Casandra 🪩🍁🧣

“What’s this?” You ask as you accept the offered glass; your mouth falling dry as you watch the condensation shift and bead under your touch. 

“Water.” He explains easily, and though the simplicity of his answers serves to make you feel silly for asking, his tone never indicates that he finds you silly at all. “You’re a little dehydrated.” 

You suppress a shiver as the water washes over your mouth and nearly half the glass is gone by the time you come back up for air. “I am?” 

Again, you feel silly for asking, because now that you have the glass in your hands you have no interest in letting it go. In fact, you’re just beginning to wonder how much effort it would be to go grab the Brita from the fridge when Spencer stands up and heads back to the kitchen.

“Yeah, lovely. I topped up the Brita this morning before I left for the office but there wasn’t much missing from it when I returned. Increased fluid intake during pregnancy is crucial for both you and the baby. It’s a key component of the amniotic fluid and you also have increased blood supply right now so staying hydrated is important to avoid dizziness or constipation.” You hardly have a moment to flush at him speaking so candidly about the quality of your bowel movements when he carries on. 

“Your metabolic rate is increased as well and adequate fluid intake helps regulate your body temperature. Have you noticed yourself experiencing many hot flashes today?”

You pull the glass away from your face when you realize you’re holding it to your – admittedly clammy – cheek. Spencer returns to the living room with the Brita in hand, gesturing for you to raise your glass which he quickly refills for you.  

Once you’ve inhaled another half a glass of water, Spencer finally exposes three tablets he’d been carrying in his hand. 

“My vitamins.” You acknowledge somewhat dumbly, a weight settling in your throat that’s painful to swallow around. “I…I can’t believe I forgot.” 

Spencer lets out a hum of acknowledgement as he reclaims his seat beside you, not a lick of judgement about him which only serves to make your shame increase tenfold somehow. 

You’re just about to retreat into a familiar internal downward spiral when you’re distracted by Spencer saying your name.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, and he looks so concerned – so earnest in his worry – that the sob sort of startles out of you with no preamble. 

“What am I doing?” You ask rhetorically, hands flying out from you helplessly. “I…I’m not even doing anything yet and I’m already failing!”

“No. No, no. You’re not failing. You-”

“I can’t even realize that I’m thirsty let alone remember to take my damn pills! I mean, what the hell? If I can’t even take care of myself now, how am I going to take care of a baby? I’m a terrible mother already.” 

Spencer stands abruptly which causes guilt to surge up your sternum from your belly button, forcing more tears down your cheeks as he carefully kneels on the ground in front of you. 

“You are not a terrible mother. No- wait, just listen to me. You say you’re ‘not even doing anything’ as though you aren’t quite literally growing an entire brand new person from scratch right now. I’m serious! You’ve taken, what? Some measly cells that I’ve offered you and combined them with your own before altering your entire body and chemistry to help it grow? That’s not nothing.”

The uncharacteristic simplicity of his explanation of procreation and referring to the very intimate moment the two of you shared a little over eight months ago as “offering you some measly cells” sees you letting out a surprised, wet laugh. He smiles in response. 

“That’s not nothing.” He repeats softly.

“I just feel so stupid.” You admit quietly. “I didn’t think this baby brain would cause me to miss actual survival cues from my body. I mean, seriously, Spencer? I couldn’t even recognize my own thirst?”

His eyes dart all over your face as though he might be able to dive into your mind's eye and force you see things from his point of view if only he tried hard enough.

“Baby brain isn’t nothing either, love. And it doesn’t make you stupid. The cause of ‘pregnancy brain’ isn’t necessarily fully understood but there are so many hormonal changes happening in your body right now. Estrogen, progesterone, prolactin and hPL can all impact brain function; particularly the amygdala, hippocampus, and the pre-frontal cortex which are responsible for memory, attention, and emotional regulation. 

“If that wasn’t enough, you’ve been more than a little uncomfortable lately which makes sleep next to impossible, paired with the fact that so much of your metabolic energy is going towards growing and sustaining new life, your brain can hardly be faulted for getting the figurative short end of the stick right now.” 

He inches closer to you from his place on the floor, one hand raising to wipe at the slowly drying tear tracks on your face. 

“You’ve been doing plenty of things for yourself and the baby that I’m so proud of you and eternally grateful for.” 

You huff a self deprecating laugh. “Like what?”

“Like” Spencer starts with an encouraging smile “you’ve been keeping your stress levels low. Staying off of your phone when you realized it was contributing to some of your anxiety. Participating in relaxing activities like watching low-stakes shows and catching up on reading. You’re not over-working yourself and resting an adequate amount to make up for your aches and pains plus the general lack of sleep. You’ve been working so hard this whole pregnancy to balance eating, ensuring you have both what the baby wants plus what the both of you need. You’re abundantly prepared for the baby’s arrival. You’re a wonderful mother.” 

You’re both surprised when another sob bubbles out of you. 

“I can imagine it’s hard when you feel like your brain is operating at a reduced level, and I probably don’t help with the way my brain generally operates at a faster rate than the average person’s. But that isn’t because you’re stupid or because you’re not doing enough. You’re doing plenty; you’re doing so much. And I’m so thankful that you’re taking care of yourself and our baby,” he pauses as he brushes a hand over your ever-rounding bump, sharing a shy smile with you, “and I am beyond selfishly pleased at getting to take care of the both of you.” 

The two of you stay like that for a while – you, folded into the couch as one of his hands holds your own, his other drawing shapes into your stomach as he kneels before you. 

“You really think I’m doing an okay job?” Your question barely above a whisper into the quiet of the room as though you’re afraid of the answer. 

“No. I think you’re doing a wonderful job. Perfect, really. I have no complaints other than you being a little too hard on yourself, but that’s nothing I can’t help with.” 

“I’m glad you’re here with me.” You tell him. “I’m glad I’m doing this with you.”

The confession – though not the first time shared with him – seems to surprise him for some reason. “Yeah?”

Your responding ‘yes’ is a mixture of a breathy laugh and a sob before you pull him up to you, trying to infuse as much of your love into the kiss as you can though neither of you can stop smiling long enough to do more than simply press your lips together. 

Thankfully, that seems to be more than enough for both of you.

Then, a sudden, piercing cry echoed down the hallway, a newborn.

Spencer stopped mid-sentence. His head snapped to the door. His dark eyes dilated, his chest rising and falling in a silent, suspended breath. You watched as his long fingers, which had been frantically fidgeting with the strap of his messenger bag, went completely still. 

“Spencer?” you murmured. 

He didn’t answer right away. He stepped toward the doorway as if pulled by an invisible string, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. The sound of the infant’s cry hit something deep in his chest, a sudden ache that flared behind his ribs. He had spent his entire life studying the human brain, analyzing attachment theory, oxytocin release, and evolutionary psychology. But none of his textbooks had prepared him for the physical, heavy pull in his gut at the sound of a brand new life. He turned back to you, his eyes wide and glossy, his gaze dropping involuntarily to your lap before darting back to your face. 

“They weigh an average of seven and a half pounds at birth,” he murmured, his voice oddly breathless. “Their lungs are so small, yet they can produce sounds up to eighty-five decibels.” He swallowed again, his thumb brushing over the back of his own knuckles. “It’s… incredible, isn’t it?”

You offered a warm, wry smile. “You’ve got that look again, Spence.”

He bit his lower lip, flushing a deep, embarrassed pink, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, soft and helplessly longing. 

2-

The bullpen was usually a place of harsh artificial light, stale coffee, and heavy case files, but today it smelled faintly of baby powder and fresh laundry. JJ had brought baby Henry in for his very first visit. The entire team was gathered around her desk, cooing and taking turns marveling at the tiny bundle wrapped in a pale blue blanket. But while Hotch and Prentiss were admiring the baby's tiny fingers, Spencer was locked in a quiet, internal war.

When JJ gently transferred the bundle into Spencer's arms, his entire body went rigid with terror and awe. He adjusted his grip, resting the back of Henry’s tiny, warm head against the crook of his elbow. The baby shifted, making a tiny smacking sound with his lips, and settled against Spencer’s chest. Spencer looked up, catching your eye from across the desk where you were filling out paperwork.

He didn't smile. Instead, a full, shameless pout settled onto his lips. He adjusted Henry slightly, holding the baby a little higher so you could see the way the tiny fist was curled into the fabric of his sweater vest. Spencer’s shoulder blades tightened, he felt the heavy ache in his chest, a desperate envy that made his throat feel tight.

He caught your gaze, jutted out his bottom lip, and gave you a look so blatantly full of sorrowful longing that it almost made you laugh aloud. Look at this, his big, puppy-dog eyes were saying. Look at what we don't have. Look how good I am at this. He subtly shifted his stance, rocking back and forth on his heels in an instinctual, fluid rhythm, his cheek resting lightly against the fuzz of the baby's head as he kept his eyes pinned on you, silently begging you to read his mind.

