reidreaders

The bullpen of the Behavioral Analysis Unit was unusually quiet, the heavy silence broken only by the low hum of the fluorescent lights and the rhythmic scratching of Spencer’s pen.

The rest of the team had finally drifted out, exhausted after a grueling three day geographic profiling case that had left everyone running on fumes.

Hotch had dropped the final mountain of federal case files -post mortem reports and bureaucratic standard operating procedures- onto the central table with a heavy sympathetic sigh, quietly asking Spencer if he could handle sorting the cross references by morning.

Spencer hadn't even hesitated, he had just offered a tired genuinely sweet smile, adjusted his satchel and quietly gathered the massive stack of folders.

You sat at your desk across the bullpen, your jaw tight as you watched him carry the heavy load back to his desk.

It felt so incredibly unfair, the rest of the team completely relied on Spencer's inability to say no to a cognitive puzzle. He was always the one cleaning up the administrative mess because his brain physically couldn't let an unsolved or disorganized file rest.

You wanted to say something, to snap at the universe for taking advantage of his good nature but you kept your mouth shut. You just watched him trudge into his glass walled office, looking every bit the self sacrificing genius everyone took for granted.

A little while later, you walked toward his office. Through the glass, you saw he wasn't trying to look composed anymore.

He was slumped back in his chair, his slender frame practically swallowed by the seat, staring at the mountain of paperwork with a look of pure quiet exhaustion, his fingers were pressed to his temples, looking completely overwhelmed.

You pushed the door open without knocking.

"Spencer?"

He jumped, his misaligned glasses nearly sliding off his nose as he scrambled to sit up straight, accidentally knocking a highlighter off his desk.

"Oh! Hey! Uh... hi! I... I didn't see you there, just... getting a head start on the geographic data and the cross logistics, very... very statistically engaging stuff."

"You’re a terrible liar Dr. Reid," you said, closing the heavy glass door firmly behind you.

You walked over to his desk but you didn't take the spare chair, instead you sat right on the edge of the desk, leaning back on your hands. You moved slowly, deliberately crossing your legs so that your skirt slid up your thighs, exposing a lot more skin than was strictly professional for a federal office.

Spencer’s eyes dropped instantly and he froze.

You saw the prominent apple of his throat move as he swallowed hard, a bright unmistakable shade of pink started creeping up his neck to his cheeks and his hands -which were resting on a file- twitched nervously.

"Is... is there a specific behavioral query you have?" He asked, his voice a full octave higher than usual. He was trying so hard to force his eyes up to meet your face but his gaze kept darting helplessly back down to your exposed legs.

"I think the question is… what do you need?" You teased, leaning forward so you were invading his personal space, the scent of your perfume cutting through the stuffy office air. "You look like you’re about to drown in these files. Why did you tell Hotch you’d handle all of this alone?"

"Well, mathematically speaking, my reading speed is twenty thousand words per minute with a ninety eight percent retention rate, so objectively, it’s the most efficient distribution of labor," Spencer stammered, his eyes finally meeting yours, looking utterly dazed. "I just... I want to be helpful to the team, it’s the logical thing to do."

"Is it logical to let yourself get stepped on?" You countered, your voice dropping to a low flirtatious hum. "You’re too nice Spencer, it drives me crazy."

Spencer let out a nervous breathless laugh, his fingers frantically twisting his pen. "Does it? I... I didn't realize my organizational compliance was a catalyst for... for cognitive provocation."

"It's not the compliance," you whispered, reaching out to toy with the corner of the folder right next to his hand, your fingers brushing against his skin. "It's the fact that you’re sitting here overwhelmed and you won't ask for help, so I'm offering… let me help you with these."

Spencer looked at the papers then back at you, he looked like he was struggling to form a coherent sentence, the sight of you sitting on his desk, looking at him with heavy lids and a knowing smile was clearly short circuiting his brilliant brain.

"I... I couldn't possibly ask you to stay late in the bureau under these fluctuating fluorescent lights," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "Studies show that prolonged exposure to high frequency flickering lights can cause visual fatigue and decrease cognitive focus by up to twelve percent. It's... it's not very fun."

"I agree," you said, leaning even closer. "So let's not stay here, it's loud, bright and the janitorial staff is going to start vacuuming soon. Why don't we take all of this back to your apartment? You can make me some of that ridiculously strong coffee you’re always talking about and we can actually get some work done in peace. What do you think?"

Spencer’s eyes went wide, he looked like a deer in headlights… but a very, very happy deer. "My... my apartment? Oh well... statistically, a familiar residential environment with controlled sensory stimuli would be far more... efficient. The environment would be much more conducive to... productivity."

"Productivity," you repeated, your voice trailing off suggestively. "Exactly."

"Right!" Spencer said, suddenly standing up so fast his lanky legs tangled and he bumped his knee hard against the desk drawer. "Ow... boy... right, let’s... let’s pack up. I have a fresh bag of dark roast from Kenya and... and some cookies, oatmeal raisin, very biochemically sustaining."

He started shoving files into his leather satchel with a frantic clumsy energy, dropping his pen twice and nearly knocking over his desk lamp.

You watched him from the desk, thoroughly amused by how completely flustered he was.

As you and Spencer walked out toward the elevator lobby, the heavy satchel swinging from his shoulder, a voice called out from down the hall.

"Hey! Wait up!"

It was Detective Harris, a local investigator from the field office who had been helping with the case. He was jogging toward you, looking tall, polished and overly confident in his tactical gear. He came to a stop right in front of you, completely ignoring Spencer, his eyes fixed on you with a hopeful arrogant look.

"Hey," Harris said, flashing a charming smile and rubbing the back of his neck. "I was just heading out. It’s late and I thought... maybe I could drive you home? Grab a late night coffee? You know, for safety and... just to unwind after a crazy case?"

Harris’s interest in you had been incredibly obvious all week, he was always hovering around your desk, trying to find excuses to talk to you. He was handsome in a conventional way but he wasn't the man you wanted to spend your night with.

You felt Spencer instantly stiffen beside you, he didn't say a word but he shifted his weight, stepping just a half inch closer to you, his shoulder brushing yours as his presence suddenly felt much heavier, his defensive instincts flaring.

"That’s really sweet of you Detective," you said, giving him a polite apologetic smile. "But I’m actually not going home yet, Spencer and I have some unfinished federal profiles to take care of."

Harris’s face fell instantly, he looked at you then eyed Spencer up and down, taking note of the worn leather satchel. "Oh... work? You’re... you’re doing paperwork at this hour?"

"Supervisors orders," Spencer chimed in, his voice suddenly losing its anxious stammer, instantly regaining that intimidating authority he used when profiling suspects. "We're heading to my apartment to synthesize the geographic data points before the morning briefing, it’s a critical federal deadline. If we don't map the comfort zone of the unsub tonight, the whole perimeter strategy fails."

"Oh," Harris mumbled, his shoulders slumping under his tactical vest. "Right... the profile... yeah, I forgot how intense you bureau guys are. Well... I guess I’ll just... head out then."

"Have a safe drive Detective," you said kindly.

"Yeah, you too," he muttered, sounding completely dejected as he turned on his heel and started trudging toward the exit.

Spencer waited until Harris was safely around the corner and the elevator doors slid open before he let out a long shaky breath, the sharp protective FBI facade cracked just a little as he stepped into the elevator with you, looking down at his feet.

"Was that... was that okay?" He asked, his voice dropping into a shy soft register. "I didn't mean to be... overbearing, I just... I didn't want him to think we weren't being completely serious."

"It was perfect Spencer," you said softly, reaching out to briefly squeeze his arm. "Now come on, I’m ready to see this 'highly efficient' apartment of yours."

Spencer beamed at you, his face flushing a violent pink all over again as the elevator descended. "Right... my car is in the lower lot, I... I hope you like your coffee strong."

The drive to Spencer’s apartment was a masterclass in suppressed energy, he kept both hands firmly at ten and two on the steering wheel of his old car, his knuckles white as he navigated the evening traffic with excessive overly cautious focus.

"I hope you don't mind the music," Spencer said, his voice a bit thin as a soft melancholic jazz track drifted through the speakers. "It’s Blind Willie McTell. Studies show that low tempo syncopated blues and early jazz rhythms can help lower cortisol levels and encourage synaptic clarity during high stress cognitive tasks. It keeps the brain from collapsing into a non linear state during data analysis."

"It’s fine Spencer," you said, shifting in your seat. You saw his eyes dart toward your legs for a split second before he forcefully yanked his gaze back to the road, his ears burning a bright red. "I actually find it quite relaxing, though I’m not sure linear is how I’m feeling right now."

Spencer swallowed hard, a deep flush creeping up from beneath his mismatched collar. "Well... almost there, just around this corner. It’s a very quiet neighborhood, low crime rate statistically speaking. Very predictable neighbors."

His apartment was exactly what you expected yet completely intoxicating. When he pushed the door open, the scent of old paper, worn leather, rich coffee grounds and a faint hint of cedar hit you immediately.

There wasn't a corporate immaculate inch to the place, instead towering slightly chaotic stacks of books lined the walls, mismatched antique chairs sat beneath warm dim lamps and his desk was covered in loose journals and pens. It was crowded, academic and deeply personal.

"Make yourself at home," Spencer stammered, fumbling with his keys as he set them into a small brass dish by the door. "I’ll just... I’ll take your coat and then the coffee."

As he darted into the kitchen, you looked around the warm dimly lit room. It was overwhelmingly full of his brilliant mind, a physical reflection of the man who lived there.

"Spencer?" You called out. "Since we have so many victim timelines and geographic maps to get through, maybe we should just spread out on the rug? It’ll be faster than trying to cram all these oversized charts onto that small coffee table."

You heard a sudden loud clatter of a coffee scoop hitting the linoleum floor in the kitchen.

"The... the floor?" Spencer’s voice came back, sounding slightly strangled. "I suppose... yes. From a spatial perspective, the hardwood rug area offers a vastly superior surface area for cross referencing multiple federal files simultaneously. I’ll... I’ll be right out."

You knelt on the plush patterned vintage rug and began pulling the files out of the bag. You sat with your knees pulled up toward your chest, a position that caused your skirt to ride up dangerously high. It left the full length of your thighs and the soft curve of your hips completely exposed to the warm lamplight.

When Spencer walked back into the room carrying two steaming mugs of black coffee, he stopped dead in his tracks. The sound of his breathing changed instantly, it went from the quick nervous rhythm of the car ride to something deeper, heavier and far more ragged.

His hazel eyes locked onto the sheer expanse of bare skin your skirt completely failed to hide. For a long moment he just stood there, the steam from the dark coffee rising around his face, his pupils blowing out so wide behind his glasses that his eyes looked almost entirely black.

"Spencer? The coffee?" You prompted softly, tilting your head.

"Right... yes... caffeine," he managed to choke out, his voice dropping an octave.

He sat down beside you on the rug, much closer than was strictly necessary for a collaborative profiling session. As he handed you the mug, his long slender fingers brushed against yours, the contact was electric. He didn't pull away immediately, instead his thumb lingered against your knuckles for a heartbeat too long, the heat of his skin matching the coffee.

"So," you said, trying to maintain a facade of professionalism as you flipped open a thick folder, leaning in. "The local field office completely skipped these cell tower data dumps. We need to cross reference these ping locations with the victim abduction timelines from last Tuesday."

"Right... Tuesday," Spencer echoed. He wasn't looking at the papers, he was staring intensely at your profile, his gaze tracing the line of your jaw, your neck and your lips. "I agree. Vital... structurally vital data."

For the next twenty minutes, you actually managed to get some work done. You were reading off coordinate numbers and he was marking them down in his neat cramped hyper precise handwriting but the tension between you was a physical suffocating weight.

Every time you reached for a map, your arms brushed, every time he leaned over to look at a data point, his shoulder pressed firmly against yours.

He was becoming bolder, his movements less clumsy and far more deliberate. He would "accidentally" let the back of his hand rest against your bare thigh as he reached for a red marker or his fingers would graze your waist as you both leaned in over the same page, his body heat radiating through his cotton shirt.

"I can't find the medical examiner's report for the third victim," you muttered, leaning forward over the scattered sea of documents.

As you reached across the rug to sift through a pile of maps, you leaned low, the neckline of your blouse falling away from your chest. It provided Spencer with a direct, completely unobstructed view. You stayed like that for a long torturous moment, pretending to be deeply invested in finding a piece of paper.

Beside you, Spencer made a sound, a low pained groan that he tried and failed to mask with a rough cough. He suddenly shifted his weight, pulling one of his long legs up and adjusting the way he was sitting on the floor, clearly trying to hide the undeniable prominent evidence of his arousal that was straining hard against his trousers.

"Did you... did you find it?" He asked, his voice was no longer that of the anxious genius, it was a deep gravelly rasp that sent a white hot shiver straight down your spine.

"Not yet," you whispered, slowly turning your head to look at him. Your faces were inches apart now, your breath warm against his cheek. "Maybe it's at the bottom of the pile Spencer. Do you want to help me look?"

Spencer didn't even pretend to look down at the papers, he was staring directly at your mouth, his chest heaving heavily under his starched button down shirt.

"I think," he rasped, his eyes burning into yours, "that I am experiencing a total cognitive overload… I am completely distracted."

Spencer was no longer looking at the reports, the polite clumsy boy from the bullpen was flickering out like a dying candle and the intense possessive mind of a profiler was rushing in to fill the dark space.

"What is distracting you Spencer?" You whispered, your voice barely audible over the soft jazz playing in the background. You let your gaze drop deliberately to his lips -slightly parted and trembling just a fraction- before dragging your eyes back up to meet his dark blown out stare.

"Maybe because," Spencer rasped, his voice dropping into a register so deep it felt like a heavy vibration in the floorboards beneath you, "my mind is currently occupied with a highly detailed list of exactly what I want to do to you."

A thrill of pure heat shot through your core as you leaned in even closer, the tips of your noses almost touching, your breaths mingling in the tiny charged space between you.

"And what is it you want to do to me Dr. Reid?”

He didn't answer with words, his mouth slammed into yours with a desperate starving intensity that made your head tilt back. He tasted like rich dark coffee and raw suppressed hunger, his tongue pushing past your lips, deep and demanding, as if his hyper fixated brain was trying to memorize the exact chemical taste of you in a single go.

You let out a muffled moan against his mouth, your hands flying up to grip his hair, pulling him closer until there wasn't a single atom of air left between you.

When he finally pulled back to breathe, he didn't let you go. His face was deeply flushed, his glasses completely discarded on the rug and his eyes were dark with a terrifyingly sharp predatory focus.

Without a word, he grabbed your waist, his fingers sinking into your skin and hauled you up and over until you were straddling his lap.

The friction of your thighs against his made your breath hitch, you could feel the hard thick ridge of his arousal pressing directly against you through the fabric of his trousers.

Spencer leaned into your ear, his lips grazing your lobe, his voice a lethal articulate whisper that had completely lost its stutter.

“I’ve been analyzing your micro expressions all evening," he murmured, his hot breath sending a shiver straight down your spine. "And I’ve come to the conclusion that this blouse is unnecessary. I think we need to remove it immediately. We wouldn't want any irrelevant variables getting in the way of our progress would we?"

You let out a shaky wet laugh, your head falling back as he started to trail biting bruising kisses down the sensitive line of your neck. "Is that so Dr. Reid? And what does the profiler suggest we do next?"

"The profiler," Spencer groaned, his teeth nipping sharply at the skin of your collarbone, "suggests a completely hands on behavioral assessment. I want to conduct a thorough analysis of every single inch of you… I want to observe exactly how loud your vocal cords can get when I completely shatter your restraint."

He didn't give you time to respond before his mouth was back on yours even more violently than before, it was a rough messy exchange of heat and saliva. He kissed you like he wanted to devour you, his lips never leaving yours for more than a second to gasp for air.

"I've spent the last six hours in that bullpen memorizing the exact millisecond your breathing hitches when my shoulder brushes yours," he rasped against your lips, his voice dropping into a filthy authoritative growl. "And now that I have you here… I’m going to make sure you’re making those same pathetic broken little noises for me all night long."

You let out a broken moan, your fingers clutching at the lapels of his shirt as you arched your back into him, yielding completely. "Yes... please Spencer... I don't want to think about anything but you."

"Good," he hissed, his teeth grazing your bottom lip. "Because I don't intend to let your brain process anything else."

His hands were everywhere. One was tangled deeply in your hair, tilting your head back to give him better access while his other hand slid down to your thigh, his palm hot against your bare skin as he squeezed, his long fingers digging into your flesh as he pulled your hips even tighter against his groin.

You didn't stay still, you reached down, your fingers fumbling with his tie and finally ripping it loose and tossing it onto the scattered case files. You moved to his shirt, popping the first few buttons so you could slide your palms inside, feeling the frantic hammering beat of his heart against your hands.

"Spencer," you moaned into the kiss, the sound swallowed by his mouth. "Please..."

"Please what sweetheart?" He rasped, pulling back just an inch, his lips still grazing yours. His voice was a lethal low vibration that made your toes curl. "You need to be specific with what you ask. Do you want me to stop acting like a gentleman? Is that it? Do you want me to show you exactly how rough I can be when I stop holding myself back?"

"Yes," you sobbed, your head thrashing back as his thumb traced the sharp line of your jaw. "Stop being good Spencer... please... just take me."

"Careful what you wish for," he growled, a dark triumphant glint in his blown out eyes. "Because I’ve been waiting a very long time to be very, very bad to you.”

He moved his hands to your waist, his grip firm, bruising and absolutely commanding as he began to shift your weight. He held you tight, guiding your hips to grind down against him in a slow rhythmic circle.

The sensation was overwhelming, every time you pressed down, he let out a choked off sound of praise, his hips bucking up slightly to meet yours.

"That’s it," he rasped against your lips, his voice thick with lust. "So good for me, look at you... so desperate for this. You’re making such a mess of my rug sweetheart."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes scanning your face, taking in your swollen lips and blown out pupils. He looked absolutely unhinged, his control beginning to fray at the edges.

"I’m going to fuckin ruin you," he whispered, a dark promise filled smirk tugging at his mouth. "I’m going to be so thorough that you’ll never be able to focus on anything ever again without thinking about how my tongue feels inside you."

He dived back in, his hand sliding up under your skirt, his long fingers finding the damp lace of your underwear.

You let out a loud piercing moan directly into the kiss, your body arching as he began to move his hips in time with yours, the friction reaching a fever pitch.

"What a filthy whore you are," Spencer rasped, pulling back just enough to look down at where his hand had disappeared beneath your skirt. His voice was no longer anxious, it was sharp, clinical and devastatingly dark. "Soaking through your underwear just because I dropped the polite facade. You’re such a needy, responsive little slut aren't you? So desperate for me to touch every inch of you."

"Yes," you sobbed, the raw intensity of his words sending a fresh hot bolt of arousal straight to your core. Your face was flushed, your breathing coming in shallow desperate hitches. "I’m pathetic for you Spencer... please... I need you."

"I see," he growled, his fingers hooking into the lace and tugging hard. "You’re a complete anomaly to my usual control. A total beautiful little mess... and I’m going to make sure you stay that way all night."

The unfinished case files were scattered all over the floor, forgotten and stepped on as Dr. Spencer Reid finally took exactly what he wanted. His hands -once so careful and gentle with administrative memos- were now firm and demanding as he gripped your hips.

He shifted his weight, sliding one of his thighs directly between yours so you were forced to ride high on his leg. The friction was immediate and staggering, you let out a sharp broken cry, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.

"Not so fast," Spencer rasped, his voice sounding like gravel as he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours, teasing the entrance to your mouth. "If you cum like a good girl for me, I’ll give you exactly what you want… but you have to earn it."

He didn't wait for an answer before his mouth crashed back onto yours, it was a rough tongue heavy kiss that tasted like pure desperation. His hands moved to the buttons of your blouse but he wasn't being gentle, he was clumsy in his haste, nearly ripping the fabric as he shoved it off your shoulders.

When he moved to the clasp of your bra, his long fingers made short work of it. His eyes darkened to a near black as your chest was finally exposed to the cool air of his apartment and his heated gaze.

"Beautiful," he breathed, his brilliant voice cracking slightly. "Absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful."

"Spencer... please," you whimpered, your skin prickling under the weight of his intense stare. You reached for him, your fingers trembling as they grazed his forearms, your body humming with a desperate need.

"What do you want?" He rasped, his voice dropping into a lethal low register. "Do you want me to keep looking? Or do you want me to finally start the hands-on portion of this assessment?"

He didn't even wait for your answer. Before you could get a single word past your swollen lips, he leaned down, his mouth replacing his gaze. He claimed you with a sudden hungry intensity, his tongue swirling around the peak of your breast as his hand squeezed your waist, pinning you firmly against his thigh.

"Ah hah!~... Spencer!... Please!” You moaned, the contact was electric as he began to show you exactly how much he had been holding back all week.

He grabbed your waist and began to move you roughly against his thigh, the fabric of his trousers provided the perfect agonizing resistance.

You arched your back, your head falling back as a loud involuntary moan tore from your throat.

"I need an answer," Spencer murmured, his lips moving down to the sensitive column of your throat. "Who does this body belong to while we’re working late? Tell me."

You couldn't say a word, you were too far gone, your brain turned to absolute mush by the sensation of him moving you.

Suddenly he stopped, he went completely still, holding you firmly so you couldn't grind against him anymore. The sudden loss of friction felt like a physical blow.

"I didn't hear a word," he said, his voice dropping into that strict lecture-like tone he used when defending a thesis. He reached up, his thumb and forefinger finding your nipple and giving it a sharp punishing pinch.

"Ah!~... Spencer!" you gasped, your eyes snapping open.

"Answer me," he commanded, his hazel eyes boring into yours with total authority. "Who do you belong to right now?"

"Yours," you whimpered, your breath coming in short panicked pants. "Yours Spencer... always yours.”

"Good girl," he growled, as a reward he leaned down and buried his face in your neck, sucking a deep dark mark into the skin right above your collarbone.

You let out a shaky breath and the moment his teeth grazed the mark, he started moving your hips again, even faster than before. The pace was relentless, his hands bruising your waist as he forced you to take the friction of his leg.

You were becoming louder, your moans echoing off the book lined walls of his apartment, a sharp contrast to the quiet academic life he led.

"Tell me how it feels," he said, his voice a low vibration against your skin. "Is the sensory input sufficient? Or do you need more?"

You tried to speak but all that came out was a soft needy whimper as the pleasure began to peak.

Again, he stopped you. He pinned your hips down, denying you the release that was just seconds away.

"I can't take that as an answer sweetheart," he teased, his hand moving up to cup your breast, his thumb flicking over the tip he had just pinched. "Stop holding back and tell me what I want to hear... does it feel good having me this close?"

"It feels... it feels too good," you sobbed, reaching down to try and pull him back toward you. "Please Spencer… I’m so close... ahh!~... it’s perfect... don't stop."

"There she is," he whispered, rewarding you by leaning down and taking your nipple into his mouth again. He sucked harder this time, his tongue swirling around the peak as he started the rhythm again rougher this time.

The intense grinding of his thigh against you and the sharp heat of his mouth on your skin was completely overwhelming. You couldn't even think straight, let alone hold back.

You were screaming his name, your hands tangled in his brown hair, pulling him closer.

"Look at you," Spencer rasped, pulling back for a split second to catch his breath, his eyes dark and blown out, his hair completely wild. "Look at how desperate you are for me right now... absolutely begging for it.”

"Spencer... ah hah!~... please…” you sobbed, your back arching off the rug as he ground his leg upward again. "It feels... ngh!~... it feels too much!"

"It’s not enough," he countered, his voice a low hum. "Tell me, do you like how pathetic you look right now? With your blouse hanging off your arms and your legs wide open for me?"

"I love it... ahh!~... I fuckin love it Spencer!" You cried out, your nails scratching against his shoulders. "I've wanted... hahh!~... I've wanted you to see me like this for so long!"

"I know," he groaned, burying his face back into the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone. “You’re so beautiful when you’re desperate... so incredibly loud... you’re so close aren't you?"

"Yes!... Ahh!~... I'm so close!..."

Your voice was becoming a series of broken high pitched keens as the tension reached a snapping point. You were grinding your hips down onto his thigh with a frantic rhythmic energy, your eyes squeezed shut.

"That's it... give it all to me," he rasped, his own breathing coming in heavy ragged gasps as he felt the tremors starting to take over your body. "Show me how much you need this… cum for me, come on."

The friction hit that final jagged point of no return. You cried out, your entire body shuddering as the climax crashed over you, your muscles squeezing tight against his leg in a series of rhythmic helpless spasms.

"Good girl," Spencer groaned, his voice a deep vibrating rasp against your collarbone as he felt the heat of your release soaking into his trousers.

"Hngh~... Spencer..." you sobbed, your head falling against his shoulder, your fingers still locked in his hair as the waves of pleasure continued to pulse through you. "Was I... was I good for you..."

"The best," he whispered, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder as he left a deep dark mark there. "I think you’ve earned a real reward for this."

Spencer didn't stop moving you until the very last tremor subsided, his mouth never leaving your skin, marking you over and over again as his own.

"You're perfect... absolutely perfect," he murmured, his tone softening just a fraction as he gathered you up into his arms. He pulled you tight against his chest, tucking your head under his chin as he let you come down from the overwhelming high of the climax.

The silence that followed your climax was heavy, broken only by the sound of your frantic wet breaths and the rhythmic ticking of a clock on the wall that felt far too sensible for the state of the room.

Spencer looked down at his lap, a large dark patch of dampness having soaked completely through the fabric of his trousers where you had cum.

"Look at this," Spencer rasped, his voice dropping into a sharp feigned sternness that made your skin prickle. "Look at what a mess you made, a complete disaster sweetheart. You’ve completely ruined a perfectly good pair of trousers."

You let out a shaky breathless laugh as you reached up, your fingers trembling as you brushed a stray lock of brown hair from his forehead before trailing your hand slowly down to his lips.

"I’m so sorry Spencer," you whispered, your voice still thick with the aftershocks of your orgasm. "How can I possibly make it up to you?"

