to god you brought something other than business attire. Put on some pajamas or something.” You point him towards the bathroom as you split off towards the kitchen to grab plates. 

You quickly sort yourself out in the reflection of your microwave. You kept it casual, you’d hoped he would too but that was clearly wishful thinking. Your favorite pajama pants with Snoopy on them and a tanktop. Simple, classic, easy enough to take off. Not so obviously revealing that you can’t sit and have a conversation with him before you do whatever it is that the two of you are about to do. 

You straighten up at the sound of the bathroom door opening. 

Returning to the living room you watch as he sets his sneakers down by the door. He stands straight, holding his arms tightly to his body like he’s worried about taking up any space. 

You can work with this. 

Especially with him dressed like that. 

He’s got a black caltech shirt on with a pair of grey sweats, and of course, his mismatched socks. He’s always got so many layers on at work, it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him in just a t-shirt and you’re liking what you see.

He almost looks like a normal person now. 

Okay. 

Time to rip off the band-aid. This shouldn’t be so hard, you both know why you’re here, you’ve already had one awkward conversation, what’s one more? 

You sit on the couch, patting the spot next to you as you open the pizza box on your coffee table. As he sits beside you, you set a slice on a plate before handing it to him. Doing the same for yourself. 

“I think we need to lay down some ground rules before anything happens here.” Your voice cracks a little as you clear your throat. Jesus, pull it together.  

“I completely agree.” Thank god he sounds nervous too.

You shouldn’t be nervous, you do this all the time. 

“Let’s start with the obvious, you can’t tell anyone about this. If you did I would vehemently deny it and of course whatever was happening between us would stop.” This can’t ever get out. Emily and Derek would never let you live it down. 

“Obviously.” He rolls his eyes as he takes a bite. 

“No offense intended, it’s not a personal thing, it’s a professional thing, for the sake of my career and yours.”

“Sure.”

“Did you bring condoms?”

He nods, unzipping his backpack he hands you a Trojan value pack, there’s four different options. 

“Forty condoms?” You stifle a laugh as you pass the box back to him. His cheeks burn red, making him blush might be your new favorite thing to do. 

“I wasn’t sure what your preference was or how many was normal. And I didn’t want to run out.”

“Run out!” You set your plate down as you laugh, you're too nervous to eat. 

“I don’t know how many is normal!” You can’t blame him, he really doesn’t know any better.

“That’s fine, you know what, forty is fine. You don’t have to use them if you don’t want to anyway. I’m on birth control and I got tested a month ago. And I know you obviously don’t have anything.” The second you say it the condoms go back in the bag. 

“Anything else?” He cocks an eyebrow at you.

“As far as commitment goes there is none. If either of us decides we’re done then we’re done.”

“Sounds about right for you.” He scoffs. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re scared of commitment, everyone knows it.”

“Not wanting commitment in a fuck buddy scenario is not the same as being scared of commitment.” This isn’t an argument you want to have right now because he is technically right. 

“Anything else?”

“No, your turn.” You grumble. 

“I don’t want you seeing other guys while we’re doing this.” Of course mr. commitment doesn’t want you seeing anyone else. 

“I will not engage in sexual activities with others but I’ll still have to flirt with guys when I go out with Emily.”

He frowns.

“We can work out the logistics of that later.” 

“Whatever, sure.” Another argument you don’t want to have right now. 

“I’d like for us to be honest with each other, even if it’s uncomfortable.” 

“Give me an example.”

“Like if I asked you about how many people you’ve slept with.”

“Does that matter?” You lean away from him as you cross your arms over your chest. 

“Not at all, I’m just curious. And you don’t have to answer, I just ask that if you do that you don’t lie.” You drop your guard a bit at that, he seems genuine.

“Around twenty, maybe twenty five.” You don’t know the exact amount but that sounds right.

“That’s it?” The ever distrustful Spencer Reid. 

“Tales of my sexual exploits have been greatly exaggerated.” You lean back against the couch, sighing. 

“I’ll also obviously answer any questions you might have with complete honesty as well.” 

You're eager to test the extent of that honesty. 

“Do you ever think about me when you jerk off?” You sit back up, smirking at him. 

“Usually.” He shrugs, reaching into his backpack he grabs a glasses case, he must have taken out his contacts in the bathroom. You watch as he puts on a pair of horn rimmed glasses. 

