JASPER

Spencer is insatiable. 

Which is absolutely marvelous. 

You honestly aren’t sure how you’re going to go back to one night stands after this little experiment, he’s perfect. He doesn’t get bored, all he wants to do is please you, you hardly have to lift a finger while he’s in your apartment. 

And he’s funny. 

Which is an earth shattering discovery. It isn’t always intentional but he always seems to find ways to make you laugh. 

The problem is that you should have sent him home last night, or at the very least, this morning. 

But he makes it so hard, because every thirty minutes he’s shoving his knees between your legs, or his hand between your legs, or his stupid perfect cock between your legs. And by the time he’s done you’ve forgotten all about telling him to leave. 

Even worse, you aren’t even sure if you want him to leave. 

It doesn’t matter what you want though, all you know is that you’re setting a precedent by letting him stay. This is all uncharted waters for you. You haven’t had a boyfriend since high school, and you have no desire to change that. You’ve also never had a consistent fuck buddy, you aren’t sure what the protocol is on essentially living together for four days. 

You choose to indulge yourself just this once and let him stay, it’s only two more days. What’s the harm?

You spend most of Saturday on the couch, sitting in the dark, forcing him to watch your favorite movies in between rounds. He’s starting to get more comfortable in the non-sexual moments between you. At the very least he doesn’t flee to the other side of the couch, he sits beside you, never making the first move but he always sighs in relief when you touch him.

You’re sitting in silence, watching as the horror movie unfolds before you when he clears his throat. 

“I want to try cunnilingus.” The way he says it makes you laugh, the proposition takes all of your attention away from the movie. 

“Cunnilingus?” 

“Oral sex performed on someone with a va-”

“I know what it is, Reid. I just don’t think I’ve ever heard someone say that word out loud.”

“What else am I supposed to call it?” He throws his hands up. 

“Why don’t you ask me if you can eat my pussy.”

“Can I eat your pussy, please?” He rolls his eyes when he says it, he knows you won’t say no. 

“Since you asked so nicely.” You twist your body so you're sitting with your back against the arm of the couch, your bare legs stretch across his lap, you’ve been in a shirt and panties for most of the day. “Do you know how to do it?”

“I don’t know why you keep asking me that, I’ve done more than enough research, and you seem to be plenty satisfied with my performance so far.” It’s your turn to roll your eyes as he shoves your legs apart. 

“Brief me on your knowledge of cunnilingus, Dr. Reid. What have you learned from your hundreds of hours of dedicated porn watching?” He shifts forward, moving to lay on his stomach, his legs hang off the end of your couch.

“Under twenty percent of women can climax from solely vaginal stimulation, which makes sense, the clitoris has over ten thousand nerves, if the goal is an orgasm that’s where the focus needs to be. But many women enjoy dual stimulation and find that enhances the experience. With that information, combined with videos that I’ve watched I think I should be able to perform sufficiently." 

You sit up on your elbows, looking down at him. 

“How long does it take the average woman to achieve orgasm?” You like asking him questions, you never used to ask him anything unless you absolutely had to, but it’s better than just googling something because you get to watch the gears in his head turn.

“In this hypothetical situation let's say the focus is on the woman and the focus is on her, with a partner it’s around fifteen minutes." He never stares directly at you when he’s recalling information like this, it’s almost as if he’s somewhere else, retrieving it. 

“What if she isn’t with a partner?” 

“In cases of masturbation, it’s about eight minutes.” 

“You are the strangest person I’ve ever met.” You don’t say it like it’s a bad thing, it isn’t.

He only shrugs in response, resting his head against your knee. 

“How long do you think it will take you?” You grin when you ask, challenging him with an eyebrow raise. 

“I’d like to aim for ten minutes. I like to think I’m more intelligent and more determined than the average male. That isn’t counting foreplay of course.”

“So, counting foreplay, maybe… twenty minutes?” 

“Sure, that sounds about right.” 

You look down at your phone for a moment, waiting for the time to change, when it does you smile at him. 

“Okay, let’s see it then.” You say as you show him your phone.

7:26 p.m.

He wastes no time as he turns to kiss your thigh.

Slow and precise, and ever so gently, he kisses you just above the knee, moving further up with each kiss. Until he’s dragging his tongue through the crease between your thigh and pelvis. It makes your hips twitch, which he notices because he notices everything. 

That little reaction is enough to have him licking and biting at the spot until you’re crying out and practically pushing him away. When that happens he simply moves to another spot, sucking the skin of your inner thigh into his mouth before sinking his teeth into you. Leaving an angry red mark that he quickly soothes with a drag of his tongue.  

Someone in the movie screams and you flinch, without taking his eyes off of you he reaches towards the coffee table, feeling around as he sucks a dark mark into your flesh until he finds the remote, his finger slides to the top of the remote and the movie blinks off the screen, leaving you both in a darkness that is only broken up by the dim light coming from your bathroom down the hall. 

“Did you know that sensory deprivation doesn’t actually enhance your other senses, especially in the short term but I figured it might set the-”

“Less talking, more touching.” You lift your hips, sliding your panties off. 

“Yes ma’am.” He mumbles as he scootches forward, until you can feel his breath against your cunt. You're left in silence for a moment. You can’t see him but you’d be willing to bet money that he’s making his thinking face. Brows furrowed and lips a little pouty.  

When he finally presses his mouth against your center it’s to plant a kiss against your clit. 

You don’t get a lot of time to dwell on how strangely sweet it is because only a few short seconds later he slides his tongue between your folds, slow and sweet and a little unsure. He starts with small laps of his tongue before he buries his face between your legs, pressing himself deep into your skin as he maps out your cunt with his tongue.

The ever efficient Spencer Reid figures out what he’s doing pretty quickly. He doesn’t see your reaction but when he spreads your legs further with his hands and shoves his tongue into you your eyes roll into the back of your head as you groan. 

“Oh my god.” You let out a strangled sound as he moves upward, finally dragging his tongue over your clit. 

He does everything.

Starting slow, with his tongue flattened against you, then drawing lazy shapes, it almost feels like he’s spelling something with his tongue, quicker and quicker until the room is filled with the sloppy wet sounds of his mouth and your strained moans. His hands grip the back of your thighs, spreading you open as he hums against you, sending a jolt of vibration through your center. 

Your fingers find his hair, tangling themselves in his locks. It takes a conscious effort to not pull hard as he licks from your entrance up to your clit before refocusing on your hole. The bridge of his nose rests against your clit as his tongue presses into you, his movements a little frantic as he groans into you. 

“Spencer…” You squeeze your eyes shut as you inhale sharply. Trying to form a single thought right now is proving difficult, especially with his nose bumping against the single most sensitive part of your body as he tongue fucks you. “Spence, I’m-” Your grip tightens in his hair as you pull him up a bit, until his mouth is back on your clit. He consumes you as his tongue flicks across your bundle of nerves until you can hardly breathe.   

You hate and love that he’s just as good at this as he thought he’d be. The pressure low in your stomach builds more and more as you struggle to find any words beyond his name and few curses. 

Until you can’t say anything at all, you just moan until your thighs squeeze around his head and you come, he doesn’t let up for a single second as your head falls back and your entire body tightens and releases. As you come down off of your orgasm you have to push him off of you. Your cunt buzzes between your legs, overstimulated and hypersensitive. . 

He reaches behind you, grabbing your phone as you fight to catch your breath. He taps the screen before turning it in your direction. 

7:44 

“Only took eighteen minutes.” You can’t see him in the darkness but you can hear his smile. 

“Show-off.” You let out an airy laugh as he leans forward, lips catching yours as he swallows the sound. 

He pushes your thighs up against your stomach, effectively folding you in half as he slots himself between your legs and pushing into you, something he’s able to do with relative ease now.

“Good job, pretty boy.” His hips stutter when you say it, 

“Say it again, please.”

“Good job? I’d be happy to tell you how good of a job you’re doing, is that what you want to hear?”

“Mhmm.” He hums and you wrap your arms around his neck as you pull him closer to you.

“You did so good, Spencer. You made me feel so good.” It doesn’t take long after you whisper for him to whimper and finish inside of you, when he’s done you reach back, clicking a lamp on. He stays inside of you, wrapping himself around you as he lays on top of you. Eventually he turns his head to face you, a dopey smile on his face.

You’re waiting for him to say something snarky or obnoxious but he just grins at you.

And you smile at him, enjoying the sight of his pretty smile in the dim light of the living room. 

  ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

Spencer enjoys going down on you more than any man you’ve ever met. You know he isn’t just doing it out of obligation because he doesn’t even seek out his own gratification afterwards half the time. (Although you’re pretty sure he’s come in his pants a few times.) 

You’re so glad you didn’t send him home. 

Although Sunday evening is its own harsh reality. 

You suddenly find yourself hit with a wave of anxiety. 

You’re going to have to do a damn good job acting like everything is normal if you don’t want the team to sniff out your new situation with Spencer. 

He’s going through your bookshelf as you read a book you’ve been meaning to get to, he flips through your shelf, clearly unimpressed based on the dramatic scoffing he’s been doing. 

Until he gets bored and gets into bed next to you.

“I don’t want to go back to work tomorrow.” He rolls over, facing you, and diverting your attention from your reading. 

“Why not? You love work.” You set your book on the nightstand, he’s clearly demanding your attention, and you’ve got no reason not to give it to him.   

“How does anyone get anything done? I mean seriously, how do you all not spend all day every day just doing… this?” He inches himself closer to you, his fingers play with the edge of the blanket. 

“Fucking?” 

He nods.

“I’m sure it doesn’t feel like it right now, but there are things more important than sex, like putting away bad guys.” You sit up a little straighter as his fingers drift up and down your stomach. 

“I disagree, this-” His hand slips under the sheets, his fingers roughly sliding between your legs, as you hiss through your teeth. “is more important to me.” 

“It’ll be even better after a long day of work, when you’ve had to wait for it.” You tilt your head to rest against his.

“I don’t want to wait.” How quickly he goes from demanding to whining.

“You’re so needy.”

“Do you want me to stop?” His eyes widen, almost daring you to act like you don’t want this.

You don’t have a response so you just stare for a moment blankly before you speak. 

“You’re getting an attitude already. Should I be worried?”

“Can you blame me? I’m furious. I recently discovered that I’ve been willingly denying myself of life's greatest pleasures.” He sits up, pulling the blanket off of you as he slides between your legs, laying on his stomach as he stares up at you. 

“You can’t act like this at work.” You grab him by the chin as he grins, you’ve seen him smile more this weekend than ever before. 

“Obviously, you think I don’t know that? You care too much about what everyone thinks.”

“I do not care too much, I care a normal amount for someone who wants to keep her job.”

He scoffs in response, resting his cheek against your thigh. 

“Hotch isn’t going to fire us for having consensual sex.” He mumbles.

“He isn’t going to fire you because you’re his golden boy.”

“Nothing bad would happen if people knew.”

“This is just sex, Reid. It’s fun and it’s easy, it doesn’t stay that way if people know about it. So, if you want this to keep happening, you’re going to behave.” 

“And if I do, can we keep doing this?” His fingers dance along the edge of your panties as he rests his head against you. 

“We can do every fucked up thing you can imagine if you keep this a secret.” 

“You keep saying that but I feel like I can think up a few things that you might not want to do.” He stares at you with those big doe eyes. 

It’s your turn to scoff at him.

“Like what?”

“Like… what if I wanted to tie you up?” He props himself up on his elbow as he rolls onto his side. 

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

“What if I wanted you to tie me up?” 

“I’d be happy to.” You do your best to hide your excitement at the potential of that. 

“What if I wanted to be… rough?” You laugh the moment he says it. It’s hard to imagine Reid holding it together long enough to be rough. 

“I think I’ll be okay with that.”

“What about something like somnophilia? Or CNC?”

“I’m shocked you even know what that is.” 

“I have access to the internet.” He rolls his eyes. 

“I’d pay good money to see what your search history looks like.”

“BDSM?” It’s extremely jarring to hear these words coming from Reid’s mouth. 

“I love it.” When you lean forward he rolls back onto his stomach, moving himself further between your legs, so his head is resting on your thigh. 

“Roleplay?”

“I’m a wonderful actress, Dr. Reid.” Oh he likes that. You watch as his hips dip down, grinding against your mattress. 

He’s quiet for a moment, staring at the ceiling as he thinks. 

“What about anal?”

You gasp, putting your hand over your mouth.

“Spencer, watch your mouth.” You grin as he rolls his eyes.

“Is that a no?”

“Of course not, you can fuck my ass as long as I can fuck yours.” He cocks an eyebrow at you as you say it. “Enough hypotheticals, assume everything’s a yes. I want to hear more about your internet searches.”

“What about them?”

“You hate technology, you must be looking for something pretty important if it’s driving you to willingly use the internet for recreational purposes.” You run your fingers through his hair, playing with a stray curl. 

“I’ve had a lot of free time, and nowhere to take out my sexual frustration.” He gives you a theatrical pout as you laugh. 

“Clearly.”

There’s a moment of silence where you’re trying to think of what else you could ask him but he clears his throat before you can say anything to him. When you look down at him he looks a lot more serious than you feel. 

“Can I ask you a question?” His voice is noticeably softer. 

“Sure.”

“How long do you think we’ll do this for? Like how long will we be a thing?” He chews on his lip when he finishes speaking. 

It’s a bad question. 

It’s the kind of question that makes you feel itchy and wrong because it implies that this is a thing at all. You shouldn’t even humor this kind of question, you should tell him that this isn’t anything, it’s just two adults having fun and he’s ruining it. 

That’s what you normally say to guys who ask for a second date.

But you agreed that this would be a long term thing. 

Medium to long term. 

“Until one of us gets bored. Or until one of us wants to stop.” You shrug, not looking at his reaction as you turn away from him. It’s a vague bullshit answer but you don’t have anything better to say.

“Are you feeling bored?” You despise the subtle hope in his voice that you’ll say no, that’s the downside with men who are eager, they want validation. And unfortunately for you, something about his desperate need for it is pulling on the heartstrings you thought you cut off years ago. 

“No, Reid, I’m feeling rather entertained.” There’s another beat of silence before you speak again. “I just… You understand how important it is to me that no one finds out about this, right?” 

“I do. As much as I think it doesn’t matter, I don’t want to do anything to potentially jeopardize your career.”

It frightens you that you don’t care that he stayed, that you sort of liked it. This is more than a one night stand, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? You wanted less than a boyfriend, and more than a one night stand. Maybe that’s what this is, and maybe that’s why you didn’t actually want him to leave. 

“I… appreciate that. So you have to act exactly the same as you always do tomorrow.”

“I know, I know. I’ll be the same annoying, creepy Spencer I usually am.” He does a shitty job of mimicking your voice as he says it. 

You want to tell him that you don’t think he’s that annoying anymore. And that you don’t mind the staring so much anymore either. Sadly that would just serve to lean into a narrative that you care how he feels at all. And that wouldn’t be fair to either of you. 

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

He wants to throw your alarm clock out the window.

Better yet, he wants to murder your alarm clock. He wants to murder your alarm clock so violently that he terrifies the local police department. He’s going to go on a spree and kill alarm clocks across Virginia, until the BAU has to get involved and figure out who is gutting all these alarm clocks. 

Your alarm clock is signaling the end of the single greatest weekend of his life. 

Your hair is a mess as you jolt up, and he loves it. He did that after all, his fingers were twisted in your hair, and you said his name so sweetly when he did it. 

“Reid, up.” You grumble as your hands shake his shoulders. 

“I’m awake.” He takes your hand as you slump back over onto him. He likes that you aren’t a morning person, it gives him more time to watch you as you rub your eyes and stretch. 

“We’ve gotta get up,” You rest your head on his chest, making no effort to move as your fingers play with the fabric of his shirt. “you have to leave before me, you always get to work before me.” 

“Okay.” It’s all he says in response. He doesn’t want to leave before you, he doesn’t want to leave at all. He wants to board up the door to your apartment so neither of you can ever leave again. 

Your breathing steadies as your eyes flutter shut, your mouth just a little open as you breathe, he doesn’t dare move. He doesn’t care if you both don’t show up to work today, why would he? Maybe the team will find out, then you’ll realize no one cares. And then all he’ll have to do is figure out how to get you to stop being so scared of commitment. 

How quickly his view of you has changed now that he’s spent just a little time with you, you aren’t entirely unpleasant. 

You’re actually so pleasant that he’s decided he’s going to make this work. He’s quite fond of the view he has currently, you, with your hair everywhere, starting to snore on his chest. 

He’s going to show you that this can work, he can tell that you don’t think it will. Your body language is so guarded, all the time, it must be exhausting.

Even as you sleep there’s still a defensive nature about your position, your slight pout, the way your shoulders tense. He’s about to reach out to try and smooth the line between your brows out but you shoot up again.

“Time to get up.” You actually manage to shamble out of bed this time and he knows the weekend is officially over. 

It’s a frantic mess of a morning, he’s throwing things into his bag as he dresses himself. By the time he’s smoothed his hair out and gotten fully dressed for work you’re still staring at him like you’re only half awake. 

You both stand in your bedroom, staring at each other, he’s got his backpack over one shoulder and his satchel over the other.

“Can I… nevermind.” He starts to speak but he’s quick to shut his mouth, there’s no reason to ruin things now. 

You immediately cross your arms in front of your chest, staring at him expectantly. 

“Oh come on, I’ve given you everything you’ve asked for so far, why would I start denying you now?” He sighs in relief when you step forward and rub his arm. 

“That’s just not true, you’ve denied me several times.”

“I always give you what you want eventually.” You give his arm a squeeze as you smile. He wants to make you smile for the rest of his life. 

“Can I take a pair of your panties?” He whispers the words quickly, hoping he isn’t about to overstep right at the end of the weekend. 

“Sure.” You smile even harder and all he can do is stare slackjawed. 

“Really?”

“Yeah, why not, I’m gonna go brush my teeth, just grab a pair from the drawer.” And just like that you disappear and he’s given free reign of your dresser. Five days ago he would have killed a man for a pair of your panties, now you’re just giving him one.

He knows exactly which ones he wants, you did laundry yesterday morning and when he slides open your drawer the pair of pink panties you wear every Monday is the first in the neat little organized row. 

Pretty pink cotton panties with a little bow, a present just for him. He shoves them into his pocket, slamming the drawer shut. If he focuses on your underwear for too long he’s going to be hard the rest of the day and he really doesn’t need that considering how difficult today is already going to be. 

When you return you’re half dressed, your fingers pop the buttons of your blouse into place as you kick off your pajama pants. 

“You need to leave, like, right now. You need to clock in early, like you always do.” You grab him by the arm, dragging him through the apartment until you reach the door. He kneels, tying his converse as you check your hair in the hallway mirror. “Jesus I’m a mess,” You mumble as you pull it back with your hands, trying to find a style that works. 

He doesn’t want to leave. 

He wants to call in sick.

He wants you to call in sick.

And he wants to stay in this little apartment for the rest of his life. 

But you’re fixing the buttons on your blouse, and turning to him to straighten his tie. For a second you just look up at him, your hand resting on his shoulder, your eyes flicker around his face and it almost seems like you’re leaning in. 

He decides to push his luck. 

“Could I kiss you?”

The flicker of your eyes towards the floor answers his question, you give him an apologetic smile. 

He shouldn’t have asked.

“Spencer…”

“Nevermind, it was a stupid question.”

“It’s not a stupid question. This just… this isn’t that kind of thing.” You stand on your tip toes, giving him that sad smile as you hold his face and kiss his cheek. “I’ll see you at work, if you wanna hang out again text me later what nights this week work for you.” 

Every night for the rest of his life, if you’d have him. 

His cheeks burn a little red as he nods. 

“See you at work.” 

“Goodbye, Reid.” 

And just like that he steps out of your apartment and you shut the door behind him. 

For the first time in days he’s alone. Standing in the hallway outside your apartment, dressed for work as if his entire life didn’t change this weekend. 

He runs his thumb over the little bow on the front of your panties as he grips the bunched up fabric in his pocket. 

He’s only just gotten a taste for you and you’re already trying to slip through his fingers, he has no intention of letting that happen. 

  ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

You’re uncomfortable the second you step out of your apartment. You’re uncomfortable when you drive to work, and you’re uncomfortable when you step out into the bull pen and see the smiling faces of your coworkers. 

Spencer managed to take the pair of panties that you specifically wear on Mondays. They aren’t even that sexy, they’re the most basic cotton pair of underwear you own, yet you couldn’t find them when you dug through your drawer this morning.

So you’re stuck wearing a purple thong that isn’t even that uncomfortable, it’s just not the comfortable pair you rely on on a Monday morning. It’s thrown you off of your rhythm. Even worse, you’re running ten minutes behind because you spent so long searching through your drawers.  

Derek's sitting on your desk, grinning from ear to ear as he whispers something to Penelope, who seems to have gotten a little sunburn from their trip. 

“Look who finally decided to show up.” He calls across the pen, prompting Emily to roll her chair over until you’ve got a small group waiting for you. “Must have been one hell of a weekend.” 

“Traffic was a nightmare.”

“Weird, we take the same main road to get to work and I got here twenty minutes ago.” Good to see Reid is acting just as annoying as he always does, as irritating as it is right now, it’s also a bit of a relief to see no difference in his behavior.

“A lot can change in twenty minutes.” You grumble. 

“Enough about the traffic, I want to hear about your weekend, I didn’t hear from you again after Wednesday night.” Emily rolls her seat over so it’s directly next to yours as you sit down.

Shit.

You should have planned for this, you have a story every Monday, you should have made something up on the car ride over. Especially because they’re all staring at you expectantly, even Reid, sitting back in his chair with his eyebrows raised. 

And he’s wearing his glasses.

Why is he wearing his glasses, if it’s to torment you it’s working.   

“I’m sorry to say I took a weekend off from maneating.” The second you say it Emily groans, letting her head fall backwards. 

“I spent a weekend in the most boring place possible, praying, you’d have something exciting to tell me.” She gives you a dramatic pout. “The shirt seriously didn’t work?” 

The shirt worked a little too well. 

“I didn’t go out again, I decided I needed a couple days to just relax.” You scan their faces, they all seem to buy it, except for Spencer, who seems to be concentrating on a book. “I’m very excited to hear about how your trip to the sex island went.” You turn everyone's focus towards Penelope and Morgan as J.J. approaches. 

Derek tells an animated story about ‘an unbelievable redhead’ and a rush of relief washes over you. Penelope’s cheeks turn a nice shade of pink as she talks about the sun and the sand, she allegedly came home with half her suitcase full of seashells. When the group disperses after Hotch walks past and clears his throat, Emily lingers. 

“You really didn’t take anyone home with the perfect tits top?” She whispers, leaning in. 

A part of you wants to tell her what happened. 

She’s your best friend, you know she wouldn’t tell anybody. 

“Guess it just wasn’t meant to be.” You give her half a smile as she taps her pen on your desk. “How was the retreat?” 

“Boring. Relaxing, but boring. My mom signed us up for three yoga classes a day, I nearly killed her.” You laugh as she tells you stories about bland salads and funny sauna interactions until Hotch does another loop around the bullpen and glares at the two of you until she rolls herself back to her desk. 

You finally get to focus on your work, but when you stare at your computer screen all you can think about is the way the lace digs into your hips. It’s the kind of thing that wouldn’t bother you on a Thursday or a Friday, when you had plans to hit the bar after work. But on a Monday you wanted stretched, reliable underwear. You still can’t believe that’s the pair he went with, you’re ninety percent sure they have a period stain on them.

You shift uncomfortably in your chair, you want to blame Spencer for this but he couldn't possibly have known the effect he’d have on you when he chose those panties. 

Regardless, you can’t help but glare at him like he did it on purpose. 

  ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

He thought it would be harder to survive a day without sex after the weekend he just had but it’s been surprisingly easy so far. 

His fingers play with the lace of your panties in his pocket while you squirm at your desk across from him, giving him something to focus on as he wonders which panties you wore instead of your pretty pink ones. 

He intends to find out before the day is through. 

At one point you lean forward, put your head in your hands and groan. He doesn’t dare react, who knew you were so set in your routine that something this small could throw a wrench into your day. 

He couldn’t be happier.  

He leaves you alone like he would on any other day. Typically he would spend Monday mornings trying to look down the front of your shirt, he doesn’t do any differently today. 

When Hotch calls for a conference room meeting in ten you look about ready to kill someone. 

“You look pretty uncomfortable for someone who supposedly spent all weekend relaxing.” He mumbles it, quiet enough for only you to hear.

You stare at him, your lips pull into a thin line he’s familiar with and your eyes squint just a fraction of an inch as you focus in on him. He’s seen that face a hundred times. It's the expression you make when you’re profiling someone. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know why I’m so uncomfortable, would you?” You say it so quietly he has to read your lips to put the sentence together. When he smiles in response your eye twitches. “I don’t understand how you could have possibly known any of this.” 

“You continue to severely underestimate the things that I do and do not know.” He returns his focus to his book.

“You're a dick.”

“Yup.”

“How did you even know?”

“I’m observant.” 

“You’re a stalker, it’s actually a little concerning.”

“You like the power imbalance. You’re attracted to people who like you more than you like them.” He looks up from his book, making eye contact with you as he says it. “Do you want them back?” 

“Yes.”

“Okay, let’s trade.”

“What?” 

“Let’s trade, you give me the ones you have on and I’ll give you these ones.” He nods down, gesturing towards the pocket his hand is currently in.

“Absolutely not.”

“I’m sorry then, I can’t help you. You said I could have a pair, it really wouldn’t be fair to make me give these up without something in exchange.”

“You can raid my drawer next time you come over.” He loves hearing you say there’s going to be a next time. 

“I don’t want any of those, I want the ones you have on.” 

“You don’t even know which ones I have on.” 

It’s true, he doesn’t, but he could probably figure it out. 

Looking you up and down he chews on his lip. 

You were in a pastel bra this morning when you got dressed, periwinkle to be precise. You like to match, it’s another layer of your obsession with control. It would have looked cute with the pink, he looked through your drawer just this morning, it’s easy to recall the few pairs he flicked through. 

You had other pink pairs but they were more of a hot pink, it would have clashed with the bra, unless you changed your bra. He tilts his head to the side, shamelessly staring at your chest. You’re in a white button up, he can see the faintest outline of the lace pattern on the underside of your breasts. It matches the lace pattern of the bra you wore this morning, and it would be obvious if you changed your bra to something bright, you’re definitely still in the periwinkle. So you’d have gone with another pastel to match. You had a baby blue thong with thin straps with a rose on the front and a lacy lavender thong with a butterfly pattern in your drawer this morning, both would look nice with your choice of bra but the lavender was closer to the front of the drawer. 

“Purple, lace, butterflies.” He knows he’s dead on when your jaw drops. 

“You’re insane.” 

“I will only trade these for a pair that is purple and lacy.” 

“Unbelieveable, those are my favorites, this is cruel.” You clearly aren’t that distraught because after a quick glance around the bull pen you lean forward in your seat, an imperceptible act if you aren’t paying attention. Fluidly, you reach down, seemingly to scratch your ankle. When you straighten back up you cock an eyebrow at him, holding something in your hand.

He doesn’t bother trying to hide it as he adjusts himself. 

Right as you open your mouth Hotch’s voice rings out across the bull pen. 

“Conference room, now.” 

He doesn’t look your way as he stands but he can hear the squeaking wheel of your chair as you do the same.

As he makes his way across the floor you knock your shoulder against his before shoving something into his pocket, he has to fight the urge to grin as he tilts his head to look at your frowning face. 

“There you go, maybe you can use it as a bookmark, can I have what you promised now?” 

“Sure.” He whispers as he holds the conference room door open for you, simultaneously he presses the pink pair into your palm, you realize pretty quickly that you’re about to be stuck holding onto them for the rest of the meeting, as you move around the table he can see you stuff them into your bra. If looks could kill he’d be dead and you’d be arrested for murder. 

“Dick.” You mouth the word at him as you take a seat at the conference table. 

If you were willing to do this he’s pretty sure he can get away with a lot more. 

  ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

This might be a little bit of a problem. 

Not the panties thing, you don’t mind not wearing panties at the meeting, your skirt is long enough that you aren’t in danger of flashing anybody. It’s more so the way your body is reacting. 

You should be genuinely mad at him. You told him you didn’t want to mess around at work and he immediately started messing around at work. 

But he’s right. You like that he likes you more than you like him. 

You like it a lot. 

You liked hearing him say it, you liked the way it sounded, and you like the way the knowledge feels in your brain. You keep quiet for most of the meeting, trying to not draw too much attention to yourself as you take notes. 

J.J. hands out individual files as she speaks. 

“We’ve got a serial arsonist in Aberdeen, South Dakota. The local fire department is begging for our help but the police are refusing to cooperate. I’ve been assured by the fire chief that we’ll be getting a call from the sheriff within the next forty eight hours and we’ll be invited out.” Everyone quietly flips through everything, it all looks pretty standard, you could write up a profile on this guy in your sleep.

It’s a younger male, likely in his mid to late twenties based on the level of impulsivity you’re seeing, none of his targets seem predetermined, it’s just whatever was convenient. 

You’d be willing to guess that he set his first fire on accident, and he liked it so much he just couldn’t stop himself from escalating further and further. 

He’s going to keep doing so until somebody stops him.

Everyone's lost in thought as Hotch clears his throat. 

“I’d like everyone to stay by their phones tonight, the second we get approval from the local PD we’ll be in the air, is that understood?” Morgan groans, none of you like surprise late night takeoffs, but most of the group nods. 

“Yes sir.” You stare at Spencer when you say it. 

It’s a short and sweet meeting. You stay back for a few minutes with Emily, she has dinner plans tonight she’s really hoping she won’t have to cancel on. Eventually you disperse, she’s on her way to Penelope’s nook to see if she can get some names listed of people who were at the scene of each fire. You plan on doing some research on the selected locations for the rest of the day, specifically the first one. 

It must have been one hell of a first fire to incite the wrath this guy is inflicting upon Aberdeen. 

When you return to your desk after the meeting you find your notebook closed, with furrowed brows you sit, flipping back to the page you were on only to find a pink sticky note stuck to the middle of the page. 

You squint at the mess of squiggles until you realize it’s a shitty doodle of two people sixty-nining, with scribbled text underneath it. 

Have you ever tried this one? 

Immediately, you snap the notebook shut. 

You’d recognize the handwriting anywhere. 

Spencer doesn’t so much as look up from his paperwork as you glare at him, he must feel your scalding gaze though because he’s smirking to himself. 

This is a small, manageable problem, if you can take control of this situation and set some boundaries you can fix this before it becomes a serious issue. 

You shove your notebook into a drawer before you storm off to the bathroom, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of watching you put on your panties at your desk. You’ve done enough damage today just by taking them off at all.

Your face flushes as you lock the bathroom door behind you, a confusing mix of emotions dance through your head. Irritation is at the front of things, followed by a little bit of confusion and something warmer. 

This is not good.

You shouldn’t feel confused, you don’t like feeling confused. You should be irritated and nothing more. Staring at yourself in the mirror you see the woman you’ve fought tooth and nail to become. Put together, assertive, and fearless. The woman in the mirror is put together, she doesn’t look like the kind of person who slips her panties off at her desk just for the thrill of it. 

Even if it’s the hottest thing that’s happened to you in a long time.

Pull yourself together. 

When you leave the bathroom he’s miraculously there. 

Of course, where else would he be if not constantly tormenting you. 

Standing at the end of the hall, chatting with someone from another department. You storm over to him, grabbing his arm and dragging him down an empty hallway.

“We need to talk, now.” You grumble as he grins like an idiot, calling out a rushed goodbye to whoever he was speaking to. When you’re certain the coast is clear you shove him into a utility closet with an Authorized Personnel Only sign. He puts up no protest as you slam the door behind you. 

“Hello.” He’s still smiling from ear to ear as you glare. 

“Don’t hello, me.” You hiss. 

“Why not? I’m just happy to see you.” 

“You can’t act like this at work.” 

“Why not, no one knows.”

“Our entire job is to know, if you start doing shit like this then they’re going to figure it out. We agreed we weren’t going to do shit like this.” You poke a finger into his chest as you say it. 

“Exactly, our entire job is to know, so we know exactly how to act to keep them from finding out. Besides you started it, you took your panties off in the middle of the bullpen, you could have gone to the bathroom but you wanted to do it where everyone could see it.” You had expected the embarrassed, meek Reid you’re used to. When you lash out at him he typically gets quiet, even if he’s still snapping back at you, he shrinks down. Not anymore, apparently you woke up some sexual demon inside of him that has a serious attitude problem. 

“Reid, I-” You’re going to kill him, maybe this was all a mistake. 

“I think you like it.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Your breathing got heavier when you took your panties off, I could see the flush on your skin. You looked like you might start moaning during that team meeting. And you wouldn’t have done it in the first place if you didn’t want to, you had a perfectly good pair on, you did it because you wanted to.” Never once does he reciprocate the anger you’re showing him, he speaks calmly, as if he were discussing facts about a case. 

“Reid-”

“I get it, you want to have the upper hand in this relationship, you’re a control freak, that’s fine. But I think that you like this, you like getting away with something.”

“You’re an idiot.” You start to move past him but he grabs your wrist. 

“You like knowing that you’re smart enough to fool a room full of profilers. I get it, but you aren’t going to fool me. You’re probably wet right now just thinking about it.”

You actually gasp in earnest. 

“Who taught you how to talk like that?” Your eyebrows furrow. 

“Hundred of hours of dedicated porn watching, I also read about fifteen of your dirty books this weekend.” He shrugs.

“You’re insane.”

“There’s a really simple way to prove me wrong.” His fingers start to pull on the waistband of your skirt but you push his hands away, unfortunately if he checks between your legs all he’ll find is proof that he’s right. The last thing you need right now is for him to be any more amped up than he already is. 

“This job is the most important thing in the world to me.” You whisper now. 

“I feel the same way, thankfully, this closet has a lock on the inside.” He clicks it shut to prove his point. “It’s basically asking to be used for dirty secrets.” 

“Reid, we aren’t doing this. We said no messing around at work, we can’t break that rule on day one.”

“Okay, then leave.” He takes a step back, unbuckling his own belt. “Besides those were your rules, not mine.” 

“What are you doing?”

“I’m waiting for you to leave so I can jerk off onto your panties.” He takes your purple thong out of his pocket as if to prove his point. 

“Gross, Reid, what the hell has gotten into you?”

He looks offended that you’d even ask.

“You know exactly what's gotten into me, you spent a whole weekend begging me to be this, telling me you want someone as exciting as you are because men are so boring. I seem a lot more exciting than you right now. If you don’t want to utilize me that’s fine but I’m certainly not going to deny myself.” When you don’t say anything he cocks an eyebrow and abandons his belt, returning his focus to your skirt. “I heard a lot of woe is me this weekend from you about how no one is as fun as you are, or adventurous as you are. So far you are neither of those things.”  

“Reid, I-” You don’t push him away as you try to form a response. 

“If you aren’t going to tell me to stop I’d advise you to stop talking.” He kneels in front of you as he speaks, playing with the hem of your skirt, his knuckles brush up against your knees. 

“Spencer, you’re being ridiculous, I mean seriously-”

“All you have to say is stop, I won’t be mad at you if that’s what you’re worried about. Just say stop, one word, and I’ll stop.” 

He knows you won’t. 

He shoves your skirt up towards your hips before throwing one of your legs over his shoulder so you’re forced up to tip toe on your one remaining planted foot. 

“Reid-” 

“S-T-O-P, do you know what that spells?” You scowl down at him, not humoring him with a response. “Either tell me to stop, or be quiet, I thought you didn’t want anyone to hear?” 

When you don’t respond, that stupid smirk of his only grows. 

“See, I knew you wanted this.” 

“Shut up, or I’ll change my mind.”

“Go ahead, I’ll get off either way.”

“You’re disgu-” The words die in your throat as he hooks a finger around the crotch of your panties, pulling them to the side as he shoves his face between your legs. 

He pulls back just long enough to take a breath and grin at you. 

“I think my time is getting better, I can probably get you out of here in seven or so minutes. Maybe less if this is as hot for you as it is for me.” You grab him by the hair and push him back between your legs to shut him up. 

He’s got your body down to a science. 

With the hand that’s pulled your panties to the side he slips two fingers into you almost immediately. Your own hand flies to your mouth as you bite down onto the meat of your palm to suppress your moan. 

Those two fingers do gods work as he angles them just so, and your vision goes blurry. He flattens his tongue against your clit as he pistons his fingers in and out of you. He’s a perfectly automated machine designed to get you off, that stupidly smart brain of his knows the pace, the depth, the patterns, everything it takes to drive you towards your orgasm.

At the sound of his belt you look down to find his free hand unbuttoning his pants, when he’s freed his cock he wastes no time as he starts to stroke himself. The sight alone makes your head spin as you whimper. 

It’s too much at once, his unrelenting fingers inside of you, his tongue against your flesh, and the sight of him getting off on all of it sends you over the edge before you’re ready for it. The hand that isn’t twisted in his hair clamps over your mouth as a string of muffled curses leaves your throat. Your eyes flutter shut as you grind yourself down against his stupid smug face. Your stomach tightens as you clamp down on his fingers and come undone, his pace doesn’t let up for a second.

He keeps his face between your legs after you finish, his tongue laps at your entrance as he continues to fuck his hand. You don’t mind the slight overstimulation; the problem now is that he’s loud.

“Please-” He mumbles against your cunt. 

“You need to be quiet Reid, I mean it.”

When he groans into your cunt you yank on his hair harder, hoping it’ll be enough to get him to shut up but it only serves to make him moan louder.

“Oh my god if you don’t shut up I will leave, I mean it.” Your threat does nothing to quiet him so you shove his face away as he whines, nimble fingers still wrapped around his cock as he stares up at you from where he kneels. You adjust your skirt, straightening it back into its proper place 

“Are you really gonna go?” He looks like he might cry if you do. 

“No, I'm waiting for you to finish.” When he starts to slide his free hand back up your leg you shake him off, clicking your tongue. “But you're done touching me, since you can’t control yourself.” He pouts as you shrug. 

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You said if I left you’d just jerk off anyway, so go ahead, finish yourself off.” You stare down at him, on his knees in front of you as you cross your arms in front of your chest. 

You sort of hope he’ll show some remorse, a sign of regret for putting himself in this situation. At the very least you hope to see a bit of embarrassment but all you get is that handsome little half smile as he stares up at you, never breaking eye contact as he strokes himself.

It doesn’t take more than a few minutes for him to come, making a mess of the floor between your feet. 

