i just keep getting PhD’s.

One Way or Another by morgan_magic - E, one-shot - It’s been six months of forced marriage to Death Eater Draco Malfoy, and even despite the threat of Azkaban, Hermione still refuses to consummate and produce an heir. When her husband takes matters into his own hands, suddenly she needs to shag him to save her life… but after months of waiting for this moment, he’s not going to let her (get) off so easily.

Drag Path by morgan_magic - M, one-shot - When Draco’s estranged wife passes away, he discovers that their contractual consummation led to a daughter. He’s suddenly left with a four-year-old and little clue what to do. Attending a Dads and Daughters parenting class and becoming acquainted with Healer Hermione might just set them on the right path.

tastes like strawberries (on a summer evenin’) by riddikulus_puff - E, one-shot - He was dressed head to toe in a full jet black, tailored perfectly to his body suit and she was almost naked. Hermione was in the skimpiest emerald green bikini that she could find in the back of her wardrobe — something that her best friend, Pansy Parkinson, had gifted her. She had never had the chance to wear it before, so it was perfect. Hermione was about to be in so much trouble — she could practically taste it dangling on the tip of her tongue.

A Good Husband by Molivier - E, one-shot - Marriage is largely a matter of perspective. From hers, Draco Malfoy is an exceptionally good husband.

Granger's Guide to Becoming Minister by Rebeccaseal - E, WIP - Fucking your campaign manager is never a good idea, especially when said campaign manager is a competent, thoughtful, hot single dad. Oh, and there’s still a race to win.

A (Second) Chance Meeting by dramione_endgame_always - E, WIP - Hermione thought she’d met ‘The One’ until he disappeared without a trace. What will happen when he suddenly reappears in her life?

Draco and Hermione Make a Porno by TheWitchfluencer - E, WIP - "They get paid to do this?" Malfoy asked finally. "They do," Theo confirmed. "It’s called Pornography. Muggles have an entire industry. Highly lucrative business. People get paid to have sex with each other in all sorts of delightfully creative ways, then they film it and other people pay to watch it.” Malfoy’s finger moved slowly along his jaw, gray eyes still fixed on the screen. "And the people in it. That's their job. They simply" -he watched for a moment longer, his head tilted one way, then the other- "fuck each other? Professionally?" Theo nodded emphatically. "I'm telling you, muggles are brilliant! Granger introduced me to it, actually," he said proudly. "She works at a porn shop." --- Inspired (very loosely) by Director Kevin Smith's cinematic masterpiece "Zack and Miri Make a Porno," this story explores what happens when two people find love in the unlikeliest of places... each other. And also, there is porn.

Exceptional Daddy Material by Dizzle00 - E, one-shot - Later, Hermione had to admit she really liked the way Malfoy’s biceps flexed as he held Rose on one hip and dried dishes with his other hand. She bit her lip when he flicked his wand and all the dishes were sent neatly into the cupboard. So he could multitask. That didn’t make him Merlin. Or When Hermione's deadbeat husband tells her the least she can do is hire a hot nanny, she does exactly that.

Ethical Consumption by JeinAuster - E, 2 chapters - Hermione Granger takes one look at Professor Draco Malfoy's lecture and starts pulling at the loose threads. At some point, their classroom debates escalate and neither of them remembers what they were arguing about in the first place. OR: in which Hermione walks Draco like a dog.

A Stroke of Fête by myfatherwillhearaboutthisss - E, one-shot - Village doctor Draco Malfoy is only trying to make dinner; it's not his fault he's doing it in a cottage in Scotland with his sleeves rolled. It's also not his fault that he needs slutty little glasses to read the recipe. Unfortunately for the pie, DADA Professor Hermione Granger-Malfoy is on her way home.

Best out of Five by AngelaMattes, MalaScientia - E, one-shot - “Malfoy. I need this.” “You need this?” His tone had softened, but his gaze had grown hotter, almost to the point of smoldering. She swallowed, bowing her head and looking up at him through her lashes. “Yes, Malfoy. Please.” He sat back in his chair, absently toying with his Mont Blanc pen, shifting it from hand to hand as he considered her. “Alright then. Tell me what you’re proposing.” “Best out of five,” she answered in an instant. “Monday through Friday, with daily winners. Whomever has the most galleons at the end of the day wins–and then, of course, whomever has the most wins for the week takes it all.” “I’m assuming there are daily incentives.” “Of course, winner’s choice.” A beat of silence fell over Malfoy’s office as they looked at each other. He had tilted his head back, considering her through narrowed eyes, not even hiding their lustful roving, landing first at the top button of her blouse, and trailing down her elegant form, still seated in his guest chair. “I accept your terms,” he said finally, the words coming out a bit ragged.

Pressing Your Buttons by Typingkitten - E, one-shot - Hermione and Daddy, or... Draco are at a hotel bar celebrating their friends' anniversary. Between them, they play a little game involving hidden objects. Can Daddy entice his wife back to their hotel room?

At Your Service by ninepiecesofcrait - E, WIP - Hermione makes a passing comment about how she wishes she could outsource the day-to-day admin of her life. Draco Malfoy volunteers for the job.

Sinful creature by Department_of_Depravity - E, one-shot - One wrong word and Hermione finds herself in a dirty roleplay with Father Draco who is determined to root out his wife’s sinful nature. Preferably on her knees in the study. Or how husband, kinkster extra-ordinaire, and father-to-be, Draco Malfoy takes care of his wife’s needs because pregnancy sometimes makes one very horny.

Hermione Humps a Who by Miagas - E, WIP - Hermione Granger’s eighth year goals: Move on from the war - Get all O’s on her N.E.W.T.s - Find someone who will let her hump them

There's Been a Mistake. by malfoyesque - E, WIP - Objectively brilliant Healer/Doctor/Scientist Hermione Granger invents a new contraceptive spell that promises to change the face of sex forever. Her long-term friend-with-benefits Draco Malfoy is only too willing to let her test it on him. It goes horribly wrong. It goes so, so horribly wrong. --- Draco didn’t understand the mechanics, nor the biology. He only had a baseline understanding of what it did. He knew that it involved pointing a wand at his balls and doing whatever it was she’d just done to his body that meant that he, all of sudden, couldn’t get her pregnant. Honestly, he was a little nervous about it. But it was Granger. What could possibly go wrong?

When we get so tangled by Landbeorht - E, WIP - In which Draco Malfoy is desperate and pining, Hermione Granger is out of patience, and ancient magic decides they should spend a few days walking in each other’s shoes (literally). Or: a bodyswap story. A tale as old as fan fiction.

Project: ZEPHYRUS by JeinAuster - M, WIP - The first casualty of the Disturbances was certainty. The second was choice. Five years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione Granger discovered the foundations of magic itself was coming undone. As governments scrambled to save a dying world through her controversial ZEPHYRUS Protocol, Hermione found herself working alongside Draco Malfoy — widower, father, political opportunist, and the last person she expected to trust. The world is ending. Reconstruction was never going to be kind.

Executive Decision by charingfae - E, WIP - Being competent is exhausting. All day long, Hermione makes important decisions—so many that she hardly has the time to choose her lunch. Or make it. Or eat it. And her startlingly competent coworker has everything in order—his job, his health, even his six-year-old daughter. After witnessing her plight, he offers to take a load off her shoulders. Help her out with things like...lunch. It should be embarrassing. It is embarrassing. And yet... She...likes it?

What's a Bite Between Friends by beckysbooktok - E, WIP - Draco and Hermione are forced together through a biting incident at their children's school. Part of the remediation is spending scheduled time together, the headmistress, Luna insists on it. A bit of forced proximity leads to feelings, and these two idiots eventually admit their feelings.

Don't Worry, Baby by EvergreenTuesdays - E, WIP - Hermione makes a decision that fractures the order of her careful life, and finds herself in Draco Malfoy’s bed. It was supposed to be a single, controlled mistake, but he’s no longer the person she remembers, and the more she returns to him, the harder it becomes to pretend this was ever only a lapse in judgement.

Desorium by cj_gwendolyn - E, one-shot - “I have better things to do than to sit in a room with you and wait for you to successfully read my mind. We both know you found nothing. So drop the games.” Draco’s lips curled inward, as if he were holding back a smile. “Well, I wouldn’t say nothing. You’re a very interesting woman.” After Draco Malfoy discovers something wholly unexpected during a routine Legilimency inspection of Hermione Granger's mind, each of them finds it difficult to see the other in the same way they once did.

Blood & Tulle by adiontherocks10, calmingtea, Lemonwedgiee, mayanahi, purplexsalt, saltyorange (Velaaa), SilverHebridean - E, WIP - Draco Malfoy lives in a world of violence and control, but everything changes when he finds himself a ballerina that needs his softness and care. ~~ Hermione Granger is struggling to juggle work, a dance career and university, but everything changes when she meets the mafia boss who can take care of her and her problems.

EpilogueFlume is Typing... by mothinthearchive - E, 4 chapters - Hermione Granger is 38, embarrassingly accomplished, and the last unchecked item on her list is the one she can’t achieve alone. + 2 weeks of anonymous sparring on a dating app for wizards wishing for children. + 1 sailing weekend from Portland to Boston. + A yacht named for the Mistress of the Labyrinth. Hermione didn’t expect Draco Malfoy at this juncture in her life. ...But Ariadne didn’t end up with Theseus either.

A Year of Healing Dangerously by sanrac16 - E, WIP - Hermione Granger grew up. She does understand that life is a bit more important than school, though that was a tough concession, and she has found a way to manage some of her darker impulses. She hasn't trapped any hateful journalists in jars and tries to limit her cheating of rules and systems for when absolutely necessary and only for those she loves. She has a carefully developed system that allows her to juggle her healer duties, care for her aging parents, work on a groundbreaking new medicinal potion with her colleague, Neville, and still act as an excellent friend and pseudo aunt for her friends and their children. It just requires that she sacrifice most of what she might want or need in a personal life. Nothing major. When Draco Malfoy comes back into her life, she doesn't expect him to stay in it for longer than a night. But as he finds a way to linger, he threatens to upend the delicate balance Hermione has convinced herself is the only way to survive.

Say it again, Granger by Eclectic_fantasy - E, one-shot - Hermione has developed an unhealthy copy mechanism to deal with feelings she's developing for her friend-with-benefits.. She imagines she's playing out a scene from a romance book. It backfires spectacularly when she accidentally calls him Daddy.

Kitten That Got the Cream by saltyorange (Velaaa) - E, one-shot - Draco takes his kitten on holiday to Ravello. His one stipulation: no work.

An Inconvenient Marriage of Convenience by TryFanficTheySaid - E, 8 chapters - Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy enter into a mutually beneficial marriage of convenience and despite Hermione’s growing attraction, she is determined to keep things professional. Until their wedding night triggers an ancient blood curse which gives Malfoy the uncontrollable urge to consummate the marriage. Or: Draco Malfoy is a polite gentleman, but a blood curse turns him feral.

First Gentleman by deathbytbrwrites - E, one-shot - “Hermione, not only are you the Minister, you’re a mother and a wife… famously one without nannies or house-elves,” I remarked as we trailed through the room. “I think of all the questions I’ve asked you today, my readers are most interested in this one: How do you do it all?” Before answering, she opened the back door, allowing the happy sound of children' s giggles to filter in with the warm breeze. She turned, a bright smile on her face and eyes lit up with joy. “That’s easy, Parvati. I don’t.” We stepped outside into the Malfoys’ spacious back garden to find that First Gentleman Draco Granger-Malfoy was playing football with their two oldest children, Scorpius and Cordelia, while also wearing their youngest, baby Aster, in a wrap. Famously, the youngest Granger-Malfoy was the first baby born to a sitting Minister in well over a hundred years. “Draco,” she continued, pride threaded through her voice, “is how I do it all." Or: Hermione is Minister for Magic but she couldn't do it with the First Gentleman at her side.

The Ladies' Loos at The Leaky by feistyferret - E, one-shot - Hermione is the best at pub quizzes, the very best of them all—at least if you ask her. If you ask Draco, she is nothing but a bratty girl who needs to be put in her place—something he is more than happy to do. Who says they can't both be right?  ~•~ Or Hermione gets punished in the Ladies' Loo at The Leaky.

Everything he needs by Samniosa - E, one-shot - Ever since Draco married his second wife, Hermione, his most desperate desire is to get her pregnant. But there's always something in his way: her career, their fears for his son's adaptation, her contraceptive potions, and, worst of all, those fucking condoms. So imagine his hapiness when, one day, she decides to finally make his dreams come true? Of course Draco will breed her—and make sure she doesn't waste a single drop.

Don’t Call Draco Your Daddy, Only If You Mean It Or STFUATTDLAGG by KingsWritesHere - E, one-shot - Prompt: Accidentally calling your boss daddy at work. Bonus points if it's in public. Hermione Granger walked with confidence into a court room, and spouted law like she was there and helped write the bloody things. Obscure and otherwise. Her Latin legal maxims were like listening to a song, and when you came up in court against her, you were too busy admiring her as she ripped your case apart or wishing to be her. She NEVER failed. No one wanted to be on the other side of the bar against Hermione Granger. She WAS overworked and exhausting herself. Her partners wouldn't stand for it anymore. Especially Draco. Stubborn Witch.