3-

Halloween night in your neighborhood was thick with the smell of damp oak leaves and pumpkin spice. You and Spencer sat on your front porch, a large plastic bowl of full-sized candy bars sitting between you. A shadow fell over the steps, and a little girl, no older than three, came shuffling up the walkway in a disproportionately large, fluffy bumblebee costume. Her yellow-and-black tutus rustled with every tiny, uncertain step, her little shiny black shoes clicking softly against the concrete.

"Trick or treat!" she squeaked, tilting her head back so far her antennae wobbled wildly.

Spencer froze. He didn't just hand her candy, he dropped down onto both knees right on the cold porch floor, bringing himself down to her exact eye level. His knees made a dull thud against the wood, but he didn't care.

"Hello," he said, his voice dropping into a register so gentle, so soft, it made your heart do a sudden, terrifying flip. "Are you a Bombus terrestris? A buff-tailed bumblebee?"

The little girl blinked, confused, then giggled and held out her plastic pumpkin. "I'm a bee! Bzzz!"

"You are the best bee I have ever seen," Spencer whispered, his face breaking into a radiant, unguarded smile that crinkled the corners of his brown eyes. He carefully picked out two of the largest chocolate bars from the bowl, placing them inside her bucket with extreme precision, as if he were handling delicate artifacts. "There you go. Fly safely tonight, okay?"

"Thank you!" she chirped, waddling back down the steps toward her waiting parents.

Spencer stayed on his knees, watching her go until she turned the corner. When he finally stood up, his hand lingered on his knee, and he looked back at you. The autumn wind blew a strand of dark hair into his eyes, but through it, his expression was completely exposed, tender, aching, and overwhelmingly hopeful.

4-

A routine trip to the local superstore for laundry detergent had gone completely off the rails the moment Spencer accidentally wandered down aisle four. You found him standing dead-center in the baby clothing section, completely motionless. He was staring at a tiny peg hanging near the end of the aisle.

You walked up behind him, stepping around a display of baby wipes. "Spence? I found the detergent, we can-"

You stopped. Spencer was holding a pair of baby socks. They were light gray, no larger than the palm of his hand, with tiny yellow ducks embroidered on the toes.

He wasn't just looking at them, he was holding them between his long thumb and forefinger, feeling the impossibly soft cotton as if trying to comprehend how a human foot could ever be that small. His thumb rubbed over the little elastic cuff, again and again.

"They don't have heels," he murmured quietly, his voice thick. He didn't look up at you. "Infant socks are knitted without a defined heel cup because their feet grow too rapidly during the first six months for standard sizing."

"Spencer," you said softly, stepping closer.

He slowly turned his head to look at you. His eyes were wide, glassy with unshed tears, carrying a vulnerability that struck you right in the center of your chest. "They're four inches long," he whispered, his finger curling around the microscopic duck. "Our hands are almost double this width." He held the sock up against his own long palm, showing you the absurd, beautiful contrast. "Can you even imagine... a foot this small?"

He didn't put them back on the peg. He held them against his chest for three full seconds before reluctantly placing them down, his fingers trailing over the fabric until the very last second.

5-

The roundtable room was quiet, save for the hum of the projector and the rustle of case reports. Hotch was sitting at the head of the table reviewing budget sheets, while JJ was flipping through a stack of crime scene photos.

Spencer sat between them, bouncing his knee nervously under the wood. He cleared his throat, tapped his pen three times on his notepad, and cleared his throat again.

"Hotch?" Spencer blurted out.

Hotch didn't look up from his paper. "Yes, Reid?"

"When you... when you decided to have Jack," Spencer began, his voice dipping into a hurried, overly formal tempo that immediately tipped off everyone in the room. "What was the primary motivational variable? Was it a conscious decision based on financial stability and psychological readiness, or was it an instinctual drive dictated by the biological mandate to propagate the species?"

Hotch paused, his pen hovering an inch above the paper. He slowly raised his head, his sharp eyes settling on Spencer with an unreadable expression.

Before Hotch could answer, Spencer whipped his head toward JJ. "And JJ! From a maternal perspective, how did you balance the neurological disruption of chronic sleep deprivation, specifically the loss of REM sleep during the first trimester, with the emotional payoff of primary bonding? Did you feel ready? How do you know you're ready? Is there a specific cognitive threshold, or is it purely emotional?"

JJ stopped flipping her photos. She looked at Spencer, then slowly turned her head to look at Hotch. A slow, knowing smile spread across JJ's face.

Hotch allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upward. "Reid," Hotch said calmly, closing his folder. "If you're asking if there's a mathematical formula to know when you're ready to be a father... there isn't."

"I wasn't- I'm not asking for me," Spencer lied instantly, his cheeks bursting into a furious, dark red flush as he frantically shuffled his neat stack of papers into total chaos. "It was a purely theoretical inquiry regarding the socio-psychological stressors of federal agents!"

JJ chuckled softly, leaning back in her chair and meeting Hotch’s eyes with a raised eyebrow. "Right. Theoretical."

+1-

The bathroom was quiet, save for the slow drip of the sink faucet. You sat on the edge of the bathtub, the small plastic stick resting on the counter beside a crumpled paper towel.

Two solid, pink lines stared back at you.

Your heart was hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, a dizzying blend of shock, joy, and sudden, overwhelming reality. You picked up the test, took a steadying breath, and walked out into the bedroom.

Spencer was sitting on the edge of the bed, unlacing his shoes. He looked up the moment you stepped into the room. He took one look at your face, saw the way your hands were trembling slightly behind your back, and immediately stood up, his shoes half-unlaced.

"What's wrong? Are you okay? Is it your ankle again?" His doctor's mind immediately went to physical injury, his brows drawing together in instant concern as he took two long strides toward you.

"Spence," you whispered, your voice catching in your throat.

You took his right hand, pulling it away from his side, and placed the small white stick into his long, slender palm. Spencer looked down. He stared at the display. For five long seconds, he didn't move. He didn't speak. He didn't even seem to blink. His brilliant, fast-moving brain, usually capable of processing thousands of words a minute, completely flatlined. His eyes tracked back and forth across the two pink lines, verifying the result, re-verifying it, searching his vast mental database for any possibility of a false positive.

0.2 percent, his brain tried to supply. The error rate is only 0.2 percent...

Then, his breath hitched, a sharp, gasping intake of air.

His hand began to tremble. The plastic stick shook in his grip. He looked up at you, his brown eyes wide, completely unshielded, and brimming with sudden, heavy tears that spilled over his eyelashes without warning.

"Is this..." His voice cracked completely, dropping to an unstable whisper. "Are you... is this real?"

"It's real, Spence," you breathed, a tear slipping down your own cheek. "You're going to be a dad."

A strangled, breathless sob escaped his throat, a sound of sheer, unadulterated relief and joy. He dropped the test onto the nightstand and pulled you into his arms with a sudden, fierce desperation. He wrapped himself around you. His long arms locked tightly around your waist, pulling your hips flush against his. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his warm breath hitching against your skin as he wept openly, his shoulders shaking against yours. You could feel the rapid, frantic thud of his heart beating right through his shirt, pressing directly against your chest.

"I love you," he stammered into your skin, his hands pressing flat against your back, slipping down to rest delicately, reverently, over the small of your back. "I love you so much. I... I'm going to read every medical journal, I'm going to build the crib, I'll- I'll double-check all the safety ratings on car seats tonight, I-"

"Spencer," you laughed tearfully, pulling back just enough to frame his face in your hands.

Or that's what you tell him, not that he believes you in the slightest. He knows you're here with some ulterior motive, you always are, but he's desperately hoping that just this once you might be gracious enough to let him sleep.

But grace isn't something you've shown in the past, so why would you start now? Sure, Spencer might have work tomorrow (today, technically), but you're bored—and that takes precedent here; everyone knows what happens when a serial killer is left to their own devices for too long.

Of course, you don't pose much of a threat to anyone, not anymore; you're retired, non-practicing. You wouldn't hurt a fly if it landed in your cereal. As far as serial killers go, you're harmless. An innocent deer whose coat just happens to be covered in blood that'll never quite wash off. 

You aren't going to kill anyone, even if boredom is killing you, but would Spencer really be willing to take that risk?

The answer thus far has been no. Your capacity to cause harm, in his eyes, far outweighs your promise to stop killing, no matter how many times you tell him you've "changed". He lets you weaponise his distrust only because he has to, because he can't run the risk of trusting you, your word, no matter how badly he may want to.

This is how you managed to take him ballroom dancing, and how you're planning on convincing him to take time off work for a bloody "couple's trip" to New York, and all the other things you've done together. Things that he never would have agreed to if it weren't for the looming threat of you going off the rails. It's a pretty foolproof method, if you do say so yourself.

So when you tug at the collar of his shirt to press a kiss to his shoulder, murmuring into his skin how bored you are, he begrudgingly gives you his full attention.

"There are more books in this apartment than there are—"

"In most bookstores," you say, finishing his sentence for him with a sly smile. "I know."

He gives you a light nudge with his elbow. "Then go find something to read."

He makes a half-hearted attempt at turning away, but you grab his arm and pull him back to you. "Not that kind of bored."

Sighing, he meets your gaze with this cool, thoroughly unamused look. "I can't help you with that."