“You’re disgusting.” You don’t intend for it to sound so mean but you’re irritated with yourself right now for letting this happen at all. 

“I’ll clean it up before I go.” He doesn’t sound bothered by your tone as he shoves himself back into his pants, grinning the entire time. 

“You’re unbelievable.” You mumble as he stands.

“And you just can’t help yourself.”

“Stay in here for a few minutes after I leave, jackass.” You roll your eyes as you unlock the door and slip out, rushing back to the bathroom. 

You sort yourself out quickly, straightening your clothes and smoothing your hair out as you glare at yourself in the mirror. 

Pull yourself together for Christ's sake. 

When you return to your desk he’s returned to his own, he glances up at you with a neutral expression before returning his focus to whatever he’s reading. 

And for a few minutes everything is normal, as if nothing happened. When Derek starts a conversation with Emily on the other side of the bullpen Spencer breaks the silence.

“What are your plans for tonight?” He doesn’t look up from his book as he says it, it’s the perfect amount of uncaring. It’s exactly the kind of small talk he’d make on any other day. 

He’s scarily good at this. 

You should say that you’re busy, that you’re having dinner with Emily to catch up on the weekend. 

Instead you look down at the sticky note in your notebook. 

You have tried that one, and you like it, you’d like to try it again. 

“I’m free.” You eventually reply after a long silence. 

“Cool, me too.” 

There’s another long beat of quiet between you as you type on your computer and he writes something down on a file, just two people working for the better part of an hour until he clears his throat. 

“I’m gonna go make coffee, do you want some?” It’s the first time today that he’s loudly said something he normally wouldn’t say to you. It’s so inconsequential you know no one will notice, just a coworker offering their deskmate coffee. 

“Sure.” You nod, returning your attention to your computer as he stands, He slides a face down sticky note across your desk as he walks past. You wait until he’s out of sight to flip it over. 

It’s an address, presumably his. 

And you smile. 

You catch yourself immediately, slamming the little note into your notebook with the other one as you turn to see if he saw, thankfully he’s long gone. 

Shit. 

Shit, shit, shit. 

Maybe this was a mistake, you’re starting to feel like you might have opened Pandora’s box with Reid. You’ve released a lot more than you originally expected.

Maybe it’s a good thing.

Maybe losing his v-card was exactly what he needed to get the confidence he suddenly seems to have. It might help him finally get a girlfriend. 

He’s always been cocky, but this is different, he seems so sure of himself, so sure of you.     

When he returns with two mugs, setting one down on your desk he returns to his reading without another glance in your direction. 

Staring at your own mug it’s a light color, and it smells like your favorite flavoured creamer. 

You need to see him tonight so you can discuss boundaries. 

At least that’s what you tell yourself when you grab your go-bag on the way out of the office. It’s also what you tell yourself when you type his address into your phone and pull up the GPS. And it’s what you tell yourself when you knock on his door. 

  ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

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You weren’t sure if they ever knew about your…..situation with Spencer. You knew for damn sure he wouldn’t have told them, not out of ashamedness, because Spencer has never made you feel as if you are something to hide, but more out of awkwardness and out of respect for his private life. 

But you couldn’t be sure, they were profilers after all. Over the months they must have noticed the lingering touches on your waist as he moved past you, the way he would look at you first if someone made a joke to see if you found it funny, how he would just look at you with longingness. 

If they didn’t put two and two together before, they most certainly did now Spencer wasn’t doing those things. 

Since Spencer ended things with you, there was no such thing as a gentle touch, a warm look from across the room. Now it was replaced with something that appeared cold, indifferent almost. 

You knew better, better than his whole team if you had to put money on it. Spencer wasn’t acting uninterested in you all of a sudden because he was, rather, the opposite. 

In his mind, none of this was linear, you don’t go from strangers to roomates to friends, to fuck buddies to possible lover. 

The whole thing confused him so much that he needed time. Not time away from you, but time to think away from sex. If you were constantly fucking like bunny rabits there was no time to assess his own thoughts. 

The whole night, he sat opposite you. He spoke to you here and there, lighthearted conversations like it had been for the past two weeks. But you could always feel the elephant in the corner, looming over the both of you. The tension was so thick it felt like two opposite sides of a magnet being held apart, slowly threatening to collide with all the words left unsaid between you two. 

There were only so many times you could sit near him and catch his eyes before it all got too much. You both longed to be together, but him and his stubbornness was forcing you to be apart. You expected a few days of his contemplation, not two weeks. 

So much time had passed that you concluded that you must’ve been wrong. He wasn’t in love with you. You thought you knew how his brain worked, and how quickly he would be able to organise his thoughts and feelings and diagnose himself with being hopelessly in love with you. When he didn’t come back home one day and confess his love, you simply expected it to be the next day instead. 

Until tonight, you sit opposite him realising that no such confession was ever coming your way, feeling rather sorry for yourself, upset that you thought you knew better. 

You announced to everyone that you were getting tired and you were going to head home. You wished everyone a goodnight and left. 

They must’ve known that was strange, considering you always left with Spencer, not only because you lived together, but because by the end of the night, you were both itching to get home and rip each other's clothes off. 

You pulled your coat tighter as you started your walk home, the cold air biting the tip of your nose. You approached one particular alley, stopping to look down it. 

You remembered one night when you and Spencer left early, laughing and running down it, tipsy and full of joy, when he stopped you both and pulled you in for a kiss, cupping your head in both of his hands. 

You continued on for barely thirty seconds before you heard your name being called from behind you. 

You turned to see Spencer half jog to catch up with you, his warm breath curling in the cold air. 

“Why did you go?” He asked once he reached you. 

“I couldn’t sit there and pretend nothing’s changed Spencer” You replied, looking at his battered converse. 

“I know, I’m sorry. I know i’ve been distant with you” He shifted his weight between his feet, speaking so quietly you could barely hear him. “I just needed time to think” 

“You’ve had two weeks, that's a lot of thinking” You huffed, your frustration seeping out. “Perhaps it was wrong of me to initiate….. whatever this is the way I did. And I apologise, I never wanted to lose your friendship.”

“You haven’t!--” Spencer started. 

“-Spencer, don’t you see?” You spoke over him. “There's no way we could ever go back to being friends after this. I care about you far too much to be your friend and pretend none of this ever happened” 

“I don’t want–” 

“No Spencer, I understand. I misunderstood the situation differently than you–”

“No–” He tried to interrupt. 

“--Yes” You cut in right away. You were too exhausted to hear him try to appease you with pity you didn’t deserve. 

“-Will you ever fucking let me finish?” He interrupted you quickly, his voice low and gravely, with the slightest hint of passion laced between each word. 

You hated how much that turned you on. Now was not the time. You clicked your neck to ease some of the newfound arousal simmering under your skin. 

“I don’t ever want to be your friend again. Because I’ve been trying to find the words to try and describe the way I feel about you. But there are none. There will never be any words in any language that gives justice to the feelings I have for you” He near shouted, his hands clenching at his sides.

“You plague my mind and heart, It’s been torturous to be near you and not be able to hold you. I see you in our home and all I curse myself for not being enough of a man to tell you I've made a mistake” 

He continued, taking one fractionally small step closer to you. “So yes, I would hate to be your friend too, because it would kill me to just call you my friend when I love you” 

The words hung between you, impossibly still. Spencer swallowed hard, like even saying them had stolen the air from his lungs.

“I told you we couldn't do this anymore because every time we end up in my bed...” He paused, searching for words that refused to come. “...you leave, and suddenly I'm supposed to act like the love of my life didn't just walk back into the room next door” 

“You smile at me the next day like nothing happened, and I smile back because I don't know what else to do. So I thought if I stopped... if I put some distance between us... eventually I'd stop wanting more.” 

He got closer to you to the point where you were sharing the same air. You looked up at him with tears in your eyes, his to match. 

“Instead, all it did was prove that it was never about sex. I need all of you, I can’t run from that anymore” 

He tipped his forehead onto yours, inhaling shakily. You finally put your hands on his waist beneath his coat, feeling him immediately melt beneath your touch. 

Neither of you spoke. Spencer's eyes fluttered closed for the briefest moment, almost as though he'd finally allowed himself to rest. 

One hand slid from beneath his coat, climbing slowly over the buttons of his shirt until your fingertips rested against his jaw. He leaned into your touch instinctively.

"You made me think..." Your voice cracked. "You made me think you regretted me."

His face fell immediately. 

"Never." The answer came so quickly there wasn't even room for thought. "Not once."

You searched his face, looking for even the smallest trace of doubt, there wasn't any, there never had been.

Your thumb brushed over the faint stubble along his cheek, running along his lower lip and jaw before pulling him closer towards you so his lips could finally meet yours. 

His hands found you immediately, cradling your face with such devoutness it almost made you cry all over again. What started off as the purest of kisses, gentle, small touches of lips turned into something much heavier. His teeth catching your bottom lip before sucking it hard, pulling a soft moan from your throat. 

His hands trembled against your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks while his fingers threaded into your hair, gripping tight as if he was terrified you'd disappear.

You pressed your body flush against his, feeling the rapid beat of his heart through his shirt. Your hands slid down his chest, fingers working at his buttons near his waist with shaking urgency until you could slip your palms inside and feel the heat of his skin. Spencer groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your tongue as he kissed you harder, deeper, like he was trying to crawl inside you.

"Fuck," he gasped against your lips, breaking away only long enough to breathe before diving back in. 

His tongue curled around yours, slow and filthy, while his hands dropped to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You could feel him getting hard against your hip, his cock straining against his pants as he ground forward instinctively.

"I love you," he whispered between kisses, the words spilling out like he couldn't hold them back anymore. "I love you, I love you, I love you." 

“I love you too,” you said back, overlapping with his declarations, each punctuated by another desperate kiss, his mouth moving to your jaw, your neck, sucking marks into your skin before returning to your lips like he couldn't stay away.

“Lets go home” You manage to say in between kisses, your voice broken and hoarse. 

He nodded quickly, grabbing your hand, almost tripping on his own feet in his haste to get home. 

He couldn’t keep his hands off you, as you walked, his hands slipped from where they rested under your coat around your waist to your ass, squeezing as you walked, pulling you in for another kiss. 

You shamelessly would retaliate, stroking his erection through his slacks as you kissed him, each whine going straight to your core. 

The door barely clicked shut before Spencer had you slammed against it, his mouth crashing into yours with a force that rattled the frame. His tongue pushed past your lips, claiming every inch of your mouth while his hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints. You could feel his cock straining against his pants, thick and insistent as he ground forward, desperate for friction.

"I need you so much, I can't wait," he growled against your mouth, already working at your shirt with shaking fingers. The fabric tore slightly as he yanked it over your head, but neither of you cared. 

His mouth found your neck immediately, teeth scraping down to your collarbone while his hands fumbled with your bra clasp. When it finally gave, he groaned in relief, palming your breasts roughly before his mouth descended to suck one nipple between his lips.

Your hands were just as frantic, tearing at his shirt until buttons scattered across the floor. You shoved it off his shoulders and went for his belt, yanking it open and shoving his pants down. His cock sprang free, heavy and leaking, the head already glistening. You wrapped your fingers around him, stroking from base to tip, and Spencer bucked into your grip with a broken moan.

"Bedroom," he managed, but the word was barely out before he was lifting you up. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you deeper into the apartment, his cock pressed hot and hard against your stomach. 

He made it as far as the couch before dropping you down and climbing over you, his mouth finding yours again as his hands worked your pants off with desperate urgency.

The moment you were bare, Spencer dropped down your body and spread your thighs wide. He looked up at you with dark, hungry eyes before lowering his mouth to your pussy. His tongue dragged slowly from your entrance up to your clit, tasting how wet you already were for him. The first long lick made your hips jerk, and Spencer groaned against your folds like he was starving.

His tongue circled your clit with firm, wet strokes before dipping lower to push inside you. He fucked you with his tongue, thrusting deep and curling to catch every drop of your arousal. His nose pressed against your clit as he worked, creating friction with every movement of his head.

Your hands found his hair, fingers threading through the strands as he licked and sucked at you. Spencer was relentless, alternating between broad flat licks that covered your entire slit and focused attention on your clit that made your thighs tremble around his head. He sucked the sensitive bundle of nerves between his lips, flicking his tongue against it rapidly while two of his fingers teased your entrance without pushing inside.

"Spencer," you gasped, your back arching off the couch as he worked you over. He responded by pressing his face harder against you, his tongue pushing deeper into your pussy as he tried to taste every inch of you. 

Your hips rolled against his face, grinding your pussy against his mouth as he devoured you. Spencer let you use him, his tongue staying flat and still while you rode his face. Every movement dragged your clit against his tongue, building the pressure inside you until you were shaking with need.

He moaned as you did, the sound vibrating against your sensitive flesh, adding another layer of sensation as he went back to work. His tongue pushed inside you again, fucking you with deep, wet strokes while his nose bumped your clit with every thrust.

You could feel yourself getting closer, the tension building in your core as Spencer worked you with single-minded focus. The sight of him between your thighs, face buried in your heat, was almost too much to handle.

Spencer seemed to sense how close you were getting. He doubled his efforts, his tongue working your clit with rapid flicks while he sucked the sensitive nub between his lips. Two fingers finally pushed inside you, curling against that spot that made your vision go white. He pumped them in time with his tongue, creating a rhythm that had you crying out his name.

The combination of his moans, his fingers, and his relentless tongue pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you in waves, your pussy clenching around his fingers as you came with a broken cry. Spencer didn't stop, his tongue gentling but still working as he licked you through it, tasting every drop of your release.

Even after you came down, he stayed between your thighs, pressing soft kisses to your sensitive pussy. His tongue made lazy circles around your clit, avoiding direct contact as you twitched and shuddered from overstimulation. 

His fingers slipped out of you slowly, and he brought them to his mouth to suck them clean while maintaining eye contact.

"I love how you taste," he said, voice hoarse. He pressed one more kiss to your clit before climbing up your body, his hard cock dragging against your thigh as he settled between your legs.

His mouth found yours in a deep kiss, and you could taste yourself on his tongue. The evidence of what he'd done to you was all over his face, his chin still wet from your arousal. Spencer didn't seem to care, kissing you like he was trying to devour you whole.

"Need to be inside you," he groaned against your lips, his cock pressing against your entrance. He pushed forward slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank into your wet heat.

The stretch was perfect, your body still sensitive from his mouth. Spencer buried himself to the hilt with a shaky groan, his forehead pressed to yours as he fought for control. "So fucking tight," he breathed. "God, I love you."

He started moving with long, deep thrusts that had you gasping beneath him. Each stroke dragged his cock against your sensitive walls, hitting spots that made your toes curl. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise as he fucked you with desperate intensity.

"Missed this," he panted against your neck. "Missed being inside you." His thrusts grew harder, more urgent, the couch creaking beneath you with every movement.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper as he pounded into you. The new angle had his cock hitting your cervix with every thrust, the sensation bordering on too much but exactly what you needed. Spencer's hand found your clit again, rubbing tight circles that had you seeing stars.

You came with a cry, your pussy clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed through you. Spencer followed right after, burying himself deep as he came with a broken moan of your name. You could feel him pulsing inside you, filling you with hot spurts of cum as his whole body shook with the force of his release.

Even after, he didn't pull out. He stayed buried inside you, kissing you slow and deep while his hands stroked over your skin with trembling tenderness. 

"Never letting you go," he whispered against your lips. "Never letting anyone take you from me. You're mine. All mine."

Spencer shifted slightly, his softening cock still inside you as he adjusted your position on the couch. He pulled you closer, arranging your bodies so you were half on top of him, his arms wrapped around you protectively.

"I truly did miss you. I want you to know that, not just sex. I missed all of you " he said quietly, his fingers tracing patterns on your back. "What happened before... being apart... it nearly killed me. I don't want to do that again. I can't pretend I don't need you."

“I missed you too, but you don’t need to anymore. I’m all yours, Spencer, I always have been” 

You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, steady and strong. The apartment was quiet around you, the only sounds your breathing and the distant hum of traffic outside. 

Spencer's hand moved to your hair, stroking through the strands with gentle fingers. 

His cock twitched inside you, already starting to harden again as he held you close. The sensation made you shift against him, and Spencer groaned softly at the movement. 

"I can't get enough of you," he admitted. “I’m already getting hard again” he smiled against your lips. 

You rolled your hips experimentally with a smirk, feeling him grow harder inside you. Spencer's grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into your skin. 

"Good, because I’m still not done with you "you say, your voice still rough from your earlier cries. The words scrape against your throat, raw and honest. "Two weeks without you is far too long." Your fingers trace the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble that's grown in since this morning.

The words seem to unlock something in him. Spencer's hazel eyes darken, the brown and green swirling like storm clouds. In one fluid motion that surprises you with its strength, he flips you both over. The world tilts, and suddenly you're straddling him on the couch, his body beneath yours, your knees sinking into the cushions on either of his hips.

"Then take what you want," he said, his hands settling on your hips. His eyes were dark with renewed desire, watching you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.

You started moving slowly, rolling your hips in circles that ground your clit against his pelvis. Spencer's cock was fully hard again, thick and hot inside you as you worked yourself on him. His hands guided your movements, helping you find a rhythm that had both of you breathing hard.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice strained. "Show me how much you missed me." His words send heat through you, pooling low in your belly. You pick up the pace, bouncing on his length with increasing urgency. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, a rhythmic slap that marks your tempo. His dick fills you completely, stretching your pussy with each downward thrust.

Spencer sat up to meet you, his mouth finding your breasts as you rode him. He sucked one nipple between his lips, his tongue flicking against the sensitive peak while his hands gripped your ass. The new position had him hitting different angles inside you, his cock dragging against spots that made your vision blur.

You could feel another orgasm building, the pressure coiling tighter with each movement. Spencer's hand moved between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles that had you gasping. The dual stimulation was almost too much, pushing you closer to the edge with every thrust.

Your orgasm crashes through you with devastating intensity, your pussy clenching around him as you come with a broken cry. Waves of pleasure roll through your body, making your toes curl and your back arch. 

Spencer holds you through it, his hands steady on your hips as you shake and tremble above him. Your vision whites out, all sensation narrowing to the points where your bodies connect.

He followed you over the edge, his cock pulsing inside you as he came with a groan of your name. You could feel him filling you again, his cum mixing with your own wetness as he held you close through his release.

This time when you came down, Spencer carefully lifted you off his cock and arranged you both on the couch. He pulled a throw blanket over your bodies, tucking it around you with gentle hands. His arms wrapped around you, holding you against his chest as your breathing slowly returned to normal.

"Stay with me tonight," he said quietly, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm. "In my bed I mean,. I don't want to wake up without you again." The vulnerability in his voice made your chest tight, and you pressed closer to him, seeking his warmth.

"Of course," you promised, and felt him relax beneath you. “Also, we might need to discuss who’s bedroom we will be moving into” 

Spencer pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his arms tightening around you. “Mine, obviously. There’s more space I have a bigger bed” 

“Okay. As long as we can have my plants and other trinkets in there” You say, tracing absent shapes on his bare back. 

“I think I can manage that” He smiled, flicking his nose against yours.

“I love you” You whisper. 

Being in love with Spencer didn’t feel new, as somewhere along the way, between the shared bedroom walls, movie marathons, takeouts and mind boggling sex, you had both already fallen in love. 

Love had woven itself into the ordinary, into the books you shared, into the photobooth pictures of the pair of you on the fridge, into the mugs left in the sink because you knew he’d use them again. 

You had recognised it long before you found the courage to name it. Spencer had simply been slower to see what had been right in front of him.

He hadn't fallen in love tonight, He’d simply realised that you'd been already living inside it all along.

Decision made, you opened the door slowly. You expected him to be asleep, but instead you were met with Spencer reading, his back resting against the backboard, the room only illuminated by the lamp in the corner of the room. 

He didn’t say anything, just watched as you walked to the stand at the end of the bed, his eyes greedily taking you in, sweeping up and down. 

You kept your eyes fixed on his as you slowly started to peel your top off your body over your head, throwing it on the ground with little regard. 

Spencer sat his book aside, his eyes never leaving yours as he sat up a little straighter. 

You tucked your thumbs under the waistband of your skirt, pulling it down antagonisingly slowly. Spencer swallowed and his eyes widened as it hit the floor with a small thump. 

Despite seeing you naked on numerous occasions, he never seemed to take it for granted. He always looked at you like it was the first time. 

You carried on until you were completely bare in front of him, taking your hairclip out to allow your hair to fall free. Spencer's hands flexed at his sides momentarily. 

You crawled towards him deliberately slowly, your hair falling over one shoulder.  His hand came up to touch your arm, you swatted it away. 

Leaning in close to his face, your lips inches away from his, you whispered. “Are you going to be good for me?” 

“Yes” he stammered out, voice thick and shaky. Nodding as he spoke. 

You loved when Spencer took the reins, when he pounded into you and made you cum over and over again, but it took little real investigation to know that this side was within him. You saw it in the way you would grip his hair, bite him, stick your thumb in his mouth. 

“Good boy” you say. “Lie flat” 

Spencer listened to your command with no obligation, sliding down the headboard and resting his head on his pillow. 

You made your way further up his body until your knees sat either side of his head, his hands automatically resting on your thighs. You put one hand on the headboard, the other threading through his hair. 

Spencer didn't hesitate. He surged upward, his tongue darting out to swipe a long, wet stroke all the way up to your clit. You gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling his head firmly against you. 

He began to lap at you with a feverish pace, his tongue flat and broad, tasting every drop of your arousal. He groaned into your folds, the sound vibrating through your entire body, as he used his lips to suck your clit into his mouth, pulling and swirling it with a rhythmic intensity.

You arched your back, your hand gripping the headboard for leverage as he worked. He was thorough, his tongue flicking rapidly against your most sensitive spot while his hands squeezed your thighs, anchoring you to him. 

He was eating you like he were starving, his nose buried in your scent, making wet, sloppy sounds that filled the quiet room.

You could feel the tension building in your lower belly, the familiar coil of an orgasm tightening. As you felt the first wave of your climax hit, you pushed yourself down harder against his face, muffling his moans with your wetness. 

You shuddered, your internal muscles pulsing violently against his tongue as you came, a loud, unrestrained moan escaping your lips. Spencer didn't pull away. 

Even as you trembled, he continued to lick and suck, cleaning every drop of your come from your skin with a devotion that bordered on worship.

Once the tremors subsided, you slowly lifted yourself off him, leaving him breathless and glistening. You looked down at him, a smirk playing on your lips.

You reached your hand down between both your bodies to rub his cock through his boxers. He whined, leaning forward to try to kiss you. 

Tutting, you leaned back, sly smile on your face. “Nuh Uh” 

You slipped your fingers underneath his waistband and pulled them off quickly. Leaving his cock aching and twitching in the cool air. 

You watched him squirm beneath you, his hips twitching instinctively as you avoided the very thing he was craving. Every kiss you pressed into his inner thigh or the soft skin of his hip made him gasp, his breath hitching in a desperate rhythm. He was a taut string, vibrating with a need so intense it was almost tangible in the air between you.

Finally, you looked up at him, your eyes hooded, seeing the sheer agony of desire etched into his features. His cock was fully erect, a thick, pulsing vein running along the side, leaking a bead of pre-cum that glistened under the dim light of the lamp.

Without a word, you leaned in and swiped your tongue along the length of him, from the base all the way to the head, groaning at the taste of the salt and musk of him. 

Spencer let out a strangled moan, his head slamming back against the pillow, his fingers curling into the bedsheets.

You opened your mouth and took him in, sliding your lips over the head of his cock with a wet, sloppy sound. 

You didn't just suck; you focused your attention on the sensitive underside, the frenulum, flicking your tongue rapidly against the most nerve-dense part of him. 

You swirled your tongue around the rim, creating a vacuum of heat and moisture that made him shudder violently.

"Please," he whimpered, his voice a broken rasp.

You ignored his plea, increasing the pace. You took him deeper, your throat tightening around him, while your tongue continued to tease and lash at the underside of his shaft. 

Spencer was losing it. His thighs trembled, and his hips began to buck upward, driven by a primal urge to thrust into your mouth. But as soon as he moved too much, you paused, pulling back just an inch and giving him a warning look. 

He froze instantly, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and glazed. He stayed still, enduring the exquisite torture of your mouth, his hands gripping the comforter so hard his knuckles were white.

You went back to work, becoming even more precise, using your tongue to work in small, frantic circles on the underside, driving him closer and closer to the edge. He was twitching now, his entire body humming with tension, his breath coming in short and jagged. 

Just when he was teetering on the edge, you pulled back completely with a smirk. Releasing him with a soft, wet pop. 

Spencer's eyes remained completely screwed shut, his hips shifting and twitching, trying to fight back his orgasm. You had never thought he had looked more beautiful. You wanted to end his torture, but you didn’t. You both knew the end result would be better off if you prolonged. 

“You can only come when I tell you you can” You say as you straddle his lap, placing your hands flat against his chest. 

He whined at your words, but nodded anyway. You took his hands and placed them above his head.

“Don’t move your hands. If you do, I’ll have to punish you” 

The words that left your mouth surprised you. Being this horny apparently turned you into some sort of succubus. Perhaps your version of Spencer's Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. 

You angled your hips just right, so his cock rested at your entrance. You pushed down until only his tip entered, leaving it inside for one brief moment to pull back. You repeated this process until Spencer was a blubbering mess beneath you, whining and twitching with impatience. 

His hands still remained above his head throughout it all, you rewarded his good behaviour with a kiss and finally sinking down all the way to the hilt. 

Your head lazily rolled all the way around as you groaned, feeling impossibly full from him. He was always the perfect fit, nothing could ever compare. Perhaps that was one of the reasons no matter what you said, there would never be a last time. 

You stayed still for a moment, savoring the friction and the sheer heat of his cock buried deep inside. Spencer let out a sound that was half-sob, half-groan, his chest heaving beneath your palms. His eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide and glazed with a mixture of desperation and devotion. 

He looked like he was on the verge of shattering, his entire body vibrating with the effort of keeping his hands pinned above his head.

"You're so... fuck, you're so tight," he gasped, his voice trembling.

You smirked, leaning forward so your breasts brushed against his chest, your hair falling like a curtain around both your faces. "Am I, Spencer? Do I feel good?"

"Yes... please... god, yes," he whimpered, his hips giving a small, involuntary twitch upward.

You didn't let him move. Instead, you gripped his shoulders, pinning him further into the mattress, and began to move. You started slow, lifting yourself just enough to let the head of his cock slip out before slamming back down, burying him to the hilt with a wet, slapping sound.

The rhythm was deliberate and punishing. You weren't just fucking him, you were claiming him, even if you had no right to do so. 

Every time you descended, you felt him pulse inside you, his cock swelling even further as he fought the urge to thrust back. You could feel the tension in his thighs, the way his abdominal muscles were locked tight, his body a coiled spring of pure sexual frustration.

"Keep those hands still, good boy," you whispered, your voice a low, sultry command.

You increased the pace, your movements becoming more frantic and primal. You began to grind your clit against the base of his shaft, seeking your own pleasure while driving him further into the red. 

Spencer was no longer just moaning, he was making guttural, animalistic sounds. He was right on the edge, his breathing coming in ragged, desperate hitches. You could feel him twitching inside you, the tell-tale signs that he was seconds away from blowing.

You felt your own orgasm building, a tight coil of heat in your belly that threatened to snap. You leaned down, biting his earlobe hard enough to make him yelp, your voice a commanding hiss.

"I can feel you, Spencer. I can feel how badly you want to cum for me."

"I do... I'm... I'm right there... please!" he begged, his voice breaking.

You paused abruptly, freezing your hips mid-stroke, leaving him suspended in the most agonizing moment of anticipation. You looked down at him, seeing the sheer desperation in his eyes, the way he was practically vibrating beneath you.

"Not yet," you whispered, a cruel, beautiful smile on your lips. "I didn't tell you that you could."

You shifted your weight, lifting your hips. You reached up, grabbing his wrists and dragging his hands down from above his head, guiding them with a firm grip until his palms were pressed flat against the underside of your thighs.

Slowly, you fell forward, pressing your chest flush against his, your skin slick with sweat and heat, feeling of his racing heart hammering against your own ribs. 

Spencer froze for a second, his breath hitching. He knew the rules, but the placement of his hands was an invitation he couldn't ignore. He began to move, his hips bucking upward in slow, agonizingly deliberate thrusts. 

Because he was already balanced on the edge of climax, he was moving with cautious, trembling precision, terrified that one too-deep plunge would shatter his control and send him over the edge.

You had planned this perfectly. By giving him the physical means to drive himself into you, you had increased his torture. Now, the responsibility of his restraint lay entirely in his own muscles, and you could feel him shaking under the pressure. 

He was no longer just a passive recipient of your pleasure; he was fighting his own body, struggling to maintain the pace you demanded while his cock pulsed violently inside your tight, wet walls.

"That's it," you whispered into the crook of his neck, your voice thick with desire. "Slow... just like that. Don't ruin this by rushing."

Spencer let out a broken sound, a whimpering groan that vibrated through his chest and into yours. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, anchoring you to him as he pushed up again, the wet, squelching sound of your pussy gripping his shaft filling the air. He was gasping for air, his eyes squeezed shut in a mask of pure, concentrated ecstasy and desperation.

He was fighting for every second, his hips twitching with the instinctive urge to slam into you with everything he had, but he held back, terrified of the punishment—or the loss of your approval. You could feel the pre-cum leaking from him, lubricating the friction as he continued to grind upward.

You arched your back, grinding your clit hard against the base of his cock, your own climax beginning to ripple through you. You loved the way he was struggling, the way he was completely at your mercy even while he was the one doing the thrusting.

"You're doing so well, Spencer," you breathed, your voice a teasing caress. "So close... I can feel you trembling. Do you want to let go? Do you want to fill me up?"

"Please..." he sobbed, his voice barely a whisper, his hips giving a sudden, sharp jerk that nearly sent him over. "Please, I can't... I can't hold it..."

“Make me cum and you can,” 

Spencer gasped, the words barely leaving his lips before his restraint snapped.

The slow, agonizing torture was over. He clearly didn't care about the rules anymore; he didn't care about the permission he had been begging for. He must’ve been able feel the tremors racking your body, the way your internal muscles were beginning to squeeze his cock in rhythmic, desperate pulses. He knew you were right there, balanced on the same edge as he was, and the realization triggered something primal in him.

With a guttural groan, Spencer stopped the cautious movements. He gripped your thighs with bruising force, his fingers digging deep into your skin, and began to buck upward with violent, unrestrained power.

The change in pace was electric. The slow grinds were replaced by hard, slapping thrusts that drove his cock deep into you, bottoming out with a wet, heavy thud every single time.

He was fucking you with a desperate, starving intensity, his entire body shaking with the effort. He wasn't just seeking his own release anymore; he was hunting for yours. He drove himself into you harder and faster, his cock rubbing aggressively against your G-spot and grinding into your clit with every upward surge.

"Come for me," he groaned, his voice raw and commanding, a sudden flip in the power dynamic as he focused entirely on your pleasure. "Fuck, you're so tight... just come already!"

You let out a loud, piercing scream, your head falling into the crook of his neck as the friction became unbearable in the best way possible. The sheer force of his thrusts was overloading your senses, pushing you past the point of no return. 

Your walls clamped down on him, tightening around his shaft with violent contractions that nearly sent him over the edge instantly, but he pushed through it, determined to see you shatter first.

He hammered into you one last time, a deep, punishing plunge that just near hit your cervix, sending a massive electrical shock through your entire nervous system.

Your orgasm ripped through you in waves of blinding intensity, your pussy gripping his cock in a series of tight, rhythmic spasms that sucked him deeper into your heat. You collapsed against his chest, sobbing and shaking, your body vibrating with the aftershocks of a massive climax.

The moment you peaked, Spencer lost every shred of control he had left. The feeling of your orgasm clamping around him was the final straw. He let out a choked, animalistic sound and gave one final, powerful thrust, burying himself as deep as he could possibly go.

He stiffened, his back arching off the bed as he finally exploded. You could feel the hot, thick ropes of his cum pulsing violently inside you, filling you up with wave after wave heat. 

He groaned loudly, his eyes rolling back in his head as he spent himself completely, his cock throbbing inside you while he shuddered in the grip of a long-overdue, crashing release.

Re remained inside of you as you stayed laying on top of him, his hands tracing indistinct shapes on your back softly.

Spencer gently squeezed your behind, the touch was a stark contrast to the bruising grip he’d had on you just moments ago. You leaned up, your skin still flushed and humming, just enough to lock eyes with him.

His gaze was soft, the pupils still blown wide from the rush of endorphins, filled with a complicated devotion. He reached up, his fingers grazing your cheek with a lightness that felt almost sacred, and slowly pushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

In that quiet look, the realization hit you again.  He had systematically ruined every other man for you. No one else knew the exact rhythm of your body, the precise way to push you to the edge, or how to surrender to you so completely. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

The silence was broken by a voice that sounded frayed, barely a whisper.

“I can’t do this again,” he said quietly.

The words landed like a physical blow. For as long as this had been going on, it had always been you playing the part of the one trying to walk away, with Spencer simply agreeing, both of you knowing you were lying. 

You had spent months in a cycle of desperate returns, crawling back to each other the moment the distance became unbearable. Hearing him be the one to draw the line hurt deeply, a sharp ache in your chest that mirrored the fading throb of your orgasm.

But as you looked at him, the pain shifted into a sudden, crystalline clarity.

Slowly, you pulled away from him. The sudden absence of his heat, the loss of him filling you, left you feeling cold and exposed. 

You leaned back in, pressing your lips to his in the smallest of kisses. In any other context, it would have felt like a final goodbye, a closing of a chapter. But here, it felt like reassurance. It was a promise whispered without words.

You stood up and walked out of his room, the door clicking softly behind you.

As you moved down the hallway, the smile remained on your face.

Despite the finality in his tone, you knew Spencer better than he knew himself. He wasn't pushing you away because he wanted you gone; he was pushing you away because the hunger had evolved into something he could no longer control. 

He was terrified of that truth, you knew it was only a matter of time before he realized it too.

a.n I couldn't not write again for these two. There's something so sexy about everything left unspoken 🫦

TAGLIST: @sweet-t33a @unlikelylovebarbarian @cocoabears @cryingoblivioneden @haydenssweetheart @sabbiabbydabbywabbie @moonz33@throughmylifetimesiwatchtheworld @pinkpantheris

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

“Is this okay?” He pulls away from you, a lock of his hair brushes against your cheek. 

You’re a little surprised by your own breathlessness.

“Absolutely.” 

“I umm… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” 

“What we’re doing is fine,” You plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth, and another on his jaw. “do you want me to get on top?

“Yes, please.” He nods, letting you put your hands on his shoulders as you ease him down onto the bed next to you before swinging your leg over his lap. 

His face is already red, god you love that, hair askew as he stares up at you with pupils blown, his hands awkwardly twitching at his sides.

“You can touch me, start with my waist and see what feels right.” You take his wrists, guiding his hands to your hips. You’ve obviously seen his hands before, but now, while they’re against your skin you’re surprised by how massive they are. Prominent veins along the back, and long, agile fingers, gripping the fleece fabric of your pants for dear life. 

His back arches off the mattress as he lets out a breathy whine, gasping as you press him back down. A rather noticeable bulge presses against your thigh in the process. 

Out of breath and needy beneath you, you come to a nauseating realization that you can’t believe you didn’t see sooner. 

Reid is fucking hot. 

You’ve noticed things before, he doesn’t have a completely terrible face, and he’s tall. When he wears fitted shirts you’ve certainly noticed an appealing figure, even if he’s annoying, you aren’t blind. His hair is always a mess, and he has no idea what he’s doing with it but right now, the way it falls in a pretty halo against your pillow… you’re feeling a little mesmerized by the discovery that he isn’t just objectively attractive. 

He’s hot, like really hot. 

Maybe it’s just the atmosphere, or maybe it’s situational, but right now, you’re noticing some perplexing details about him that just don’t add up with the irritating nuisance you’ve always taken him for. 

Like the curve of his lips, and the sharp angular point of his nose, you’d like to feel it pressed against your skin. His jaw is honestly a little ridiculous now that you’re really, properly, staring at him, it’s absurdly sharp, and he’s got a fucking movie star chin. And he’s clean, which is the oddest detail to notice, but his nails are recently trimmed and tidy, and he smells good. He clearly takes care of himself in a way most of the men you meet out at bars don’t.  

The way his hands twitch against the fabric of your pants, gently drawing them lower so he can run his fingertips against your bare skin is hot. The way his hips are desperately grinding up against you as you try to pin him down, is hot. And his stupid glasses are stupidly hot. 

“Is everything okay?” His voice snaps you out of it. 

Shit. 

“Sorry, yes, everything’s fine.”

“Can- can we keep kissing please?” His grip on you tightens as you let out an airy laugh.

Leaning down you cup his face with both hands, pressing your lips to his again, he’s hungry. His teeth graze your bottom lip as his tongue pokes at your teeth until you open your mouth. 

He doesn’t kiss the way you’d think a virgin would. He isn’t timid as he shoves his tongue into your mouth, desperate and ravenous. All teeth and tongue, and in a rush. One of his hands rests on the side of your face, his ridiculously large hands that practically engulf half of your head. 

 Eventually his hands wander, clearly nervous as he lets one slide down your thigh, the other slips under your shirt but he doesn't seem to have the confidence to drift any higher than your stomach. He whines when you break away from the kiss, taking his wrist you guide his hand up until your tank tops riding up and his hand is placed over your chest. You’d think you were granting him the greatest pleasure imaginable based on the way he moans, his head falling back in the process.

“Do you own any sex toys?” His voice is high pitched and strained. He squirms, breathing heavy as he cautiously squeezes, whimpering as his fingers dig into your soft flesh. 

The question makes your brows furrow. It’s not exactly the dirty talk you’re used to. 

“Yes, obviously, but I don’t see how that’s relevant.” 

“I’m just trying to plan ahead, while there’s no specific statistic, almost all men experience premature ejaculation when having intercourse for the first time. I’d like to have options to assist me afterwards since I doubt you’re going to achieve climax from ten seconds of penetrative intercourse.” He rambles, in that way you’re used to, except now his eyes are tightly shut, his fingertips glide over your nipple making your breath hitch. 

You stare down at him, eyebrows drawn together as you try and make sense of what he just said. Both of his hands return to their place on your waist, his fingers dig in just a little too hard, not that you mind  

“That’s…” Kind of sweet, in an insane, ‘only Spencer would think of that’ kind of way. “not something I’m really worried about right now. Let’s just focus on you right now.”