Taking Care by Rattycee - E, one-shot - Hermione is asked to babysit Ron and Pansy’s three children, only when she arrives someone else is already there. She can’t help but notice how good he is with taking care of the children, not that she finds it attractive, she’s probably just hungry or tired.

Coming Up Roses by Lostcalligrapher - T, one-shot - “See here, Minister Granger. I don’t suppose you’d fancy relaxing at eight in the morning instead of rampaging around with that beastly engine of yours?” His recently appointed neighbor at the Wizarding Retirement Village was none other than Hermione bloody Granger, former Minister for Magic, former nemesis, and current nightmare. She blew a grey curl out of her gently creased face and turned to him with a sarcastic smile. “Ah, Mister Malfoy, good morning. What a hideous cardigan you’re wearing, it suits you.” Draco frowned. “It’s cashmere.” or Elderly Draco Malfoy suddenly finds himself neighbors with Hermione Granger.

How Draco Malfoy Became a Cat Dad by Back_to_Fanfic - T, one-shot - Draco never understood why some people insisted on referring to themselves as “pet parents”. Sure, he liked animals, but it wasn’t like he was completely obsessed or anything. Theo, for example, had recently adopted a Daschund and promptly began calling himself a “Dog Dad”. He’d heard that Daphne had adopted a cat and was positively gaga over the little creature. While he was happy his friends were happy, he just never saw himself become attached to an animal in that way.

Prove it! by Slytherclaw_Heiress - E, one-shot - After having his night off cut short by a hospital emergency, Draco Malfoy returns home to hear the end of his son's bad performance and how the girl he brought home fakes it. Or Draco Malfoy fucks his son's “friend” to prove to her Malfoy man do know how to take care of women.

The oncology unit staff were the first to celebrate you as soon as you made it out of the conference room with happy tears in your eyes. In the time you’d been presenting, the halls had been decorated with streamers. Balloons surrounded your hospital room, and you were given an elaborate bouquet of artificial flowers. You did it.

The RN who’d been caring for you the longest was the one to push your wheelchair across the stage during your hooding ceremony. The oncology unit staff lined the front row of the audience and cheered louder than you’d ever heard.

“MA” looked pretty damn good after your name in your email signature. The Master of Arts degree hung proudly on the wall of your apartment, a forever reminder of your resilience through it all.

It took grueling months to find the right prosthetic and get it fitted properly, and even more years of physical therapy to allow you to be here today, giving narrated walking tours through the Carnegie Museum of Art.

Jack met you at his amputee support group.

At first, he assumed you were there as a student. You were quiet. Observant. Some of the local clinical psychology degree programs assigned students to attend open support group meetings. The large, structured tote bag that followed you to every meeting supported his theory. He imagined you had a laptop, a textbook or two, and a can of Red Bull in the bag, if he had to guess.

You didn’t take notes like other students Jack saw in the past, but you didn’t seem like the type that needed to take notes in the moment, anyway. You were a breathtaking wallflower at the meetings, it was hard not to notice you. The floor-length dresses that complemented your body and draped across you in all the right places were delicate and dainty. Jack was dying to know if your personality matched your exterior.

If Abbot had to guess, he’d say the mystery girl at the amputee support group was in her mid-to-late twenties, though she didn’t necessarily dress like it. Your wardrobe was all maxi skirts and long flowy dresses, cardigans and cable knit sweaters, statement earrings and small chain necklaces. Jack overheard one of the younger group members complimenting your clothing style one day, describing it as “serving cottage core meets coastal grandma chic.” Whatever the hell that meant.

At one of the meetings, you barely showed up on time. You were flustered and a bit disheveled, blowing a stray strand of hair out of your face, but still beautiful as ever. An intricately decorated lanyard and your employee badge hung out of the purse’s wide mouth.

Your name, MA. Art Historian, Curator, and Guest Guide. Carnegie Museum of Art.

Hmm. Jack wasn’t really one for the arts. He was most creative when figuring out how to perform complex medical procedures in unconventional situations. He was methodical and analytical in his life. He approached situations and his work with scientific precision, but he could be tempted to give the museum a visit if it meant he might run into you.

The Pitt’s ambulance bay was never empty for long. Gurneys rolled in and out of the ER all day and night. After all his years in emergency medicine, few things surprised Doctor Abbot anymore.

Until you rolled in.

Dana was the first to reach the EMTs, taking report as she guided them to an available room. Doctor Abbot watched from the provider desk, his mouth slightly parted as his eyes tracked you the whole way across the Pitt.

The charge nurse barely made it out of the room and assigned the patient to Abbot before he jumped out of his seat and bee-lined to room five. “On it,” he said, to no one in particular. Dana stood back and observed his uncharacteristic movements for half a second with her hands on her hips before returning to her millions of other tasks.

Doctor Abbot pulled back the exam room curtain to reveal you sitting on the gurney, fidgeting with your museum badge and shaking your exposed shoe back and forth.

“Hi, kid,” he greeted, donning gloves. He took note of the prosthetic leg covered in floral designs resting next to your hip. Not a student. An amputee. Abbot hummed inwardly.

“Oh. Hi, Jack,” you responded, surprise gracing your face. You knew he was a doctor; he mentioned working at the hospital a couple of times during support group meetings, you just didn’t know he was a doctor here. You took him in. Frustratingly, he was handsome as ever in his black scrubs with toned, muscled arms that threatened to burst out of his short sleeves, with a badge that read Dr. Abbot. Attending Emergency Medicine Physician. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

Despite the situation, you couldn’t help but notice that his gray curls were a little more mussed than usual, like he’d run his hands through them at least half a dozen times. You yearned to follow suit.

Mateo followed Doctor Abbot into the exam room not long after and glanced between you and the physician a couple of times, trying to decipher the dynamic. It was obvious the two of you knew each other, but he kept quiet and set up the WOW for orders in case Doctor Abbot needed it.

Jack sat down smoothly on a rolling stool and scooted close to your bedside. Maybe closer than was necessary, but no one in the room objected to it.

“What brings you in?” He swept his eyes over you analytically. You looked fine on the surface, sans the removed prosthetic accompanying you against the bed rails.

“Bum leg,” you sighed. This was embarrassing. Even when you leaned back against the gurney, unsuccessfully attempting to relax, you never broke eye contact with Jack.

“Figures. Mind if I take a look?” Abbot replied without missing a beat. He rubbed his chin, eyes darting between your face and the raised slope of your leg underneath your dress.

You hesitantly pulled up your skirt to reveal the angry red skin surrounding what was left of your knee joint. For some reason, exposing your thigh felt intimate, even in the hospital. It didn’t look good, and it admittedly had Jack concerned, but he wouldn’t let you know that. At least not yet. It didn’t look like cellulitis, at least not on the surface. There was no wound weeping or skin dimpling. He’d still run cultures just to be safe.

“Are you resting your leg often? Do you remove the prosthetic?” He ran through a slew of questions. Sure, he knew more about amputations and prosthetics than the average physician, but he wanted to know more about your story.

“Well, I’ve given roughly 8 hours of walking tours through the museum every day for the past week, plus 2 hours today,” you rattled off your schedule. It was strenuous, but this was the life you worked and studied and fought to build for yourself. You had no regrets.

Jack gave you a stern look, and you shrank under his gaze. You almost reminded him that he was being hypocritical, with his 12-hour shifts at the Pitt, but decided against it.

“What else?” He pressed. You sighed.

“I can put my socks and sleeves on, but they’re tighter than normal. The prosthetic will fit on, but it hurts.” The a lot was silent, but you both knew it was there. “I was limping this morning, and I eventually fell while giving a tour,” you continued. Doctor Abbot immediately scanned you for signs of any other fall-related injury. No bruises or bumps as far as he could see. “But a guest caught me. And the museum director insisted that I get checked out. Even though I’m fine,” you finished, exasperated.

“You and I must have different definitions of ‘fine,’ my friend,” Jack exhaled and leaned back, just far enough to not topple off the stool.

A comfortable silence fell between you two while Jack weighed treatment options. This was more of an outpatient specialist matter, but he was glad you came in. He’d learned more about you in the past 15 minutes than he had in the past 3 months of staring longingly at you during the amputee support group meetings.

Mateo felt like he was intruding on a private moment. He cleared his throat and started preemptively entering orders in your chart.

“Cultures? For cellulitis rule-out, Dr. Abbot?” The physician nodded thankfully to the nurse. Jack didn’t miss the flash of fear that crossed your face. Doctor Abbot ordered an ultrasound as well, just to make sure there wasn’t an underlying abscess forming, potentially evidenced by the edema at the end of your limb.

You cleared your throat. “Could you also run a CBC?” you asked, wringing your hands together. Abbot nodded again and stood, dusting his hands on his pants to keep them busy.

“Why?” It wasn’t accusatory. He’d do it anyway if you asked for it; he just wanted to know why.

“I’m in remission. Bone marrow cancer. Doesn’t hurt to check for signs of recurrence when funky things happen,” you shrugged, though you were obviously tense as you gestured to what was left of your left while pulling your dress skirt back down.

The room went silent.

That definitely would’ve been added to your chart’s medical history if you hadn’t come in by ambulance and instead had the pleasure of meeting Lupe at registration.

Up until now, why you attended the support group meetings wasn’t Jack’s business. Now, you were his patient. Your health and history were absolutely his business now.

Doctor Abbot offered a small smile and agreed to the additional test. You didn’t want his sympathy, he knew that better than anyone. He knocked on the door frame on his way out with a promise to be back shortly.

For a minute, Jack pondered what it would’ve been like to know he’d be losing his leg before it happened. When he had his accident, the decision was made for him. The blood loss had been near fatal. He’d long since passed out when the military medics realized they were forced to decide between his life or his limb, the lesser of two evils. He wondered if he had the time to plan a new reality beforehand, if things would be any different. Any better. He didn’t think they would.

He thought you must’ve been young when you were diagnosed with cancer. You were young now, notably younger than him. He wondered when you had the amputation, how old you were—how young you were. The ‘stump’, as you called it, was healed. The multiple incisions left silvery scars on your marred skin. You had lived without the leg for quite a while now.

Mateo drew your blood panel and cultures. He carefully added the bottles and tubes into a stat biohazard lab bag with the promise that an ultrasound tech would be by soon.

“Good news and bad news,” Doctor Abbot strolled back into your exam room with results as soon as he could, true to his word.

“Good news: Blood cultures were negative and the CBC was all within normal limits. And the bad news,” he continued, scrolling through your chart on an iPad before looking up at you. You nodded with a sharp inhale and gripped the gurney’s side rail, prepping for whatever diagnosis he might deliver. His eyes softened.

“Bad news,” he said quieter, “is you’ll need to stay off that leg for a while. At least until some of the inflammation goes down. I’ll leave the specific guidance up to your prosthetist. But for now, doctor’s orders are to cut back on the 8-hour walking tours. You got a wheelchair?” He asked with his arms crossed over his distractingly broad chest. He was solution-oriented, but not convinced you would heed the medical advice. You were strong-willed, that much was evident.

You groaned and threw an arm over your face to cover your eyes. You thought of the wheelchair you’d shoved to the back of your closet years ago. After a few beats of silence, you nod. You’re not happy about the plan of care, but you agree to it nonetheless.

“Do you have someone to take you home?” Jack asked, shuffling your discharge paperwork to keep his hands busy. Otherwise, he might give in to the urge to reach out to you. 

Everyone you knew was either working or busy. Internally, you felt like a burden. The people in your life didn’t feel that way, but it didn’t make the guilt go away. You chuckled inwardly. What doesn’t kill you gives you a dark sense of humor.

“I’ll figure it out,” you replied nonchalantly, already opening the rideshare app on your phone. Jack frowned. If he weren’t in the thick of his shift, he’d offer to let you hang around in the lounge and take you home himself, but that wouldn’t be for another 5 hours. At least.

“I’ll come check on you after my shift,” he resigned. It wasn’t a question or an offer.

“You don’t have to do that,” you looked up at him from beneath your lashes, shocked that he would even suggest such a thing.

“I insist. It’ll make me feel better knowing you’re okay,” Jack replied without missing a beat. So he cares about you. Hmm. His hands found his hips, only adding to his inherent sass factor.

“You don’t know where I live,” you retorted. The banter was fun. God forbid a girl take advantage of her amputation to flirt with a silver fox trauma doc.

“I’m literally two taps away from finding your address in your chart,” Abbot smirked. He wasn’t lying. A couple of gestures on the iPad later, he was parroting your address back at you.

“Fine. But you better bring food with you.” It was your turn to leave no room for argument. You eyed him up and down, watching the way he squared his shoulders with confidence.

“It’s a date,” Jack replied easily, without thinking. You couldn’t tell whose cheeks were more flushed, yours or his. He didn’t dare take it back, though. Either way, you agreed.

“It’s a date.”

a/n: At the risk of sounding desperate, I'm begging y'all to leave comments and interact with my work. The likes are so super duper appreciated but I kind of feel like I'm posting into a void when 99% of the engagement is likes with no comments. anyway!! COMMENTS ARE REALLY APPRECIATED!! They keep me motivated to write more <3

Find more of my writing on my master list.