"Yes, you can," you argue, smiling your sweetest smile.

But your charm is lost on him, and all he gives you is a one-word response.

"Can't."

Your smile vanishes, replaced by a pout—an adorable one, in your opinion—that should be enough to move mountains, but Spencer remains unfazed.

"It's 1AM," he mutters.

"Meaning the night is still young."

"Meaning I need to sleep," he counters, scooting away from you. "Some of us have jobs."

You follow him, persistent. "You can sleep later."

"I would much rather sleep now."

He reaches out to push him away, but you catch his wrist and tilt your head to the side with the softest, most disgusting puppy-dog eyed expression you can muster. "So you don't want to fuck me?"

"I don't— that's not—" He jerks his hand back, sputtering as heat creeps into his cheeks. "…I don't want to have sex with you right now. Not if it means sacrificing my sleep."

"Wow." You drag the word out, placing your hand on your chest in a mock show of offence. "I'm hurt."

"Uh huh."

Having had enough of your dramatics, Spencer turns onto his side and, this time, you don't try to stop him. You just wait, patiently, for him to speak up again, because you know he will; he can't resist arguing with you, even when he knows it'll only make things worse for him.

You're sure he can feel your eyes on him, anyway, burning holes into the back of his head. He can't sleep (or relax at all, apparently) when you're watching him and, consequently, he'll usually banish you to the living room when he wants to get some rest. But he hasn't done that yet, which you interpret as a good sign.

After a few moments, he can't help but speak up.

"You can always use your hands, if you’re desperate."

"Right here?" you ask.

"In the bathroom, preferably."

"And what about you?" You inch closer to him and lean down to murmur into his ear, "You wouldn't benefit from blowing off some steam before work?"

A shudder runs through him as your breath hits his skin, but he swats your face away all the same. "I'd benefit from sleeping," he mutters.

"Mhm." You hum in response, refusing to give up as you trace your fingers along the stretched-out collar of his pyjama shirt. You pull on it, gently, and press your lips to that spot between his neck and shoulder that you know is sensitive. "You're so tense, though."

"Maybe because there's a serial killer in my bed trying to—" His breath catches as your teeth graze his skin. "…seduce me."

"This isn't seduction," you murmur, pressing your face to the crook of his neck.

"It's starting to feel like it," he says stiffly.

You lift your head to peer over at him. His flushed cheeks. His closed eyes. "Is it working?"

"No."

There's a weakness behind the resolve he speaks with, barely noticeable, like he might not mean what he's saying but is also dangerously close to kicking you out (of the bed, if you're lucky; of the apartment, if you're not). Whether he means it or not, you're pushing the limit—that much is obvious.

So, with a defeated sigh, you pull back, already mentally scanning his bookshelves for an interesting read.

But you're barely three feet from him when he grabs your arm, holding it firm. He turns over to face you, and he gives your arm a gentle tug. An invitation. 

You let him pull you in, settling down beside him as he drapes his arm over your waist. He's cuddling you, but he's leaving just enough room to allow himself plausible deniability; "we aren't cuddling", he'll say, "we're just lying together—look, we're barely even touching".

You meet his gaze in the dark. The moonlight seeping in through the blinds casts his face in shadow, but it illuminates your own. You want him to pull you closer, but he doesn't.

He doesn't do anything; he just watches you, studying you or, if you want to be delusional, admiring you with this fond, sleepy look that you can just about make out through the shadows. Heavy eyelids, relaxed brows, the picture of perfection.

"We could make it quick," you broach, smiling.

Spencer scoffs. He shakes his head, nuzzles the pillow as he groans in quiet, steadily simmering frustration.

"Okay, maybe not quick, but…" you inch yourself closer, reaching up to cup his cheek. "We can optimise it? You're all about efficiency, right?"

He huffs, sounding almost amused by your offer, but he still shakes his head. "And how, exactly, would we do that? You and I both know that your libido is obnoxious—"

"We could forgo the condoms," you suggest, cutting him off. "That'll save about…fifteen seconds per round."

"No."

There's no weakness behind the word, this time, but his firm tone isn't enough to scare you off.

"It adds up, you know."

"No," he repeats. "How many times are we going to have this conversation?"

"Until you admit that I'm right."

"Oh, you're right?"

"The condoms serve no purpose." You're a broken record, at this point, repeating variations of the same sentiment only to be met with the same response: no, no, and no. If you're starting to sound a little exasperated, it's because you are. But, even so, you persist. "We're both clean, and I know you only insist on using them to spite me," you say, trying to bite back any frustration threatening to taint your voice. You take a deep breath, watching as Spencer's expression hardens further, before bravely continuing, "I can buy plan B. I can go on birth control, if that's what you want—but we both know it isn't."

Spencer's fingers twitch against your waist, and he shifts in the bed. He starts pulling away, as though distancing himself from you physically will make what you're saying any less true.

"You don't want me on birth control, Spence." You prop yourself up on your elbow, lowering your tone to something seductive, almost sinister. "You want the risk."

"That's enough," he says. He turns onto his back, fixes his gaze on the ceiling as you roll your eyes.

"Honestly, I don't see the point in depriving yourself of something you clearly want, especially when I want it, too."

"You don't know what I want."

You purse your lips, letting the silence sit for a moment before you move closer to him. "I know you want kids," you say.

He doesn't respond to that. He just keeps staring at the ceiling, and you can see his jaw muscles working, clenching and unclenching, in the low light.

"Little geniuses running around, wreaking havoc…top of all their classes, just like daddy." You continue your assault in the softest, most sympathetic tone you can manage. Your voice turns to honey as you speak. "I could give you that, Spence. We'd have cute kids, don't you think?"

You feel him tense as you brush your fingerprints against his chest. Feel the way he stops breathing entirely as you skim along the fabric of his pyjama shirt and work your way down, slowly, to the waistband of his pants.

"You could put a baby in me right now," you murmur. "You just have to let go…give in…"

Your fingers barely dip under his pants before the tension snaps. He shoves you, hard, and sends you tumbling backward. Your back hits the mattress, and you're left slightly winded.

"You're sick," he spits.

You make no effort to get up, but you do shoot him a smile as you say, "I'm honest."

"You are sick. Why would I— no, I'm not doing this." 

With a huff, he gets out of bed. You watch as he heads for the door (to go where, you aren't sure), and he looks, for a moment, like he might actually storm out, leave you all alone in his apartment. The thought leaves you slightly nauseous.

But then he turns back to you with a scowl. "Why the fuck would I want to— …have children with a serial killer?"

He's trying so hard to keep his voice down. It's a shame, really, that he has neighbours on all sides—neighbours that respect him, that he respects—because you want nothing more than to see him lose his temper. You'd kill for it. Not literally, of course; you don't do that anymore.

You sit up, eyeing him curiously as you say, "I don't know, Spencer, why would you?"

"I don't."

You nod along with his declaration. The gesture's overly animated, exaggerated in a way that tells him you don't believe a word of what he says, and by the sour expression on his face it's clear he would have preferred it if you had just laughed in his face.

The sheets rustle as you shift, perching yourself on the edge of the bed, eyes wide with an unapologetic amusement. You shrug and click your tongue as you breathe out a wistful sigh. "So those…dreams you had, I guess they meant nothing—"

Spencer crosses the room in an instant and, before you can finish your sentence, he's grabbing your jaw with such force it makes you gasp. You can feel his nails digging into your skin as he looms over you, angling your fact up to meet his cold gaze. The moon serves as a backlight, casting his tall frame in a harsh shadow.

"You don't get to use that against me," he says, voice unnaturally quiet. Calm. It's a warning, one that you'd probably heed with some semblance of seriousness if this weren't so fun.

"So I'm just supposed to pretend you weren't dreaming about having a family with me?" you ask, pushing the conversation (the argument, really) that little bit further. "It's a pretty difficult thing to overlook, Spence."

The fact that his face is obscured does very little to hide the way your words leave him seething. You can feel it in the tremble of his fingers, as though he's fighting an itch. A violent one.

God, what if he hits you? Now that would be fun.

"You never know when to stop, do you?" he asks softly.

"All I've done is state facts—"

"All you've done is piss me off."

You flinch when he moves, expecting—hoping—that his hand will meet your cheek, leave you with a mark that'll still be there in the morning, but it doesn't. 

"And you know what? It worked." He tightens his grip on your face and, instead of hitting you, he starts tugging at the drawstring of his pyjama pants. "Congratulations, Love, you did it."

You aren't sure there's much of a connotation between pissed off and rock hard, but you make no attempt to argue with him, not when he's standing right in front of you like this, pants around his ankles, cock so close you'd barely have to move to get a taste.

"You want it?" His voice takes on a gentle, almost soothing tone as he brushes your hair from your face, tucks it behind your ear. "You want this cock, right? That's why you're being such a brat?"