He nods and you take the opportunity to tilt his head up so you can nip at his neck, grazing your teeth along the edge of his jaw before you bite his ear. 

“Fuck-” He whines as you run your tongue over his ear lobe. You hardly have to grind your hips against his, he’s busying himself with doing it himself. His hands hold you in place as he thrusts up against you. You brace your hands on his shoulders, sitting up so you can look at him. 

His eyes are still squeezed shut tightly as he whimpers. His teeth dig into his bottom lip so hard you’re worried he’s going to break the skin. 

So fucking pretty. 

Unfairly so. 

The flush on his face and neck, the hair falling into his face, the noises he’s making. He’s so fucking loud. You’re sure you’ll be getting some dirty looks from your neighbors after tonight. Whining and groaning as he humps you, you haven’t even taken your clothes off and he’s putty in your hands. 

“Oh my god.” He keens as his head pushes back against the pillow. You wrap your fingers around his throat gently, with the intention of getting his attention but the sound he makes when you do catches you completely off guard. A strangled cry as he goes rigid beneath you, groaning as he gasps. “Fuck, shit… fuck.” He spits out a slew of curses through his teeth until his head falls back, the veins in his neck prominent as he cries out. 

No fucking way. 

Just like that there’s a wet warmth between your legs and a stain on his pants as he cringes. 

“I’m sorry.” He buries his face in his hands, you take the opportunity to tangle your fingers in his hair, scratching his scalp. 

You couldn’t be more thrilled, your grin spreads from ear to ear. 

“For what?” You try to keep the teasing tone out of your voice but it slips through. 

He only groans in embarrassment. 

“Don’t be sorry, it’s extremely flattering.” You tug on his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. You really do mean it, when was the last time you had this effect on a guy? Let alone a guy you hardly ever see in compromising positions? The most condescending, insufferable man you know just came in his pants before you so much as took your top off.  

This makes every correction, interruption, and outright rude comment he’s ever made, totally worth it. 

“Please don’t patronize me.” 

“I’m serious, don’t worry about it. How long does it normally take for you to recover? Do you need me to get you some water?” You start to lift off of him but he holds you in place, shifting his hips as he stares up at you. Face still hot with embarrassment.

“I’m all good.” 

“Are you sure?” His hips buck up against you, you have to brace yourself against the headboard so you don’t fall off of him but he gets his point across when you feel him already hardening again after just a few moments. 

Jesus. 

“Pretty sure.” He whimpers. 

“Why don’t you get on top for this part, I think if you control the pace you’ll last a little longer.” You climb off of him, laying back against the pillows. He watches, tongue poking out to wet his lips as you kick your pajama pants off, you wore a pair of pretty red panties for the occasion. He stares at you like it’s his first time seeing a woman, wide eyed and slack jawed. You can’t help but grin. “Take your pants off, Reid.” 

He nods frantically, he couldn’t move faster if he tried as he kicks his pants down to his ankles and off of the bed. There’s an obvious wet patch on his boxers and an impressive bulge you’re eager to set free. 

“Can you take those off too? And your shirt?” You point down and up, he simply continues to nod as he tosses his shirt aside, his fingers lingering at his waistband. You could ask him to do quite literally anything and in this moment he’d do it with a smile. 

You don’t even get to enjoy that fact because you continue to be faced by the horrifying truth of his hotness. 

Slender and scrawny Reid is hiding some fucking arms under those dress shirts and cardigans. He’s got a little blonde patch of chesthair, and his chest is about as toned as you’d imagine for a human encyclopedia. But his arms, you’re gawking at his biceps. It’s a subtle muscle, you get a really good look right as he’s pulling his shirt over his head as he flexes. 

You don’t get a lot of time to dwell on that as he shoves his boxers down, and there’s no going back. 

You watch as his cock slaps against his stomach and you can’t focus on anything else in the room. An asteroid could hit your apartment building and you’d still be staring at the monster between his legs.   

No fucking way.

“Jesus Reid, what the fuck?” You sit up straighter as he shoves his boxers down his legs until he’s kneeling in front of you completely naked. 

“What?” He’s quick to nervously cover himself with his hands but you kick his arms away as you stare, dumbfounded by the sight of him. 

“You’ve just been walking around with this thing? I’m surprised you don’t limp everywhere, you’ve got a third fucking leg.” 

“Shut up.” You didn’t think his face could get any redder but he proves you wrong, blush spreads down his neck, and across his chest. 

“Seriously, what the fuck?” 

“Was I supposed to announce it to everyone? It’s a slightly above average sized penis.” Maybe in the porn industry it’s slightly above average. 

Boy genius has the biggest cock you’ve ever seen, and you’ve seen plenty. 

“How is this fair?” Your eye is practically twitching.

“How is what fair?”

“You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met and you’ve been blessed with this, and you don’t even use it.”

“I can’t be that annoying or we wouldn’t be here right now.” He mumbles under his breath, beet red at this point. 

You only scowl in response, laying back, you raise an eyebrow at him. 

“What do you want me to do now?” His voice is still tinged with a high pitched embarrassment. 

“What do you want to do?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious at this point.” It certainly is, his cock stands at attention, tip red and slick with his previous release. You can’t help but eye the thick vein running along the underside, from base to tip. Just like the rest of him, his cock is aggravatingly pretty. He shifts nervously. “Stop staring at it, you’re making me self conscious.” He grumbles.

“You have no reason to be self conscious, come here.” You pat the space between your legs, bending your knees so he can slot himself between them. “Take my panties off, Reid.” 

You don’t have to tell him twice. 

Nimble fingers wrap themselves around the fabric at your hips, lingering there and trembling softly as he runs the pad of his thumb across the lace band.

When he doesn’t make a move to pull them down you clear your throat. 

“So like… you know what to do, right?”

“Of course I know what to do.” He sounds a bit shrill.

“Would you like some guidance?”

“I just don’t want to mess up.” He sits back, fingers twitching against his palms. 

“You won’t, you’re too much of an overachiever for that.”

“I’ve seen a lot of videos, and I’ve read a lot of information, so I know there’s a few different things I can do to start. I just don’t want to do the wrong thing.”

“There is no wrong thing, Reid. It’s sex, it’s free flowing, it’s natural. Whatever you do is the right thing to do.” 

“But it’s you. And you’re staring at me with your eyes and touching me with your hands and talking to me with your mouth.”

He has such an endearing vulnerability about him. At work all you get is an argumentative, know-it-all, it’s a little jarring to see him so unsure. It makes you wonder if you should have done this at all. 

“Reid.” 

“What.”

“We don’t have to do this.”

“I want to.”

“Really? Cause you’re looking at me like a frightened deer. I’m not going to disappear, and I’m not going to make fun of you. But you need to relax, if you don’t want to do this that’s fine but-”

“I do.” You believe it, he sounds almost panicked at the thought of not. 

“Then you need to relax.”

“Can you- can you just keep telling me what to do?” His head falls forward, staring down as he mumbles. 

“Do you like it when I do that?”

You brush his hair out of his face as he nods. 

“You can start by taking my panties off, you’ll feel a lot better if you aren’t the only one with your clothes off.” 

He does exactly as he’s told, this time when his fingers grip the fabric he’s quick to tug them down your thighs. You lift your hips to help him, watching as he carefully brings them to your ankles before removing them completely. 

The look in his eyes as he stares between your legs is exactly why you decided to give him a chance in the first place. 

Devotion.

His eyes are more pupil than iris as he stares silently, tongue poking out to wet his lips before he chews on them, a habit you’re noticing more and more from him. 

“I’m gonna need you to warm me up before you stick that thing in me.” You take his hand, resting it on your inner thigh, his fingers fidget nervously against you. “Why don’t we start with fingers, or if you want I can do it myself.”

“I want to do it.” He answers quickly, gripping the soft flesh of your thigh.

“Okay, start with one, and I’ll tell you when to add another.”

“Okay.” His breathing is heavy as you take him by the wrist, leading him gently between your legs, your breath hitches as his fingers slide between your folds, his cock twitches against his belly the second he feels the wetness pooling there. You guide him to your entrance, letting your eyes flutter shut as he finally presses a finger into you. 

It’s definitely been a while. 

You don’t want to make a fool of yourself but it feels so good to have another person touch you, especially considering the last couple of months have been entirely your own hand and toys. 

“Is this okay?” His voice is hoarse as he slowly starts to withdraw. 

“Perfect.” You squeak out, taking a deep breath. “I can probably take another.” You aren’t ready for it yet but the burn is so good you can’t help yourself. 

He’s happy to oblige, two fingers slide through the slick of your folds before delving into your cunt. He’s slow and precise as he moves in and out, hesitating when you groan, before repeating the motion that pulled that reaction from you in an attempt to hear it again. 

“Curl your fingers.” You dig your nails into the sheets around you, struggling to keep your voice even as he does so, hitting that spongey spot inside of you that makes your back arch off the mattress. “Just like that.” You hiss through your teeth.  

Oh he’s good. 

Your expectations were low, even if you didn’t want to tell him that, but he’s good. He doesn’t just do what’s hard or fast, when you open your eyes he’s studying you. Any noise you make, you make twice, because he tests everything. Curling his fingers, scissoring them, angling them up against you. His free hand eventually comes to rest on your pelvis, applying pressure as he simultaneously crooks his fingers, grinning when you cover your mouth with your hand in a failed attempt to stifle a groan. So rarely do you see such an earnest smile from him directed at you. Your reaction leaves him smiling like an idiot as he does it again, and again, and again, until you sit up and gently push on his shoulders until he withdraws his fingers.

“Where’d you learn that one?” You try to keep your voice steady, your core is buzzing from the sudden withdrawal.

“The internet.”

“For someone who claims to hate all technology you seem to spend a lot of time on the internet.”

“Sure do.” He shrugs, thankfully much less nervous. 

You can’t take your eyes off of him as you lean back, resting your head against the pillows as he brings his fingers to his lips with zero hesitation, as if it’s second nature to him. Moaning against them as he sucks them clean. 

Jesus. 

“Are you ready?” His fingers are still in his mouth when you ask, he hums as he nods. His dick literally couldn’t be harder, it looks almost painful, the weeping red tip, begging for a release you’re happy to give him. “Go slow.” Mostly for your benefit, you’re certain it’s going to hurt at least a little trying to cram his absurd dick into you. 

He continues to nod, as he moves closer to you, bracing himself with his hands on either side of your head as his cock pokes at your thigh. 

“Are you ready?” He mumbles as you give him a half smile.

“Are you?”

“Yeah, I think so.” You let your hand drift to the space between you, when you take his cock in your hand he whimpers, his entire body goes still as you help to line him up at your entrance. You don’t dare close your eyes now, you don’t want to miss the look on his face. 

The sound he makes when he slides through your folds is pornagraphic. Actually, it’s better than pornographic, in porn the sounds are always exaggerated and fake. The sounds he’s making are raw and real. You stare wide eyed as the space between his eyebrows creases, his lips parting slightly as his face scrunches up, if you didn’t know any better you’d say he was in pain, but you know better. 

“Oh my god-” His head falls back, you watch as his adams apple bobs, and best of all, you feel the stretch of his cock as he pushes into you. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” He whispers over and over again in an increasingly high pitched tone. Your headboard shifts as one of his hands moves to grip the wood.

He pushes inch by inch into you, the squiggly little vein on his temple looks like it might pop as he lets out a pitiful whine. You let out your own contented sigh as you bask in the feeling of being split open. It’s hard to believe you’ve been willingly denying yourself this feeling for so long. It’s even harder to believe you let Reid be the one to make you feel it. 

You thread your fingers through his hair as he bottoms out, his pelvis hitting yours. 

If you had known how good his cock would feel buried inside you, you would have unbuttoned his pants on your first day in the BAU and gotten on top of him right there at his desk. It feels like his dick was sculpted for you, thick and pretty, perfectly hitting every spot buried inside of you. 

“Oh my fucking god, oh my god-” He’s panting like a dog above you as he babbles on endlessly. “Holy fu- oh my god, fuck-” With a rather loud whine you can feel his hips twitching against yours, he continues to whimper, making little noises as his entire body tenses and your headboard creaks as he leans against it. 

Then there is a stillness. 

And a silence, in the dim light of your bedroom as he struggles to catch his breath. There’s a wet warmth between your legs as his cock slips out of you.

“I’m sorry.” He says sheepishly, when his head falls forward you can see that his smile is too genuine to convey any actual apologetic feelings. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.” You run your hand from his wrist to his shoulder, simply touching him for the sake of touching him. “Do you feel okay?”

“I feel fucking fantastic.” What a shock it is to hear curses fall from his lips. “How do you feel?”

“Splendid.” You mean it, even if you aren’t necessarily satisfied, there is a pleasure in knowing that you’re the first person to see him like this. This version of Reid is so much more agreeable compared to what you’re used to. 

“Next time I’ll do better, I promise.” God, you’ll have to find a way to thank Emily without letting her know that this happened, he’s perfect. There’s nothing you love more than a man who’s eager to please. “Can I try to make you come?” The words sound foreign in his voice, like he’s unsure he’s using the right terminology. 

“Yeah of course, do you know what to do?”

“I think I can figure it out.” You can’t help but laugh at his confidence, he isn’t the first guy who’s told you he’ll ‘figure it out.’

“Have you watched a lot of videos?”

“Videos, forum posts, as many books as I could find on the subject, I read the book Sex for Dummies.” He’s lighter, and so much more at ease now when he speaks. 

“Is that a real thing?”

“It is, and it’s surprisingly helpful and informative.” 

“You’re unbelievable.” You sit up on your elbows as he sits back on his knees. “I’m sure you’re very well informed but I’m not the easiest girl to finish, I can do it myself first if you’d like.”

“I’d like to try and figure it out on my own first, if that’s alright with you. I would of course appreciate verbal cues from you if something feels good, or if it doesn’t” 

“I can certainly do that.” 

He bends your knees, reaching for a pillow he gently lifts your hips to slide it under you to give him a better view. He’s studying your cunt, eyes moving up and down as he sits back.

“Do you masturbate?” His eyes flit to your face as he asks, you can’t help but laugh.

“Everyone jerks off, Reid.” 

“Well I don’t know, I thought it might be different when you’re sexually active.”

“It is, sometimes I go a few weeks without doing it, sometimes I do it everyday, it depends more on my mood than my current partner.” 

“Hmm.” He nods, seemingly truly invested in the information you’re sharing with him. “How do you normally do it?” If you didn’t know any better you’d say his limp dick was starting to swell again. 

“I use toys, unfortunately these-” You hold your hand out in front of him, wiggling your fingers to show off your manicure. “prevent me from using my fingers most of the time. So I have tools to help.” While your arm is outstretched you take the opportunity to grab his hand, pulling him closer so his hand hovers just over your cunt. 

“Can I see them?”

“My toys?” You aren’t sure if you want him to, even if he’s been inside of you, it’s an oddly intimate thing to share. He nods, eyes so wide you can’t say no. “If you can make me come.”

He nods again, a determined look flickering in his eyes. 

With a surgical precision he separates your folds, examining your entrance with intense focus, with his other hand he pushes the come leaking out of you back in. Fingers scooping and pressing into you before pushing fully in, two digits sink into you, just as you’d instructed him to do previously, this time he curls them almost immediately. With a small gasp your eyes flutter shut. 

“What feels better, this-” He curls his fingers again, harshly. “or this?” He presses deeper before withdrawing swiftly and pressing deep again, holding his hand there the heel of his palm grinds against your clit, your head spins as you groan. 

“That, definitely that.” You grit your teeth as he repeats the motion, much slower this time as he finds his rhythm. Moving in and out ever so slowly as your fingers grip the sheets, an obscene wet sound accompanies his efforts. The hand that was parting your folds moves to your thigh to push your legs further apart as he crouches down, squinting as he looks you over, as if he can discern the secrets of the female orgasm by taking a closer look. 

The pad of his thumb swipes across your clit making you squeak as your hips buck involuntarily. 

Your eyes fly open when you hear the hiss of air and a sharp, wet sound, feeling a wetness dripping between your legs.

“Did you just spit on me?” 

“Proper lubrication can help to reduce friction, it’s for your comfort and pleasure.” He explains it like he’s presenting evidence, but you can see his cock swelling against his stomach again.

“Really?” You cock an eyebrow at him, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Really…” He rubs an experimental circle against your clit, spreading his spit across the bundle of nerves as your breath catches in your throat. “I also saw it in a video once and thought it would feel good to do, and I was right, it felt amazing.” He mumbles that last bit as his concentration drifts back between your legs, all of his focus on you as he finds a solid pace between both of his hands. 

You alternate between arching backwards, with your head leaning back, and shifting forward when you can, watching him closely. 

His tongue pokes out between his teeth, his focus is almost comedically intense, but there’s nothing funny about the way he’s working his fingers. He continues to try different things, moving his thumb a certain way, applying different amounts of pressure. Shifting his fingers to be angled a certain way until he finds the perfect position to brush up against all your most sensitive nerves. 

He’s relentless once he finds a way to make your eyes roll back and your legs shake, robotic in nature as he repeats the motion perfectly, again and again.

“Fuck, Reid-” You mumble, trying to stop yourself as the words tumble out. The last thing you need is for him to get an ego about this after you just told him it wouldn’t be an easy task. 

“Does it feel good?” His voice is hoarse, coming out as a strained whisper.

“Mhmm.” You hum as your hips lift off the mattress an inch as he crooks his fingers a bit. Your head is spinning as you suck in another breath. He carries on like it comes naturally to him, as the knot forms low in your stomach. “Like that-” 

The instinct of most men when something feels good is to do that thing harder and faster, which never really works out for them. Reid seems to have better intuition than most men though, instead he maintains that delicious pace. Fingers buried deep within you as you cover your mouth with your hand to stifle the cry threatening to burst from your throat. 

Until the knot in your stomach tightens, until it pulls taut, and threatens to snap. 

Your toes curl, digging your heels down into the mattress as you lift your hips. Despite the way your hips twist around wildly he manages to keep it up, burying his fingers deeper until the knot snaps and you come, hard. 

Clamping down on his fingers as you let out a series of moans. You open your eyes just long enough to see the satisfied smirk on his face. His own eyes are hungry, never leaving your cunt.

The pressure in your head releases as you let go of the breath you didn’t realize you were holding in, your body going limp as you reach down and shove his hand away, the overstimulation buzzing through your body as he continues to try and play with your clit. You don’t get a lot of time to recover because he’s back between your legs, hard cock in hand as he guides himself back against your entrance.

“Again already?” You raise an eyebrow but he’s too hyper focused on what he’s doing to answer. You’re wet enough that there’s no resistance as he slams back into you. The stretching feeling returns full force as he forces himself into your already overstimulated cunt. “Jesus, Reid!” 

The feeling of fullness is overwhelming. You manage to yelp as he thrusts into you a few times, the head of his cock hitting your cervix with every sloppy thrust until his head falls back and you see the now familiar sight of his eyes fluttering shut as he comes, immediately melting into a whimpering mess. His face and neck are bright red as he falls over beside you. 

As he sucks in a harsh breath his hand wanders back between your legs. You instinctively swat his hand away, too sore for whatever he’s trying to do.

“Are you done already?” There’s a tinge of disappointment in his voice that makes you laugh.

“For now, there’s no reason to wear yourself out on night one, Reid.” You’re still fighting to catch your breath.

“It’s gonna take a lot more than that to wear me out.” 

“Oh, I intend to find out exactly what it takes.” You sit up on your elbows, eying him. 

“Yeah?” You watch as he licks his fingers clean again. You could watch him do that for hours.

“This is just training for what I have planned for you, think of this as the academy, pretty boy. I plan on having you ready for field work in record time.” The nickname isn’t one you’ve used before, typically only Derek calls him that but it feels appropriate considering just how pretty he looks right now. 

He moves to lay beside you, a sheen of sweat coats his skin, he smells musky in a good way, a mix of earthy and sweet. The heat of his body has made the ends of his hair curl.

“I graduated top of my class, and I completed all of the courses in a tenth of the time it took the rest of my class. It would have been less time but they didn’t believe me when I told them I’d finished all of the course content.” He traces his fingers up and down your arm as he beams at you like the sun. It genuinely looks like he’s lost ten years worth of stress in the last hour, the constant tension he carries in his shoulders has melted away, and his eye bags almost seem less dark. You can’t help but put a hand on his shoulder, lightly scratching your nails against his pale skin.

“How’d you do on the physical assessment?"

“Worst in the group.” He grins, flashing his teeth at you.

“Poor thing.”

“I got over it, being the youngest person ever recruited for the BAU was a nice consolation prize.”

“I hope your stamina has gotten better since then, I intend to put you through some endurance training.” You dig your nails into his shoulder. 

He frowns as he theatrically groans. 

“Oh you’ll be fine. It’s clear to me based on how you act that you’ve never once denied yourself anything. You need to be told no every once in a while or you’ll get spoiled.”

“Can I see your toys now?”

You pull the blankets up and over yourself, an exhaustion muddling your thoughts as you yawn.

“In the morning, get some sleep, we can talk about it in the morning.” You roll over onto your side, facing him. He shifts awkwardly as he pulls his boxers back on.

“Should I… go sleep on the couch? Or I could go home and come back tomorrow.” He starts to get up but you gently grab his arm. 

You should send him home. That’s what you’d typically do after a night like this, but this isn’t a typical night. If this is going to be an ongoing thing between the two of you then it doesn’t hurt to let him spend the night. 

“Lay down, Reid.” He does as he’s told, shuffling underneath the sheets with you, laying on his side so you’re face to face. 

You try to ignore him and close your eyes but he makes it hard with the intensity of his stare. 

“Goodnight, Reid.” You mumble, eventually rolling over to escape his severe gaze. 

“Goodnight.” He whispers back. 

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

He might be in love with you. 

His feelings towards you have been confusing and complicated for quite some time. He’s never been able to properly put it into words before. There was resentment there, but now he knows that was likely because he couldn’t have you. And now he does, and he’s pretty sure this whole time those confusing emotions might have just been love all twisted up. 

He hasn’t ever been in love but this has to be the closest thing he’s ever felt to it. He has no interest in so much as looking at another woman ever again, why would he? He doesn’t need anyone else, not with you laying next to him. 

You’re so sweet, even when you’re being mean. It confuses him and it confuses his penis even more. 

He didn’t know you could be so sweet, that must be why everyone at work loves you. He can certainly see the appeal. You didn’t tease him, at least not while he was vulnerable, and you didn’t pull the rug out from under him at the last minute. Instead you made pretty noises, smiled, and touched his hair. 

He didn’t want to sleep, he would have much preferred to stare at you as you snored softly beside him but the exhaustion of the evening caught up with him quickly and before he knew it he was out. 

He woke up first in the morning, light filtering in through the blinds against his face. He didn’t open his eyes at first, there was a very real possibility that he had dreamed everything and you would be gone when he opened his eyes. He wanted to live in that fantasy for a little while longer. 

Yet when he opened his eyes there you were. 

Drool on your pillow, lips parted with each quiet snore, your tanktop straps slid down your shoulders. You look like an angel. 

He’s tempted to get out of bed and raid your bookshelf, you have so many titles he hasn’t ever heard of, he doesn’t care about the contents so much as he wants to feel closer to you. But he’s worried he’ll wake you if he moves so he doesn’t. He just enjoys the steady rise and fall of your chest with each breath.

When you do finally wake, a wave of unease crashes over him as he waits for you to furrow your brow and glare at him before kicking him out. Instead you smile, and his heart feels like it’s beating so fast it may burst. 

“Morning.” You rubbed your eyes and reached for him, he’s more than happy to wrap himself around you. 

“Good morning.” He murmurs, burying himself in your arms as he twists his arms around you, resting his head on your chest. 

“What do you want to do today?” 

“This.”

“There’s too much time in the day to only do this.”

“Well, what do you want to do?” 

“You mentioned a chess tournament at some point, it’s today right?”

“You actually want to watch that?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“It might be boring for you.” 

“I know how to play chess, Reid.”

“You know all sorts of things.”

“I do, in some cases I’d say I probably know more than you.” Your nails scrape against his scalp as you comb through his hair. He’d always thought your long nails were impractical, another way for you to draw attention to yourself. He won’t be raising any more complaints about them going forward, not when they feel so good against his skin. 

“What else will we do today?” He tries not to sound too hopeful when he asks. 

“We can do whatever you’d like.” 

He would like to touch you more, he feels like he’s only scratched the surface of your body. He’d like you to give him permission first and foremost, or preferably, you’d ask him for it. He’d like this version of you, the one that lets him into your bed and says sweet, mean, things to him, to be the only version of you. 

“Can I see your sex toys now?” You roll over, hiding your face in the pillow and groaning as he sits up. “You promised.”

Turning your head you peek up at him. 

“I suppose I did.” You just lay there for a moment until you sigh and lean off the bed, reaching underneath before throwing a shoe box down onto the bed in front of him. “If you tell anybody about this I’ll-”

“Kill me, deny it, never let me touch you again. I think we can just assume at this point that I don’t intend on telling anyone about any of this.” You roll your eyes at him as he reaches for the box. 

You lay back down beside him as he flips the lid up, eyes widening as he stares down at the contents. Immediately with a grin he picks up the silicone cock, holding it out towards you. 

“Really?” He can’t help the sarcastic tone that seeps into his voice.

“What? Most women have one, if you’re gonna be a dick about it I’m gonna put them away.”

“Do most women have one so pink and sparkly?” You yank it out of his hands, throwing it back into the box. 

“It doesn’t matter what color it is if it gets the job done.” When you cross your arms in front of your chest he picks it up again.

“And this little toy gets the job done?” He thinks about how your jaw dropped when you saw his dick for the first time. You stared with wide eyes and told him he was big, just thinking about it makes his face feel hot. He’s certainly bigger than this tiny thing.

“Big talk from someone who came immediately." Low blow, you always resort to those when you don’t have a better response.

“You promised not to tease me about that.”

“And I didn’t, I’m just stating a fact.”

He sets the dildo back in the box, lifting the next thing to demand his attention, a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs up. 

“Theres a lot to address in this box but these are certainly eye catching.”

“Don’t get too excited. I got those as a gag gift, Emily gave them to me for my birthday.”

“Have you ever used them?”

“No, I prefer real cuffs.”

His mind races at the thought, any witty retort he might have formed fizzles out. You, handcuffed to the headboard, with your arms behind your back, to an interrogation table. All the blood in his head rushes out of his brain straight down to his dick as he flits through the possibilities, you, on top of him, pinning his wrists above his head, doing whatever you want to him. 

“Earth to Spencer.” You're snapping your pretty manicured fingers at him as he blinks at you. 

“Sorry, I must have zoned out.” He drops the cuffs, pulling one of your throw pillows into his lap. “What’s this?” He holds up a silver pill shaped thing with a wire attached to it, leading to a small plastic remote with a wheel.

“That would be my vibrator.” He’s never seen a vibrator that looks like this and the confusion must be apparent on his face. You take it from him, when you spin the wheel and the silver pill buzzes to life on the bed. “Most women don’t own the big hitachi wands you see in porn. Those things are expensive.” You seemingly read his mind, he had in fact been picturing the larger wands he’s seen in countless videos. He does recognize the last thing in the box, another flash of silver. A very small silver plug with a pink gem at the base, in the videos he’s watched they were usually a lot bigger. He can tell by the way you’re raising your eyebrows at him that you’re waiting for him to ask about it, he decides against it. 

“I thought there would be more.” He tucks everything back into the box, sliding it back over to you.

“I think that’s a perfectly normal amount for a person to have.”

“You always make it sound like you’re hiding chains and whips in your closet.”

“Do you want me to invest in chains and whips?”

“You lie a lot at work.”

“You listen in on too many of my conversations.”

“You talk loudly, why make things up? I’m sure you have plenty of stories that are true.”

“Because I like to tell a good story, besides, most guys aren’t into that kind of thing.”

“Are you into that kind of thing?”

“I’m into everything.”

His dick is so hard it hurts. 

“And you would like a guy who is also into everything.”

“There’s that big brain of yours putting in the work.”

“So you would want a long term thing with that kind of guy?”

“Don’t be weird about it, Reid. I have no desire to put a label on this.” Of course you don’t, you have an avoidant personality and you’re terrified of the thought of someone getting close enough to see behind the strict facade you put on. “But yes, I think we’re in agreement to enjoy each other's company outside of work. It’ll help me relieve stress and hopefully you won’t be so uptight if you’re regularly getting laid.” 

He wants more than getting laid regularly. He wants you, now more than ever. But until he figures out how to get that this will have to do.

“So we agree that this is a long term thing?” He does his best to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice.

“It’s a long-ish term thing. If you must have something akin to a label you could call this a friends with benefits situation.”

“So we’re friends now?”

You frown at him.

“Coworkers with benefits, BAU with benefits, enemies with benefits, whatever you want to call it.” He has lots of things he wants to call it, but he knows that if he does that you’ll run far away from whatever this is. 

Long-ish term thing.

He hates that. 

Now that he knows what it feels like to have you moaning underneath him he’s not sure he can handle life without it. 

It’s fine. 

It’s going to be fine.

He’s solved harder cases than this. 

When he gets a chance to focus on something other than how beautiful you look right now glaring at him he’s going to figure out exactly what it’s gonna take to get rid of the ish in long-ish term thing. 

  ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

You spend most of the day on your back. 

On the couch, on the bed, on your bedroom rug at one point. 

Spencer acts like he’s found some kind of groundbreaking discovery in your vagina. And if he doesn’t check on it often enough it might disappear or change. 

You get up to make breakfast and he offers to make coffee. When he hands you a cup you’re almost irritated at how good it is, he knows exactly how much creamer you like and he’s seemingly brewed better coffee than you’ve ever made with your shitty french press. 

When you moan at the taste and set the mug down he seemingly can’t help himself. That sound is like a dog whistle to him. He leans against the fridge, staring at you with a tent in his pants until you roll your eyes and smile at him.

“Do you want to do it?”

He doesn’t even answer you, you're simply dragged to the couch and he’s on top of you. 

The eggs end up burning but you’re happy to make more. 

When you tell him you’re going to try and finish the book you’re reading he follows behind you like a dog on a leash. He doesn’t bother you, letting you sit against the headboard he finds his own book from your shelf. It’s one you have read, Bride. 

The sight of him with a romance novel in his hands with his brows furrowed makes you burst into a fit of laughter. 

“What?” He already sounds offended.

“Nothing, I just don’t think that’s the type of book you usually read.”

“I read all types of books.” He seems insistent so you let him flip his way through it. You don’t get through more than a page of your own book because you’re too focused on him. The way his eyes get wide when he clearly gets to a sex scene, or how his eyes flit up towards you when he gets to a page you dogeared on your own read through. It only takes him a few minutes before he’s closing it and staring at you with a mix of horror and awe. “You read that kind of thing at your desk at work?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s porn! It’s extremely inappropriate! Can you imagine if I started reading a dirty magazine at my desk?” His face is red as he throws the book down onto your end table. 

“It isn’t all porn, there’s plenty of plot and story.”

“I’ve seen you reading this exact book at work before, I can’t believe you’ve been reading this type of thing on the clock.” He seems genuinely frazzled by the thought. You can’t stop laughing as his voice gets higher and higher. “I can’t believe you read this around other people!”

“Relax, Reid, all the women in the office read books like that at work. We actually have a little book club.” He puts his head in his hands as he groans. You’re sure he’s mentally recalling every book he’s ever seen J.J, Penelope, and Emily reading at work, trying to piece together the contents based on the titles he can remember. You put your hand on his leg as he runs his fingers through his hair nervously. “Isn’t it kinda hot though? To read something like that in public?”

That’s all you have to say to get him back on top of you, it’s almost too easy. 

After that sort of thing happens about five more times you tell him you have to shower. He stays in your bed, reading more of your books with a horrified look on his face. When you return in a towel he’s on his feet immediately, hands on your waist as he tries to guide you to the bed.

“I don’t want to get the sheets wet, let me dry off first.” You laugh but he’s quick to get you on the floor instead. Even if you know it’s only going to be a few seconds it feels too good to pass up on any opportunity to get his dick inside of you. 

Around 6:00 p.m. he orders dinner for you both, picking through the takeout menus on your fridge you don’t have to so much as lift a finger. One of the perks of his stalker tendencies is that he knows exactly what you want from the chinese place down the street. 

You set up the chess tournament stream on your television while he does that. Waiting on the couch until he joins you, even after he’s been inside of you he still sits on the other side of the couch, legs pressed together with his hands on his lap like he’s afraid of taking up too much space. 

“How long is the average chess game?” You slide closer to him, until your legs are touching. 

“You can’t really put a number on it, there’s blitz games, rapid games, standard games, tournaments are normally the longest.” He always relaxes when he’s explaining something he knows a lot about. 

Which is most things.

“How long is this tournament?”

“It’s a longer one, but the time will depend on how the match goes, it could be as quick as a few minutes, though I seriously doubt it, it’s much more likely to be between three to six hours.”

“That long?” 

“We don’t have to watch the whole thing if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to.” 

Thankfully it’s only the first match he’s interested in watching. Over the course of the next three hours you’re surprisingly entertained. He explains everything to you in a way that is shockingly not condescending. 

After half an hour the food arrives, and of course he’s ordered you your favorite dinner combo, you swallow a comment about how he’s a creep.

It’s kind of nice to have someone care so much about things like that.

He spends the rest of the match explaining the players origins and significance to the chess community. 

When he isn’t correcting you about something you said, his ramblings are surprisingly interesting. You don’t play a lot of chess but he explains every move made in great detail to you, it almost makes you feel smarter. An hour and a half into the match he tells you who the winner is going to be, and after another hour and a half, he’s proven right. 

He reaches for the remote when the match is over but you grab his wrist to stop him.

“Let’s watch one more.” You give him a reassuring smile, who knew the know-it-all was going to need so much encouragement after the day he’s had. 

“Are you sure? It could be another long match, we can watch something else if you’d like.” You’re sure, you’ve got plans to keep yourself entertained during this next game. 

“No, I want to watch this.” You move close to him, resting your head on his shoulder. He balls his hands up into fists in his lap when you do.

For someone who's come inside you multiple times today he sure is nervous. He isn’t typically. Awkward, sure, but nervous? You’ve found him to be overconfidant most of the time at work. 

You start with a hand on his thigh, ignoring whatever might be happening on the T.V. as you scratch your nails against the cotton of his sweatpants. 

“Take your pants off.” That’s all you have to say to have him lifting his hips up off the couch, he unceremoniously shoves his pants and boxers down to his ankles before he starts to get on top of you. “Sit down, Reid.” You keep your voice even as you click your tongue. 

It’s so refreshing to have him comply without argument. Anytime you’ve ever told him what to do at work you’ve always been met with a whine or a “you’re not my superior agent.” He has no problems with compliance now, as he sits back, staring at you with those doe eyes of his as his cock strains against his stomach. 

“You like when I tell you what to do, right Reid?” You’re pleased as punch when he nods hastily. Good, you like telling him what to do. “Then watch the game.” 

“What?” He squeaks. 

“Watch the chess match.” You say it a bit sterner this time, frowning at him until he does. His eyes dart back and forth from the screen to you until they settle on the screen. His teeth are digging into his bottom lip as he stares, unfocused at the game. 

When you’re certain he’s watching you reach forward, he hisses through his teeth when you wrap your fingers around the base of his shaft. When he starts to look towards you you grab his chin with your free hand, gently guiding his attention back to the screen as you move at a snail's pace with your first stroke up and down his length. 

“Watch the game Reid. And tell me when you’re about to come, if you don’t I’m not going to be happy.” You whisper as you let go of his face. Watching the way his throat bobs as he nods. “I’d like you to tell me what you’re going to do.” You settle your hand back at the base of his cock, unmoving as he lets out a whine. 

“I’m going to watch the game and tell you before I come.”

You make a tsking sound at him, tightening your grip just enough to be noticeable. 

“Not before you come, when you’re about to.”

“What’s the difference?” His voice edges towards a whine as you slide your hand up his length, letting your thumb brush up against the pretty pink tip of his cock. 

“You tell me when it’s about to happen, that doesn’t mean it’s going to. Before implies an after, there isn’t going to be an after because you aren’t going to come until I give you permission.” He gives you a skeptical look the entire time you speak, there’s a moment of silence before he opens his mouth. 

“But what if I-” You swipe your thumb over his tip, and then trace a little circle over it as his words turn into a whimper. 

“You aren’t going to come until I give you permission.” You repeat yourself, still in a whisper. 

And he fucking pouts. 

Bottom lip jutting forward, brows furrowed and wide eyes filled with a dramatic sadness. 

Poor Spencer.

You’re a little embarrassed at how wet you are. Thank god you don’t have a penis that would give you away every time he does something stupid that arouses you. 

“Don’t you want to make me feel good?” You match his pout, batting your eyelashes at him theatrically, his frown deepens as he nods. “Then you’re going to need to build up your stamina. We’ll both be happier that way.” 

“But-”

“No, but.” You shake your head, at him, faux pity coating your words. “You’re going to tell me, or I’m going to be very cross with you.” 

He nods as he continues to pout. 

You continue to move slowly, up and down the length of him, keeping your grip tight and controlled. It doesn’t take much to get him there, almost immediately his legs tremble, his fingers dig into your throw pillows. His cheeks are bright red as he takes a shaky breath. You drag the pad of your thumb in lazy circles against his leaking tip until he gasps. 

“I’m gonna-”

“No, you’re not.” You slide your hand down his shaft, tightly squeezing him around the base of his cock, still and firm.

His head falls back as he lets out a pathetic whine. His Adam's apple bobs up and down as he makes a pained sound. 

“Oh come on, Reid.” You can’t help it as you smirk at him as he continues staring at the ceiling. “You can’t already be whining, that’s only the first one.” 

“First?” He groans as he sits up straighter. “How many times do we have to do this?” You almost laugh at how frantic he sounds, instead you give him a knowing smile. 

“Until the game is done, silly.” He practically jumps out of his seat when you squeeze his cock again. 

“I can’t do that!” His voice hitches up, it’s the argumentative tone you’re used to from him. But instead of irritating you, it only serves to egg you on.

“You can, and you will.”

“We don’t even know how long this match will be, it could be hours!” His voice just gets higher and higher. 

You only shrug in response. 

He starts to sputter but stops, instead he scowls. 

“I could just do it myself if you won’t let me.” There’s that attitude you know all too well. 

“You won’t.”