You don’t even realize the room has gone completely dark until Spencer comes in the front door and flicks on the light. 

“Why did you do that?” you snap immediately, looking up from your laptop screen for the first time in potentially hours, blinking hard as your eyes painfully adjust. Your boyfriend gives you an odd look. 

“Hello to you too...” 

“I’m sorry. Hi. How was dinner?” 

“It was good,” he says, crossing the room to the couch that has been your entire world for the past five hours. You sigh, releasing some of the tension in your shoulders when he leans down to kiss your head and set down a to-go box on the coffee table. “Have you moved since I left?” 

“...no,” you admit, moving your eyes dejectedly to the keyboard.  

“You made progress,” he appeases, leaning over you to angle the laptop upward. Immediately you wrench it away, holding it protectively against your chest. 

“Stop! I don’t want you to read it yet!” 

“I could help you with it though,” he pleads, bracing a hand on the arm of the couch. You look up into his hazel eyes, where he’s definitely playing up the puppy dog factor. His tie brushes your stomach, and he smells like lavender and clove and-- 

“You need to go away,” you realize, snapping back to reality and shrinking into the couch, away from him—trying to escape his all-encompassing sensory presence.  

“Wh- I just got back!” he scoffs, straightening. 

“You’re distracting me,” you accuse, throwing him a baleful look. 

“I’m literally offering to help you.” 

“And I’m respectfully declining because I care too much about your opinion to show you this essay until it’s less terrible. I really just need a couple more hours to finish it, please?” 

Spencer sighs, regarding your pitiful state before moving to sit down next to you. Automatically you move your legs out of the way before settling them in his lap and damn it he’s supposed to be going away. Your iron grip on the laptop involuntarily loosens a little as his hands begin to run back and forth over your legs. No—you must stay focused.  

“Spencer,” you whine, flopping your head back. You let the implied complaint hang in the air. 

“You’ve been writing all day. Your brain is exhausted, and your synapses aren’t firing at a rate that is intellectually productive.” 

“What is the point of having a brain if I can’t even use it half the time!” you almost-shout, pressing the palms of your hands into your eyes until you see fireworks.  

The couch shifts and you feel the warm, robotic weight of the laptop unpin you as Spencer lifts it from your lap. “Don’t read it,” you beg, watching through parted fingers as he sets it on the coffee table, and relaxing slightly when he settles back into the couch.  

“Come here,” he says, holding out an arm. Too mentally exhausted to do anything but comply, you pull yourself up just enough to fall into him. Immediately he wraps his arms around you, one hand slipping under your shirt to rub your back in hypnotizing passes. “I think you burnt yourself out,” he mutters. 

You nod into his shoulder, surrendering yourself to his warmth, letting yourself sink into a lavender-clove fog, wanting nothing more than to dissolve into it. The darkness behind your eyes glows an inviting amber, threatening to pull you under...  

But the essay... 

“Stop thinking about the essay,” he demands. 

“But I have so much to do,” you sigh against his jacket, the words coming out muffled. 

“The best thing you can do now is give your brain a rest. I promise you you’re not making that paper any better if you’re exhausted.” 

“I am not exhausted,” you insist, although your eyes are still closed, “I’m just really stressed.”  

Spencer hums, continuing to rub your back.  

“Do you need me to help you relax?” he says innocently. 

Oh? 

One of your eyes opens to peer up at him suspiciously. He sweeps some of your hair out of your face. 

“Because I would be happy to.” A moment passes—him looking down at you fondly; you wondering if you’re picking up what he’s putting down. 

“And how would you go about doing that?” you ask suspiciously. 

“Orgasms reduce tension and stress and improve brain function.” 

Damn. Why did the nerdiest, most un-sexy pickup line ever just turn you on?

You groan, burying your face further into his shirt—mostly to hide any trace of a blush. 

“You know what else would reduce stress and improve brain functioning? Taking an Adderall and finishing my fucking essay.”  

“Angel, you're such a smart girl, and you are fully capable of doing whatever you set your mind to—but I will lock your laptop in my gun safe before I let you look at that essay again tonight.” He speaks so softly, and his fingers are still gently combing through your messy hair... all in all, you put up a good fight, right? Maybe you should just listen to him...

“... fine.” you say eventually, reluctant to give in too quickly even though the idea quickly has filled your stomach with butterflies. 

“Fine?” he says, pausing his motions as you turn your head just enough to look up at him. “Sounds like you don’t really want it, baby. Maybe we should just go to sleep. Or I could take you back to your-” 

“Spence,” you whine, gently grabbing the front of his shirt. Now he’s going to make you beg? As if it wasn’t his idea? Those puppy dog eyes of his are deceiving. 

“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” he sighs, hand moving from your hair to your outer thigh. 

“Please?” you whisper, dignity forgotten as you look up at him imploringly. 

“Lean back, sweet girl,” he says, helping you adjust your position til you’re lying against his chest, legs sprawled across the couch. Your head lolls on his shoulder, intoxicated by his close proximity. “Perfect. Such a good listener.” 

Normally, you’d be quick to make a defensive remark, but with the way he’s slowly hiking your shirt up, running his hands over your sides so lightly it gives you goosebumps—you're really in no position to argue. Your eyes flutter shut as his hands grow bolder in their explorations, crossing your stomach, fingers just slipping under the waistband of your shorts and skimming over your hipbones before coming back up. 

“Does that feel good?” he murmurs, and you nod lazily, apparently losing access to your language facilities after running them dry all day. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem good enough for your boyfriend. “Do you remember when the last time I touched you like this was?” 

Through the hazy blur of your exhaustion, you try to think back. Was it... two days ago? Three? More? 

“Almost a week ago,” he supplies the answer for you when you take too long. What? That can’t be right. 

But when you think about it harder... it is right. It was right before finals week started.  

An errant hand straying up your torso distracts you. “Do you remember what I did?” 

You flush. 

“You... yeah,” is the best you can offer, too flustered to say exactly what he did to your body. That stray hand moves over your breast. Your back arches just slightly at the stimulation through the thin fabric of your bra.  

Thankfully, he lets you off the hook.  

“I made you cum three times, right?” 

“Mhm,” you hum through closed lips, tense with anticipation as he finally slides both hands down to your shorts and wordlessly directs you to lift your hips so he can pull them all the way off along with your underwear. 

“You’ve been so busy lately, huh. Working so hard.” 

You unconsciously drop your bent legs open, brain too foggy to be insecure about how utterly bare you are—allowing him to slowly rub up and down your inner thigh. 

“I’m gonna make you feel good, honey. I don’t think three times was enough for such a stressful week.” 

You gasp when his fingers finally brush your clit, whimpering slightly when they just barely skim your entrance before tracing the wetness back up.  

“Give me your hand,” Spencer says, taking his own from between your legs and holding it up. You don’t even think about it, releasing your grip on the arm he now has wrapped around you and holding it out for him. At this point, you’d do anything he tells you to without hesitation.  

He takes the proffered hand, gently guiding it back between your legs. Your fingers meet slick, soft warmth. “Do you feel how wet you are?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, seeing how your fingers glisten when you pull them away. His remain, running slowly up and down your clit. Your brain seems to be vibrating in your skull as warmth spreads throughout your body. 

“Who’s that for?” 

“You, Spencer,” you whimper. He hums in approval before the room falls into silence as you both watch his teasing intently, your breath baited as you try to be patient. But your body isn’t with the program, you keep twisting slightly, your hips cant upward. “Please, please,” the words escape on a held exhalation as you finally break, arching your back against him as your search for more friction.  

Without warning, he sinks two fingers inside you. The slight stretch after not having taken anything in a week scratches an itch you didn’t even know you had, and you let out a broken moan. 

“I know, honey. You’re so good, I know.” Spencer kisses your head as he speaks over your cry, barely moving his fingers for a few moments while you get comfortable. 

Still you’re not ready for it when he withdraws and pushes back in. 

“Look at that,” he breathes. 

“Oh, fuck,” you choke, watching how your arousal completely coats his fingers as he slowly, slowly begins to fuck you with them. 

Again you feel the vibrations in his chest as he laughs slightly—probably at your earlier insistence that you didn’t desperately want this. The laughter fades as you both become entranced by the sight of his fingers disappearing into you, and your stomach twists with pleasure. His pace remains languid, and he seems to delight in the filthy, wet sounds his hand is producing between your legs.  

“You okay, baby?” he asks after a moment, seemingly snapping out of some trance. 

“Uh huh,” you whimper. One particular drag of his fingers at just the right angle has you dizzy, and then he’s speeding up. Your jaw drops at the change in pace and your hips chase his hand, wanting even more. 

“So pretty,” he mutters as his other hand moves to spread you open.  

You attempt to shut your legs around his wrist, but instead he just ruts his fingers deeper into you, palm pressed against your clit. You attempt to twist away from the extreme stimulation, but he doesn’t allow it. 

“Too much,” you squeak, bucking your hips inadvertently. 

“No it’s not,” he states, like you’re talking about the weather. 

“Spencer, I really c- ah- can't!” 

“It feels like a lot, huh?” he asks soothingly, not letting up one bit. 

“Yes!” you cry, eyes stinging as tears begin to well. 

“You’re okay, angel. It’s just been a while.” 

You are so completely fucked. Each stroke of his hand feels like an electric jolt through your whole body. It is too much, but at the same time, pleasure is pooling deep in your stomach and at the base of your spine and you never want him to stop. You throw your head back onto Spencer’s shoulder, eyes screwed shut.  

“Relax,” he mutters, carefully bearing down the pressure across your waist with his arm to try and keep you from squirming. 

A rhythmic whine breaks through the barrier of your sealed lips as you focus all your energy into taking it, when the all-consuming need to kiss him hits you. You twist your neck to look up at him, observing the furrow of his brow and the way he’s tucked his bottom lip into a bite. Thankfully he notices your movement—his eyes dart from your own half-lidded gaze to your lips and he understands what you want. 

The kiss is messy and the angle is awkward and you’re moaning into his mouth half the time anyway, but it feels so good to have his lips moving on yours that you don’t care about any of it.  

“I—ah,” you cry into him, unable to form a coherent thought as your stomach drops like you’re mounting the peak of a roller coaster. 

His fingers again change their angle and he finds the spot inside you that makes your legs spasm. Attempting to hold in whatever noises you were making is now futile—the whimpers and pants turn to full-fledged keening moans interspersed with taut silences as you fail to breathe properly.  

Your wrench your gaze and lips away from Spencer to watch through a blurry haze the rapid movement of his hand between your bare legs, the way your hips buck and twist and the way your leg bends as he hooks his free hand under your knee and hoists it toward your chest. 

“You’re doing so well, honey. Being so good for me.” 

Moisture spills over from your eyes, tracing down your cheeks and down your neck as you begin to come with no warning and a desperate, broken cry. 

A string of praise from Spencer underscores your pleading moans, but you can’t focus on anything other than the buzzing warmth emanating from your core, the bright, pulsing white that blinds you and the feeling of stardust flowing through your veins. 

Your boyfriend continues pumping his fingers slowly in and out of you for a blissful few moments, before sensing the tail-end of your orgasm and bringing his fingers up to rub lazy circles over your clit. Aftershocks resonate from the hypersensitive area and make you clamp your legs shut around his hand as your toes curl and you attempt to squirm out of his grip. 

“Done! I’m done,” you squeak, rocking your hips back and forth to try and escape his toying. 

“Okay, okay,” he soothes, relieving the pressure of his hand between your legs and moving it to run over your stomach as you come down. 

You lie in silence for a minute, enjoying the liquid sensation weighing down your muscles and basking in the warm afterglow of your orgasm.  

“Shit,” you breathe shakily after a moment. Spencer chuckles. You manage to turn yourself over, laying your cheek on his shoulder and slipping your arms under his waist. He looks down at you as he moves on to massaging your back and bare hips, eyes full of warm adoration.  

“Feel better?” 

You hum an affirmation, wiping your eyes on his shirt. 

“Oh, honey, did I make you cry?” 

You laugh into his chest and nod, a few stray tears leaking from your shut eyes. “It’s okay. Not sad tears.” 

“What kind of tears?” 

“Orgasm tears,” you mumble, a tidal wave of exhaustion you’d been fighting all day finally washing over you. 

“That makes sense. Orgasms can be cathartic or even therapeutic depending on your head space. Major losses and life changes are often associated with sexual dysfunction but the opposite is actually just as if not more common. A spike in libido can—” 

They didn't say anything else for a second, the silence feeling almost orchestrated to make you uncomfortable, like they wanted you to connect dots that weren't there. But how could you when you had no idea what he was asking?

Not even twenty minutes ago, you’d been at your desk, minding your own business and thinking your bag was the only thing keeping you company. Then Hotch showed up out of nowhere, practically scaring you out of your skin as he leaned over and asked you to meet him in your office.

Now, here you were, shoe scuffing nervously against the threadbare carpet as your eyes darted between their inscrutable expressions. Your throat tightened, the lump lodged there refusing to budge no matter how hard you swallowed. You'd assumed you were in trouble when Hotch first asked to see you--an easy conclusion to jump to. But this? Whatever this was somehow seemed worse.

"A debate?"

"That is what I said, is it not?"