As you spoke, you ran your palm down the front of his trousers, centering it right over the massive pulsing bulge that was straining hard against his zipper. You felt him jump, a sharp low hiss of air escaping his teeth.

"Do you have something specific in mind?" Spencer asked, his voice cracking as he reached down, his hand wrapping around your wrist. He didn't pull you away, instead he squeezed tight and started moving your hand, forcing you to rub him harder. "Because this… this is a very serious problem we need to fix right now."

"I have a few ideas," you murmured, your breath hitching as you bit your lip, watching the way his usual composure was completely fraying at the edges.

Spencer didn't say a word, he simply gripped your waist and lifted you, shifting his weight until he was sitting back on the couch behind him. His legs spread wide as he looked at you, his chest heaving heavily, his tie hanging completely loose around his unbuttoned collar.

"Well?" He prompted, his voice a gravelly low command. "Will you be a good girl and get me out of these? It's getting way too tight in here."

You knelt between his legs, your knees sinking deep into the patterned rug. Your hands flew to his belt, fumbling with the buckle in your haste. You were just as hungry as he was, your own body still humming with a shameless desperate need to see him lose that proper intellectual exterior completely.

You slid the zipper down, the sound incredibly loud in the quiet room and reached inside to free his throbbing hard cock from the suffocating fabric.

He was fully and agonizingly hard, the skin dark and flushed with a bead of precum already glistening at the tip.

"Don't just stare at it sweetheart," Spencer groaned, his head falling back. "I’ve spent all day thinking about exactly how your mouth would feel on me. Are you really going to keep me waiting?"

You leaned in, letting out your tongue to give the very tip a slow filthy lick, tasting the salt and the intense heat of him.

Spencer’s hand shot out, tangling deeply in your hair. He didn't pull you away, he gripped the back of your head, his knuckles turning white.

"None of that teasing," he growled, his voice dropping into a lethal register. "Take it... all of it."

You chuckled, a low vibration against his skin, thoroughly amused by how quickly he was losing his patience.

"Yes Spencer," you whispered, your voice shaking as you looked up at him through your lashes, completely exposed beneath his gaze. "I'll be a good girl and do whatever you want."

"God... you're a menace," Spencer groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair as he tilted your head back further. "Stop talking and prove it."

You opened your mouth and took him in, the heat of him filling you instantly. As your lips closed around his length, you let out a deep moan, the sound completely muffled by his throbbing shaft.

"Oh fuck… yes," Spencer breathed, his hips bucking up off the couch instinctively. "Just like that... such a focused little whore aren't you? So damn good."

He began to move his hand in your hair, guiding the rhythm of your head. He wasn't being gentle, he was directing you exactly how he wanted it, his movements rhythmic, demanding and intensely focused.

Every few seconds, just as you were getting into a perfect flow, he would yank you back by your hair, forcing you to pull away so he could look down into your dazed watery eyes.

"Tell me," he rasped, his voice a filthy whisper. "Is this exactly what you wanted? Answer me."

"Yes," you panted, your lips glistening in the dim lamplight. "Please Spencer… I want to make you feel good.”

"Good girl," he praised, his voice thick with unadulterated lust. "Such a talented mouth... I should have done this months ago."

He pushed you back down, deeper this time, his hips meeting your face with a rough needy force. He was taking his time, deliberately slowing his rhythm whenever he felt himself getting too close, determined to make it last as long as possible.

He would pull you away again, his long thumb rubbing over your bottom lip, dragging the moisture across your skin.

"Look at you... kneeling there like it’s your only purpose," Spencer rasped, his voice dropping into that dark heavy growl that made your stomach completely flip. "You’re so eager to please me aren't you? Just a helpless little thing who can’t wait to get her mouth on me.

The absolute intensity of his words hit you like a physical wave, the heat between your legs intensifying until you were practically vibrating against the floor. You leaned into his touch, your eyes blown wide and glassy.

"Yes... I’m yours Spencer... I want to be your little mess... please... just let me have more."

"Good girl," he hissed, his grip on your hair tightening for a brief sharp second before he guided you back down.

You opened your mouth wide, taking him back in with a needy wet sound. This time you were more confident, your tongue swirling around the head of his cock as you began to bob your head in a steady perfect pace.

You reached down, your hand wrapping tightly around the base of his shaft -the part your mouth couldn't reach- and began to stroke him in sync with your throat.

The combination was devastating for him. You could feel the lean muscles in his thighs jumping, his breath coming in jagged broken hitches as your hand and mouth worked together to milk every bit of sensation from his body.

You moved your head deeper, the back of your throat hitting the ridge of him as you hummed, a deep vibrating moan that echoed all the way through his core.

"God... ngh~..." Spencer groaned, his head falling back hard against the couch cushions. "You’re... you’re going to fuckin ruin me... such a... such a good little thing."

Just as he was reaching that edge of no return, he reached down and firmly pulled you back by your hair, forcing you to release him.

You let out a soft protestive whimper, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his glistening tip.

He leaned forward, his chest heaving as he brushed a stray lock of hair off your sweaty face with a surprisingly tender touch that contrasted sharply with the predatory darkness in his eyes. He let you take a few frantic gasping breaths, his intense gaze never leaving yours.

"Are you going to be a good girl and swallow every single drop for me?" He asked, his hazel eyes burning into yours with total possession. "I want to feel your throat swallowing it down… say it."

"I'll swallow it all," you whispered, leaning back in to take him again, your heart pounding. "I won't waste a single drop."

"Good... nghh!~... such a good obedient girl for me," Spencer groaned, his head falling back against the sofa cushions as his hips began to surge forward instinctively. "Fuck... your mouth... it’s so good sweetheart... nggh!~... right there... keep doing that."

He started to move with a sudden desperate hunger, his long hands guiding your head as he began to thrust his hips. Each movement was deep, purposeful and intense, he wanted to feel the very back of your throat and the tight wet heat of you surrounding him completely.

Spencer was no longer talking in full sentences, his vocabulary dissolving into broken guttural sounds of praise and raw demand.

"That’s... that's it... ahh hah~... t-take it all," he gasped, his voice a ragged broken thread. "I’m... hah~... I’m so close... don’t stop... fuck... your eyes... looking at me like that while... while you take me... so beautiful."

You let out a muffled moan, your hands moving to his thighs to steady yourself as you increased the suction, your tongue working frantically to keep up with his relentless pace.

"You’re... you’re going to… to be the absolute… death of me," Spencer choked out, his fingers digging into your hair as he finally broke.

His entire body went rigid, his lean muscles straining as he delivered several deep pulsing thrusts into your mouth, filling you with every drop of the release he had promised.

You stayed true to your word, your throat working rhythmically as you swallowed every drop of him, the intense heat of his release filling you up completely.

When he finally slumped back against the couch, you didn't pull away immediately. You pulled back just enough to look at him then leaned in to pepper his cock with gentle small kisses, starting from the base and working your way back to the tip.

"Beautiful," Spencer whispered, his hand resting softly on your head now, his voice full of a warm profound affection. "Absolutely incredible sweetheart. I think... I think we might have to do this every night."

Before the haze could even begin to clear from your head, his long hands were under your arms, hauling you up from the rug with surprising effortless strength and placing you onto the cushions of his couch.

You landed with a soft huff, your hair splayed out wildly against the fabric. You looked up at him with wide blown out eyes, your chest still heaving, your lips swollen and glistening from the effort of pleasing him.

Spencer leaned over you but instead of the harsh demand from moments before, he reached down and took your hand in his. He brought your knuckles to his lips, lingering there with a soft reverent kiss that sent a completely different kind of shiver down your spine.

“Look at you," he murmured, his voice a low warm hum of pure appreciation. "Absolutely breathtaking... you did a perfect job for me... truly incredible."

"Do you have any idea how many times I’ve sat at my desk, watching you walk across the room, imagining exactly this?" Spencer murmured against your skin, his voice dropping into a soft hum as he pressed a warm kiss just beneath your jaw.

He moved up slowly, his hands coming up to gently frame your face, his thumbs wiping away the flush on your cheeks before his mouth met yours in a soft deeply tender kiss.

There was no rush now, he just held you close, parting his lips to deepen the kiss with a slow sweet warmth that made your chest ache with affection.

You let out a soft breathy moan into his mouth, your hands tangling into the soft curls at the nape of his neck to pull him even closer. The heat between you was gentle and completely enveloping, making you feel entirely safe and cherished in his arms.

When he finally broke the kiss, he didn't pull away, his forehead resting lightly against yours so you could share the same warm breath. He looked down at you with a soft, incredibly sweet smile, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners with pure adoration.

"Look at you," he whispered, his thumb gently smoothing over your bottom lip, which was soft and glistening from his kisses. "You are so perfect for me... I'm the luckiest man alive just getting to hold you like this.”

"You're... you're making me lose my mind Spencer," you breathed, your voice breaking into a needy whimper as your hands clutched at his forearms, trying to pull his weight back down toward you. "Please... I don't want to think... I need you so bad... please..."

Hearing your plea, the soft smile faded from Spencer's lips, replaced by a sudden sharp intake of breath.

You could feel the exact moment his gentle restraint snapped, his grip on your forearms tightened, his chest heaving heavily against yours as a wave of pure unfiltered desperation took over his features.

"You're killing me," he gasped out, his voice cracking slightly as he buried his face back into the crook of your neck, his kisses became fast, hot and breathless, trailing frantically up your jawline as if he couldn't get close enough to you. "I can't be gentle, I try... but I need to be closer... I need all of you right now.”

He began to trail hot wet demanding kisses down your body, his breath hot against your stomach as your clothes were slowly being undone.

He dropped to the floor, kneeling between your legs. With a swift efficient movement, he reached out and stripped you of your skirt and underwear, tossing them carelessly onto the floor.

He started at your inner thighs, peppering desperate open mouthed kisses all over the sensitive skin. He bit you, not hard enough to break the skin but hard enough to leave a stinging heat that made your toes curl into the cushions.

"You’re so responsive aren't you?" He chuckled, a dark low sound that vibrated intensely against your inner thigh. "So eager to be fucked."

He leaned in, his tongue darting out to lap up the evidence of your previous orgasm, his movements slow, deliberate and thorough as he ran his tongue along your folds, exploring every inch of you with an intense obsessive focus.

You moaned louder, your hips beginning to move involuntarily as the pleasure started to build again, faster than before.

Suddenly Spencer pulled back, he looked up at you from between your legs, his eyes glinting in the dim light of the living room.

"Listen to me very carefully," he commanded, his voice sharp and utterly unyielding. "If I ever ask you a question, if I ever demand an answer and you don't give it to me immediately, I will stop, I will pull back and I will leave you exactly like this. Do you understand?"

"Yes!... hahh~... yes please Spencer... just don't stop," you cried out, your hands reaching down for his shoulders.

"Good girl," he whispered, a dark satisfied smirk crossing his face. "Such a perfect obedient toy for me."

He leaned back down, his focus entirely consumed by the heat between your thighs. His tongue found your center with a desperate heavy intensity, tracing your folds with long deliberate strokes before centering his attention right where you needed it most.

The steady relentless friction was overwhelming, driving you crazy as your hips began to lift off the cushions instinctively.

Just as the sensation reached a fever pitch and you felt like you couldn't handle another second, Spencer shifted his weight. He let out a low groan against your skin, sliding two long fingers smoothly inside your tight heat.

The sudden deep stretch of him filling you after so much teasing made your breath leave you in a long broken scream, your fingers locking tightly into his hair as your body tried to adjust to the new fullness.

"You're so tight sweetheart," he rasped, his voice muffled by your heat as he began to hook his fingers upward, finding the sensitive spot inside you with exact precision. "Is this where you want me to touch? You're absolutely desperate for this aren't you?"

He began to apply a rhythmic heavy pressure, his knuckles rubbing against you in a firm merciless motion that sent white hot sparks behind your eyelids. Every time his fingers hit that exact spot, your hips jerked off the couch instinctively, trying to impale yourself further on his hand.

"Spencer!... Yes!... Ah-hahh!~... right there!... It... it feels so good!" You sobbed, your fingers digging into the fabric of the couch until your nails threatened to rip the leather. "Please... don't stop... I'm going to cum... Ahhh!..."

"I'm not stopping," he growled, increasing the speed of his fingers, his thumb coming down to pin your clit with a bruising force that matched the internal pounding. "I want to feel exactly how you fall apart when I use you like that."

You felt your internal muscles clenching tightly around his fingers, trying to milk him while your body finally betrayed every single ounce of restraint you had left.

You let out a high broken scream that echoed through the room, your back arching so sharply that only your heels and shoulders touched the couch cushions. You were shaking uncontrollably, your internal muscles spasming in tight rhythmic waves around his fingers as a second even more violent climax ripped entirely through you.

Spencer didn't pull away, he kept his fingers buried deep, mimicking the intense pulsing of your release and let out a low dark chuckle that vibrated heavily against your sensitive skin.

"Look at that," he rasped, pulling his face back just enough to observe the way your thighs were still uncontrollably twitching. "All that polite talk before and here you are... sobbing and leaking all over my furniture like a broken toy. You really are an incredibly desperate little thing aren't you?"

"Yes... ahh-hah!~..." You sobbed, your eyes rolling back as the aftershocks continued to roll through you. You felt completely exposed, your face burning with a mix of vulnerability and intense lingering heat. "I'm... I'm your toy Spencer... please... I can't even move..."

"Good," he smirked, his hazel eyes tracking the frantic way your chest heaved. "I didn't give you permission to move… I am not even close to being done with you.”

"Spencer... ah haah!~... please," you sobbed, your hands reaching out blindly to find his broad shoulders, your voice a thin, shaky thread of desperation. "I'm already... I'm so sens-... AH!... SPENCER!"

He didn't let you finish, before the word " sensitive” could fully leave your lips, he dived back down, his tongue flickering against your swollen pulsing clit with sudden sharp precision.

He was entirely relentless as he began to suck your sensitive clit into his mouth, creating a tight rhythmic vacuum that made your vision go entirely white.

His tongue was a firm muscular weight pushing against you, flickering over the most sensitive nerve endings with a dizzying speed.

Every single time you tried to pull away from the overwhelming agonizing intensity, his long hands clamped down on your hips like iron bands, pinning you in place so you had to endure every single flicker and swirl.

"Ngh-hah!~... Please!" You begged him, your head thrashing from side to side against the fabric. “Spencer!... It hurts…”

He completely ignored your pleas, his tongue flat and heavy as he licked upward then used the very tip to circle the center of your heat in a way that felt like he was carving his name directly into your skin. You were a shivering sobbing mess beneath him, your body completely at the mercy of his mouth.

"Tell me how it feels," he prompted, his voice a muffled vibration against your soaked skin.

You were entirely lost, your head thrashing against the cushions. "It... it feels incredible!... nghh~... Please... harder!"

"Harder? Is that an order sweetheart?" He stopped for a fraction of a second, his teeth grazing your inner thigh in a sharp punishing bite. "I don't take orders here, I set the rules. Now tell me exactly how it feels."

"I... ahhh~... I love it!" You screamed, your hips grinding down onto his mouth with a frantic uncoordinated desperation. "It feels... ngh~... so good... Fuck!... Please Spencer... ahh~... please... don't stop!... I'm so close again!... I’m begging you!"

He didn't give you another second to breathe. Driven over the edge by your begging, he dived back in with a dizzying rhythmic speed. He focused entirely on the sensitive peak of your heat, his strokes becoming faster and more relentless until the sheer intensity of the friction made your vision fragment into white spots.

"Good girl," he murmured, his tongue sweeping over you again in a long devastating stroke. "And do you like being worked over like this? Are you about to cum for me again?"

"Yes!... Ahhh!~... I'm right there!... hnghh~... Spencer... please! It's too much... ahh~... I'm going to... I'm close!... Please!"

He didn't need another word, he doubled his efforts, his tongue flicking faster, his fingers pushing into you with a rough demanding pace.

Every time you tried to close your legs, he shoved them wider, pinning your knees back with his shoulders so he had a completely unobstructed view of how he was ruining you.

"Keep them open sweetheart," he growled, his voice a dark vibrating rasp against your soaking skin. "Tell me... who owns this mess? Who are you begging for right now?"

"Spencer... ahh-haah~... please!" You sobbed, your head thrashing against the cushions.

He stopped instantly, the sudden lack of friction was a physical blow, leaving you suspended on a jagged agonizing edge.

"I don't like when you don't answer me," he hissed, his eyes dark, intense and focused as he looked up at you. "I asked you a question. Who owns you?"

"You!.. hngh~... you do!" You screamed, your hips bucking upward in a desperate frantic search for his mouth.

"Good girl," he murmured, diving back in with a punishing heavy lick that made you let out a strangled scream. He was relentless, his tongue swirling around your clit while his fingers hammered into you, hitting your g-spot with every thrust.

The overstimulation reached a fever pitch. Your vision went blurry, white spots dancing behind your eyelids as a new, even more violent wave of pleasure began to swell. You were grinding your teeth, your voice reduced to a high continuous keen that echoed off the walls of his flat.

"Spencer!... I'm... Ahh!~... I’m cumming!... I’m... ngh~... I’m cumming!" You cried out, the tears finally spilling over as the sheer intensity of his tongue became too much to bear.

You weren't just sobbing, you were frantic. Your hands locked onto the back of his head, your fingers tangling in his dark hair as you pushed him even deeper against your heat.

You were begging for mercy and demanding more all at once, your heels digging into his shoulders as you tried to consume his entire mouth.

"That's it... that's my girl," Spencer whispered, his dirty talk a constant filthy hum against your folds. "Look at how much you're leaking for me. You're so loud sweetheart... you're so beautifully, shamelessly loud."

Spencer didn’t pull away immediately. He stayed between your trembling thighs, his tongue moving in slow rhythmic laps to collect every bit of the slick sweet evidence of your release.

Even as you sobbed and shook, he kept his mouth right there, drinking you in, his tongue never wavering until the very last twitch of your muscles subsided.

"Spencer... it's... it’s too much!" you pleaded, your fingers locking into his hair as you tried to pull him closer and push him away all at once, your body completely overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the release.

"You’ve been a very, very good girl," he praised, giving your center one final lingering kiss that made your hips twitch helplessly.

He stood up then, the transition from the lanky academic to this predatory dominant force was absolutely intoxicating. He didn't break eye contact as he stripped off his shirt, the fabric fluttering to the floor to join the scattered papers.

He looked entirely energized, his eyes bright with a lingering deep hunger that made your heart hammer violently against your ribs.

He hovered over you again, the heat radiating off his body was completely overwhelming. He braced his long arms on either side of your head, his shadow swallowing you whole on the couch.

"You're doing so well for me sweetheart," he whispered, leaning down to capture your lips in a searing open mouthed kiss. "But we aren't quite finished yet are we? I still have so much more to show you."

"S-Spencer... wait... haah!"

You let out a sharp gasp as he reached down, his long hands hooking under your knees and lifting your thighs until they were wrapped tightly around his waist. The position was incredibly vulnerable and open, leaving you completely at his mercy.

He leaned in, peppering your neck with hot biting kisses, his breath hitching sharply against your skin.

"Be a good girl for me," he rasped, his voice cutting through the quiet room. "Do what I tell you."

Without another word of warning, he aligned himself and pushed his pulsing cock deep inside you in one deep unyielding thrust.

"AAAAHH!... Spencer!... Fuck!"

The scream ripped entirely from your throat as you felt the sheer size of him filling and stretching you open. It was too much and too fast, your head thrashed against the cushions as your body desperately tried to adjust to the sudden heavy intrusion.

"Shhh," Spencer groaned, his own voice breaking as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "Just take it... take all of it... Fuck, you’re so tight... so perfect for me."

He didn't give you a single second to catch your breath as he began to move, his hips hitting yours with a heavy rhythmic thud against the couch. He was entirely relentless, his pace fast, demanding and consuming. His hands dug into your hips to hold you completely steady as he drove himself deep.

"Don't fuckin move," he commanded, his voice a low gravelly vibration against your ear. "Tell me you'll be good... tell me you'll take every inch of me."

"I... I will!... Ah-hah!~... Spencer... please... nghh~... it’s so deep!" You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, pulling him closer as your body started to find the rhythm, your senses beginning to sing under the weight of his. "Ahh!~... yes!... Right there!"

"That's it... scream my name," Spencer encouraged, his movements becoming more frantic and more desperate, his quiet facade completely melting into raw guttural grunts of pleasure. "Tell me how it feels to have me inside you like this."

"It feels... hhah~... feels so good!" You sobbed, your voice breaking into a high needy keen as you pulled his face down to yours. You kissed him with a frantic messy hunger, your tongues tangling as you tasted the salt of his skin and the heat of his frantic breath.

Your moans were completely muffled against his lips, vibrating through both of your bodies as he hit that perfect sensitive spot deep inside you with every heavy rhythmic thud of his hips.

You were clinging to him like he was your only lifeline, your nails digging into his back as you tried to pull him even deeper, your body trembling under the sheer weight of his dominance.

"Good girl baby," Spencer groaned, his voice dropping into a lethal low register that sent a fresh jolt of electricity to your core. "Show me how much you need this... cum for me again, come on."

The friction was building rapidly, a white hot tension that threatened to shatter your composure again.

Spencer was still entirely energized, his stamina seemingly endless as he kept up the punishing deep pace, his chest heaving heavily against yours.

"I’m going to... ahh~... I’m going to cum... ngh!~... Spencer! I’m going to... Ah-hah!~..."

"Stay with me," he gasped, his long fingers tangling in your hair as he pulled your head back to look directly into your eyes. "Me too… fuck, me too baby!... Look at me... look at what you're doing to me."

He redoubled his efforts, his thrusts becoming shallower but incredibly fast, his hips grinding into yours with a frantic desperate energy.

You were both intensely loud, the small living room filled with the sounds of your joined ragged breaths and the wet rhythmic slaps of skin on skin.

"Spencer!... Ah-hah!~... Ngh~... now!... Ahh!~..."

"God... yes!... Hngh!~... Now baby!"

The snap came simultaneously, you let out a long piercing cry as the climax crashed over you, your internal muscles pulsing and clamping down on his length in a series of agonizingly beautiful spasms.

Spencer let out a deep guttural roar, his lean body going completely rigid as he drove himself into you one last time, pinning you firmly to the couch as he came deep inside you.

The sheer force of his release sent a final blinding wave of pleasure through your system, leaving you both trembling violently in the heavy aftermath.

He didn't pull back, he kept moving, his hips still bucking with a lingering desperate need to ensure every drop of his heat was buried deep within you, his weight grounding you completely into the plush fabric of the sofa.

You were both completely spent, your lungs burning as you fought for air, but despite the heavy exhaustion pinning your limbs down, you reached up. Your fingers shaking as you tangled them into the damp messy hair at the nape of his neck, you pulled him down with a weak needy whimper, seeking his mouth one more time.

The kiss was slow, messy and filled with the salt of your shared sweat, a quiet desperate acknowledgment of the absolute madness you had just shared.

You moaned softly into his mouth, a broken breathless sound of pure contentment as he kissed you back with a lingering protective hunger that was far softer than the man who had been breaking your composure only moments ago.

The silence of the apartment was broken only by the frantic thumping of your hearts beating in perfect sync against each other's chests.

"Incredible," he panted, a dark exhausted smirk finally touching his lips as he looked down at you. "Absolutely incredible sweetheart."

He moved with a sudden protective strength, pulling out of you with a soft sigh before gathering you up securely in his arms. He held you tight against his chest, shifting your weights so you were resting comfortably together on the couch.

"You’re okay baby?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a low comforting vibration that rumbled directly against your ear. "I’ve got you, just breathe for me."

You gave a small weak nod against his chest, your muscles feeling like lead. "Yeah..." you managed to whisper, your voice sounding far away and heavy with exhaustion as you leaned more into his chest, seeking the steady grounding thrum of his heart.

"There she is," he whispered, his voice returning to that soft melodic lilt but with a completely new raw layer of affection. "Such a good girl, you did so well for me sweetheart... absolutely perfect."

He reached up to caress your damp hair, smoothing the stray locks away from your face with a tenderness that made it hard to remember the dominant force from moments ago.

He tilted his head down, pressing a soft lingering kiss to your temple, his lips warm and dry against your skin.

“I know I was hard on you. I know I pushed your limits so far... but look at how beautiful you look… you’re such a good girl... my perfect pretty girl."

He pressed another kiss to the corner of your eye, catching a stray tear of overstimulation with his thumb.

After some time, your eyes fluttered open and you looked down at the floor. The case files were truly a disaster, scattered and forgotten after your night together.

"Ready to take a shower and get some sleep?” Spencer whispered against your hair. " I think we really need one right now."

"Yes please," you breathed.

He lifted you easily, carrying your spent frame down the hall to the bathroom.

In the shower, Spencer was incredibly gentle with you. He held you tight against his chest under the warm water, letting the spray sluice between your bodies.

His touch was slow and reverent, keeping you feeling completely safe and cherished even as your eyes traced the lean lines of his chest through the heavy steam.

Once you were clean and warm, he stepped out to grab a towel, drying you off with the same careful meticulous attention he gave to everything else. He walked you to the bedroom and went to his wardrobe and pulled out one of his soft shirts, pulling it over your frame until it hung halfway down your thighs.

He threw on a shirt and a pair of simple lounge pants himself, looking much more like the quiet academic again, though the dark marks on his neck told a completely different story.

"You look so good in my clothes," he rasped, his eyes darkening with a fresh quiet heat. “I might never let you wear your own clothes in this apartment again.”

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a soft lingering kiss that tasted of him.

You felt a flutter in your chest, your hands reaching up to weakly grasp the fabric of his shirt as you melted against his lean frame. You let out a small shaky breath against his lips, a tired but happy smile tugging at your mouth as you tucked your head under his chin.

He led you into the bed, the sheets cool and inviting. You collapsed into them, resting your head securely on his shoulder the moment he climbed in beside you, the sheer weight of the day and the night finally catching up to you.

"Spencer?" You asked, your voice trailing off into a yawn as you looked at him. "What is Hotch going to do when we show up at the round table with case files that aren't finished?"

Spencer pulled the heavy duvet up over both of you, tucking you firmly into his side. He let out a soft sleepy huff of a laugh and kissed your temple.