You couldn't make your answer more obvious if you tried; you're staring, wide-eyed, lips parted like you're about to start fucking drooling over the sight of him. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to raise your gaze before saying with a smirk, "I'm actually just doing it for fun—"

The yelp that escapes you when he pulls your hair doesn't sound like you at all, but the moan that follows when he presses your face to his crotch does. His fingers curl in your hair, and you feel him tense slightly as you nuzzle him, breathing him in with an open mouth. You try to touch him, but he swats your hand away before tearing you from him completely.

"A yes would suffice," he says.

The pain of his iron grip makes you wince, and you can feel yourself already beginning to grow smaller, quieter, as you look up at him and say, "…yes."

With his free hand, Spencer cups your cheek. The tender brush of his thumb against your skin clashes with the discomfort of him pulling your hair. "Where do you want it?"

"Oh, come on."

All he does in response is tilt his head to the side; clearly, your whining has no effect on him. His patient silence, however, is enough to drive you crazy. 

There's a burning in your core. It's been there all night, started as embers, and has since sparked into a blaze that's steadily breaking you down, making you desperate. And his touch, your position, it's only fuelling the fire.

"…I want it inside me," you mutter. You're clenching your thighs, trying to stifle the burning. "My pussy. Nowhere else."

Spencer hums, thoughtfully, in response. His fingers trace the edge of your cheekbone, trailing slowly down to your jaw where he angles your head up that little bit further and asks, in an agonisingly gentle tone, "You think you deserve that?" 

You laugh, but even that sounds desperate now. You've lost your edge. "You're kidding, right?"

"Oh, I'm serious," he says, keeping his voice smooth and low. "All that back talk, all that…relentless pestering, you think I should let you have your way after that?"

You open your mouth to retort, but your words fail you. There's a sinking feeling in your stomach now, and it worsens with each second that passes once you realise his game. A small, pleading smile creeps up your face.

"If it's an apology you want, then—"

"I don't want an apology," he says, cutting you off, "we both know you wouldn't mean a word of it. No, I'm done playing your games, Love." Releasing his grip on your hair, his hand moves to cradle the back of your head. "I think it's time someone put you in your place."

Despite his serious tone, you can't help but find humour in his words. "Like you? Come on, Spence, you're too spineless to—"

You never manage to finish that sentence on account of Spencer's cock pressing against your lips. You clench your teeth, shaking your head as you feebly attempt to deny him access, but his hand is quick to grasp your jaw, fingers pushing into the hollows of your cheeks as he forcibly coaxes your mouth open.

He shushes your protesting whines, telling you to "just take it, that's it" as he eases his cock into the warmth of your mouth. His gentle words disable whatever fight you had left, and you yield to him, taking him almost to the base as he strokes your hair, whispering soothing praises ("Good girl, there we go."), and you think, foolishly, that you're past the worst of it, until you feel his fingers curl into your hair.

Spencer's been rough with you before, you encourage it, but none of your past encounters compare to the harshness with which he abuses your throat. The moment you stop resisting, all of his gentleness vanishes; he holds you by your hair and thrusts into your mouth with no regard for your comfort, or the tears that well in your eyes, or the way you gag with every violent jerk of his hips.

You reach blindly for something to hold onto, and your hands settle on the backs of his thighs. Trembling fingers anchor themselves in his skin, not caring for the marks (or cuts; you're pretty sure your nails are doing some damage) they'll be leaving behind as he fucks your throat so hard the lack of oxygen is starting to make you dizzy.

It's not until he pulls out that you realise you're crying. You cough and sputter, tears streaming down your face as he holds you up by your hair, and you can't help but sniffle pathetically as he wipes the drool from your mouth.

"What's wrong?" he asks softly, pouting. He presses his thumb to the plush of your lower lip, pulls it down to reveal your teeth. "You don't like it?"

You're babbling without thinking, shaking your head and mumbling feverish nos and pleases until the words lose their meaning, silenced only by the force of his palm as it strikes your cheek. 

The contact rips and involuntary sob from your throat, and you choke on the broken sound as the stinging quickly settles, deepening into an intense, burning ache. Just when you think you might catch your breath, he's guiding your mouth back to his cock—and this time, you don't try to put up a fight. 

There's a warmth accumulating under your thighs, seeping into the sheets as he uses your throat like a toy. He's panting above you, cursing under his breath; occasionally he'll mutter some comment about your pretty mouth, how it's better when it's occupied as he buries himself so deep your nose meets the warm skin of his abdomen and you start to choke. You'll tap his thigh, frantic, and he'll hold you there until you see stars before letting go.

You know he's close when he starts whimpering. His rhythm starts to falter, his fingers tremble, and his breathing comes in uneven gasps as he tries to cling to the remnants of his composure.

"Fuck…" He throws his head back, keeping a tight grip on your hair as he bobs you up and down on his cock. The shift in his pace allows you room to breathe, to think, to actually try to suck him off instead of just sitting there. 

And the second you do, he starts to come apart. 

"Shit…I'm—" He hums, stifling a moan as you look up at him, meeting his gaze through tears. 

You feel his cock twitch against your tongue, and you whimper around it—and that is what sends him over the edge.

"Oh, fuck….God," he whines as he finishes, painting your tongue with his release before gently easing you off of his cock. "Don't you dare swallow," he hisses, legs shaking slightly as he crouches down to be at your eye level. "Don't— shh…just keep it there, that's it. You said you wanted me to come in you, right? Then you better savour it, hadn't you?" 

Tender hands cup your cheeks as you struggle to catch your breath. He doesn't wipe your tears, or your drool, or try to soothe the flush that's burning you from the inside out; he just watches you, a calm satisfaction in his brown eyes as he murmurs, "Oh, poor baby…" 

After giving your sore cheek a light tap, he rejoins you on the bed and gently coaxes you into his lap, ensuring his hands sit secured on your waist as you straddle him, sniffling. You try to lean on him, to hide away in the crook of his neck, but he holds you back. Returning his hands to your face, he dons a mocking pout as your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

"That wasn't very nice of me, was it?" he asks, keeping his tone painfully kind as he holds you. "See what happens? If you hadn't pushed so hard, I wouldn't have done it. Shh…"

One hand drops to your thigh, slips up under the hem of your shirt (his shirt; you don't wear much of your own clothes when you're here). He presses his palm to your lower stomach, and the contact alone is enough to make you whine as he studies you with this cool, almost analytical look.

You aren't wearing panties (why would you be?), so when his fingers dip between your thighs there's no questioning how wet you are. You're dripping, and with every moment you spend like this, holding his salty release in your mouth, your need only worsens.

And that need drives you to lift your hips in a feeble, uncoordinated attempt to get to his cock—he's soft, sure, but you're sure you'd be able to get him going again, if he let you—but, before you can try anything, he cups your leaking cunt with his hand, creating a barrier between you and what you want most.

All you can do is whimper and grind pitifully against his palm, soaking his hand as you try to convey, without words, just how badly you need him. As though, if you're lucky, he might give in.

But he doesn't. He lets his gaze trail lazily up your body—your bare legs, his hand between your thighs, you in his clothes—before settling on your face, and he raises an eyebrow. "Is that the best you can do?" he asks, leaning in close. The sound of his voice, that disconcerting mix of mockery and softness, makes your stomach churn. "Just hump my hand and make stupid little noises. What happened, Love? Tell me…" He brushes his nose against your own before clicking his tongue. "Oh, right, your mouth is full. Sorry about that. Go on, swallow for me…"

You do as he says without question, swallowing his seed until only the aftertaste remains, and your obedience earns a smile.

"Open your mouth," he says. "There we go…"

As you part your lips, Spencer sets his thumb on your bottom teeth, holding your mouth open so he can inspect it thoroughly.

"I can't see too well in the dark," he murmurs, "but your throat is probably bruised. Did it hurt to swallow?"

"Uh huh…"

God, you sound like your throat's bruised. Your voice comes out raw and shaky. Pathetic.

"Good."

He catches your open mouth in a kiss, and you go so weak you almost collapse against him. You grasp his shoulders, steadying yourself as he breathes new life into you, but your composure fast unravels as his fingers tease your entrance, applying just enough pressure to make you whine into his mouth.

"Spence," you breathe, tearing away from him before you lose yourself, "please…pleasepleaseplease…"

"Please what?"

"Fuck me." there's no sugarcoating your request, not now. "Please, Spence, I can't do this…"

Spencer purses his lips for a moment, leaning back as his fingers continue their slow teasing. "I think you're doing just fine," he says, shrugging. "I'd even go as far as to say you're doing really well."

That tone. The mocking praise. You're going insane, you're sure of it.

"No. No—" A sharp gasp cuts through you as he rubs the ball of his hand against your clit. "Spencerr…I'm sorry, I'm sorry…please, just— fuck…"

Seeing you starting to lose it, Spencer bows his head, hiding his smile as presses his lips to the side of your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses along the sensitive skin. "What are you sorry for, honey?"

"God…if— if you want information, I'll give it to you," you whisper, frantic. Your hips buck against his hand, desperate for more of him. "You want the location of a body? Two? I'll tell you; I promise. I'll— I'll tell you anything, Spence…anything you want—"

"I asked you a question," he says, keeping his tone light as he cuts you off. He lets his mouth linger on your neck for a moment longer before he raises his head to look at you. "What are you sorry for, hm? You do know what you're apologising for, right?"