You blinked, unsure of how to read that tone. Condescending, yes definitely, but there was something strange about it, something you couldn't quite place.

Your fingers absently tugged a loose thread on your dress shirt, pulling harder as you cleared your throat, your voice coming out way smaller than intended.

"I'm... just confused, I guess. What's the debate?"

"Maybe it's better if we show you," Spencer said, his voice soft as his smile curled just enough to unsettle you.

You hesitated. It was late, the office empty except for the three of you. Alone, trapped between the two people you spent far too much time secretly thinking about. Rationally, you told yourself this was just some silly argument, probably something Morgan stirred up. But the buzzing in your veins, the pins and needles spreading through your body, said otherwise.

Before you could respond, Hotch lifted his hand, gesturing toward the chair in front of them with a simple flick of his fingers that had you moving almost on instinct. As you sank into the chair, you realized you’d been holding your breath the whole time.

They both stood in front of you, the back of their thighs propped against the edge of the desk. You were now looking up at them, flickering from one to the other at the speed of light, trying to take in every detail. They hadn’t changed since earlier—same outfits, same familiar faces—but the end of the day had left them looking just a little undone. A loose tie here, a mussed-up strand of hair there. It was the kind of messy perfection that made your knees weak.

"You guys are scaring me," you said, letting out a nervous laugh that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You weren’t really scared—of course not. Trusting them was part of the job, part of the bond you’d built over time. No, you were concerned. They just, well, seemed different.

Hotch’s lips twitched—a fleeting movement that might’ve been considered a smirk if you’d looked closer. "Don't be scared. We just need your perspective on something."

"My perspective?"

"Yes," Spencer said, his tone matter-of-fact as he stepped closer, positioning himself just behind your chair. "I was explaining to Hotch that sexual arousal is inherently scientific. It’s a complex interplay of neural pathways, hormonal responses, and genetic predispositions."

Your eyes went wide, your lips parting in an attempt to respond, but no sound came. You closed your mouth, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

"Is this for a case?"

They ignored your question.

"And I was explaining to Reid, arousal can't be contained to a scientific notion like he would prefer," Hotch said. "It's about instinct, trust and connection between two people. You can’t experience it fully with someone you don’t trust."

Spencer jumped in before the thought could settle. "That’s an oversimplification. There are countless studies proving that arousal can occur from sensory stimuli alone. It’s chemical--a surge of dopamine, norepinephrine, and oxytocin--a cocktail specifically designed to elicit a reaction, trust aside."

"So that’s your take, huh?" Hotch said, crossing his arms. "All chemicals and no human connection? How poetic."

Spencer's ears tinged pink, but he didn't back down. "It’s not poetry; it’s fact. Science observes what’s already there--it doesn’t need embellishment."

Spencer stepped behind you. His hands moving to rest on your shoulders, causing every hair on your body to stand up at attention.

"Relax," he said, but there was a smile in his voice that immediately made you tense. "Funny thing about the human body—it always reacts before you even realize what’s happening."

As if to demonstrate, his lips brushed the curve of your shoulder. You sucked in a sharp breath, the warmth of his mouth spreading through you in a way you couldn't ignore. His voice was lower now, more intimate. "See? It’s your body doing exactly what it was designed to do."

Your heart hammered in your ribs, so loud and fast you wondered if they could hear it too. Another nervous laugh bubbled in your chest, but you swallowed it down, desperate to maintain even a shred of control. This was wrong, wasn't it? This wasn’t what you would consider in the realms of normal. Your thoughts tripped over themselves in their rush to sort reason from desire.

"Spencer," you started, voice shaky. 

Whatever protest you’d meant to say was lost when Hotch stepped closer. His eyes, cold and calculating, bore into you as if stripping away all pretense. The darkness you found in his eyes managed to pin you in place, and with a sharp nudge of his shoe, he parted your feet.

The ground beneath you felt less solid, less yours.

Heat pooled in your stomach. "Hotch..."

"You trust me, don't you?" he asked in a low murmur, his voice smooth as silk and just as binding. He leaned in closer, the heat of his body bleeding into yours. "This isn't about science alone. Something natural. Instinct."

His thumb traced along your jaw, coaxing your face upward as though he were sculpting you from marble.  Behind you, Spencer’s lips found their mark—the tender hollow just below your ear—and pressed a kiss there that sent a tingling ache down your body, locking you in place. Any reservations melted, slipping away like water through your fingers. 

"So, I'll ask again, since we didn't get a clear answer the first time..." He leaned closer. "Do you want to help us settle this debate?"

"Are you asking me to pick a side? I don't know if I'm qualified for that..." You asked, tilting your head slightly as you tried to inject some levity into the situation, though your voice faltered halfway through. You could feel your ears burning. "I mean I would probably have to do more research."

Spencer’s laugh was soft, almost amused. 

“We can help with that," he murmured, dropping another kiss along the side of your neck before pulling back, his hands sliding down to rest on your shoulders. 

His fingers pressed gently at first, testing, before he began to knead the tight muscles.

You resented how easily your body responded, how quickly your muscles gave up their resistance under his large palms.

"You're tense," Spencer remarked, his thumbs pressing into a tight knot near the base of your neck. His tone was coldly clinical, as though he were diagnosing a patient. "You working her too hard, Hotch?"

"I don't think that's it," Hotch said with a smirk, his gaze bouncing between Spencer and you. "Maybe she's just tense because you overthink everything, Reid. She needs someone to help her relax."

His lips were on yours before you could think of a response, the kiss starting sweet, almost teasing, like he was testing your reaction. The taste of coffee clung to him—dark and bitter, but impossibly addictive, like something you hadn’t known you craved until now. The kiss deepened gradually, becoming slow and sloppy, his tongue poking and prodding and melting onto your own. 

Hotch's hands skimmed your thighs, the pads of his fingers grazing the fabric of your skirt before slipping underneath. He moved slowly, excruciatingly so, like he was savoring every second.

Simultaneously, Spencer's hands made their way upward from your shoulders, their path igniting every nerve along the way until his fingers found their way into your hair. He twirled a strand between his fingers, his lips curling into a smirk you didn't need to see to feel, like he was testing the limits of how far you'd let him go. 

"You're even more responsive than I imagined," Spencer murmured and your skin flushed even hotter. "It’s incredible—someone with a mind like yours, undone so easily. Just a few touches, and you’re completely at our mercy."

Hotch chuckled as he pulled away, the sound low and rough, brushing against you like a physical sensation. "I told you, Reid. It's not just science. You can't predict this."

You wanted to respond, to fight against the unraveling they seemed so sure of. But the words stuck, catching in your throat and crumbling into nothing. Instead, a soft, almost involuntary whimper slipped out, betraying you in a way you couldn’t take back as Hotch's hand moved higher, brushing so close to your clit that your entire body tensed. The air in the room felt cooler now, almost biting against your flushed skin, every sensation magnified and impossible to ignore.

"Tell me you want this."

The words weren't a question, but more a challenge, a demand, and the look in Hotch's eyes left no doubt about how much he needed to hear it. Behind you, Spencer's grip tightened.

"Come on, sweetheart," Spencer murmured as his free hand traced the line of your neck, his fingers barely brushing your skin. "We'll give you what you want, we just need to hear you say it."

The desperation simmering beneath your skin boiled over, spilling out in a single, breathless word.

"Please." Your voice cracked, and Spencer’s smirk widened, but you swallowed and pushed past the heat rising in your chest. "Please."

Hotch's smirk doubled in size. "Please what?"

"Please. I want this."

The admission was out before you could reel it back, naked exposed, entirely too honest. Everything between the three of you seemed to snap like a rubber band stretched too taut.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Hotch asked softly, voice laced with approval, as if the words themselves were a reward. His touch was dizzying, igniting a fire beneath your skin that spread like wildfire. "Good girl."

His hand shifted before you could think, his fingers finally grazing the heat between your legs. The pressure coursed through you like a live wire, body jerking in response as a broken gasp escaped your lips. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut. 

"Look at you," Hotch said. The corners of his mouth lifted as his fingers pressed a little firmer, circling over the damp fabric that clung to you. "I've barely even started."

Your breath hitched audibly, hips jerking forward without permission, body moving on its own accord to press closer to his hand. Embarrassment heated your face, but the ache building inside you drowned out any thought of stopping.

The motion wasn't lost of them.

"Would you look at that?" Spencer said. He tugged gently on your hair, tilting your head back so your eyes met his. "Completely pliant. You're making this way too easy for us."

Hotch hummed low in agreement, the sound reverberating like a growl as his eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, stayed locked on you. His thumb shifted, pressing over your clit through the damp fabric. 

"She's not even trying to hide how much she wants it."

"Tell me how it feels," he demanded, eyes still on yours, his voice laced with something that made your cheeks burn. "I need to hear it."

"It's so---so good, I--" you stammered, but before you could finish, a moan escaped, cutting off your sentence and leaving you breathless. His thumb pressed a little harder, moving under the fabric and circling over the most sensitive spot. Your head fell back, a plea slipping free before you could stop it. "Please."

"Full sentences, sweetheart."

Your lips parted, trembling with the effort to comply, but no sound came--voice stolen by the relentless flood of sensation that was driving your every movement.

And them, abruptly, Hotch's fingers stilled. His hand remained pressed against you, unmoving, and the loss of friction tore a helpless sound from your lips. Your hips shifted on their own, searching for what you'd lost, and his smirk deepened.

"Tell me," he said again, voice much sharper now, cutting through the fog that had managed to wrap itself around your thoughts. "Tell me what you need."

"More," you begged. Begged. How embarrassing you must've looked. "Please, I need more. Don't stop."

"She's begging for it now." Spencer chuckled as if reading your mind, breath brushing the back of your neck. "I told you, Hotch--arousal is purely physiological. She can’t help herself. It’s just a chain reaction of stimuli."

"Maybe. But it's not just science, Reid. Look at her." Hotch asked, his voice carrying a dark edge as he finally, finally pressed a finger inside of you. Your body tightened immediately, the stretch stealing the breath from your lungs. "But this? This isn’t something you can reduce to biology. This is her body needing more than it’s ever allowed itself to admit."

Hotch's finger worked with devastating precision, curling just right, again and again against that agonizingly tender spot that ripped gasps from your throat like confessions. Your body writhed beneath him, but even as your hips wiggled, you couldn't pull your gaze from his. His eyes held you there, in complete control, smirk deepening as he read you like an open book. Every flicker of thought you tried to hide, every small reaction, he caught it all—and he made sure you knew it.

You couldn't decide which was affecting you more--the maddeningly slow pressure of his touch or the way they were speaking. They spoke like they already owned you, like there was no reason to resist, no point in fighting. And, gods, you didn’t think they were wrong. No matter how hard you tried to hold on, they had you right where they wanted you. 

"There it is," Hotch murmured. "You feel that, don't you? You're doing so well, angel. Taking me so perfectly."

"Hotch." His name fell from your lips like a prayer. 

You didn't even know why you'd said it--what you were hoping to gain--but everything in you burned with the knowledge that you couldn't hold on much longer.

"She's struggling to keep up," Spencer said softly, lips brushing against shell of your ear. "Look at her, Hotch. She's shaking. Her breathing's uneven. Her body's begging for release, but she hasn't figured out to ask for it yet."

A whimper slipped out, frustration bubbling in your chest as your hips rocked against Hotch's hand. They were talking about you like you weren't even there, like you were a case study. You should have felt humiliated, objectified even, but instead, you felt stripped bare in the most exquisite way.

"She doesn't need to ask," Hotch said with a small, knowing smile.

Your body curved further into him, thighs trembling as the pleasure built higher and higher, cresting like a wave about to crash over you. The tension in your core was unbearable, a heat winding tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

"I-- I can't--" You stammered, your voice breathy and uneven as your head fell back against Spencer’s chest. Your hands gripped the armrests, fingers digging into the wood, desperate for some sense of control even as it slipped further and further away.

"Yes, you can," Hotch interrupted, free hand moving to your waist. "Let go. Give it to me."

Spencer's lips brushed against your neck again. "He's right. You're doing so well. Stop fighting it."

The words washed over you like warm water, pulling you under. The pressure building in your cunt was overwhelming, a feeling that refused to let up no matter how tightly you held on. 

And then it happened, your mouth caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob, the feeling swallowed you whole. Your back arched sharply off the chair, muscles locking tight, pulling you apart piece by piece. The world around you seemed to disappear. It was blinding, white-hot and all-consuming. 

You couldn't catch your breath.

"Aaron--"

The name came out of your mouth like trying out a word in a language you didn't quite know. It tasted strange on your tongue, too personal, too intimate, but it was all you could manage as the aftershocks rippled through you, thighs clenching around his body, writhing as he drew out every last ounce of your orgasm.

Hotch movements slowed, thankfully, his eyes giving way to something almost tender as he watched you slump back into the chair, completely spent. Behind you, Spencer's hands slid down to your shoulders as you head lolled against his chest.

"You exceeded expectations," Hotch said, thumb brushing over your hip. "I couldn’t have asked for more, angel."

Your heart fluttered at the sound of his praise, and despite yourself, an exhausted little smile broke free, curving your lips.

Hotch straightened, his hands leaving your hips as they moved to sit in the chair behind his desk. His eyes never leaving yours, though.