"That my love is a problem for future us," he murmured, his arms wrapping tightly around you. "And I suspect the rest of the team will be far too distracted by the timeline anomalies to look too closely at the state of the paperwork."

He tightened his hold on you, pulling you completely flush against his side. "Good night sweetheart."

You didn't answer, the rhythmic steady thrum of his heartbeat had already lulled your mind into a deep heavy sleep.

“No, I really wanna do this.”

“Do you, Reid?” you took a few slow steps toward him, your hands dropping to your sides, “You don’t seem very eager. Your legs are crossed and you’re still fully clothed.” 

“I didn’t know I should-“

“You shouldn’t do anything. But if giving instructions is the only way you’ll start doing something then I’ll do that.” 

He paused, looking up at you with patient, yet deeply confused eyes. 

It was Spencer’s first time. And he came to you specifically because you’d caught him “excited” during very unreasonable times on the job. The most recent incident was on the flight back home from Seattle two days ago right after debriefing with the team. 

“I didn’t know debriefing gory cases got you going, Reid.” you had teased, completely pushing him off balance for the rest of the flight. 

He thought himself sick for having such thoughts at such inappropriate times. 

“If you need help with that, I’m only one phone call away.” you whispered to him before walking off to your car that night, never expecting him to take you up on that offer. 

—- 

“I need help.” 

Those were the first words you were hit with by a breathy Spencer on the phone earlier tonight. 

A small smirk formed on your face. 

Who knew Spencer could be so bold. 

That’s what desperation does. 

That’s what complete, utter need makes you do. It strips you of your pride and shyness; it strips you down to pure instinct. 

—

“Strip.” 

“Right, sorry.” his hands quickly fiddled with the buttons of his shirt, undoing each button with a growing, clumsy urgency. 

“We’re gonna start with some touching tonight. I think you should just get a feel for things since it’s your first time. And if you find yourself more comfortable later on, we can do some oral stuff.” 

Spencer felt a tight knot form in the pit of his stomach, a sign that the blood will start rushing down from his head. 

“I am comfortable,” he insisted, his eyes dropping to your chest before darting back up to your face.  

You fought back a smile at his eagerness, which you thought was adorable. 

“We haven’t even started yet. So no, not until we get a bit further with things. Got it?” 

He nodded, now stripped down with only his boxers left. 

“Lay down.”

“Just..” he looked at the bed, acting as if the words were completely foreign to him, then moving back on the bed to lay flat. 

He pressed his palms down on the sheets. 

“Relax, Spencer.” you whispered, walking to the side of the bed, admiring the sight of his pale, lean body lying completely flat in your most sacred spot, slightly shaking. 

He closed his eyelids, “I am relaxed.” 

You tilted your head to the side, unable to take your eyes off his peaceful, flushed face. 

You gently pressed your index finger under his chin, moving his face up. 

You then traced your finger down his throat, going slower at his adam’s apple before continuing down the path of his bare chest, feeling the hammering of his heart vibrating against his sternum and ribs. 

You dragged that finger down his abs to his lower stomach, sending a shiver down his spine, making his muscles contort underneath your touch. 

“You’re very responsive,” 

“Is that a good thing?” 

“It’s just an observation.” 

Spencer swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he looked up at you, completely defenseless. 

“I don’t think I can handle you being unbiased right now,” 

You removed your finger, giving him a gentle grin. 

You leaned down, pressing your palms on the mattress next to Spencer, pressing a kiss on his cheek,  “you’ll do great, Reid. Just let go, okay?” 

“Okay,” 

A faint shade of pink was crawling up his neck, slowly spreading across his cheeks. 

Your lips found their way across the warm skin of his jaw, lightly grazing with your teeth and pulling a quiet, breathy whimper from his lips. 

You pulled away to unbutton your pants and pull them down before tossing them on the end of the bed. 

You crawled up the bed to settle your weight on his stomach, straddling him. His hands were still pressed down on the sheets, but now his fingers hesitantly reached to touch your legs that laid close to his shaky hands. 

You focused your wet kisses on his neck, occasionally sucking on the sensitive spot behind his ear to listen to the pretty noises he can’t help but let out. 

You lowered your hips to make it easier for yourself to pepper kisses all over his chest.

“It’s okay, you can touch,” you whispered against his skin, your voice vibrating against the warm flesh underneath your mouth.

He slowly slid his hands up your legs, then your sides, his movements full of uncertainty.  

Your hands cupped his own, guiding him to your chest, encouraging him to feel you up. 

He cupped your breasts, the tender flesh full against his palms. His fingers squeezed and flexed, making your peaks slowly start to harden. 

“Like that?” he murmured. 

“Yes, Spencer, just like that.” you softly hummed, shifting your weight slightly to press yourself harder into his hands. 

His thumbs found the lace edges of your bra, tracing the curve of the underwire, before brushing his fingers with more force against your covered, hardened nipples. 

Your hips rolled instinctively against his, your body leaning forward against his, no longer sitting upright. 

“Can I- should I take this off?” his voice was breathy, filled with quiet fascination. 

“Please.” 

His fingers quickly fumbled with the clasp of your bra, his movements a bit clumsy before managing to unhook your bra. 

You dropped the bra straps down your arms before he took it, his fingers brushing over the thin fabric as he placed it next to his head. 

Spencer’s eyes were blown wide, staring up at you in absolute awe before taking your bare breasts in his waiting hands. 

“You’re so soft,” he murmured.

He cups you fully, lifting and squeezing reverently. His thumbs and index fingers caught your aching peaks, rolling them gently and pulling a stifled moan out of your lips—a sound that mesmerized Spencer. 

Your raw reaction gave Spencer more confidence, slowly steadying his shaky hands and making him raise his head, reaching for your nipples. 

With one hand kneading your right breast, he took your left peak in his warm mouth, wrapping his lips around it before swirling his tongue to spread the wetness on your sensitive skin. 

A small gasp left your parted lips, “God, Spencer, keep doing that,” your hand went to his hair, gently carding fingers through the soft locks. 

You felt his rock hard length between your thighs as you rocked your hips against his, “you’re so hard and I haven’t even touched you, Spencer.” 

“I- I can’t help it”, he confessed, his teeth accidentally biting your nipple as you grind your hips down in a slow circle, “you’re beautiful and- and you’re on top of me and I’ve been thinking about this since the plane…” he breathed his words in the middle of working on your nipple.

 You let out a shuddering breath, “I know, Spencer,” 

You gently tugged his hair back, pulling his head away from your chest to look at you. His lips were wet and swollen, “I want this too, but we can stop at any point, no questions asked and no hard feelings.” your lips were brushing his, not quite kissing him. 

“Okay,” he whispered, his eyes staring at your lips as he tried to get a bit closer. 

You snaked your hand down your torso and underneath the damp fabric of your panties. 

Two of your fingers swirl on your clit before slowly stroking your slit and pressing a finger against your hole, making you moan against his mouth. 

He parted his lips, aching to swallow your moans. 

You got off of him, sitting next to him against the headboard, propping your legs up and parting them. 

He then sat up, moving to the lower part of the bed and hovering on all fours to get the clearest view of you, staring with parted lips as the flush deepened across his sweaty chest. 

You pumped one finger in and out of your pussy in a slow pace, warming yourself up for another finger. 

You slid a second finger inside yourself, letting a soft, breathy groan escape your lips. 

You were already slick, your glossy moisture coating your fingers. 

Spencer let out a low, ragged groan from the back of his throat as he watched your fingers disappear into your tight, wet heat then slide back out, glistening. 

His eyes darted up to your face, watching the pure bliss and pleasure painted on your features, the sight compelling him to slide his hand down his body, his slender fingers slipping underneath the elastic of his boxers.

He quickly wrapped his fingers around his cock, giving it a few slow pumps to relieve some tension as his eyes fluttered shut. 

“Spencer,” you breathed out, head tilting backwards, “eyes on me,” 

His eyes snapped open, “Can- can I… touch you?” his glossy eyes looked up at you. 

“Hand out of your boxers first.” 

“But-“

“Out.”

He obliged without hesitation, pulling his hand that glistened with precum out of his boxers. 

“Good boy,” you praised softly, pushing your fingers deeper before withdrawing them.

“Now come here,” you gestured for him to come closer with your wet fingers.

He crawled closer between your legs, widening his mouth, asking for permission to take your two fingers in his mouth. you brought your fingers down to his lips, letting him wrap his lips around them. 

He hallowed his cheeks, pulling your fingers deeper into his mouth, and sucking them clean before swirling his tongue around them to lick them for good measure. 

“You like how I taste, Spencer?” you cooed. 

He nodded, his eyelashes fluttering before he swallowed hard and slowly released your fingers with a soft, wet pop.

“I wanna hear it, Spence..”

“You taste so good,” he breathed out quietly as if he were melting, dropping his head on the sheets between your legs. 

“I.. I wanna touch you where you were just touching yourself. I really wanna make you feel good but I’ve never done this so I don’t.. I don’t know how I’ll do,” 

You softened at his vulnerability, placing your hand on his flushed cheek, brushing your thumb on his cheekbone, “Hey..” you whispered

“You’re already doing perfectly. Just do whatever feels natural, okay? And I’ll tell you what feels good,” you whispered, tucking a loose curl behind his ear. 

A small, breathless nod was all he could manage. 

His long fingers trembled as he brought his hand closer to your core, making you part your thighs further, giving him better access. 

He pressed his thumb against your swollen clit, the sensation of the cold pad of his fingertip making you shiver. 

He applied more pressure, his thumb swirling in a slow circle before his long index finger grazed your folds, parting them and exploring your parts with deep concentration. 

He pressed the tip of his finger against your hole, not applying enough pressure to push inside you just yet. 

Your slick opening twitched against the intrusion, begging for more friction. 

You didn’t say anything to not rush him. 

You wanted him to take his time exploring this. 

He didn’t need any instructions to push his finger into your aching hole, a grunt escaping his lips. 

The direct friction made your hips involuntarily buck upward toward his hand, a needy gasp breaking from your lips. 

A small, proud smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He pumped his finger in and out, slowly picking up the pace every time he heard your growing moans.

“Add another finger, Spence. And when you push in, curl your fingers.” 

“Curl my fingers..” he repeated, nodding eagerly before slowly adding a second finger and following your instructions. 

The moment his fingers slid inside you, your tight heat clamped around them with a desperate, heavy squeeze. 

Spencer hooked his knuckles, curling his fingers to a perfect C-shape, hitting your sweet spot with sharp accuracy that pulled a high-pitched whine out of your throat, “oh my god, Spencer” your head lolled back. 

He brought his free hand up, pressing his palm firmly against your lower stomach, “I’ve read that if I apply external pressure to your pelvis here.. it compresses the tissue against my fingers and maximizes the sensation of fullness and stimulation.” 

Your moan and the involuntary grind of your hips against his fingers only proved his point. 

“The lower stomach itself is highly sensitive.. It’s.. it’s packed with nerve pathways that can amplify pleasure and flood your brain’s reward centers. The pressure is localizing the blood, too.. It’s making you more sensitive.. sorry I’m talking too much- I didn’t mean to-”

“Don’t be,” you groaned, “I love hearing you talk,” 

He smiled, “I’d love to keep talking. But I don't think I can multitask right now..” 

A small chuckle escaped your lips, before an overwhelming wave of pleasure took over.

“Are you- are you close?”

“So fucking close,” you whined, your voice breathy and quiet.

Spencer didn’t change the angle, but he quickened the pace and curled his knuckles harder, the need to please you only growing with every second. 

The tension in your lower stomach finally snapped, your inner walls clamping and pulsing against his pumping fingers, making your hands fly to hold onto his hair. 

A soft cry was ripped from the back of your throat as the wave of dizzying heat rushed through your veins, quickly travelling to your core, making your hips grind helplessly against his fingers, riding out your blinding orgasm. 

Your thighs trembled violently, aching to clasp around his arm, but Spencer made an effort to make this easier for you by pressing soft kisses to your thighs, dragging his lips slowly across your burning skin. 

Your juices dripped as he slowed his fingers down.

He pressed a kiss right above your clit before withdrawing his fingers slowly, hearing you whimper at the loss of contact. He admired the hot moisture that left your hole, immediately bringing his face to taste you on his fingers then on your folds. 

You relaxed on the bed, slowly lowering your back to lay down. 

He crawled up your body, missing the comfort your face brought to him when it was so close to his.

“Did I do okay?” he whispered shyly. 

Your noses softly  brushed against each other, “You did an amazing job, that was absolutely perfect, Spencer.” 

His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, asking a silent question. 

“No, I really wanna do this.”

“Do you, Reid?” you took a few slow steps toward him, your hands dropping to your sides, “You don’t seem very eager. Your legs are crossed and you’re still fully clothed.” 

“I didn’t know I should-“

“You shouldn’t do anything. But if giving instructions is the only way you’ll start doing something then I’ll do that.” 

He paused, looking up at you with patient, yet deeply confused eyes. 

It was Spencer’s first time. And he came to you specifically because you’d caught him “excited” during very unreasonable times on the job. The most recent incident was on the flight back home from Seattle two days ago right after debriefing with the team. 

“I didn’t know debriefing gory cases got you going, Reid.” you had teased, completely pushing him off balance for the rest of the flight. 

He thought himself sick for having such thoughts at such inappropriate times. 

“If you need help with that, I’m only one phone call away.” you whispered to him before walking off to your car that night, never expecting him to take you up on that offer. 

—- 

“I need help.” 

Those were the first words you were hit with by a breathy Spencer on the phone earlier tonight. 

A small smirk formed on your face. 

Who knew Spencer could be so bold. 

That’s what desperation does. 

That’s what complete, utter need makes you do. It strips you of your pride and shyness; it strips you down to pure instinct. 

—

“Strip.” 

“Right, sorry.” his hands quickly fiddled with the buttons of his shirt, undoing each button with a growing, clumsy urgency. 

“We’re gonna start with some touching tonight. I think you should just get a feel for things since it’s your first time. And if you find yourself more comfortable later on, we can do some oral stuff.” 

Spencer felt a tight knot form in the pit of his stomach, a sign that the blood will start rushing down from his head. 

“I am comfortable,” he insisted, his eyes dropping to your chest before darting back up to your face.  

You fought back a smile at his eagerness, which you thought was adorable. 

“We haven’t even started yet. So no, not until we get a bit further with things. Got it?” 

He nodded, now stripped down with only his boxers left. 

“Lay down.”

“Just..” he looked at the bed, acting as if the words were completely foreign to him, then moving back on the bed to lay flat. 

He pressed his palms down on the sheets. 

“Relax, Spencer.” you whispered, walking to the side of the bed, admiring the sight of his pale, lean body lying completely flat in your most sacred spot, slightly shaking. 

He closed his eyelids, “I am relaxed.” 

You tilted your head to the side, unable to take your eyes off his peaceful, flushed face. 

You gently pressed your index finger under his chin, moving his face up. 

You then traced your finger down his throat, going slower at his adam’s apple before continuing down the path of his bare chest, feeling the hammering of his heart vibrating against his sternum and ribs. 

You dragged that finger down his abs to his lower stomach, sending a shiver down his spine, making his muscles contort underneath your touch. 

“You’re very responsive,” 

“Is that a good thing?” 

“It’s just an observation.” 

Spencer swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he looked up at you, completely defenseless. 

“I don’t think I can handle you being unbiased right now,” 

You removed your finger, giving him a gentle grin. 

You leaned down, pressing your palms on the mattress next to Spencer, pressing a kiss on his cheek,  “you’ll do great, Reid. Just let go, okay?” 

“Okay,” 

A faint shade of pink was crawling up his neck, slowly spreading across his cheeks. 

Your lips found their way across the warm skin of his jaw, lightly grazing with your teeth and pulling a quiet, breathy whimper from his lips. 

You pulled away to unbutton your pants and pull them down before tossing them on the end of the bed. 

You crawled up the bed to settle your weight on his stomach, straddling him. His hands were still pressed down on the sheets, but now his fingers hesitantly reached to touch your legs that laid close to his shaky hands. 

You focused your wet kisses on his neck, occasionally sucking on the sensitive spot behind his ear to listen to the pretty noises he can’t help but let out. 

You lowered your hips to make it easier for yourself to pepper kisses all over his chest.

“It’s okay, you can touch,” you whispered against his skin, your voice vibrating against the warm flesh underneath your mouth.

He slowly slid his hands up your legs, then your sides, his movements full of uncertainty.  

Your hands cupped his own, guiding him to your chest, encouraging him to feel you up. 

He cupped your breasts, the tender flesh full against his palms. His fingers squeezed and flexed, making your peaks slowly start to harden. 

“Like that?” he murmured. 

“Yes, Spencer, just like that.” you softly hummed, shifting your weight slightly to press yourself harder into his hands. 

His thumbs found the lace edges of your bra, tracing the curve of the underwire, before brushing his fingers with more force against your covered, hardened nipples. 

Your hips rolled instinctively against his, your body leaning forward against his, no longer sitting upright. 

“Can I- should I take this off?” his voice was breathy, filled with quiet fascination. 

“Please.” 

His fingers quickly fumbled with the clasp of your bra, his movements a bit clumsy before managing to unhook your bra. 

You dropped the bra straps down your arms before he took it, his fingers brushing over the thin fabric as he placed it next to his head. 

Spencer’s eyes were blown wide, staring up at you in absolute awe before taking your bare breasts in his waiting hands. 

“You’re so soft,” he murmured.

He cups you fully, lifting and squeezing reverently. His thumbs and index fingers caught your aching peaks, rolling them gently and pulling a stifled moan out of your lips—a sound that mesmerized Spencer. 

Your raw reaction gave Spencer more confidence, slowly steadying his shaky hands and making him raise his head, reaching for your nipples. 

With one hand kneading your right breast, he took your left peak in his warm mouth, wrapping his lips around it before swirling his tongue to spread the wetness on your sensitive skin. 

A small gasp left your parted lips, “God, Spencer, keep doing that,” your hand went to his hair, gently carding fingers through the soft locks. 

You felt his rock hard length between your thighs as you rocked your hips against his, “you’re so hard and I haven’t even touched you, Spencer.” 

“I- I can’t help it”, he confessed, his teeth accidentally biting your nipple as you grind your hips down in a slow circle, “you’re beautiful and- and you’re on top of me and I’ve been thinking about this since the plane…” he breathed his words in the middle of working on your nipple.

 You let out a shuddering breath, “I know, Spencer,” 

You gently tugged his hair back, pulling his head away from your chest to look at you. His lips were wet and swollen, “I want this too, but we can stop at any point, no questions asked and no hard feelings.” your lips were brushing his, not quite kissing him. 

“Okay,” he whispered, his eyes staring at your lips as he tried to get a bit closer. 

You snaked your hand down your torso and underneath the damp fabric of your panties. 

Two of your fingers swirl on your clit before slowly stroking your slit and pressing a finger against your hole, making you moan against his mouth. 

He parted his lips, aching to swallow your moans. 

You got off of him, sitting next to him against the headboard, propping your legs up and parting them. 

He then sat up, moving to the lower part of the bed and hovering on all fours to get the clearest view of you, staring with parted lips as the flush deepened across his sweaty chest. 

You pumped one finger in and out of your pussy in a slow pace, warming yourself up for another finger. 

You slid a second finger inside yourself, letting a soft, breathy groan escape your lips. 

You were already slick, your glossy moisture coating your fingers. 

Spencer let out a low, ragged groan from the back of his throat as he watched your fingers disappear into your tight, wet heat then slide back out, glistening. 

His eyes darted up to your face, watching the pure bliss and pleasure painted on your features, the sight compelling him to slide his hand down his body, his slender fingers slipping underneath the elastic of his boxers.

He quickly wrapped his fingers around his cock, giving it a few slow pumps to relieve some tension as his eyes fluttered shut. 

“Spencer,” you breathed out, head tilting backwards, “eyes on me,” 

His eyes snapped open, “Can- can I… touch you?” his glossy eyes looked up at you. 

“Hand out of your boxers first.” 

“But-“

“Out.”

He obliged without hesitation, pulling his hand that glistened with precum out of his boxers. 

“Good boy,” you praised softly, pushing your fingers deeper before withdrawing them.

“Now come here,” you gestured for him to come closer with your wet fingers.

He crawled closer between your legs, widening his mouth, asking for permission to take your two fingers in his mouth. you brought your fingers down to his lips, letting him wrap his lips around them. 

He hallowed his cheeks, pulling your fingers deeper into his mouth, and sucking them clean before swirling his tongue around them to lick them for good measure. 

“You like how I taste, Spencer?” you cooed. 

He nodded, his eyelashes fluttering before he swallowed hard and slowly released your fingers with a soft, wet pop.

“I wanna hear it, Spence..”

“You taste so good,” he breathed out quietly as if he were melting, dropping his head on the sheets between your legs. 

“I.. I wanna touch you where you were just touching yourself. I really wanna make you feel good but I’ve never done this so I don’t.. I don’t know how I’ll do,” 

You softened at his vulnerability, placing your hand on his flushed cheek, brushing your thumb on his cheekbone, “Hey..” you whispered

“You’re already doing perfectly. Just do whatever feels natural, okay? And I’ll tell you what feels good,” you whispered, tucking a loose curl behind his ear. 

A small, breathless nod was all he could manage. 

His long fingers trembled as he brought his hand closer to your core, making you part your thighs further, giving him better access. 

He pressed his thumb against your swollen clit, the sensation of the cold pad of his fingertip making you shiver. 

He applied more pressure, his thumb swirling in a slow circle before his long index finger grazed your folds, parting them and exploring your parts with deep concentration. 

He pressed the tip of his finger against your hole, not applying enough pressure to push inside you just yet. 

Your slick opening twitched against the intrusion, begging for more friction. 

You didn’t say anything to not rush him. 

You wanted him to take his time exploring this. 

He didn’t need any instructions to push his finger into your aching hole, a grunt escaping his lips. 

The direct friction made your hips involuntarily buck upward toward his hand, a needy gasp breaking from your lips. 

A small, proud smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He pumped his finger in and out, slowly picking up the pace every time he heard your growing moans.

“Add another finger, Spence. And when you push in, curl your fingers.” 

“Curl my fingers..” he repeated, nodding eagerly before slowly adding a second finger and following your instructions. 

The moment his fingers slid inside you, your tight heat clamped around them with a desperate, heavy squeeze. 

Spencer hooked his knuckles, curling his fingers to a perfect C-shape, hitting your sweet spot with sharp accuracy that pulled a high-pitched whine out of your throat, “oh my god, Spencer” your head lolled back. 

He brought his free hand up, pressing his palm firmly against your lower stomach, “I’ve read that if I apply external pressure to your pelvis here.. it compresses the tissue against my fingers and maximizes the sensation of fullness and stimulation.” 

Your moan and the involuntary grind of your hips against his fingers only proved his point. 

“The lower stomach itself is highly sensitive.. It’s.. it’s packed with nerve pathways that can amplify pleasure and flood your brain’s reward centers. The pressure is localizing the blood, too.. It’s making you more sensitive.. sorry I’m talking too much- I didn’t mean to-”

“Don’t be,” you groaned, “I love hearing you talk,” 

He smiled, “I’d love to keep talking. But I don't think I can multitask right now..” 

A small chuckle escaped your lips, before an overwhelming wave of pleasure took over.

“Are you- are you close?”

“So fucking close,” you whined, your voice breathy and quiet.

Spencer didn’t change the angle, but he quickened the pace and curled his knuckles harder, the need to please you only growing with every second. 

The tension in your lower stomach finally snapped, your inner walls clamping and pulsing against his pumping fingers, making your hands fly to hold onto his hair. 

A soft cry was ripped from the back of your throat as the wave of dizzying heat rushed through your veins, quickly travelling to your core, making your hips grind helplessly against his fingers, riding out your blinding orgasm. 

Your thighs trembled violently, aching to clasp around his arm, but Spencer made an effort to make this easier for you by pressing soft kisses to your thighs, dragging his lips slowly across your burning skin. 

Your juices dripped as he slowed his fingers down.

He pressed a kiss right above your clit before withdrawing his fingers slowly, hearing you whimper at the loss of contact. He admired the hot moisture that left your hole, immediately bringing his face to taste you on his fingers then on your folds. 

You relaxed on the bed, slowly lowering your back to lay down. 

He crawled up your body, missing the comfort your face brought to him when it was so close to his.

“Did I do okay?” he whispered shyly. 

Your noses softly  brushed against each other, “You did an amazing job, that was absolutely perfect, Spencer.” 

His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, asking a silent question. 

the team is gathered in the conference room, seated around the table, with case files scattered in front of them.

she sits shoulder-to-shoulder with penelope, who has her laptop open in front of her.

he’s gone on a usual spencer-style rant about the significance of pillowcases or something equally random. she's too entranced by the way he motions with his hands and sporadically licks his lips while he talks to remember what his rambles even regard.

spencer can feel the suffocating boredom emanating from his colleagues. emily nods along without really listening and says “that’s nice, reid.”

"what're you on about, man?" comes from derek.

it's like he has no control over his mouth when this happens. he can tell that the room is not interested in what he has to say, but a part of him thinks that if he just keeps talking, then eventually he'll say the magic words that'll get everyone engaged.

he only feels worse when he sees her giggling with penelope.

“blah blah blah, proper name, place name, backstory stuff,” she lowly says in a sing-song tone, and penelope only laughs harder.

she doesn't know that spencer could hear her.

he wishes he knew how to do disappearing tricks so he could just evaporate into thin air. he can handle the rest of the team ignoring him or making jokes at his expense. he can handle it when it the teasing comes from literally anyone... except for her.

he cuts himself off mid-rant. he averts his gaze to the floor and he can feel heat growing up his cheeks and to his hairline. he pretends to fiddle with the file in front of him and mentally begs for literally anyone else to start talking.

he dares to look up at her one last time and his lips fall apart in shock.

if he didn’t know any better, he would define the look in her eyes as doting? maybe even fond? but she was just making fun of him, so that can’t be the case.

he talks as little as possible throughout the rest of the briefing. he furiously scribbles down his thoughts in place of speaking them out loud. he doesn't notice that the team has scattered elsewhere, leaving him alone with her in the conference room, until he hears her sweet voice right next to him.