“Why not?” He raises his eyebrows at you, pretty bold for someone whose cock is still in your hand. 

“Because you want to make me happy.” He opens his mouth but any response dies in his throat as he starts to chew on his lip, clearly thinking. “You want to make me happy, and you want to make me feel good. And you know that if you can control your dick for more than twenty seconds you might be able to feel really good. And you want me to feel really good, don’t you Reid?” With another gentle squeeze of his dick he’s putty in your hands.

“Yes-” He hisses as you trail a finger along the vein on the underside of his cock. “Yes, I- I want to make you feel really good.” He manages to stutter the words out as his dick twitches against your hand.   

“I thought so.” You nod, your expression is one of mock sympathy as you start to stroke him again, you don’t bother trying to get him to pay attention to the match. He can hardly keep his eyes open.

Luckily for him it doesn’t actually end up being that long of a game compared to the last one.

Over the course of an hour you bring him to that edge probably a dozen times, until his forehead is slick with sweat and he can barely longer speak. He simply whimpers and chews on his lip with his head thrown back, and like the good boy you knew he could be, he tells you each time he’s about to come. 

Not once does he beg you to let him finish. 

He really does want to please you. You’re reminded again and again that he’s perfect. 

You know it’s going to end in a forfeit when he manages to pay attention long enough to look over the board and sigh in relief. Not even ten minutes later one of the men knocks his king over and Spencer’s practically in tears at the sight. 

“You did so good.” You can’t help but smile, even if he can’t seem to stop his eyes from squeezing shut. 

“Mhmm.” He hums, quietly as you pick up the pace, the tip of his cock weeps, red and desperate for the release he’s earned.

“You know the best part about having to wait for it?” You rest your head on his shoulder once more, he’s sweating profusely but it doesn’t bother you one bit. 

“I- umm- no I don’t think- I-” His words come out half formed and slurred. 

“It feels so good when it finally happens.” He’s making a conscious effort not to finish in your hand as you continue to jerk him off, you’re actually impressed. He’s certainly earned his release. “I want you to come, Reid.” Halfway through your sentence his hand grips your wrist as his cock spasm against your palm, you continue to stroke him through his orgasm. 

His mouth falls open, lips wet and swollen from where he’s been chewing on them. You’re never going to be able to face your neighbors after thing, he’s so loud. Crying out as he repeats your name over and over again. 

You figured with how many times he’s come today he wouldn’t make too much of a mess. You thought wrong, his stomach is covered in his release as you rest your hand on his thigh. You give him a coy smile as he struggles to catch his breath. While he’s still out of it you hop up off the couch, quickly making your way to the kitchen to get him some paper towels and a glass of water. When you return his cheeks are flushed, and he’s staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

There’s too much behind those eyes. Too much beyond lust, an appreciation, a devotion. 

That’s what you wanted? Isn’t it? You wanted someone devoted to you without any string attached. You wanted someone who liked to have fun, someone who would enjoy it as much as you do. And that’s all this is.

You shake off the thought, focusing on the mess he’s made instead.  

He protests when you start to clean him up but you just shush him. Wiping up the mess and handing him the glass. He eagerly gulps it down in between hitched breaths. He pulls his pants up as you turn the television off. 

“Ready for bed?” You’re still smiling broadly as you say it.

And he returns your smile tenfold. You’ve never seen someone so happy because of an orgasm. 

He follows you to the bedroom, you flick the lights off in the apartment. When he joins you in your bed he lays beside you, resting his head on your chest. 

It’s the kind of thing that’s too intimate for what this is. Too personal. But you don’t have the heart to tell him that, not when he wraps his arms around you so tightly. Not when he did such a good job.

You feel… weird. 

Obviously you feel good, that was unbelievably hot. And he feels good, you nearly put him to sleep. His chest rises and falls slowly beside you, if he isn’t already asleep he’s about to be. You just feel weird. There’s an unfamiliar fluttering in your chest.  

“You’re right.” He mumbles against you. 

“About?” You whisper back to him, you can’t stop yourself from tangling your fingers in his hair, without thinking about it you lightly scratch his scalp.  

“About having to wait for it.” His voice sounds a thousand miles away when he says it, it’s the same tone he uses when you’ve been at a case for days and he finally finds some missing piece. He sounds so far away, it makes whatever is happening in your chest stir. Like you’ve got a bunch of butterflies loose in your ribcage. “It really does feel so good when it finally happens.”

  ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

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˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

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

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

Instead of sleeping he did the next best thing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you need help?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay…?” Then why did you call him?

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

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

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

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

Any of those losers but him. 

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

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

“That’s it?” 

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to get breakfast tomorrow?” 

“Why?” This has to be a trap. 

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

“Really?” He makes his skepticism clear. 

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

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

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

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

Before one of you ruins it with something too mean. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

White Rabbit Diner, 10:30 a.m.

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

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

You should have texted him and cancelled. 

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

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

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

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

Scratch that.

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

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

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

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

Of course he’s already here. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good. 

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

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

You just need to know.

That’s all. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shakes you off as he sits back down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Collateral?”

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

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

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

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

“Obviously. A mutual agreement of trust.”

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

“Is that your first question?” 

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

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

Fucker. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. 

He hasn’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It just doesn’t make sense.

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

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

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

You’re struggling with that yourself right now. 

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

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

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

“How about we each get a pass?”

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

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

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

Now you wish you hadn't used your pass. 

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

It’s objectively true. 

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

You stopped getting butterflies. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm?” You hum around your fork.

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

Oh you sweet summer child. 

“What’s the second question?” 

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

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

“Like what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clearing your throat you set the mug back down.

“I expect devotion.” 

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

“That would be your third question, Doctor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

What’s the worst that could happen?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on, seriously-”

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

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

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

Okay maybe this was a step too far. 

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

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

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

Hook, line, and sinker.

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

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

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

He looks enamoured by you.

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

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

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

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

“I want one more question.”

“Better make it a good one.”

You intend to.

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

He catches you off guard with an immediate whispered response. 

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

“Your turn.”

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

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

“If you want it badly enough.” 

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

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

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

And it’s only Thursday. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d say about five percent.”

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

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

Lonely and unsatisfied.

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

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

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

“So you’ll come over?”

He chews on his lip as he nods. 

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

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

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

“You’re welcome.” 

“Are you ready to go?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does six thirty work for you?”

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

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

He feels like he might pass out.

What the fuck just happened?

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

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

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

You can have your pick of any guy.

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

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

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

He should wait until he’s home. 

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

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

He can’t go to the store like this. 

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

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

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

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

He feels like he won the lottery.

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

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

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

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

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

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

The knock on your door makes you jump. 

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

Yet there he is when you open the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can work with this. 

Especially with him dressed like that. 

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

He almost looks like a normal person now. 

Okay. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure.”

“Did you bring condoms?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sounds about right for you.” He scoffs. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

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

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

“Anything else?”

“No, your turn.” You grumble. 

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

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

He frowns.

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

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

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

“Give me an example.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That changes things. 

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

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

Oh my god, pull it together.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So… anything’s on the table.”

That’s the goal. 

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

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

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

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

“What do you want to do then?”

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

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

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

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

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

Nope. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How many did you think I’d have?”

“None.”

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

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

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

Eventually he turns to your bookshelf. 

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

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

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

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

“I would be concerned if you had.”

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

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

“Scarier?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scoffs.

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

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

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

“Youngest in my class.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank god Spencer Reid loves to prove you wrong.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

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

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

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

Between the ages of sixteen and twenty, 50% of Americans lose their virginity. 

By the age of twenty-two it’s 90% of Americans.

If you haven’t lost your virginity by thirty, the likelihood that you ever will falls off dramatically. 

At twenty-five Spencer isn’t feeling too great about those odds. With every year that passes he can feel the agonizing tick of the proverbial clock. 

He keeps waiting for it to stop. Eventually the clock has to stop ticking, right? 

He’s a literal genius after all. (Of course there isn’t actually a medical definition or anything like that but at this point they might as well just put a photo of him under the word in every dictionary.) He should be able to solve this problem just like any other. 

Yet he can’t.

God, and he was so close. Elle would have let him, he was sure of it.

She was way out of his league, but who wasn’t? He had been laying the groundwork, he was going to ask her on a date, she was always so serious and understanding, she was the perfect choice. They would go on a few dates, he would lose his virginity to someone who understood him and then they could go back to being friends.

And he would finally be free from this torment. 

That wasn’t the case of course, thanks to you. 

He loathed you for that. Even if it was his own damn fault for never asking her out, he’s sure if he’d had more time he would have gotten there… eventually.

Logically he understood why it happened, and that you had no control over it, but subconsciously he still blamed you. One day Elle was gone and instead you were there. Pretty and unattainable, a painful reminder of his still intact virginity. At least he felt like he stood a chance with Elle, she liked him as a person, whether she was attracted to him or not, she was kind to him. You were something else entirely. You were unapologetic and loud in every sense of the word. You were constant. And impatient, and unpredictable. It made him miss her. 

You were nothing like Elle, you made yourself impossible to ignore. 

You wore your hair up in a different way everyday, always something big and flowy that bounced with your every move. Your nails were always too long, the polish was always multicolored and catching his eye whenever he was trying to get his work done. And all of your outfits barely stayed within the office dress codes. You served as a bright, sparkling, constantly giggling reminder of what could have been.

Worst of all, no one else had a problem with you. No one else seemed to understand that you were a succubus sent undercover to the BAU, designed to make his life miserable. 

When Gideon retired he was left completely alone. Emily Prentiss stepped in and of course you buddied right up to her. And because you seemingly couldn’t stand him, neither could she. In the blink of an eye the team he had come to know and love was gone, now he felt like he was back in high school, surrounded by mean girls. Except this was worse than high school, because here he had to be involved in every conversation. Whether it was the bullpen, or the conference table, or the jet, he was stuck sitting and listening to every word. And sure, maybe he’s extra sensitive at this point but seemingly, all anyone talks about anymore is sex.  

The second Hotch dismisses the group or leaves the room Derek starts talking about his weekend with “a blonde goddess.” or “a redhead goddess.” or “a brunette goddess.” 

Emily had a seemingly endless supply of girlfriends and boyfriends in her rotation, something that Spencer found to be extremely unfair. 

J.J. and Penelope never shared explicit details but they made enough suggestive comments to make it clear that they were just as busy. 

Even strict, stoic Hotch was rubbing it in his face every Thursday when he rushed out of the office early, he’d never admit it but the whole team knew Thursday was the day he scheduled his “date nights” with Haley. 

But none of that held a candle to you. 

They called you maneater. 

And your stories were so… animated. 

Morgan, Emily, Penelope, and J.J. would gather around your desk on Monday mornings, you rolled your eyes back, parting your lips as you would sigh dramatically before recounting your tales from the weekends. 

You reveled in the laughter of your peers, it sustained your bright, bubbly demeanor. From what he observed you adored positive attention, and it didn’t matter what you had to do to get it. He had pointed that out once during a rather heated argument, it was one of the only times he was truly worried you might hit him. 

Mondays were always torture. 

You were explicit enough to get him worked up and vague enough to leave him wondering, he wouldn’t dare ask follow up questions like the rest of the team. 

He wasn’t a part of the conversation. He was just the guy stuck in your desk clump. 

You mentioned men who were tall, and strong, with pretty hair and striking eyes. You would lean back in your chair, making lewd comparisons to coke cans, garden hoses and beer bottles. Biting your lip and letting out ridiculous faux moans, your tongue poking out between your teeth whenever you laughed. 

He hardly got anything done on Mondays. 

At least not until he got home, with his pants pooled around his ankles the second he stepped into his living room. He could always think clearer after relieving himself. The problem was that you would still be there when he gets to work in the morning and he risks it happening all over again. 

Sometimes he wished you’d just sink your claws into him. Devouring him like all your other prey, putting him out of his misery. But that wasn’t going to happen so instead he was stuck, all alone. 

Marooned on a sexless island.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

“It’s basically a sex island. That’s like it’s only purpose.” Morgan’s voice is ringing in your ears as he continues to brag about his plans for the long weekend ahead. 

Another one of Hotch’s mandatory vacations. 

After Gideon retired he got so scared of the team burning out he made some changes to the schedule. Every three months you’re faced with what is essentially your only break from the relentless call of your chosen career. A long weekend, sometimes even a full week where you’re forced away from work. 

“Are you absolutely sure I can’t convince you to come? My offer still stands.” His smile is as bright as the fucking sun. You can’t be trusted around that smile, especially on a sex island.

“As much as I would love to join you on your sexcapades I can’t. My landlord’s doing some stupid construction thing at my apartment and I have a thing about people being in my space when I’m not around.” You really would love to go, you’re going through a painfully long dry spell and if you don’t get laid soon you’re seriously worried your virginity might grow back. 

“Your loss.” He gives you a theatrical wave goodbye before he turns off his monitor as he leaves. 

It really is your loss, you helped Garcia pick out a few new swimsuits for this particular trip and you’d give anything to lay back on the beach and see Derek’s reaction to some of the tiny bikinis she bought. 

“I’m surprised you aren’t going with him, that sort of thing seems right up your alley.” Spencer is mumbling from his desk, he’s always mumbling from his desk. He never speaks plainly, he wants to make snarky comments because he just can’t help himself, but he doesn’t want to deal with the conflict afterwards. 

How does anyone here tolerate him?

“Are you saying that sexcapades are right up my alley?” You say it loud enough for him to immediately start looking around to make sure no one overheard. He might not like conflict, but you do. 

“Are you worried they might find something in your apartment? Do you think they’d go through your stuff while you’re not home?” Typical of Spencer fucking Reid to not only change the subject immediately, but also pick at you anxieties to try and get the upperhand.

“It’s normal to be worried about that kind of thing. I know it might be hard for you to understand that since you’ve never been able to get someone to come over to your apartment.” He sets down whatever it was he was working on as he looks up at you as you speak, that stupid look of mock concern on his face. 

“Would you even notice if someone went through your drawers? If I were you I’d try and memorize where everything is so you’ll know if something goes missing.” He looks so smug, he always does halfway into these conversations, then you deliver the killing blow and he shuts right up. 

“Unfortunately I don’t have that big brain of yours, maybe you could come over and put that eidetic memory to good use. If you help make sure all my panties are in the right place I might just let you take a pair home.” He makes it too easy. Just like that, his mouth snaps shut and he puts his head down. 

“You’re disgusting.” Right back to mumbling Spencer. 

“I’m sure you’d be more than willing to accept that offer. Especially considering that you haven’t gotten any action since Lila Archer.” 

“You weren’t even here for that, why are you always bringing that up?” He whines, he’s so fucking predictable. 

“Because you always get red in the face when I do.”

He doesn’t bother responding, he never does when he gets all flustered like that. You have a theory that it short circuits his brain if he thinks about sex for too long, so you make a deliberate effort to talk about it as often as you can. 

Even after a weekend spent alone in your bed you make sure to make up some rowdy story about how you raised hell.

You have to take out your frustrations somewhere and he makes himself such an easy target. He’s always there, wherever you are. You know it’s a part of the job, with you in forensics and him being… well a walking encyclopedia, you’re often left alone to work in whatever conference room you’re shoved into by the local police while the rest of the team’s out in the field. 

Derek likes to say that the two of you are ornamental members of the team. Too pretty to be in the field, so you have to be tucked away somewhere safe. 

You usually respond to that by punching him in the arm, hard enough to remind him that you went through the same training he did. 

You tried to be nice to Spencer when you started, you really did. You offered to bring him coffee, you engaged in his interests, you played chess with him even though no one else would because he always won. 

But he was still a brat. 

It’s an odd word to use to describe a grown man but that’s exactly what Spencer is. He’s a brat, he pouts, he whines when he doesn’t get his way, and he runs to Hotch every time he has a problem with you.

So you don’t feel too bad about teasing him. 

You spend the next two hours ignoring him as you transfer the last of your case notes over to the digital files. You aren’t in a rush to finish your work, your weekend plans can wait. 

“Are you still going to Betty’s tonight?” Emily sidles up to your desk, her bag’s slung over her shoulder, she’s probably on her way to the airport, is it six thirty already?

“Unless a guy offers to take me home in the parking lot then I think so.” 

“Have a drink for me, the wellness retreat my mother booked doesn’t serve any alcohol.”

“It’s a wellness retreat, did you think they were going to?” You can’t help but laugh as you spin your chair to face her.

“She told me it was a vacation, vacations have booze.”

“Yikes.”

“So, what’s the game plan tonight, maneater?” She leans in like you’re sharing a secret, as if there’s anyone left in the bull pen but the two of you and Spencer.

“I’m thinking heels, jeans, and the tightest shirt I can find.” That’s always been your go to and it hasn’t failed you yet.

“Now you’re making me want to stay.” She tilts her head to the side, brushing her bangs to the side. 

“You know the black one that’s cut down to here?” You motion towards your chest, she was with you when she bought it so she knows just how low it is.

She throws her head back as she groans. 

“I’m gonna miss the debut of the perfect tits top?” It’s a good thing everyone’s gone home because she is loud. 

“Paired with the perfect tits red push up bra. I’m still trying to figure out if I want to do my makeup like-.” 

Your sentence is abruptly cut off when he clears his throat. 

You turn to glare at him but he isn’t looking at you.

“Well, you better get out of here before the fun police start reciting the HR policy. Tell your mom I said hi.” You stand up to hug her, planting a kiss on her cheek and wishing her well as she disappears out the elevator, leaving you alone with your favorite coworker.

“I should start reciting the HR policy, it isn’t appropriate to talk like that in the bullpen.” You should install a microphone on his desk with the way that he mumbles everything.

“Oh no, I didn’t realize, should we ask everyone if they were offended by my comments?” You gesture around the empty bull pen. 

“Extremely inappropriate.” He mumbles to himself, returning his focus to the report he’s been filling out for the last hour. 

You spend more time with Spencer then anyone else on the team, at least during work hours. Thanks to your chosen field of expertise, you’ve begged Hotch to move your desk somewhere else but he says you’ll be a distraction if he puts you with Emily or Morgan. Like you’re a rowdy student in class who has to sit next to the teacher's pet so he can keep an eye on you. 

“You know Hotch wants us out of here by seven at the latest.” He manages to speak clearly this time. 

“I’m aware.”

“It’s six forty five, we should get going.” He turns his monitor off, closing the file in front of him.

“I’m almost done.” You need to look over everything you just filled out, it shouldn’t take more than five minutes. 

“Hotch is really serious about these breaks, burn out effects over fifty percent of the American work force, it often results in-”

“Are you gonna tell on me if I don’t?”

“I won’t have to, Hotch will see your timecard on Monday.”

“If I’m being honest, I don’t really want to deal with an elevator ride with you. I’ve been waiting for you to leave so I can go home.” You give him a tight lipped irritated smile as he shoves his book into his satchel. 

He turns on his heel, knuckles white as he clutches the strap of his bag. 

“Have a good weekend.” You call over your shoulder in a sickly sweet tone. 

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

You’re the devil. 

You must know what you do to him, otherwise why would you do it? You know how cruel it is, that’s the only explanation. 

He tried to take care of it at home. Picturing your tits in a push up bra, wrapped in tight black fabric with your cleavage pouring out. He didn’t even get past unbuttoning his pants before he came, whining as he ruined another pair of boxers. 

And it wasn’t enough. 

He has an eidetic memory, he remembers every lowcut, flowy shirt you’ve ever worn. He’s carefully filed away every slip of your bra strap, every time you’ve ever worn a hoodie without a bra on the jet ride home. He has it all tucked away for later use in the seemingly infinite expanse of his mental library. But you’d never wear what you were describing to work, even if you don’t always act like it, you do have your limits. You maintain a very precarious sense of professionalism.

You put the thought of this mysterious black blouse into his mind and now he can’t think about anything else. 

Opening his laptop he throws himself onto his bed, shoving his pants the rest of the way down and unbuttoning his shirt before kicking both onto the floor. He stares at the search bar, sifting through his brain in an attempt to recall the stores you mentioned going to with Emily. 

He opens up the directory of the mall you typically frequent, scrolling through the store list, clicking open all the generic clothing stores. 

Old Navy, Kohls, JCPenny. 

He sorts through the filter bar, clicking the options available in your size in black. 

If his dick wasn’t so painfully hard right now he’d probably feel like a creep right now, but he’s done worse. 

He scrolls, imagining you in each top, how the fabric would cling to your body, how each neckline would hug your clavicle… With a groan he slams the laptop shut. 

This isn’t working.

The models in the pictures don’t look like you, they don’t do anything for him. He needs to see it. 

All he needs is one look, then he’ll remember it forever.

His mind wanders to the top you wore today. 

A loose fitting maroon button up, it didn’t cling to you, instead it flowed seamlessly with your every move. Teasing him with the thought of what might be underneath. You always left too many buttons undone, today it was three. Three was enough for the fabric to slip down one of your shoulders a few times, showing off a thick dark green bra strap. 

His cock is demanding his attention now. 

With a sigh he reaches across his bed to his nightstand, using muscle memory to yank the drawer open, grabbing the bottle of lube without so much as a glance in that direction. 

Popping the cap open he coats his palm before tossing the bottle back in the drawer, hissing as the cold liquid hits his skin as his fingers wrap around the base of his cock.

He pictures you in your maroon top and only that top, opening the door of your apartment to let him in. You’d give him that harsh, thin lipped, mean smile, you were always so mean to him. 

“Ah-” He lets out a small whine, his hips rocking up and off the mattress. 

You would call him gross, and disgusting, and he wouldn’t object like he usually does. He is, he’s abhorrent, you deserve to say all of that and more. 

His grip tightens as he picks up the pace, he never lasts that long anyway so why bother trying to take it slow. 

You would bring him into your room, he’s never seen the inside of your apartment but he has ideas of what it might look like. Based on your descriptions it’s some kind of cave of debauchery. But that’s not his focus right now.

You would bat your eyelashes at him like you do when you’re trying to get a reaction out of him.. 

“I might just let you take a pair home.”

Your voice rings out clear as day in his mind. Who cares if you were trying to be mean when you said it? In his mind, now, he can use his unyielding ability to recall things to use your words for whatever he wants. 

He knows what pair he’d want if your offer was anything more than a sick joke. You’ve got a pair of pink panties that he’d kill to have.

They're your favorites, he’s sure of it. You wear them on Monday’s, your laundry day is Sunday so everything’s clean Sunday night, when you’ve got everything available you always choose the simple pink pair. Even if he doesn’t get much work done thanks to you on Monday’s he’s still got enough brain function to keep an eye out for them. They aren’t lace or anything fancy, as far as he can tell they’re just cotton. They sit higher than your others, if he’s lucky you’ll walk in on Monday morning in a shirt that doesn’t fully cover your waist line and he’ll get a little glimpse. 

One time, while you were on a case in California you tried to reach for something on the top shelf in the file room. You never asked him for help, even when he could reach it easily. 

You were wearing a tank top that rode up and he got a clear view of your navel and the sweetest surprise ever when he learned that your pink pair of panties have a little bow on the front, resting just below your belly button. 

In his fantasy you lay back on your bed, pulling your shirt up so he can see the pink fabric and the little bow. Wrapped up like a pretty present. His teeth dig into his bottom lip as he tries to stifle the groan that’s building in his throat.

Those manicured nails, every nail a different color, drag across the front of your blouse, pulling open another button, and another, and another. 

His dick twitches in his hand, before he can get any further into his fantasy the muscles in his thighs spasm and his grip tightens as his hips jerk upwards one last time. 

He slurs out a mess of whimpers and something that almost sounds like your name as he comes.

It’s the only time he gets a break from the insistent demands of his brain. For once he isn’t trying to keep up with his own train of thought as his mind goes blank. 

Laying in his mess he takes a moment to catch his breath, using his clean hand to shove his hair out of his face. Trying not to feel as pathetic as he does after that. 

He doesn’t even get to touch you in his fantasies. 

He should see a therapist. 

Instead he opens his laptop again, looking up Betty’s bar. It’s a good hour and ten minutes away, all he has to do is glance over the map before he knows exactly how to get there. 

He shouldn’t have done that. 

Because now he knows how to get there, and he can’t forget it if he tries. 

He’s on auto pilot as he slides out of bed and into the bathroom, rinsing his hand off in the sink as he cleans his stomach with a washcloth. 

Normally after fucking his hand he feels better. All the traces of you typically wash off of him, leaving him to have a brief moment of respite where you do not plague his thoughts. 

Not this time though.

This time he feels even worse, knowing that somewhere out there, you’re wearing a top that reveals more of your chest then he’s seen. Unmapped territory waiting to be explored. 

The though has his body crossing the room, he puts on a clean pair of boxers and slacks. Before he knows it he’s tightening a tie and he’s fully dressed. 

And then he’s locking the door behind him.

And then he’s walking to his car.

And then he’s driving. 

He just couldn’t help himself. How would he ever forgive himself if he didn’t at least try and get a look at the ‘perfect tits top.’ He can go home once he sees you and harmlessly enjoy the memory in the safety of his own room. 

Easier said than done. 

Especially now that he’s here, self-loathing creeping in as he scans the crowd for you. He checks his watch, worrying that it might be too early, it’s only ten, what time are people normally out at bars?

He felt sleazy, and out of place. He had expected a dive bar would be the chosen hunting grounds of the prolific maneater. Instead he finds himself standing in a pretty classy establishment. 

Full of girls that are too pretty for him and guys that make him feel small. 

He’s about to leave, no harm done, he can go home and pretend this never happened while he still has a shred of his pride. He gives the room one last scan as he takes a step towards the exit.

And there you are. 

All alone, standing against the wall, doing your own search about the room.

“Perfect tits top” is an understatement. It should be called the “perfect hips, tits, shoulders, little bit of exposed midriff and he can almost see your nipples through that bra top.” 

Great, he’s seen it, he loves it, he wants to marry that top, he wants to burn all the clothes you own so you have to wear that top every day. Now he can go because he’s gotten exactly what he wanted to get out of this. 

But his legs don’t move. 

Probably because all the blood has rushed out of his brain and into his penis. 

He’s stuck in place, staring, and hoping that it’s dark enough in here for him to remain unnoticed. 

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

The bar is full and somehow there isn’t a single guy worth your time here. 

The curse of being a profiler is knowing immediately the type of people you’re dealing with. At one point you were approached by a rather handsome and well spoken blonde guy in his thirties. You were pretty sure you'd struck gold until an hour into your conversation when you saw the tan line on his ring finger and the small circular indent in his wallet as he paid for your drink.

You kindly excused yourself before trying to find some place far away from him. Eventually putting yourself against a wall so you can scan the crowd for your next mark. 

The glint of someone's watch catches your eye in a painfully familiar way. The same little flicker of light you see in your peripherals on a daily basis. 

Surely not. There’s no reason for him to be here. You tell yourself not even entertain the possibility by looking but on instinct you seek out the source and of course, there he is. 

Even in a place like this he manages to suck the fun out of the air around him. He looks like he would on any other day in the office and it makes him stick out like a sore thumb. He’s out on the town, you think he could unbutton just one button on his shirt. He went home and changed, and he still chose to wear a short sleeve button up with a tie. 

You’re about to just get up and leave, there’s no reason to spend your day off dealing with his shitty attitude. There are plenty of other bars in town and it’ll be best to just get out of here before he sees you.

Except he has. It becomes extremely apparent that he’s staring at you, he doesn’t even try to hide it. 

Scratch that, he isn’t staring at you. He’s staring at your chest. 

If he just looked up ten inches he’d find himself making direct eye contact with you but you’re pretty sure a gun could go off in the bar right now and he still wouldn’t look away. 

This can’t be happening. 

He couldn’t be more obvious, standing twenty feet from you with his eyes wide, he literally gulps like a cartoon character, he might as well have hearts in his eyes with his tongue rolled out of his mouth. 

When you start walking towards him he finally manages to look up at your face, where he’s currently receiving the most severe glare he’s ever been faced with. In return you’re met with an absolutely terrified Spencer. 

“So you just… look like this all the time, huh.” You poke at the top button of his shirt. 

“It’s a nice shirt.”

“Sure it is. Why are you here?” You arch an eyebrow at him, cocking your head to the side. Oftentimes when you’re trying to pick a fight with him you start off with the same opening move. A question with an obvious answer while you bat your eyelashes at him. Usually, in return you’re met with frustrated Reid, or exasperated Reid, or whiney-go-and-tell-Hotch Reid. 

Never once have you been met with slackjawed, silent, bright-red-in-the-face Reid. Until now that is. 

“Reid, did you follow me here?” His adams apple bobs as he swallows, his eyes are everywhere but your face right now. “Hello? Earth to Spencer?”

“Sorry, what?” He just can’t help himself, even now his eyes dart down to your chest before blinking back to your face. 

Oh my god. 

You grab him by the end of his tie. Yanking him down to your level so he has no choice but to look you in the eye, you wouldn’t dare pull this kind of move when you’re at work but this is a different playing field.  

“I said, did you follow me here, you absolute creep?” You typically just ignore it when you catch him sneaking a glance down your shirt but this is unbelievable, there is absolutely no way you can ignore this. 

“I- I am not- no. I did not- I’m just stopping in to see-“ Boy genius seems to have realized you're speaking to him but he has nothing of importance to say. 

“Who? What? What are you stopping in to see? I know you didn’t come all this way just to stare at my chest, because that would be extremely inappropriate.” The second the words leave your mouth his eyes stop darting around the room and actually meet your gaze. 

“I- I should go.” He manages to pull his tie free as he does his best to maneuver through the crowd; it immediately becomes apparent that he’s never been here before. He avoids the exit entirely and ends up tucked into the dark quiet alcove by the bathrooms. 

You aren’t sure what’s motivating you, at this point in the night it might be your sexual frustration that fuels your angry stomping after him. When you catch up with him he’s turning around, realizing he’s ended up at a dead end. 

You plant your hands on his shoulders and shove him back against the wall. You really shouldn’t but you aren’t on FBI property and what’s he gonna do about it? Tell Hotch you shoved him because he stalked you outside of work hours so he could gawk at you?

“I- I just-” He’s red in the face. 

“Just what? Spit it out already.”

“I- I knew Emily was out of town, and I was worried about you drinking and being alone. You- you’re a federal agent it just doesn’t seem safe.” His voice falls off into a whisper as you squint at him. 

“Really? That’s the best you could come up with?”

“I’m just a concerned coworker.”

“Reid, you wouldn’t spit on me if I was on fire. I seriously doubt you had concerns about me.”

“It’s extremely irresponsible to drink when you’re all alone and dressed like… that.” For a second he starts to sound a little firm but he shrinks right back down by the end of his thought.

“Dressed like what, Reid? You seem to be rather fond of the way I’m dressed.” 

“You’re clearly very drunk, I should just go-” He tries to sneak past you once more but you just shove him again. 

“I haven’t had a drop of alcohol, I’m not dumb enough to drink when I’m here alone.” It’s true, you’d never drink while out alone, you aren’t an idiot. 

“I- I need to go.” He steps to the side but you do the same thing. 

“Isn’t this place like an hour away from your apartment?” Tilting your head you gauge his reaction, the guilt that falls over his face is obvious. 

“Yes, so I really should get going, I’ve got a long drive home.”

“You just got here, sit, let’s have a drink.” 

“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“Aww, but who’s gonna protect me if I drink too much? Clearly I’m not capable of doing it myself.” You jut your bottom lip out at him as he finally manages to get past you, taking a step back towards the crowd. 

“Can we just forget this ever happened?” He’s holding his hands up in front of him as if you’re holding him at gun point. 

“Oh, definitely not, I will be calling Emily the second I get home. And then maybe I’ll call Hotch and let him know I ran into you.”

“I’m allowed to be out at a bar after work hours, I didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice does that thing where it flips from being in control of his emotions to that breathy whine that makes your spine straighten. 

“I never said that you did, all I’ll be telling them is the truth of my experience.”

“I’m not scared of you.” He sure looks like he is. 

“And I’m not trying to scare you. I’m simply letting my coworker know what my busy weekend plans are.”

“I’m sure you’re gonna be really busy, there are some real winners here tonight. Are you planning on taking home the guy over there with the Family Guy face tattoo or the very obviously married guy trying to cheat on his wife?” He points around the room, and it seems like he finally found his voice. “I think there are also a couple of guys who look drunk enough to take home the next thing that talks to them if you want to enjoy what I’m sure will be a thrilling thirty seconds of love making.” 

You hate that he’s right.

“Love making? Are you twelve?” You lean forward to shove him again but he anticipates it this time, stepping backwards. 

“Goodbye. I’ll see you on Monday.” He turns and before you can stop him he manages to disappear into the crowd effectively this time. 

What the fuck just happened?

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

You pour yourself another generous glass of wine as you check your phone at the sound of an alert.

Debrief?

You open Emily’s contact, hitting the call button, you’re surprised she’s even still awake, it’s almost one in the morning.

When she picks up she’s already giggling, she doesn’t manage to get a word out as she laughs to herself for a good thirty seconds. 

“How are you drunk? You told me just a few hours ago that they didn’t serve alcohol there.” You can’t help but laugh along with her, her joy is always infectious. 

“I brought my own stuff.” She hiccups. 

“Of course you did. Are you having fun so far?” You’re careful not to spill any of your wine as you slip under your blankets, situating yourself against your pillows. 

“It’s been surprisingly enjoyable so far. Lots of spa music and I got a massage an hour after I landed.”

“God, that sounds incredible.” Anything sounds better than the night you had. 

“My night was boring, I’m more interested in yours. How’d it go?”

Terrible. You left five minutes after Spencer did.

“Well I wouldn’t be talking to you right now if it went well.” You let out a small sigh. 

“You’ve gotten too picky.” She’s quick to throw that out there, she must be a few drinks in to be this blunt. 

“It’s not even that it’s just…”

“Just?” It sounds like she’s leaning closer to her phone. 

You got distracted because he was there?

You’d be lying if you blamed tonight on him entirely. You’ve been going home alone for a while now.

“I’m gonna sound crazy.” There’s a reason you haven’t brought this up yet, it’s embarrassing. 

“You always sound crazy.”

“I just- I’ve been having this problem for the last few weeks.”

“Oh I’ve noticed. You’re grumpy.” She lowers her voice an octave as she says it, forcing another fit of tipsy giggles out of you. 

“It’s been a little while since I’ve had a successful night out.” You pick at your nails, thankful for the liquid courage that you’re finally getting this off your chest. 

“How long?”

“A month and a half? Maybe two months.” She gasps the second you say it. 

“Oh wow. That’s like two years in maneater time.”

“Shut up.” You groan.

“Well what’s the problem? I’ve been out with you, you’ve got plenty of options.” It’s true, she’s out with you every weekend and there’s no shortage of potential suitors for either of you. 

“Promise you won’t laugh?” All you’ve done on this call is laugh, you’re asking her to promise the impossible. 

“Scouts honor.” She’s already stifling a laugh but you don’t let that stop you. 

You take a deep breath. 

“None of them want me enough.”

There’s a pause and for a moment you’re worried you got disconnected until she bursts into laughter.

“I’m sorry, but I promise you, all of the guys that you talked to tonight wanted you.” She manages to get out between snickers. 

“Sure whatever, the problem is that they don’t want it enough.” 

“I don’t understand.” Her laughter fizzles out. 

“Of course you don’t, you have consistent partners, people who understand you and your body and want you.” You set your phone down on the sheets, clicking on speaker phone. “I’m just a vessel to make them have an orgasm, they aren’t even grateful enough to go down on me. All I want is a guy who’s obsessed with me but isn’t clingy.”

“I think you’ve had too much to drink.” She giggles, on cue she takes a long sip of her own drink. 

“Just- just let me explain.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re right, every guy who I talked to at the bar wanted to have sex, but you can take me out of the equation and they still just want to have sex. It doesn’t matter if it’s with me, all they care about is finishing as fast as possible. They don’t care about me, they care about having a hole to fuck. It’s- it’s too easy.” You swirl your whine around in gentle circles, you’re already nearly done with the glass. 

“Okay…”

“One night stands don’t put any feeling behind it, they don’t… want to try new things, or have fun. They don’t even want to take the time to cuff me to the headboard. They're always in such a rush to get their rocks off, they forget that the act itself is supposed to be fun. They think the whole goal is just to shoot their load and leave before they have to make small talk.” Your head spins a little as you take a deep breath.

“It sounds to me like you want a boyfriend.” 

“That’s the last thing I want. I want… a consistent partner who wants to do more than four minutes of missionary with the lights off. I want ropes and chains, and gags, and- and I want someone to be mean to me, like really mean, not some stranger who’s worried that I’m gonna break or cry if he spanks me too hard.” Your cheeks are getting hot. You really need to get a handle on yourself. “I want someone to make me cry and I want them to want me to cry, for the love of god I need someone to manhandle me. I need someone to manhandle.” 

You’re a lot drunker than you realized. 

“Wait, don’t kill me.” She hiccups, you can practically hear the smile on her face.

“Oh my god, what?” 

“I think I know who would be perfect for you.” She drags the words out. 

Perfect. 

“Aww, Em, are you gonna offer me one of your boyfriends?” 

“You wish, I’m just thinking, I know someone who’s obsessed with you, and I bet he would do anything you wanted if you just asked.” 

Sounds too good to be true, if this man is out there you would have sniffed him out by now. 

“Have you been holding out on me? Hiding some secret perfect man?”

She’s a mess of giggles as she takes a deep breath like she’s bracing herself. 

“What about Spencer?”

You’re waiting for more laughter, something to indicate that she’s joking. 

“That’s not funny.” Your voice is flat now. 

“I’m not trying to be funny, I’m serious.”

“Gross, Em. He’s gross, oh my god.” You want to kill her for even putting the thought into your head. 

“Exactly! All he does is stare at your tits, and your ass, and your mouth, just you in general. You won’t find someone more ready and willing.”

“He stares at everyone, he’s got a staring problem.”

“Yeah but he stares at you way more than the rest of us. We get passing glances but you get straight ogling.” She says it like that makes it okay.

“Ew. Exactly.”

“Give the kid a break, how's he supposed to get anything done with you walking around in your tiny skirts and your low cut shirts?”

“He’s- no- he is so gross, he’s literally a pervert Emily.”

“And you are…?”

Woof.

“Low blow.” You exhale harshly. 

“Besides, you must not hate the attention. I’ve seen you yell at him for breathing too loudly but you’ve never commented on the staring.”

“Well that’s not- that has nothing to do with-”

“Look, all I’m saying is that he would do anything you wanted, happily. Like an eager little puppy. Whether he’d admit it or not, all he wants is your attention.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. He might like to stare but he hates me, he makes a conscious effort to irritate me on a daily basis.” 