"I don't know if she can handle what you're thinking, Reid," Hotch said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. He looked like he already knew the answer but wanted Spencer to prove it. "She's sensitive right now."

Your breath stuttered at his words as your eyes darted to Spencer. He was now crouching beside your chair. His hands slid to your knees, searing through the delicate material of your skirt.

"She can handle everything I’m thinking."

You nodded, the movement almost mechanical, though you weren't even sure what you were agreeing to. But the way he was looking at you, like you were something precious, something to be studied, adored, made it impossible to contradict him.

"See?" Spencer said. He glanced back at Hotch, as though daring him to object, before his focus returned to you. "She can do this. Can't you, sweetheart?"

"I..."

The single syllable hung in the air as you tried to catch your breath. Your body still buzzed, every nerve was alive, raw, and the idea of more felt impossible--too much to beat. You thought about saying no--about giving yourself a break--but the moment Spencer's hands slipped from your knees to your calves, those thoughts scattered.

"I think so," you whispered.

"Good," Spencer said, his fingers curling back around your knees as he gently parted them. "We'll take it slow. I'll take care of you. You'll like this, promise."

His movements were slow as he shifted from crouching to kneeling in front of you. His fingers skimmed over your thighs, exploring each inch as if committing them to memory.

"Arousal," Spencer began, his voice was sound enough but you could hear the excitement beneath it, "is a fascinating process. It's not just about the physical stimulation, though that certainly plays a role. It's about the anticipation, the mind's ability to create pleasure before the body even experiences it."

His lips ghosted over your knee, so soft it was barely there. You bit down on your lip, hands curling tighter around the armrests of the chair as his lips moved higher. Each kiss was open, his mouth painting a trail along your skin.

"Now this isn't ideal," Spencer murmured, his lips trailing across your inner thigh, nearly disappearing under your skirt as he spoke. "Hotch has already done most of the work for me. Your body's already responding, your brain's flooded with neurochemicals, making you far more sensitive to touch."

He glanced up at you. "Not that I mind, of course. If anything, it'll just make my observations more interesting."

Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, your head sinking back into the chair as his voice and touch overwhelmed you in equal measure. 

"You know," Spencer continued, lips hovering near the now soaked fabric, "this level of sensitivity creates what’s known as a positive feedback loop. Each touch builds on the last, increasing your body’s response exponentially."

"Spencer," you breathed, voice barely audible.

His fingers hooked the edge of your underwear and drew the fabric aside, letting the cool air kiss your heated skin. The flush crept up from your neck to your ears as his eyes roamed over you, unflinching, analytical, like he was studying a work of art.

"Beautiful."

Spencer didn't bother with warnings, fastening his hands around your ass and pulling you to the end of the chair.

He leaned in, his tongue flattened against your most sensitive core. The sudden contact sent a jolt of pleasure through your system. Instinctively, your body tried to retreat from the sudden overstimulation, but his hands tightened around you, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

Your eyes blinked open, hazy and unfocused, but they landed on Hotch's. His lips curved into a knowing smirk, one that said, I knew you'd fall apart like this. His expression radiated smug satisfaction, as though every sound and tremor wracking your body belonged entirely to him. 

Hotch's hand moved slowly to his belt, the click of the buckle snapping you back to awareness, if only for a moment. The sound demanded your attention, but Spencer's tongue refused to let you focus on anything else, moans falling from your lips left and right. Each flick of his tongue was devastating, the sensation teetering between too much and absolutely perfect.

Your sounds spilled freely now, uncontrolled and unrelenting, and Hotch's smirk deepened. His fingers worked deftly to free himself from the confines of his slacks.

"Do you know how breathtaking you look right now?" Hotch muttered. "Do you feel it? The way he’s taking you apart piece by piece?"

Your eyes darted to him, mouth falling open as you caught the way his hand wrapped around his cock, stroking in time with the pace Spencer was setting.

"Gods you taste amazing. It's like your body was made for this," Spencer said, voice muffled against you as his tongue continued its relentless assault.

"A work of art," Hotch agreed with a grunt. "And she's ours right now."

The possessiveness in his tone made you move your hips against Spencer's face. You couldn't think, couldn't focus on anything but the fire building inside you again—this time even quicker than the last.

"Too much," you gasped, though your body betrayed you, hips tilting toward Spencer's mouth. "I... I don't know if I can--"

"Yes, you can," Hotch said firmly, and you felt a bit of deja vu, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach tighten. "You're going to give us one more. You can do that, can't you, sweetheart?"

Spencer's name was spilling from your lips in a wrecked cry as that same feeling took over. The pressure, the heat, the overwhelming tenderness of his tongue never slowed as you rode the crest of pleasure. Every muscle in your body tensing before inevitably releasing, leaving you completely dumb and trembling in the chair. Your chest heaved, trying desperately to pull air into lungs that felt too weak to function.

As your climax wracked through you in wave after devastating wave, Hotch’s head tipped back slightly, his jaw tightening as he reached his own peak. Your name slipped from his lips, his hand stilling as he spilled into his own palm.

Spencer's hand kept their place, steadying your thighs as his lips softened their ministrations before finally pulling back.

You slumped back into the chair, utterly spent, limbs heavy and trembling like you'd been wrung out and left to dry. Your head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded.

"Look at her," Spencer murmured. "She’s completely blissed out. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it."

Hotch let out a chuckle, now somehow beside you, resting one hand on the armrest of your chair and brushing a thumb along the line of your jaw. "How are you feeling, sweetheart? Still with us?"

You blinked. Then blinked again, the haze in your mind refusing to clear as the corners of your lips pulled upward into a soft, lazy smile. "I-I'm good."

Your voice was hoarse, weak, and you weren't even sure if it was audible, but the satisfied sound that followed seem to get the point across.

Spencer smiled at that, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin as he kept the position between your thighs. "Do you even know where you are right now?"

You let out a small, breathless laugh. "Here... I'm here."

"Are you sure about that?" His thumb drew itself across your bottom lip, his touch soft enough to make your already heated skin feel like it might burn. "Because I'm not so convinced."

"Let her catch her breath, Hotch," Spencer said, though the grin on his face betrayed any real concern. He leaned forward, brushing the hair back from your face. "I think we've properly ruined her."

Your cheeks heated at the words, the grin on your face only growing wider as the warmth in your chest bloomed bright. You couldn't summon the energy to argue with them--not that you wanted to.

"Do you need anything?" Spencer asked, his voice dropping to something quieter. "Water? A blanket?"

"I..." you started, blinking slowly as you tried to bring your thoughts into order. It felt like trying to gather smoke in your hands. "No, I think I'm okay..."

Hotch hummed, his hand moving from your jaw to your shoulder. "You’re more than okay. You were perfect. You took everything we gave you and gave us even more in return. Didn’t she, Reid?"

"Absolutely," Spencer agreed, his lips twitching into a knowing smile. "Better than either of us could’ve imagined."

The praise made your stomach flip, another breathless laugh slipping from you as you shook your head weakly. "Stop it."

"Stop what?" Spencer asked, feigning innocence as his hands continued their soothing paths along your skin. "Telling the truth? We can’t help it. You earned every word."

Hotch chuckled at that, straightening up slightly as he rested against the desk, his gaze never leaving you. 

"So," he said, the faintest edge of amusement creeping into his tone. "What’s the verdict? Do you agree with Reid’s theory or mine?"

Your head was still swimming, and even though the words were right there, they felt like they were just out of reach. "I..."

Both men watched you intently.

"I think..." you started, your voice cracking slightly before you cleared your throat. "I think I might need to do more research."

Spencer grinned at that, leaning in closer, his hand brushing against your cheek as he spoke. "I had a feeling you’d say that."

Hotch's stances widened. "Well, sweetheart, whenever you’re ready to continue your research, you know exactly where to find us."

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“How’s the case?” he asks, shaking the thought off.

JJ sighs. “It’s fine. Nothing out of the usual…” She scoffs. “If you count any part of this job ‘usual.’”

“Anything I can help with later?”

She pauses. “Spence…”

“I know,” he says before she can finish. “Just offering.”

A dramatic sigh rises from the backseat. 

“Do we have to go to Story Hour?” Henry asks, with an attitude that far exceeds his eight years.

JJ laughs softly. “Oh boy.”

Spencer glances at Henry in he rearview mirror. “We’re already here, bud.”

“Story Hour’s for babies,” he says.

“No, it’s not!” Michael protests immediately.

On the phone, JJ chuckles. “Henry can go off and do his own thing if he wants. They’re here all the time, so the staff know them. But the librarian who does Story Hour is Michael’s favorite. All the kids’ favorite, really. She tells stories like no one else. Seriously, I—” JJ cuts herself off, and Spencer hears Emily talking to her in the background.

“Focus on the case,” Spencer says, trying to push down his bitterness. “We’ll check in later.”

“Thanks. I’ll—well, hey, Spence?”

“Yes?”

“We miss you out here.”

Spencer swallows. “Talk soon,” he manages before hanging up.

He exhales heavily and lets the phone drop into his lap. For a moment, he just sits there, hands resting on the wheel, staring at the clean lines of the library entrance.

We miss you out here.

JJ had said it as a condolence, a comfort, but it lands heavier than he wishes it did.

Of course he misses it, them, his team. But more than that, he misses the purpose—the feeling of knowing exactly where he fits, and who he is.

Milburn stole that from him. And now, here, in this strange, static season of his life, he doesn't feel like he belongs anywhere at all, doesn’t know who he really is, anymore. 

Whenever he tries to answer those inquiries, all he sees are cell walls.

A knife in his hand.

A blurred figure that he thinks he recognizes calling to him softly.

Blood—

He flexes his fingers against the wheel.

It’s fine.

He’ll be fine.

“Can we go now?” Michael asks from behind him.

Spencer blinks.

Right. Here. Now. Babysitting.

“Of course,” he says, squashing the knot in his chest. “Let’s go.”

The early summer air is already dense with heat, but thankfully, cool air greets them as they step into the library alongside the low drone of soft voices and the rustling of turning pages. The familiar atmosphere of a library soothes something in Spencer, but before Spencer can even look for the children’s section, Michael releases Spencer’s hand and races forward, calling a name he doesn’t recognize.

And that’s when Spencer’s eyes land on you.

Your head snaps towards the sound, and you break out into a smile that leaves Spencer breathless.

“Hi, Michael!” you chirp, crouching down as Michael launches himself into your arms. “You here for Story Hour?”

“Uh-huh!”

You beam at him and brush a lock of hair off his forehead. “I’m so glad to hear that!”

Then, you turn your smile up towards Spencer, and he feels his face heat despite the cool blast of AC.

“Hey,” you whisper to Michael, “your dad’s looking a little different. Did he get a haircut?”

Michael giggles infectiously. “That’s Uncle Spencer!”

“Oops, sorry, let me just—” You pretend to rub your eyes vigorously to Michael’s delight before squinting back up at Spencer. “Oh, yeah, that’s definitely not your dad. Uncle Spencer, huh?”

Spencer clears his throat. “Godfather, technically.”

“Oh, fun!” You raise your brow playfully. “Are you a fairy godfather or mob godfather?”

“Uh, I don’t—”

“Neither,” Henry huffs from beside him. “He’s a doctor.”

“A doctor godfather?” you say, intrigued. “That’s a new one.”

Spencer nods quickly. “Yes—well, not that kind of doctor. I have PhDs in chemistry, mathematics, and engineering. But I work for the FBI, in the Behavioral Analysis Unit.” He hesitates, suddenly aware that he’s said too much but unable to stop himself. “With their mom. She’s on a case. I’m—not. So I’m, uh—babysitting.”

Your lips twitch, and though Spencer doesn’t usually notice when he does this, he knows he’s talked too much, listed too many things in a situation that really didn’t call for it. 

“Wow,” you say slowly. “That’s quite the resumé there.”

Spencer opens his mouth, scrambling for something to say that will somehow make up for rattling off his credentials, but before he gets a chance, you turn to Henry.

“And are you finally joining us for Story Hour again?”

Henry shakes his head. “I’m too old.”

“Hang on, hang on. I don’t think I heard you right.” You pantomimed cleaning out your ears. “Come again?”

“I said I’m too old!” Henry repeats, stubbornly fighting a smile.

“What!” you cry. “You’re never too old for Story Hour!” You turn to Spencer, and his heart stutters in his chest. “Isn’t that right, Uncle Spencer?”

Spencer huffs a laugh. “She’s right,” he says, his voice coming out steadier than he feels.

“See,” you say, grinning. “And you know what they say—Doctor Godfather Uncle Spencers never lie.”

Spencer laughs again at the twinkle in your eye, ducking his head, and Henry groans.

“Fiiiiine,” Henry says, though Spencer can already tell that Henry’s sour mood has flipped entirely.

Frankly, so has Spencer’s.

“Wonderful!” You point to the corner, where there’s already a few young children sitting on individual circle rugs of various colors in front of a stool. “Can you help Michael pick a circle? I’ll be over in just a second.”

“I wanna red one!” Michael says as they make their way to the rugs.

You laugh under your breath as you stand, watching Michael carefully assess the rugs.

“Red is a solid choice,” you murmur. You cross your arms and glance at Spencer.