"I do…I do…"

"Uh huh. Then tell me."

"I-I was being annoying, and pushy…and I crossed a line, mentioning kids," you explain, nodding anxiously. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Spence. I-I won't do it again…promise."

Spencer nods along with you, pursing his lips in thought. "Wow," he murmurs, "you almost sound like you mean it."

"I do," you say, trying (and failing) to keep your voice firm despite your trembling.

"Yeah? You're sorry?"

"'m sorry…"

To your surprise, Spencer looks disappointed. 

His gaze drops once more to his hand between your legs, and you swear you see him frown. "Hm. That's a shame, really…I quite like this; punishing you, letting you make a mess of yourself…" he gathers your arousal on his fingers, drawing out a low whine before bringing those fingers to your mouth. The taste of yourself mixed with the aftertaste of him makes your fucking head spin. 

And then you feel the tip of his cock part your slick folds. It brushes your clit, and you almost come apart right there. 

"I like you like this," he continues, talking over your incessant whimpers, "all desperate and stupid, such a change from your usual self…I could do this all day long."

The mere suggestion is enough to make you sob around his fingers; or maybe it's the way the head of his cock keeps nudging your entrance, leaving you clenching around nothing, like your body is trying to suck him in.

"…but you really want this, don't you?" he asks.

"Mhm…" You're humming along in agreement before you can form a meaningful response. Your brain's working at a third of its regular speed, your words are scattered across space, maybe time, too. Even as he pulls his fingers from your mouth, every sentence you reach for disintegrates before you can speak it.

But if you've ever had a chance to win him over, to win this stubborn little war you've been fighting for months now, then this is it. Maybe you don't need to think in order to convince him, maybe well-formed sentences and snarky arguments haven't been working in your favour at all; maybe you just need to be desperate. As desperate as possible. Throw everything you have at him and pray that you hit a soft spot.

"You do, too, don't you?" you ask, making yourself sound as helpless as possible. "Please, Spence— angel, tell me you want this…"

A slight twitch of his brows tells you he likes the nickname; even if your efforts are in vain, you can still file that little fact away for later.

"I'm sorry for being such a pain, I really am. I just like you…so fucking much, and— and I don't know what to do with it sometimes…but come on, angel, please…" You touch your forehead to his, cupping his cheeks with trembling hands. "I need you inside me, no condom, just this once," you murmur, giving a tentative rock of your hips, watching the way he shudders as you grind against his length. "I…I wanna feel you…wanna be yours, please…"

Spencer is sweating. You feel his cock jump, straining against you, and you watch the way he bites the inside of his cheek. Tilting your head, you try to kiss him, but he dodges.

He purses his lips tight as his gaze drops to his hips, to the way his cock is so perfectly lined up with your entrance—and you're soaked, it would be so easy to just…

Leaning back, he gestures to the pillows and sighs. "Go. Face down, ass up."

His mutterings sound almost reluctant, but all you hear is a victory. Refusing to give him time to change his mind, you don't hesitate to climb off of him and settle into position like a well-trained dog: chin resting on your forearms, back arched, sodden pussy on display for him.

You can hear him shifting, hear the faint rustle of bedsheets as he comes up behind you, and the seconds seem to drag on for eternity. Each one seems longer than the last, making you stew in your anticipation until it's almost unbearable.

But then you hear something you don't expect; the last thing you want to hear. 

A poorly stifled rip. The crinkle of latex.

The sound hits harder than the slap you took from him just moments ago, breaking you free from your mindless obedience as you realise, to your horror, what he's doing.

"No. Nonono—"

You try to move, to get away, but Spencer's grabbing your hips, fingers digging into the skin as he sinks into you with one brutal thrust. The pain makes you see static, but it doesn't hurt half as much as the betrayal. 

You really thought you'd won. That it was that easy.

How stupid.

Tears stream down your face, your body struggling to adjust to the sudden intrusion as he stuffs you so full you swear you can feel him in your stomach. An awful noise escapes you, half moan, half cry, as you desperately shake your head, and it isn't until you hear your own voice that you realise you're pleading with him; strings of broken nos and stops are tumbling from your lips like despairing prayers.

But your God is cruel, and your prayers go ignored. Maybe he rejoices in them, you don't know. 

Unfortunately, you're loud. Much too loud for the thin walls of his apartment. So he does what little he can and shoves your face into the pillow, forcing you to bite the soft fabric and muffle your cries, leaving only the creak of the bed, and the sound of skin against skin as he ruts into you.

"You didn't think I'd actually let you have your way, did you?"

His voice above you is oddly quiet, almost tender in a way that entirely contradicts the way he's treating you. And, as soon as he finishes speaking, he's yanking you up by your hair, letting you gasp and whine before his hand finds your throat. 

He brings you closer, close enough to nip at your ear as he murmurs, "And if you really like me that much, you should be grateful that I'm doing this at all. I could've easily thrown you out on the street like the…fucking vermin you are."

Soft lips press a kiss to the side of your neck before he throws you back down and continues at his unforgiving pace. All you can do is cry into the pillow, choking out the occasional plea for him to stop, or to slow down, even though you know he isn't going to listen. 

"You're quite the…actor, aren't you?" he asks, breathing growing ragged under the strain of his movements. "That apology of yours…you almost had me— fuck…you almost had me convinced…I'm sorry, Spence. I wanna be yours, Spence…sounding so damn helpless…and now you're actually helpless, aren't you? How's it feel?"

"P-please— Spence, I can'tt…I can't t-take it—"

"Yes, you can…you wanna be mine, right?" He slips a hand down to your ass, gives it a firm squeeze before pulling back and spanking it hard, relishing the way you cry out beneath him. "Then be good for me…and take it."

Before the stinging can subside, he gives your ass another forceful spank before gripping your hips once more, keeping you steady as he fucks you. The pain shoots through you like a flash of lightning, and it goes straight to your head, turns your brain to putty. 

You mindlessly try to back up against him, meet his thrusts and bring yourself over the edge, but you're sloppy. You've no rhythm, not when you're like this, and all it does is make Spencer's grip that much tighter as he holds you in place.

"And don't you even think about coming," he hisses. "You don't deserve that, so just—"

"Please—"

"Just shut up." He holds you down as you try, weakly, to raise your head. "And let me fuck you."

Your pleas devolve into senseless moans as the last of your resolve crumbles, and you give in to him, letting the pillow absorb your obscene noises as Spencer thrusts into you so hard you think you start to think you'll pass out before he's through with you. 

The rest of your body goes limp as your thighs strain and tremble, muscles growing tighter with each cruel jerk of his hips. Your core is on fire, desperate for a release that he won't allow you, and one that you no longer have the willpower to pursue yourself. 

"You…are so fucking pretty like this. God, take me so well— fuck…" His breath stutters as his hips falter, and he forces his next words out through a groan. "…feels so good to use you—"

To use you. 

To use you, like you've been using him. This isn't just revenge, or punishment, for just being a nuisance, for poking sore spots in his psyche by mentioning kids; this is revenge for everything, for the months (almost a year now) of hell you've put him through. It's only fair, in a sense, that you lay down for him as he has, time and again, for you; it's Newton's third law, and this is just the beginning.

He almost collapses on top of you when he finishes. Barely able to hold himself up, he pants against your neck, hot breath fanning over sweat slick skin as he tries to regain his composure. 

You're incoherent, barely aware of the world around you, or of the way you let out a shameless, broken whine when he pulls out. 

The bed creaks as he gets up to dispose of the godforsaken condom, then groans as he settles back down beside you. His fingers skim, touch feather-light, along your spine over the sodden fabric of your shirt, and all you can muster in response is a defeated little whimper. 

He doesn't speak; he just gently coaxes you into his arms, brings your head to his chest, smooths out your hair as you both just breathe. When you sniffle, he shushes you, wipes still-wet tears from your cheeks. 

Once you've found the strength to speak, you insult him. Whinge about how mean he was, how you're barely going to be able to talk, let alone walk, tomorrow.

Spencer listens to your shaky complaints with a smile, nodding along thoughtfully, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head before murmuring, "It wasn't anything you didn't deserve."

Or that's what you tell him, not that he believes you in the slightest. He knows you're here with some ulterior motive, you always are, but he's desperately hoping that just this once you might be gracious enough to let him sleep.

But grace isn't something you've shown in the past, so why would you start now? Sure, Spencer might have work tomorrow (today, technically), but you're bored—and that takes precedent here; everyone knows what happens when a serial killer is left to their own devices for too long.

Of course, you don't pose much of a threat to anyone, not anymore; you're retired, non-practicing. You wouldn't hurt a fly if it landed in your cereal. As far as serial killers go, you're harmless. An innocent deer whose coat just happens to be covered in blood that'll never quite wash off. 

You aren't going to kill anyone, even if boredom is killing you, but would Spencer really be willing to take that risk?

The answer thus far has been no. Your capacity to cause harm, in his eyes, far outweighs your promise to stop killing, no matter how many times you tell him you've "changed". He lets you weaponise his distrust only because he has to, because he can't run the risk of trusting you, your word, no matter how badly he may want to.