“That’s just because he makes a conscious effort to insert himself into every situation you’re in. Yes, he’s annoying, but you get the worst of it because he never leaves you alone. You want someone obsessed with you, right?”

This feels like a trap.

“…Right.”

“There is no one more obsessed with you than Dr. Spencer Reid. It’s insane to me that neither of you have realized this, I clocked it two days after I started working with you.”

“He hasn’t realized it either?”

“Of course not. Just like you, he thinks that he hates you. He just hates that he feels bad for leering at you.” 

He must not hate that feeling too much because he drove forty miles from his apartment to leer.

“You’re wasted.” It’s all you can say because for some reason she’s making sense. 

“Yeah, and barely keeping my eyes open.”

“Go to sleep.” You murmur, picking your phone back up.

“Mhmm.” She sounds like she might already be snoring. 

“Love you, I’ll see you Monday.”

“Love you too.” She mumbles. “Good luck with the rest of your weekend, maneater.”

In the dark of your room all you can see now is the glow of your phone screen.

There is no one more obsessed with you than Dr. Spencer Reid. 

What a joke. 

You scroll back up through your contacts, clicking on the all caps name just below Aaron Hotchner, labeled ASSHOLE, you have no message history. Why would you? Texting is for joking around, making plans, and casual conversation, you don’t do any of that with Spencer. 

His contact photo is a blurry photo you took of him as he tried to shove your phone out of his face. You took it after he begged you for your number. Claiming you needed to have everyone on the team’s contact information in case of an emergency. 

You’ve shared maybe two phone calls in that time. Both while on a case, both when Hotch made you call him. 

You shouldn’t call him, it’s late, nothing good can come of it. 

He’s disgusting, you shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea. 

She just made it sound so appealing. And for the first time in the year you’ve been working at the BAU, you consider for a moment that Spencer might actually be good for something other than pissing you off and reciting facts that you can find with a quick Google search. 

Like an eager little puppy. 

Huh. 

Are you really this desperate?

You click the call button without thinking about it. 

Fuck you’re so drunk. 

You’re about to cancel the call but he picks up. 

On the first ring. 

“Hello?” Why is he out of breath? It’s the middle of the night. 

“Whatcha doing?” You try to sound casual, taking another sip of your drink. 

“What?” His voice is a mix of sleepy and guilty, it’s hard for you to place. 

“You sound… sweaty.” You giggle, high pitched and bubbly. Yikes, you’re a lot more out of it than you realized, you definitely shouldn’t have called him.  

“Are you still at Betty’s? Do you need me to come get you?” It catches you off guard how normal he sounds, like he might really be worried about you.

“No- no, I’m home.”

“Are you okay?”

“No, Doctor Reid. I’m not.” You over enunciate his name. 

“Do you need help?” Is he actually worried about you? You didn’t know he was capable of that, considering all you’ve seen from him before is disdain and poorly concealed lewdness. 

“I’m fine.”

“Okay…?”

“Okay.” You repeat it back to him in the same tone.

“You’re drunk.” Boy genius solves another case. 

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

There’s a long silence, similar to when you spoke with Emily you wonder if he hung up until he finally speaks again

“Are you alone?”

Code for: did you bring someone home from the bar?

“All alone.” You swear he sighs in relief when you say it. It makes you laugh even harder, this entire situation is unbelievable.  “What are your plans for the rest of the weekend? We’ve got four more days to get through.”

“There’s a chess tournament livestreaming Friday night that I was hoping to catch.” You’re waiting for him to list anything else but he’s seemingly done.

“That’s it?”

“Not all of us are on the prowl at bars every night."

“You’re so judgemental, and- and rude.” You sneer, as if he can see your expression.

“Why exactly did you call me?”

Because you want to know if he’s really obsessed with you.

Because you’re so horny right now you hardly know what to do with yourself and you’ve run out of options.

Because for the first time in weeks you actually feel something happening between your legs as you listen to him struggling to catch his breath over the phone.

That last one’s probably the wine talking. 

“Do you want to get breakfast tomorrow?” You say it like you aren’t throwing a live grenade out into this conversation. 

“Why?” He sounds suspicious, as if you’re luring him into a trap, and he’s right, you are. 

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

“Really?” He sounds unconvinced. 

“No, not really. But I’ll make it worth your while.” You really do mean that part. If you can prove that he really is obsessed with you then you might be able to make this work. 

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

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

“Goodnight.”

“Spencer.” You whine, his breath hitches loud enough for you to hear it over the phone. 

“Fine, how will you make it worth my while? Contrary to what you believe, I don't enjoy your constant verbal abuse.”

“I’ll wear the shirt again, the one I wore tonight.”

You’re left in a full sixty seconds of silence again before you hear him let out a breath. 

“What time are we meeting?” He sounds defeated. Good, you need to have the upperhand if you’re going to do this. 

“You choose, text me a place and a time and I’ll see you there.” You have to stop yourself from smiling. 

“What? Why do I have to-”

“Goodnight Doctor Reid.” You click the little red button, effectively ending your call. 

Your palms are sweating. God this is so stupid, you shouldn’t have done that. 

You receive a message immediately.

White Rabbit Diner, 10:30 a.m. 

It’s twenty minutes from your place, perfect. You set an alarm before you toss your phone onto your nightstand. 

You’re already regretting your decision now that you’re alone in the silent darkness. It’s Spencer. 

Whatever. 

You don’t have to do anything, if you wake up sober and regret your decision you can just have breakfast with him, it’s fine. You just need to know if Emily’s right. You don’t have to do anything with the information, it’s just nice to have options.  

After all, a maneaters gotta eat. 

Spencer could hear the irritated, tinny voice of your boyfriend on the other end, sharp and distorted with static, “I don’t care if it’s a dynamic scene.” His tone dripping with the bitter insecurity that had been poisoning your relationship for months. “Georgia? You’re seriously getting on a plane right now? I have a major presentation tomorrow, and you’re just dropping everything to fly across the country?”

You closed your eyes, a muscle jumping in your jaw as you rubbed your forehead with two fingers. “I’m not dropping everything for fun, Liam,” you whispered fiercely, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to anchor it. “It’s a serial case. A child went missing three hours ago, lives are at stake. I have to go.”

“Right, because you’re the big, important federal agent,” he shot back, the words cutting through your cell loud enough for Spencer to flinch on your behalf. “Must be nice to just pack up and play being the hero while I’m stuck putting in the real hours here. You always do this. You love throwing your little badge in my face, don’t you? You love making me look like the small oe.”

“That’s unfair Liam, you know it-”

“Whatever.” The line cut out with a sharp, aggressive beep.

You slowly lowered the phone, your chest heaving as you fought to swallow the lump of humiliation rising in your throat. You took a sharp, steadying breath, blinking hard against the hot sting behind your eyelids, and turned around. Your eyes immediately finding Spencer’s. HE froze like a deer caught in high beams. A deep, mortified crimson flooded in his neck and cheeks, and he immediately dropped his gaze to the files in his arms, fumbling with them so blindly that three loose crime scene photos slid out and drifted onto the carpet. 

“Here.” You said, sweeping down to collect the photos, handing them back to him as he pointedly avoided your eyes. 

“Are you… okay?” He asked, hesitantly, as if he was utterly devastated that he’d been caught witnessing your pain. 

“Fine,” you breathed, forcing a weak smile before moving past him towards the briefing room. His eyes followed you for a moment, regarding the tension in your shoulders, the usual bounce in your step gone.

“The unsub is targeting victims in high density suburban areas,” Hotch explained, his voice even, and clinical as his marker squeaked across the whiteboard, drawing harsh red circles around the outer ring of Atlanta.

Spencer tried to focus on the geographic profiling. He really did. He stared at the map, his mind usually capable of processing data at lightning speed, but his thoughts kept drifting to you, sitting rigidly in the chair next to him. Your notebook open to a blank page, you hadn’t written a single word. Instead, you were pressing the tip of your pen into the paper so hard the metal nib threatened to punch right through the sheets. Your breathing was shallow, your shoulders squared as if you were braced for impact. 

“.. and you two on victimology.” Hotch gestured between you and Spencer, flipping a page on the easel, entirely blind to the sudden, suffocating tension between his two youngest agents. 

“Right,” Spencer said, his voice cracking slightly on the syllable, pitching a fraction too high before he forcefully cleared his throat. He pulled his leather satchel tightly against his lap like a shield. “Given the compressed cooling off periods, it’s highly probable the unsub is experiencing a severe psychological stressor. Statistically, thirty-eight percent of these offenders act out due to a perceived loss of control in their domestic or professional life, turning to violence to overcompensate for their own felt inadequacy.”

He risked a sideways glance at you. You didn’t turn your head, but Spencer saw the way your fingers were locked around your pen, and the anxious way your foot bounced against the carpeted floor, your jaw clenched hard. Spencer felt an immediate, sickening pang of guilt. Stupid, he thought to himself, his stomach twisting. You just profiled her life right in front of the whole team.

An hour into the flight, the dark cabin of the BAU jet felt less like a sanctuary and more like a pressure cooker. The rest of the tram had succumbed to the heavy exhaustion of the midnight call out, nodding off under thin blankets.

You sat with your knees pulled loosely toward your chest in the leather armchair, staring out the oval window into the pitch black abyss of the night sky. The dim overhead reading light caught the stark, tired lines etched around your eyes, and the faint tremor in your bottom lip that you were trying desperately to bite down. Across the small table, Spencer was shifting restlessly, he pulled at the hem of the sweater, and spun a pen between his fingers until it flew out of his hand and clattered to the floor. He left it there.

“You know,” he started, his voice barely a murmur, pitched beneath the low roar of the jet engines. “Statistically speaking, couples who support each other’s career trajectories show a seventy-four percent higher rate of long term relationship satisfaction.”

You let out a faint sigh, one so quiet that he almost missed it. You kept your eyes fixed on the distant, glittering lights of a city miles below. You licked your bottom lip, and ran your teeth over the plush flesh before you answered. “S’that right, Spence?”

“Yes,” he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows onto his knees. There was a subtle shift in his posture, the nervous twitching stopped, replaced by a quiet focus. “It’s just… a partner shouldn’t view your success as their failure. In sociology, we look at reciprocal validation. A secure attachment style allows for individual growth without breeding resentment. If someone truly values you, your achievements shouldn’t make them feel diminished.”

You finally turned your head, your eyes were bright with a volatile mix of unshed tears and sudden, defensive anger. The walls came slamming down so hard, Spencer could practically hear them click into place. “I don’t need a psychological profile on my personal life, Reid. I’m fine.”

Spencer swallowed hard, the sudden surge of confidence evaporating instantly. He shrank back against the leather seat, his shoulders slumping as he raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Right. Sorry. I just… I noticed the phone call and I-”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, closing your eyes and turning back to the window, pulling your jacket tighter around your shoulders, effectively cutting the thread between you. 

By the afternoon, the temporary command post in the Georgia precinct was a chaotic maze of ringing phones, shouting detectives and frantic energy. The unsub had taken another victim, and the window for a live recovery was shrinking to zero. 

You and Spencer were crammed into a corner desk, isolated from the noise but entirely trapped by each other. The desk was small, buried under a mountain of medical records, school photos, and employment histories. Because of the tight space, your movements were forced into an intimate dance. Every time you reached for a file, your fingers brushed against his. Every time he leaned over to look at a map, his shoulder pressed against yours, the head of his body radiating through his shirt. The attraction that had been simmering between you for months was suddenly heavy, thick, and impossible to ignore.

“Look at the laceration patterns on the third victim,” you muttered, your voice raspy from lack of sleep. You leaned in closer, your forearm resting against his as you pointed a shaky finger at a graphic crime scene photo. “It’s not random, he’s targeting the-”

Spencer didn’t look at the photo. He was looking at the side of your face. From this close, he could see the faint violet shadows beneath your eyes, the way your teeth were nervously worrying your lower lip until it was raw. The manic energy of the bullpen seemed to fade into a dull roar. He took a slow, deep breath. 

“Spence-”

“He shouldn’t speak to you that way,” Spencer said. His voice was quiet, steady and devastatingly clear.

You froze, your finger remained pinned to the glossy photograph. Slowly, almost mechanically, you turned your head to face him. “What?”

“Liam,” Spencer said, he didn't blink, his brown eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “I know it’s not my place. I know I’m just your colleague, and I know I don’t possess the social intelligence to navigate this perfectly. But I hear how he talks to you. I see how you shrink when his name appears on your screen. You are one of the most brilliant, fiercely dedicated people I have ever met. You deserve someone who looks at you with absolute awe. Not someone who punishes you for being extraordinary.”

A wave of raw vulnerability crashed over you, and because it hurt too much to feel it, you turned it into anger. Your eyes narrowed, your heart slamming against your ribs as you pushed back. “You think you know everything because you have a high IQ? You think a couple of textbooks give you the right to judge my life, Reid? You don’t know anything about my relationship. You don’t know him, and you don’t know me outside of this job.”

“I know how to read behavioural patterns.” He countered, “and his pattern is to erode your confidence until you think you need him.” 

You shoved your chair backward, drawing a brief, curious glance from a nearby detective. You stood, grabbing the photograph in front of Spencer. “This little boy is missing. Maybe use your big brain to find him instead.” You snapped, shoving the photo into his chest before storming away. Spencer inhaled shakily, the photo crinkling between his fingers as he watched you wrench open the door, your boots thudding along the linoleum as you disappeared from sight. 

The breakthrough happened in a flash of frantic radio chatter. The unsub’s location had been pinged at an abandoned textile mill on the edge of town, and he had the latest victim with him. The sirens were also wailing outside the precinct as the team scrambled. Driven by pure, unadulterated frustration, and a desperate need to channel your anger into something productive, you grabbed your jacket and holstered your weapon, checking the chamber with an aggressive click. You moved toward the door like a hurricane, your vision tunneled on the exit. 

Suddenly, a lanky arm extended across the doorway, blocking your path.

“Move, Reid,” you breathed, your chest heaving as you glared up at him.

“No,” Spencer said, his voice ringing with a stubborn authority that caught you off guard. He didn’t drop his arm, instead, he stepped fully into your path, his eyes scanning your frantic expression. “Look at your heart rate. You’re hyperventilating, you’re emotional, and you’re compromised by your fight with Liam. You are trying to rush into a high risk tactical situation to prove a point to someone who isn’t even in this state.

“I am rushing into a high risk tactical situation to save a little boy from a deranged psychopath!” you yelled, your voice cracking as you stepped closer, your hand shoving at his chest. “You don’t get to tell me when I am fit for duty.”

“Not like this!” Spencer fired back, his own voice rising, a rare flash of raw, defensive anger breaking through. He grabbed your wrists, his grip strong as he held you back from pushing past him. “You’re running on anger, if you go in there with this blind tunnel vision, you’re going to get yourself killed and I am not- I can't let that happen!”

“Hey!”

Hotch’s voice cut through the air like a gunshot. He stepped into the hallway, his dark eyes instantly locking onto Spencer’s hands on your wrists, and the furious, tear streaked expression on your face. “Let go of her, Reid.” He said calmly, his voice low and dangerous. 

Spencer immediately let go of your wrists, stepping back half a pace, though his eyes remained on your face, anger fading into concern. “Just… checking tactical readiness.” He managed, his throat tight. 

Hotch looked between the two of you, his gaze lingering on the heavy, suffocating friction vibrating in the space between you. “Reid, get to the SUV.” Hotch’s eyes moved to him, Spencer nodded reluctantly, his jaw tight as he turned to move out. “Take a breath, pull it together, and get your gear.” He said, his voice lightening just a fraction as his eyes moved back to you.

“Yes, sir.” You muttered, your voice shaking as you moved past him, the adrenaline still roaring in your ears.

By the time you reached the perimeter of the abandoned warehouse, the atmosphere was lethal. Flashing blue lights cut through the heavy Georgia humidity. You stood by the trunk of the SUV, the echo of the fight with Spencer still vibrating in your skull. Your hands were shaking so violently that you couldn’t get the velcro straps on the left side of your tactical vest to align. You cursed under your breath, yanking at the fabric, entirely unhinged by the day’s accumulated trauma. 

“Let me,” Spencer’s voice came from right behind you. Before you could lash out, he stepped directly into your space. His hands were warm, large, and entirely steady as he reached out and took the tangled straps from your fumbling fingers. 

“I can do it myself,” you snapped, the frustration of the argument, the terror for the missing boy, and the suffocating weight of his protection boiling over. “Stop trying to fix everything, Spencer! Stop trying to fix me!”

Spencer didn’t flinch, he didn't pull back. Instead, he gripped the front of your vest, anchoring you in place and smoothly pulled the side straps tight, securing the armour against your chest with a harsh rip of the velcro. His hands lingered on your waist, his thumbs pressing firmly into your hips, holding you steady as he leaned down. 

“I don’t want to fix you,” he said, his voice low, intimate amidst the chaos of wailing sirens. “I just want you to realise your own worth.”

Your breath hitched, your anger dying in your throat as you stared up at him, your chest rising and falling hard against his hands. Before you could speak, Hotch’s voice barked through the earpiece: “Move in. Now.”

The unsub was in cuffs, the victim was in an ambulance, and the adrenaline had washed out of your system and down the drain along with the dirt and sweat of the day, leaving behind a hollow, aching fatigue that settled deep into your bones. Back at the dismal local hotel, the clock on the bedside table glowed a harsh, green 2:14am. You sat on the edge of the tightly tucked sheets, your hair damp from your shower, dressed in a fresh tank and pyjama shorts. You were staring down at your phone, there were three missed calls from Liam, along with a text that read: Glad to know where your priorities lie.

You stared at the glowing screen, waiting for the familiar, sickening twist of guilt to hit your stomach. But it didn’t come. Instead, all you felt was a profound, liberating emptiness. And then, you thought of Spencer.

You thought of the way he had stood his ground in the doorway, the desperate strength in his grip when he held your wrists, the absolute certainty in his voice when he told you he wouldn’t let you get killed. You had been cruel to him, using your own fear as a weapon and struck out at the only person who was actually looking at you. Really looking at you. A sudden, sharp need to see him pulled you to your feet. You didn’t care that it was two in the morning, you needed to apologise, you needed to look him in the eye and tell him he was right. You crossed the small, carpeted room, and pulled the deadbolt back, yanking the door open. 

You stopped dead in your tracks, your breath catching sharply in your throat. Spencer was standing right there in the dimly lit hallway. His right hand was suspended in the air, his knuckles curled into a loose fist, hovering inches from the wood. He had changed from his button down into a soft, loose fitting hoodie, and pyjama pants. His brown hair was completely disheveled where he'd been running his fingers through it in agitation. He looked wired, restless, and entirely consumed by whatever thoughts had dragged him to your door. For a second, the quiet of the hotel corridor was suffocating. The polite boundaries of the office, the professional distance, the careful phrasing, it all felt incredibly fragile, stretched to a breaking point between you. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out as his hand slowly lowered, his eyes softening as they locked onto yours. The weight of the day, the text from Liam, the sheer exhaustion, it all cracked open. “Spence, I’m so sorry for what I said, I shouldn't have snapped at you, you were just-”

“I’m not here for an apology,” Spencer cut you off. You swallowed, stepping back to allow him to cross the threshold to your room. He pushed the door behind him with a click, cutting off the hallway and shutting the two of you in the shadows cast by the flickering orange lamp.

“Spence-”

“I’ve spent the last six hours trying to rationalise why I should stay in my room and mind my own business,” he said, the words coming out fast, driven by a raw, unvarnished honesty. “I tried to tell myself it’s your life, it’s your relationship, it’s none of my concern. But it is. Because I have to sit there and watch you let someone pull you apart when all I want to do is the exact opposite.” 

Your heart hammered violently against your ribs, the air in your lungs turning to fire. “What?” You asked, the word rushing out of you breathily. 

“I don’t want to comment on Liam, and I really don’t want to come between you, but you deserve-” he paused, his eyes softening, resembling something doe-like as his chest rose and fell faster. “You deserve better, I… I could be better.” He swallowed as the words rang through your ears, he stepped forwards into your space, his eyes locked onto his expressive hands as he rambled. “I want to be the one who actually values the mind you have. I have spent months keeping my mouth shut. Months watching you go home to someone who treats your brilliance like a threat. Do you have any idea what it’s like to sit two feet away from you every single day, knowing exactly how many variables have to align for a human mind to be as extraordinary as yours, only to watch him treat you like you’re disposable? Like you’re a burden?” He shook his head, a lock of disheveled brown hair falling across his forehead. His eyes were wide, dark, and utterly consumed by you. 

“I tried to convince myself that I was just analyzing the dynamic. I tried to tell myself that my heart rate spikes when you walk into the room because of a localised adrenaline response. But it’s not,” he confessed, the words pouring out of him in a desperate, breathless rush, his hands twitching at his sides as if he was physically fighting the urge to grab you. “It’s because I’m completely, entirely losing my mind over you. Every time he hurts you, every time he makes you feel small, I just think about how I could do it better. How I could love you better. I know I’m awkward, I know I don’t always say the right things, and I know I don’t fit whatever standard he’s supposed to be meeting, but I would never, ever make you feel like you have to apologise for who you are.” 

Your breath left your chest in a shaky rush as he stepped forwards again, eliminating the final fraction of space between you, his breath warm against your lips. 

“Tell me to go, tell me to stay,” he whispered, his voice fracturing with pure, unfiltered desperation, “but I don’t want to respect a boundary that’s destroying you anymore.” He swallowed, his eyes dropping to your mouth. “I just want you.”

You met him as he closed the remaining distance, his long fingers tangling fiercely into your hair, his grip firm as he tilted your face up. His lips met yours as your hands curled against his hoodie, it wasn’t gentle, or polite. It was a collision of months of buried tension, stolen glances, and desperate, unconfessed attraction. The kiss was hard, breathless and demanding, shattering every rule and boundary you had both spent months hiding behind.

The heat in the room was instantaneous, a sudden, heavy friction that made the cheap hotel room feel entirely too small. Spencer’s mouth was urgent against yours, his lips parting your own with a fierce, hungry desperation. But even as the wave of emotion swept over him, his touch carried an undeniable reverence. His hands shifted from your hair down to your shirt, his long fingers trembling down your waist, His breath hitched as he gently slid his hands underneath the fabric, his lips trailing down the column of your neck to the hollow of your throat. You let out a soft gasp, the sound vibrating against his skin as your hands clawed at his hoodie, pulling the hem up. Spencer didn’t rush you. His brown eyes locking onto yours in the dim light as if silently asking, checking, ensuring you were entirely with him. He pulled the shirt over your head, tossing it aside before his palms rested against the bare skin of your waist. His hands were warm, pressing gently into your hips to guide you back until the back of your knees hit the mattress. 

“Spence-” you breathed against his jaw, your fingers tangling in the waist of his pants as you sank backwards. He followed you down without breaking contact for a second, his lean frame settling over you, his knees bridging yours. The weight of him was a grounding reality that shattered every last lingering thought of the case, the precinct, and the toxic messages sitting on your nightstand. With a shaky breath, Spencer reached down, his fingers shedding the rest of his clothes in quick, impatient movements, easing you out of yours with an intensity that remained deeply focused on you. When he leaned back down, the skin on skin friction drew a sharp intake of breath from both of you. Spencer rested his forearms on either side of your head, looking down at you. His eyes were dark with passion, but there was a softness in them, a gentle, unwavering adoration that was purely him. 

“Just you and me,” he murmured against your neck softly, his voice thick with emotion as his thumb gently traced your cheekbone. “I’ve got you.”

Before you could answer, his mouth met yours again, deep and breathless, his hands sliding down to weave his fingers firmly through yours as he pressed close, sinking into the bed. His hips rolled against you as your legs bracketed his thighs, your free hand moving to the back of his neck, your fingers twirling in his hair. His hand wrapped around your hip, pressing you to him as he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him until you were sitting on his lap. He didn’t break the kiss, as he repositioned you both, his fingers tracing up your side, feather light against your bare skin. It came to rest on the side of your neck, his long fingers twirling into your hair as his other hand placed yours on his chest, before moving to your hip to guide you as you grinded against him. His hand was firm yet gentle at your waist, his cock straining against the thin fabric separating the two of you. 

You gasped against his mouth as his hand guided your movements, his fingers pressed into the flesh of your hip as his tongue traced your lower lip. Your tongue brushed his as you deepened the kiss, feeling his muscles tense underneath you at the added intensity. “Come here,” he murmured against your lips, pulling your hip towards him. 

You smiled against his mouth, exhaling out a soft laugh. “I am here, Spence,” you whispered, catching his lip between yours again. He smiled into the kiss, as he dropped his other hand to your other hip, pulling your hips upwards. 

“No,” he encouraged your hips again, dropping his head against the pillow, and lifting one finger to his mouth, his eyes shining with mischief. “Here.” 

Your teeth caught your bottom lip as your mouth curved involuntarily, your eyes flicking between his. “Oh really?” He nodded, the same adorable, playful smile on his lips as he tapped his finger against his mouth again. You laughed softly as he let his hands fall against the mattress, giving you space to crawl over him. His hands moved straight to your hips as you settled over his face, your thighs settling either side of his head, his head lifting, his tongue moving out before you were even settled. The contact had your head tip back even through the soft cotton of your underwear, his hands tight on your hips as he pulled you down against his mouth. His soft fingers slid underneath the fabric around your hips, not to move them down, just to anchor you against him as his tongue moved over the damp fabric. He let a moan escape his lips as his mouth closed over your clit, the fabric pressing against you as the vibrations rippled through your body. One hand moved into his hair as his fingers moved down, pulling the fabric aside to press his tongue against the sensitive skin. 

“Spence-” you sighed, your eyes closing as your hips rolled, his tongue dragging through your folds before his mouth closed around your clit. The pressure of his tongue was firm, each movement was calculated, like he knew exactly what pattern to trace to make your stomach tighten. Your hand fumbled back over his stomach, leaning back until you reached his briefs. His movements stalled for a split second as your fingers skimmed over his cock, a soft gasp falling from his lips before he resumed. Another soft moan vibrated in his chest as you slipped your hand underneath the waistband and wrapped your hand around his length, his hands tightening around your hips. 

You set a slow pace with your hand, moving it up and down his length with a small twist of your wrist. The pressure of your palm against him made his head spin, his eyes squeezing shut. “God…” He whispered, your hand tightening on his hair before letting go to crawl back down his body. He smiled, keeping his eyes closed as your lips pressed into his skin beneath his neck, then at his collarbone, then his chest, continuing your path down with soft kisses. Spencer shivered under your touch, not used to being the center of such attention. The way your lips pressed against him had him breathless, leaving a trail of fire in their wake as you made your way down his stomach, pressing a final kiss to his hip, just above the waistband of his briefs as your fingers curled around the elastic. His eyes dropped to yours, his eyes wide watching as his cock sprang free when you pulled the fabric down, and you wrapped your hand around the base, dragging your tongue across the flushed tip. 

“Oh my god..” He gasped, his head dropping back against the pillow, before bringing it back up as if he didn’t want to miss a second. His jaw hung open as he watched your lips wrap around him, your tongue pressing flat against the underside of his cock. The hum that vibrated in your throat sent shivers up his spine, making him twitch in your mouth. You closed your eyes as your head moved, dragging your spit-slicked lips down his length, pausing as the tip hit the back of your throat, before hollowing your cheeks as you brought your head back up. Spencer’s hand moved as he let out a hiss through his teeth, brushing your hair back behind your ear as your tongue swirled around the head. His hand stayed by your jaw, cupping your face as your head bobbed, watching his cock disappear into the wet heat of your mouth. His tongue moved out to wet his bottom lip as his stomach tensed, involuntarily bucking his hips upwards causing his cock to slide further into your mouth. “Fuck… sorry..” he gasped, his chest heaving. You lowered your head more, swallowing around him as you took him deeper, his head fell backwards, his heart pounding in his ears, his fingers grasping at the sheets as he let out a choked moan.

You pulled off with a wet pop, and crawled back over him, his hand moving to the back of your head, the other grabbing your hip as you straddled him. His brown eyes locked onto yours, his pupils blown, his lips parted around heavy breaths as his head clouded any thoughts other than you, and the way you looked above him. You planted one hand by his neck on the mattress, his head turning to press his lips against your wrist as you reached the other between you, wrapping your hand around him to drag the sensitive head of his cock through the slick folds before sinking down slowly. His hand tightened on your hip, his head fell back against the pillow as his cock buried inside you. A strangled noise left his throat as you rested your hand against his chest, your chest heaving as you adjusted to the sensation, before rolling your hips slowly. 

His fingers skimmed up your waist, opening his eyes again as he watched your face, the way your hair framed your face, the way your hips rolled against his. The soft moans that fell from your mouth as you moved were like music to his ears as his hand settled on your ribs, his eyes wide as his other hand tangled in your hair to pull you down against him. Your mouth met his in a frenzied kiss as your bare chest pressed his. His feet planted against the mattress as he thrust upwards to meet yours, your brows furrowing as you moaned against his mouth. Your body melted against his as you wrapped your hand around the back of his head, your skin sliding against him with every movement. The pace picked up, his thighs meeting yours in a cacophony of smacking skin, muffled moans and heavy breathing. 

Your back hit the mattress as Spencer flipped you, his weight settling over you, warm and solid. There was a firmer rhythm to the way he moved, less overthinking and more intuitive focus. His fingers found yours, intertwining with them and pinning them against the pillow by your head, your other arm thrown around the back of his neck to keep him close. When he broke away from the kiss, his forehead rested against yours, his chest heaving as he searched your face. “Okay?” he murmured, his breath warm on your lips, his voice full of gentle concern. 

You nodded, lifting a leg to hook over his hip, his hand tightened on yours at your confirmation, his mouth dropping to your neck, his teeth gently grazing your skin as he inhaled deeply. His skin was searing against yours, the non-existent space between you growing slick with sweat, his free hand finding your thigh to keep it around his waist, each purposeful roll of his hips had your back arching in complete bliss. “Fuck… Spencer..” You rasped against his ear, your soft, breathy voice sending a shiver up his spine, making his cock pulse inside you. 

Your stomach clenched, his breath hot against your neck as his rhythm slowed, deep thrusts that had your head spinning as you reached your free hand between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit to rub tight circles. The extra stimulation had you clenching around him already, his hips faltering for a moment as you grew tighter around his cock. 

“God...” He breathed, his teeth gently grazing your shoulder as he tried to hold on, his hand tightened on yours as if the feeling could stop the fire taking over his body, the nerve ending feeling like they were about to explode. “You're gonna- god..” he whined.

You moaned louder, your nails digging into his shoulder. The way your fingers circled your clit and the deep rhythm of his thrusts had your stomach tensing, clenching around him as your thighs tightened around his waist. “Spence...” You moaned, your back arching as your release washed over you. 

His eyes squeezed closed, his hips rolling deep as he groaned loudly, the sensation of you fluttering around his cock, your nails biting into the skin of his shoulder, the way you were moaning directly into his ear. It was all too much. Spencer’s eyes squeezed closed, his forehead pressing against yours as his hand pressed yours harder into the mattress. His hips stalled, burying deep as the shockwaves of his orgasm took over his body, your name leaving his lips in a low, breathy whisper. He stayed until his body loosened, until your palm pressed flat against his shoulder, his fingers releasing yours. He lifted his head, opening his eyes to meet yours, shining with a mix of satisfaction and adoration.

He shifted, carefully rolling onto the mattress to lay on his side, one arm propping up his head as he reached for yours with the other, resting over your stomach under the tangled white sheets. The green light from the bedside clock painted soft angles across his face as he stared at you with a soft wonder that made your chest ache in the best possible way. His thumb moved slowly, tracing gentle, lazy circles over the back of your knuckles. 

“I used to think…” Spencer started softly, his voice a quiet whisper in the dark. He paused, a faint, familiar furrow appearing between his brows before he smoothed it out. “Statistically, the probability of finding someone who… who truly aligns with you, intellectually and emotionally, is incredibly low. Less than zero-point-one percent.”

A small, tired smile crept over your face. You squeezed his hand, pulling his knuckles up to press a soft kiss against them. “And now?”

Spencer leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, his breath lingering against your skin. “Now I think statistics are entirely inadequate.”

You let out a soft laugh, resting your head in the dip between his neck and shoulder. Everything faded into the background, and for the first time in months, your mind felt completely still. Spencer wrapped his arm securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His chin rested lightly on top of your head, his fingers remaining tightly intertwined with yours under the blankets.  You closed your eyes, breathing in the warm scent of his soap, and lingering cologne, and let yourself drift off, soothed by the gentle trace of his fingers along your spine.

“Spencer, the brutality is significantly different from the others; the placement of the bodies for the other crime scenes shows remorse, and this one-” you glimpse outside your rain-splattered side window to where the bodies are being zipped up in body bags “this one shows pure anger, hatred even.” 

You look back over to Spencer, his own eyes observing the crime scene past your shoulder. You can identify the cogs turning behind his stare, his brows furrowing as he flits his gaze back towards you. 

“This couple may mean something more to him; he personally knew them and had a grudge over past or present problems. It explains the anger. The other victims were placed where they were through guilt because he didn’t know them; they were picked at random, by opportunity.”  

Bitter blood slides over your tongue; you hadn’t realised you had been biting it so hard. You got used to the sight of dead bodies, however dismembered and unrecognisable, but it still made your stomach churn and twist. 

“You okay?” 

The soft worry in his voice shakes you out of your head; blood didn’t seem so potent when his gaze was on you. 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm okay; it's just that the other scenes were- mild, I suppose. I could still see their faces and the colour of their skin, so I had it wired that this one would be the same. Two punctures through the chest. Not body parts all over the local park.” 

You breathe out, attempting to exhale all the tension wound tight in your body. Hoping to wipe away the sight of pooled blood and cut tendons. You didn’t like your emotions on display, didn’t like how, after years in the job, it still rose up your throat when you couldn’t tell who someone was, but you could tell what part of their body you were looking at.

“Do you want me to drive?” his voice is so tender you could kiss him. Would kiss him if you understood anything about what was going on between you.

“No, I got it. Honestly.”

Twisting the keys in the ignition, the engine rumbles. You cut a quick glance to the left of you, where Hotch and Gideon are exchanging information with the head detective, and then you press your foot down; the car rolling forward. 

The rain turns angry quickly, thundering down unapologetically against the car instead of the previous soft pitter-patter. The forest trees grow taller the closer you get to the police station, creating walls of evergreen around the seemingly never-ending secluded road. 

The wipers squeak as they move across the windshield, trying desperately to remove the clear raindrops that blur the view. The road is silent, no cars behind or coming the other way and nothing but thick trees for miles. The dark clouds above make it seem like something out of a movie. 

Ironic really. 

Driving in an FBI-issued Chevrolet in the most forested state in the US whilst it’s pissing it down with Spencer sitting next to you. It is harder than you admit to yourself, sitting next to him on a daily basis like you didn’t know the pressure of his kiss.  

What a fucked up movie scene this would be. 

“You know, nearly ninety per cent of Maine is forest, seventeen point six million acres of trees”, Spencer mutters matter-of-factly, breaking the silence within the car. 

Your eyes peel away from the road for a split second, catching sight of Spencer's side profile. His focus is on the dense forest passing by; his glasses reflect the greenery glistening and shaking.

“Lots of forest”, you respond, your attention back on the road. 

Your heart feels too tender near him, squishy as if it wants to be moulded by his delicate hands. You swallow your own words every time he gets too close, bite your cheeks when you catch ‘that look’ from him and zip yourself up when you find yourself thinking too much about how bad you want to scribble the word lesson from his vocabulary. 

Maybe this was too far gone. Maybe you were silently falling in love with him, whilst he just thought it was all a lesson. It had started out as a lesson, but not so much anymore. 

That morning three weeks ago, when your mouth was on him, felt like you were both waiting for something more. You had tightened up his tie, and he had passed you your jacket like you were practising for next time, as though next time wouldn't be underlined as a teaching. 

The next time had yet to come, as much as you wanted it to. 

“I think we should talk ab-” he starts. 

Was he thinking the same thing? 

Loud metallic clanking pauses Spencer's words; the SUV starts jerking slightly, rocking you in your seat. Your hands tighten around the wheel, and your foot presses off the accelerator slightly in an attempt to gain control of the vehicle. Gravel crunches like loud cries under the tyres as you steer the car over to the side of the road. 

You only breathe properly after the car is stopped and the keys are twisted. Peering out of the window, you look around to see if any cars are close by, but you assume everyone is tucked under their blankets at six am and therefore no help in this little predicament. 

“Did we just break down?” Spencer asks, furrowing his brows: such an unusual thing, a question falling from the lips of the man who knows everything.  

This is the last thing you need when you and Spencer are vitally needed on this case and at the police station in approximately… twenty minutes. 

The police station that was more than five miles away. 

Twisting the keys again only has the engine sputtering like it is trying its hardest to do something, but failing miserably. You don’t think rubbing the wheel and giving it soft motivating words is the cure; you damn sure would rather do that than step foot in the pouring rain.  

“I think so, yeah”, you hesitate, letting out a frustrated groan, running your hands down your face before pressing the button that pops the hood. 

The rain is cold, sending a shivering chill down your spine as you step out of the car and close the door. The sweater hugging your body does nothing to stop the pounding rain from seeping against your skin. Not even a second outside, vulnerable to the elements, and you already feel soaked through to the bone. 

Propping the hood up, you move your face closer to the inside of the car. Were you meant to know what you were looking at? Nothing was smoking, rattling or doing anything obvious; you're pretty sure the engine is still intact. 

“Spencer!” you call for him, the rain getting louder around you. 

The passenger door opens and closes, and Spencer's tall frame waddles over; his arms crossed over his head, yet not doing the best job of keeping the rain away. Droplets roll down his face, dripping from his lashes and sliding down the tip of his nose. You pass him a look that says ‘Do you know what the fuck I'm looking at?’ 

He squints his eyes, a small wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “What?” 

You lift a teasing eyebrow at his confusion “I thought you had a degree in engineering?”

“I do” 

You huff out a short laugh and smile at the ridiculousness of it all “Does that not include cars?” 

“I could tell you what everything is but not the problem; I'm not really good with mechanical knowledge”, he bites his bottom lip as he studies the engine bay like he’s guilty of his lack of knowledge, uncomfortable with the idea of not having an answer to something. 

He looks back over to you, his lips twitching up in an amused smile. You wonder if you have the same effect on him as he does on you, a bad day that turns good just from the sight of him. But you particularly don’t see how looking like a wet rat would cheer him up. 

