wait, what?

Spencer Reid is a good listener.

He always has been.

He listens when you spend twenty uninterrupted minutes telling him about your day, even if half of it is dedicated to a coworker you've never particularly liked and the other half is an animated retelling of something that happened in the grocery store. He listens when you launch into a scene-by-scene breakdown of whatever show you've become obsessed with this week, nodding along despite having absolutely no context because you're so excited that your words tumble over one another, and he knows you'll inevitably pause every few minutes to ask, "Are you even listening?"

He always is.

He listens when you tell him your coffee order has changed. When you mention, weeks in advance, that your favorite bookstore is getting a special edition release. When you absent-mindedly admit you haven't been sleeping well lately, only to discover a weighted blanket appearing on your bed a few days later because Spencer quietly researched the statistics on sleep quality before buying one.

He listens because that's how he loves.

It carries into every corner of your relationship without either of you ever really noticing.

He listens when you murmur, "Come here," from across the apartment, abandoning whatever article he's reading without a second thought because if you're asking for him, he'd always rather be where you are.

He listens when you tilt your chin up with that familiar smile and whisper, "Kiss me."

He listens when you laugh against his mouth and say "Slower." When you smile and tell him to keep going. When you breathe "Wait." When you say "Okay." When you say "Stop."

Every single time—without hesitation, without question—Spencer listens.

It isn't one-sided, not even close. If Spencer listens, you direct. It's simply how the two of you fit together. 

You don't really ask. You tell. You like taking the initiative. Spencer likes following it. The rhythm develops so naturally that it becomes as familiar as breathing, neither of you questioning it any more than you'd question why the sun rises every morning.

If anything, Spencer finds it comforting. He spends enough of his life making impossible decisions. Profiling killers. Choosing who goes through which door. Calculating risks that end in lives saved or lost. Here, with you, there are no impossible choices. You simply smile, hook a finger through one of his belt loops as you step through the front door, and say, "Bedroom."

He follows.

Because Spencer Reid is an exceptionally good listener.

Your fingers find the first button of his shirt before you've even cleared the hallway.

It's automatic—the way you reach for him, the way your hands know the geography of his chest better than he knows the layout of his own apartment. You walk backward, and Spencer follows, his steps careful and unhurried, watching your face as you glance up at him with a sly smile and batting lashes.

There's a faint flush across your cheeks that has nothing to do with embarrassment. Two glasses of wine at dinner—maybe three, if you count the sips you stole from Spencer's glass when he wasn't paying attention, which he absolutely noticed but chose not to mention because you'd looked so pleased with yourself. You're not drunk. Your wits are still comfortably intact, your words still coming out clear and deliberate. But there's a softness to you tonight, a looseness in your limbs and a brightness in your eyes that the wine has gently coaxed to the surface.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress and you sink down with the grace of someone who's had just enough wine to move like water. Your fingers slide the open shirt from Spencer's shoulders, and it catches briefly on his elbows before you tug it away and toss it aside.

You don't stand on ceremony. You never do.

You lean back on your palms, then shift your weight and crawl backward across the bed, the hem of your dress dragging across the sheets as you go. The movement is unhurried, deliberate, your eyes never leaving his face as you settle against the pillows with the kind of easy confidence that Spencer has spent entire evenings trying to understand and never quite managed to replicate.

Spencer climbs onto the bed after you, one knee first, then the other, the mattress dipping under his weight as he moves forward. His hands find your legs before the rest of him catches up, palms settling against your ankles and sliding slowly upward along the bare skin of your shins.

The touch is warm and careful, his thumbs tracing idle patterns against your calves as he moves closer. His fingers skim past your knees, and he feels the slight hitch in your breathing when he reaches the softer skin of your thighs. His hands disappear beneath the hem of your dress, palms pressing flat against you as they continue their slow path upward, the fabric bunching around his wrists.

It's been weeks.

Not by choice. Not by any fault or failure. Just the ugly mathematics of conflicting schedules—late cases and early shifts that keep passing each other in the dark like ships. He comes home to the shape of you under the covers, already breathing slow and deep. You wake to a cold pillow and a cup of coffee he made for you before leaving.

But tonight, tonight he has you.

His lips find the inside of your knee first.

It's a soft press of warmth, almost chaste, the kind of absent kiss he might leave on your forehead on his way out the door in the morning. Except his mouth lingers, and his breath ghosts across your skin when he speaks.

"I've missed you."

The words vibrate against you, soft and unguarded, and your breath catches before you can stop it.