"you okay, spence?" she's sat next to him and has her hands folded in her lap, her eyes wide with concern. he hates how his heart palpitates in reaction to her being in close proximity.

he sets down his pen and aligns it with the edge of the manilla folder, stalling before he deeply sighs.

"i know that i talk a lot, probably too much, and i'm sorry that it annoys you, but please don't make fun of me." he's still fiddling with his pen, unable to make eye contact with her. "at least don't do it right in my face, i'd almost rather you did it behind my back..."

"wait, what?" she wants to reach out to steady his trembling hand, but she doesn't want to add to his current discomfort. turning so she's fully facing him, she ducks her head to try to meet his eyes, "i've never made fun of you, at least not on purpose."

he finally meets her gaze and her heart sinks at the sadness painting his pupils. "i heard you mocking me with penelope."

her cheeks flush pink, knowing that he heard her gushing to penelope. a small smile rises on her lips as her eyes dart around the room, not knowing how to describe what she was referencing.

"i promise, i was not mocking you. i was quoting this meme that's floated around on tiktok. i don't even know what it's from, but people use it on videos about their crushes." she nibbles at her lower lip, hoping he doesn't dawdle on the last part of her explanation.

of course, nothing gets past spencer reid, "...their crushes?" his eyebrows dart upward, and he's trying so hard to suppress his excitement at what she's implying. he still doesn't understand why people would say that about someone they like; it doesn't seem like a very nice thing to do.

"look, um... you looked really cute when you were talking. i lost track of what you were even talking about because i was so distracted by you." she's searching his eyes for any signs of discomfort, reciprocity, anything at all. he still looks shocked, so she frantically adds on, "i can't believe i just admitted that to you, this is really embarrassing. just please know that i wasn't making fun of you."

"ohhh... so people say the 'proper name, place name, backstory stuff' as placeholders because they've gotten too distracted to remember what their crush was saying?" of course, his first priority is understanding this new concept. he can't go on living in the land of unknowing for long.

"sometimes, yeah, or it's like they think that their crush is so attractive that they could be saying anything at all, and they would still just be focused on their... attractive...ness." she tucks her hair behind both ears.

"okay, i think i understand... so you think i'm attractive no matter what i'm talking about?" her short-lived relief that he had skirted around her confession comes to a screeching halt.

"um... yes. i do. but it's whatever, we don't have to talk about that." she tries to wave it off like it's nothing. "i wasn't insulting you or trying to put you down, though, that's the important part." she nods as she finishes her sentence, like she's trying to convince herself of what she's saying as it comes out.

she rises from her chair to collect her belongings from the table. holding them to her chest, she makes her way to the door.

"oh, we're wheels up in-"

"i think you're cute too, by the way."

their voices overlap each other, but spencer's returned confession prevails.

her eyebrows rise and her lips part in astonishment.

"what?" she breathes out.

"i said that i think you're cute too, also attractive."

"oh, thank you, um..." she doesn't know what to do from here. should she ask him on a date? should she run over and kiss him? she definitely shouldn't do the latter while they're at work, but his admission has turned her brain to mush. she wonders if the heat on her face is capable of permeating her skull to melt her cerebrum. she's not thinking properly.

"would you want to get coffee with me sometime? you could show me those... memes? if you want?" he's worrying at his bottom lip, hoping that accusing her of taunting him hasn't ruined his chances.

she smiles and nods fanatically, "i would really like that."

Spencer Reid is an exception. He’s the exception, really; you can’t think of anyone else you’d do this for. Nobody else has burrowed deep into your brain the way he has. Nobody else would make you peel back layers of protection, shed every boundary the way a snake sheds its skin, the way you have for him.

Maybe he’s managed to reach in and sink his fingers into the only softer parts of you that remain. Or maybe you, as a whole, softened for him.

Maybe it’s just a fault. A flaw in your proverbial programming. Your feelings for him aren’t rational, your fixation on him doesn’t make any sense—but what does? 

You’re human, animal, driven by instinct. What is rational is subjective, the definition of sense ever-changing. Logic and reason are little more than facades, costumes worn to make people feel better about themselves, to keep the animal at bay. They ought to realise that life gets a hell of a lot more interesting when they stop following rules, scriptures, telling them what’s right, and instead follow what feels right.

That’s your philosophy, anyway. You’re sure you’d be hard-pressed to find many people that agree with you. 

Not even Spencer agrees with you, but you aren’t sure you can trust the moral rulings of a man who’ll happily fall to his knees at the feet of a serial killer. He’s a hypocrite, forever condemning your actions, calling you sick, all while going along with whatever twisted game you decide to play like a dog on a leash. He’ll bend to your every whim, mould his morals to better suit your desires, but he’ll roll his eyes and moan about it first—like that somehow cleanses him of sin.

Spencer sleeps with his door open—why, you’ll never understand—and you’re grateful, because it means you can waltz right into his bedroom without needing to worry about any squeaky hinges. And you wouldn’t want to wake him. No, that would ruin the fun.

He’s lying on his back, blankets kicked off, all leaden limbs and deep, slow breaths. Tousled hair and parted lips. A true sleeping beauty. It is, perhaps, the most at peace you’ve ever seen him, unblemished by the chaos of his conscious mind, by your presence. You could quite happily linger in this doorway, watch him sleep until the sun rises, treat him as you would an art exhibit; look, don’t touch.

You take your time crossing the room, as though any sudden movement, however silent, may disturb him. Spencer’s a light sleeper, easily stirred, never able to let himself go. It’s no wonder he’s so tired all the time; even in his sleep, he can’t truly rest.

The mattress sinks slightly under your weight as you crawl onto the bed. Your breathing is so quiet, so shallow, that you may as well be holding your breath as you carefully shuffle closer.

A streetlamp bleeds into the room through the blinds. Diffused streaks of pale light stretch across the bed, his face, like half a dozen halos. You tilt your head, taking a moment to admire his face. The sharp angle of his jaw; his brows, relaxed; the undeniable softness that replaces the tension you are so used to observing, and that, to you, seems almost alien.

You trail your fingers, touch awfully light, along his thigh. His pyjama pants are soft, freshly washed, covered in a purple plaid pattern that is just so Spencer. You’d consider stealing them if they were more your colour. Your hand dips to his inner thigh, drawing lazy patterns before grazing his crotch. The contact is so brief, so mild, he probably doesn’t even feel it.

You watch him closely, studying him for any sign of a reaction, before you grow bolder. You cup his cock through his pants, relishing the warmth under your palm, the way it sends a rush of heat straight to your core.

His body responds to your touch without protest. Like it knows you, trusts you. His cock stirs, presses against your hand.

Now you’re actually holding your breath. Biting your lip. Clenching your thighs. Fighting to contain the adrenaline that’s coursing through you as it increases by the second, pushing you to act faster, to lead with a heavier hand. You have to remind yourself to breathe, to take it slow, to control yourself before you wind up waking him.

You palm him through his pyjamas, steadily, movements so languid it’s almost annoying. His breathing shifts. His brows crease. He shifts against your hand, just barely. Yielding to your touch, asking for more.

Precious. That’s what he is. He’s fragile, like this. Delicate in ways he’d never allow himself to be when awake, when with you. When there’s always a game to play, a façade to keep up.

You struggle with his pants, with finding the balance between eagerness and prudence, as you try to get what you want without shattering this moment. His pretty cock springs free, already half-hard, and impatience has you abandoning his pants at his thighs so you can grasp it gently, listening to the way he sighs under your touch.

It’s maddening, almost, the way his erection realises itself in your hand, the way his body reacts, even when unconscious, to your gentleness. He groans, and it’s one of the softest sounds you’ve heard as you work his cock, keeping your gaze on his face, watching the slight twitches in his sleepy expression, manipulated by tender hand. 

Your mouth has run dry. You lick your lips, chew on the plush, as you exhaust the last of your restraint.

You lean down, drag your tongue across the head of his cock, and almost moan at the taste of him—do moan at the little noise he makes when you take him into your mouth. Can something be maddening, if you’re already mad? Is there a limit to insanity? Do you breathe the surplus into him? Every time you fall into bed together, it seems he breaks that little bit more, and you heal. Piece yourself back together with all that you’ve taken from him.

His cock twitches against your tongue. This is another thing you’re taking. Another line you’re crossing. Another thing he’ll hate you for, and love you for. He’s a masochist that way. You wouldn’t take so much if he weren’t so willing to give it. If he didn’t kneel at your altar, present his neck for your knife. You’re both damned.

But doesn’t every relationship consist of rotten priest and innocent lamb? Sinner and saint? Corruption and consecration? That’s how it’s supposed to be, no? You trade places every now and then, wear each other’s skin like shitty Halloween masks, pretend that the sacrifice holds any semblance of power. That’s all the sex is: Spencer, desperately imitating control; and you, holding the knife behind your back, pretending it isn’t there, pressed so deep into your skin you’d never be able to let it go, even if you wanted to.

A jerk of his hips, and his cock hits the spongy back of your throat. You just about hear him gasp over the sound of your own gagging, and then his fingers are in your hair, tearing you from him so fast you’d think you’d bitten him.

You meet Spencer’s awake, wide-eyed gaze with your own deer-in-headlights stare. He’s half-sitting, propped up on one elbow. Mouth slightly agape. Cheeks flushed the same shade as his spit-coated cock.

“How did you get in here?”

And the game’s up. Shame, you were just starting to enjoy it.

“I used a key,” you say simply.

Spencer blinks at you. His grip on your hair starts to loosen, like what you’re saying might, for a moment, make sense in his sleep-clouded mind, but then he returns to his senses. “You don’t have a key.”

“I, uh—” you clear your throat, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before flashing him a smile. “I copied yours.”

“You—” he releases your hair, retracts his hand like you’re something filthy. “You what?”

“Just in case you…” Smoothing out your hair, you sit up. “…needed help, or something. I was looking out for you, really—”

“No.” Spencer cuts you off, shaking his head as he rubs his eyes. “This is— do you have any idea how out of line this is? How on earth could you possibly think this was appropriate?”

You shrug, opting to play dumb as you straddle him. He doesn’t try to stop you. “I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“You broke into my apartment.”

“I used a key,” you repeat.

“That’s still illegal,” he hisses. “Copying someone’s key for the purpose of entering their home without their knowledge, and with criminal intent, is a crime.”

“Criminal intent?” you scoff, biting back a grin. “I didn’t come here to rob you—”

“No, you just came here to touch me in my sleep.”

You nod eagerly. “And you have a problem with that?”

Instead of answering your (very simple) question, Spencer just leans his head back against his pillow, muttering under his breath. You think you hear “God” slip between his lips. Typical.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” he grumbles, returning his hands to his face.

You click your tongue, trailing your fingers across the front of his shirt. “I can go back out and knock, if that’ll make you feel better—”

“Don’t,” he warns, voice firm. “You are just…so…”

He never finishes that thought. Instead, he reaches over to the bedside table. At first you figure he’s reaching for his glasses, but then his fingers graze the handle of the drawer, just barely out of his reach.

He taps your thigh. “Get off of me.”

“Oh, come on,” you whine.

“I’m not asking.”

“Can’t we just—”

His hands are on your waist and, before you can finish complaining, he’s pushing you away. You land on the mattress with a petulant huff, resigning yourself to staring at the ceiling as he rummages through his drawer. You hear the familiar rustle of his condom box, followed by the softer, quieter sound of his pyjama pants being thrown aside.

“You’re no fun,” you mutter, “you know that?”

Spencer doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even give you a huff, or a sigh. He just rolls the condom on.

He’s sick of you, or claims to be, yet he still yields to you every time. He still plays the game, still entertains your desires even when he knows that he shouldn’t—that doing so is only reinforcing your behaviour.

He’ll complain about you breaking in, but he’ll still fuck you, even though you haven’t asked him to, because the truth is that he needs this just as badly as you do—if not more so. Spencer needs to give just as badly as you need to take, and he’ll pretend it’s the other way around. Utter subservience masquerading as dominance; it’s his drug.

Fingers close around your wrist, and he pulls you back up to meet his lips. He kisses you like he’s starved, one hand tangled in your hair as the other slips up your thigh. He tugs at your panties, tears them off when you lift your hips. Tosses them into the dark before pulling you down on top of him.

You straddle him like it’s second nature, and the two of you slot together like pieces of a puzzle. Him on his back, and you above him. Half cast in shadow, half painted in the subtle glow of the streetlight, whispering curses into his mouth as his fingers find your dripping cunt.

“God,” he breathes, almost groans. He sets his hands on your hips, gives you a gentle nudge so you pull back. “You really were enjoying that, weren’t you?”

You smirk as you sit up, adjusting yourself so you’re lined up with his cock. Grasping the base, you drag the tip along your slick folds, relishing the way you can feel him pulsing under your palm. “We both did,” you tease. “Actually, I think you might’ve been enjoying it more—”

A sharp gasp cuts through your words, followed by a poorly muffled cry as Spencer forces your hips down. His cock pushes into you without warning, and the pain—the pleasure—has tears pricking in your eyes before you can think to stop them.

He throws his head back with a hiss, fingers digging into your soft skin as he sinks you onto his cock, guiding you to take every too-big inch of him, until you’re sat flush against his hips. A choked whimper is all you can muster as your tight walls flutter around his length.

“Fuck—”

“I’ve got you.”

And he has got you. He’s holding you there, keeping you stuffed full of him until your body gives in.

He only lets go once you’ve relaxed around him, once your whining has stopped and you’re making subtle movements of your hips, desperate to keep going now that the discomfort has subsided—and he lets you.

You settle into a rhythm quickly, and Spencer’s even quicker to sink into the mattress, letting his hands roam the plush of your thighs as you take the lead. Your name leaves his lips in a whisper, and you swear the sound is more intoxicating, more addicting than any drug out there. His touch, his voice, the little hitches in his breath every time you roll your hips—it’s enough to drive you fucking crazy.

And when he meets your gaze, you almost come undone on the spot. Because what you find plastered across his pretty face is worship. The kind you can make out even in the dark; broken, but perfect.

Is this something you’re taking, or something he’s giving? Is there a difference? If there is, does it even matter?

His thumb brushes your clit, and your thoughts turn to static. Debating the ethical nuances of such a sinful relationship becomes difficult when you’re like this. Pleasure is pleasure, no matter how rotten.

Spencer could be your sacrificial lamb, the moth to your cursed flame, or just a sick flagellant—you don’t care.  Not when he’s beneath you, biting back moans and telling you just how good you are at taking his cock, acting as the votary to your twisted godhead.

Tension builds in your core, compounded by the attention on your clit. The effortless workings of his hands have you inching closer and closer to the edge, and he isn’t even looking at what he’s doing. He’s watching your face, transfixed. His hand, so perfectly tuned to the needs of your body, is the last thing on his mind; pleasing you is second nature. Like breathing, it doesn’t require thought.

Curses tumble from your lips as your hips stutter. You reach for the headboard to steady yourself, but as soon as you lean forward Spencer’s bending a knee, setting his foot on the bed so he can thrust up into you at a faster, harder pace. His hands grasp your hips, press indents into your skin that are bound to leave a mark, and hold you in place as he fucks you.

You’ve no choice but to surrender yourself, at that point. Back arched, both hands on the headboard, head thrown back as static crackles in your veins, mounts to something that is so dangerously close to catching fire.

“…’m close—”

Spencer mumbles something the same time you do. Equally as breathless. Words laced with an equally depraved amount of need. He’s echoing the sentiment, fingernails cutting into your skin as his leg starts to tremble.

You come undone first. The orgasm hits your hard, and you clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound as you come on his cock. Spencer groans as your cunt clenches around him, hugging his length tighter with each thrust as he fucks you through your release, and his follows close behind.

In the breathless space between moments, your mind moves slower than your body. You allow yourself to collapse on top of him, burying your face in the crook of his neck as you try to tame your ragged breathing. And he lets you.

His hand cups the back of your head. The other rests on the small of your back. He keeps you close. Presses his nose to your hair, lips following shortly after. 

Seconds pass before you finally gather the strength to raise your head, to check if he’s lost his mind, but Spencer’s face betrays nothing. His brows are set in his usual frown, but the dark softens his features, and you can infer warmth where there shouldn't be any.

"Do you, um—" You clear your throat, lips curling into that signature sly smile. "Do you want my key, or should I keep it? Save it for a rainy day—"

You hiss as spencer pushes you off him. Instead of complaining, you curl up at his side, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest before he decides it’s time to get up. He doesn't answer your question, and you don't push him to.

He rises to his feet, takes care of the condom, the wrapper—any evidence of what just happened. You think he's going to take care of you, too; drag you out of his bed, throw you out on the street, but he doesn't. 

He glances back at you as he picks your panties up from his floor. He tosses them to you, but not without asking, in a quiet tone, "Are you going home?"

The question gives you pause. It's the inflection, the way his words are weaved to obstruct something else, spoken with a stiffness he knows you'll pick up on.

You narrow your eyes, tilting your head to one side. "Do you want me to go home?"

He grabs his pyjama pants, ignores another loaded question. Because the day Spencer Reid is ever open with you will be the day Hell freezes over.

"There's nothing to do here," you add, seeing right through his silence. "I’m not gonna be able to sleep just because you fucked me. You—"

"I know, but—"

"—aren't that good."

Spencer still doesn't share in your humour, despite how much time you've spent together. He'll break every rule, bend every moral, but he'll never laugh at your jokes. He doesn't even crack a smile, just sighs and pulls his pants on.

"I was going to suggest you read a book," he says, voice flat.

He gets back into bed without another word. Faces away from you. Holds his breath in the silence that follows.

He wants you to stay.

"…okay," you answer, quietly. "I’ll go…peruse your reading material."

All he gives you in response is a low hum.

—

Spencer wakes hours later to the sun streaming through his blinds, head resting on something that isn’t a pillow; pillows don’t have heartbeats. 

His arm is draped over your waist, fingers loosely curled into the fabric of your nightgown the same way yours are curled into his hair. 

Memories return in quick succession, each one adding to the discomfort simmering in his stomach, visceral. His skin crawls at the thought of you spending the night.

So, he raises his head. In the light of day, he sees you clearly: the book lying open across your face, shielding your eyes; your slow, deep breathing; your arm lying limp at your side.

The world goes quiet. He blinks, and the discomfort fades into a memory, the way it always does.

He brings his head back down to rest against your chest, and he closes his eyes.

Having always desired love, she was active on dating websites and apps before her relationship with Spencer began. Work always came first, but she really wanted someone to support and for them to support her: a life partner. She was doubtful that these apps would help her find her person, but she had heard enough success stories to give it a try.

She went on a handful of mundane dates. They were so unremarkable that they started to blur together in her memories. There was only one man she agreed to see for a second date, and she wasn’t even sure why she did. He wasn’t particularly riveting; he talked about himself the entire time, and he didn’t ask her any questions about herself. He was a little too confident, bordering on arrogance. Confusingly, she left the date more perplexed about who he was than she felt when she was just messaging him. He talked a lot about his work, something in the tech industry, but was vague about the specific details. “Security reasons,” he said. It was an understandable excuse, one that she had used in reference to her own job before.

Something about him intrigued her, though. She hoped that he was just nervous for their first date and that he would be more charismatic and open during the second one. Trusting her gut, she figured there was a reason he was the only date that lingered in her mind. 

Their second date went much like the first. He paid slightly more attention to the details she shared about her life, but he still didn’t make any inquiries. Every fact she shared was followed by a sharp nod that reminded her of a job interview. It was like he was filing it all away for later. She chose to interpret it as hopefulness for a future with her.

The drive home was uncomfortable. He blared bizarre music and kept a hand unsettlingly high on her thigh. Driving a sports car, he sped and drove aggressively, thinking it would impress her. By the time they pulled into her lot, her stomach felt like she had just gotten off a wooden roller coaster.

When she pushed the door open, he attempted to invite himself inside for ‘coffee’, but was clearly insinuating he was interested in other activities with her. She made an excuse that she was tired and had to be at work early in the morning, and he surprisingly took it well. “Good luck at your new job.” So he was listening to me, she thought. “I had a nice time tonight.”

Thanking him and agreeing out of courtesy, she waved goodbye and made her way inside. Feeling genuinely tired and eager for her first day with the BAU, she immediately got ready for sleep and collapsed onto her bed. She didn’t look out her window, or she would've seen that his car remained in the parking lot for an additional thirty minutes after dropping her off.

A year later, she and Spencer have been seeing each other in secret for six months. Not out of embarrassment or shame, but out of pragmatism. Keeping their relationship private felt like the responsible choice, one that would protect the BAU as a whole. Just in case things ended poorly, they wanted to prevent unnecessary tension and drama at the job they valued so much. The work had brought them together, after all, and they were both fiercely passionate and protective over it.

Her dating app era is long behind her; she barely even thinks about it anymore. When she does, she laughs at herself for thinking it was a reliable way to find her forever person. Yes, she knew some people who had found fulfilling relationships that way, but ultimately, they were the exception, not the rule, for online dating.

Evan, the one man she saw twice, continued to message her for three weeks following their last date. As nice as it was to be sought-after, as time passed, all she remembered was how uneasy she felt around him. Ultimately, she texted him that she wasn’t really in a place for anything right now, that she needed to focus on herself and her new job, and thanked him for the dates. She added that she was sure he’d find someone great who’d be a better fit for him, then she went on with her life.

She skimmed his response, “Understood. That’s admirable of you. Hope to see you around,” while she was standing on the front lawn of a random house in Wisconsin, investigating a crime scene.

Before she could think anything of the message, Spencer approached her from behind, “So, what do you think about the victim’s husband?” which startled her, making her heart lurch in her chest.

She turned to face him with a hand on her sternum, “Jeez, you scared me, Dr. Reid!”

His eyebrows furrowed in concern and atonement, “I’m sorry, Agent.” Eyes following her phone as she put it back in her pocket, wondering if something was going on. He brushed it off as her being distracted and immersed in whatever she was looking at, and led her into the house. 

He didn’t particularly care about her thoughts regarding the victim’s husband. Wait, that sounds bad. He absolutely was interested in her thoughts and opinions, but he mostly just wanted to talk to her; he was mostly interested in her. She had already impressed him with her professional insights.

After that, Spencer noticed that she got progressively jumpier and warier. The job is hard on everyone, especially at first, so he figured she was having trouble leaving the work at work. When exhaustion was prevalent under her eyes, he assumed the cases were visiting her in the middle of the night. When they started going on dates, her head was on a swivel no matter where they went. He felt inadequate because he wasn’t bringing her the same peace she brought him. 

One night, he was walking her home, and she pointed out a dark car that was driving past them. “I don’t know how common that make and model is, but I swear I see it everywhere these days.”

Sharing the statistical commonality of people near D.C. who drove Toyota Tundras, he hoped that would subdue her worries. She nodded and laughed it off, “You’re right, it’s probably just a coincidence.”

As her relationship with Spencer progressed, her paranoia only increased. She told herself she was just anxious about keeping their romance private. 

When she would come home after work and see her book on the coffee table instead of on her nightstand, where she could’ve sworn she left it, she chalks it up to being tired and misremembering. Same for when she went to open her blinds one morning and saw the slats were tilted in the opposite direction that’s recommended for privacy, she must’ve not paid close enough attention the night before. 

When her phone started playing a weird song on its own, she thought about how right Spencer is about technology being unreliable. Same for when a text from Spencer got marked as read without her ever opening it.

She asks Spencer if he went by her apartment when she smells a distinct masculine cologne. He tells her no and asks her why, but she’s afraid of sounding crazy, so she brushes him off.

She asks him if he took a picture on her phone –a dark, blurry thing where nothing can be deciphered– and he tells her no. They both attribute it to being an accidental photo she must have taken.

He starts getting scared when she tells him she’s been so forgetful lately, his mind barraged with memories of his mother’s bad days. Then, he feels guilty for projecting Diana’s illness onto her. To make up for it, he reassures her that she’s still adjusting to the BAU and gently suggests that she prioritize her sleep.

This is when she starts to sleep over at Spencer’s apartment more consistently. Instead of driving her home in the earliest hours of the morning, he encourages her to just spend the night. That way, she can get more hours of rest. They both notice her decreased stress levels on the days following a sleepover. 

At first, she would borrow something of his to sleep in and would stop by her apartment before work to change, not wanting to draw attention to herself by wearing the same clothes two days in a row. Soon, Spencer cleared a drawer and a section of his closet for her. It was only practical, he said. So she could sleep an extra thirty minutes in the mornings.

Her most frequented coffee shop becomes the one around the corner from his apartment. She’s texting him, see you at home <3 messages. The takeout apps on her phone have all defaulted to his address instead of hers.

One morning, she and Spencer walk out of his building, gloved hands intertwined. They’re laughing and leaning into each other's bodies, the cold air causing their breath to tangle. Spencer opens her car door for her and leans down to give her a tender kiss before she climbs in. She immediately turns the key in the ignition to get the heat blasting in the car.

“See you soon,” he tells her, before softly shutting her door for her. After drawing a little heart on the frosted glass window, he adorably waves, then turns to head to his own car.

She hears the little beep beep of his horn as he drives past her, and she honks hers back, smiling at his unintentional charm. This has become their morning routine; they offset their arrival and departures from work to avoid attracting attention. 

Fiddling with her radio and heat controls, she doesn’t notice a dark truck pull in right behind her, perpendicular to her car, blocking her in. As she sets her hand on the gearshift to reverse, she glances up to her rearview mirror and spots the vehicle. 

“Are you kidding me…” She mutters, annoyed that someone would park their car in the middle of the parking lot like this. Maybe they just pulled over to look up directions real quick? she thinks.

As the minutes tick by, she gets more and more worried about being late for work, so she pops open her door to step out and see what’s going on. As she stands and turns to approach the vehicle, she sees a man standing by her back tire; the sight of him makes her jump – she didn’t even see him step out of his snow-covered truck.

She recognizes him from somewhere, but she can’t quite put her finger on it. The hood of his jacket is falling slightly over his eyes, and his mouth is pressed into a firm, straight line.