That changes things. 

This must be how he feels when you wear a low cut shirt. 

He blinks, adjusting to them. You tilt your head, holding your breath as you stare at him. They sit so nicely, high on his nose. Something about the round frames accentuate the sharp features of his face. The thick tops of them stand out against his pale skin. You’re slowly getting the sexy librarian appeal. 

Oh my god, pull it together.  

“How often?” You cough the words out, trying to regain the air of confidence you had when you asked the question. 

“Twice a day.” He answers much more comfortably than he did in the diner. He doesn’t twitch, he’s found a sense of calm here. 

“You jerk off twice a day?” You squeak out. 

“I jerk off while thinking about you twice a day.”

“Wow.” You wanted someone obsessed, you aren’t going to find anything better than this. 

“Oh I know. You’ve become a real problem for me.” 

“How do you want to do this? It’s your first time, it should be special.” As much as you’d love to tear into him right now and find out what makes him tick, that isn’t what tonight's about. You’ll have plenty of time for that later. 

“I could care less so long as it happens, I feel like I’ve dug myself into a pretty embarrassing hole if I’ve come all this way and said all these things just to not have sex.” He scratches the back of his neck as he gives you a sheepish smile. 

“I know a part of you still thinks this is some evil plot on my end of things but I promise I’m not joking.”

“I’ll believe it when you actually start touching me.”

You’re suddenly hyper aware of the fact that you’re sitting rather far away. You’ve both retreated to the furthest edges of the couch. 

You set your plate down, taking his and doing the same before you scoot over. You pull him closer as you throw your legs over his lap. 

“Believe it yet?” You speak softer now that you’re right next to each other. 

“I’m starting to. What are your limits? What do you want to avoid?” He keeps his tone sarcastic but this close to him you can see the way his blush creeps down his neck and under the collar of his shirt. 

“I don’t think there’s anything.” You’re practically whispering now, you’re so close to him. 

“That seems a little extreme.” His brows furrow. 

“If you do something I don’t like you’ll know. We can settle on a safeword but I’m also very comfortable simply telling you to stop if I don’t like something.”

“So… anything’s on the table.”

That’s the goal. 

“Anything you can think up in that big, perverted brain of yours. We can do whatever you want.” 

He swallows loudly. His hands rest awkwardly at his sides, usually in this position the guy would touch you but not him. He doesn’t even know that’s an option. 

“Do you want to watch a movie?” You’re trying to think of ways to make him more comfortable but you’re coming up empty. Should you offer him a book to consume? He isn’t like your usual partners, normally you’d put on a movie or a show to pretend to watch before you get started.

“I’d rather not.” He stammers, his fingers tap against your ankle rhythmically. 

“What do you want to do then?”

“You can’t seriously be asking me that right now.” 

“Well I don’t know, I don’t want to overwhelm you or anything, I figured you’d want to be eased into this.” 

“We can do whatever I want, that’s what you just said, right? Because if that’s the case then I’m certainly not going to start by watching a movie.”

“It helps to set the mood.” You roll your eyes. 

“My mood doesn’t really need any further setting. Does yours?”

Nope. 

“Do you want me to take the lead?” You give him a genuine smile, not your usual predatory grin. 

“I will do literally anything you ask me to do right now.”

Perfect, perfect Spencer. He is exactly what you needed to end your dry spell.

“Why don’t we start by going to my room.” You stand, holding your hand out to him. It’s quite possibly the first kind gesture you’ve ever made towards him. 

He nods as he takes your hand, letting you guide him down the hall and into your room. You take a seat on the bed but he doesn’t follow. Instead he stands in the doorway, robotic in the way he examines every detail. 

“You have more stuffed animals than I thought you would.” It’s the first thing he says once he steps into the room. 

“How many did you think I’d have?”

“None.”

You’ve got a lot more than that, a mess of them are strewn about your bed, you’ve got a few on your nightstand as well as a net mounted to the wall that holds a pile. It crosses your mind to be embarrassed about it but you’ve never let it bother you before, why would you start now. You kick most of them off the bed as you lay back against the pile of pillows against your headboard. 

You don’t want to rush him, tonight isn’t about you, even if you have big plans for him in the future. Right now you want him to be comfortable and happy.