This is how you managed to take him ballroom dancing, and how you're planning on convincing him to take time off work for a bloody "couple's trip" to New York, and all the other things you've done together. Things that he never would have agreed to if it weren't for the looming threat of you going off the rails. It's a pretty foolproof method, if you do say so yourself.

So when you tug at the collar of his shirt to press a kiss to his shoulder, murmuring into his skin how bored you are, he begrudgingly gives you his full attention.

"There are more books in this apartment than there are—"

"In most bookstores," you say, finishing his sentence for him with a sly smile. "I know."

He gives you a light nudge with his elbow. "Then go find something to read."

He makes a half-hearted attempt at turning away, but you grab his arm and pull him back to you. "Not that kind of bored."

Sighing, he meets your gaze with this cool, thoroughly unamused look. "I can't help you with that."

"Yes, you can," you argue, smiling your sweetest smile.

But your charm is lost on him, and all he gives you is a one-word response.

"Can't."

Your smile vanishes, replaced by a pout—an adorable one, in your opinion—that should be enough to move mountains, but Spencer remains unfazed.

"It's 1AM," he mutters.

"Meaning the night is still young."

"Meaning I need to sleep," he counters, scooting away from you. "Some of us have jobs."

You follow him, persistent. "You can sleep later."

"I would much rather sleep now."

He reaches out to push him away, but you catch his wrist and tilt your head to the side with the softest, most disgusting puppy-dog eyed expression you can muster. "So you don't want to fuck me?"

"I don't— that's not—" He jerks his hand back, sputtering as heat creeps into his cheeks. "…I don't want to have sex with you right now. Not if it means sacrificing my sleep."

"Wow." You drag the word out, placing your hand on your chest in a mock show of offence. "I'm hurt."

"Uh huh."

Having had enough of your dramatics, Spencer turns onto his side and, this time, you don't try to stop him. You just wait, patiently, for him to speak up again, because you know he will; he can't resist arguing with you, even when he knows it'll only make things worse for him.

You're sure he can feel your eyes on him, anyway, burning holes into the back of his head. He can't sleep (or relax at all, apparently) when you're watching him and, consequently, he'll usually banish you to the living room when he wants to get some rest. But he hasn't done that yet, which you interpret as a good sign.

After a few moments, he can't help but speak up.

"You can always use your hands, if you’re desperate."

"Right here?" you ask.

"In the bathroom, preferably."

"And what about you?" You inch closer to him and lean down to murmur into his ear, "You wouldn't benefit from blowing off some steam before work?"

A shudder runs through him as your breath hits his skin, but he swats your face away all the same. "I'd benefit from sleeping," he mutters.

"Mhm." You hum in response, refusing to give up as you trace your fingers along the stretched-out collar of his pyjama shirt. You pull on it, gently, and press your lips to that spot between his neck and shoulder that you know is sensitive. "You're so tense, though."

"Maybe because there's a serial killer in my bed trying to—" His breath catches as your teeth graze his skin. "…seduce me."

"This isn't seduction," you murmur, pressing your face to the crook of his neck.

"It's starting to feel like it," he says stiffly.

You lift your head to peer over at him. His flushed cheeks. His closed eyes. "Is it working?"

"No."

There's a weakness behind the resolve he speaks with, barely noticeable, like he might not mean what he's saying but is also dangerously close to kicking you out (of the bed, if you're lucky; of the apartment, if you're not). Whether he means it or not, you're pushing the limit—that much is obvious.

So, with a defeated sigh, you pull back, already mentally scanning his bookshelves for an interesting read.

But you're barely three feet from him when he grabs your arm, holding it firm. He turns over to face you, and he gives your arm a gentle tug. An invitation. 

You let him pull you in, settling down beside him as he drapes his arm over your waist. He's cuddling you, but he's leaving just enough room to allow himself plausible deniability; "we aren't cuddling", he'll say, "we're just lying together—look, we're barely even touching".

You meet his gaze in the dark. The moonlight seeping in through the blinds casts his face in shadow, but it illuminates your own. You want him to pull you closer, but he doesn't.

He doesn't do anything; he just watches you, studying you or, if you want to be delusional, admiring you with this fond, sleepy look that you can just about make out through the shadows. Heavy eyelids, relaxed brows, the picture of perfection.

"We could make it quick," you broach, smiling.

Spencer scoffs. He shakes his head, nuzzles the pillow as he groans in quiet, steadily simmering frustration.

"Okay, maybe not quick, but…" you inch yourself closer, reaching up to cup his cheek. "We can optimise it? You're all about efficiency, right?"

He huffs, sounding almost amused by your offer, but he still shakes his head. "And how, exactly, would we do that? You and I both know that your libido is obnoxious—"

"We could forgo the condoms," you suggest, cutting him off. "That'll save about…fifteen seconds per round."

"No."

There's no weakness behind the word, this time, but his firm tone isn't enough to scare you off.

"It adds up, you know."

"No," he repeats. "How many times are we going to have this conversation?"

"Until you admit that I'm right."

"Oh, you're right?"

"The condoms serve no purpose." You're a broken record, at this point, repeating variations of the same sentiment only to be met with the same response: no, no, and no. If you're starting to sound a little exasperated, it's because you are. But, even so, you persist. "We're both clean, and I know you only insist on using them to spite me," you say, trying to bite back any frustration threatening to taint your voice. You take a deep breath, watching as Spencer's expression hardens further, before bravely continuing, "I can buy plan B. I can go on birth control, if that's what you want—but we both know it isn't."

Spencer's fingers twitch against your waist, and he shifts in the bed. He starts pulling away, as though distancing himself from you physically will make what you're saying any less true.

"You don't want me on birth control, Spence." You prop yourself up on your elbow, lowering your tone to something seductive, almost sinister. "You want the risk."

"That's enough," he says. He turns onto his back, fixes his gaze on the ceiling as you roll your eyes.

"Honestly, I don't see the point in depriving yourself of something you clearly want, especially when I want it, too."

"You don't know what I want."

You purse your lips, letting the silence sit for a moment before you move closer to him. "I know you want kids," you say.

He doesn't respond to that. He just keeps staring at the ceiling, and you can see his jaw muscles working, clenching and unclenching, in the low light.

"Little geniuses running around, wreaking havoc…top of all their classes, just like daddy." You continue your assault in the softest, most sympathetic tone you can manage. Your voice turns to honey as you speak. "I could give you that, Spence. We'd have cute kids, don't you think?"

You feel him tense as you brush your fingerprints against his chest. Feel the way he stops breathing entirely as you skim along the fabric of his pyjama shirt and work your way down, slowly, to the waistband of his pants.

"You could put a baby in me right now," you murmur. "You just have to let go…give in…"

Your fingers barely dip under his pants before the tension snaps. He shoves you, hard, and sends you tumbling backward. Your back hits the mattress, and you're left slightly winded.

"You're sick," he spits.

You make no effort to get up, but you do shoot him a smile as you say, "I'm honest."

"You are sick. Why would I— no, I'm not doing this." 

With a huff, he gets out of bed. You watch as he heads for the door (to go where, you aren't sure), and he looks, for a moment, like he might actually storm out, leave you all alone in his apartment. The thought leaves you slightly nauseous.

But then he turns back to you with a scowl. "Why the fuck would I want to— …have children with a serial killer?"

He's trying so hard to keep his voice down. It's a shame, really, that he has neighbours on all sides—neighbours that respect him, that he respects—because you want nothing more than to see him lose his temper. You'd kill for it. Not literally, of course; you don't do that anymore.

You sit up, eyeing him curiously as you say, "I don't know, Spencer, why would you?"

"I don't."

You nod along with his declaration. The gesture's overly animated, exaggerated in a way that tells him you don't believe a word of what he says, and by the sour expression on his face it's clear he would have preferred it if you had just laughed in his face.

The sheets rustle as you shift, perching yourself on the edge of the bed, eyes wide with an unapologetic amusement. You shrug and click your tongue as you breathe out a wistful sigh. "So those…dreams you had, I guess they meant nothing—"

Spencer crosses the room in an instant and, before you can finish your sentence, he's grabbing your jaw with such force it makes you gasp. You can feel his nails digging into your skin as he looms over you, angling your fact up to meet his cold gaze. The moon serves as a backlight, casting his tall frame in a harsh shadow.

"You don't get to use that against me," he says, voice unnaturally quiet. Calm. It's a warning, one that you'd probably heed with some semblance of seriousness if this weren't so fun.

"So I'm just supposed to pretend you weren't dreaming about having a family with me?" you ask, pushing the conversation (the argument, really) that little bit further. "It's a pretty difficult thing to overlook, Spence."

The fact that his face is obscured does very little to hide the way your words leave him seething. You can feel it in the tremble of his fingers, as though he's fighting an itch. A violent one.

God, what if he hits you? Now that would be fun.

"You never know when to stop, do you?" he asks softly.

"All I've done is state facts—"

"All you've done is piss me off."