“Wait, Evan? Is that you?” She feels slightly relieved that she won’t have to converse with a total stranger.

He doesn’t respond, but he takes a few steps toward her.

“Um, you’re kind of blocking me in? And I have to be at work in twenty minutes.”

Still, no response.

As he steps closer and closer to her, she gets more and more frantic. She tries to step backward, but her back collides with her open door, and he’s too close for her to sidestep him. Her breathing and heart rate increase with each passing second.

Just as she looks down and sees a rag in his gloved hand, he’s bringing it up to her face and wrapping his other arm around her body. The last thing she remembers is the sound of her own muffled screaming and her flailing legs attempting to kick him away.

Spencer walks through the glass doors of the BAU with a faint smile on his face, something that has become a norm for him as she’s been spending more and more nights at his apartment. He wants to tell her that he loves her soon, has wanted to for a while, but he’s unsure about when to do it. It should be special and romantic, that’s what she deserves.

He follows his exact routine as he settles into his desk to work. Follows the worn carpet path to his corner of the bullpen, drapes his satchel and coat over the back of his chair, turns on the computer monitor, then makes his way to the break room for coffee. After pouring two cups, one for him and one for her, he sets hers on her desk and drops into his seat. Any second now, she’ll step into the office.

His head perks up at each ding of the elevator and at each whoosh of the doors opening, a crease deepening between his eyebrows when none of them precede her arrival. She should be here by now. Maybe she got stuck in traffic? Or got unlucky with red lights?

“Where’s your girl?” Derek cheekily asks.

Spencer shrugs and tilts his head downward to hide the flush on his cheeks caused by his teasing. Everyone knows that they have a strong friendship, and Derek likes to make light of Spencer’s crush on her.

“She’s not my– She must be running late.”

Derek hums and shrugs in response before heading off to badger Penelope.

Spencer opens a manila folder and attempts to immerse himself in it, but as the minutes tick by, he grows increasingly confused. He sends her a text: Are you okay? and curses himself for not upgrading his phone to one that shows whether the message was delivered.

Ten minutes pass before he tries to call her. It goes straight to voicemail.

That sends a jolt to his heart. That’s never happened before. Even if she’s busy, she’ll pick up and quickly tell him so. He can’t even enjoy the sound of her voice saying I can’t come to the phone right now…

He mentally replays the memory of walking her to her car less than an hour ago. It didn’t sound like anything was wrong with it when she cranked the engine. Soft snowflakes descended around them, getting caught in her hair and eyelashes. A few people were sitting in their snow-covered parked vehicles, waiting for them to heat up: a couple of sedans, an SUV, a truck. He thinks about the heart he drew on her window – his indirect way of telling her he loves her.

Shaking his head at himself, he focuses his gaze on his computer screen. She’ll be here any minute.

Ten more minutes pass.

“She still not here?” Derek comes back to Spencer’s desk.

He shakes his head, no.

Derek frowns. “That’s not like her.” 

“No, it’s not.” Spencer agrees, before picking up his phone again to call her … again.

Straight to voicemail. I can’t come to the … is as far as he listens to before he hangs up.

“No answer?” Derek inquires.

Spencer shook his head again.

“Must be some really bad traffic on 95, maybe a pile-up?” 

Spencer sends him an incredulous look, “Don’t say that. I don’t want to think about her in a pile-up on the Interstate.”

“I didn’t mean–”

“I know you didn’t, but still.”

“Right, sorry, man…” Derek walks away again, this time to his desk.

Rubbing at his temples, Spencer glances over at the mug of coffee he left on her desk thirty minutes ago. There’s no more steam curling out the top of it.

He sees Hotch and JJ pass by, and hears the former query, “...And how late is she?”

Spencer picks up his phone again, presses the number 3 for speed dial, I can’t come– 

He hangs up and dials again, I can’t–

One more time, he thinks. I ca–

Slamming his flip-phone shut, he bolts up from his chair, beelining for Penelope’s office. He trips twice and completely ignores Emily’s “Whoa, where’s the fire?”

He pushes Penelope’s door open without knocking, startling her and causing her to choke on her Chobani.

“Knocking is not only appreciated, but enc–”

“You need to track her phone.” He spits out.

“What? Who? Why?” She stammers. Asking who was unnecessary, she just feels frazzled by Spencer’s intensity.

“Now!” He demanded, while gesturing toward the computer.

Penelope jolts at his raised voice; he’s never spoken to her that way before. Spinning in her chair, she types as fast as she can with Spencer looming over her shoulder.

“Okay, her last ping was…” She trails off.

“Was?” He insists.

“By your apartment. 6:37 am.” She slowly looks up at him.

Spencer’s heart drops into his stomach. “That was almost an hour and a half ago.”

“Yes.” She nods.

“Well, find something more recent!” He squeaks.

“Spencer, you know that I can’t. I can hack into any nearby cameras, but it’ll take me a second.”

He turns to head back through the door, “I’m going to find her,” then runs back to his desk. Grabbing his bag and hastily tossing it over his shoulder, he makes it halfway to the glass doors before Hotch steps in front of him.

“Reid, where are you going?”

With eyes wide and full of terror, “I need to find her– Something’s wrong– I’ll call once I get there.” He shoulders past his boss and sprints to the stairwell. Waiting for the elevator would be a waste of time.

When he gets to his car, his heart is pounding, his eyes are glistening, and his hands tremble as he tries to shove his keys in the ignition.

“Reid!” Derek shouts, jogging up to his car. “You can’t drive like this, let me take you.”

Spencer reluctantly agrees and stumbles out of the car. 

The two men scurry to Derek’s car and ride together in silence. Spencer’s leg is bouncing on its own accord, and he tries to call her two more times. He knows his attempts are in vain since her phone has been off for over an hour, but he can’t stop himself from trying. It’s a compulsion.

Finally, Derek breaks the silence, “So… what was she doing at your place at six am?”

Spencer blurts, “She slept over.”

“Hm,” Derek hums inquisitively, “Does she do that often?”

“Sometimes… Yes.” Spencer falters.

Derek hesitates, sensing that there’s more going on here, but not knowing how to approach it with Spencer so on edge. “We all want her to be okay, you know? She’s a friend to all of us.”

“Mhm,” Spencer half-heartedly agrees, perking up in his seat as his apartment building comes into view.

Her car is still parked in the lot. Derek asks, “Is that her–” 

“Yes.” Spencer feels like he might throw up.

As Derek pulls into a space a few spots over, Spencer unlocks his door and has his feet on the pavement before they’ve come to a complete stop.

Derek calls after him, “Jesus– Reid!” But Spencer is already circling her car, taking in the scene like the profiler he is, relying entirely on instinct. A choked sob falls out of his mouth when he sees her phone – completely smashed – on the ground next to her door. He’s clenching his hands by his sides to stop himself from picking it up, knowing that this is a crime scene that can’t be tampered with. He wants to pick it up, to try to turn it on, even though it’s futile. 

The driver-side door is wide open, her keys are still in the ignition, and the radio is softly playing top hits. There are overlapping footprints in the slush adjacent to her car. Spencer recognizes some of them as his own.

He lowers himself to the curb and drops his head in his hands. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t see–

“Spencer! Look at me!” Derek is crouching in front of him and grips his forearm. Spencer lifts his head, keeping his fingers over his mouth. Germs are the absolute last thing on his mind at the moment.

“We need you to pull yourself together. She needs you to pull yourself together.” He asserts.

Spencer nods, but the words sound muffled underneath his pounding heartbeat and scattered breathing. 

“Breathe, man, in and out.” Derek tries to guide him, but his breaths are choppy and uneven. It feels like he can’t get air to the bottom of his lungs.

“Good, keep trying. Hotch is on his way, okay?”

Spencer’s pretty sure he nods again, but he’s not positive. When Hotch arrives, he’s going to have to tell his boss that two of his agents have been seeing each other for half the year. This was never something he was supposed to do alone; they had planned on informing the team together. He hopes that she’ll understand the circumstances and won’t feel betrayed by him telling everyone without her. That is, if she’s still–

No, don’t think like that.

As Hotch’s dark SUV pulls into the parking lot, Spencer rises from the curb, brushing dirt and gravel off his slacks with trembling hands. Derek remains by his side, close, but not too close to crowd him. 

Hotch barely looks at Spencer as he steps out of the vehicle. JJ and Emily clamber out of the backseat and follow his trail. Eyes flicking over the scene with practiced precision, his expression remains flat as he dials Penelope.

“What’s the progress on that security footage?”

Spencer can just barely hear the tinny sound of her voice, but he can’t make out any of the words she’s saying. 

“We need to get in those cameras, Garcia.” He orders sternly. Spencer slowly approaches, needing to be informed. Derek was right; he needs to be here for her. Hotch hesitates before putting the call on speaker.

“--so somehow they’re all offline. Like every single one on that side of the building. I’m working on the closest traffic camera, now.”

“What do you mean they’re offline?” Spencer inquired.

“The last available footage I can grab is from yesterday at four pm. Someone must have disabled the feed.”

Spencer goes still. “So, this was planned.”

“Seems like it, this definitely wasn’t a crime of opportunity – it was organized,” Emily states.

“She was targeted,” JJ whispers. 

Spencer bolts to a line of bushes that border the building, keels over them, and dry heaves. He feels dizzy, like a tornado is tearing through his brain. His meticulous organizational system has been ripped to shreds. The file cabinets have been turned over and emptied, papers flying everywhere. Fragments dart in front of his eyes, an amalgamation of profiling facts and memories with her. 

“Spencer?” Emily approaches him from behind, placing a hand on his back.

He appreciates the sentiment of her touch, he really does, but it acts as an overcurrent to his buzzing veins. Shaking her off of him, he storms back over to Hotch.

“What did she find?” He demands, crossing his arms over his chest, digging his nails into his bicep.

Penelope’s voice crackles through the phone, “I’m pulling the footage from the traffic camera a mile east, but the quality is really low, and the snow isn’t helping. The lens is partially obstructed, and each car is coated. As much as I love things that sparkle, this–”

“Penelope,” Spencer warns her.

“Right, yes, I’m sorry… I’m parsing through the footage with a fine-tooth comb, I promise. It doesn’t help that it’s rush hour, there are hundreds of cars passing through between five am and seven am, and I don’t really know what I’m looking for… ” Penelope fretted.

“Spencer, would anyone want to do this to her?” JJ gently asks.

“No!” He attested, “She’s the best person I know. Nobody would ever want to hurt her.” His voice shrinks as he continued.

“Has she mentioned anything strange occurring lately? Anything at all?” Emily openly implores the team.

Spencer is suddenly overrun with memories of his girlfriend’s anxiety over the last year. The seemingly small moments that they both pushed aside and blamed on the stress of her accommodating life in the BAU. Her strange questions, her exhaustion, her skittish behavior, all flash before his eyes in a supercut. He thought that period of her life was over – she had become progressively calm and relaxed with each night she spent in his bed. 

His heart aches as he replays the memory of that morning. The way her laugh rang in his ears, the weight of her body against his, the brush of her lips. I should have kissed her longer, deeper, better. I should have told her that I love her when it first crossed my mind. I shouldn’t have let her laugh off and avoid the things that were bothering her. I should have been a better boyfriend.

With furrowed brows, he recounts her moments of ostensible paranoia. Looking backwards, he recounts what he knows. Her forgetfulness – joking that she was so scatterbrained lately. The things she thought he was doing, like taking random photos on her phone and visiting her apartment when she wasn’t there. Complaining about items of hers going missing – books, clothes, a journal. “I keep getting these emails about someone trying to log into my social media accounts.” They both thought her thermostat was broken with the way it seemed to change temperature on its own. 

The truck.

“A Toyota Tundra. Dark. Gray or Black.” Spencer lamented with a face as pale as a ghost. 

“Okay, that definitely narrows it down…” Penelope’s voice fades away as he re-enters his mind. 

He tries to pinpoint when her jumpiness began, and finds himself on the grass lawn in Wisconsin. It pains him to think about how he knew something was wrong, but didn’t want to be intrusive by asking. They hadn’t even known each other for a month at that point; how was he supposed to inquire about what was on her phone?

“...and then it turns on Old Triangle, but there’s a half-mile section on that road without any cameras, so that’s where I lose it.” Penelope deplores.

Spencer yanks at his hair, “We’re losing time, Garcia, you need to find it!” 

“I know! I know! I’m sorry!” She fretted, high-pitched and full of stress.

“Reid, take a walk.” Hotch orders.

“What? No!” 

“Unless you have any more information to detail, take a lap and calm down.” His boss looks at him expectantly, like he’s aware of more than he’s letting on.

Spencer swallows –hard– and glances around at his team. They’re all looking at him anticipatorily. 

The longer his silence stretches, and his feet remain glued to the pavement, the team begin meeting each other’s eyes with confusion. 

“Reid?” Derek probes.

He deeply sighs and closes his eyes, “Penelope?”

His heart is hammering against his ribcage.

“Yes?” Her voice is timid and small. 

“Can you find her text records?”

“I– I mean, of course I can, it does feel a little wrong and invasive–”

“February 7th of last year, I think she was messaging someone who made her uncomfortable.” His team gives him stunned looks at how long ago that date was.

“O– Okay, on it. It’ll take me a moment to parse through almost a year of messages–” They can hear her frantic typing through the speakerphone.

“Just do it – quickly,” Spencer feels guilty for how abrasive he’s being to her, so he adds on a, “Please.”

This is worse than just telling his friends what’s been going on between him and the newest agent. Penelope is scrolling through all of his girlfriend’s personal messages, including the ones between him and her. Texts littered with heart emojis. Texts that they sent to each other in the middle of the workday. Suggestive messages that nobody else should ever be privy to.

He can’t just stand there and wait for Penelope to find the needed information, so he announces, “I’m going to take that walk now. Call me when she finds out who it was,” without making any eye contact.

Turning on his heel, he starts trudging across the parking lot. His weary steps are not due to the thin layer of snow covering the asphalt, but to the deep remorse he’s carrying on his shoulders. She knew something was wrong. 

JJ watches his back as he walks, hands deep in his pockets. “Spencer, wait!”

He halts, but doesn’t turn around. As she meets his side, he begins plodding again.

“Hey, that’s really good that you remembered her behavior that day, I mean, of course you did, but it’ll definitely help us find her.”

“I hope so.” He mutters.

“We barely knew her then, so I definitely didn’t notice anything was wrong.”

Spencer doesn’t reply.

“There was a moment there where I was worried about her, though. She seemed a little stressed, but I figured she was still acclimating to the job.”

“I did too.” He says, irritatedly. 

He can feel her concerned gaze on the side of his face. “You don’t think someone’s been watching her that whole time, do you? Surely one of us would’ve noticed–” 

“Is this supposed to be helpful, JJ? Because it’s not.” He stops walking and turns to face her. “I’ve spent the last two hours realizing that the woman I love was being stalked, and I explained away every single warning sign. So unless you have something productive to say about the case, please, just leave me alone.”

Her jaw falls open at his admission, and she flinches at his acerbic tone. “Spencer, I–”

She’s interrupted by Derek jogging towards them, “We have an address, let’s go!”

1.5 hours ago

Her eyes flutter open, and she immediately emits a muffled, pained groan. Head pounding, lips and throat adjacent to sandpaper, she can’t move her arms or legs. There’s duct tape stuck to her mouth, holding it closed. With a stiff neck, she looks around the room. Dark gray brick walls. A singular light bulb sways above her head. On one side of her, the wall is lined with utility shelves, and the other contains a wooden staircase.

As her tired eyes continue darting around the room, they eventually land on her own body. She’s been changed into a dress, one that used to reside in her closet. The same one she wore on her first date with Evan. She can feel that she’s barefoot; her ankles are secured to the chair legs with more tape. Her arms are bound behind the chair, also with tape around her wrists.

As she takes in the inventory of her surroundings, her pulse rises higher and higher. Trying to break out of the constraints is futile – the tape is too strong, and she’s too weak. She tries to scream, but it’s stifled by the seal on her mouth. 

For a moment, the only sounds in her ears are her own shaken breathing, her pounding heartbeat, and the squeak of the light swinging. 

Then, she hears a creak above her. The floorboards shift underneath someone’s weight. His weight. She writhes around in her chair and yanks on the restraints, but her attempts are futile. Her breathing becomes more and more erratic as he gets closer and closer to the basement door.

The doorknob at the top of the stairs turns; she can barely hear it, then the door swings open. Light from the house upstairs floods through the door, obstructed by Evan’s body standing in the doorway. Whimpering as he descends the stairs, she continues her attempts to separate her taped extremities.

Holding a glass of water, he approaches her calmly, “Oh, good, you’re awake.”

He crouches in front of her as she jerks and thrashes in the chair, scraping the legs on the floor. 

“Hey, don’t do that.” He scolds her softly. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

She looks at him incredulously and attempts to yell at him through the tape, but it’s muffled and useless.

He winces as if he’s seeing the bindings for the first time, “I didn’t want to have to use the tape, I’m sorry… You were just so defiant in the parking lot, I had to!”

His gaze falls to the rapid rising and falling of her chest, exposed by the low-cut dress he’s put her in. Tears well in her eyes as he licks his lips while staring.

Returning his ogling to her face, “Don’t cry…” he reaches to swipe a tear from her cheek. As she turns her face to avoid his touch, he grips her jaw, “Now, don’t be like that. You’re being ungrateful. I saved you.”

Looking at him bewilderedly, she attempts to scream through the tape again while shaking her head in his hold.

Tsking at her, “Once you calm down, you’ll see that this is better for you. That man –Doctor Reid– wasn’t right for you.”

“I was going to give you this water, but you clearly aren’t ready for me to remove the tape.” He rises from his crouched position. “I’ll be back.”

After setting the glass of water on the floor next to her feet, he turns and begins ascending the stairs. He turns around to look at her as he reaches the top, “Oh, and you could use some rest. That’s what the Doctor recommended, right?”

He flicks off the light and laughs at her protesting screams, before slamming the door.

More tears descend her face as she attempts to make out shapes in the complete darkness. Blinking repeatedly, she hopes it’ll help her eyes adjust to the lack of light, but it’s a pointless effort. 

The pain from the tape stretching her skin seems to be intensified in the dark. She’s hyperaware of the cold concrete under her feet and the stiff metal of the chair under her body. The dress is too tight, and it scratches her skin with every inhale. 

Her eyes keep attempting to find shapes in the dark. In the instinctive way that’s innately learned in infancy, impossible to suppress. She can’t stop it, and it gets worse each time she blinks. It’s so dark, she questions if the color she’s blanketed in is actually black. 

Squeezing her eyes shut exacerbates the confusion. She squeezes them until she sees stars, then opens them, hoping to find a change in the room. In return, she’s met with static. 

Sound becomes her only proof that she’s still where he left her. Every so often, the house pops as it settles. Vaguely, she can make out the scuffle of Evan’s feet through the floor above her. 

Her heartbeat thuds in her eardrum, and her choppy breaths create a cacophony of terror.

She tries to shift her chair to find the glass of water, not that she has any way to pick it up, but as a reference point for her orientation. More tears and pained groans escape her as she attempts to move. Any adrenaline that was coursing through her when she first woke up has completely worn off and left her bare and exposed. Her foot knocks the glass over, shattering it and sending shards all over the floor. With no way of knowing where the pieces are, the ball of her foot lands on a fragment.

In an attempt to soothe her ragged throat, she tries to swallow, but her mouth is too dry to do so. Striving to generate spit is useless; she’s too dehydrated, and it only strains the tape on her mouth.

There’s no way of knowing how much time has passed. It could’ve been minutes or hours since he encompassed her in darkness.

Thinking about Spencer is bittersweet. She tries to calm herself by recalling their shared memories, but so many of them have been tainted by the knowledge that Evan was watching them the entire time. She misses him. She wants to go home – the shared home they’ve made in his apartment. She hopes he’s not too scared by her disappearance. 

In place of recounting memories, she imagines a new one. One where they’d leave work, waving goodnight to their team, with his hand on the small of her back. He’d wrap an arm around her shoulders as they descended in the elevator, kissing her cheek as he pressed the ground floor button. Pulling her into his side, where she fits like a puzzle piece, he asks her what she wants for dinner. She does what she always does, shrugs, and smiles up at him with a “I don’t know…” that neither of them believes.

They climb into the same vehicle; he opens her door for her and kisses her sweetly as she settles in, before jogging around to the driver’s seat. Immediately after starting the engine, he intertwines his fingers with hers over her thigh. He even buckles himself in with one hand, so he doesn’t have to let her go.

With a CD playing that alternates between her favorite songs and his, he gazes over at her with that soft look in his eyes, knowingly saying, “Chinese?” She giggles and nods, pulling his arm even closer to her body and wrapping her other hand around it. She watches him as he reverses out of the parking space and takes in how the sun's setting rays highlight his hair with golden streaks. As he squeezes her hand and absentmindedly runs his thumb over her knuckles, she feels happy, safe, warm–

Her fantasy is interrupted by the creak of the basement door and the harsh cascade of light bleeding down the stairs. It’s so jarring that she has to close her eyes at the brightness. It burns.

She freezes as Evan descends the stairs this time. In fear of being left in the darkness again, she remains as still as possible.

He smiles at the change, “There she is.” 

She glances down at his hand and sees a fresh cup of water. Looking around the room, she wonders how he knew that she needed a new one. She doesn’t see any cameras. 

Pulling up a chair across from her, he settles into it, “I knew that would help you calm down. I know you so well.”

She remains immobile. 

He reaches toward her face, and her slight flinch is involuntary. “You’ll stay quiet if I take this off, won’t you?”

She eagerly nods. 

As he slowly peels the tape off, she whines in pain. Each atom within her skin stings sharply as it separates from the adhesive. It’s excruciating.

The first breath of air she takes in through her mouth feels like inhaling fire.

He lifts the glass to her lips, “Slowly, sweetheart.”

She chokes on the lukewarm water at the term of endearment that only Spencer has ever called her. It doesn’t belong here: in this room or coming out of his mouth. The water dribbles down her mouth, and his grubby fingers wipe it away.

“You’re where you belong now – with me.”

She slowly nods in feigned agreement. 

His tone is sickly sweet, “I’ll take care of you properly,” before quickly turning sour, “Unlike that pathetic excuse for a man you’ve been calling a boyfriend.” 

With tensed shoulders, “He’s a good man, Evan.”

He raises his voice, “He’ll never be as good as me!” and harshly places the cup of water on the floor next to him. “I have a better-paying job with more stability and safety! That’s what you want for your future children, right? A man who you can depend on? A man who isn’t ashamed of your relationship?”

“He’s not— We’re not ashamed.” She tries to maintain a soft and even tone with him. 

He doesn’t even acknowledge that she’s said anything, “I know everything about you! I know the first song you play when you get in the car. I know that you set five alarms each morning, but you’re always up by the third one. I know that you didn’t like those granola bars you bought last month…”

Her eyebrows crease in confusion. Obviously, he’s been watching her, but how does he know all of this?

“What? They were in your trash.” He says flatly with a wave of his hand. 

“I know that when you buy cookie dough, you tell yourself you’ll bake it, just to end up eating the entire package raw. I know that you sleep better with your thermostat 2 degrees lower than what you set it to. I know that you talk to yourself when you’re looking for something. That one floorboard near your bedroom creaks. You pace when you’re on the phone. You were worried about dating that man because he’s so kind, you don’t know how to handle it.”

Her eyes widen more and more with each fact he presents. A chill crawls up her spine. She can barely feel her fingers and toes, and it’s not due to the tape bindings.

He mistakes her horror for amazement and impressiveness. “See! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, and show you. I played our song on your phone, I took that picture, I fixed your thermostat every night.”

Her stomach churns, and bile rises in her throat.

“You kept ignoring me. I was just trying to show you how much I care.”

Feeling completely separate from her body, she hears the monotone sound of her own voice muttering, “I’m sorry.” With eyes glazed, she can’t make them focus. The basement is blurry and muted.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I made mistakes too… Remember that day in August? When you cried in your car for twenty minutes before going inside your apartment? I’m sorry that I didn’t come and comfort you.” He smiles sadly.

“It’s okay.” She whispers.

“I thought you knew I was helping you, though. Didn’t you see my truck all over town?”

“I- I thought you drove a Mustang?” She says dumbly.

“I got us a more practical vehicle so we could start our family.” He coos, before his expression twists,  “That clunker the Doctor drives isn’t suitable for children, you know that.”

Nausea swirls in her stomach. This man carries no shame or embarrassment for what he’s done. He genuinely thinks that he’s saving her from a life she didn’t want. That Spencer is the wrong man for her and that he’s the only right option. He thinks that he is an option, even after everything he’s done.

“Speaking of, we’ve wasted so much time, sweetheart. You only have two more days left of this month’s ovulation.” 

Her chest heaves, and her eyes widen at his implication. Shaking her head, she blurts, “No!”

Recoiling at her denial, “No?” His eyes darken, and he rises from his chair to hover over her, fists clenching at his sides.

Terrified of being left in the dark again, or worse, she pleads, “Shouldn’t we wait for that?”

“Wait for what?” He questions through clenched teeth.

She glances around frantically, trying to think of anything that could appease him. He wants commitment, permanence, “Um… until we’re married?”

His lips rise into a smile, and his shoulders relax. Shaking his head, he laughs, “That Doctor was right about one thing, you do have insightful ideas.”

Remaining stoic, she tries not to react to the mentions of Spencer. Evan doesn’t deserve to talk about him. 

Suddenly, a thud penetrates through the ceiling. She and Evan perk their heads upward to the source of the noise. 

“What was that?” She asks quietly.

He doesn’t respond. 

Rumbles span throughout the floor above them – footsteps. Pulse leaping, she turns her gaze to his expression. 

With a clenched jaw, he turns to her and spits out, “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” She insists while shaking her head profusely.

As the treading gets closer and closer to the basement door, he slowly approaches the bottom of the stairs.

The door bursts open, and Evan flinches at the intrusion.

A relieved smile graces her face at the sound of Derek’s voice, “FBI!”

Derek descends the stairs, gun-drawn, and Evan walks backward toward the wall. Like two planets in a solar system, they maintain a consistent gap between them.

“Evan Nelson! Don’t move!”