“We are stranded in the middle of Maine with an unusable car”, you point out the obvious. The laughable reality of your situation. 

You find your own mouth twitching, unable to stop the entertained smile from painting your lips. This shouldn’t be as funny as it is; there is a serial killer on the loose, one you and Spencer are meant to help catch, and then fate fucked you sideways. 

Hell, maybe you were going crazy. 

“Maybe we should call roadside assistance?” you recommend, gripping the hood of the car and slamming it back down. 

Spencer shakes his head. “Roadside assistance would take up to three hours in this part of the state. It’s best if we call Hotch and see if we could get someone to come up and drive us to the station.” 

Your eyes widen at his words: “Three hours?”

He presses his lips together and nods before speaking, “Indeed.” 

Stepping into the middle of the empty road, you look around for any sign of nearby civilisation, hoping on a slim chance that lightbulbs will appear above your head. 

None. 

Spencer is already on the phone as you walk back to the SUV, your shoes squelching with every step. You feel like a teabag that has soaked in water for too long. His back leans on the car as he speaks into the phone, the wind whipping his hair out of place and leaving strands hanging in front of his eyes. 

Branches sway, talking to one another as though they already knew more than most. Funny how trees are better communicators than half of the human population, better than yourself.  

You stand in front of him, not too close but close enough to hear Aaron's rough voice through the phone speaker. Spencer watches your movements, the way you fiddle with your beaded bracelet like it grounds you, as though you're battling an emotion without a name. 

“Hotch says Morgan will be here in approximately half an hour” he slides his phone back in his pocket. 

Half an hour? The meeting with the local PD will be over by then, and there won’t be much to say that hasn’t already been said.

“How does he know where we are?” you question, confused. You were well aware of what road you were on, and the vague vicinity of the nearest town, but this road went on for miles and miles, up and down hills and into the deepest forests. 

Spencer absentmindedly taps the black steel of the car, his finger drumming on the door. The weather's assault on the gravel road and the overbearing pine trees drown out any sounds his fingertips might be making. 

“I guessed the coordinates” 

You were too stunned to speak for a good while; you felt your eyebrows raise in response to his words. “You guessed the coordinates?” 

He nods, a small smile on his lips. In half an hour, you would either thank him for his smarts or tease him profusely about sending Derek in a completely different direction. 

His small smile, despite being in the middle of nowhere, soaked through, does something to your insides. Your traitorous heart beats against your ribs, starved for something it wasn’t promised. His glasses are spotted with water droplets, and in defiance of his vision being blurred, he looks at you like you're the answer to everything. 

You're not sure what you have done to earn it. 

This is the first time in three weeks, two days and twenty-three hours that you have both been alone together. Three weeks, two days and twenty-three hours since you both walked out of his apartment together and had a silent agreement that what had happened that morning and the night before was more than a lesson. Something that involved feelings. Something hard to walk away from. 

He is an amazing friend and co-worker, but you always carried something more that was only reserved for him. You should have known the moment you sent that drunk text that the outcome was never going to be stuffing your feelings down and sucking his cock like you didn’t want to get on your knees and beg him to love you.    

“I think we should talk” Your voice doesn’t flatter or waver, even as you feel the heat rising to your cheeks. It is a conversation that needs to be had, and you needed to tell your little love-bug heart that it would be all okay, no matter the outcome. 

His throat bobs, but he seems to understand.

Neither of you mention the cosy warmth waiting inside the car, the solace of being in a dry space. The rain continues to batter both of you, the wind whipping your hair and the musky wet soil scent filling your nose. It would be much more comfortable talking inside, but the conversation wasn’t meant to be comfortable anyway. 

Love wasn’t always meant to be sheltered and hidden; it was meant to be uncovered and bared out in the open, to spread like wildfire. 

“What are we?” you ask softly, the wind carrying your words. 

“I'm not quite sure”, he answers, half to himself. The tip of his nose is flushed pink, eyes half-lidded as he holds eye contact with you.   

Heated tension passes between you both; your heart does funny things and beats like a door knock so relentlessly you wonder if it interrupts the silence within you a couple of times. Your legs feel like noodles, and your chest feels as though it's chained with bolts and screws.

“I like you”, you breathe out, admitting to the biting words. 

You were the one who told Spencer you wanted to teach him how to make a woman feel good; you were the one who gave him instructions as he feasted between your legs; you were the one who looked up with fire in your eyes as he came in your mouth with pathetic whimpers. 

So why the fuck were you so nervous? 

“I- I like you too” his voice is stuttered and quiet, as innocent as the first time you kissed him.  

He liked you. 

You had considered yourself crazy for a while after leaving his apartment those few days ago. Life went by like normal, cases, files and daily routine, and yet it wasn’t the same. You had convinced yourself that maybe Spencer still thought of you in a friendly way despite it all, that he was able to go back to normalcy because it didn’t affect him the way it did you. 

But outside of all the sexual encounters that night and morning, he had held you, kissed you, and called you things that ‘just friends’ would never say to each other. You suspected it was more, always did, but to hear Spencer confirm that almost has you falling to your knees in relief. 

It only takes a couple of steps, your feet feeling lighter than earlier, and your mouth is upon his. 

He stills for a second before his mouth responds to yours, a small sigh leaving his soft lips.

He tastes just the same as before, the sweet coffee you had dreams about mixed with potent desperation. Your hands put faint pressure on his chest, pushing his back against the side of the wet car. 

The kiss is much more hungry and meaningful than the others you shared with him before. His hands come to your cheeks, holding them and pulling you deeper like he is scared you will slip away. 

He moves his tongue against yours painfully slow, memorising the taste and feel of your lips with every sacred second. 

In spite of the cold weather closing around you and your clammy skin, your body starts to heat up, flames lighting up in the most vulnerable places. You softly moan into the kiss, letting your body fall into his. 

Pulling back slightly, your lips hovering over his, you start unbuttoning the top of his wet cardigan. 

“We” kiss “are” kiss “in” kiss “public”, he mutters against your lips, all too aware of being on the side of the road. 

It had been almost ten minutes since you broke down, and still not a single car was in sight; it was far too early, and the weather was far too bad for anyone to be on the road. But you look up at him anyway, recognising his hesitation.

“It’s half six in the morning.” 

“The average population wake up around six; it's a work day, and this road goes into the main city”, he stammers quietly, his eyes on your lips as he speaks. 

“What? Do you want to stop?” you say teasingly, continuing to unbutton his top. 

He scrunches his eyes like that's the most ridiculous thing you could say in that moment. “No- no, I don’t want to stop.” 

He was right, though; it would probably take only a couple of minutes for cars to start driving through this road regularly. You wanted nothing more than to bend over the hood and let him take you, but being fired for public indecency as an FBI agent wasn't on your agenda. 

You roll your bottom lip against your teeth and look behind him, through the window and to the interior of the vehicle. The FBI-issued SUV was bigger than most cars, enough room to do … activities, activities that definitely shouldn’t be done in a car owned by the FBI. 

“Get in the car”

“That’s still illegal, you know” he swallows and surveys the road behind you. 

“It's raining; the windows will steam” You tilt your head to look at him, neediness reflected in your eyes. 

“So?” 

“So don’t get caught”, you respond, smirking. 

He contemplates it for a while, his cheeks flushed bright red, battling between sensibility and desire. He looks off to the side and shakes his head slightly, a small nervous smirk tugging his lips. 

Your eyebrows are raised slightly, waiting for verbal agreement that you could open the car door and let him fall apart under your touch. He looks back at you, his expression leering and hungry, and you understand instantly. You feel your panties dampen even more, dripping with something that isn’t just rainwater. 

You back up, your chest leaving his, and he steps away from the car door so you can reach forward and grip the cold black metal of the handle. 

The inside of the vehicle is far warmer than outside, and the air is thick with leather and something fresh that has you wondering why you didn’t get out of the rain sooner. 

You crawl across the black leather seats and then turn around, leaning your back against the inside of the car door. Spencer runs his hand through his wet hair, slicking back the loose strands and looking around the forest as though he expects there to be an entity watching, ready to report every sin soon to be committed. 

He shuffles into the car, soaking the seats under his knees and closes the door behind him. Hard slaps of rain hit the outside of the car, and the gloomy lighting sets the ambience, highlighting the passion and longing thrumming between you. 

Scooting down, you lie your back flat against the seats. One of your legs hangs off the side, opening them, inviting Spencer to take what his strained pants said he so desperately needed. 

His mouth is slightly parted, breathing deeply, his brain short-circuiting from the pure sight of you lying before him in such a foolhardy manner. This was wrong on so many levels: in the back of an FBI car, about to touch his co-worker on the side of a soon-to-be busy road, with his cock throbbing. 

“We’re getting the car wet”, he mumbles. 

“Taking our clothes off probably helps with that”, you whisper, smiling at his flustered state. 

His eyes run down your clothed body, probably remembering the way your soft skin felt under his hands, how the sweet spot between your legs had him completely pussy drunk. 

Spencer nervously leans over you, his trembling hand coming to the side of your head. You drink in his dark gaze that doesn’t break away, not even for a second, as though he wants to swim in whatever it is that he finds behind your eyes. 

“We have twenty minutes”, you whisper, reaching up to tug on his plaid tie. 

A deep moan leaves his mouth as your lips crash into his like a tidal wave, a beautiful impact. The hand beside your head squeezes into a fist, a sign that he’s falling apart inside, melting into everything his pleasure sinks its teeth into. 

Your gun clanks on the floor, falling from its holster. Thank fuck the safety is on. 

The front of his grey tailored chinos strains, a tent of arousal evident. Your breath hitches in anticipation; there hasn’t been a day that has gone by recently where you haven’t found yourself cutting glances at his crotch, remembering it twitching against your mouth. 

Sitting on his knees, he slides your Converse flats off, water dripping onto the car mats, and then brings his finger to your belt loops. The belt hits the floor with a soft thud. One less restriction, one step closer. 

“Can I? Am I allowed to- is this what you want?” he asks, his voice low and rough. His timid eyes look at you through thick lashes, his eyebrows slightly raised as if it physically pains him to have a layer of clothes keeping you from him. 

“Do you want it too?” 

He nods a few times, emphasising the point that he really did want this. 

Warm morning sunlight peeks through a dark cloud for a split second, illuminating Spencer's red cheeks. So handsome, so perfect in more ways than one, he was like falling into a comfortable mattress after a long day.  

You more than liked him. 

Much more. 

The button on your trousers pops, and the wet fabric that is practically stuck to you slides down your legs like a snake shedding its skin. Rough knuckles graze the outside of your thighs as he strips you, bringing your panties with it. 

“I missed you”, he whispers, barely audible. 

He missed you like this; missed being able to touch you and kiss you and share intimate moments. His firsts.  

“I missed you too, Spence”  Your voice is rougher than you expect, want shown through the barely controlled rasp. 

Your lips find each other again, his hand trailing down your sweater and teasingly tracing the inside of your thighs. You instinctively open them wider, watching Spencer's throat bob as his eyes land on the wet arousal dripping from your entrance. 

“I would have shaved if I ha-” you start. 

“No, it’s okay”, he shakes his head. Slowly, he traces a finger through the wiry hair, tranced “I like it; it makes you more you.” 

Reassurance trickles through you, a soft smile planting itself on your lips. 

Despite his germaphobe tendencies, he would gladly be up for burying his nose in the hair between your thighs.

Interesting. 

A hitched breath leaves the confines of your throat as his finger delves deeper, running his fingertip through your wet folds. Your legs twitch at the sensation, your body chasing the feeling even more. 

Spencer's jaw is tight as he watches his own movements, admiring the wetness collecting on his digit. Your eyes don’t leave his face, tracing all the hard edges and curves, memorising the desire written behind his fixed gaze. You want every cell, nerve and bone in your body aware that this is Spencer eliciting pleasure in the deepest parts of you. 

No one else. 

Warm walls tighten around his finger as he presses it into your entrance, your pussy practically beconing, sucking him closer. The heavy breathing from both of you is accompanied by the lewd squelch your wetness admits with every drag of his finger. 

He leans over you again, his attention back on your face, watching the whimpers leave your parted mouth. His uneven breathing fans over your cheek like long-lost words finally reaching your ears. 

“Off, take it off” Your hand wraps around the bottom of his top. 

Pulling back, his finger leaves your aching walls to finish undoing the buttons of his cardigan you had attempted to tear off of him before. The grey cardigan hits the pile of your clothes with a wet smack, and then next comes the tie and blue striped polo shirt. 

He’s more timid with his shirt off, his pale, slim body on display for your hungry eyes. A pathetic gasp rips from his mouth as your fingertips find the muscles of his abdomen. Holding eye contact, your palm traces the V-line poking from his trousers and up, up to one of the pale pink circles on his chest. 

“I've wanted you for so long”, you whisper, your thumb feather-touching the soft skin of his nipple. 

“I wanted- want you too. For so long,” his voice hesitates and stammers. 

“At first I just wanted to teach you, for you to fuck me” Your finger moves from his chest and down, tracing a horizontal line across the waistband of his boxers peaking through. “But then I got greedy.” 

Your grip comes around his free hand, and you guide it back down to where you need it the most. Two of his fingers collect your slick before prodding your entrance, slowly stretching the begging muscle. 

“How?” he asks, helplessly intrigued. 

“For you. I got greedy for you,” you whisper against his mouth. 

His breath hitches, his forehead moving to press against your neck like he needs something stable to hold onto. Your words knock him off balance, his fingers stilling inside. 

He doesn’t hesitate to catch your lips in a greedy kiss as soon as he moves back from your neck. Fingers trailing lower, your palm teasingly cups the bulge in his trousers, and his hips move forward, applying pressure. 

“You're perfect,” he rasps between kisses " You're so perfect.”

Everything was on fire, lips tingling against his, pussy throbbing as his fingers move again, hand desperate for skin on skin. His words and touch adding fuel to the fire, accelerant to make the flames burn brighter and hotter.

Want fills you like potent liquor. You needed him so bad, needed to have him begging and whimpering under you, confessing all the things he was holding onto. 

The downpour continues from outside, thumping against the metal roof like it were cheering you both on, just as eager to watch as your insides were to feel it. Steam covers the windows, shying the outside away, covering the gods above from the worship happening inside, the distant sound of cars only a mere thought. 

Soft sounds slip from your mouth as he scoots down the black leather seats, his trousers smearing rainwater across the fabric. His fingers stop their thrusting, instead replacing it with a warm, sloppy kiss. 

The feeling is electric; it has your back arching and fingernails gripping the seat so hard you're positive they leave deep crescent moons. His tongue slides across your folds, running a wet line from entrance to clit, not missing a drip of salty arousal. 

He had obviously learnt from last time, reading books, blogs, whatever you didn’t care about, but they had worked. The way his tongue worked was almost expert-level. His mouth wraps around your pulsing clit, sucking and licking like you were his only salvation in this damned world. 

If it wasn’t for his shaking hands grasping your thighs and the ragged breathing every time he took a gulp of air, you would have assumed he had gotten over his nerves, swallowed them as he took your pussy into his mouth. 

Tilting your head to the right in your pleasure daze, through half-lidded eyes, you notice the dashboard clock between the front seats. 

Dammit.

You would gladly spend hours lying down like this, the rain creating harmony whilst the smell of sweat and musk sticks in the air, but Derek was going to be here in a matter of minutes, and the only thing you really needed, you hadn't got yet.

“Spence”, you grab his attention, his puppy eyes looking up through your legs. 

Fingers threading through his hair, you pull the brunette strands enough for him to know where you want him. His body covers you again, tongue intertwining, passing on the salty taste of yourself.

“I need you inside me”, you beg, too aware of the seconds going by.    

He searches your face “But I-” he swallows, “I haven’t made you climax”

“I can come once I have you in me. Spencer, please, we only have ten minutes.” 

Your hands start on his belt, fitting between your close bodies to take off his gun and holster and pull the leather belt from the loops. Every ticking second without his cock in you felt like agony, something you couldn’t prolong.

He huffs out a short, nervous laugh as he watches your hands continue their task “I don’t know how to- I- this is my first” 

“I know. I’ll make it good”  

“What if you don’t finish?”

That was perhaps the stupidest thing that ever came out of his sweet mouth.   

“I will, baby, trust me, I will” A smile plays on your lips, admiring his concern for you despite it being his first time. Gently pushing his chest, he leans back against the seat. “Just let me take control, okay?” 

He falls under your command like a puppy on a leash, eyes wide as he watches you sit up and throw a leg over his lap. His desire is indisputable with the way his bulge is hungrily pressing against your core. 

“Last time - last time you were over, you forgot” His voice wavers as your lips trail up the side of his neck, “forgot your underwear.” 

Spencer's hands come to your waist, and in response, you playfully roll your hips down on him. A pretty moan slips from his mouth, his hands gripping your body tighter. 

Hips moving on their own accord, you hold the back of Spencer's neck and delight in the facial expressions that come across his appearance. His head is lolled back against the seat, cheeks bright red and eyes half-lidded as though he had trouble comprehending his thought process. 

Your sensitive clit rubs against the damp fabric of his chinos, and each spark of friction shakes your legs. “I know” 

“You did it on purpose”, he mutters, “because of what- mh -what you said.” 

Pride fills you. He was finally going to mention it, the little surprise you left on his kitchen counter, pretty white lace he couldn’t get enough of last time his mouth was on you. 

“Mh? What did I say?”

His cheeks flush a shade darker. 

“Men use it for pleasurable purposes; it heightens the testosterone and dopamine chemicals and-” his voice gets a pitch higher, and he squeezes his eyes shut, “- I looked it up. Just- I- you told me to wrap it around myself…my cock.” 

Your own breath hitches with his dirty words. Spencer mentioned sexual organs at work with a firm voice, in a professional manner, but you had never heard him say it this way, desperate. It feels wrong, unheard of, to witness such a thing, but it felt wrong in the best way. 

“Your what?” You push him to repeat it, teasing him in a playful voice. 

“My- my cock” His voice is whiny, having given up with any form of trying to piece back the intelligible parts of his mind. 

“And did you do it?” 

“I.. I did just- please, please keep going,” his hips buck up as a follow-on to his words, his tone showing just how desperate he really was. 

Hooking a finger under his chin, you tilt his face up and hold eye contact as you press your hips harder and rock with more rhythm. The grinding has your own mind covered in fog, mouth open on silent gasps. 

“Did you cum all over my panties?” 

“All over, all over I swe-” a stuttered hiss cuts him off. His fingernails dig into the soft flesh of your ass, hips stuttering as you continue rocking on him. Only when you notice a single tear sliding down his cheek do you stop your movements. 

Smug realisation hits you, “Spencer- did you just-?”   

You just made Spencer Reid cum in his pants with only a few hip rolls. 

To be honest, it wasn't all that surprising. Are you shocked that it happened so quickly? Yes, but with little to no experience, he was bound to bust a load that easily, without being touched. But fuck, did he look so attractive doing so, his eyes blown wide as if he himself was stunned by his body's surrender.    

“Shut up- shut up; that’s so embarrassing”, he winces after catching his breath.

It was one of, if not the most attractive thing you had ever witnessed.  

“It’s not”, you scoff, a light-hearted laugh, and lean your forehead against his sweaty one. “But I need you to get hard again.” 

You could practically imagine the clock, counting down the seconds left until Derek's fist would rasp against the steamed window. You didn’t want to leave, didn’t want the rain to stop pattering against the car like fingertips, didn’t want the smell of sex to disperse when the door opened, and most of all you didn’t want to go until you spilt the words tangled up in your heart, the fact that maybe like wasn’t the right word.

“For the average male in his early twenties it can take anywhere from fifte-” 

“I know”, you whisper, moving your hips up and hands down to his half-zipped trousers. 

Despite the facts, as soon as your painted nails skim his striped boxers, his cock stirs. The wet fabric of his boxers pulls tighter, outlining the shape of his growing hardness.

As soon as you shimmy his trousers and boxers down below his thighs, his flushed cock bounces out, already swelling by the second from just a simple graze of your skin. The sight of his earlier release coating his tip has a whimper slipping from your lips. 

“I don’t have a condom”, he stammers, his voice small. 

The smallness of his voice stills the air around you, the heat seizing for a split second. You search his eyes, searching for anything hinting at uncertainty. 

“I'm on the pill”, you reassure him softly, speaking with confidence in hopes of flushing out any worries he might have “Is that okay? Do you want to stop?” 

His eyebrows pinch upwards, his gentle gaze reminding you that this wasn’t the making of lust but blooming love, feelings that had only recently started kicking up the dirt. 

“It’s okay; I want this”, he whispers, warm breath tickling your lips “Please.” 

The ‘please’ is all you need; an insatiable covet swarms around the deepest parts of you, filling up your soul and heart after so long of hiding itself. Spitting onto your hand, you slick up the head of his cock, eliciting a gasp from Spencer's full lips. 

Slowly, you sink down on him, your hand gripping his base to help position him. Over the pitter-patter of the rain, Spencer's soft breaths bless your ears with every inch of him that slides into your pussy. 

Once fully seated on him, his throbbing length filling you, your forehead meets his. Spencer's hands grip tightly on the plush skin of your hips, his breath coming out choppy as though he is focusing on everything holding him together; he hadn’t been expecting to feel this much. 

“Does that feel good?” he breathes out after gaining some composure.  

“I haven’t moved yet, Spence”, you chuckle breathlessly. 

“I know- I know”, he says, well aware of the fact that, yes, you haven’t moved and he already feels close to the edge, “but still-.” 

“So good”, you promise. 

The truth of this all hasn’t bypassed you; this is really happening. Spencer Reid's cock is throbbing inside your warm heat, and chasing release is the last thing on your mind with the way his eyes are looking up at you through his misted lenses, with that sparkle in his gaze that speaks more than an orgasm could. 

“You're beautiful” slips from his mouth like a prayer, akin to saying amen.  

You never fell for people's compliments; it was always said like a vow, but it was only ever personal opinion. Pretty some days, ugly the next. But for the first time in forever, you believed it, believed him.

You are beautiful. 

“I'm surprised you can even see me”, you tease, unhooking his fogged-up glasses from behind his ears and setting them on the console. An admiring smile grazes your face, the clear sight of Spencer's deep brown eyes furrowing in pleasure enough to spur a physical reaction within you. 

Twitching your hips up a little, his mouth falls open, caught on a low whimper. His hands grip tighter, palming your soft skin. 

Spencer looks like a poor, needy puppy, his wet hair tousled from the mixture of the rain and your hands, his cheeks and nose florid, his half-lidded gaze looking up at you, begging for what was already his. 

You start slowly moving your body against his, your legs and hips working together in tandem, making the most of the time that was slowly slipping through your fingers. The noise of soft skin slapping, friction between damp bodies and various moans, whimpers and gasps fills the warm, thick air. 

Spencer's palm comes to the back of your tilted neck, your eyes closed and head thrown back. “Look at me”, he asks softly, applying slight pressure to your neck, encouraging your eyes to meet his yet again. 

He moulds your pussy with his length like it's his to worship.

The breath shared between you grows hot, so dense it feels like swallowing steam. Your eyes don’t waver, never breaking away from tracking his face even when your hips fall back down on him and his cock easily hits that spongy spot so deep inside it feels like redefining heaven. 

When your thighs start to shake, stuttering your movements, Spencer catches on. Timid hands slide up from your hips and across the curve of your waist, holding tight and guiding your movements.  

Your body leans against his, his bare chest pressing against your damp shirt plastered to your moist skin like wet paper. His lips catch yours, pulling apart on gasps but never too far, always hovering like you could be taken at any moment, vigilant that the clock would stop. 

“I want you to be mine”, he whispers, voice wavering, “I-I want this forever.” 

You swear your heart stops for more than three beats; you almost pinch yourself to assure yourself it's real, that this wasn’t just some made-up fantasy your mind cruelly shaped. 

“I want that too” 

You had wanted it before you even knew it. 

Wanted him before his lips blessed yours. 

Spencer sweetly smiles at your words, hips following yours, lifting up to chase the release on the tip of his tongue. Slowing your hips, your own stomach starts to tighten, your body quivering over his. 

You wouldn’t normally cum so quick, so easily, but the fact that it’s Spencer, that this need and yearning for him have been dragged out for so long, makes it hard not to come apart so fleetly.  

“Clo-close?” He asks, breathing out all the words he can manage, a feeble one. 

“Mhm”, you mumble against his lips, speech shutting you out too.  

The slick drag of his cock inside you is consuming, your so drunk on the glint in his eyes and the hot breath running fingertips down your throat you hardly notice how busy the road has gotten. The sound of tyres against wet gravel is the last thing on your mind, only a distant hum.

Taking note of your reactions, inside and out, he moves his hips accordingly and learns exactly what has your body arching above him, what pulls dirty noises from your throat. He’s a quick learner, despite being hammered by the new feeling of a wet pussy around him; he has control of his motions, knowing to hold back and cherish the moment.    

His lips meet yours again, exchanging hot gasps down your throat, tangling his tongue with yours like a future promise.  

A hot golden heat sizzles deeply inside of you and then spits like hot oil, your orgasm crashing through you. The pleasure taking over you manipulates your whole body, your wet walls tightening around Spencer's cock, legs shaking and back arching. Spencer pants at the tightness strangling his cock, his own release teetering on the edge of undoing. 

“Can I do it inside, please?” he strangles out, holding himself back with a struggle. The weak, pathetic ‘please’ erases any logical thoughts on the time or clean up; you nod without question. 

Spencer resorts to bucking his hips up since your legs stopped being useful the moment you came. Fucking into you from below, his tip bruises your throbbing oversensitive g-spot, riding out your orgasm whilst brinking his. 

Your stomach tightens and twists, your orgasm still rocking through you, being dragged out with every thrust of his cock. The euphoria is compelling, your brain erased of any thoughts but the moment before you.  

“Cumming- cumming- oh god”, he hisses out and then bites his lip hard, his eyes widening solid on you. His face twists as he spills inside of you, his hips stuttering, creating the most beautiful sight. 

“I love you”, you confess as though it’s a sin. Tones of pressure, old and new slides of your chest, the confession leaving you lighter than before. 

It's all real, too real. 

Lately, time had been spent belittling your own emotions, downgrading them and pushing them down because it was unprofessional or overwhelming, just plain scary to feel something this strong. You had a hard time coming to terms with the fact that it wasn’t normal to crave the next sexual meeting with your coworker; it wasn’t usual to get butterflies when he glanced your way, and it definitely wasn’t casual that he was your last thought before falling asleep and first thought waking up.  

But it was out now, said to his pleasure-ridden face.

And you don’t regret it, especially when his next words are spoken so strongly; it leaves no doubt he feels the same. 

“I love you too, I love- love you so much”, he breathes out, slowing his hips, his cock spent inside you. 

His eyes soften and fill with the first sight of love, ripping the mask away and exposing how vulnerable he truly felt around you. His lips come to you, leaning forward and kissing so sweetly, kissing with a type of adoration he didn’t possess before. 

The kissing lasts longer than it should, the surroundings only remembered when the close sound of tyres moving over pebbles reaches your ears.

Oh fuck

Senses come back to both of you: the tickle of the trickling pearl white dripping from your entrance and down Spencer's thighs, how the sun shining in from outside was much brighter than you remembered, combined with the fact that rain was no longer falling from the sky and that the crunch of a close vehicle was a ticking time bomb. 

It was unrealistic thinking you would have more time, hoping there was traffic or a closed road that would prolong this beautiful moment. 

“Fuck, I think Derek is here” You curse yourself for not being more mindful of the time. 

Spencer seems to realise too, his grip on your hips loosening and his head tilting to the side, confirming the outline of the SUV through the fogged (thankfully) windows. 

“Oh, um, how- how are you going to move?” 

Looking down at his release covering your conjoinment, you ask yourself the same question. 

“Carefully?” you wince, knowing however careful you still had to do it quickly. 

Lifting your hips, he slides out of you with a wet pop, followed by the obscene sight of his cum leaking from between your thighs. You don’t have time to question the state of the car nor how you were going to slide on wet clothes because all you know is that if you both don’t get decent within the next few minutes you would scar Derek for life. 

You climb off Spencer's lap, collect your panties from the floor, but pause when you feel Spencer's heated gaze on them, watching you whilst pulling up his boxers and trousers. 

“You want them?” you ask, catching his thoughts. 

His eyes go wide, and his cheeks flush a darker colour; you don’t know why he is so surprised you caught him in the act; it’s not like you read people's emotions for a living. 

“Is that okay?” 

You nod and shove them in his capri pants without a regard. 

Sliding on wet trousers has to be up there as one of the most uncomfortable things in human existence, violated by your own clothes all because you dare get them damp.  

There's a knock on the window as you do up your top button, rushing to look presentable.

“You guys decent in there?” Derek asks, a teasing tone laced in his voice. 

Of course.  

You neglect the idea of sliding on your dripping socks and instead stuff them in your pockets whilst pulling on your shoes. Spencer finishes adjusting his tie when Morgan tries pulling at the locked handle. 

“Wait, wait!” Spencer raises his voice. 

Spencer rakes over your face and body with marvelment and happy disbelief before opening the door with the conclusion that you both look somewhat decent. 

It was obvious anyway; Derek had noticed the heated glances you had been giving Spencer way before this happened, teasing you both about it, so it was inevitable he would clock what was going on soon enough. 

Although you hadn't been expecting this to be the way he found out. 

Once both of you get out of the car, you come face to face with a smirking Derek leaning against his SUV. He raises his brows at the sight of you both, damp clothes stuck to your bodies, hair messed up, Spencer's tie not even looking like a tie anymore. 

“You get a bit wet?” 

“Shut up”, you bite back, embarrassed he saw you in such a sight. If only he knew Spencer was dripping down your thigh. 

“Hey, I'm just saying you both look a little wind-swept”, Derek chuckles, holding his hands up playfully. 

                                                  °‧🌱⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The back of the SUV is warm and relaxing, filled with comforting silence when Derek isn’t yapping about ‘Spencer, my man, no longer a virgin, huh?’ from the driver's seat. It took a while for him to stay quiet; half the car ride had been him asking teasing questions, but when he peeked at the rearview mirror and noticed you subtly joining fingers with Spencer in the back seat, he decided to keep his mouth shut.

The air is different around Spencer, a quiet ease that has your heart beating with content and your stomach swarming in happiness. You send each other small signals, whether it be a short soft glance or squeezing each other's hands three times. 

This change in relationship has gone quicker than you anticipated. Two weeks ago, when your hands and mouths explored each other, you had been thinking it would be no less than a year until the word love would fall from your mouth or Spencer's. 

Oh, how wrong you had been.

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The fact that you were cleaning yourself in his shower and then falling asleep next to him in his bed wasn’t lesson-worthy either, but something more. Something you were both aware of but not aware enough to speak about. You didn't think it would be spoken for a long time, for many more lessons that were much more emotional than just lessons.  

Whilst wrapping the towel around your damp body, you find yourself sweetly imagining tonight, the way Spencer's hands would feel around your waist, whether his head would rest in your neck, breathing hot air, or just above your head where it would lie all night.

You wondered if he would pull away, if you were to turn around in bed, face him and let the sheets shuffle down your breasts, if you leaned in and kissed him without the previous sex haze. 

If a sober kiss was what he wanted. 

After wrapping the softness of the towel around you and drying your hair with another smaller towel as much as you could, you unlock the bathroom door with a quiet click. 

When your elbow nudges the door open to Spencer's bedroom, you become aware of the silence that swallows the room. The bed is made neatly, the quilt without a wrinkle, the blue plaid blanket placed over the bottom of the bed is folded with precision, and the pillows are fluffed up and arranged perfectly. 

Nothing that gives away the fact that this was a place of worship less than an hour ago, not a stain or misplaced pillow that discloses the mess you were when you withered and arched your back to push yourself deeper into his mouth.

Your clothes, messily discarded on the floor when your brain was too pleasure-fried to care where they landed, are now neatly folded on the end of the bed. Your white lace underwear is at the top of the pile; you just hoped they weren’t too damp, that whilst Spencer had sorted them out, he had clocked how aroused you were before he even let his touch linger on your bare pussy. 

All of the neatness reeked of Spencer, the way he ordered his books, colour-coded his closet, and the little germaphobe thing he had going on was shown through the way he had gone through the room whilst you were in the shower and placed everything where he deemed tidy. 

You shiver slightly when the coldness drops from your hair and trickles down your back as though its goal is to send an unwelcome tingle up your spine. You tighten the soft cotton around your body in hopes of drying up all of the running water droplets that cascade down your skin, holding it to you like a warm hug. 

“Spencer?” you call out. You don’t have the energy to raise your voice or shout, so you can only hope that your airy question reached his ears.

He wouldn’t have gone out, you know he’s not like that, and even so, it is his house after all. You doubt very much that Spencer would feast on your pussy the way he did and then leave his own apartment so you could be alone. 

You know you're right when you hear the creak of floorboards, the floorboards you told him to replace multiple times because you still weren’t over the fact that the last time you were in his apartment, you had gotten a splinter in your foot. 

A splinter that he had later plucked out using tweezers, with your foot in his lap and your back against the chair's armrest. You still remember the small caress his thumb rubbed up and down your heel.

So co-worker like. 

Because that was normal.

You turn around the second you hear his footsteps and face the door as Spencer walks through. His hair is more controlled, the strands aren’t as dishevelled as they had previously been, and his cheeks are his normal shade, no longer correlative to a tomato; nothing shows the flustered state he was in, nor does his appearance come across as anxious.  

“What's up?” he responds with curiosity, his eyes gaze over your face, his brows furrowed with question. 

It’s only when he takes notice of the wet strands of your hair and the droplets falling down the side of your face, which annoyingly tickle, that his attention drops to the towel clothed around your body. 

He seems to come to a realisation that you are in the middle of his room, naked, in only a towel, and for some reason, the blush that wasn’t there for a good while makes a reappearance.  

He goes to turn around, reacting as he had just looked at something he wasn’t meant to, as though he wasn’t knuckle deep in you not long ago. “I- do you need some clothes?” 

He stumbles over his words; you can’t see him since his back is turned to you, but you already know his nonchalant attitude that he ‘tried on’ was replaced with a wide-eyed, guilty look. 

It had you blushing over the fact of the matter, the way Spencer's whole demeanour changes so quickly when it comes to you, you could bite your lip with frustration when looking through a case, and he would admire it, treasure such a thing. You never realised it until now, all the glances and reactions he would give you that you just brushed off as you being a woman in the presence of an inexperienced man. 

“Spencer, you can look, you know, you're allowed too” You smile even though he can't see it. “You don’t need permission, not after that” The last word spoken through your lips is said gently, close to a whisper.  

Cocking your head to the side, you watch as Spencer hesitantly turns around, his khaki eyes don’t find you until he’s fully facing you, and when they do, his gaze is only planted on your face. You almost feel the nervousness pulsing around him in waves, thick waves that weakly deplete when he becomes aware of the small smile on your face. The smile that eases the tension that’s built up in his shoulders. 

“Sorry”, he mutters, his face smooths as he copies your small smile, his own lopsided one planted on the lips you’d do anything to melt into again. 

He looks down at you through thick lashes, his brows slightly furrowed as he watches you step forward, one long step leaves you directly in front of him, chest to chest. 

His eyes sparkle in the dim lighting, the hazel more of a dark brown, so you can’t really make out the widening of his pupils, but you know it’s there. The fact that his attention is focused solely on you and your movements has your insides doing funny things, things that weren’t just a result of his warm breath fanning over your forehead, but because of the very non-friend-like feelings deep-rooted through your body. 

You hold eye contact with him, every breath you both take vibrates through the other; he exhales gently, pushing his chest closer to yours. Your hands, pressed around the towel, loosen. His eyes still don’t move from your face at the sound of the cotton hitting the floor. 

“You're really pretty”, he says softly, his hand coming to move a stand of wet hair from out of your face and tuck it behind your ear.

Your cheeks burn. 

“Always thought I looked better after an orgasm, lips puffy, flustered, you know,” you shrug playfully, “hot.” 

His eyes crinkle in amusement, and he nods with agreement, “You know, there are studies suggesting that after orgasm, the release of endorphins and oxytocin can temporarily relax facial muscles and increase blood flow, which may make someone appear more attractive from a neurological perspective.” 

Your brows raise, watching the way his mouth moves as he speaks, his tongue peaking out to swipe along his top lip. “So are you saying my attractiveness is placebo?”   

His cheeks warm at your words, “No thats- that’s not what I'm saying” 

Your smile broadens at his boyish state of embarrassment, worried that he said the wrong thing, and now stumbling over his words as a result. You lean on your tippytoes to get closer to him, your lips hovering over his and your hot breath mixing between the small space, getting lost dancing with each other's unspoken wants. 

“I know”, you smile against his lips, not quite a kiss but more of a whisper of touch, a ‘you can have this if you want it.’ 

His eyes finally move to your body, glancing down at your naked breasts pushed against his chest, the water that had descended your body now dried. 

“I think you're attractive, v-very very attractive” 

His hand comes to rest on the bare skin of your waist, the touch causing a soft sigh to slip from your lips, a soft sigh that makes a smug smile grow across his mouth, content with the conclusion of his touch. 

Tonight had been a huge change in your relationship with Spencer, going from close co-workers, friends who put their trust in each other daily, in the field with guns in hand or something as simple as trusting Spencer to hold your drink in a crowded bar. Friends who would tease each other all the time, like that month you both had an ongoing prank war that Derek insisted he was a part of. 

You loved him as a friend and a co-worker, and you could always rely on him. 

Now it was different.

You loved him, trusted him and relied on him just the same, but everything felt heightened tenfold. You're no longer catching glances with him or brushing his shoulder purposely when walking past him; you're now standing naked in his house with his lips hovering over yours, the same lips that were eating you out only a couple of hours ago. 

You made peace with the fact that you were falling for him, the moment on the jet just a few days ago when Spencer had confessed his inexperience, and you both met eyes, the second the sparks flew, you consciously became aware of your feelings. When you made the decision to send the drunken text that you blamed the alcohol for, your feelings were set in place. 

You could only hope and assume that Spencer had the same feelings as you, with the way he reacted around you and the words he spoke sweetly a couple of hours ago. And the fact that you both knew the moment his lips wrapped around your clit that it was no longer a lesson but a devotion of pleasure, a goal he had to make you feel the best his virgin fingers could. 

Because you were you. 

It’s a quick movement; in fact, you don’t really have to think about what you're doing, as you press your lips to his. It feels right when your lips meet, as though your life purpose was entwined with his touch.