His mouth drifts higher. Another kiss, pressed to the tender skin of your inner thigh, his lips parting just enough against you that you feel the damp warmth of his breath. His hands tighten fractionally on your hips, thumbs tracing slow circles against the fabric of your underwear.

"I've missed you so much." The confession comes out quieter, almost fragile, like it's been sitting in his chest for weeks and only now found its way out. He kisses the same spot again, then higher, his curls brushing against your thigh as he moves. "You're so pretty."

Your breathing stutters.

It's not something you decide to do. It just happens—the way your chest rises and falls losing its steady rhythm, catching somewhere between one inhale and the next. Your fingers curl into the sheets beneath your palms, bunching the cotton into loose fists as Spencer's mouth maps a slow, deliberate path along your thigh.

"You're so pretty," he says again, and this time the words press into the crease where your leg meets your hip, his lips dragging against skin that's grown impossibly warm. His voice has dropped into that low, unhurried register that he seems almost unaware of—the one that surfaces when he's focused entirely on you, when the analytical part of his brain finally, mercifully, goes quiet.

The sound you make in response is barely a sound at all.

A soft, broken thing—a whimper that catches in the back of your throat before it can become anything more substantial. Your hips shift on instinct, pressing toward the warmth of his mouth in a motion that bypasses every rational thought you've ever had. Your fingers tighten in the sheets, the cotton twisting beneath your palms as the ache of weeks without this—without him—pools low and insistent beneath his hands.

"Please."

The word falls out of you like something dislodged—unplanned, unmeasured, dragged up from somewhere deeper than thought. It's soft and breathy and barely audible, little more than a trembling exhale shaped into a single syllable. Your lips part around it without permission, your voice catching on the end of it so that the sound fractures into something almost helpless.

The sound... does something to him.

It happens fast—faster than he can catalogue, faster than his brain can dissect and shelve and rationalise. It hits somewhere beneath his ribs first, a sharp, electric jolt that drops low and heavy into his stomach, and then lower still. His cock twitches against the fabric of his pants, and his breath catches in a way that surprises him.

It isn't an instruction. It isn't a direction. It's a request—falling from your lips like you couldn't hold it back.

Spencer doesn't move.

He doesn't follow the cue. Doesn't respond to the request. Doesn't do what he's always done, which is listen, which is obey, which is give you whatever you ask for the moment you ask for it.

Instead, he stays exactly where he is—mouth hovering against the warm crease of your thigh, breath fanning slow and deliberate across damp skin.

His lips press into the same spot he'd just kissed, and he feels your whole body respond—a tremor that starts in your thighs and radiates outward, your breath going thin and unsteady above him.

He does it again.

Another kiss, slower this time. His mouth opens slightly against your skin, his tongue tracing a lazy, deliberate line along the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh before his lips close and pull gently. Not hard enough to mark. Just enough to feel. Just enough to make your fingers twist tighter in the sheets and your hips lift off the mattress in a silent, seeking motion that you can't seem to control.

You make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a protest—breathless, incredulous, your head lifting from the pillow just enough to look down at him through half-lidded eyes.

"What the hell, Spence."

It comes out more whine than words, your voice thin and frayed at the edges in a way that would be embarrassing if you had the bandwidth to care about it. Your thighs press together instinctively, seeking friction that isn't there, and you feel the sharp spike of frustration needle through the haze of want when Spencer's hands hold your legs apart with a gentle, immovable certainty that you did not teach him.

"I want to hear you ask nicely."

The words leave his mouth before his brain fully registers them. They come out soft, unhurried, almost curious—like he's testing the weight of them on his tongue and finding he doesn't mind the taste.

He watches the shift in your expression. Your brows knit together first—confusion, maybe, or disbelief. Your lips part and then close again. Your eyes search his face for some sign that he's joking, some flicker of hesitation that would give you back the ground you've suddenly lost.

You scoff.

It's an automatic response, the kind of sound that usually precedes you taking charge. Your mouth opens, no doubt preparing to tell him exactly what to do and how to do it, and Spencer watches the words form behind your eyes before they ever reach your lips.

But they don't reach your lips.

Because Spencer's fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, and the words dissolve into a sharp inhale.

He takes his time peeling the fabric down your legs.

There's no reason for it to take as long as it does. His fingers move with agonizing deliberation, hooking into the elastic at one hip and then the other, dragging the cotton down over the curve of your hips like it's delicate.