He nods. “Red is actually typically thought of as the most attention-grabbing color, which is because red light has the longest wavelength in the visible light spectrum, and therefore, makes it one of the most visible colors in the color spectrum. That’s why it’s often used as a color of warning—like on stop signs, fire engines, and sirens.”

“Makes sense,” you say, smiling faintly. “And we wouldn’t want Michael to go unnoticed, would we?”

Spencer lets out a slight chuckle, glancing back toward the rugs, where Henry and Michael are seated on blue and red circles, respectively. He tries not to focus on how your voice dips slightly when you crack a joke.

Tries.

“Well, Doctor Godfather Uncle Spencer,” you say, drawing out the title, “I have to grab our books for Story Hour. Most of the parents usually head over to the adult section to get an hour of free babysitting from me, but you’re welcome to claim a circle for yourself if you’d like.” Your smile drops. “Be warned, though. I take my craft very, very seriously.”

There’s something playful—mischievous, almost—in your expression, like you can actually tell just how easily you’ve thrown him off-kilter. 

And for some reason, Spencer has the distinct, absurd thought that he’s in trouble.

“I’ll do my best to keep up,” he manages. “I’ve heard you put on quite a performance.”

“It’s the showman in me,” you say, winking—actually winking—before turning on your heel and walking back to the front desk.

Spencer swallows hard.

What… what just happened?

But before he can even process all of that, Michael calls for him: “Uncle Spencer, come sit!”

And somehow, Spencer finds himself on a circle, Michael settling comfortably in his lap. Henry sits cross-legged beside them, feigning disinterest but not moving away. A handful of children join, with two other parents standing nearby, before you finally make your way over with a stack of books.

You settle onto the stool at the front of the reading rug, grinning at the audience as you set all the books but one on the floor beside you.

“Alright, friends,” you say, “who here has a teddy bear back home?”

Several kids, including Michael, launch their hands in the air.

“I do!” shouts a little girl in the front. “But I have a panda bear!”

“I have a panda, too!” another boy adds.

“Whoa, awesome,” you say. “Well, this first story is about a very special teddy bear—”

“Is it a panda?” the first girl asks.

“It is not,” you answer. “But you’ll see. Before I start, though, can everyone turn on their listening ears for me?” You lay the book in your lap before gently tugging both of your ears with a quiet “beep.”

All of the kids except for Henry do the same. Spencer feels the corners of his lips curl upwards.

“Thank you so much, friends!” you say. “Now, like I said, this story is about a very special teddy bear. This bear has been waiting for a long time for someone to take him home.”

Michael perks up, eyes wide.

You lean forward, as if inviting the audience to conspire with you, and drop your voice slightly as you add, “But first… he has a little adventure to go on.”

You lift the book and show the cover. “This is Corduroy by Don Freeman.”

And you begin to read.

Spencer isn’t sure what he expected, but it isn’t this.

JJ wasn’t exaggerating. You don’t just read; you perform.

Corduroy’s voice is small and hopeful, both his excitement and trepidation brimming in your tone. The Night Watchman is gruff but soft. And the little girl, Lisa, is gentle and sweet.

And the story itself—Spencer knows it. Of course he does. It’s one of the most beloved children’s books of the 20th century. But somehow, the way you read it makes him feel like he’s hearing it for the first time.

Corduroy searching for his missing button.

Corduroy climbing the furniture.

Corduroy realizing, at the very end, that he didn’t need to be fixed to be worthy of a friend.

Spencer’s well into his thirties, far too old to be so enamored by this story, but for the first time in months (and maybe even his entire life), he just… stops thinking.

He just listens.

At the end, you snap the book shut and beam. “And that’s the end! What did we think?”

A round of cheers erupts from the kids. Michael claps enthusiastically, nearly smacking Spencer in the face. Henry, ever trying to be cool about everything, nods.

You launch into the next book—The Snail and the Whale by Julia Donaldson—and then the next, and then the next, until somehow, an entire hour passes in a blink.

When the hour ends, and the kids begin dispersing, Henry and Michael disappear into the stacks, leaving Spencer standing awkwardly near the reading corner, hands tucked into his pockets.

You stand and stretch, rolling out your shoulders. “So, what did you think?”

It takes him a second to realize you’re talking to him. “Oh! It was… engaging.”

You tsk. “Engaging, huh? You know what—it’s not exactly the rave review I was hoping for, but I’ll take it.”

Spencer gently laughs. “No—sorry—I meant it as a compliment. You’re—” He stops himself, considering. “You have a way of holding people’s attention. It’s impressive, especially given that you managed to hold the attention of young children for an hour. A normal attention span for any child is usually three to five minutes per year of age. So it’s… it’s just impressive, is what I’m trying to say.”

He stops himself from adding that he could certainly listen to you talk for much longer than an hour.

“Are you sure you’re not that kind of doctor?” you ask.

“Pretty sure.” 

“Well,” you say, tilting your head slightly, “thank you for the compliment. High praises from an FBI agent-slash-maybe-medical-doctor-slash-fairy-mob-godfather-uncle.”

Spencer laughs again, this time, louder and more abrupt that he’s heard himself in months. “I think the title is getting a bit too elaborate.”

“I disagree. Dare I say, it's not elaborate enough. Don’t worry; by next week, I’ll make it longer.”

Spencer ducks his head to hide how wide his smile is. 

You lean slightly against the shelf behind you, eyes flickering with amusement as you watch him. “You’re welcome back anytime. Story Hour is every week, but no pressure. I’m sure you have a very demanding schedule of protecting the ‘free world’ and whatnot—”

“I don’t,” Spencer blurts out. “I’m on a… sabbatical—” That’s one way to put it. “—for the Summer. So I’m babysitting… often.“

Your face brightens, and Spencer isn’t sure what to do with the way it makes his chest feel strangely light.

“Well,” you say, a little softer this time, “if you happen to also be babysitting next week, you know where to find us.”

Spencer nods, shifting his weight. “Right. Here. In the children’s section.”

“Very astute, Agent Doctor Godfather Uncle Spencer. Putting those three PhDs and investigative skills to work, I see.”

He laughs again, shaking his head, and tries to keep himself from melting onto the floor. He doesn’t know why he feels like this—like something warm is pressing against the edges of his ribcage, like the library is just the backdrop to something far more important.

All he knows is that, of all the information stored in his brain, somehow the precise curve of your smile seems the most precious.

Michael comes barreling back into the room, Henry following at a much more measured pace. “Can we get ice cream?” Michael asks, latching himself onto Spencer’s leg.

It shakes him out of his stupor. “Oh! Uh—” He doesn’t know why, but he glances up at you, as if for some kind of confirmation.

You glance down at Michael, your expression soft. “It seems like the right call. Story Hour is exhausting work.”

“For you or for them?” Spencer asks.

You shrug, humming. “Depends on the day.”

Michael tugs on his sleeve. “Pleeeeeeeease!”

And Spencer barely even nods before Michael cheers in victory.

“Henry!” Michael cries. “We’re getting ice cream!”

“I know. I’m right here,” Henry grumbles.

Spencer doesn’t miss how you bite the inside of your cheek to hide a laugh, and he can’t help himself from noticing how it puckers your lips just so.

“Enjoy your ice cream, guys,” you say to the boys. “And maybe I’ll see you next week?”

The question is directed at Spencer—he can tell. Spencer should just say maybe and leave it at that instead of reading into it.

It’s just a polite invitation. You’re just doing your job.

And, if you knew the truth, you probably wouldn’t be looking at him so softly or joking with him like you’re old friends instead of strangers. The scar on his right palm, still red and angry, itches, burns, with his deceit.

And the lightness in his chest dissolves.

He swallows. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he just says.

“I hope you do.”

As he ushers the boys out the door, he steals one last glance behind him. You’re kneeling down to talk with another little girl, listening to her chatter as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

Someone is saying your name a whole bunch of times. 

You turn, blinking, and there’s Spencer, glowing softly in the yellow light of the kitchen. 

He looks so concerned. He strokes your cheek but you feel it less than you seem to observe it from a distance. Says your name one more time, eyes softening a little. 

“What?” You murmur, as if in a trance. 

He blinks. 

“You dropped a mug. You’re bleeding.”

Well, that’s news to you. It seems like a preposterous claim, but you look down, and sure enough—that coffee mug which had disappeared from the sink is in pieces on the floor and the tile is smeared in red. 

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? Are you okay?”

“I’m bleeding.”

His brows furrow. 

“Yes, I see that. Do you remember breaking the mug?”

The mug. Oh, yeah. Now that you think about it—yeah, you do remember dropping it. Watching it break into a hundred pieces. That noise, of dishes breaking and clattering—suddenly you inhale deeply. 

“I broke it,” you whisper. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I broke it—”

The memory of the sound is cacophonous, deafening and completely inescapable. 

“Hey, hey. You’re okay. Nobody’s upset at you. It’s just a mug.”

But that doesn’t make it any easier to lower your shoulders from where they’ve tensed to your ears, because once a dish breaks, there’s always a second of terrible, tremulous silence, before it explodes and somebody is screaming, painting every wall in the house with their rage. You squeeze your eyes shut. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, you whisper, wordlessly, just as you did so many years ago. 

“It’s just a mug,” he says again like that will help. “I’m gonna clean it up, okay? It’s gonna be like it never even happened.”

And that does provide some comfort—the fanciful idea of undoing. Of closing your eyes against the something terrible and wishing it away like you’ve always done and having it actually be gone when you open them. Spencer must be magic. 

“I’m gonna clean it up, but I want to make sure your foot is okay first. Is that okay?”

You take a deep, shuddering sniffle and nod, but that warm fog is pouring down the corridors in your brain like smoke in a maze. It obscures everything. Your feelings. The pain. The fear, thank god. There must be shards in your foot. Spencer apologizes from below as he peels off your bloodied sock, where he’s pulling the first aid kid from under the sink and working on you, but you don’t feel the pain. You don’t feel anything except the pressure of the bandage around your foot as he stands. 

He says your name again. 

“Hm?”

You’re scaring him. That much is evident from the look on his face. You wish you could stop, but it’s like you’re in a dream again. The brief clarity that moment of panic had provided is gone. 

“Can we just—can we go sit down?” He asks, already putting a hand on your waist. Sure. Why not. He supports your weight as you hobble around the broken mess on the ground and all the way to the couch. Oh. It’s too soft. Too forgiving. You sink into it too deeply, like you’re being swallowed, or breathed into a pair of monstrous lungs. 

Spencer is crouching in front of you, pushing hair from your face. 

“What’s going on, baby?”

“Nothing,” you murmur. “I’m fine. I just… dropped… a mug.”

“You didn’t remember or notice that you dropped the mug until I pointed it out. You washed your hands twice. You were about to try and wash a knife without a sponge.”

“No, I’m just… I’m tired. It’s…”

You trail off again, any further attempt at a meager excuse walled off a thick swirling fog. It’s like you’re trying to walk but you can’t see more than a few feet ahead of you. You can hardly think, let alone speak. 

Spencer frowns deeper. 

“It’s what?”

You pause for a long time. 

“Um… Don’t remember.”

“You’re scaring me,” he whispers, and again you wonder why, only you can’t really wonder at the moment. “Did you hit your head? Where did you come from?”

“When?” You ask. 

“Just now. When you came home, where were you coming from?”

“Diane. I was, um—I was at therapy.”

“No stops on your way home?”

“No,” you say. You’re pretty sure. You actually have no memory of what happened between leaving Diane’s office and walking through the front door. 

“Did you feel okay before you started therapy?”

“… Yeah.”

“So this started after?”

“What?”

“Your inability to put a sentence together, honey. You’re really out of it.”

“Oh.” Your eyes sting. It feels like an insult. “‘M fine.”

He reaches up to cup your cheeks. 

“What did you and Diane talk about?” He asks gently, a little less anxiously, like he’s figured out what’s wrong with you. 

At this, your mouth goes dry. What was before swirling fog has become a hulking black wall of solid obsidian. There’s nothing. 

“Um…”

“Can you remember?”

Something hot traces the length of your cheek from your eye. 

“No,” you whisper, sounding utterly distraught. “No, I can’t remember. I can't remember anything.”

More tears are coming now. How could you forget? You’re trying so hard to remember. How did you even get home?

“Okay. That’s okay, angel. You don’t have to remember.”

“I’m sorry. Something’s… wrong…”

“Don’t be sorry. I think you just got really overwhelmed at therapy and now your brain is trying to protect you. Can you tell me what you’re feeling in your body?”

Your… your body?

Nothing. It feels like nothing. 

“Why don’t you try and take a deep breath? I’ll do it with you.” He brings your hand to his chest, and your finger twitches against the hard abalone button. His chest expands, and you try to do the same, letting the cool rush of air down your throat. The room spins. 

“Woah,” you mutter, suddenly hyper aware of your breathing. 

“Slow down. We’re okay. You’re safe.”

He leads you through a few more deep breaths and you manage to get to a place where they don’t feel so precarious and unsteady. Your head sparkles with fresh oxygen and everything is too much. After a moment you’re settling your elbows on your knees and burying your face in your hands. Spencer rubs soothing lines up and down the side of your legs. 

“How do you feel now?”

“Not good,” you whisper. “My foot hurts.”