The rest of the team follows behind Derek, with Spencer descending the stairs last. They all have their guns pointed at Evan. Tears descend her cheeks, and her bottom lip trembles at the sight of her disheveled boyfriend. His clothes are uncharacteristically wrinkled, and his hair is a ruffled mess. She can tell he’s been running his fingers through it and pulling on it, and she hates when he hurts himself like that.

Evan’s about to be backed into the corner when he shifts his path and heads for her chair. Wrapping an arm around her chest, he yanks a knife from his pocket and holds it to her throat. 

Heart rate spiking, she keeps her eyes on Spencer as he slowly climbs down the stairs. His shoulders sag, and he sees the shape of her name leave his lips.

For the first time that day, Evan’s confident tone falters into one full of fear, “Back up! Don’t come any closer!” 

Derek’s voice remains a practiced calm, “We can’t do that, Evan. You need to put the knife down and let her go,” but she can hear a smidge of unease.

Evan only tightens his grip on her, and she can feel small droplets of blood trickle down her neck. She can’t look away from Spencer, no matter how painful it is to watch his reaction to the scene in front of him. Tears descend her and sting the wound he’s creating.

“If I can’t have her, no one can!”

Hotch speaks evenly, “Evan, you never had her. You only went on two dates with her.”

“She’s mine! She’s been mine for a year! I’ve had her longer than that little Doctor!” His voice echoes in the basement as his volume increases.

Spencer takes one step forward. Hotch warns him, “Reid, don’t.”

His eyes never leave her face as he speaks. He doesn’t look at Evan or the knife or anything other than her glistening, beautiful eyes. “Evan,” he forces his voice to remain even and controlled, “You don’t want to do this.”

Evan emits a sharp, choked laugh, “You don’t know what we want.”

Emily speaks up, “Evan, it’s over. Drop the knife and step away from her.”

“It’s not over until I say it’s over!” He increases the pressure of the blade, and a whimper escapes her. 

He leans down next to her ear, “Tell them that you want to be with me,” his chapped lips scrape her earlobe, making her shiver, “Then, maybe, I’ll put the knife down.”

She closes her eyes and whispers, “Okay.”

“Look at them while you say it.”

Shifting her eyes to Emily, she can’t look at Spencer while she says it, “I want to be with Evan.” Her breath hitches and her voice trembles.

“Good. Now tell him that you don’t love him.” He grips her jaw to force her to look at Spencer. “Tell him that I love you more than he ever could.”

She sobs brokenly and whispers, “Please, no.” 

His grip on her body tightens, “Do it!”

She takes a few deep breaths and lands her eyes on each member of her team, before they land on Spencer. They all know she has to say it if she wants to live, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. 

Spencer’s heart breaks as her eyes fill with grief and sorrow. “I… I don’t love you.” 

“And?” Evan prompts.

Her cheeks flood with even more tears, “Evan loves me more…” she hiccups, “...than you ever could.”

A singular teardrop falls from Spencer’s eye before he quickly brushes it away and re-orients his gun at Evan.

Evan slowly loosens his hold on her, dropping the knife to the floor, and raises his arms in surrender. Derek is on the man in a flash, twisting his arms behind his back and shoving him into the brick wall. 

She doesn’t feel real. She feels like a ghost as everything moves in slow motion around her. Faintly, she knows that Derek is yelling at Evan. In her periphery, he and Hotch escort him up the staircase. Emily and JJ cut her free of the duct tape, and one of them presses a cloth against her injured neck. Distantly, she knows that it hurts, but there’s a disconnect between her brain and her nerves. The women whisper kind things in her ear as they tend to her.

Spencer is frozen on the last step. The love of his life is bloody and bruised. His eyes flicker from her raw ankles to her wrists, to her neck, and to her tear-stained face. As the seconds pass, he feels foolish and deficient as he watches the scene.

A raspy, broken, “Spence?” breaks him out of his stupor. He’s drawn to her side like a bee to honey.  

His tears flow freely now, “I’m here, baby.” Afraid of hurting her, he doesn’t know if he can touch her. His hands hesitantly hover over her body. Emily remains on one side, maintaining pressure on her neck, and JJ pushes away the broken glass pieces around her feet with her boot. Is there any room for him? Will his presence just crowd and overwhelm her?

She makes the decision for him by collapsing against his body with a choked sob. 

“I’m so sorry– I didn’t want to say it– I’m so so sorry.”

“I know.” He consoles, immediately. Raising one hand to the back of her head and the other gently around her shoulders, he reassures her, “I know, sweetheart, it’s okay, I know.”

She was afraid of how it would make her feel to hear the term coming out of his lips after Evan tried to ruin it for her, but there was no need. Hearing it fills her with warmth and comfort. The world feels right again with Spencer by her side.

Eventually, Emily and JJ give them some privacy. Emily encourages her to keep the cloth on her neck before they ascend the staircase.

Clutching his shirt in her hands stings her sore wrists, but she doesn’t care. She needs him. 

He whispers in her ear, “I’m here, you’re okay now, I’m right here.”

They bawl in each other’s arms until medical personnel descend the staircase. As they arrive, she pulls back from his body and sees droplets of her smeared blood on the stomach of his shirt.

She mutters, “I got you dirty, I’m sorry,” as she looks up at him. 

He pulls her closer to him, “I’m not worried about that, don’t be sorry.”

Before the paramedics load her onto a stretcher, Spencer tugs off his cardigan to drape it over her exposed shoulders. As she pulls it against her body, he leans down and presses his lips to her forehead. 

Grabbing his hand, she pleads, “Please don’t go.”

He soothingly runs his thumb against her, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He’d been vibrating in the corner, a burly man with red-rimmed eyes and fists clenched so tight his knuckles have gone bloodless. You register the shift in his weight a half-second too late—the draw of his arm back, the pivot of his hips, the ugly twist of his mouth. 

There’s no room to dodge.

His palm catches you high on the shoulder—a glancing blow meant to shove, not strike. A warning, maybe. Or the last thread of restraint from a man who hasn’t slept in days. But the momentum is brutal. You slam backward into the kitchen counter. The granite edge bites into your lower back, a hot wire of pain that lances straight up your spine. Then your head whips forward and then back—the crack of your skull against the upper cabinet is a sound you feel more than hear. A wet, hollow knock that echoes inside your own skull.

White-hot splinters through your vision, stars collapsing and reforming behind your eyes. Your teeth click together so hard you taste enamel. Then copper, hot and sharp, blooming across your tongue.

The room tilts.

Your knees buckle.

You catch yourself on the counter, one hand slipping on a forgotten dish towel as the world lists sideways. Warmth trickles from your scalp down the nape of your neck, a slow, alarming heat that doesn’t match the sudden cold in your fingers. You blink, and for one long second, you can’t remember where you are. The faces in front of you are smears of colour and grief.

Before you can even draw another breath, a blur of motion cuts through your peripheral vision.

Spencer.

Not the lanky, cardigan-clad genius who stammers through small talk and apologizes for existing in someone's personal space. Not the man who once spent ten minutes explaining the migratory patterns of monarch butterflies because he couldn't read your social cues, who carries paperback novels in his satchel like other men carry wallets, who still flushes when you hold his hand in the dark of your apartment where no one can see.

This Spencer moves like a spring uncoiling. Like something kept on a very short leash just got loose—all that coiled tension, all those suppressed instincts, snapping into terrible, beautiful focus.

He crosses the kitchen in three strides you don't consciously track. One moment he's across the room, and the next he's there, inserting himself between you and the father with a speed that makes Hotch's head whip up from across the room. 

His right hand shoots out, palm flat against the man's chest, and shoves. Hard enough that the father's back hits the wall with a dry, echoing thud—the kind that rattles the framed school photos hanging nearby. A child's smile. Maggie's smile. The irony doesn't escape you. Neither does the way Spencer's arm doesn't tremble. He's not straining. He's planted—weight distributed, centre of gravity low, the stance of someone who's been trained to hold his ground and forgotten to mention it.

"Keep your hands off her."

Spencer's voice is low. Stripped of its usual breathy pitch, stripped of the tentative upward lilt that turns every statement into a question. The stammer is gone. The apologetic half-smile is gone. In its place is something you've only ever seen in glimpses—when he reads a case file a little too closely, when he stares down an unsub who's made the mistake of threatening a teammate.

It isn't a plea or a warning.

It's a fact. Delivered with the cold certainty of a ballistic report. The kind of voice that makes seasoned interrogators lean back in their chairs.

"Reid." Hotch's voice cuts across the kitchen, not unkind but pointed. A reminder. We're still here. We're still watching.

Spencer's spine straightens almost imperceptibly. His chin lifts. When he turns toward the unit chief, his expression is perfectly neutral—open, cooperative, the eager young agent who quotes statistics and fumbles with his words and never, ever pushes back against authority.

Hotch studies him for a long moment. That gaze—the one that sees everything, the one that's made unsubs confess just by existing—sweeps over Spencer from head to toe, cataloguing, assessing. Whatever he finds must satisfy him, because he gives a single nod.

"That was an assault on a federal agent."

His words come precise and clipped, each one landing like a hammer strike. No rambling. No tangential footnotes about statistical probabilities or legal precedents. Just steel. The kind of voice you've heard Spencer use exactly once before—on a hostage negotiator's training tape Hotch made the whole team watch three years ago. The one where a twenty-something Reid talked a man off a ledge in under four minutes, then vomited behind the squad car afterward.

"You raise a hand again, and I will personally ensure you spend the next forty-eight hours in a holding cell while we decide how many additional charges to file."

His jaw is set. A muscle ticks beneath his eye—the only sign that he's even breathing. The father is twice Spencer's width, built like a man who's swung a hammer for a living, shoulders rounded with years of manual labour and grief gone toxic. And yet he shrinks. His mouth opens, some bluster forming on his tongue—a denial, maybe, or a defence—something about not meaning it, about his daughter, about grief making him crazy.

Spencer cuts him off.

"Don't."

The word snaps through the air like a rubber band breaking. Sharp. Final. It lands in the small kitchen and seems to suck the oxygen out of the room. 

"Not a word." Spencer's voice hasn't lost its edge. If anything, it's sharper now—honed to a fine point. "You're going to sit down, and you're going to calm down. If you so much as look in her direction again, we're done here. And your daughter's best chance walks out that door with us."

The man sits.

It's not graceful. His knees buckle more than they bend—a controlled collapse masquerading as obedience. His back slides down the wall until he's a heap on the linoleum, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. The fight drained out of him in less than ten seconds.

The mother makes a sound—something caught between a sob and a gasp—and Hotch is already there, guiding her to a chair, murmuring something about cooperation and finding Maggie. His voice is low, practiced. The same voice he uses for panicked witnesses and grieving families a hundred times a year.

But you're not watching any of that.

You're watching Spencer's hand drop from the man's chest. You're watching his shoulders rise and fall once, twice—a deliberate breath, the kind he uses to ground himself during panic attacks, the kind he taught you to use after nightmares. You're watching the way his spine stays rigid even as his fingers curl into a loose fist at his side, knuckles still pale.

He's shaking.

Not much. Not enough that anyone across the room would notice. But you're close enough to see the fine tremor running through his forearm, the way his throat works on a swallow he's trying to hide. He just threatened a man twice his size into silence with nothing but his voice and his presence—and now he's trembling like a leaf in a windstorm.

Only then does Spencer turn.

His eyes find yours—and for a split second, the mask cracks. Beneath the steel is something raw, almost frightened. You did that to him. You realize it with a small, stunned jolt—the way your pain becomes his panic, the way he'd burn this whole house down if it meant you walked out unscathed. It's not a protective instinct. It's something deeper. Something that lives in his bones now, whether he's named it or not.

His fingers are cool against your heated skin as he tilts your chin toward the light—the overhead fluorescents, merciless and buzzing, the kind that make everyone look washed out and exhausted. He doesn't seem to notice. He's examining your head with the same hyper focused intensity he brings to cold cases and obscure scientific journals. But his touch is different. Softer. The pads of his thumbs brush the skin just below your hairline, following the ache you hadn't realized was radiating outward from your skull.

Feather-light. Almost reverent. Like you're something precious he's been trusted to handle.

His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, coming away with a thin smear of copper. You watch him look at it—that single red line across his skin—and something in his expression fractures. Just for a second. Just enough for you to see. The mask doesn't just crack; it shatters, and underneath is something raw and unguarded: a man who has spent his whole life being too much or not enough, who has finally found something he can't bear to lose.

"You're okay," he murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear.

It isn't a question. It's the same declarative certainty he used on the father—that same steel-and-ballistic-report finality. But this time, it's wrapped in something tender. Something that sounds like I need you to be okay dressed up as a fact. Like if he says it enough times, with enough conviction, the universe will have no choice but to comply.

You nod. Just once. Small.

His throat works as he swallows—a visible, effortful thing, like he's pushing down something that wants to claw its way out. Rage, maybe. Or relief. Or something else entirely, something that doesn't have a name yet, something that's been living in the space between you for months.

Then he blinks.

And the Spencer the team knows clicks back into place. The tension in his shoulders doesn't fully release—it's still there, a wire pulled taut somewhere deep—but he smooths it down, tucks it away into whatever internal compartment he's built for exactly this purpose. His expression cycles through three micro-corrections: softening the jaw, relaxing the brow, lowering the shoulders. A man putting on his own face again, like adjusting a mask before stepping through a door.

You've seen him do this before. In interrogation rooms, when a suspect hits too close to home. At crime scenes, when the victim looks like someone he loves. In the quiet hours of the night, when nightmares leave him gasping and he has to remember how to be a person before the sun comes up.

But you've never seen him do it this fast.

His hand finds your lower back. Warm. Steady. A pressure that says I'm here without a single word as he guides you a step away from where the father sits slumped against the wall, weeping quietly into his hands. The shift is subtle—just a few inches—but you notice. Of course you notice. He's positioned himself between you and the room.

Behind you, Derek Morgan stands frozen mid-step, one foot forward, having lunged a second too late. His eyes are wide—not afraid, exactly, but stunned. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He looks like a man who just watched his nerdy little brother body-slam a bully twice his size and isn't sure whether to be proud or deeply concerned.

"Did… did Reid just physically intimidate someone?"

The question hangs in the air. Not accusatory. Just genuinely bewildered. Like he's asking the universe to confirm that his eyes aren't deceiving him, that the laws of physics haven't somehow inverted, that Spencer Reid—who once apologized to a door he walked into—just made a grown man shrink.

A slow, incredulous smile spreads across Emily’s face. The kind she gets when she's witnessed something she'll be holding over someone's head for years. Her eyebrows have climbed so high they're threatening to disappear into her hairline.

"I think he just threatened a civilian with federal prison and gave him a time-out." She tilts her head, watching Spencer angle his body between you and the room—a human shield disguised as casual concern. "That's… actually impressive. In a terrifying sort of way."

She says it lightly. But there's something underneath. A question she's not asking yet. Her eyes linger on the space between you and Spencer—on the absence of distance, on the way he hasn't looked at anyone else since he turned around. Emily has spent too many years in deep cover, has read too many micro-expressions, to miss the way Spencer's hand is still hovering near your back, even though the threat is neutralized.

Curious, her expression says. Very curious.

JJ's gaze flicks between you and Spencer, her reporter's brain cataloguing every detail. The hand on your back. The way your weight has shifted slightly toward him. The blood on your lip that he hasn't let you touch again. She doesn't say anything. But her eyes narrow—just a fraction—and something shifts behind them. Noticing. Filing it away.

She's going to ask you later. You can already tell. Not at the scene. Not where anyone else can hear. But later. In the bathroom of the jet, maybe, or while you're both pretending to sleep on the flight home. JJ has a way of making questions feel like kindness, like she's not prying, just checking in. 

Spencer’s thumb has started moving. An unconscious back-and-forth, a tiny circle, a soothing pattern he probably doesn't even realize he's making. The heat of his palm seeps through your shirt, grounding you in a way that has nothing to do with the pain still pulsing behind your eyes.

"You need ice," he says finally, practical now, his voice climbing back toward its usual register. But his eyes haven't left yours. They're scanning—forehead, temple, cheekbone, lip—with the same intensity he'd bring to a crime scene, cataloguing every shade of bruise, every smear of blood. "And probably stitches. One suture, maybe two. The temporal region bleeds disproportionately to the severity of the injury because of the superficial temporal artery, so the amount of blood isn't necessarily—"

But Morgan isn't done.

"Reid," he says slowly, drawing out the name like he's testing the weight of it against his tongue. "You just put a man against a wall."

Spencer stiffens almost imperceptibly beneath the attention. His hand flexes against your lower back—a nervous twitch, fingers curling like they're searching for something to hold onto—before he remembers himself and lets it drop to his side. The absence of his palm is immediate. You feel it like a missing step on a staircase, like a word left hanging at the end of a sentence, like the hollow ache where a tooth used to be.

He clears his throat.

"He was a threat to a federal agent." His voice is carefully neutral. Clinical. The kind of tone he uses when citing case law or explaining blood spatter patterns to a room of sceptical local PD. But there's a faint flush creeping up the back of his neck—the one he gets when he's been caught doing something embarrassing. Or something revealing. "Protocol permits reasonable use of physical intervention to prevent further harm."

Morgan crosses his arms. His head tilts—that slow, assessing angle he uses when he's already figured something out and is just enjoying the process of watching someone squirm. The ghost of a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. Not mean. Just knowing.

"Uh-huh." He draws out the syllable, lets it hang in the air like smoke. "And the part where you haven't let go of her for three minutes straight? What protocol is that?"

Spencer opens his mouth. Closes it. His ears are turning pink now, visible even under the horrible kitchen lighting—that particular shade of red that creeps up from his collar and stains everything in its path. 

His hands are now shoved deep in his pockets, like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for you again.

You watch him cycle through approximately four different responses in the span of two seconds.

It was three minutes and seventeen seconds—too defensive, too precise.

She was injured—too obvious, too flimsy, too easy to poke holes in. 

“That's not protocol, that's—” He stops himself before he can finish that sentence, but the word hangs in the air anyway, unfinished and damning.

That's personal.

Morgan lets the silence stretch, patient as a cat at a mouse hole. His eyes flick to you—just for a second—and there's something softer there now. Not pity. Understanding, maybe. The kind of look that says I see you, I see both of you, and I'm not going to make this harder than it needs to be.

But he's not going to make it easy, either.

"You know," Morgan says, feigning casual, "I've known you for years, Reid. Watched you freeze up around witnesses. Watched you stammer through interviews. Watched you apologize to furniture." He pauses, letting the contrast sink in. "I've never seen you move like that. Not unless someone on this team was about to get shot."

Spencer's throat works. His hands are still buried in his pockets, knuckles pressing outward against the fabric—a white-knuckled grip on nothing. "Situations evolve. People adapt. It's not—" He stops. Swallows. "It's not indicative of anything beyond the immediate circumstances."

"The immediate circumstances," Morgan repeats slowly, tasting the words. "Right. So if it had been me who got shoved, you'd have done the same thing?"

The question lands like a grenade with the pin pulled.

Spencer's eyes dart to Morgan's face—searching, analysing, trying to figure out the trap. Because it is a trap. You can see it. Spencer can see it. The only correct answer is the one that incriminates him.

Yes, he could say. It would be a lie, and Morgan would know it's a lie, and the lie itself would be a confession.

No—well. No would be even worse.

Spencer says nothing. His silence is louder than any answer he could have given.

Morgan's grin softens into something gentler. Something almost fond. "That's what I thought."

"I don't know what you think you're implying—" Spencer starts, but Morgan holds up a hand, cutting him off.

"I'm not implying anything, kid. I'm observing." He takes a step closer, dropping his voice so only the three of you can hear. The kitchen feels suddenly smaller, more intimate, like the walls have leaned in to listen. "I'm observing that you just went full tactical on a civilian. I'm observing that you haven't looked at anyone else in this room for more than two seconds at a time." He ticks each point off on his fingers, slow and deliberate. "And I'm observing that you're standing so close to her right now that if I took a picture, it'd be Exhibit A in a 'why the hell didn't we notice this sooner' slideshow."

Spencer's jaw is clenched so tight you can see the tendon in his neck straining. His hands have come out of his pockets—when did that happen?—and they're hanging at his sides, fingers twitching like he's fighting every instinct to reach for you again.

"I—" He stops. Starts again. "It's not—"

He can't finish the sentence.

s4!reid who’s an absolute munch. he goes from giving you the most passionate kisses to the way his tongue ropes around you in every direction possible, in zero to sixty seconds. he has grown his hair to the point where it’s just meant for you to tug on, losing yourself in his ever so soft curls as you gradually reach your breaking point.

s5!reid who’s as upset as ever that his movements are restricted due to his knee. he walks around with his cane,hair longer than before, you just can’t help but pounce on him. riding him so carefully,slowly that you both feel each movement like a wave crashing at the most precise angle. the sounds he makes intensify the pleasure, whimpering at your every move, so filthy it drives you perfectly over the edge.

s6!reid suffers at the hands of his migraines. day by day it feels as if lasers are piercing through his forehead. you spread soft,warm kisses all over his beautiful face and genius head in hopes it might make him feel a bit at ease. missionary is your go to during such a difficult time for spencer. he’s so afraid that as he thrusts so gently, his head is buried in the crook of your neck, you’re holding him and kissing everywhere as to hopefully have the universe let you heal his pain.

hey hey everyone! i can finally lean to more consistent posting (hopefully it will stick this time lmao)

should i do a part 2 with the rest of the seasons? i hope you guys like this idea it was so fun to make

“Uh-huh.” Morgan chuckles, swivelling toward JJ and Prentiss like a talk show host inviting audience participation. “Tell me I’m wrong. Between the two of us—genius boy and yours truly—who do you think gets lucky more often?”

But before anyone can answer, Reid clears his throat.

“That's an entirely misleading metric,” he says.

Morgan's grin widens. “Oh, is it?”

“Yes, actually.” Reid sets his pen down with a soft click, and the team recognizes the signs immediately: the slight straightening of his spine, the way his fingers begin to tap a staccato rhythm against the table, the subtle tilt of his head as he shifts into lecture mode. He's about to do the math out loud.

“First of all,” Reid begins, holding up a finger, “‘getting lucky’ is a subjective, self-reported measure, which introduces significant recall bias and social desirability bias. People overestimate. Significantly. By as much as forty percent in some studies.” Another finger goes up. “Secondly, you're comparing two data points—you and me—without controlling for variables like opportunity, environment, or personal standards. You have a tendency to equate quantity with quality, which is statistically unsound.”

Morgan groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Here we go.”

Reid ignores him entirely, already mid-stride into the argument. His voice picks up speed—not quite rambling, but close, the way it does when he's genuinely enjoying himself. “Let's say, hypothetically, you sleep with a different woman every week. Generous, but possible. However—” He holds up a finger, ticking off points like a professor during office hours. “—you've also mentioned, on multiple occasions, that you don't ‘mix work with play’ and that you need at least one night to decompress. That leaves Friday and Saturday as your only viable windows. So let's assume sexual encounters occur on Friday or Saturday night. That's roughly two opportunities per week—but even then, not every weekend yields a new partner. You have off weeks. You get sick. Sometimes,” he adds, with the faintest hint of smugness, “women say no.”

Morgan's smirk twitches. “Okay, first of all—”

Reid tilts his head, gaze going distant as he does the numbers behind his eyes. His fingers twitch like he's physically calculating in the air. You've seen him do this a hundred times—map a geographic profile, run a probability tree, recite the entire history of some obscure piece of trivia. 

“Accounting for statistical probability of rejection, scheduling conflicts, and the inherent inefficiencies of the modern casual dating landscape—which, by the way, is heavily skewed by algorithmic dating app fatigue—your actual frequency likely drops to one new partner every ten to fourteen days. Optimistically.”

JJ is already grinning, resting her chin on her hand like she's watching her favourite courtroom drama. “I feel like I should stop you both,” she says, “but I really want to hear where he's going with this.”

Prentiss leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “Oh, he's going somewhere. You can always tell when he does the head-tilt.”

Morgan points a finger at Reid, though his voice has lost its edge—there's genuine affection underneath the exasperation. “Alright, fine. Let's say I'm one every two weeks. What's your number, pretty boy? Hm? When's the last time you even—”

“That's not the point,” Reid interrupts, a little too quickly.

He presses on, gaining momentum now. His voice picks up that familiar, rapid-fire cadence—the one that makes unsubs' heads spin and makes the rest of the team feel like they're sitting in on a TED Talk they didn't buy tickets for. His fingers have resumed their tapping, faster now, keeping time with the race of his thoughts.

"Now, consider a person in a committed, cohabitating relationship. Let's establish a baseline: the average frequency of sexual activity for couples in the early stages of domestic partnership—say, the first two years—ranges from three to five times per week, depending on variables like work stress, health, and general compatibility. Let's take the conservative estimate: every other day."

Morgan opens his mouth—to argue, to deflect, you're not sure—but Reid holds up a finger without looking, and Morgan closes it again.

"Now," Reid continues, "multiply that over a four-week month. The partnered individual is engaging in sexual activity approximately twelve to sixteen times per month. The single person cycling through weekly encounters—assuming one new partner per week, which we've already established is an overestimate—is averaging four times per month."

Morgan crosses his arms, jaw tight. He's not offended—they all know him well enough to recognize the difference—but he's definitely recalibrating. "So you're saying—"

He delivers the final blow with clinical precision, but there's something softer lurking underneath. 

"And you're not even accounting for quality of experience, emotional investment, or—most importantly—long-term satisfaction metrics," Reid continues, his voice quieter now, less performative. "A single meaningful connection, maintained over time, statistically outperforms high-frequency, low-retention encounters in nearly every category of reported happiness. The Harvard Grant Study—one of the longest longitudinal studies on human development—found that the single strongest predictor of life satisfaction wasn't career success or financial security. It was the warmth and consistency of close relationships."

He pauses. Swallows. 

"So, really, the question isn't who ‘get’s lucky’ more." His voice drops, barely above a murmur now. Intimate, almost. Like he's forgotten anyone else is in the room. "It's who ‘get’s lucky’ enough."

For a beat, no one speaks.