Your hips lift for him without thought. The fabric slides down your thighs, and Spencer's palms follow its descent—over your knees, along your shins. His thumbs press into the soft hollows behind your ankles as he eases the underwear free and drops it somewhere off the side of the bed without looking.

Then he settles between your legs. His mouth finds the inside of your thigh again, but it's different.

Before, he was meandering—an unhurried exploration, his lips wandering wherever instinct carried them. Now there's intention. A slow, deliberate trajectory that makes your pulse hammer in places you can feel but can't see.

He starts high on your inner thigh, close enough to where you need him that your breath stutters, but not close enough. The kiss is soft—barely a press of lips—and then he moves. Higher. Another kiss, slightly firmer, his mouth lingering against the sensitive skin long enough for warmth to bloom and settle.

You huff again, your head falling back against the pillow with a soft thud as the frustration coils tighter in your stomach. Your fingers abandon the sheets and find his hair instead—sliding into those soft, unruly curls and tugging with a desperation you don't bother to disguise.

Spencer hums against your thigh. The vibration travels through already-sensitive skin, and your hips buck upward without your permission—seeking, searching, a motion so involuntary it almost embarrasses you.

"Spence—" 

Spencer's response is to press one more kiss to the junction of your thigh. His lips are warm and deliberately unhurried, and you can feel the faint curve of a smile against your skin that makes you want to scream.

Then his mouth finally—finally—finds you.

The first stroke of his tongue is a slow, flat press from bottom to top that has your spine arching off the mattress and your fingers tightening in his hair.

But he doesn't stay where you need him.

His tongue traces upward, then drifts sideways—circling the edges of where you're desperate for him to be.

Your thighs press against the sides of his head and his hands respond instantly—palms sliding beneath you, fingers curling over your hips to hold you steady against the mattress.

"Ask me nicely."

It's not a command. Not really. It's barely above a murmur, the words pressed into your skin like a secret—like he's almost asking you for permission to ask this of you. His voice is warm and a little rough around the edges, and you can feel the vibration of it travel upward, settling somewhere deep in your stomach.

"Please, Spence."

His fingers tighten briefly on your thighs. "Tell me what you want."

Your fingers are still threaded through his hair, and you feel the shift of his breathing against you when you tug gently at the curls. "I want your mouth on me. Please.”

He doesn't say anything else. He dives in.

There's no other way to describe it—the way his mouth settles over you with a sudden, devastating purpose that steals the air from your lungs. His tongue presses flat and broad against you, dragging upward in one long, slow stroke that pulls a sound from your chest that you don't recognize.

Your back arches off the mattress. Your fingers seize in his hair—tight, tighter than you mean to—and Spencer groans against you in response. The vibration radiates inward, sinking into tissue that's already swollen and desperate, and your thighs clench around his head so hard you half-expect him to pull away.

He doesn't pull away.

He presses closer.

His hands slide beneath you, palms flattening against the small of your back as he pulls you toward his mouth. His tongue works in slow, focused strokes now—no longer teasing, just there, exactly where you need him, applied with a precision that shouldn't surprise you because this is Spencer, and Spencer has always been precise about everything, but somehow you hadn't expected precision like this.

His tongue finds a rhythm—deliberate and devastating in its consistency. Your hips roll against his mouth, chasing the pressure, and Spencer's hands tighten on you in response. Keeping you exactly where he wants you.

It's new. That's the thing that strikes you somewhere through the haze. The want in his grip. The quiet certainty in the way he holds you against him like he's decided this is where you belong and he has no intention of letting you move.

You've always been the one deciding where you belong. Spencer has always let you decide.

Every position, every pace, every whispered instruction—he's followed it with a devotion that made you feel untouchable. Cherished. In control.

Now his hands are holding your hips against the mattress like control is something he's not ready to give back, and the absence of it sends something electric spiraling through your chest.

His tongue shifts—flattening, then narrowing, tracing a path upward that makes your thighs tremble against his ears. He finds you with a focus that's almost clinical in its precision, except nothing about this feels clinical. Nothing about the warm, wet pressure of his mouth or the soft, greedy sounds he's making against you feels like anything other than Spencer discovering something new about himself and using your body to explore it.

Your hand flies to your mouth.

It's instinct—the desperate attempt to muffle the sound that's building in your throat, the one that's too loud, too much, too desperate for a weeknight in an apartment with neighbors on the other side of the wall. Your palm presses flat against your lips and your head turns into the pillow, breath escaping in sharp, fractured gasps between your fingers.