He hums. 

“Technically I shouldn’t let you take Ibuprofen because it’s a blood thinner and you have an open wound, but I think it’ll be okay just this once. You okay if I go get some?”

You nod, rubbing at your eyes with your palms until you see stars. The brain fog hasn’t lifted, but it’s thinned considerably. 

He comes back a few moments later with two round pills and a glass of cold water. The shock of it in your hand zaps your brain and you almost drop it but Spencer seems to have anticipated this so he hadn’t let go of the glass yet. He administers the pills once your hand is steady and you take them, feeling the river of ice down your throat and into the pool of your stomach. It seems to travel outward, extending into every reach of your body, bringing the sensorial world back to the forefront of your consciousness. Spencer must notice the goosebumps because he’s unfolding a blanket and wrapping it around you tightly, before pulling you into his arms where he sits and tucking your head beneath his chin. You let your eyes flutter shut, embracing the warmth, the pressure, the soft fabric against your skin. 

“I don’t know what happened,” you murmur. “I don’t… feel right.”

“That’s okay. I know it feels scary, but nothing’s wrong. I think you maybe talked about something that’s really hard to talk about when you weren’t quite ready. Sometimes when that happens, your brain tries to protect you from perceived threats by dissociating. It makes thinking straight really difficult.”

You frown. 

“How did I… How’d I get home?”

He strokes your hair. 

“The parts of your brain responsible for procedural memory aren’t as impacted during episodes of dissociation. But it’s actually not uncommon for people who don’t have PTSD to forget their commutes. It’s called highway hypnosis.”

“I don’t… I don’t have PTSD,” you insist. When Spencer doesn’t answer for a long moment, only continues stroking your hair, you swallow. 

“We don’t have to talk about this right now, angel.”

“Okay,” you whisper, like a child too weary to argue. He kisses your head. 

“It might be good for you to take a nap,” Spencer says, like he can read your mind. “I bet you’re tired.”

“How’d you know?”

“Because I know everything,” he says simply—a line borrowed from you. “Here’s what we’re gonna do, okay? I’m gonna order from Tandoori, and you’ll fall asleep, and I’ll wake you up when it’s time to eat, and we can watch your show.”

You smile despite yourself. 

“So assertive.”

“I’m thinking I can get away with it right now.”

He’s only teasing. You cuddle closer. He holds you tighter. 

“I’m the boss. And I want Thai food.”

“There she is,” he murmurs, rubbing your back over the blanket. The warm saccharine sweetness of his tone dizzies you, muddles your mind more pleasantly this time. Your heart rate slows. Your breathing goes back on autopilot. The rise and fall of his chest rocks you like the sea. Just at the cusp of sleep, he whispers one more promise. Of safety. Of love. 

When you wake up, you’ve forgotten all about it. 

“You’re so pretty.”

It’s the first thing Spencer has said since you two landed on his couch, exhausted from one of Rossi’s extravagant soirées. It was your first of many, if Spencer’s entire team is to be believed. More nights featuring Italian food and wine you could never afford don’t sound half bad—but for now you’re drained. You barely had the energy to kick off your heels and topple into Spencer’s lap five minutes ago. The silk dress still pools over his knees and your hair still falls in curls around your face. He brushes one aside as he continues. 

“I mean—you always look beautiful. But I’ve never seen you all done up. You’re obscenely gorgeous.”

You groan awkwardly, burying your face in Spencer’s collar as your face heats. Taking compliments has never been your strong suit, especially from someone who you perceive to be so out of your league. The relationship you have with Spencer is relatively new, and sometimes you worry delicate; like one slip-up revealing the real you and he’ll go running. So far, though, he seems hellbent on proving you wrong. 

His hand finds the bare skin of your arm, passing up and down gently. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“…I do.”

It’s unconvincing. Spencer scoffs. 

“No, you don’t. You never believe me when I compliment you.”

The cadence of his voice is light enough, but it’s evident that there’s some genuine frustration there, lurking just under the surface. 

Your head lolls over his shoulder and he angles his neck to look down at you. Hair falls over his eyes, and you’d fix it if he didn’t look so damn perfect. Everything about him looks intentional, like he was designed by someone who took great pride in their work. Not at all like you—a collage of features and spare parts you guess whatever force created you had lying around. Nothing about you feels on purpose. But that’s a hard thing to explain.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s impolite. It just feels disingenuous to accept compliments like that.”

Goosebumps arise on your arm where he touches you.

“You being polite isn’t what I’m concerned about. I just wish I could make you understand that I mean it when I compliment you. You’d know if I didn’t. I’m a terrible liar.”

That earns a giggle from you. Your boyfriend smiles, sparkling eyes darting over your face like he’s trying to bottle the sound, the memory—and you realize he probably is. What a terrifying thought. You look away, abashed once more. 

“I’m a woman, Spencer. I’m not allowed to like myself. That’s the whole thing with Eve and the snake and the apple and whatever. Eternal inescapable shame.”

“Are you trying to justify your self-loathing by making it biblical? You know I’m the last person that would work on, right? Both as an agnostic-leaning-athiest and someone who thinks you’re beautiful and wonderful.”

Another groan claws its way from your throat as you slide down in embarrassment. 

“You’re killing me here, Spencer.”

“What can I do to do to make you believe me?” he murmurs, carefully brushing tangles from your hair as you now rest practically prone across his lap. The ceiling light stretches behind him, haloing him in a soft glowing crown and making everything a bit more hazy and tolerable. 

“It’s not your fight.” It’s meant to be playfully dramatic, but it hangs from your lips with a painful amount of earnestness. 

“If it’s yours, it’s mine. That’s kind of the whole point of a relationship, right? Being a team?”

His fingers are nimble and warm between yours as you interlace them, steepling and bumping them together as you speak. 

“Well, if you know so much, why are you asking me? It sounds like you know exactly what to do to make me magically love myself.”

A dangerous twitch plays at the corner of his lips as he gazes sleepily down at you. 

“Oh, I have a few ideas. But I’m asking what you’d be comfortable with.”

“Whoa!” you blurt, giggling self-consciously, covering your face with your (and inadvertently one of his) hands. “Where did that come from?”

He smiles at your response to his mildly suggestive comment. “I lose my filter when I'm tired. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” 

You sigh gustily, dragging his hand down to fall over your collarbones. His fingers twitch over the delicate skin, like he’d graze it if your hand wasn’t weighing his down. 

“No, no, you didn’t make me uncomfortable, you just… surprised me. I’m really bad at talking about this kind of thing.”

“Sex?”

You yelp, slinging your arm over your face and hiding in the crook of your elbow. “AH! Don’t say it!” 

He laughs again, a little less reserved this time. 

“What? You can’t even listen to me say the word?”

“No! Too scary!”

Eventually you peek out from under your arm to find Spencer still watching you. The humor has faded from his eyes and been replaced by a kind of serene calm. He brushes a lock of hair from your shoulder. 

“Come here,” he says—a request more than a demand. With some wriggling and a bit of help, you manage to reorient yourself into a sitting position across his lap once more. His touch is warm even through the fabric of your dress when he kisses you, hand sliding over your waist before moving to trace your jaw and ending up on the back of your neck, urging you closer ever so slightly. You kiss him back without hesitation or restraint, as you delight in doing when he gives you the opportunity. What you may lack in experience and refinement, you make up for with affection and enthusiasm. He pulls away after a minute, much to your dismay, and brushes his thumb over your lips. For the first time, you think you see a hint of worry in his eyes. Guilt claws at your heart when he quietly asks, “you’re not scared of me, are you?”

“No!” You assure quickly, looping your arms around his neck. “No, it’s not you. You’re perfect and I’m sure you really mean all of the nice things you say. But I just… sometimes I worry I’ll scare you away once you realize I’m not as pretty or… good as you thought.”

“That’s impossible.”

Once more you let your head fall onto his shoulder. “You don’t know that.” 

His hand begins running up and down your back, soothing your sympathetic nervous system in a way that all the deep breaths in the world never could. 

“I know that I really, really like you. And there’s not one part of you that I don’t find genuinely beautiful. I can’t imagine not feeling that way about you.” Your eyes flutter shut and you hum against him—a non-answer, but he doesn’t push it. Minutes go by quietly, ticking later into the night as he continues mindlessly rubbing your back and watching you breathe. “Do you want me to take you home?” He finally asks after a long while. Again, you don’t respond. He smiles. “I know you’re awake.”

The corner of your lip twitches as you attempt to suppress a grin. Spencer sighs. 

“I guess if you’re already asleep you’ll just have to stay here. But it would be convenient if you’d sleepwalk to my bed so that I don’t have to carry you.”

When you begin stirring and sitting up (one eye cracked to navigate) he laughs, hands on your waist. “Would you look at that. Who knew she would be so suggestible in non-REM?” You snort as you push yourself to a standing position using Spencer’s shoulders to support yourself, and ruining the whole act. He smiles up at you like you’re something divine and lets his hands trail over your hips. 

“I sleep with my eyes open.”

“Do you often have coherent conversations in your sleep, too?”

You shrug. “I’m full of surprises.”

“I’m sure you are,” he agrees, finally standing himself. “I’m assuming you don’t want to sleep in your dress?”

“I have shorts on underneath I can wear, but a shirt would be helpful.”

“Then we’ll get you a shirt.”

———————————————

Ten minutes later you’re in Spencer’s bathroom, wearing your shorts and one of his sweatshirts (you cannot imagine Spencer in a hoodie), and wiping black sludge from your eyes with makeup remover he claims was left by a friend after a particularly festive Halloween party. Hopefully he’s telling the truth—you can think of more dubious potential origins of the eye-makeup remover in his bathroom. No toothbrush—you use your finger and a generous amount of toothpaste until the red wine stains fade. 

Spencer is fixing the pillows when you exit the bathroom. You hold up your hands which are completely obscured and then some by the thick fabric of his sweatshirt. 

“Fits like a dream,” you say. A smile tugs at his lips as he finishes his task, before raising his eyes to you. The smile promptly fades and it’s like the sun disappearing behind an oppressive gray cloud. In an instant your stomach curdles and you feel like crawling out of your skin. 

“…what?” you mumble, absolutely terrified that the thing he’d said was impossible just minutes ago has already happened. Without makeup, without a fancy dress, you’re just you, and maybe that’s not good enough.

“Uh…” He blinks, as if he’s buffering for a moment, before snapping back into action, and notably looking away from you. “It’s—it’s nothing. Do you, um—here, I tried to make it—“

“Stop. Just tell me what that was. You got all weird.”

Another pause—he looks back up at you reluctantly with a sigh. 

“I did not get all weird.”

“Yes, you did. You’re still being weird. It’s freaking me out.”

He’s utterly unreadable, which drives you fucking insane, when he eventually says, “come here.” This time, you think with a chill as you shuffle on your knees across the bed to sit in front of him, it really sounds like a demand. Spencer grabs your face in his hands, studying you intently. “I know you think I’ve finally decided you’re hideously deformed, but it’s actually just the opposite. I’m trying to figure out how to keep things polite for you.”

Realization dawns on you and the swarm of new butterflies in your stomach. The usual molten gold of his irises has been encroached upon, masked by blown pupils. Your face gets hot and your voice caves when you speak. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” he agrees quietly. “Do you believe me now?”

And to his credit, you really do. The hot skin, the vibrating cells in every fiber of your being, the racing heart—your body knows he means it. Part of you, the more confident, more desirous part, drags you closer to him, ghosts your lips over his. He chuckles. 

“Now you’re getting brave?”

“Am I not allowed to kiss you?” you whisper, draping your arms over his shoulders. 

“You’re allowed to do whatever you want.”

The words make you shiver—the lowered, gravelly tone of his voice you’ve never heard before snaps your resolve and you lean into him, connecting your lips with a deep urgency. Spencer inhales sharply, hands wandering to your waist and bearing down firmly as you press against him. When you lean back, he follows you, insists without saying a word that you don’t stop kissing him. It sends a thrill down your spine and between your legs, which both gives you pause and eggs you on. In the end, after a very brief internal struggle, curiosity and desire win. You drop to the bed and drag him down with you—he, your willing follower, blindly searches for purchase on the plush comforter. Now he’s on top of you, legs slotted together so that his thigh is temptingly close to your core. Too shy to actually do what you want to do, you clamp your thighs around his and tilt your hips, desperate for friction. He exhales heavily, slowly pulling his lips from yours like it’s the last thing he wants to do. Fingers dig into the flesh of your hip, not enough to ache but enough to draw your attention to your movements. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, firmly, but not like you’re in trouble—it’s a probing question. He’s trying to figure out if you’re aware of the way you’re nearly riding his leg. 

“I don’t know,” you admit breathlessly. 

“You just told me you couldn’t even listen to me say the word sex,” Spencer reminds you. “You said it was too scary.”

A frustrated whine seems to catch him by surprise, and he laughs. 

“That was a long time ago. I’ve matured since then.”

“Is that what happened?” he teases. 

“Honestly, I’m just really turned on right now, please—" you cut yourself off, crashing your lips into his once more. And he almost relents. 

Almost. 

“Slow down.”

He ceases kissing you for a second time and you’re starting to really get annoyed. 

“What?” you groan. “I thought you wanted this.”