Then Prentiss raises her coffee cup in a slow, deliberate toast. "I believe you just got murdered by math, Morgan."

The tension breaks—but not entirely. JJ snickers. Morgan rubs the back of his neck, shaking his head, but there's no heat in it. "Man, I just asked a simple question."

"You asked a misleading question," Reid corrects, but his voice has lost its sharpness. He's retreating back into himself, the way his shoulders curl inward slightly, the way his gaze drops to the case file again. Like he's said too much. 

Morgan blinks, his smirk frozen mid-spread. He holds up a hand like he's stopping traffic. "Hold on. Hold on." His eyes narrow, processing, replaying something in his head. "You're talking about you."

Reid's mouth opens, then closes. A faint flush creeps up his neck—not the blotchy, embarrassed red of someone caught in a lie, but something softer. Pinker. The colour of someone who hadn't meant to say as much as he just did. His hand drifts to the back of his neck, a self-soothing gesture he doesn't even realize he has.

Prentiss leans forward, delighted, her elbows on her desk like she's settling in for a season finale. "Reid. Are you telling us you're in a serious, every-other-day relationship?"

"That's… not what I said." He adjusts his satchel strap, suddenly very interested in the grain of his desk. His fingers find the edge of a case file and straighten it unnecessarily. Then straighten it again. The file doesn't need straightening. Everyone knows it. No one says anything. "I was speaking hypothetically. Broad statistical trends. Aggregate data."

"Uh-huh." Morgan plants both hands on his desk and pushes up slightly. His grin is slow, dangerous, and utterly delighted. "You just compared yourself to me. Which means you're the one having sex every other day. With a girlfriend." He drags the word out like he's tasting it for the first time. 

JJ crosses her arms, mock-offended, though her eyes are warm. "Spencer Reid, how long has this been going on?"

Reid swallows. Hard. His gaze flickers to the window—not looking for an escape route, but for a moment of stillness. A place to land. When he looks back at the team, they see something they don't often get from him: not deflection, not a lecture, not a rapid-fire recitation of unrelated facts to change the subject.

Genuine, quiet vulnerability.

"Several months," he admits, low enough that they have to lean in to hear.

The word lands like a stone in still water. Ripples spreading outward. Morgan's smirk softens at the edges. JJ's arms uncross. Prentiss sits back slightly, her teasing expression fading into something more careful. More respectful.

No one pushes. Not yet.

But they're all looking at him differently now. Like they're seeing a new version of Spencer Reid—one who exists outside the bullpen, outside the case files, outside the lonely apartment they'd all quietly assumed he went home to every night.

"Kid." Morgan shakes his head, and there's something different in his voice now—not teasing, not needling. Something almost admiring. "I take it back. Every single thing. Every joke, every 'maybe try a bar sometime,' every time I said you'd die alone surrounded by books." He squeezes Reid's shoulder, a brief, grounding pressure. "You've been holding out on us."

Reid ducks his head, but the smallest smile tugs at his lips—shy, yes, but unmistakably real. It's not his knowing smirk or his closed-off court testimony expression. It's something softer. Something private, accidentally spilled. Like he's been keeping a secret so long that the act of letting it see daylight feels physically strange—but not unwelcome.

"You asked about frequency," he says, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug that's almost bashful. "I just answered the question."

"You really did," Prentiss says, grinning wide enough to crinkle her eyes. "In excruciating detail."

JJ tilts her head, studying him like a case file she's only just realized she misread completely. Her gaze is warm but probing—that particular JJ look that says I see you, and I'm not letting you off the hook that easily. "And for the record," she says, her voice gentle but pointed, "I'm going to need to meet this person. Several months and you never even mentioned her name? That's practically classified information. I'm officially offended."

Reid opens his mouth—maybe to deflect, maybe to recite something about privacy and healthy relationship boundaries, maybe to quote a study on the importance of keeping certain parts of one's life separate from one's workplace—but then he catches something over Morgan's shoulder.

His words die in his throat.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft, mechanical chime—the kind of sound so familiar it usually doesn't register anymore. But tonight, it cuts through the bullpen like a bell.

And there you are.

Standing by the elevator bank, keys looped loosely around your fingers, a worn file folder tucked under your arm. You've clearly just come up from the archives—there's a faint smudge of dust on your sleeve, pale grey against the fabric, and your hair is slightly askew from leaning over old case boxes, a few strands escaping to frame your face. The overhead light catches the curve of your jaw, the concentration in your brow.

You're not looking at them yet.

Your attention is still on the files in your hands—a thick stack, dog-eared and labeled in fading marker. You're flipping through them absently, lips moving just slightly as you read, your thumb holding your place in whatever document has captured your focus. 

Reid forgets how to breathe.

It's not dramatic—not in the way movies make it seem. There's no swelling music, no slow-motion montage. Just the sudden, startling realization that he has been holding himself together all evening, and now, seeing you, every carefully constructed wall is coming down.

You look tired.

He notices it first because he always notices it first—the slight droop of your shoulders, the way you're blinking a little too slowly at the pages in your hand. You've been in the archives for hours. Probably forgot to eat. Definitely forgot to drink water.

But you're also smiling. Just a little. A small, absent curve of your lips as you read whatever case file has captured your attention. It's the smile you get when you've found something good—a lead, a connection, a piece of the puzzle that was missing.

He loves that smile.

He loves the dust on your sleeve and the mess of your hair and the way you bite your lower lip when you're concentrating. He loves that you exist in the same building as him, the same world, the same moment.

He loves you.

And now everyone is about to know it.

Reid's flush, which had been fading to a manageable pink, returns with interest—creeping up his neck, flooding his cheeks, brushing the tips of his ears. But here's the thing that makes Morgan's eyebrows climb: Reid doesn't look away. He doesn't duck his head or pretend to read something.

Instead, that small, proud smile stays.

Grows, even.

Morgan is the first to put it together. Of course he is. He watches Reid's face change—watches the shyness give way to something steadier, something almost protective—and then he follows Reid's gaze across the bullpen.

His eyes land on you.

His smirk doesn't just return. It blooms.

"No," he breathes, barely above a whisper. Then, louder, disbelieving: "No."

Prentiss notices Morgan's reaction before she notices you. She glances at him, then at Reid, then follows the sightline like a guided missile. When she finds you—dust-smeared, distracted, muttering to yourself over a case file—her eyebrows climb.

She doesn't say anything. She just tilts her head, watching, cataloging, filing away every micro-expression on Reid's face for later analysis.

But her silence is louder than words.

The bullpen feels suspended. Held breath and half-finished sentences. Even the ancient coffee maker seems to have stopped hissing, as if it, too, is waiting.

Morgan turns back to Reid, slow and deliberate, like a man approaching a wild animal he's just realized is actually a house cat. His expression cycles through about six different emotions in the span of two seconds—confusion, disbelief, dawning recognition, and finally, something dangerously close to pride.

"You told us you were 'helping her with research.'" He makes air quotes, fingers curving with theatrical emphasis. "That's what you said. 'The archives are extensive, Morgan, and she's new, and it's purely professional, Morgan, stop reading into things, Morgan.'"

Reid's flush deepens—creeping up from his collar, brushing the tips of his ears, painting his cheekbones in soft, tell-tale pink—but he doesn't deny it. He doesn't deflect. He doesn't launch into a rapid-fire lecture about privacy or workplace relationships or the statistical unlikelihood of his personal life being anyone's business.

"I was helping with research," Reid says quietly. "That's how it started."

"And then?" Prentiss prompts, leaning forward like she's watching the season finale she didn't know she needed. Her coffee cup is still frozen in her hand, forgotten. She doesn't blink.

Reid's eyes don't leave yours.

The bullpen falls away. The desks, the case files, the amber glow of the lamps—all of it fades into background noise. There's only him. Only the way he's looking at you like you've rearranged his entire understanding of the universe.

"And then," he says, and his voice catches slightly—just a breath, just a fracture, but you hear it. You always hear it. "I realized I didn't want to stop."

By the second semester, you know three things with absolute certainty.

First: Dr. Spencer Reid writes on whiteboards like he’s racing a clock only he can see.

Second: nobody voluntarily sits in the front row because it’s psychologically exhausting to be perceived by him for extended periods of time.

And third:

You are developing a deeply academic crush that is rapidly mutating into something clinically embarrassing.

The lecture hall hums softly around you with the sounds of backpacks unzipping and laptops waking from sleep. Rain taps against the high windows in restless little bursts, turning the late afternoon light silver at the edges.

At the front of the room, Dr. Reid is already halfway through uncapping three different markers at once.

He’s wearing a charcoal cardigan today.

You notice because of course you do.

Not in a normal way, either.

In the kind of way where your brain stores the information carefully like it might appear on an exam later.

“Statistically,” he says without turning around, “most people remember information better when there’s contextual novelty attached to it, which is why you all remember where you were during emotionally significant events but not what you ate last Tuesday.”

A beat.

Then he glances back toward the class.

“Unless it was tacos. People tend to remember tacos.”

A few students laugh.

You do too, unfortunately loud enough that his eyes flick toward you automatically.

There it is.

That tiny spark of recognition.

Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just enough to say I know you.

Which is worse.

Much, much worse.

Because you’ve taken two semesters with him now. You go to office hours. You answer questions when nobody else will. Once, during your first class, you made an offhand comment about eidetic memory research and his entire face lit up like someone plugged sunlight directly into the national power grid.

Since then, you’ve been doomed.

Utterly doomed.

You try to focus on the lecture.

Really.

You do.

But Dr. Reid teaches like a man accidentally possessed by forty-seven documentaries and an anxiety disorder. He paces when he gets excited. His hands move constantly while he talks, long fingers stained faintly with marker ink. He veers off-topic in fascinating directions and then somehow circles perfectly back without notes.

It should not be attractive.

And yet.

Here you are.

Again.

Second semester.

Same problem.

Maybe worse.

“Now, if we look at the correlation between environmental instability and cognitive adaptation,” Dr. Reid continues, already turning back toward the board before the class has fully caught up, “there’s a measurable increase in hypervigilant pattern recognition in subjects exposed to inconsistent formative environments, which sounds complicated but is actually just your brain becoming an overachieving raccoon.”

Marker squeaks across the whiteboard in frantic slanted lines.

His handwriting is terrible.

Not objectively unreadable, exactly. More like every word is trying to outrun the next one. Sharp angles, crowded letters, arrows shoved into margins as though his thoughts physically cannot remain in a straight line.

You stare at it anyway.

Fondly.

Which feels like a personal failing.

He writes faster as he talks, cardigan pulling slightly across his shoulders when he reaches higher on the board. One sleeve has ridden up near his wrist, exposing the thin line of his watch and a faint smudge of ink against his skin.

You should be taking notes.

Instead, your brain is busy cataloging details like you'll be taking a quiz on his anatomy.

Then he steps sideways to underline something, and your gaze drops completely against your will.

Oh no.

Oh, that’s unfortunate.

Because apparently Dr. Spencer Reid has a nice ass.

Not in a dramatic way.

Not in a “male model carved from marble” way.

Just… unfairly nice for a man who spends most of his time talking about psychology and forgetting to eat lunch.

The slacks help.

Which feels hostile, honestly.

You blink hard and jerk your attention back to your laptop with the violent internal energy of someone trying to slam shut fifty browser tabs at once.

Focus.

Academic environment.

You are a serious student.

A serious student who absolutely did not just spend several seconds staring at her professor’s ass while he explained trauma responses.

Jesus Christ.

“Repeated exposure to unpredictability,” he says, still writing, “can create compensatory behaviors centered around control, organization, or information gathering.”

A few tired chuckles.

Then the clock clicks over.

Immediate chaos.

The lecture hall empties like someone pulled a drain plug.

Students flood toward the exits in clusters of conversation and damp jackets, the noise swelling briefly before dissolving into the hallway outside. Within less than a minute, the room goes from crowded to echoing.

You stay seated.

Not intentionally.

At least that’s what you tell yourself.

Your laptop suddenly needs to be shut very carefully. Your charger has apparently tangled itself into a knot requiring advanced engineering. Your pens must be arranged with the precision of ceremonial artifacts.

At the front of the room, another student has stopped to ask Dr. Reid something about the midterm.

You try not to stare while pretending not to listen.

It’s difficult.

Because listening to Spencer Reid explain things is like accidentally falling into a Wikipedia rabbit hole narrated by a very pretty insomniac.

“…the issue isn’t the terminology,” he’s saying, already rifling through papers again while the student nods along. “It’s application. Most people can memorize diagnostic criteria. The harder part is recognizing behavioral variance in context.”

His sleeve slips down slightly as he gestures, revealing ink smudged along the side of his hand again.

God.

You wonder briefly if there’s a psychological term for being attracted to a man who looks like he's constantly five minutes away from a lecture.

Probably.

He’d know it.

The student thanks him and heads out, disappearing into the hallway with everyone else until suddenly it’s just—

You.

And him.

The room feels different when it empties.

Too large. Too quiet.

Rain patters softly against the windows.

Dr. Reid glances up from stacking his notes, clearly registering your continued existence only now. “Oh, you're still here. Perfect.”

Your stomach drops so fast it’s honestly impressive.

Perfect?

There is no version of “perfect” that has ever ended calmly for a student being addressed by a professor after class.

Your brain immediately begins cycling through possibilities at medically concerning speed.

You plagiarized accidentally somehow.

You cited the wrong edition.

You hallucinated an entire journal article in APA format.

You’ve been academically excommunicated.

“Me?” you say brilliantly.

Dr. Reid blinks once. “Yes?”

Excellent start.

You shove your charger into your bag and stand quickly enough that your chair squeaks against the floor.

The sound echoes.

Violently.

You briefly consider walking directly into the rain and starting a new life elsewhere.

Instead, you manage a strained little, “Sorry. Uh. Yeah. What’s up?”

Dr. Reid gathers a few loose papers into a stack before pulling one free.

Your paper.

You recognize the bent corner immediately because you spent three straight hours staring at it last weekend in a caffeine-induced fugue state.

“I finally finished reading these last night,” he says, tapping the packet lightly. “Your section on adaptive masking behaviors was particularly good.”

The panic in your bloodstream stutters awkwardly. “…good?”

“Yes.” He looks faintly surprised by your surprise. “Very good, actually.”

There’s something deeply unfair about receiving praise from Spencer Reid specifically. He says things too earnestly. No performance to it. No academic politeness. Just direct sincerity delivered with terrifying eye contact.

You feel your nervous system fold like cheap lawn furniture.

“You made an interesting connection between hypervigilance and social mirroring,” he continues, flipping through the pages. “Most students approached the assignment from a purely diagnostic perspective, but you framed it as a survival adaptation first, which is considerably more accurate.”

Your heart does an embarrassing little cartwheel.

Because this is the problem.

Not just that he’s attractive.

It’s that every time he talks to you, it feels like he’s opening a secret door in your ribcage and switching on all the lights.

“Oh,” you manage intelligently. “Thanks.”

“And your question here.” He points suddenly to a paragraph halfway down the page. “About whether prolonged masking eventually alters baseline identity perception?”

You nod slowly.

He looks delighted.

Actually delighted.

Like you handed him a particularly interesting puzzle and not a half-panicked essay written at two in the morning while eating stale pretzels.

“That’s the kind of question people usually don’t ask until graduate-level behavioral analysis,” he says. “There’s still ongoing debate about it, especially regarding prolonged trauma adaptation and identity diffusion.”

You try very hard to remain normal about the fact that Spencer Reid is complimenting your intelligence in an empty lecture hall while rain taps softly against the windows like a movie determined to make things worse for you personally.

“Most current models oversimplify the distinction between performed identity and integrated identity,” he continues, already slipping fully into Lecture Mode again. “Humans are actually much more context-dependent than people like to admit. Personality isn’t nearly as fixed as we pretend it is.”

He flips another page absentmindedly.

“You also cited Dr. Nakamura’s 2018 paper, which almost nobody finds unless they’re specifically looking for it.”

Your mouth opens before your brain catches up.

“…you noticed my citations?”

Dr. Reid looks up.

There’s a tiny crease between his brows now, confused in the gentlest way possible. “Of course I noticed your citations.”

Well.

That’s going to live in your skull forever now.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like naturally he paid attention. Like naturally he read your work closely enough to recognize specific research choices.

Meanwhile you’re trying not to ascend directly out of your body.

“You’re one of the strongest writers in the class,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Your arguments are usually more structurally complex than your peers’, even when you seem unsure of them.”

The room abruptly feels too warm.

You grip the strap of your bag tighter. “I didn’t know you thought that.”

Because there’s something unbearably intimate about being understood academically by someone you admire. It feels dangerously adjacent to being seen naked. Like he’s looking directly at the shape of your thoughts with careful hands.

Dr. Reid glances back down at your paper again, seemingly unaware he’s currently causing neurological events.

“I did mark a few places where your transitions got rushed,” he says, pulling a pen from behind his ear. “Mostly because I think you were thinking faster than you could physically write.”

You laugh softly before you can stop yourself. “That does happen.”

“Yes,” he says immediately, almost too quickly. “I know.”

Silence.

Tiny.

Strange.

His expression shifts a fraction afterward, like maybe he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Rain rattles softly against the windows again.

And suddenly you become acutely aware that you are alone with Spencer Reid in an empty lecture hall while he holds your paper like it’s something fragile.

Dangerous situation, truly.

Then he uncaps the pen and scribbles something quickly across the last page.

His handwriting slants wildly across the margin.

Fast. Crowded. Ink-smudged.

You watch his hand move despite yourself.

When he finishes, he folds the packet once and offers it back to you.

“There,” he says. “I added a few additional reading recommendations if you want them.”

You step forward to take it, fingers brushing briefly against his.

Electricity.

Actual cinematic electricity.

You almost drop the paper.

Humiliating.

“Thanks,” you say, quieter now.

“Mhm.”

But he doesn’t let go immediately.

Not enough to mean something.

Just enough to notice.

Then he seems to catch himself and releases the pages all at once, clearing his throat lightly before stepping back toward the desk.

You look down automatically.

At the bottom of the final page, beneath a cluster of notes and arrows and recommended articles, he’s signed off absentmindedly in cramped blue ink.

Excellent work here. Keep pushing this line of thought.

I think you’re asking the right questions.

— I remain yours sincerely,

Spencer Reid, PhD

Your pulse trips over itself.

Because who signs feedback like that?

Who writes I remain yours sincerely like a Shakespearean poet accidentally trapped in modern academia?

And worse:

Why does it make your stomach feel like it just fell down an elevator shaft?

The walk back to your apartment is a blur of rainwater, campus lights, and psychological deterioration.

Your umbrella keeps tilting sideways in the wind.

You barely notice.

Because every functioning part of your brain is currently occupied by one singular, catastrophic detail:

I remain yours sincerely.

Who writes that.

You clutch the paper tighter inside your bag every time the rain picks up, irrationally terrified the ink might smear. Which feels insane. Deeply insane. The behavior of a woman one inconvenience away from being studied in a laboratory.

By the time you get home, your shoes are damp, your hair is frizzing at the edges, and your nervous system is fried.

You lock the apartment door behind you and immediately pull the paper back out.

Like an addict.

Like a widow rereading war letters.

“Oh, this is bad,” you mutter to yourself.

Your apartment offers no judgment. Just soft lamplight and the hum of the refrigerator and rain whispering against the windows.

You drop your bag onto the couch.

Then sit at the kitchen table with the paper spread carefully in front of you.

You read the signature again.

And again.

And then, because apparently humiliation is now a recreational activity, you trace the letters lightly with your thumb.

Spencer Reid, PhD.

The ink catches faintly against the pad of your finger where he pressed harder on certain strokes. You can almost see the speed of him in it. The impatience. The intelligence outrunning the mechanics of handwriting.

God. You're so weird. You're unhinged. You're obsessed.

Your phone buzzes with a text from your friend Maya.

did u survive reid’s lecture or did he accidentally make eye contact and kill you instantly

You stare at the message for a long moment before replying:

worse

Three dots appear immediately.

what happened

You look down at the paper again.

At the stupid signature.

At the devastating little yours.

Then, against every survival instinct evolution ever gifted humanity, you take a picture of the bottom half of the page and send it.

There’s a full thirty seconds of silence.

Then:

OH YOU ARE DOWN HORRENDOUS

You groan aloud and drop your forehead directly onto the table.

The phone buzzes again.

“I remain yours sincerely”????? WHAT IS HE A PROFESSOR OR A MAN WRITING YOU FROM THE CRIMEAN WAR

Another buzz.

he wants u biblically

“HE DOES NOT,” you say aloud to the empty apartment, scandalized.

Your phone immediately lights up again.

u kept the paper though didnt u

You freeze.

Slowly, guiltily, your eyes drift toward your desk drawer.

Because inside that drawer already sits: one graded response paper, two annotated reading packets, and a sticky note from three weeks ago where Dr. Reid had written:

Your interpretation here is excellent. Come see me during office hours if you want to discuss further.

The sticky note currently lives tucked inside your favorite book like a pressed flower.

You close your eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper to yourself.

Another text arrives.

DID U KEEP THE PAPER

You type back:

not officially

Maya responds instantly.

that is the most incriminating answer ive ever heard

You abandon the conversation entirely and toss your phone onto the couch before she can escalate further.

Then you sit there alone for a moment.

Quiet apartment. Rain outside. Spencer Reid’s handwriting beneath your fingertips.

The thing is, you know this crush is ridiculous.

He’s your professor. Technically not even that much older than you, but enough that it matters. Enough that your brain keeps trying to file this under impossible and failing spectacularly every single time he looks at you like your thoughts are worth listening to.

That’s the real problem.

Not the cardigan.

Not the hands.

Not even the objectively offensive existence of that signature.

It’s the attention.

The terrifying sincerity of it.

Spencer Reid listens to you like he’s carefully placing your words somewhere safe.

And you don’t think anyone has ever done that before.

Your chest aches unexpectedly at the thought.

Too honest.

Too close to something real.

You exhale slowly and pick the paper up again, intending to finally put it away somewhere normal and reasonable.

Instead, your gaze catches on the folded edge of your clear phone case sitting beside you on the table.

No.

Absolutely not.

You stare at it.

Then at the paper.

Then back at the phone.

“This would be a humiliating choice,” you inform yourself firmly.

Silence.

Rain taps softly against the windows.

Five minutes later, you are sitting on your couch with Spencer Reid’s signature folded carefully behind your phone.

You look at it through the clear plastic.

Immediate stomach flip.

“Oh, you absolute loser,” you whisper to yourself.

But unfortunately:

you’re smiling.

By the time midterms crawl across campus like a biblical plague, your situation has not improved.

If anything, it’s evolved.

Dangerously.

Because now there is routine.

Now there are office hours conversations that accidentally become forty-five minutes long. Now there are moments where Dr. Reid pauses to ask, “You read the article I mentioned, right?” already knowing the answer before you nod.

Now there are tiny things.

Tiny, lethal things.

The way he automatically hands you printed articles first when passing materials down the row. The way his face brightens with visible recognition every time you speak in class. The way he says your name like he enjoys the shape of it.

It’s become less like a crush and more like being slowly haunted.

Which is why remaining after lecture today feels less unusual than it probably should.

You don’t mean to time it like this.

It just… happens.

The room empties in that familiar way, like the building exhales and forgets to inhale again. Chairs scrape. Jackets zip. Someone laughs too loudly in the hallway like they’re trying to prove they’re still human after all that thinking.

And then it’s just you again, hovering at the edge of the aisle with your notebook pressed a little too tightly to your chest.

Dr. Reid is still at the whiteboard.

Erasing.

Relentless little motions. Wrist flicking. Chalk dust or marker residue or whatever ghosts lectures leave behind drifting faintly in the air. His cardigan is pushed up at the elbows now, like it’s given up on behaving properly.

He doesn’t look over immediately.

Which, somehow, makes it worse.

Because you’ve started to associate his attention with a kind of internal weather shift. Like the room tilts slightly toward you when he notices you’re there.

You clear your throat.

Soft. Careful.

“Dr. Reid?”

The eraser pauses mid-swipe.

Then stops completely.

He turns.

And there it is.

That subtle recalibration. Like a radio finding your frequency without meaning to.

“Oh,” he says. Not surprised exactly. Just… pleased in a quiet way that feels too personal to name. “You’re still here again.”

Again.

Like it’s a pattern he’s noticed.

Like he’s been waiting for it.

You nod, suddenly hyper-aware of your hands, your posture, your entire existence. “Yeah. I had a question about today’s lecture.”

“Of course.” He sets the eraser down on the ledge beneath the board and steps away from it fully now, giving you his attention like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What about it?”

Your brain, traitorous thing that it is, briefly offers you ten different ways to phrase this more intelligently.

None of them survive the trip to your mouth.

“It was about emotional responses,” you say. “Like… how people react differently to the same stimulus depending on context and prior experience.”

He nods slowly, like he’s already tracing where this is going.

You continue anyway, because stopping now would be suspicious and also physically impossible.

“You said something about adaptation shaping perception. And I was thinking about whether emotional responses can… overwrite themselves? Like, if enough context builds up, does the original reaction still matter, or does it get replaced entirely?”

Dr. Reid tilts his head slightly, studying you the way he studies everything he respects—carefully, like it might shift if he blinks wrong.

“That’s a more complicated question than it sounds like you intended it to be,” he says gently.

Your stomach drops.

“Sorry,” you start immediately. “I didn’t mean— I just meant like in general, not—”

“No.” He interrupts softly. Not sharp. Just steady. “Don’t apologize. It’s a good question.”

That does something unfortunate to your nervous system.

He takes a step closer to his desk, resting one hand lightly on it as if anchoring himself to the conversation.

“So the original response doesn’t disappear. It becomes less accessible, or it gets reframed by later experiences. But it’s still there. Just… quieter.”

You nod slowly, trying to keep up.

“That’s why certain triggers can feel disproportionate,” he adds. “They’re not creating a new reaction. They’re reopening an old one that’s been reorganized over time.”

Something about the way he says it makes it feel less like psychology and more like confession, even though it absolutely isn’t.

You swallow.

“That makes it sound like nothing ever really goes away,” you say quietly.

A beat.

Dr. Reid looks at you a little more directly now.