His hand leaves your hip without warning—one moment his palm is warm and steady against you, and the next his fingers are wrapping around your wrist, pulling your hand away from your mouth with a gentle firmness that makes your stomach drop.

"Wha—"

The word barely makes it out of you. It's less a question and more a sound—confusion and arousal tangled together into a single, breathless syllable that dissolves the moment Spencer's fingers guide your wrist down to the mattress beside your hip.

He pulls back just enough for you to feel the sudden, devastating absence of his mouth. The cool air hits wet skin and you shiver, your hips lifting off the mattress in an involuntary search for contact that isn't there anymore.

"Don't hold back."

The words are quiet. Almost gentle. They ghost across your skin like a warm exhale, and the juxtaposition of softness and command makes your brain short-circuit.

You don't have time to respond.

His mouth returns to you before you can blink. The sound that leaves you is obscene.

It's somewhere between a moan and a cry—your voice cracking open in a way you couldn't have controlled if you'd tried. Your head falls back against the pillow and your spine curves off the mattress, and Spencer makes a sound against you that you've never heard him make before. Low and satisfied. Almost like a purr.

His tongue shifts.

It dips lower, and the first experimental press inside you makes your whole body jerk. Spencer's hands are already there—palms pressing your hips flat, holding you open and still as his tongue works its way deeper.

He finds a rhythm quickly. Slow, deliberate thrusts that drag against walls of muscle and nerve endings you didn't realize could feel like this. His chin is wet, his breath coming hot and ragged through his nose, and every stroke of his tongue sends a fresh wave of heat rolling through your stomach.

His nose nudges against you with each thrust of his tongue—the bridge of it pressing flush against your clit in a steady, maddening friction that he seems entirely aware of. Each time his tongue pushes deeper, his nose drags upward. Each time he pulls back, it slides down. The rhythm is devastating, and the realization that he's calculated this—that some part of that brilliant, relentless mind has figured out exactly how to make you fall apart with maximum efficiency—sends a sharp spike of arousal through you so intense it borders on painful.

Your hands slam back into his hair.

"Spence—Spencer—"

Spencer doesn't stop.

If anything, your hands in his hair seem to sharpen something in him. His tongue thrusts deeper, the rhythm shifting—faster now. Hungrier. The wet sounds of his mouth against you fill the room in a way that would make you combust with embarrassment if you had a single functioning brain cell left, but you don't, because Spencer Reid's tongue is inside you and his nose is grinding against your clit and you're fairly certain you've forgotten your own name.

Your thighs are shaking. Your legs are clamped around Spencer's head so tight you can feel his curls pressed flat against your inner thighs. Your heels dig into his back, your ankles crossing behind him like your body is trying to hold him exactly where he is, and Spencer responds by groaning against you in a way that vibrates through your entire pelvis.

You're close. You can feel it building in the pit of your stomach, winding tighter with every thrust of his tongue, every drag of his nose. It's coiling hot and heavy at the base of your spine, and your hips have stopped following his rhythm entirely—they're rolling against his mouth in short, desperate circles that have nothing to do with finesse and everything to do with the fact that you're about to come apart and your body knows it even if your brain hasn't caught up.

Your orgasm hits you hard.

Your back bows off the mattress. Your fingers convulse in his hair, pulling hard enough that you'll feel guilty about it later, and your thighs clamp so tight around his head that for one hysterical moment you genuinely worry you might be hurting him.

He stays exactly where he is—mouth pressed against you, tongue working you through the waves of your orgasm with a gentleness that contradicts everything about the last several minutes. His hands smooth up from your hips to your waist, palms warm and steady against your trembling stomach as the aftershocks ripple through you in diminishing surges.

Your thighs unlock from around his head. Your fingers release his hair—though not entirely, some strands still tangled between your knuckles—and you feel the tension drain from your legs as they fall open against the mattress. Your breathing is ragged, your chest rising and falling in uneven intervals, and you can feel your heartbeat pulsing in places you didn't know had heartbeats.

Spencer presses one last, impossibly soft kiss against you. Then another. Each one lighter than the last, his lips barely grazing oversensitive skin until the touch is little more than a whisper.

He lifts his head, and the sight of him nearly undoes you all over again.

His chin is slick. His lips are swollen and pink, parted around uneven breaths. His curls are a disaster—mussed beyond recognition by your fingers, falling across his forehead in wild, chaotic strands that stick up at angles that defy physics. His cheeks are flushed, a deep, warm pink that spreads down his throat and disappears beneath the collar of his shirt.