He takes a hesitant step forward, not towards you, just further into the room. He faces away from you as he stares at your walls and shelves. You have photos with friends, and a few little paintings you found at thrift stores. His eyes linger on a picture of you, Emily, and Derek, out at the bar.   

Eventually he turns to your bookshelf. 

Whenever he’s reading he gets that look in his eyes, like he’s devouring the words rather than reading them. 

“Have you read all of these?” He murmurs. 

“Most of them, everything on the bottom shelf is stuff I still need to get to.”

“I haven’t heard of most of these.” His fingers linger over Ice Planet Barbarians. 

“I would be concerned if you had.”

He nods, turning to you at last as he steps forward, running his fingers across your comforter. 

“I always imagined your room being… scarier.” The fact that he imagined it at all only serves to sustain your smile. 

“Scarier?”

“Black and red, chains and whips.” Your room is a lot of things, but it isn’t dark and scary. Your sheets are a patchwork mix of colors, your walls are painted a soft green. 

“You imagined my room like a dungeon?” You cock an eyebrow at him. 

“Something like that.” He sits, facing you, the bed gently sinking against his weight.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this? You seem a little on edge. We can do something else for a few minutes if that’ll help.” You’re a little worried he’s about to turn tail and run based on the way he’s eyeing your door. 

“I’m ready, I just…” He stares at his hands, a look of concern that you’re all too familiar with after a year spent working together flashes across his face. “I’m a little worried this is all some kind of prank. That Emily and Derek are gonna jump out and laugh at me for thinking that this was ever really happening.” 

“Emily and Derek aren’t even in the state, Reid.” You reach out, touching his arm, a zap of static electricity makes you flinch before you rest your hand on his forearm. 

“I thought of that too, and then I thought about you going in on Monday and telling everyone everything. I can see it now, Derek will ask you how your weekend was and you’ll give everyone a theatrical retelling of how you tricked poor Spencer into coming over to your house. You got him to spill his guts and then you got him to strip down to his underwear before you kicked him out.” His voice sounds so small when he says it.

“You really think I would do that to you?” You didn’t know it was possible for you to feel bad for the boy genius but right now you do. You’ve seen him as Hotch’s spoiled prodigy for a long time but right now he’s… vulnerable.  

He scoffs.

“You know, when I was in high school, there was a girl I liked. She asked me to meet her at the football field, she wasn’t like the other kids, she was nice to me, and I liked her, and she was the prettiest girl in school, how could I turn that down?” You’ve heard lots of Spencer’s stories, directly from him, in passing, or from the rest of the team, but you’ve never heard this one. “I couldn’t believe she was actually there when I got there. I was even more surprised that the entire football team was there.” He doesn’t look at you, instead he looks straight past your head to the wall behind you. “They stripped me down and tied me to the goal post. I begged them to stop and not one of them listened to me, no one helped me. Even after everyone left, no one ever felt bad and came back for me, I had to get out myself.”

His gaze is unfocused as you give him a look that could only be described as pity. 

“I thought you graduated high school when you were twelve?” You whisper, it’s the first time you’ve ever wanted him to correct you, instead he gives you a sad smile.

“Youngest in my class.”

You feel a fondness for him that you haven’t previously. Here, in the dim light of your room, dressed in normal clothes, picking at his nails, he becomes someone different from the man you see in the office everyday. That man quite literally knows everything, the man in your bed right now knows nothing. 

“Come here.” You lean forward, pulling him close so he’s kneeling on top of you.

“Are you gonna make me beg for it?” You know without a shadow of a doubt that he would if you wanted him to. 

“Not this time.” You tangle your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck. “Let me know if you want to stop.” You murmur as you pull him closer.

“If I ask you to stop, something has gone seriously wrong.”

Much to your surprise he’s the one to close the distance between you, there isn’t any indecisiveness in his actions now as his lips press into yours. Warm and soft, and tasting like coffee with too much sugar. 

And for the first time in months you get butterflies, low in your stomach, in a place that you thought might be broken inside you. You feel a fluttering as his hands hold your hips with a tightness that tells you he’s worried you might disappear. 

You’d convinced yourself you might not ever feel like that again.

Thank god Spencer Reid loves to prove you wrong.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

a/n : i plan on doing things to spencer reid in the next chapter that he has never even heard of. anyways, sorry for teasing y'all for one more chapter before they doink lol

i don't have a tag list but you can follow @holymolynotifications for fic updates!!