“It doesn’t,” he says. Simple. Certain. Then, softer: “But that doesn’t mean it stays the same.”

The room feels warmer again.

Or maybe that’s just you.

You glance down at your notebook like it suddenly contains emergency instructions for being normal.

“Right,” you manage. “That makes sense.”

It doesn’t feel like it makes sense. It feels like it rearranged something in your chest and didn’t bother explaining itself.

Dr. Reid pushes off the desk slightly, as if the intensity of the moment has to be gently contained.

Then, almost like an afterthought, he adds, “Is that what you were thinking about specifically? Or was there another angle?”

There it is again.

That attention.

Patient. Open. Not assuming you’re wasting his time.

You hesitate.

Because the truth is more dangerous than the question.

But you’ve never been very good at leaving things unasked.

“I guess I was wondering,” you say slowly, “if people can… respond emotionally to something they intellectually understand isn’t rational.”

Dr. Reid stills for half a second.

Not much. Most people wouldn’t notice.

But you’ve started noticing everything.

“That happens frequently,” he says after a moment.

Your grip tightens on your notebook.

“Even when they know better?”

His gaze flickers briefly toward you again. Sharper now. Not unkind. Just… more precise.

“Yes,” he says. “Especially then.”

A quiet beat stretches between you.

Too quiet.

Your pulse has started doing strange, uneven things against your ribs, every instinct in your body suddenly screaming that this conversation has drifted dangerously close to something exposed.

Because the problem with Spencer Reid is that he listens too carefully.

Most people let things slide past them. Most people hear the shape of a sentence and move on.

Dr. Reid hears the fracture lines underneath it.

And right now you’re increasingly certain he’s standing one follow-up question away from watching you spontaneously combust in front of the behavioral sciences department.

You tighten your grip on your notebook hard enough to bend the edge slightly.

“Right,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Okay. That actually answered my question, so I should probably—”

You gesture vaguely toward the door.

Toward freedom.

Toward escape.

Toward literally anywhere that is not this room with this man looking at you like he’s trying to solve something.

But Dr. Reid’s expression shifts faintly before you can move.

Concern.

Not suspicion. Somehow worse.

“Are you alright?”

There’s no accusation in it. Just immediate attentiveness.

Which unfortunately makes panic bloom hotter in your chest.

“Yep.” The word arrives at terminal velocity. “Absolutely. Totally fine.”

You are speaking with the cadence of someone being held hostage by her own nervous system.

His brows pull together slightly. “You seem anxious.”

“Well,” you laugh weakly, “I think that’s sort of my baseline.”

Wrong choice.

Because that earns the smallest flicker of a smile from him.

Soft. Brief. Real.

It hits you directly in the bloodstream.

You need to leave immediately.

“I just remembered I have to…” You motion uselessly with one hand. “Do something.”

Brilliant.

Academic titan.

Dr. Reid opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else, and that tiny moment of anticipation detonates pure survival instinct in your chest.

“Anyway!” you blurt. “Thanks for answering my question. Sorry. Again. I’m gonna go.”

You turn too fast.

Your bag catches against the side of a chair.

The strap yanks violently sideways, dragging the chair with it in one catastrophic scrape against the floor.

You stumble trying to untangle yourself, notebook slipping from your grasp entirely.

Papers explode everywhere.

For one suspended second, the universe goes completely still.

Then Dr. Reid moves instantly.

“Oh, here—”

You both crouch at the exact same time.

Of course you do.

Naturally.

Because God is dead and this is apparently funny to the universe.

Your foreheads nearly collide.

You jerk backward so abruptly you lose balance a second time, catching yourself with one hand against the floor while loose papers scatter farther beneath the desks.

“I’m so sorry,” you say immediately, horrified.

But that's not the end of the torture. Because why would it be? Why would the universe and whatever forces rule it let you get out of this embarrassment that easily?

Your phone.

No.

No, no, no.

Time slows with cinematic cruelty.

The device must have slipped from your bag when the strap caught the chair. The clear case popped loose on impact, skidding separately across the floor.

And there, face-up beside the phone itself like evidence submitted directly to a court of law—

his signature.

And Dr. Reid is staring directly at it.

There’s no plausible explanation for this.

None.

You cannot even pretend it’s accidental.

Who accidentally stores a professor’s signed feedback inside their phone case?

No one, that's who. Just you.

Your soul begins exiting your body through your ears.

Don’t panic, your brain says uselessly, while panic fully consumes the landscape.

Dr. Reid reaches for the paper slowly.

You want the floor to open and swallow you whole like a tectonic event.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Dr. Reid looks at the note for one suspended second longer.

Then another.

His expression changes in tiny increments you only notice because you’ve spent months studying him with the intensity of a graduate thesis.

Recognition.

Confusion.

Realization.

And then something else. Something softer. Something that makes your pulse stumble violently against your ribs.

Very slowly, he lifts his eyes to yours.

You have never known true psychological horror until this moment.

“I can explain,” you blurt immediately.

Can you?

Absolutely not.

But the sentence launches itself out of your mouth anyway with all the grace of a car accident.

Dr. Reid’s brows lift slightly. “You can?”

“No,” you say honestly. “Actually, not in a way that helps me.”

Excellent.

Wonderful.

You briefly consider faking your death.

He glances back down at the paper again, thumb resting lightly near the edge where the fold has started softening from use.

And then, very softly:

“You kept it.”

Not teasing.

Not judgmental.

Which almost makes it harder.

Heat floods violently into your face.

“This was,” you say immediately, “so much less creepy in my head.”

A tiny crease appears between his brows like he’s trying not to smile.

“I didn’t say it was creepy.”

“It’s objectively creepy.”

“I don’t think objectively means what you want it to mean there.”

“That’s worse somehow.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Actually twitches.

You stare at him in horror.

“Please don’t laugh at me,” you whisper.

“I’m not laughing at you.”

“You’re visibly experiencing amusement.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It absolutely is.”

The smile threatens again, smaller this time, restrained at the edges like he doesn’t fully trust himself with it.

And then, disastrously, his gaze drops once more to the signature.

His own handwriting.

His own absurdly formal sign-off.

When he speaks again, there’s something almost embarrassed threaded through his voice now.

“In fairness,” he says, “I probably shouldn’t have written ‘I remain yours sincerely.’”

You make a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and cardiac arrest. “No, you really shouldn’t have.”

“I wasn’t thinking about how that sounded.”

“That somehow feels less reassuring.”

His eyes flick back to yours then.

Warm amber under fluorescent lights. Too attentive. Too intelligent.

“But you noticed it,” he says quietly.

There’s no ego in the statement.

Just observation.

You swallow hard.

“Yes.”

The room goes still around the answer.

Not awkward exactly.

Just aware.

Dr. Reid looks down briefly, almost thoughtful, before carefully placing the paper back atop your fallen notebook instead of immediately handing it over.

“You know,” he says after a moment, “historically, formal academic correspondence used possessive sign-offs fairly often.”

You stare at him.

“Are you trying to academically explain away my crush on you right now?”

The sentence escapes before you can stop it.

Silence detonates instantly afterward.

Your entire nervous system flatlines.

Because you did not mean to say that.

You meant to think it privately and then carry the shame forever.

Dr. Reid goes completely still.

His lips part slightly like his brain lost the next page of the script.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, staring at the floor. “Forget I said that.”

But the problem with Spencer Reid has always been this:

he never ignores important things.

And when you finally force yourself to look back up, he’s watching you with an expression so carefully controlled it almost hurts to see.

“You have a crush on me,” he says.

Not mocking.

Not smug.

Honestly, he sounds more astonished than anything else.

You squeeze your eyes shut briefly. “I am asking respectfully for the earth to open beneath me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer I currently have.”

You expect discomfort.

Distance.

Professional correction.

Instead, Dr. Reid exhales softly through his nose and sits back slightly against the leg of a desk beside him, still crouched across from you among scattered papers and your exploded dignity.

And then, to your complete horror, he says:

“I thought there was a possibility.”

Your head snaps up.

“What?”

A faint flush has appeared high on his cheekbones now.

Tiny. Visible.

It rearranges the architecture of your entire universe.

“You’re very attentive to me,” he says carefully.

You choke immediately. “I need you to stop observing things.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“You’re a behavioral analyst. This is abuse of power.”

That almost earns another smile.

Almost.

“But I wasn’t sure,” he continues more quietly. “And I didn’t want to assume something that would make you uncomfortable.”

You stare at him.

“You noticed,” you say faintly.

Dr. Reid tilts his head a little.

“You keep every note I give you.”

Well.

When he says it out loud like that, it sounds medically concerning.

“I didn’t think you knew that.”

“I didn’t,” he admits. “Not conclusively.”

His gaze flickers briefly toward the paper beside your phone.

“I do now.”

You cover your face with one hand.

“This is the worst day of my life.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“That’s because you’re not experiencing it from inside my body.”

A pause.

Then, very gently:

“No,” he says. “I don’t think I am.”

Something changes in the room after that.

Tiny shift. Tectonic consequence.

The humor softens at the edges, leaving behind something quieter. Something breathing carefully between the two of you.

Dr. Reid reaches down first, gathering the scattered pages into a neater stack before offering them back to you properly this time.

Your fingers brush again.

And this time neither of you jerks away immediately.

It lasts maybe half a second longer than it should.

Enough to feel intentional.

Enough to ruin you permanently.

His eyes lift to yours again, thoughtful in that dangerous way he gets when he’s turning something over carefully in his mind.

“You know,” he says slowly, “there are ethical complications here.”

You let out a startled laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

His fingers tap once against the edge of the paper still resting between you.

“You’re my student.”

The words land carefully. Reluctantly.

Like he hates them a little.

“Which means,” he continues, “that regardless of how I feel about this conversation, there are boundaries I’m responsible for maintaining.”

Your pulse stumbles.

Regardless of how I feel about this conversation.

That’s the moment the floor drops out from under you.

Because that’s not rejection.

It’s worse.

It’s possibility wearing a seatbelt.

“But there are also only six weeks left in the semester.”

Your breath catches.

The words land between you with astonishing softness.

Not a proposition.

Not quite.

Just a door left cracked open in the dark.

Dr. Reid seems to realize exactly how that sounded one second after saying it, because a flicker of alarm crosses his face immediately afterward.

“I’m not implying,” he starts quickly. “I mean, I am implying something, technically, but not inappropriately. I just meant that institutional boundaries are temporary in specific contexts and I thought transparency was preferable to pretending I hadn’t noticed the situation and now I’m explaining this badly.”

You stare at him.

Then laugh suddenly.

Not nervous this time.

Real.

Because Spencer Reid, genius profiler, has gone visibly flustered sitting on the floor of his own lecture hall.

The sound seems to catch him off guard.

His shoulders loosen a fraction.

And for the first time since this catastrophe began, the panic ebbs enough for something else to bloom beneath it.

Something warm.

“I… I can wait six weeks,” you say softly.

Spencer’s smile is small enough that someone else might have missed it entirely.

You don’t.

Because of course you don’t.

It changes him in tiny ways. Softens the sharp concentration he usually wears like armor. Pulls warmth into his face until he looks less like Dr. Spencer Reid, terrifyingly intelligent guest lecturer, and more like a man trying very hard not to look too happy about something.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Then, after the smallest pause:

“Good.”

Spencer Reid is an exception. He’s the exception, really; you can’t think of anyone else you’d do this for. Nobody else has burrowed deep into your brain the way he has. Nobody else would make you peel back layers of protection, shed every boundary the way a snake sheds its skin, the way you have for him.

Maybe he’s managed to reach in and sink his fingers into the only softer parts of you that remain. Or maybe you, as a whole, softened for him.

Maybe it’s just a fault. A flaw in your proverbial programming. Your feelings for him aren’t rational, your fixation on him doesn’t make any sense—but what does? 

You’re human, animal, driven by instinct. What is rational is subjective, the definition of sense ever-changing. Logic and reason are little more than facades, costumes worn to make people feel better about themselves, to keep the animal at bay. They ought to realise that life gets a hell of a lot more interesting when they stop following rules, scriptures, telling them what’s right, and instead follow what feels right.

That’s your philosophy, anyway. You’re sure you’d be hard-pressed to find many people that agree with you. 

Not even Spencer agrees with you, but you aren’t sure you can trust the moral rulings of a man who’ll happily fall to his knees at the feet of a serial killer. He’s a hypocrite, forever condemning your actions, calling you sick, all while going along with whatever twisted game you decide to play like a dog on a leash. He’ll bend to your every whim, mould his morals to better suit your desires, but he’ll roll his eyes and moan about it first—like that somehow cleanses him of sin.

Spencer sleeps with his door open—why, you’ll never understand—and you’re grateful, because it means you can waltz right into his bedroom without needing to worry about any squeaky hinges. And you wouldn’t want to wake him. No, that would ruin the fun.

He’s lying on his back, blankets kicked off, all leaden limbs and deep, slow breaths. Tousled hair and parted lips. A true sleeping beauty. It is, perhaps, the most at peace you’ve ever seen him, unblemished by the chaos of his conscious mind, by your presence. You could quite happily linger in this doorway, watch him sleep until the sun rises, treat him as you would an art exhibit; look, don’t touch.

You take your time crossing the room, as though any sudden movement, however silent, may disturb him. Spencer’s a light sleeper, easily stirred, never able to let himself go. It’s no wonder he’s so tired all the time; even in his sleep, he can’t truly rest.

The mattress sinks slightly under your weight as you crawl onto the bed. Your breathing is so quiet, so shallow, that you may as well be holding your breath as you carefully shuffle closer.

A streetlamp bleeds into the room through the blinds. Diffused streaks of pale light stretch across the bed, his face, like half a dozen halos. You tilt your head, taking a moment to admire his face. The sharp angle of his jaw; his brows, relaxed; the undeniable softness that replaces the tension you are so used to observing, and that, to you, seems almost alien.

You trail your fingers, touch awfully light, along his thigh. His pyjama pants are soft, freshly washed, covered in a purple plaid pattern that is just so Spencer. You’d consider stealing them if they were more your colour. Your hand dips to his inner thigh, drawing lazy patterns before grazing his crotch. The contact is so brief, so mild, he probably doesn’t even feel it.

You watch him closely, studying him for any sign of a reaction, before you grow bolder. You cup his cock through his pants, relishing the warmth under your palm, the way it sends a rush of heat straight to your core.

His body responds to your touch without protest. Like it knows you, trusts you. His cock stirs, presses against your hand.

Now you’re actually holding your breath. Biting your lip. Clenching your thighs. Fighting to contain the adrenaline that’s coursing through you as it increases by the second, pushing you to act faster, to lead with a heavier hand. You have to remind yourself to breathe, to take it slow, to control yourself before you wind up waking him.

You palm him through his pyjamas, steadily, movements so languid it’s almost annoying. His breathing shifts. His brows crease. He shifts against your hand, just barely. Yielding to your touch, asking for more.

Precious. That’s what he is. He’s fragile, like this. Delicate in ways he’d never allow himself to be when awake, when with you. When there’s always a game to play, a façade to keep up.

You struggle with his pants, with finding the balance between eagerness and prudence, as you try to get what you want without shattering this moment. His pretty cock springs free, already half-hard, and impatience has you abandoning his pants at his thighs so you can grasp it gently, listening to the way he sighs under your touch.

It’s maddening, almost, the way his erection realises itself in your hand, the way his body reacts, even when unconscious, to your gentleness. He groans, and it’s one of the softest sounds you’ve heard as you work his cock, keeping your gaze on his face, watching the slight twitches in his sleepy expression, manipulated by tender hand. 

Your mouth has run dry. You lick your lips, chew on the plush, as you exhaust the last of your restraint.

You lean down, drag your tongue across the head of his cock, and almost moan at the taste of him—do moan at the little noise he makes when you take him into your mouth. Can something be maddening, if you’re already mad? Is there a limit to insanity? Do you breathe the surplus into him? Every time you fall into bed together, it seems he breaks that little bit more, and you heal. Piece yourself back together with all that you’ve taken from him.

His cock twitches against your tongue. This is another thing you’re taking. Another line you’re crossing. Another thing he’ll hate you for, and love you for. He’s a masochist that way. You wouldn’t take so much if he weren’t so willing to give it. If he didn’t kneel at your altar, present his neck for your knife. You’re both damned.

But doesn’t every relationship consist of rotten priest and innocent lamb? Sinner and saint? Corruption and consecration? That’s how it’s supposed to be, no? You trade places every now and then, wear each other’s skin like shitty Halloween masks, pretend that the sacrifice holds any semblance of power. That’s all the sex is: Spencer, desperately imitating control; and you, holding the knife behind your back, pretending it isn’t there, pressed so deep into your skin you’d never be able to let it go, even if you wanted to.

A jerk of his hips, and his cock hits the spongy back of your throat. You just about hear him gasp over the sound of your own gagging, and then his fingers are in your hair, tearing you from him so fast you’d think you’d bitten him.

You meet Spencer’s awake, wide-eyed gaze with your own deer-in-headlights stare. He’s half-sitting, propped up on one elbow. Mouth slightly agape. Cheeks flushed the same shade as his spit-coated cock.

“How did you get in here?”

And the game’s up. Shame, you were just starting to enjoy it.

“I used a key,” you say simply.

Spencer blinks at you. His grip on your hair starts to loosen, like what you’re saying might, for a moment, make sense in his sleep-clouded mind, but then he returns to his senses. “You don’t have a key.”

“I, uh—” you clear your throat, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before flashing him a smile. “I copied yours.”

“You—” he releases your hair, retracts his hand like you’re something filthy. “You what?”

“Just in case you…” Smoothing out your hair, you sit up. “…needed help, or something. I was looking out for you, really—”

“No.” Spencer cuts you off, shaking his head as he rubs his eyes. “This is— do you have any idea how out of line this is? How on earth could you possibly think this was appropriate?”

You shrug, opting to play dumb as you straddle him. He doesn’t try to stop you. “I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“You broke into my apartment.”

“I used a key,” you repeat.

“That’s still illegal,” he hisses. “Copying someone’s key for the purpose of entering their home without their knowledge, and with criminal intent, is a crime.”

“Criminal intent?” you scoff, biting back a grin. “I didn’t come here to rob you—”

“No, you just came here to touch me in my sleep.”

You nod eagerly. “And you have a problem with that?”

Instead of answering your (very simple) question, Spencer just leans his head back against his pillow, muttering under his breath. You think you hear “God” slip between his lips. Typical.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” he grumbles, returning his hands to his face.

You click your tongue, trailing your fingers across the front of his shirt. “I can go back out and knock, if that’ll make you feel better—”

“Don’t,” he warns, voice firm. “You are just…so…”

He never finishes that thought. Instead, he reaches over to the bedside table. At first you figure he’s reaching for his glasses, but then his fingers graze the handle of the drawer, just barely out of his reach.

He taps your thigh. “Get off of me.”

“Oh, come on,” you whine.

“I’m not asking.”

“Can’t we just—”

His hands are on your waist and, before you can finish complaining, he’s pushing you away. You land on the mattress with a petulant huff, resigning yourself to staring at the ceiling as he rummages through his drawer. You hear the familiar rustle of his condom box, followed by the softer, quieter sound of his pyjama pants being thrown aside.

“You’re no fun,” you mutter, “you know that?”

Spencer doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even give you a huff, or a sigh. He just rolls the condom on.

He’s sick of you, or claims to be, yet he still yields to you every time. He still plays the game, still entertains your desires even when he knows that he shouldn’t—that doing so is only reinforcing your behaviour.

He’ll complain about you breaking in, but he’ll still fuck you, even though you haven’t asked him to, because the truth is that he needs this just as badly as you do—if not more so. Spencer needs to give just as badly as you need to take, and he’ll pretend it’s the other way around. Utter subservience masquerading as dominance; it’s his drug.

Fingers close around your wrist, and he pulls you back up to meet his lips. He kisses you like he’s starved, one hand tangled in your hair as the other slips up your thigh. He tugs at your panties, tears them off when you lift your hips. Tosses them into the dark before pulling you down on top of him.

You straddle him like it’s second nature, and the two of you slot together like pieces of a puzzle. Him on his back, and you above him. Half cast in shadow, half painted in the subtle glow of the streetlight, whispering curses into his mouth as his fingers find your dripping cunt.

“God,” he breathes, almost groans. He sets his hands on your hips, gives you a gentle nudge so you pull back. “You really were enjoying that, weren’t you?”

You smirk as you sit up, adjusting yourself so you’re lined up with his cock. Grasping the base, you drag the tip along your slick folds, relishing the way you can feel him pulsing under your palm. “We both did,” you tease. “Actually, I think you might’ve been enjoying it more—”

A sharp gasp cuts through your words, followed by a poorly muffled cry as Spencer forces your hips down. His cock pushes into you without warning, and the pain—the pleasure—has tears pricking in your eyes before you can think to stop them.

He throws his head back with a hiss, fingers digging into your soft skin as he sinks you onto his cock, guiding you to take every too-big inch of him, until you’re sat flush against his hips. A choked whimper is all you can muster as your tight walls flutter around his length.

“Fuck—”

“I’ve got you.”

And he has got you. He’s holding you there, keeping you stuffed full of him until your body gives in.

He only lets go once you’ve relaxed around him, once your whining has stopped and you’re making subtle movements of your hips, desperate to keep going now that the discomfort has subsided—and he lets you.

You settle into a rhythm quickly, and Spencer’s even quicker to sink into the mattress, letting his hands roam the plush of your thighs as you take the lead. Your name leaves his lips in a whisper, and you swear the sound is more intoxicating, more addicting than any drug out there. His touch, his voice, the little hitches in his breath every time you roll your hips—it’s enough to drive you fucking crazy.

And when he meets your gaze, you almost come undone on the spot. Because what you find plastered across his pretty face is worship. The kind you can make out even in the dark; broken, but perfect.

Is this something you’re taking, or something he’s giving? Is there a difference? If there is, does it even matter?

His thumb brushes your clit, and your thoughts turn to static. Debating the ethical nuances of such a sinful relationship becomes difficult when you’re like this. Pleasure is pleasure, no matter how rotten.

Spencer could be your sacrificial lamb, the moth to your cursed flame, or just a sick flagellant—you don’t care.  Not when he’s beneath you, biting back moans and telling you just how good you are at taking his cock, acting as the votary to your twisted godhead.

Tension builds in your core, compounded by the attention on your clit. The effortless workings of his hands have you inching closer and closer to the edge, and he isn’t even looking at what he’s doing. He’s watching your face, transfixed. His hand, so perfectly tuned to the needs of your body, is the last thing on his mind; pleasing you is second nature. Like breathing, it doesn’t require thought.

Curses tumble from your lips as your hips stutter. You reach for the headboard to steady yourself, but as soon as you lean forward Spencer’s bending a knee, setting his foot on the bed so he can thrust up into you at a faster, harder pace. His hands grasp your hips, press indents into your skin that are bound to leave a mark, and hold you in place as he fucks you.

You’ve no choice but to surrender yourself, at that point. Back arched, both hands on the headboard, head thrown back as static crackles in your veins, mounts to something that is so dangerously close to catching fire.

“…’m close—”

Spencer mumbles something the same time you do. Equally as breathless. Words laced with an equally depraved amount of need. He’s echoing the sentiment, fingernails cutting into your skin as his leg starts to tremble.

You come undone first. The orgasm hits your hard, and you clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound as you come on his cock. Spencer groans as your cunt clenches around him, hugging his length tighter with each thrust as he fucks you through your release, and his follows close behind.

In the breathless space between moments, your mind moves slower than your body. You allow yourself to collapse on top of him, burying your face in the crook of his neck as you try to tame your ragged breathing. And he lets you.

His hand cups the back of your head. The other rests on the small of your back. He keeps you close. Presses his nose to your hair, lips following shortly after. 

Seconds pass before you finally gather the strength to raise your head, to check if he’s lost his mind, but Spencer’s face betrays nothing. His brows are set in his usual frown, but the dark softens his features, and you can infer warmth where there shouldn't be any.

"Do you, um—" You clear your throat, lips curling into that signature sly smile. "Do you want my key, or should I keep it? Save it for a rainy day—"

You hiss as spencer pushes you off him. Instead of complaining, you curl up at his side, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest before he decides it’s time to get up. He doesn't answer your question, and you don't push him to.

He rises to his feet, takes care of the condom, the wrapper—any evidence of what just happened. You think he's going to take care of you, too; drag you out of his bed, throw you out on the street, but he doesn't. 

He glances back at you as he picks your panties up from his floor. He tosses them to you, but not without asking, in a quiet tone, "Are you going home?"

The question gives you pause. It's the inflection, the way his words are weaved to obstruct something else, spoken with a stiffness he knows you'll pick up on.

You narrow your eyes, tilting your head to one side. "Do you want me to go home?"

He grabs his pyjama pants, ignores another loaded question. Because the day Spencer Reid is ever open with you will be the day Hell freezes over.

"There's nothing to do here," you add, seeing right through his silence. "I’m not gonna be able to sleep just because you fucked me. You—"

"I know, but—"

"—aren't that good."

Spencer still doesn't share in your humour, despite how much time you've spent together. He'll break every rule, bend every moral, but he'll never laugh at your jokes. He doesn't even crack a smile, just sighs and pulls his pants on.

"I was going to suggest you read a book," he says, voice flat.

He gets back into bed without another word. Faces away from you. Holds his breath in the silence that follows.

He wants you to stay.

"…okay," you answer, quietly. "I’ll go…peruse your reading material."

All he gives you in response is a low hum.

—

Spencer wakes hours later to the sun streaming through his blinds, head resting on something that isn’t a pillow; pillows don’t have heartbeats. 

His arm is draped over your waist, fingers loosely curled into the fabric of your nightgown the same way yours are curled into his hair. 

Memories return in quick succession, each one adding to the discomfort simmering in his stomach, visceral. His skin crawls at the thought of you spending the night.

So, he raises his head. In the light of day, he sees you clearly: the book lying open across your face, shielding your eyes; your slow, deep breathing; your arm lying limp at your side.

The world goes quiet. He blinks, and the discomfort fades into a memory, the way it always does.

He brings his head back down to rest against your chest, and he closes his eyes.