He looks wrecked.

It's the word that surfaces through the fog of your afterglow—hazy and imprecise, but the closest thing to accurate your brain can produce. Spencer looks absolutely wrecked, and he hasn't even taken anything off yet.

His hands are still on your waist. His eyes find yours, and there's something in them you don't recognize—not quite confidence, not quite surprise, but something caught between the two.

He just smiles.

A wide, entirely pleased smile—the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and lifts his cheeks and transforms his whole face into something so openly, unguardedly happy that it almost looks like a different version of him. Unselfconscious. A little bit smug, like he's just solved something he didn't expect to solve, and the answer pleases him.

You let out a breathy giggle. Your head drops back against the pillow, and you stare at the ceiling while your body continues to tremble in tiny, residual waves.

"What is that face?"

"Nothing," he says, and his voice is rough in a way that makes your stomach flip. "You just—" He stops. Swallows. His thumbs trace small, absent circles against your hipbones. "You look really pretty right now."

The laugh that escapes you is wet and breathless. "Spencer, I'm a mess."

"Exactly," he says softly. "A pretty mess."

You reach for him.

It's instinct—your hand lifting from the sheets, fingers stretching toward his chest with the automatic need to touch him, pull him down to you, take hold of whatever you can reach. You've been reaching for him all night, all your life together really.

Spencer catches your wrist. His thumb presses against the inside of your wrist, and you can feel him find your pulse. You're not sure if it's intentional or just Spencer, always cataloging data, always paying attention to the things nobody else thinks to measure.

"Stay still."

The words are soft. Almost tender. But there's something beneath them—something that wasn't there an hour ago. A thread of steadiness that winds through the syllables like he's not just asking you to stay still but telling you.

"Oh," you sigh, almost dazed. This is new. This is... nice.

Your wrist goes limp in his grip, surrendering to the novelty of it, the strange and electrifying sensation of Spencer Reid telling you to stay still and meaning it.

He releases your wrist slowly, his fingers trailing down your palm before letting go entirely. Then he sits back on his heels, and his hands move to the button of his own pants.

He doesn't look away from you.

His fingers work the button open. Then the zipper, drawn down tooth by tooth with the same deliberate patience he used on your underwear, and you realize with a lurch of your stomach that he's doing it on purpose—drawing it out, making you watch, making you wait.

You're not used to waiting.

Your tongue drags across your lower lip. Spencer's eyes track the motion, and something flickers in his expression—heat, maybe, or the quiet satisfaction of knowing he's the one making you restless for a change.

His thumbs hook into the waistband. The pants slide down. He kicks them off without ceremony, and then he's moving over you.

He settles between your thighs, and the first thing you feel is the heat of him.

No barriers. Nothing between you. Just skin against skin, the warm, solid weight of his body pressing against yours, and the startling intimacy of feeling him hard against your thigh. The contact pulls a sharp breath from your lungs—your body arching up against his before you can stop it, hips tilting seekingly, every nerve ending still raw and electric from your orgasm.

You almost expect him to just start. To take the momentum and run with it, the way anyone else might when the person beneath them is still trembling and slick and visibly, desperately ready.

But he doesn't.

Instead, Spencer lowers himself slowly—the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he brings his body down against yours, chest to chest, hip to hip. One hand plants beside your shoulder, his forearm taking some of his weight while the other hand finds the side of your face.

He kisses you the way he always kisses you—deeply, thoroughly, with the kind of whole-body commitment that makes you feel like the only person who has ever existed. His mouth opens against yours, and his tongue slides against your lower lip before slipping inside. His fingers slide into your hair, cradling the back of your head, tilting you just slightly so he can deepen the angle. His tongue sweeps against yours, slow and deliberate. 

You can taste yourself on him.

It's a thought that should embarrass you—or maybe it's the kind of thing that would embarrass someone else. But Spencer is kissing you like he has all the time in the world, like the fact that he's hard against your hip and you're still trembling beneath him is secondary to the simple, devastating act of kissing you properly, and the taste of yourself on his tongue just makes you melt further into the mattress.

Your hands find his shoulders. Your fingers curl into the tense muscle there, nails pressing crescents into his skin, and you feel the shudder that runs through him at the contact—a full-body tremor that starts in his shoulders and works its way down his spine.