You flinch when he moves, expecting—hoping—that his hand will meet your cheek, leave you with a mark that'll still be there in the morning, but it doesn't. 

"And you know what? It worked." He tightens his grip on your face and, instead of hitting you, he starts tugging at the drawstring of his pyjama pants. "Congratulations, Love, you did it."

You aren't sure there's much of a connotation between pissed off and rock hard, but you make no attempt to argue with him, not when he's standing right in front of you like this, pants around his ankles, cock so close you'd barely have to move to get a taste.

"You want it?" His voice takes on a gentle, almost soothing tone as he brushes your hair from your face, tucks it behind your ear. "You want this cock, right? That's why you're being such a brat?"

You couldn't make your answer more obvious if you tried; you're staring, wide-eyed, lips parted like you're about to start fucking drooling over the sight of him. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to raise your gaze before saying with a smirk, "I'm actually just doing it for fun—"

The yelp that escapes you when he pulls your hair doesn't sound like you at all, but the moan that follows when he presses your face to his crotch does. His fingers curl in your hair, and you feel him tense slightly as you nuzzle him, breathing him in with an open mouth. You try to touch him, but he swats your hand away before tearing you from him completely.

"A yes would suffice," he says.

The pain of his iron grip makes you wince, and you can feel yourself already beginning to grow smaller, quieter, as you look up at him and say, "…yes."

With his free hand, Spencer cups your cheek. The tender brush of his thumb against your skin clashes with the discomfort of him pulling your hair. "Where do you want it?"

"Oh, come on."

All he does in response is tilt his head to the side; clearly, your whining has no effect on him. His patient silence, however, is enough to drive you crazy. 

There's a burning in your core. It's been there all night, started as embers, and has since sparked into a blaze that's steadily breaking you down, making you desperate. And his touch, your position, it's only fuelling the fire.

"…I want it inside me," you mutter. You're clenching your thighs, trying to stifle the burning. "My pussy. Nowhere else."

Spencer hums, thoughtfully, in response. His fingers trace the edge of your cheekbone, trailing slowly down to your jaw where he angles your head up that little bit further and asks, in an agonisingly gentle tone, "You think you deserve that?" 

You laugh, but even that sounds desperate now. You've lost your edge. "You're kidding, right?"

"Oh, I'm serious," he says, keeping his voice smooth and low. "All that back talk, all that…relentless pestering, you think I should let you have your way after that?"

You open your mouth to retort, but your words fail you. There's a sinking feeling in your stomach now, and it worsens with each second that passes once you realise his game. A small, pleading smile creeps up your face.

"If it's an apology you want, then—"

"I don't want an apology," he says, cutting you off, "we both know you wouldn't mean a word of it. No, I'm done playing your games, Love." Releasing his grip on your hair, his hand moves to cradle the back of your head. "I think it's time someone put you in your place."

Despite his serious tone, you can't help but find humour in his words. "Like you? Come on, Spence, you're too spineless to—"

You never manage to finish that sentence on account of Spencer's cock pressing against your lips. You clench your teeth, shaking your head as you feebly attempt to deny him access, but his hand is quick to grasp your jaw, fingers pushing into the hollows of your cheeks as he forcibly coaxes your mouth open.

He shushes your protesting whines, telling you to "just take it, that's it" as he eases his cock into the warmth of your mouth. His gentle words disable whatever fight you had left, and you yield to him, taking him almost to the base as he strokes your hair, whispering soothing praises ("Good girl, there we go."), and you think, foolishly, that you're past the worst of it, until you feel his fingers curl into your hair.

Spencer's been rough with you before, you encourage it, but none of your past encounters compare to the harshness with which he abuses your throat. The moment you stop resisting, all of his gentleness vanishes; he holds you by your hair and thrusts into your mouth with no regard for your comfort, or the tears that well in your eyes, or the way you gag with every violent jerk of his hips.

You reach blindly for something to hold onto, and your hands settle on the backs of his thighs. Trembling fingers anchor themselves in his skin, not caring for the marks (or cuts; you're pretty sure your nails are doing some damage) they'll be leaving behind as he fucks your throat so hard the lack of oxygen is starting to make you dizzy.

It's not until he pulls out that you realise you're crying. You cough and sputter, tears streaming down your face as he holds you up by your hair, and you can't help but sniffle pathetically as he wipes the drool from your mouth.

"What's wrong?" he asks softly, pouting. He presses his thumb to the plush of your lower lip, pulls it down to reveal your teeth. "You don't like it?"

You're babbling without thinking, shaking your head and mumbling feverish nos and pleases until the words lose their meaning, silenced only by the force of his palm as it strikes your cheek. 

The contact rips and involuntary sob from your throat, and you choke on the broken sound as the stinging quickly settles, deepening into an intense, burning ache. Just when you think you might catch your breath, he's guiding your mouth back to his cock—and this time, you don't try to put up a fight. 

There's a warmth accumulating under your thighs, seeping into the sheets as he uses your throat like a toy. He's panting above you, cursing under his breath; occasionally he'll mutter some comment about your pretty mouth, how it's better when it's occupied as he buries himself so deep your nose meets the warm skin of his abdomen and you start to choke. You'll tap his thigh, frantic, and he'll hold you there until you see stars before letting go.

You know he's close when he starts whimpering. His rhythm starts to falter, his fingers tremble, and his breathing comes in uneven gasps as he tries to cling to the remnants of his composure.

"Fuck…" He throws his head back, keeping a tight grip on your hair as he bobs you up and down on his cock. The shift in his pace allows you room to breathe, to think, to actually try to suck him off instead of just sitting there. 

And the second you do, he starts to come apart. 

"Shit…I'm—" He hums, stifling a moan as you look up at him, meeting his gaze through tears. 

You feel his cock twitch against your tongue, and you whimper around it—and that is what sends him over the edge.

"Oh, fuck….God," he whines as he finishes, painting your tongue with his release before gently easing you off of his cock. "Don't you dare swallow," he hisses, legs shaking slightly as he crouches down to be at your eye level. "Don't— shh…just keep it there, that's it. You said you wanted me to come in you, right? Then you better savour it, hadn't you?" 

Tender hands cup your cheeks as you struggle to catch your breath. He doesn't wipe your tears, or your drool, or try to soothe the flush that's burning you from the inside out; he just watches you, a calm satisfaction in his brown eyes as he murmurs, "Oh, poor baby…" 

After giving your sore cheek a light tap, he rejoins you on the bed and gently coaxes you into his lap, ensuring his hands sit secured on your waist as you straddle him, sniffling. You try to lean on him, to hide away in the crook of his neck, but he holds you back. Returning his hands to your face, he dons a mocking pout as your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

"That wasn't very nice of me, was it?" he asks, keeping his tone painfully kind as he holds you. "See what happens? If you hadn't pushed so hard, I wouldn't have done it. Shh…"

One hand drops to your thigh, slips up under the hem of your shirt (his shirt; you don't wear much of your own clothes when you're here). He presses his palm to your lower stomach, and the contact alone is enough to make you whine as he studies you with this cool, almost analytical look.

You aren't wearing panties (why would you be?), so when his fingers dip between your thighs there's no questioning how wet you are. You're dripping, and with every moment you spend like this, holding his salty release in your mouth, your need only worsens.

And that need drives you to lift your hips in a feeble, uncoordinated attempt to get to his cock—he's soft, sure, but you're sure you'd be able to get him going again, if he let you—but, before you can try anything, he cups your leaking cunt with his hand, creating a barrier between you and what you want most.

All you can do is whimper and grind pitifully against his palm, soaking his hand as you try to convey, without words, just how badly you need him. As though, if you're lucky, he might give in.

But he doesn't. He lets his gaze trail lazily up your body—your bare legs, his hand between your thighs, you in his clothes—before settling on your face, and he raises an eyebrow. "Is that the best you can do?" he asks, leaning in close. The sound of his voice, that disconcerting mix of mockery and softness, makes your stomach churn. "Just hump my hand and make stupid little noises. What happened, Love? Tell me…" He brushes his nose against your own before clicking his tongue. "Oh, right, your mouth is full. Sorry about that. Go on, swallow for me…"

You do as he says without question, swallowing his seed until only the aftertaste remains, and your obedience earns a smile.

"Open your mouth," he says. "There we go…"

As you part your lips, Spencer sets his thumb on your bottom teeth, holding your mouth open so he can inspect it thoroughly.

"I can't see too well in the dark," he murmurs, "but your throat is probably bruised. Did it hurt to swallow?"

"Uh huh…"

God, you sound like your throat's bruised. Your voice comes out raw and shaky. Pathetic.

"Good."

He catches your open mouth in a kiss, and you go so weak you almost collapse against him. You grasp his shoulders, steadying yourself as he breathes new life into you, but your composure fast unravels as his fingers tease your entrance, applying just enough pressure to make you whine into his mouth.

"Spence," you breathe, tearing away from him before you lose yourself, "please…pleasepleaseplease…"

"Please what?"