His grip tightens on your waist, not enough to hurt but enough that you're aware he needs something to tether to, so he knows it’s real. It’s short and sweet, a kiss that makes you melt into each other; it eases everything in and around both of you. 

You pull back, Spencer chases it again, pecking your lips tenderly. Your forehead rests against his, and you catch the way his lips tilt up in a small side smile. 

“Are you sleeping like this?” he whispers, breaking the room's silence.

“Naked?” 

“Yeah”, he looks down at your body again, tracing your curves with his eyes. 

“If you're okay with it”, your voice is just as quiet as his, almost timid. 

He nods, looking down at you as you move off your tippytoes, leaving you to your normal height, almost a foot shorter than him. Your eyes move over his form, still in his grey t-shirt and plaid pyjama pants, only now they were slightly more wrinkled than before, you wondered if that annoyed him. 

“Are you sleeping in this?” you ask, pinching the fabric of his shirt between your fingers. Although soft and comfortable, you couldn’t help but hope it was his bare chest you would lie on tonight instead. 

“Um, what do you want me to wear?” his brows furrow as he waits for your answer, behaving like he would wear whatever you asked him to, no matter how stupid. 

You pick up on it, tempted to tease him, but decide a moment like this is best in its honest and vulnerable state. “Would I be too eager if I were to ask if you could sleep in just boxers?” 

His cheeks deepen a shade, and he swipes his tongue across his lip again, “I wouldn’t say eager, hopeful, yes. But I will, if you want me to. If that’s what you want” 

“So you're alright with it?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm alright with it” 

                            ⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

After brushing your teeth and pulling your hair up in a ponytail, you find yourself wrapped in the warmth of Spencer's bedsheets. His pillows smell of peppermint, coffee, and a musky, masculine scent that has you feeling like an animal in heat. 

The warmth between your thighs has only just settled, the small ache that caused unwelcome friction at your entrance has thankfully eased, so you're able to lie on your side with your legs pressed together without any pain or discomfort. 

A soft yellow glow from the bathroom leaks from the crack at the bottom of the door. The buzz of Spencer's electric toothbrush is soon followed by the sound of him swishing his mouth out and spitting. After a few moments, you listen to the ruffle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of him taking his clothing off, and folding them too, of course. 

When he eventually steps out of the bathroom and into the dimness of the bedroom, your eyes unapologetically descend from his shadowed face, trailing the length of his body and landing on the scattering of dark curly hair leading from his belly button to the top of his plaid boxers. 

You physically restrict yourself from scurrying out of the bed, kneeling and licking a line up his stomach, your hand bunches in the blanket draped over the quilt. 

You watch him walk around the bedroom, placing his clothes and messing up his hair a few times. The angles of his pacing do wonders for his appearance, the way the streetlights shine through the window paint the sharpness of his jawline and the soft slope of his nose.  

His body isn’t muscular or toned; you always knew that, but seeing him in just underwear proves just how right you were. He isn’t an unhealthy skinny, more of a tall skinny. Being that he’s six foot one, it would be hard to put on weight that would actually do much to increase his body fat, and his activity in the field burns more than he eats. 

His skinniness doesn’t change his attractiveness; it never did. His prominent V-line decorating his pelvis is the definition of masculinity; it’s pronounced against his stomach so beautifully. It’s as though his V-line is hills and the line of hair is a flowing river, so picturesque on such a perfect frame.  

You start to feel regret for not hopping out of bed and licking him as your thoughts had insisted. 

The bed is enveloped in the snuggness of body heat as he slides into the space next to you. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and it has you sliding closer to him without even moving a muscle. 

His eyes soften when he meets your gaze, like he’s only just welcomed rest. But the small switch at the corner of his eyelid has you thinking he’s trying to stay awake longer than his body wants. 

It’s nice. How he scoots closer to you, his eyes never falling from your face. How his warmth radiates through you, not just the temperature from his body, but the electric charge he causes deep in your chest. How, through his drowsiness, he wills his hand to move off the mattress and onto the curve of your waist. 

Your breath stills with every gesture he makes, even the twitch of his slender fingers against your skin has your breath hitching and a small smile grazing your mouth.

You're not sure how long Spencer had been shuffling closer to you, but you become very aware of the proximity when your bare feet at the bottom of the bed knock his… clothed feet?

Furrowing your brows in confusion, you rub your feet against his, all while looking at the blush rising on his cheeks. “Are you wearing socks in bed?” 

He moves his feet, twitching his toes a little before he speaks up, “My feet tend to stick out; they get cold.” 

“Do they have to be odd?” you ask after peering beneath the covers, making out the patterns in the darkness. His right sock is baby blue with white and yellow poka dots, whilst the other one is a striped purple and pink design. 

“Good luck”, he nods after his words, an act he does to emphasise his conversation. 

“You do it for good luck?” 

“Growing up, it just became a habit of mine. And the one time I wore matching socks, I broke my ankle”, he says matter-of-factly, “additionally, asymmetry is quite comforting to me.” 

“I always wondered that about you. You seem so put together, neat and in order, just to have odd socks” You prop yourself up more, slipping your elbow under your head to get a better view of his emotions as he speaks, the light of the passing cars bouncing off his face now and then.

“It’s an occasional reminder-” his throat bobs “that not everything is perfect, or put together as you said. Sometimes I need that reminder, in the field, briefing or even, even talking to my mom” 

You notice the way his breath shakes at the talk of his mother, you file it away as something to ask him on a better date. 

“I like that”, you whisper. 

There's a comforting feeling that manipulates the air; it holds hands with the buzzing tension no one is doing anything about. His hand starts moving up and down the curve of your waist, the tiredness that you saw earlier in Spencer's eyes is reflected in your own as your eyelids begin to feel heavy, an effort to keep open. You find it almost impossible to stay awake when such a thing as Spencer's hand is almost pulling you under the pleasure of sleep. 

“Do you think, um, would you be okay with cuddling?” He asks, voice timid. 

“Silly question,” you speak in a light-hearted way. You knew he already knew your answer, or at least he had some suspicion.   

He huffs a laugh, his lips welcoming a tender smile, “I know, just thought I should ask on the off chance that you would say no.” 

“Do you want me to turn around or…” You shrug, questioning where exactly he wanted you, how he wanted to hold you and if he would find it hard falling asleep, depending on how he was wrapped around you. 

He nods twice; he doesn’t have to say anything, and you're turning around to face the window, watching the lights distort the room in a warm orange hue. 

The weight of his palm against your stomach settles over you. He pushes his hand against you to bring your back flush against his stomach without much effort. Skin-to-skin has never felt so nice, such a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of your daily life. It's just as if the buzzing and banging of your struggles in and out of work, the chaos of catching and killing, has suddenly tempered to a small, friendly hum. 

 The dictionary in your head toggles itself, changing the definition of comfort to a few words: the feeling you get when your curly-haired, genius, IQ of 187 coworker holds you close in the warmth of his bed.  

Your eyes close, welcoming sleep, answering its invitation that it had sent you many hours ago. A small, fleeting peck of the lips is left on the side of your forehead that you're partly aware of as you slow yourself into the realm of unconsciousness. 

                            ⊹ ₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The first three things that you take notice of as you wake up are that- 

One: The light of the morning sun enveloping the room, shining off everything, as though it's greeting you for another day. 

Two: The beautiful melody of the birds chirping and singing their hearts away, something you always look forward to when your eyes blink open every day without fail. 

Three: Warm hardness against your ass, clothed hardness that in this moment in time was unrhythmically rutting against your bare cheeks. 

Your whole body freezes, stilling so much your not even sure you're breathing. He’s asleep, you know that. 

But oh my god, he’s rock hard grinding against your ass??

Small whimpers fall from his mouth, his lips grazing upon the shell of your ear, his hot breath stutters, an occasional nondescript mutter unintentionally slips from his mouth and lands in your ear. 

You're not exactly sure what to do, what would someone do in a situation like this? You can’t just turn around and tell him you know that he was having some dirty sex dream that must have been so good that he was rutting against you like a needy dog who needed a release. 

Can you? 

The hot length underneath Spencer's boxers wasn’t stopping anytime soon; you were almost certain his unconscious self would keep going even after he cums in his pants. 

What bites into your skin, sinking its teeth into you, is the fact that you like it, you like feeling him against you, using you for pleasure even when he was unaware of it. Guilt gnaws at you, leaving you feeling lost in an unknown part of the world, unsure where to go or how to move. 

You're hesitant to proceed, cognizant of all of the pulse points in your body, the blood rushing around your body far too loud, your heart beating far too fast. 

It takes all of the courage you have to actually move a muscle, that muscle being a twitch of your finger… but it’s a start. 

When he stills for a moment, you take that as your opening, taking a deep breath before turning around as quickly but quietly as you can. You're not sure where to look first, his flushed face, mouth slightly open, eyes shut peacefully or down where his boxers are moulded against his cock, now visible since the cover has been relocated to the bottom of the bed. 

You didn’t want to embarrass him; this was normal, having sex dreams was completely normal, in fact, you’d woken up wet and needy a few times in the loneliness of your bed. Yeah, you suppose that it’s slightly different when it results in humping against your coworker unknowingly, but same hormonal reasoning and all, right?  

His cock twitches beneath his boxers, the action leaving its mark on you; your own twitching between your legs finding a steady rhythm. You inhale a breath louder than you anticipate, and Spencer stirs slightly in his sleep, turning around to lie on his back. Whether it is the outcome of your inhale, you're not sure. 

Fuck it. 

It isn’t an easy task to wake up Spencer because it turns out he sleeps like the dead. Okay, the first nudge was a feather touch to his shoulder, but you thought it would at least elicit a small jerk of his hand. The second and third nudges to his shoulder were harder, hard enough that you were absolutely certain he would open his eyes. 

He didn’t.

“Spencer?” you say lowly, not a whisper but not spoken at much volume either. 

Nothing. 

Courage finally decides to greet itself with you, some form of confidence holding your hand. “Spencer, wake up”, you groan as you shake his shoulders. 

That finally seems to get something out of him; he moans in confusion, eyes blinking open slowly to accommodate the brightness of the morning sun. His hands come up to his face, rubbing his palms into his eyes with the purpose of knocking some sense into himself. 

“What's wrong? Who's dead?” His voice is more groggy than usual, unused and rough.

“What?” You look at him with furrowed brows, your voice a pitch higher. “Do you say that every time you wake up?” 

“Every time I wake- what?” he sits up on his elbows, spotting a confused look. He has yet to notice the hardness throbbing between his legs; you're not sure if he will notice it on his own terms. “Do we have a case?”

“No- no,” you shake your head. You had managed to take enough deep breaths to calm yourself down, using fake courage to will some confidence into yourself. “Spencer.” 

“What’s the time?” his voice is still tittering on the edge of bewilderment, the morning haze making his brain foggy. He reaches for the clock on his bedside table. 

“Spencer”, you repeat, hoping with some greater glory his attention would turn to you. 

He hums with acknowledgement as he reads the clock, then turns his focus back to you. “I didn’t think you’d be awake at this time; you went to sleep quite late.” 

His eyes watch your face, taking in your slightly dishevelled appearance whilst waiting for your response. He looks so innocent, it has your insides turning to mush. His brown puppy dog eyes are the complete opposite of the whimpers he exhaled the previous minute. 

“Yeah, yeah, you kinda woke me up” You're half tempted to move your line of sight down to his boxers, but Spencer is bound to have double the embarrassment if you were to do such a thing. Honestly, you didn’t think words would help lessen his guilt much, but at least you could voice your understanding. 

“Oh. Did I- Did I snore?” You didn’t even know his puppy eyes could get more pathetic, but they do. 

You inch closer to him, and in response, Spencer lifts his arm to welcome you closer to him, accepting any comfort you were to offer him, as if it were a normal occurrence. As his arm comes to rest on you leisurely, you wonder if Spencer is aware of the hardness yet again pressed against you. Perhaps his mind was busy with something; perhaps the way he was looking down at you, observing everything you did, was the only thing on his mind.

“You didn’t snore”, you manage to whisper out, not breaking a single second of eye contact. Even when the look he’s giving you, furrowed brows, doe brown eyes, rewires your brain chemistry to the point where all you want to do is kiss him. 

“Sleep talk?” he questions, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Um- not, not really” You stutter your words, spending a good few seconds figuring out how to word it right. “You woke me up, but you didn’t wake me up” 

Fuck that was fucking stupid. 

“Yeah”, he looks even more confused than he was before you offered him an explanation “, not really picking up what you're putting down.” 

Understandable. 

“You were very…happy” Your brows furrow at your own incompetence, “fuck- okay, you were obviously having a very good dream, and so you got um happy, you know” 

His eyes widen like he’s just clocked it, but is still missing a big puzzle piece, one you weren’t sure you were competent enough to say. “Did I touch you?” his voice drops, worry evident in the way he speaks. 

“Yeah, I guess, uh-humped.” You felt like every word you said was a spade to the mud, the hole dug deeper with every syllable spoken. “But- it’s okay, I swear,” you rush to reassure him, watching the way his eyes fill with guilt. 

“Spencer, it’s fine, honestly” Your hand comes up to his cheek, setting it on his skin softly. 

His eyes don’t stop searching yours, ready to apologise if any form of unease was to twinkle in your eyes. “I- did I make you uncomfortable?” 

The shake of your head is easy; you don’t have to think about it. “No, not at all. I-” I liked it. “It’s a normal thing, and since you were sexually active in some form last night, it’s probably just a response to it. Your body probably- possibly might have just wanted more” Your voice stills a bit, still on edge about saying the wrong thing, something that would worsen the guilt and embarrassment already holding Spencer's reins, “maybe.” 

“That's not really scientifically correct” 

Of course it’s not. 

“You're actually less likely to have a wet dream, nocturnal emission, after sexual activity” he looks as though he’s going through his ‘know everything’ catalogue that’s stored in his brain. “But since I didn’t uh orgasm, I suppose you're correct.” 

You almost gave yourself a pat on the back; you technically didn’t outsmart him, but you let your ego expand for your own peace of mind. 

“Do you want to?” you say. 

You don’t know which one of the little ‘inside out guys’ controlling your head, let that slip out of your mouth, but you want them fired, or promoted. Depending on the outcome. 

His eyes go a shade darker at the same time the tips of his ears go red, blush looked good on anyone, but sometimes you felt like it belonged to Spencer. “You want to make me orgasm?” 

Well, when he says it like that, it seems a little out of pocket, but yeah, you suppose he's right. You suppose you're thinking out loud comment was one of the better decisions you’ve decided to make, that and the white lace you wore last night. 

His cock had previously gone soft when he thought he had hurt you, but with the request from your pretty pink lips, it begins to grow against your thigh. 

Your fingernail softly draws a line down his stomach, starting from his collarbone down to the spot of hair above his boxers, where his stomach clenches in response. “Depends if you want me to, you can tell me what you like,” you say with a soft voice “, I can teach you about touch, what to say and do when someone touches you.”

The word teach feels bitter in your mouth, something fake you want to spit out, and you think the feeling is mutual with the way his eyes explore yours at the hollowness of the word, wondering if he was the only one who felt it.

When your hand moves lower and hesitantly cups Spencer's length, you discover how hard he has become, coupled with the pre cum soaking the front of his boxers. A soft groan slips from his throat, one you're not sure agreed with him before escaping his mouth. 

“Please”, he whimpers, his lips grazing your forehead. You feel an embarrassing amount of arousal leave your pussy at the sound you elicit from him. 

“Do you want my mouth or hand?” you say half teasingly, lifting your head to meet his eyes again. He looks as hungry as he did yesterday, only this time, hunger for his own pleasure. 

“Both? Is that an option?” he says, his tone mousey but needy all rolled into one. His hips buck up against your hand, an invitation that you were allowed to touch him. Well, more so that he wanted you to touch him, to slip your hand under his boxers and make him cum. 

Smirking slightly, you nod along to his words, “You're sure? It’s a lot for your first time.” 

“Yeah- I'm- I'm sure” his blinks are slow, fascinated by watching your half-lidded eyes flutter up at him “very sure actually.” 

The soft glow radiating from outside has the room glowing in more of a white-yellow rather than the warm orangey yellow it was when you woke up. The brightness of it splays across Spencer, the trees outside the window dancing in the breeze paint skinny, flowing shadows across his pale skin. The shadows don’t hit his boxers, so the brightness of the sun makes the hard length of his bulge very visible and, in your opinion, very appetising. 

Your thumb rubs over his clothed tip, precum leaking through his boxers. “Have- mh, have you done this before? Sorry, stupid- stupid question.” 

You smile at the stuttering of his words, the boyish embarrassment displayed over his cheeks. “Yeah, a few times, heard I'm pretty good at it.”  

Something like jealousy comes across his fixed gaze, but it leaves quickly, as though he, too, became aware of its presence. 

“How many people?” 

“Spencer- what?” 

“I'm just ask-” 

You roll your eyes, his inexperience shown through one simple question that would be best asked when your hand isn’t on his cock. 

“Spence”, you move your hand from his hardness and lift a finger in front of his face, something you find works well in silencing him. “There’s a rule you have when it comes to asking questions during any sexual encounter. Don’t ask a woman's body count or anything- just don’t” 

You don’t say it strictly, not with a raised voice or any sort of primal dominance, and yet he looks like a hurt puppy, subtle but definitely there. “I just thought- just- I mean, you’re you, so I just thought I could ask.”  

“I'm me?”

“We’re close, and I did kinda have you in my mouth last night. It didn’t seem like a silly question at the time,” he crinkles his eyes like he needs emphasis on the last sentence. 

Despite the fact that he looks like a sad puppy, his cock is still hard against you, throbbing with destitution that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. 

“It’s not silly”, you whisper with intent to soothe his worries. You avoid eye contact when you speak next, your focus solely on the way he twitches in his boxers “three.” 

“Three you’ve had sex with or just-” 

His words cut off, fading quickly at the glance you give him. Your eyes bore into his; no words need to be spoken because the look that burns into your gaze is enough to silence the conversation. To be fair, it's the kindest look you could have given him for attempting to speak the words ‘seriously, please stop’ through only your eyes.  

“Are you going to let me touch you now?” You ask cockily, raising your brows in question. 

“You’ve been allowed to touch me”, he looks at you with half-lidded eyes, his big brown eyes looking at you through thick lashes. 

“I mean touching you without being stopped” 

“I never told you to stop” 

You're not even sure Spencer meant to make it sound that dirty, but to you, as the words leave his mouth your almost certain that was the dirtiest thing ever spoken to you, the throbbing between your legs can testify. He didn’t say it lowly; his voice didn’t waver or drop to something rough; he said it like it was an absolutely normal thing to say. 

It should be his brain short-circuiting, not yours.

You shuffle your body down the length of his, stopping when your feet hang over the bottom of the bed, and the soft breeze wraps itself around your toes. Your face is so close to his cock that you can feel the heat practically radiating from him in waves. When you finally tear your eyes away from his cock to look up at him, you notice just how blissed out he looks, how eager he is to have you wrapped around him. 

His hair is bed messy, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open as if he was having problems regulating his breathing. And when you do finally grip the waistband of his boxers and nudge them down with the help of him lifting his hips, he looks even more flustered than before. And not just his face. 

Was it normal to think a dick was pretty? 

He was a lot more impressive than what his bulge gave away; he wasn’t thick as so, but he was long, like a good seven inches long. It half excited you, and the other half was more timid, thoughts on how exactly the physics of fitting that into your mouth was possible.   

The tip is flushed pink, with clear beads of precum pearling the slit; they gleam in the sunlight, like the cherry on top of something that already looked desirable. 

You can feel his eyes on you, not wavering for even a second as he watches what flits across your eyes. Desire you suppose. His body is tense, pulled tight as though he isn't sure of anything going through his head, whether he should buck his hips into your mouth to get what he so desperately needs or if he should wait for you to move first, with patience he wasn't sure he had. 

Saltiness swims your taste buds as you move down and caress the flatness of your tongue across his soft tip, you lick up every bead of precum like a delicacy to be savoured. Just the act of it is enough to elicit a soft gasp from Spencer; his hips bucking up a little, you assume he didn't have much control over it. His tip nudges your closed lips, and you gently open up to him. 

The head of his cock nudges into your mouth, your lips wrapping around the soft velvetness of it. It throbs against your tongue, demanding your attention. As you hollow your cheeks and suck the tip, Spencer exhales a small, ragged breath.

All the noises spilling from his mouth edge you on; the whimpers and gasps give you a feeling of empowerment. 

“Feels so good”, Spencer weakly whimpers. 

“Yeah?” you ask, wittiness laced into your words. Your mouth pops off, and your hand comes to hold the base of his length for some sort of contact between the two of you. Facing him, you look into his half-lidded eyes, and you feel complacent over the way his face displays his emotions. “Do you want me to go deeper?” 

He nods eagerly as though he's never heard something he wants as much as that. 

You keep your hand wrapped around the base of his cock when your mouth comes down on him again. You let him in even more this time. He hits the back of your throat easily, and it takes a minute, but your throat accommodates him so that you're not gagging or salivating excessively but taking him in with genuine determination. 

After spitting on your hand, you enclose it back around the base of his cock, and after thinking about it, you decide that you want to try something you had only done once, but honestly, you loved it as much as the last guy did. It was such an easy thing to do for such a pleasurable reaction. 

“Can I try something?” you ask. 

“Mhm, what- what is it?” 

You smirk against his tip and don't answer him verbally, but instead show him. You spit on his dick, your bubbly saliva trickling down his length to where your hand sits. The movement of your hand sliding upward has Spencer whimpering, your hand tightens around his tip, and your mouth presses against the opening of your fist where his tip pokes out. 

When your hand moves back down his hardness, so does your mouth. You time it right so that with every stroke of your hand, your mouth copies. His tip slips in and out of your mouth with precision that you have mastered after only very little practice. 

‘That- holy shit, where did you learn that?” 

You would smile around in response to him swearing, but you didn't want his first time to be accompanied by you accidentally biting him or scraping your teeth against him. You hum against him, not much of an answer at all, but you wanted to acknowledge his words. It wasn't unusual for him to swear, but you had never heard it come from him so easily. 

You keep pumping your hand, occasionally switching to just a handjob or just a blowjob. You take notice of every reaction he shows, where exactly he likes to be touched more, and you show him just how good it can feel when the giver knows what the receiver wants. You take mental notes of when to flatten your tongue, hollow your cheeks, tighten your hand and moan around his cock. 

The room is filled with the noise of Spencer's whimpers and moans as well as the sexual sounds of your slurping, sucking and deep throating that had you groaning around him. 

It was a sound better than any song you had ever heard, something more special than the awakening of birds chirping. This was a sound to be treasured, something only you have ever had the opportunity to drink in; no one else but you has had the pleasure of being the cause of such sounds slipping from Spencer's mouth.

Billions of people treasured the sound of the birds chirping, and billions of people drank in the sound of the seaside. But only you had ever heard the melody of Spencer's wants and begs, his needs for more, his whimpers of thankfulness. 

You were the only person who knew how Spencer Reid sounded on the edge of an orgasm. 

You can tell how close he is based on the hand that grips your hair, the redness decorating his neck like watercolour and the way his breathing picks up. When the words “I'm close” claw themself out of Spencer’s throat, you take it as a slight indication too. 

Spencer has a weak attempt at pulling you off, tugging your hair with the same strength as a duckling. He doesn’t want you off him, it's so obvious, but of course, the gentleman he is, how would he ever allow himself to flood your mouth with his cum.

“You- mh- you don't have to, I haven’t drunk enough-” he gasps as you deep throat him “, I haven’t drunk enough water, it's probably not- oh god- nice or anything. You really don't have t-” Every word seems like a struggle, as though looking through a haze. 

The last thing going through your mind was his taste; it was at the bottom of your ‘I care about this’ list. You don't stop your mouth because you know he doesn’t want you to. The hand pulling your hair gives up after a few seconds, but when his hips buck, and a strangled gasp stumbles from his mouth, he tugs it back harder. 

You're blissfully aware that if he wanted to pull you off, he would have used that strength before. 

A small, barely there pain sparks in your scalp as he pulls you off his cock. Your hand slips from around him, and his own takes over the space yours abandoned. He jerks his length, chasing his high with purpose. His mouth is open on a silent gasp, his chest falls and rises nimbly, and the lust on his face is vibrant.  

His grip on your hair doesn't flatter; in fact, it tightens the closer he gets to his orgasm. Your face is still close to his cock, so close that with every upstroke, his knuckles nudge your nose. 

You can see the moment the elasticity in the pit of his stomach snaps, and the moment you do, sticking your tongue out seems like the only reasonable response. He sees your tongue as a welcome despite the way he pulled you off before, you don’t wrap your mouth around him, but instead let him watch as his cum lands on your tongue. It pools in your mouth, the warmth a pleasing feeling. 

His eyes don't leave your mouth, even when he’s spent dry, and the cum residing in your mouth drips down your chin and onto his stomach. He watches in awe, his eyes glowing boyishly as you bring your tongue in and close your mouth. 

He isn’t clumpy or uncomfortable to take down; his release is smooth and flows down your throat with ease. He doesn’t taste as bad as he was worried he would; it is more bitter than salty or sweet, but the copious amounts of coffee he consumes daily probably doesn’t help. He doesn’t taste amazing, but definitely not bad, you're sure you would have swallowed even if it was disgusting anyway. 

The blush on his cheeks and his dilated pupils seem like a deserving enough reward for you. 

“Mh’ sorry”, he says softly, the scratchiness of his voice a faintness. 

Your eyes soften, furrowing at the embarrassment in his voice, “Why?” 

“I didn't mean to- that quick and in your mouth” Avoiding eye contact, he watches his cock rest against his stomach in its worn-out form. 

“Spence”, you put two fingers under his chin to get him to look at you “It's okay. I wanted it in my mouth more than not, and the quickness, dont- dont worry about that. I would be slightly embarrassed if it took you longer; it's normal to finish that quickly for the first time. Honest.” 

His glance switches between your eyes, looking for any lie in your words. He's never going to find it because it's not there. Being his first was something special to you, and the way it went was perfect; you didn't want it any other way. 

“It didn't taste bad?” 

You shake your head. 

“Did it taste like coffee?” 

You laugh at that “slightly.” 

He tilts his head, the space between his eyebrows creasing, “You don't like the coffee I drink” 

Rolling your eyes, you huff out another laugh, “Yeah, well, I liked your cum” 

His eyes widen slightly, his puppy eyes making a reappearance, “I- am I meant to have a response to that?” 

“Not if you can't think of one” 

He seems content with that; he goes to lean in to plant a kiss on your lips, but you pull back with a smile before he can. “You have morning breath, and I've just swallowed your semen.” 

“Not even a peck?” he whispers, not at all deterred by your specifics. 

“One, you get more after we brush our teeth.” You cave in; you've never been one for morning kisses, but Spencer brings out things in you that you weren't sure were even there until he came along. 

You're surprised that he even wanted to kiss you, given his whole germaphobe thing, but perhaps he has a reason for it? 

He extends the kiss for longer than it needs to be, two seconds becoming five. His lips are softer in the morning, not as soft as the head of his cock, but soft in its own ‘sink in’ way. 

“Okay cmon” you nod your head over to the bathroom. 

“Can't walk”, he lies.

“Spencer, come and brush your teeth” 

“Come and kiss me again” 

“Spence”, you say firmly, determined not to fall flat on your face and crawl into his comfort. 

“Really?” 

You give him a look that gets him rolling his eyes, but thankfully, moving up. 

                           ⊹ ₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

“Do you really have to go?” he whispers against your lips, tightening his arms around your waist and pressing your chest closer to his. 

Your sat in his lap on the leather couch in his living room, the birds stopped chirping a while ago, sometime between the shower running and Spencer dragging you to the couch for his much-needed makeout session. 

His tie needs fixing again, you thought you had done it tight enough, but the hum he did when you pulled on it earlier was too much to resist, so it had become slightly loose. The top button on your top was undone, but that was a fashion choice; you're not so sure you're red and used lips were much of a statement, though.

Well, depending on what type of statement you were going for. 

‘Spencer, you're coming with me, Hotch asked for both of us on this case,” you chuckle, bringing the knot of his tie up more to tighten it. 

“I know”, he whispers, “but it means that we can’t do this, that this version of you, of us is gone.”

You search his eyes, not sure what to search for, but perhaps something that digs up his words and gives away the true meaning, “What is this version of us?” 

You find something, but you're not sure if it's what you want. 

“I'm not sure”, he hesitates, his thumb strokes the skin of your stomach where your top rides up. 

The conversation ends with a kiss, and another one and more after. They all have heaviness to them, unspoken feelings that you can't depict; his mouth is home, and you're not sure why. 

Climbing off him feels cold, packing your bag and pulling your shoes on feels wrong. Putting your gun in your holster and your badge in your pocket feels normal. 

You're a whirlwind of emotion when you step through the door, Spencer at your side. 

He’s in one of his sweaters that he wears to work, such a difference from the nothing he was wearing earlier. The air outside the apartment is easier to breathe in, or perhaps its placebo. 

You don’t look at him as you both walk down to your cars, you smile at him in the friendliest ‘I don’t still have your cum in my throat’ look you can manage. 

It's normal, your friendship is normal, and the way you act as co-workers together at work is normal, the briefing and plane ride are normal, but everything feels compact.

You're glad it's not awkward, that work isn't tension-filled, but occasionally you catch yourself wondering what's fake and what's not.

There is so much to let out of the box, and you're not sure when the box is to be opened. At the moment, it is tied up with a pretty bow that both you and Spencer had a hand in tying. 

tags: @anausr78 @killjoynotes @matilde-333 @mrs-spencer-reid26 @prettypan-blog2 @ayumimegami @dor4kk @somewhereingermany563 @s0rc3r3r @kissesbya @aalyyssa @patslondonstuff @baucumdumpster  @elle-wlkr @samanthaw16 @heypyre @cakebootyscaca @hobisunshine13 @perfectballoonblaze @hiddentattooodyssey @theoneeees @bxbyysstuff @acescutejeans-1247@somo-69@cynbx@random-writer-person @blasaah@jooordinary @aurorafloraa @cessixja@crazyobsessedsmutreader@amatiswayland@djfjbfh@z3ph-was-h3r3@emma-e-a@hellfirehottie@gglittergoddess@noxx-starr @karmel07 @atlasdreaming@mmmunson@lizzylynch1@waywardhunter95@bigchungusdrinksspritecranberry@boxcletter@itspalaly@sp1derst0rrr

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You already had a good idea about what it was to do with, and you definitely wanted to participate in the teasing this time. You were on the way back to Quantico after finishing up a case in Los Angeles, following a string of rapes and murders around a few of the popular strip clubs and nightclubs. 

You weren’t with Derek and Spencer when they were interviewing the girls in the clubs, but you can only imagine what Spencer was like. 

Everyone knew Spencer was pretty inexperienced with females, and when he was required to talk to one his age, he got pretty flustered. Fumbling his words, doing his awkward smile that they usually thought was weird (you thought it was cute), busying his hands and blinking faster, everything out of a pre-pubescent teenage boy textbook.   

“The fact that genius boy here does not know anything about women”, Elle answers in a teasing tone aimed towards said genius. 

“That’s- that's not true, I’ve read things ab-”  Spencer retorts, fumbling over his words. 

“Oh my god, guys spencer reads porn!” Elle fakes a gasp with amusement.

Your cheeks hurt from how hard you try to keep your laughter in. The look on Spencer’s face is nearly enough to knock you overboard to the point of no return. His cheeks get redder, almost the colour of a ripe tomato during the heat of the summer, something you were sure was impossible. 

“Fifty Shades of Grey? Brigertons? J.D Ward?” You say with curiosity, a teasing smile finds home on your lips as the words spill from them. 

Doubt was a very vivid emotion when it came to the possibility of Spencer reading erotica; it was porn on paper, for god sakes, there’s no way he would-

“I’ve read Fifty Shades of Grey before, but it wasn't very good”, Spencer starts, sitting up, something he does before he starts explaining facts and talking statistics. “I finished it out of curiosity. From a literary standpoint, the character development is… limited. Also, the contract section is surprisingly unrealistic.” 

Oh my god 

“But when I purposely look for information on... women, it’s mostly blogs on how to- talk and other things.” 

“I’m sorry, blogs?” Morgan raises his eyebrow “You read blogs on how to have sex?” 

“Wha- I didn't say sex”, He squints his eyes, he speaks the word ‘sex’ as if it’s the most outrageous thing he’s ever spoken or possibly even been accused of. 

“Yeah, you didn’t have to”, Elle mutters behind her glass, which she brings to her lips. 

A small smile spreads over your lips at the picture this makes in front of you.  Inexperienced, shy, nerdy, scared of women, Spencer reading ‘how to’ blogs in the dark of his apartment, wondering how to make a woman feel good whilst so desperately needing someone to touch him. 

Holy shit. 

You don’t know why, but that thought causes a heat in the bottom of your stomach. As a small throb makes itself recognised between your legs, you clasp your thighs together in a motion you hope goes unnoticed. 

And for fucks sake, apparently you're ovulating because you’ve also just noticed how good Spencer looks when he’s flustered.  

He’s got those pretty puppy eyes, his dark brows are furrowed in such a way that you almost lean over to kiss them. What the fuck? 

“Look, pretty boy, if you want tips on how to get laid, just ask me” Derek shrugs his shoulders; he’s got such an ego when it comes to the topic of getting laid or hooking up, his smugness is evident on his face. He nudges his broad shoulder with Spencer's. 

“Yeah, everyone knows you’re run through Morgan”, Elle comments with a chuckle laced in her words, and Derek responds with a playful eyeroll that you're surprised doesn’t reach his frontal lobe.

“It’s not- It’s not that, I just want to make a woman feel-” Spencer sighs like he already regrets his next word before he speaks it, “good.”

Spencer looks at you as soon as the sentence leaves him, a silence forms between you, and you have to wonder why the silence feels so heavy, why it has that buzz to it, the one that rings in your ears and through your bones. He looks away quickly, but quickly isn’t the way you describe the buzzing leaving, because it doesn’t. 

It doesn’t leave. 

“What do you mean by good? You know, there are thousands of ways to make a woman feel good,” You inquire, your tone sounding a little too interested in the matter. “Oral, kissing, fingering, licking, sucking, uh- words i guess, dirty talk maybe” You count them off on your fingers, you can feel Spencer’s embarrassment rise with every word spoken, and yet you find that’s the reason you're doing it. 

“Money”, Elle adds.

“That too”

“Touching and.. Tasting,” Spencer says softly, but also like he had to force them out at the same time. 

He looks so pretty flustered. And those words coming from his mouth sound the equivalent of dirty talking, at least they sound dirty to you. Is that weird? 

“I already see it”, Elle nods her head, “Proper munch.” 

As if you all have a sixth sense, you and the others turn around at the same time and face the eyes burning into you from the jet's couch. You had felt it, the way it always felt, like a parent scolding their children for misbehaving.

“Let’s not talk about Spencer’s sex life on the jet”, Hotch chides, glancing up from the file he had been reading. He has one of those looks that only went to one of the team members (Elle) but felt like it was aimed at all of you, even Spencer, whose cheeks still burn like the sun shining through the plane windows.

As though you were dogs just told they’ve been bad, you turn around again. The jet goes awkwardly silent for a minute before Elle’s poor mistake of trying to hold her laughter fails. You let a chuckle out alongside her, and when you hear one slip from across the table where Spencer sits, you look up.

Again, meeting his eyes, holding eye contact for longer this time. It speaks louder than last time, the absence of words wither at the heat between your glances. He smiles softly, it's genuine and warm and matches like a perfect pair with his golden eyes, they both shine from unimaginable heights and knock the breath out of you just the same. 

The rest of the flight is filled with those heated glances between you and Spencer, words not spoken because even if they were… they wouldn’t live up to the feeling of catching his eyes from across the table. 

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩   

After you and the team had gotten back to the BAU, Penelope had come up to you, Elle and JJ and asked if you could all go out for drinks.

 You knew you couldn’t say no; it was Penelope. 

Derek had also somehow managed to sneak himself into the plans to get pissed at the nearest bar, using his flirting tricks and good looks to sway Garcia. 

                                   ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ 

When Garcia normally pulled you to the bar after a long case, you had some control over yourself when it came to drinking, but tonight was different. Tonight, you had things on your mind that you wanted to push back into the farthest parts of yourself, and nothing did that better than shitty alcohol in a bar that stunk of cheap liquor and sweaty bodies.

You had been sitting in the booth at the far end of the bar for a while now, just observing with your hazy eyes and dizzy head. Elle and Penelope had ditched you for an interesting conversation with a lone guy sitting at the bar, and JJ had headed home half an hour ago, so you were currently alone and wallowing in the unspoken feelings that had been eating away at you since the jet.

From the corner of your eye, you notice Derek being rubbed on by a group of three females who all look like they are trying very hard to get lucky tonight. You don't think their attempt at dancing did much for them, though, but you could tell that Derek wasn't paying much attention to their so-called moves and more to the cleavage that was being moved about in his line of sight. 

He was very noticeably enjoying the female attention, a wide grin is plastered over his face, and his chuckle rings out when one got close enough to his lips in a teasing motion that you were surprised they weren't full-on making out in the middle of the room.  

Your head buzzes like you were a million miles away, and your head sways to the speaker's music with a motion you swear you don’t control. You had a bad habit of doing things you weren't particularly in control of when you were more than four shots deep. 

The words that came out of Spencer's mouth earlier on the jet had been vivid in your mind since: his cheeks that warmed as his words became more revealing, the way his voice went up a pitch when Elle had lightheartedly accused him of reading porn. And the genuine laugh when he looked up at you, the pretty one that sounded like a melody coming from a vulnerable place in his chest.

You tighten your legs together as the presence of the vision and the sound of his voice from earlier dance in your head, slow, fast, quiet, loud and oh so good. You’ve felt that way about Spencer a few times on occasion, but you always brushed it off as needing to get laid after so long. This was different in a way you weren't accustomed to, and you had no descriptive words for it other than… want. Pure unfiltered want.    

You blame your actions on the stuffiness of the bar and the six empty shot glasses in front of you as you pick up your phone that had been left on the table and click on the contact you only ever really texted when it related to a case or something another to do with work.

You thought about how to word your text to him, but it wasn’t exactly up to you as the vodka in your system took the reins and sent a text that sober you would have paled over.  

(you) 11:02 pm: do yu wnat me to teach you?