"Spence," you mutter against his lips, the words half-lost in the seam of his mouth against yours. Your fingers tighten on his shoulders, your hips rolling up against his—searching, seeking, done waiting. "I want you to fuck me." Then, quieter—"Please."

The sound Spencer makes isn't quite a moan. It's lower than that, rougher, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest like a wire being drawn taut. His hips jerk against yours once, and then his forehead drops against your shoulder.

His breath is hot and uneven against your collarbone. 

"Tell me how you want it."

His voice is muffled against your shoulder, but you hear every word. Your brain is still fuzzy, still caught in the slow-spinning aftermath of your orgasm, and the question takes a moment to parse through the haze.

You swallow. "I want to see you."

He lifts his head from your shoulder. His eyes find yours.

"You want to see me," he repeats, like he's testing the words. Tasting them. His thumb traces the line of your jaw, and his gaze drops to your mouth, then lower—tracking the rise and fall of your chest, the way your body is already arching up toward him in unconscious invitation.

He sits up. Your hands slide from his shoulders, fingers dragging down his arms, reluctant to let go entirely.

Spencer's hands find your hip. Then your waist. His palm presses warm and firm against the side of your ribs, and his other hand slides beneath your top knee.

It's not rough, but there's a quiet authority in the way his hands guide your body. His palm shifts from your ribs to your hip, pressing with a steady, even pressure that rolls you onto your side. Your back stays flat against the mattress, shoulders pressing into the sheets, but your hips turn and your legs come together—one stacked atop the other, thighs pressed tight.

He adjusts the angle with a small, precise correction. His hand on your hip tilts you just slightly—barely a degree of difference—and then his fingers splay wide across the curve of your waist, holding you exactly where he's put you.

His other hand wraps around your top thigh, just above the knee, and he lifts it—just enough to open you, to create the space he needs. The shift is small, but the new angle changes everything. You feel the cool air against you for barely a second before the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance.

He doesn't thrust. He sinks. Slow, steady, inexorable pressure that makes your body open for him inch by inch, your breath stuttering out of you in fragmented, shaking exhales as he fills you.

He leans down, his body folding over you and his mouth finding yours before the rest of him has even settled. His lips brush against your lower lip first, a featherlight touch that makes you chase him, tilting your chin up to deepen the kiss.

Your arms wrap around him. Your hands find the warm plane of his back, palms pressing flat against his shoulder blades, and you feel the muscles there shift and flex as he holds himself above you.

He kisses you the way he always kisses you—like he's trying to tell you something his vocabulary can't quite articulate. His tongue slides against yours with a slow, deliberate sweep that makes your toes curl against the sheets, and the kiss deepens as his hips press the rest of the way forward.

He bottoms out with a groan.

You feel it everywhere—the sound traveling through his chest into yours, through his lips into yours, through the place where your bodies are joined and his hips are flush against the backs of your thighs. He's deep. Deeper than you expected from this angle, the tilt of your hips creating a tight, devastating channel that makes your breath catch audibly against his tongue.

He starts moving.

Not thrusting. Grinding is more accurate. Slow, rolling presses of his hips that keep him flush against you, each one sinking him impossibly deeper and dragging a low, broken sound from your throat that he catches with his mouth.

Spencer keeps the pace deliberate, measured, like he has all the time in the world and intends to use every second of it. His mouth moves against yours with the same lazy, devastating rhythm as his hips. His tongue keeps sliding slow against yours, pulling back just enough to catch your bottom lip between his teeth before sinking back in.

You try to move with him. Your hips shift, seeking more friction, searching for a faster pace, and Spencer's hand leaves your thigh to press flat against your hip—pinning you to the mattress.

"Ah," he murmurs against your mouth, and the sound is barely audible. A soft, breathy correction that vibrates against your lower lip. "Stay still for me."

Your body doesn't listen.

It's not deliberate—or maybe it is, maybe some part of you needs to know what happens if you don't obey. But your hips roll against his grip before the conscious part of your brain can intervene, chasing the friction, chasing the pace he's deliberately withholding. The movement is small, instinctive, your body seeking more of him the way it always has.

Spencer stops kissing you.

His mouth lifts from yours by a fraction of an inch. Barely enough space to exist between your lips, but you feel the absence like a withdrawal. 

His hand on your hip presses harder. Not enough to hurt, just a reminder. "I said stay still."

Your hips twitch again. You feel his fingers flex against your hip, and you know he felt it.

"Spencer—"

His hand leaves your hip. Then his hand connects with the curve of your ass.