His thumbs brush over the apples of your cheeks, demanding your attention. 

“I want you. In every sense of the word. If you make a bad choice tonight and it means you don’t like me anymore tomorrow, that is the opposite of what I want. I’m not saying no. I’m just asking you to think about it for a second.”

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and attempting to steady your mind and see beyond the thick fog of lust. What you find is a (mildly surprising) complete lack of fear. You’re not scared, like you thought you’d be; you feel utterly safe underneath him, with his hands on you and his heartbeat against your chest. This is a kind of intimacy you want to have with him. 

Your eyes open to reveal his, close enough you can see the tiny flecks of green. And so much warmth. Everything about him is warm. 

“This is what I want,” you assert. “I promise.”

His gaze flits between yours for a moment, pulling the truth from your soul like he might be able to find an imperfection there. But you mean it—and he seems satisfied. He trusts you, like you trust him. 

“Okay.”

A sigh of relief never quite finds completion before he’s kissing you again. Immediately the fire is stoked once more, the heat between your legs getting warmer when he experimentally pushes his thigh against you. You breathe into the kiss, pressing down on him and surrendering to the unconscious rhythm of your hips. He lets that go on for a minute or two until you’re so distracted that you can’t kiss him back. 

Unexpectedly he pulls away, disentangling himself from your legs. You stammer in frustration until his fingers hook under the soft material of your shorts. “Hips up.”

Wordlessly you comply, succumbing to his gentle words and touch. He bows to kiss you as he slides the fabric down unhurriedly. Once the shorts are gone, he sits up, and carefully lifts one of your legs over his lap, gaze unabashedly glued between them. 

“Eyes up here,” you try to joke, but it’s steeped in self-consciousness and your heart is pounding. He manages, stroking the inside of your knee with a thumb as he leans down again. 

“But you’re so pretty,” he murmurs, before he’s kissing you again. “Just like I knew you would be.”

You whimper when his hand skates over your stomach, lower, and lower, and—

“Tell me one more time, sweetheart.”

Your plead is just as hungry and yearning. “Please, Spencer?”

It works for him. 

When his knuckles brush over your clit, you forget to breathe. When they barely skim your entrance, collecting arousal to drag back upward, your brain malfunctions. It is not enough, maddeningly so, but when he finds a careful, introductory rhythm, it’s immediately bordering on too much, too good. 

Your stomach tenses and you are surprised by your own sighs and hesitant gasps as you try to adjust to the feeling of someone else’s hand between your legs. 

“Does that feel good?” he murmurs against your lips. 

“Mhm,” you chirp. Slow but insistent circles elicit a cry that gets caught in your throat, melting into a hum. Your eyes are closed, but you can hear the smile in Spencer’s voice. 

“You’re sensitive, huh?”

“S—sometimes.”

 He hums contemplatively. 

“Sometimes? Can you tell me about that?”

You can’t hardly think around those gentle movements of his hand, let alone speak. He touches you like you’re something delicate. It’s torturous and perfect. But you try to answer anyway, managing to keep the stammering to a minimum. 

“About what?” 

“I want to know what you think about when you touch yourself.” The smooth words in tandem with an incremental increase in pressure earn your first real moan. Timid and unpracticed, but very genuine. 

The answer comes immediately afterward; thoughtlessly and on a shuddering exhalation.

“You.”

“Yeah?” he smiles. “Good answer.”

Your eyes open fractionally to study his expression. You’d felt so much shame every time you’d imagined him in your bed late at night.

“Really?” 

“Really. And now look at you. Letting me do it for you.” As if to remind you, he speeds up the motion of his hand. On instinct you bring your fingers to your lips as you moan through a closed throat, partly to stifle the noise and partly because you don’t know what to do with the hand that’s not gripping the duvet. “Do you only touch here?” His fingers slide down to your slick entrance and your hips buck, mourning the loss of stimulation. “Or do you touch here, too?” 

You shake your head, breathing hard as he teases a finger around the soft place you’ve never really bothered to explore. “Never feels good when I try.”

“We’re gonna make it feel good, okay?”

You nod hesitantly, leaning back into the pillows when he kisses you again. 

His lips are so distracting, so intoxicating you almost forget what he’s doing until he does it. It’s a foreign sensation—not entirely pleasant or unpleasant. For a moment or two your brows furrow as you focus on the feeling, worried that maybe you’re broken just as you thought—until you feel a slight stretch and you realize he’s pushing a second finger into you now. A kiss lands on your cheek when you grab his arm with a choked gasp, and he mutters, “deep breaths,” into your ear. “I know it’s new, honey, just breathe.”

“Fuck,” you whimper as you look down, and you didn’t realize you were going to say it until it’s already passed between your lips. Pressure begins melding with the promise of pleasure, and something about watching his hand move between your legs—the tendons flexing and wrist bending as he eases into what is clearly a perfected motion—arouses you so much you moan at the sight alone. Flipping pages is all you thought that hand was meant for. It’s like a secret revealed as you watch it do something so salacious, and to you. 

A hot spark of pleasure flares deeper in you than you’ve ever felt. It catches and grows faster than you’d of thought—suddenly you can feel everything and it all feels better than you thought possible. Your jaw drops and a surprised huff of air blows a strand of your hair away. 

“Oh my god,” comes your breathy little whisper, unprepared for and intimidated by how good he’s making you feel. Filthy noises come from between your legs and you clench around his fingers. You had no idea you could make those noises. You had no idea you could get so wet. 

“Yeah, there we go.” His voice sounds a little further away now. You manage to tear your eyes away from all the action to his face. Much like you, he’s transfixed by the sight, brow furrowed and pretty lips parted in what could be concentration, or some sort of empathetic pleasure. His face has more color to it than usual and his breaths come heavier—it’s a very pleasant sight. Suddenly his fingers brush against a spot deep within you and your hips cant upward, a mewl pulled from the depths of your throat that has more control over you than you do it. Spencer’s eyes flash back to you, a grin playing at his lips. He does it again, looking right into your eyes, and you whine so pitifully your face flushes. 

“Too much?” he asks. You shake your head firmly, arching your back when he unconsciously slows down. At your response his fingers begin rutting into you again, committing to that spot inside you that makes you see stars. “Of course not. You’re gonna take whatever I give you, huh?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod. You’d do just about anything for him right at this second. Spencer holds an immense amount of power over you in this moment, and potentially in all future moments moving forward. But you trust him with it. 

“You don’t have anything to prove to me. I just want you to feel good. You’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?”

But it’s really not too much. It’s exactly right. Your verbal capacity is acutely limited right now, so you can’t exactly say it, but you lock eyes with him and whine shamelessly, hips twisting against his hand. You think he gets the message. 

Hair falls over his face and he doesn’t fix it, opting instead to alternate his gaze between your cunt and face, cursing to himself lowly. You wouldn’t want him to stop and fix his hair—what you want is this, for him to keep pushing you toward that elusive edge and to keep looking at you like you put all the stars in the sky. 

“Look at you, my pretty girl. I’m so proud of you. I know this isn’t easy. I know you were scared. Thank you for letting me do this, honey.”

It’s the unexpected tenderness of the words, perfectly misplaced in the context of the moment. It’s the devotion, the honesty in his eyes, shining through the haze of lust, which makes your stomach drop and all your muscles tense. A million thoughts jumble in your head, dizzying and thrilling and confusing, but mostly all you can think is Spencer, Spencer, Spencer. Is this how it always is? Your hands tangle in the sheets—and then all the thoughts vanish. Everything is warm and fuzzy and sparkling clean, no worries, no lingering thoughts, no self-awareness at all. It’s nirvana. It’s revelatory. It’s ridiculous that he did this all in under five minutes and you haven’t been able to do it once even with very concerted effort. 

Slowly you float back into your body, breathing hard and watching through half-lidded eyes as Spencer gently pulls his hand away. Without him you feel weirdly empty and cold, like he should have been there all along. But his touch isn’t absent for long—he runs his hand over the bridge between your hips, little finger dipping into the crease of your thigh. 

“That’s never… I’ve never done that before,” you admit, slurring your words only slightly. 

His perfect features contort into a half-frown, half-smile. 

“You’ve never had an orgasm?” You nod. His head tilts. “Really? You didn’t tell me that.”

“When would I have told you?” you laugh, finding his waist with your hand and encouraging him to settle his weight on you. He does, burying his face in your neck and exhaling heavily. 

“Well?” you ask shyly, skating your fingers over his back. “Did I do it right?”

Spencer snorts, but presses a sickeningly sweet kiss to the curve of your neck. 

“Did you like it?”

“Yes,” you admit, voice smaller than you’d have liked. He pushes himself up onto his forearms and kisses you softly. 

“Then we both did it right.”

“But…” you stare up into his warm honey eyes, searching for any bits of hidden truth you can find. He brushes a strand of hair away from your face, utterly unconcerned. “You know what I mean.” 

“I do,” he agrees, “and I’ll say this because I know otherwise you’re going to worry about it forever.” He studies your face reverently for a moment, before parting his lips to speak. The words are slow to come, like he’s trying to figure the sentence out as he goes along. “You… are going to be, problematic, for me.”

Your whisper is almost as small as you feel under his heavy gaze. “What d’you mean?” 

“I mean,” Spencer begins, voice low, “I think I liked that too much. Do you see why that’s troubling?”

The flame you thought had been quenched flickers back to life like a pilot light. Your thighs press together to alleviate a growing ache in a still sensitive area and you answer, “no,” with a small shake of your head. His thumb tenderly traces your jaw, ever-patient despite the fact that you’re obviously playing coy. 

“Because I can’t have you all the time.”

“Yes you can,” you say without hesitation, though your eyes are fluttering. “You can have me whenever you want. Right now.”

He hums, pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

“Not tonight. You’ve had enough. You’re tired.”

“I’m wide awake,” you slur, tangling a hand in his hair even as you lose the battle against your eyelids. 

He sighs good-naturedly, gently wrapping his fingers around your wrist and brushing his lips over the delicate skin. 

“You’re shockingly precocious.”

You hum. 

“You just unleashed the beast. You’re like Doctor Frankenstein.”

He chuckles, sitting up and finding your shorts. You manage to be semi-helpful, lifting your legs at appropriate junctures as he tugs your clothing back on. “And you’re a nerd.”

“I don’t need to take that from you of all people.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Spencer says, and the smile in his voice makes you smile, a quarter asleep as he leans over to turn off the lamp on your side of the bed before tugging the covers over both of you. 

He pulls you close in the dark, releasing a deep sigh as you curl into him. His heartbeat is steady against your ear, his arms warm around you. You can imagine making a home for yourself here. And you don’t know if he’s thinking it, but you hope he is, as you are silently repeating to yourself with every beat of his heart;

I love you

I love you

I love you. 

-

You knew he hated driving, even more so at night, so you were very appreciative to see that he had in fact come to pick you up, greeting him with a fat kiss to the cheek that left a beautifully glossy mark behind and left him flustered the whole drive back.

Said drive back was spent with you thanking him for picking you up before your head was lulling against the car window and you were drifting off. By the time he was lightly shaking you awake, you were already home, and the only thing on your mind was your bed.

You make your way inside the apartment on slightly unsteady legs before plopping yourself down on the couch with a guttural sigh. Your eyes fall shut, and your head falls against the back of the couch. Faintly, you register Spencer taking up space near you until you feel him lightly tugging at the bottom of your shoe. You open your eyes and watch as he carefully slips off your boots for you, wiggling your toes with a relief sigh once they are freed from their confines. "Thank you, handsome," you say softly, watching as the small smile stretches across his face. You always liked how he still got flustered at your words, even after having dated for so long.

You let him help you up from the couch and lead you to the bathroom, where he lets you sit on the counter while he rummages through the bathroom cupboards. He takes out some of your skincare products, dampening one of the cotton pads with micellar water before he starts gently wiping at your makeup.

"Did you have fun tonight?" he asks as he quietly works, out of curiosity and also as a way to keep you awake long enough to finish. "Mhm," you nod happily, legs absent-mindedly rubbing against the side of his legs as he stood between yours. "I missed you though," you add after a few seconds of silence, resisting the urge to pull him impossibly closer and kiss him silly as he wipes under your eye.

He knows you missed him because you told him so already. You hadn't been away for two hours until he got the text message declaring so, and he could only smile as he read it because he knew he missed you just as much, even if he knew you wouldn't be gone forever and that you eventually would be coming back home.

Your friends made fun of how attached to each other the two of you were, but you couldn't find it in you to care. You adored Spencer, endlessly so, and he always took such good care of you. Like now, as he stood between your legs in the middle of the night as he helped you remove your make-up, one hand gently working upon your skin while the other held onto your thigh, thumb rubbing over the skin there. Maybe it was the alcohol (it definitely was), but you could almost cry at how sweet Spencer always was with you. It made your heart ache almost painfully if you thought about it too much.

You took the time to admire him as he worked; his beautiful brown eyes and perfectly pointed nose. Lips that you wouldn't mind kissing all day long, that you wanted to kiss right now too.

Soon Spencer had finished cleaning your face, pressing a kiss to your cheek similar to the one you gave him earlier and helping you from the counter and into the bedroom. He sat you down on the edge of the bed before once again getting down on his knees beside you.