"Fuck me." there's no sugarcoating your request, not now. "Please, Spence, I can't do this…"

Spencer purses his lips for a moment, leaning back as his fingers continue their slow teasing. "I think you're doing just fine," he says, shrugging. "I'd even go as far as to say you're doing really well."

That tone. The mocking praise. You're going insane, you're sure of it.

"No. No—" A sharp gasp cuts through you as he rubs the ball of his hand against your clit. "Spencerr…I'm sorry, I'm sorry…please, just— fuck…"

Seeing you starting to lose it, Spencer bows his head, hiding his smile as presses his lips to the side of your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses along the sensitive skin. "What are you sorry for, honey?"

"God…if— if you want information, I'll give it to you," you whisper, frantic. Your hips buck against his hand, desperate for more of him. "You want the location of a body? Two? I'll tell you; I promise. I'll— I'll tell you anything, Spence…anything you want—"

"I asked you a question," he says, keeping his tone light as he cuts you off. He lets his mouth linger on your neck for a moment longer before he raises his head to look at you. "What are you sorry for, hm? You do know what you're apologising for, right?"

"I do…I do…"

"Uh huh. Then tell me."

"I-I was being annoying, and pushy…and I crossed a line, mentioning kids," you explain, nodding anxiously. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Spence. I-I won't do it again…promise."

Spencer nods along with you, pursing his lips in thought. "Wow," he murmurs, "you almost sound like you mean it."

"I do," you say, trying (and failing) to keep your voice firm despite your trembling.

"Yeah? You're sorry?"

"'m sorry…"

To your surprise, Spencer looks disappointed. 

His gaze drops once more to his hand between your legs, and you swear you see him frown. "Hm. That's a shame, really…I quite like this; punishing you, letting you make a mess of yourself…" he gathers your arousal on his fingers, drawing out a low whine before bringing those fingers to your mouth. The taste of yourself mixed with the aftertaste of him makes your fucking head spin. 

And then you feel the tip of his cock part your slick folds. It brushes your clit, and you almost come apart right there. 

"I like you like this," he continues, talking over your incessant whimpers, "all desperate and stupid, such a change from your usual self…I could do this all day long."

The mere suggestion is enough to make you sob around his fingers; or maybe it's the way the head of his cock keeps nudging your entrance, leaving you clenching around nothing, like your body is trying to suck him in.

"…but you really want this, don't you?" he asks.

"Mhm…" You're humming along in agreement before you can form a meaningful response. Your brain's working at a third of its regular speed, your words are scattered across space, maybe time, too. Even as he pulls his fingers from your mouth, every sentence you reach for disintegrates before you can speak it.

But if you've ever had a chance to win him over, to win this stubborn little war you've been fighting for months now, then this is it. Maybe you don't need to think in order to convince him, maybe well-formed sentences and snarky arguments haven't been working in your favour at all; maybe you just need to be desperate. As desperate as possible. Throw everything you have at him and pray that you hit a soft spot.

"You do, too, don't you?" you ask, making yourself sound as helpless as possible. "Please, Spence— angel, tell me you want this…"

A slight twitch of his brows tells you he likes the nickname; even if your efforts are in vain, you can still file that little fact away for later.

"I'm sorry for being such a pain, I really am. I just like you…so fucking much, and— and I don't know what to do with it sometimes…but come on, angel, please…" You touch your forehead to his, cupping his cheeks with trembling hands. "I need you inside me, no condom, just this once," you murmur, giving a tentative rock of your hips, watching the way he shudders as you grind against his length. "I…I wanna feel you…wanna be yours, please…"

Spencer is sweating. You feel his cock jump, straining against you, and you watch the way he bites the inside of his cheek. Tilting your head, you try to kiss him, but he dodges.

He purses his lips tight as his gaze drops to his hips, to the way his cock is so perfectly lined up with your entrance—and you're soaked, it would be so easy to just…

Leaning back, he gestures to the pillows and sighs. "Go. Face down, ass up."

His mutterings sound almost reluctant, but all you hear is a victory. Refusing to give him time to change his mind, you don't hesitate to climb off of him and settle into position like a well-trained dog: chin resting on your forearms, back arched, sodden pussy on display for him.

You can hear him shifting, hear the faint rustle of bedsheets as he comes up behind you, and the seconds seem to drag on for eternity. Each one seems longer than the last, making you stew in your anticipation until it's almost unbearable.

But then you hear something you don't expect; the last thing you want to hear. 

A poorly stifled rip. The crinkle of latex.

The sound hits harder than the slap you took from him just moments ago, breaking you free from your mindless obedience as you realise, to your horror, what he's doing.

"No. Nonono—"

You try to move, to get away, but Spencer's grabbing your hips, fingers digging into the skin as he sinks into you with one brutal thrust. The pain makes you see static, but it doesn't hurt half as much as the betrayal. 

You really thought you'd won. That it was that easy.

How stupid.

Tears stream down your face, your body struggling to adjust to the sudden intrusion as he stuffs you so full you swear you can feel him in your stomach. An awful noise escapes you, half moan, half cry, as you desperately shake your head, and it isn't until you hear your own voice that you realise you're pleading with him; strings of broken nos and stops are tumbling from your lips like despairing prayers.

But your God is cruel, and your prayers go ignored. Maybe he rejoices in them, you don't know. 

Unfortunately, you're loud. Much too loud for the thin walls of his apartment. So he does what little he can and shoves your face into the pillow, forcing you to bite the soft fabric and muffle your cries, leaving only the creak of the bed, and the sound of skin against skin as he ruts into you.

"You didn't think I'd actually let you have your way, did you?"

His voice above you is oddly quiet, almost tender in a way that entirely contradicts the way he's treating you. And, as soon as he finishes speaking, he's yanking you up by your hair, letting you gasp and whine before his hand finds your throat. 

He brings you closer, close enough to nip at your ear as he murmurs, "And if you really like me that much, you should be grateful that I'm doing this at all. I could've easily thrown you out on the street like the…fucking vermin you are."

Soft lips press a kiss to the side of your neck before he throws you back down and continues at his unforgiving pace. All you can do is cry into the pillow, choking out the occasional plea for him to stop, or to slow down, even though you know he isn't going to listen. 

"You're quite the…actor, aren't you?" he asks, breathing growing ragged under the strain of his movements. "That apology of yours…you almost had me— fuck…you almost had me convinced…I'm sorry, Spence. I wanna be yours, Spence…sounding so damn helpless…and now you're actually helpless, aren't you? How's it feel?"

"P-please— Spence, I can'tt…I can't t-take it—"

"Yes, you can…you wanna be mine, right?" He slips a hand down to your ass, gives it a firm squeeze before pulling back and spanking it hard, relishing the way you cry out beneath him. "Then be good for me…and take it."

Before the stinging can subside, he gives your ass another forceful spank before gripping your hips once more, keeping you steady as he fucks you. The pain shoots through you like a flash of lightning, and it goes straight to your head, turns your brain to putty. 

You mindlessly try to back up against him, meet his thrusts and bring yourself over the edge, but you're sloppy. You've no rhythm, not when you're like this, and all it does is make Spencer's grip that much tighter as he holds you in place.

"And don't you even think about coming," he hisses. "You don't deserve that, so just—"

"Please—"

"Just shut up." He holds you down as you try, weakly, to raise your head. "And let me fuck you."

Your pleas devolve into senseless moans as the last of your resolve crumbles, and you give in to him, letting the pillow absorb your obscene noises as Spencer thrusts into you so hard you think you start to think you'll pass out before he's through with you. 

The rest of your body goes limp as your thighs strain and tremble, muscles growing tighter with each cruel jerk of his hips. Your core is on fire, desperate for a release that he won't allow you, and one that you no longer have the willpower to pursue yourself. 

"You…are so fucking pretty like this. God, take me so well— fuck…" His breath stutters as his hips falter, and he forces his next words out through a groan. "…feels so good to use you—"

To use you. 

To use you, like you've been using him. This isn't just revenge, or punishment, for just being a nuisance, for poking sore spots in his psyche by mentioning kids; this is revenge for everything, for the months (almost a year now) of hell you've put him through. It's only fair, in a sense, that you lay down for him as he has, time and again, for you; it's Newton's third law, and this is just the beginning.

He almost collapses on top of you when he finishes. Barely able to hold himself up, he pants against your neck, hot breath fanning over sweat slick skin as he tries to regain his composure. 

You're incoherent, barely aware of the world around you, or of the way you let out a shameless, broken whine when he pulls out. 

The bed creaks as he gets up to dispose of the godforsaken condom, then groans as he settles back down beside you. His fingers skim, touch feather-light, along your spine over the sodden fabric of your shirt, and all you can muster in response is a defeated little whimper. 

He doesn't speak; he just gently coaxes you into his arms, brings your head to his chest, smooths out your hair as you both just breathe. When you sniffle, he shushes you, wipes still-wet tears from your cheeks. 

Once you've found the strength to speak, you insult him. Whinge about how mean he was, how you're barely going to be able to talk, let alone walk, tomorrow.

Spencer listens to your shaky complaints with a smile, nodding along thoughtfully, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head before murmuring, "It wasn't anything you didn't deserve."