The sound is sharper than you expected—a flat crack that rings through the bedroom and sends a jolt of electricity straight up your spine. The sting blooms warm and immediate across your skin, and your whole body seizes in response.

You clench around him.

Hard. Involuntary. Your inner walls clamp down on his cock so suddenly that Spencer's breath hitches—a sharp, strangled inhale against your mouth that tells you he felt it too. His hips stutter forward once, losing their careful rhythm for just a second before he steadies himself.

"Shit," he mutters. The word is barely a breath. His forehead drops to yours, and his eyes squeeze shut for a moment—a single, telling second of composure-gathering.

"Are you gonna stay put for me so I can fuck you or not?"

The question lands somewhere between exasperation and disbelief, like he can't quite reconcile the fact that you're still squirming beneath him with the fact that he just—he just smacked your ass—and the combination of those two realities is short-circuiting something in his brain.

You bite your lip.

Your teeth sink into the swollen flesh hard enough to leave an indent, and you nod.

Spencer watches you do it. His eyes drop to your mouth, tracking the way your teeth press into your bottom lip.

He rewards you with movement. His hips resume their slow, grinding rhythm, and the first press of his cock back into you draws a shuddering exhale from you.

But this time his hand stays on your ass.

His palm settles over the curve where the slight sting still hums—warm and broad and possessive. His fingers curl into the flesh, squeezing once, firm and deliberate.

It all makes you moan, loud enough that the neighbors definitely heard. But you can't seem to care anymore. 

Spencer kisses you deeper.

His mouth closes over yours, swallowing the whimpers and moans, pulling the sounds from your throat and into his chest like he needs them there.

"Good girl."

You feel him go still above you. His hips stop their slow grind. His hand on your ass goes rigid, fingers frozen mid-squeeze. Even his breathing catches, held behind his teeth like he's trying to decide whether to apologize, take it back, pretend it never happened—

Your walls clench around him, a sudden involuntary squeeze of you around his cock. His breath stutters out of him in a ragged exhale.

"Y-you liked that?"

You nod.

Your head moves in a jerky, desperate motion against the pillow—teeth still caught in your bottom lip, eyes wide and dark and imploring.

"Please," you whisper, and the word comes out wrecked. "Please just fuck me."

Something snaps.

He drives forward, hard and fast, and the force of it punches the air right out of your lungs. The rhythm he sets now is hungry, sharp—hips snapping against yours with a wet, rhythmic slap that echoes through the quiet room.

"God," he breathes. He braces one hand beside your head on the mattress, the other still gripping your ass, holding you in place for every thrust. "You feel... you feel so good."

"D-don't stop," you moan.

"I'm not stopping," he says, and the words come out rougher than anything you've heard from him tonight.

You feel him everywhere. Deep, impossibly deep, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your vision blur at the edges.

You're close.

It's building in the pit of your stomach—a tight, coiling pressure that radiates outward with every snap of his hips. Your nails drag down his back, leaving pink lines across his skin, and your legs tremble against his. The pleasure is cresting, fast and relentless, and you can feel yourself barreling toward the edge with a speed that makes your breath come in short, punched-out gasps.

"Spencer—" His name tears from your throat, ragged and raw. "I'm close. I'm so close—"

"That's it," Spencer says, and his voice is a wreck. His forehead presses against yours, his breath hot and uneven against your lips. "Let go. Come for me."

The words undo you.

Your back arches off the mattress, your nails biting into his shoulders hard, and a sound tears from your throat that you'll be embarrassed about later—a broken, sobbing moan that has no right coming out of your mouth but does anyway because Spencer Reid just told you to come and your body decided that was a command it was going to follow without debate.

You clench around him in wave after wave, your inner walls pulsing in rhythmic, helpless contractions that drag a sound from Spencer's chest that you've never heard before. Low. Guttural. Something between a groan and your name, fractured down the middle.

His rhythm stutters. His hips jerk forward once, twice, three times in quick, uneven thrusts that have nothing of his earlier patience. Then he buries himself deep, so deep it steals what little breath you have left, and his whole body goes rigid above you.

His mouth finds yours.

The kiss is messy and desperate and barely a kiss at all—more like his mouth pressing against yours because he needs somewhere to put the sound he's making, the low, broken groan that shudders through his chest and vibrates into yours. His jaw trembles against your chin. His breath comes in hot, ragged bursts against your lips, and you feel him pulse inside you.

His hips roll forward once more—a slow, involuntary press that drains the last of the tension from his body—and then he stills.

The next kiss is slow. Lazy. His tongue slides against yours with none of the urgency from before—just a gentle, unhurried drag that feels like sinking into warm water. His lips are swollen and soft, and he tastes like you and salt and the faintest trace of the coffee he drank hours ago, before any of this started.

You hum against his mouth. A small, satisfied sound that vibrates between you.

Spencer pulls back first. Not far—just enough to see you. His nose bumps against yours, and his breath is still coming in uneven, warm gusts that fan across your sweat-damp skin.

Your lips curve against his. Slow, uncoordinated, the kind of smile that forms when every muscle in your body has been reduced to something the consistency of warm honey.

"That was..." You pause. Your brain sifts through the remnants of your vocabulary, looking for something adequate, and comes up empty. "...new."

Spencer's thumb traces the line of your cheekbone. His eyes are still closed, his lashes dark against his flushed skin. "Is that a good thing?"

The question comes out quieter than he probably intended. His eyes open—hazel, soft, still a little glazed—and search your face. Like he's scanning for signs of regret he won't find.

You let out a breathless laugh. It's a weak thing, mostly air, but it carries.

"Well," you say, and the word stretches out long and lazy, your voice still raw, "it's definitely not bad."

Spencer huffs. It's almost a laugh. His forehead drops against your shoulder again, and you feel his lips press against the curve of your neck—not a kiss, exactly. More like he needs somewhere to rest his face while his heart rate comes back down to something that isn't indicative of a medical event.

"Sorry," he mutters. The word lands warm and muffled against your skin, his lips barely moving against the curve of your neck. "I should have—I didn't ask before I just—"

He stops. Swallows. You feel the motion against your throat.

"I didn't talk to you about any of that before doing it." His voice is careful now, measured in that way it gets when he's retracing his steps and finding all the places he thinks he went wrong. "The—asking you to stay still. And the..." He trails off. His fingers twitch against your hip, and you know he's thinking about the spank. "That's not something I should have just introduced without checking first. That was—I should have asked."

You let out a long, slow breath. Your hand lifts from his back and finds the messy landscape of his hair—curls damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead in chaotic whorls that you've never seen quite this disheveled. Your fingers thread through them, gentle, unhurried, the way you've done a hundred times before on the couch, in the car, lying in bed on lazy Sundays.

"Spence." Your fingers keep moving through his curls, scratching gently against his scalp the way you know he likes, and you feel some of the tension bleed out of his shoulders. "I would've told you. You know that. If something didn't feel right, I'd have said so. I promise."

He nods against your neck. A small, tentative motion that you feel more than see—his chin dipping down and then rising again, the scratch of his stubble dragging against your skin.

But he doesn't lift his head. And his body is still holding a thread of tension that wasn't there before, a careful stillness in the way he's resting against you that tells you he's not quite done carrying it yet.

"Come here." Your hand slides from his hair to the side of his face. Your palm curves against his jaw, fingers settling into the warm space behind his ear where his pulse is still hammering, fast and unsteady. You lift his face from your neck. He comes willingly, letting you guide him up for a soft kiss.

Spencer's eyes close. His lashes brush against your cheek, and his breath comes out in a long, shuddering exhale.

You pull back just enough to look at him. "I love you," you say.

It comes out easy. Simple. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world, because it is.

"I love you too."

"And," you add, and your voice drops into something lighter, teasing, "the whole..." You gesture vaguely between the two of you with the hand not currently cradling his jaw. "Power shift thing. That was hot."

Spencer's eyebrows lift. A flush creeps up his neck, spreading across his cheeks in a slow, uneven bloom.

"It was?" The word comes out higher than he intended.

You laugh. The sound is loose and warm, shaking through your chest where it's still pressed against his. "Spencer, you literally made me—I mean, you saw what happened. I saw what happened. That was—" You shake your head, smile curving wide and helpless. "Yeah. It was hot."

Spencer's blush deepens. The pink spreads from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. You watch him. This man—this beautiful, ridiculous, devastating man—still inside you, still pressed against you, still flushed and disheveled and glowing with the aftermath of what he just did to you, and he's blushing.

He smiles. "Okay. Okay. Good."

He pauses. His gaze drops to the space between you for a moment. Then his eyes find yours again, and the smile shifts into something quieter. A little crooked. A little pleased. 

"I'll keep that in mind." His thumb traces a slow circle against your hip. "It'd be nice to be the one in charge every so often."

You laugh and pull him down for another kiss.