(you) 11:20 pm: please 

                                     ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

You didn’t want to see Spencer; your only thoughts whilst riding the elevator up to the BAU were the hopes that Spencer was off sick. Well, not sick exactly, you’d rather he wasn’t actually unwell, you weren't that cold-hearted. 

But you were delusional enough to hope that once you stepped out onto the floor where you worked, you would come across an empty desk where Spencer would normally sit.

Your manifestations had come out cold and were not of any use as you hesitantly stepped through the glass doors to the BAU and met the hazel eyes at the desk you had so desperately hoped was empty. You look away as quickly as you can manage and speed walk to your desk at the other end of the bullpen so fast you send out a hissed curse when your hip comes in contact with the edge of the wooden table. 

The dividers between the desks kept Spencer out of eyesight as you slump down on your seat and let out a groan when your elbows rest on the desk with your head in your hands. You had fucked up so bad when you sent that text last night that you couldn’t even come into work the next day without feeling like you were committing a crime. 

Your chest had a burning feeling you couldn’t quite differentiate between guilt or a soul-eating dread; you had a good feeling it was the latter. 

You had woken up early that morning with a pounding headache that was later soothed with painkillers and a burning hot embarrassment (that was not cured with painkillers) as you checked your phone and saw the two blue ticks next to your stupid, so fucking stupid text. 

You had gotten ready with the pace of a snail as you contemplated crawling back into bed and pretending you didn’t exist. You couldn’t, but you came to the conclusion that you could pretend Spencer didn’t exist and that last night didn’t happen. And whilst that is hard to do because it is not only hurting you, but you're sure Spencer will start to feel hurt too, you have manipulated yourself to think that it's the best thing you can do as an outcome to your fucking stupid, drunk, pussy ass, fuck ass text that drunk, horny you thought was genius to send, just fucking genius.

You had asked yourself a million questions on the way here with an angry tone to your thoughts, and you only had two answers to them that you had only just admitted to yourself. 

You were attracted to Spencer Reid.

You wanted to teach Spencer how to make a woman feel good, and you badly wanted that woman to be you.

                                    ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

You had managed two hours of writing reports and going through old case files, ones that contained photo evidence that had made your stomach twist, before you started heavily craving caffeine as the effectiveness of your painkillers depleted when the seconds ticked by. 

It took some persuading from yourself, but you get up and make your way to the bullpens' corner kitchen that you and your team only used for the coffee machine. 

You remember the last time you opened the off-white mini fridge in the corner, and the putrid smell of well gone of food had you and JJ gagging, you decided to hold your nose when you planted the mouldy chinese on Gideon's desk and told him to never leave it that long again. You remember leaving his office and hearing the soft huff that sounded a lot like a chuckle seep out from the crack of the half-closed door.

You had joined the Behaviour Analysis Unit two weeks after Spencer had joined, and since that day two years ago, you have come to find yourself a family, one that didn’t just have that family feeling during working hours but all the time. 

But out of everyone on the team who you held close to your heart and considered family, Spencer was your person, and he was like an extension of you most of the time. You suppose that's why you feel so much guilt about the text you sent him the night before; you didn’t want to fuck up the bond you both already cherished so deeply.

You knew you had always felt more with Spencer, but like, with pretty much everything in your life, you chose to ignore it. Until the results of your bottled-up feelings came out in a drunk text that had been weighing heavily on your heart since the morning.

You were so consumed in your own thoughts that you hadn’t been aware that you’d been stirring your coffee for at least a minute, that was, until you heard a honeyed voice behind you.

“You’ve been stirring for one minute and thirty-two seconds- and counting” 

It’s like your body short-circuits and stops working on you as you freeze up in response to Spencer's words. Turning around, you meet his gaze, and so many unsaid words drift in the space between you. 

You swear he looks more beautiful than the last time you saw him, but you can’t tell if it is your mind playing tricks on you, maybe it was the still-fading pain meds or just… just. Maybe it came down to the feelings you had only just admitted to yourself that were still new in your head.

He has a small wrinkle between his softly furrowed brows as he sets his eyes on you and then to the cup of ‘going cold by the second’ coffee on the counter behind you. 

“Yeah- yeah, I'm sure it's mixed by now” You turn back to your coffee and toss away the wooden stirrer into the trash can by your feet. You feel a warm heat travel up your neck, curl around your ears and settle like a blanket, a very heavy blanket, on your cheeks. You knew the whole ‘ignoring’ wasn’t going to last long, but three hours felt kind of feeble. You should have expected it wouldn't go on for long. Spencer had a habit of noticing when things were ugly or, more so, awkward in this case, between him and someone, and wanting to fix it as soon as he could, as soon as he found the courage for it.

“Did you- did you have fun last night?” Spencer says with a voice that made it obvious he was trying to hide the awkwardness that was surely settled deeply in him. 

“Yeah, it was good” You nod to your words and sip your coffee, trying to look at anything but him. 

“Derek told me you had a lot to drink and uh- showed me the video of the karaoke” 

You mentally groan so hard you accidentally let one slip out of your own throat that you don’t bother covering up. You only half remembered the poor attempt at singing to 22 by Taylor Swift after being dragged on stage by Penelope, but you find enough memory of it to know it involved drunken giggling, slurring and pure fumbling over your words that really wasn't attractive in any way.  

“I was way too out of my mind to even notice that he had been filming” 

“How out of your mind?” Spencer's voice was quieter than it had originally been, almost like he was getting his hopes up that you would give him the answer he wanted. 

Whatever that was.

“Spencer..” 

He takes a step closer, not a big one but one that shows he’s listening.

“Were you drunk enough that you’d say things?” he breathes out in soft frustration “, things that you didn’t mean”. His brows go up in question.  

You shake your head in disagreement as he takes another step closer; you had never witnessed Spencer so determined to get an answer from someone in such a way that he looked like he was holding onto every word said and every shaky breath you exhaled.

He looked at you through his thick lashes that you had always said you were jealous of, and you thought you might melt right there as a result of the tension swirling around the air.

“I need you to tell me what you're talking about so I don't say something stupid about a thing that's not even relevant to what you're on about” You ask gingerly.

Spencer was acting in a way you had never seen before, and you didn’t understand how you were meant to feel knowing it was the result of you, of something that you had caused.

“Well, last night you sent me a text-, do you remember?” Spencer questions as if he couldn’t actually decide whether you knew what he was on about, like the possibility of being too drunk to forget a text like that was a high chance. 

“Yeah, I remember- I know”. 

“Okay, then, tell me what you meant, " he remarks. 

You look down at the steaming mug in your hands, carefully moving your palms so the coffee would sway and malipulate small ripples across the surface ever so slightly. It was almost calming in a way, something so minuscule like the movement of your own hands was an enticing hypnosis. That was a habit you had had for a long time, moving whatever was in your hands as a way of distraction from the fact that you had to answer and were too flustered to even think of a right response. 

“That I wanted to teach you”

“I need more than that” 

“Do I really need to speak it out loud, because I'm starting to think this is a humiliation ritual” 

“I would prefer if you did” His pretty puppy dog eyes that he wore so well catch your eyes and hold contact as he waits for a response, " Please.” 

You exhale a sassy breath and look up to the water-stained ceiling above you so you wouldn’t have to hold eye contact and gauge his reaction in response to your answer. 

“You said on the jet that you wanted- this is so stupid- that you wanted to know how to make a woman feel good. It was all I could think about last night, so I sent you that text to let you know that I'm always here if you need… a lesson. A physical one” 

The prolonged silence rings out louder than any words ever could, and the burning behind your eyes starts with no grace or warning. Not with embarrassment or anxiety, but with an achy feeling commonly known as ‘I fucked up so bad, he hates me and thinks I'm a right weirdo, and why did I ever think he would want to go down on me, blah blah blah’.  

“Okay” 

Okay??

Tearing your eyes off the ceiling and blinking away your blurry vision, you take notice of Spencer's slicked back hair that you're sure looks more out of place than it had been before you looked up, as though he was running his hand through it absentmindedly. The tips of his curved ears are a shade darker on the blushed scale, and the pupils in the middle of his hazel eyes are a size bigger, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he looks more flushed and perhaps hungry in a way he wasn’t even certain he knew how to feel about. 

“Okay?” You repeat, trying to figure out what exactly he could mean by okay, okay was such a versatile word that could be taken any which way, depending on the tone of voice, but when the word drifted from Spencer’s pressed lips, he revealed nothing. 

“I- I’d like that, " he stutters, “If the offer is still up.” 

You stand there stunned for a while before you speak up, your voice wavering, “Actually?”  

“Unless the text was only a drunk thing- and you didn’t mean.”

“I meant it”, You say matter-of-factly, the previous unease within you flattens at the statement. 

You’d gone through all the possible outcomes of this conversation when he had come up to you a few minutes ago, and you didn’t have a single ounce of hope that Spencer would agree; in fact, it hadn't crossed your mind once that Spencer would be acquainted with the idea of a lesson between your legs.

“Good, good, well, I’ll Em- do you do Email?”

“Text me, Spencer” 

He nods, stepping away to walk back into the bullpen “Yeah- okay, I’ll do that”.

 A small smile graces his mouth before he walks away, and the contagiousness of the upturned lips passes onto you and lingers even after he’s sat down at his desk a few meters away and you start making your way to your own desk. Your desk that was covered in silly little figures that Penelope had planted there on your first day, she told you that the minute you had stepped into the bullpen, you had a look about you that came across to her as you needing some sparkle in your life. 

But the sparkle that had changed your life around for the good wasn’t the small unicorns that littered your desk, the pom pom pens in your tabby cat mug or the stickers decorating your name plaque, but instead it came in the form of bright hazel eyes, brown slick back hair, an IQ of 187 and a soft mouth grazed with frequent smiles that would soon find a place between your legs.

                                   ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

You could swear you still felt a small curly hair tickle the soft skin of your upper thigh; you couldn’t exactly pluck out a pube in the middle of an apartment building hallway, so you could only hope that it was dark enough in Spencer's apartment that he wouldn't even notice the single hair on your otherwise smooth skin that you had shaved, scrubbed and moisterized more times than once. 

Every step closer to his apartment door had your heart beating faster in a way that was almost a cause for concern. 

You had received a text from him two hours ago, two days after the conversation in the BAU’s corner kitchen, and it only consisted of four words.

(reid >ᴗ<) 4:58 pm: Can you come over?

Shortly after reading it, you had sped into your bathroom and spent an hour under the warm rush of hot water whilst bending and stretching in awkward positions to shave the skin between your thighs, and when you were as satisfied as you could be, you had dried and moisturised with pure determination. 

Only as you had been ready to slip on your underwear had you replied to Spencer.

(you) 6:03 pm: black or white?

(reid >ᴗ<) 6:05 pm: Context? 

(you) 6:05 pm: doesn’t matter 

(you) 6:05 pm: just answer 

(reid >ᴗ<) 6:05 pm: Is this part of my learning?

(you) 6:05 pm: yeah, and it’s important

(reid  >ᴗ<) 6:06 pm: White.

(reid  >ᴗ<) 6:08 pm: And lace.

You gently rap your knuckles against the smooth wooden door, and on the final firm rap, you stop midway as you hear the unlocking behind the wood. The second you hear that small sound of the metal clicking out of place, your brain runs around frantically, overthinking every small thing you did whilst getting ready only a few minutes ago. 

Did you put enough deodorant on? Should you have drunk more of the sweet pomegranate juice that had been in the fridge for a couple of weeks that you knew would have its use at some point? Is the lace showing above your jeans slutty in a good way or a bad way? Is the black push-up bra that you got a size too small a bad fashion decision, or should you have matched it with your underwear? Is your pussy smooth enough? What if you didn’t exfoliate right? 

As the creak of the door opening sounds out, you meet the warmth of his gaze and the overthinking is reduced to a small buzz at the very bottom of your list of important things. He’s not wearing his usual work attire that normally consists of a tie and a kitted vest, but instead he’s traded it out for a loosely fitting long-sleeved grey t-shirt and a red, white and black plaid pair of trousers you recognise as pyjamas. 

You don't know why it feels so foreign to see him wearing his sleep clothes, and why the foreign feeling is quite a nice feeling that settles happily in your chest. You suppose not many people have the opportunity to see him in this state, so as you do now, you cherish it.

He opens the door up, and you turn one side of your mouth up in a half-smile as you walk through the door and into the warmth of his apartment. 

You’ve only stepped foot into his apartment once, one year ago, when you needed to sleep on his couch for the night, when the smell of wet paint churned your stomach so much you couldn’t stand sleeping in your own apartment until the renovations had been completed.

You found as much ease walking into the room as you did the first time; the feel of Spencer’s apartment had that effect on anyone who had the chance to visit. Since the last time you had been in the apartment, there were more spaces filled on the bookshelf and more worn books piled on top of the storage unit where his stereo sat against the far right wall in the open-plan living room.

Knowing Spencer, he’d probably read all the books he already had and needed to buy more or borrow some from the library to feed his reading addiction. 

“Would you like some coffee? Milk and three sugars?” Spencer asks from behind you; it’s very obvious he’s not got any idea how to create a sexually intense thread of tension between the two of you.

You had already told yourself that you would need to take charge and tell him what to do, to lead, but standing in the middle of his apartment with nothing in your palms to fiddle with, you didn’t actually know how to start something like this. With your previous relationships or hookups, you’d just lie there and let their mouth wander, and you’d never have to say or do anything but moan and look pretty as they tried their hardest to find the clit (they never did, and you ended up faking it 80% of the time). 

You couldn’t with Spencer; you had to teach, show him how to touch and taste and make you feel good so he would know how to in the future…for other women. That’s why you were doing this, you reminded yourself. So he would know how to make women feel good, not just you. 

“Just water”, your reply comes out softly. 

Spencer strides to the kitchen at the same time you sit yourself down on the brown leather couch facing the window. You hear the kettle boil as he makes his drink, and the turning of the sink as he pours yours. 

You reach behind the back of your head and undo the messy ponytail you put up in a rush on the drive here. Because you didn’t decide to bring a bag due to the fact that you had only brought your phone and keys, you slip it onto your wrist. You find yourself subconsciously flicking the black band on your wrist, not in a way that brings you pain or discomfort, but more so in a way your mind subconsciously finds soothing, a way to comfort the anxiety and dripping arousal.

As the sound of a cup being put down follows another, you watch the smooth movement of Spencer sitting down next to you, creating a small dip in the couch. The tension pulls between you, like a string being tugged or north pole and south pole magnets colliding. 

Spencer’s gaze flickers down to your lips in a motion far from subtle. You watch his chest rise and fall with a steady rhythm, a movement that shows he’s feeling something like need, like it’s a pure hunger flowing through his veins. 

“You know, if you're having your tongue on my pussy soon, it’s reasonable to kiss me” 

Your words have him moving his eyes from your lips. He nods nervously as he agrees, “Yeah, I guess that makes sense”.

Getting ready to flutter your eyes closed, you pause midway to closing them, and then you fully open them again. You had half expected Spencer to take charge of the kiss, but you were mistaken; he looked like he didn’t have the slightest clue about how to lean in and what was right. 

“Have you ever kissed anyone?” You question softly, shuffling closer to him. 

“Once in high school, but we got our braces caught together” 

You huff out a chuckle and shuffle even closer to him, watching his face for the emotions that fleet across his face, whether fast or slow. Accidentally bumping your knee with his thigh, Spencer’s finger tips graze over the top of your leg in a soft caress before settling his hand down like he wasn’t sure if you were about to tell him to take it off or press down even more. 

You don’t say anything, but look him in the eyes as you move your body so you're straddling his lap and pressing your chest to his. His hips buck up slightly at the sudden movement, but like it’s almost natural, and he’s gone through his head practising this. He moves his hand up your body, sending shivers up your spine with every touch of your atoms meeting.

He seems to know what to do this time, driven by desire, desire evident from the growing bulge beneath you, strained by the layers of clothes. It’s quick but not rushed as he plants his other warm palm on the side of your neck, ever so gently and tugs you towards him. 

The hand still resting on the side of your clothed waist squeezes gently as the rest of his body eases when your lips gently meet his in a way only described as euphoric. 

Your brain transcends into mush as you find yourself melting into the soft lips of your co-worker, the same co-worker who sends a thrill up your spine as he pushes on your waist, moving you forward and then pushing you back. He tries to chase the friction between both of you by manually moving your hips with his grip on you and grinding you down on him; he does it so gently, never gripping too hard.

He makes a small gasp into your mouth as your lips move together; there’s no tongue yet added into the mix, but the softness of each other's lips and the unfiltered lust drive you both enough as it is. 

When you do add tongue to the mix, Spencer is the one to initiate it as he opens his mouth and probes his tongue against your lips, swiping it against the slit in a question. 

Your answer comes as opening your mouth and accepting his tongue; you moan against his mouth as you meet halfway. He tastes like black coffee (or sugar with a side of coffee, you suppose) and desperation, both things you love when served by Spencer. 

Everything Spencer gives you, when he lets out a whimper, when he bucks up against you, when he pulls back and breaths heavily against your half-open mouth while looking up at you through his lashes, you take it. You take everything he gives you, and you make it yours.

His touch moves from where it resides and comes up to the hem of your ruffled shirt; it has you pulling back and looking at him.

“Can I?”

You nod. 

You feel the hot exhale against your bare collarbone after he slides your shirt off and drops it on the floor behind you. Your body shivers from where his fingers narrowly skim across the sensitive skin of your waist.

You feel intoxicated with every touch or breathy gasp exchanged, your mind is set at a current setting that only lets you think of touch, taste and the lust that's filtered through every expanse of your being.

Spencer is definitely an inexperienced kisser, and you can tell when he has the occasional slip-up or when he accidentally clashes his teeth against yours, but the sexual desire coming from a pit within him controls the movements of his mouth and body, and that is more attractive than any slip-up he could make. 

“I want to take you to the bedroom, I want to make you feel good”, He begs you, his voice sounding needy. 

You only had to whisper a plea, and he had stood up, you around him, without much effort. It surprised you that he did it with that much ease; he wasn’t exactly fit. He wasn’t unhealthy by any means; you just assumed that without the muscle building him up, that he wasn’t exactly capable of heavy lifting, but he had proven you wrong.

It was a short distance to his bedroom, and you have your head buried into the warm skin between his shoulder and neck as he walks with you in his hold. You feel safe in a way you have never felt before. 

He drops you down onto the softness of the mattress in such a gentle way that you feel like a treasured artefact. He positions you so your back is against the mattress, but your legs are half on the bed. You take your shoes off by pushing them against each other, and they fall to the floor by Spencer with a small thump. 

With only your socks covering your feet, you place them on the edge of the bed, bending your legs at the knee. Spencer stands before you, admiring the sight of you splayed out on the bed, not yet fully undressed but beautiful, with regard. The tent in his pants is visible, and the imagined vision of what was under the layers, just by guessing based on the imprint, was an intoxicating picture displayed in the front of your mind. 

He leans down, bracing a hand to the side of his head. He presses a quick kiss to your lips, the first kiss that didn't feel like lust or sexual desire but instead something unspoken, something that has you widening your eyes and feeling a precious warmth settle in your chest. 

You were doing this for Spencer, you were teaching him how to make a woman feel good, and yet your personal attraction to Spencer that you had become accustomed to recently was causing a hot wire in your head. You were allured by him with a captivating charm you had never experienced. 

His mouth was about to find home on your pussy, and you had to pretend like you weren’t falling for him even more every time he touched you. 

When he pulls away from the soft peck, you lay a hand on his jaw and turn him back towards your lips and turn the softness of his kiss to a needier sweep of your tongues. 

“Can- can you tell me what to do?” He catches his breath as he pulls away reluctantly and focuses on your face, his eyes moving from your lips. 

“Take my bra off” 

His dark eyes flicker down from your face and land on the black bra you had decided wasn’t as bad as you had thought earlier, because from your angle, your boobs looked amazing. 

The small pulse that came from the bulge resting on your leg told you he thought so to.  

You prop yourself up with your elbows, giving Spencer more space to move his hand behind your back. With one palm planted on the mattress beside your head, he uses his free hand to reach behind your back, trying and failing to unclasp the back of the bra. 

You admire the way he bites his bottom lip in concentration, his fingers fiddling with the metal clasps in an effort to strip your breasts bare. You feel the skin of his knuckles gently graze against your back; it sends pulses of arousal through your body, pulses that travel slowly to your lower stomach. 

“Spencer, do you want me-”

“No, I-” 

You feel the fabric behind you loosen. 

“Got it” 

His eyes hold a captivating look that spreads like glitter everywhere his glance settles on your silky skin. With the way you're propped up, the straps that were sitting on your shoulders now slip down your arms and rest at the crooks of your inner elbows. The cups of the bra still hold your breasts, no more skin shown except the strip of your shoulder that the straps were covering before they fell. 

Lying down again, the bra cups finally slip, and you pull it off the rest of the way, discarding it next to you, exposing the swell of your breasts and the nipples that were perked up so beautifully.

Your body arches up in a wordless question, a wordless beg for touch. 

“Spencer, touch me” 

His eyes are stuck on your breasts, admiring them like they were the most gorgeous thing he had ever laid eyes on, like they were deserving of worship. 

“I- here?” He doesn’t take his eyes off your tits.

Gently holding his wrist, you move his hand to cup your breast closest to him. The first touch of his palm sends a thrill through your nipple, and a little gasp escapes from the confines of your mouth. 

“I- oh god- I don't know how” Spencer gently squeezes your tit with his hand before removing it. 

“Put your mouth on my nipple”

“Yeah, I know that- I just don’t know how to use it”

“Then watch me, look for reactions, and you’ll know what I like” You breathe out, desperation's presence is known. 

He watches you for a few seconds, just as though he was looking for permission, even though you had already solicited the act. 

He looked so innocent like this, unaware of what to do and on edge about the possibility of doing the wrong thing. It gave you a small thrill knowing it was you he was doing this with, that despite it being a lesson, you were still his first. 

Through half-lidded eyes, your attention forms on the shift of Spencer as he hesitantly flattens his tongue against your hard nipple; he licks a stripe along the peak, soaking the skin where his dripple lands. He moves so he’s lying on his side more than leaning, so he can get a better angle as he takes your nipple into your mouth. 

The first feel of the inside of his mouth feels like something equivalent to heaven, your eyes roll back, and your nipple gets impossibly harder on the soft bed of his tongue. You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to calm down the throbbing of your ever-so-needy clit that was begging for attention. 

For someone who had never sucked a girl's tit, he was impressively good at it, combined with the magnetic pull that you already felt for him was the cause for the wildness you felt so deeply as he sucked and licked your sensitive flesh. 

Opening your eyes, you notice Spencer looking up at you through hungry eyes that also some way or another, still looked pure, even in the act of being the cause of such pleasure, that your sure was evident on your face. 

He examined every small gasp you made and every shiver that wracked your body. And when he sucked in the way that had you moaning his name, he drank it in and learnt how to draw out as much pleasure as he could using his mouth on one nipple and his fingers on the other. 

He learnt how to pinch and twist using his hand, and when on the occasion it was too hard that you’d wince, he pulled back and kissed your lips with a whispered apology. 

Both nipples were dripping with his spit, and the redness from pinching the peaks was stark against your skin. Spencer looks boob drunk when he pulls away, his lips pink and swollen, drool running down his chin, something you never classified as hot until this moment. 

With newfound confidence, he reaches down to the waistband of your washed-out jeans and undoes the single button with one hand. Following his movements, he moves off the bed and again stands up before you. He leans down and unzips your jeans slowly, a small inhale slips through him as he moves his hands down to trace a finger against the lace of your panties that show through the opening of your jeans.

“Can I take your jeans off?” He asks.

“Please”, A small whimper slips out of you at the mere thought that you were only a couple of minutes away from having him settled over the throbbing wetness between your thighs. 

He doesn’t watch his own movements as he shimmies your jeans down your legs with your help and plops them on the floor, where your discarded shoes sit. All of his attention is on you as he observes the desire written over your face in the most enticing colour he could ever imagine.  

You bring the heels of your feet against the edge of the bed again, bending your legs at the knees; this time, you spread wider, giving Spencer more of a view. You can feel the wetness soaking your white underwear so much that it sticks to your pussy like a mould. 

Without question, he kneels, his knees lightly hitting the hardwood floor beneath him. The sight is enough for you to prop yourself up again, just to view him on his knees at a better angle. 

He experimentally brings his hand closer to the heat radiating in the middle of your thighs, stroking two steady fingers along the dampness seeping through the cotton. The gentle sweep over your covered clit has you opening your mouth on a silent moan, the bud his fingers are settled over throbs with hunger. 

“You wore them”, Spencer addresses, looking up at you through his dark lashes. His voice is still nervous, almost boyish. 

Spencer refers to the lacy underwear he had spoken about over text. You’d never told him what you had referred to when you asked him the question, ‘black or white’, but you guessed his IQ had come in handy when it came to the understanding of what you were on about. 

You only owned two pairs of white lace underwear, and one pair had holes that your ex had been the reason for, so the options were narrowed down easily. The pair that you are currently wearing are your newest addition to your sexy underwear. You didn’t have many, so you had decided a few weeks ago that you should save up and treat yourself to a few more. 

One of the best ideas you've ever had. 

“I like them”, he says softly, cherished.

He moves his slender fingers towards the lace decorating your panties, tracing the delicate, floral openwork that you wore so well. Every touch against your skin brings electricity through your nerves; it feels like he’s painting a graceful lightning strike across your skin that can only be admired through feeling.    

“You can keep them as long as you don’t rip them”  You exchange eye contact with him. 

“-keep them? I- why would I do that?”

You shrug as much as you can in the position you're in. “Smell them, wrap them around your cock?”

“People actually do that?” His eyes wide, and his voice is husky. 

You nod, and Spencer's eyes furrow lightly like he’s contemplating the idea; you're sure a pros and cons list is being visually drawn through his eyes. 

The pulsing of your clit only gets angrier with every awareness of time passing, every second Spencer is stuck in his thoughts and absentmindedly moving his fingers across the details on your panties and not on your clit like you desperately want them to be. 

“Spencer, please do something”, You whine, drawing him from his thoughts. 

“Hm? I'm sorry, so sorry,” he shakes his head like he's trying to clear his earlier thoughts out of his mind, a blush settles across his cheeks again, a sight you love to see. 

He pokes his tongue out slightly, dragging it across his top lip when his attention falls back to your weeping pussy in front of him, the soaked white fabric not doing much to cover your flesh. His blink is slow, as though he’s entranced with the sight before him. 

“What do you want me to do?” He asks, ready to do anything you ask of him with a simple word from your lips, “How should I make you feel good?”

“Most girls would want tongue first and then, whilst your mouth is on the clit add a finger, if you pull my panties down and-”

Your name falls out of his lips, and your eyes meet his as they glance up through a half-lidded gaze, “I don’t - I don’t want to know what other girls want, I want to know what you want” 

Your body tenses, goosebumps rise over your arms at the devotion slips from Spencer's lips. So much for the ‘lesson’.  

Holy fuck, that was so attractive. 

You almost squeeze your thighs together with the pleasure that travels up your spine, but at last it’s probably not a good idea to suffocate Spencer with them before his mouth is even on you.  

“What do I want?”

He nods, “What should I say and do to make you feel... good. Or the best I can make you feel, I suppose.” 

You hesitate. 

“Pull my panties down” 

His fingers come to the waistband of the lace decorating your hips. 

“Kiss my thighs and then my clit… if you find it”, You tease. 

“I’ll find it, I’ve looked at enough anatomy books” 

You huff out a laugh at his confidence. “Then put your mouth on me, suck, use your tongue, whatever and then spit on your finger and slip it inside of me”  

You close your eyes as you speak, heightening the sense of touch, the feel of his fingers holding your underwear in his grip, and grazing them against the inside of your thighs as he slips the fabric down your thighs, and then as he gets you to close your legs together so he can bring them over your knees and slip them off fully. 

Once he nudges his hand against your thighs and gets you to open your legs as wide as they were previously, he presses a soft kiss on the inside of your thigh, close to your knee. He hasn’t looked at your bare pussy yet, something he will cherish enough when he gets to it, you're sure. 

“And what do I say to you?” he whispers, his heated exhales making your skin jump with every meeting. 

“Praise me”

He nods and presses another kiss against your thighs, every press of his lips leading up higher than the last until you feel the smoothness of his lips press where it aches. 

You divulge a sound stuck between a gasp and a whimper, and the silk bedding finds itself tangled up in your hand by cause of your grip. Such a small contact between your clit and his lips has you wanting more; your mind only speaks in desire, it speaks in a language only Spencer knows how to talk in. 

He presses an open-mouth kiss right over your clit, and hollows his cheeks as he sucks gently. You respond by throwing your head back in pleasure, a gasp falling from your lips, one that edges him on.

‘There we go,” He smirks against you, proud of his achievements.   

His tongue spreads across your clit, and his mouth moves in a dance of sucking, licking and kissing so sweet you almost find it affectionate if it wasn't such a dirty activity. He takes his time dragging the pleasure out of you; he plants his hands just below your ass, gripping for hold as he feasts on the sweet arousal dripping from every moment his mouth makes on you.

He whimpers against your pussy, and the sound has you pressing your hips further against him in an attempt to get more of him, as much as he is willing to give you. 

For a man who’s never done this before, he sure is fucking incredible at knowing exactly how much pressure you want and when you want it, how long you want him to kiss for or what sounds he can make that have you shivering when they murmur against your clit. 

You look down at him, devouring you thoroughly, and the blissed out eyes that meet yours are those of a starving man who has just had his first taste of real food in as long as forever. 

He pulls back for only a second to mutter a few words, “You taste so sweet.” 

“Need your fingers”, you beg, you're so fucked out at this point that there is no embarrassment resting in any part of you, all you know is that you need him so bad that if you don’t, you might cry, so you're prepared to beg as much as you have too to get what makes your legs shake and your head buzz. 

“Yeah?” he teases. 

You eye him as he spits on a single digit and runs it across your entrance before gradually pressing it inside you, dragging out your pleasure. You feel every motion he makes, to the press of the finger at your entrance to the curl that presses against the spongy part of you. 

When Spencer reads at work, and his long fingers flick through the pages with velocity, you always find yourself watching the act in awe at how someone could do something so attractively with just a movement from their hands. His fingers were slender and long, something you had always admired. 

But the difference of having one inside you was that it wasn’t just long, but it was filling. 

You whimper loudly as he hits that precious spot inside of you that you can only reach on good days, the squelch of your wetness being played with stops, and so does the thrust of his finger.

“Is that a bad sound? Did I hurt you?” Worry is palpable in his tone, and it has your eyes softening at just how concerned he sounds.

“No, no, it’s good, really good”, You assure him, your fingers coming to thread in his hair, you push his head with encouragement to go back to the task at hand. He has an understanding of your wants; his finger brushes against your tight walls with a thrust, and he accommodates the feeling by sucking your clit between his lips and into the comfort of his mouth. 

He works you with his finger until he knows you're ready, and follows along by drenching another finger with your slick and pressing it into you with gentle ease. You flutter your eyes closed and exhale a whimper. He’s exactly where you want him, and he's doing exactly what you want of him. 

“Good girl” 

His words cause a splutter of white-hot pleasure deep in your abdomen, and your pussy clenches around him with eagerness. His fingers fuck deeper into you; he’s obvious about how his words made you feel by the flushed look in your eyes and the grip your pussy has on him. 

You can tell he wants more reactions like that from you because his fingers are suddenly moving with more speed, and praises fall from him like prayer; every word he speaks is made against your clit, and it sends a vibration through you every time. 

He stops swirling his tongue around your sensitive, swollen bud, pulling off with a pop and exchanges it for kissing your stomach. He pecks along the fat at the base of your stomach; every peck feels like a comfort, something so soft and gentle compared to the ruin he was in the process of making you. The soft ‘mwah’ sounds he makes as he kisses you are a melody alongside your wimpers, moans and gasps that he drags out of you with determination. 

You start to feel a coil tighten in your stomach. 

“I'm close”, You manage to gasp out, wanting to give Spencer enough warning so you don’t just start spasming around him without him having any notice beforehand. 

His fingers start thrusting faster, and you shake your head, “No, No, same pace, means- mh- means you're doing right” You gasp out.

His movement slows down to the pace it was when you had told him you were close, the coil comes back, this time tighter. You look at him, his lips are no longer resident on your skin, just hovering over your belly, his eyes are glancing down and watching you greedily suck in his fingers. 

“Spencer- baby, kiss me” You beg and grip the back of his neck at the same time he perks up at your words, the heat coiling in your stomach burns hotter with every thrust of his finger. 

His lips clap around yours, full of desperation. It’s a hot and heavy kiss; there’s nothing kind about the way your tongue fights with his as his fingers encourage the orgasm building up inside.

“This doesn’t feel like just a lesson anymore”, He says.

Your orgasm comes before you can decipher his words properly.   

The coil snaps, and you pull your lips from the feisty makeout, pressing your forehead to his. Your orgasm washes over you in pulses, his fingers wring out every drop of release you have to give. Your vision goes fuzzy, and the self-control when it comes to the noises leaving your mouth was nonexistent. You gasp, moan and whimper as the charge of the orgasm reaches everywhere, every nerve ending in your body is not left untouched. 

His eyes move quickly between your face and the sight of his fingers plunging into you between your legs. No matter where his eyes glance, it’s still the same look, an awed observation. 

Once all the pleasure is wrung out from you, and Spencer's fingers retract from your soaked walls, you collapse for a better word. Your chest heaves as you gulp down all the air you can manage,your head hits the mattress, your body unable to keep holding you up.

Sweat tickles every where is runs, as though it’s teasing you with its fingertips.

“Are you okay?” Spencer's voice rings out, sounding as if he, too, is trying to get his heart rate down with the ragged breathing he expels. 

You nod weakly, “mhm” 

“Are you sure?” His voice is tense and on edge, his eyes never leaving your face. 

“Yeah, just- give me a- give- a second” 

                                  ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

You start coming back to yourself, becoming more aware of your senses. You don’t know how much time has passed, but the faint buzz behind your ears tells you not too long. 

It smells like black coffee, sex mixed with sweat, and old books.

You taste Spencer, you don’t know how to describe it other than ‘Spencer’. 

And it feels.. Cold. Your forehead feels cold. Why does just your forehead feel cold?

You become cognizant of the pressure against your head, just above your eyebrows. Where it feels cold. 

“You said you were okay” 

You move your attention to your left, where Spencer sits beside you on the mattress, holding a damp cloth to your forehead. Worry is unmistakable; you notice the signs straight away. Tight lips, knitted brows and an increased blinking rate. 

“Did I pass out?” You question, concern lays itself heavy. 

“No-no, you just were a little out of it” He shakes his head. 

You sit up, noting the fact that you were still naked and sitting down in the same place you had been when his fingers had been giving you attention. It comes back to you without any flashes or pictures, just memories of a few moments ago, before you lost your sense of who you were. 

Your orgasm, his fingers leaving your heat, the kiss he pressed on your temple and then the quick rush of motion he made when he felt you burning up under his touch. He had left the room and came back with your discarded glass of water and a damp towel that was now resting against your forehead. 

“I'm sorry, I didn’t mean for my mind to go somewhere else” You softly apologise. 

“It’s alright- I was just scared I hurt you”

“You didn’t” 

“Yeah, I know that now”, he whispers. 

A beat of vulnerable silence passes. 

“Would you be okay with staying the night?” His voice breaks the quiet. 

Maybe the silent prayers you had sent up whilst getting ready earlier had worked; this seemed like a pretty good sign they had, considering one of the things you had pondered in your prayer had been whether you could have him longer than just a lesson went on for. 

“Like with you?” 

“In bed- sleeping. If that's okay” 

You hear the unspoken words behind it, the real intent. He was just like you, having the same thoughts about whether you could share a moment like this longer, longer than the hour his hands and mouth had been on you. You both wanted more than just sex.

You lean towards him and take him by surprise by pressing your lips to his; it speaks kindness and affection. He melts against your lips and deepens the kiss, his tongue finds home in your mouth, joining yours and tangling together, only breaking apart when either of you needs to catch your breath. 

When you pull back, Spencer chases the kiss and presses his lips against yours for as long as he can until you speak up.

“Yeah”, You smile with joy, just thinking about the non-sexual intimate act of sharing a bed is causing a warmth to line your cheeks.  

“Good because I’d like that alot” 

“A lot?” 

“Mhm, I also quite like your lips against mine”, Spencer says against your lips after he leans towards you to catch you in a kiss again. 

“Mhh, maybe I should give you a lesson on it” 

“I’d like that” 

“A lot?”

If you want to be added to the tag list for part 2, go here

She angled her body to mirror his, bringing one foot up onto the couch. "Okay. That's not ominous at all."

"It's not ominous. It's neurobiology, actually." He spoke faster now he'd cleared the threshold. "Specifically the neurochemistry of prolonged arousal and its relationship to orgasmic intensity. There's a substantial body of research. Admittedly some of it more anecdotal than empirical, but the underlying mechanisms are well-documented, involving dopamine accumulation, oxytocin receptor sensitisation, and the role of the sympathetic nervous system in..."

"Spence" She squeezed his hand. "English."

He blinked. A flush crept up from his collar, and she watched it travel up his throat and along the underside of his jaw. Even after six months, that blush did something to her.

"Have you heard of edging?" He said. The word hung between them.

"Go on."

"I want to try edging you."

His posture shifted, shoulders squaring as he slipped into what she secretly called his Lecture Mode. But his thumb kept moving back and forth over her knuckles, and that small motion undercut the clinical delivery.

"When sexual arousal is sustained over an extended period without allowing orgasmic release, the body continues producing dopamine and norepinephrine without the prolactin surge that typically follows climax. Prolactin is what creates the refractory period - it's essentially a neurochemical brake. By delaying that brake, you're essentially building up a reservoir of excitatory neurotransmitters. The result, anecdotally and in the limited studies available, is a significantly more intense orgasm when release is finally permitted."

He paused for breath. She said nothing. His thumb stopped moving.

"I'm explaining it badly."

"No, you're not." She turned her hand over in his, palm to palm. "You're explaining it like you explain everything. Thoroughly."

One corner of his mouth twitched.

Warmth spread through her chest. She tucked that away for later examination. "Okay. Tell me the rest."

"The rest?"

"Spence, you've got that look. The one you get when you're eighty percent of the way through a dissertation and someone interrupts you. There's more."

His blush deepened, and she watched him regroup. She watched the way his free hand came up to push hair behind his ear, a nervous gesture that never stopped being endearing. "I'd like to incorporate elements of sensory deprivation. A blindfold. And..." He swallowed. "Maybe some restraints. Gentle ones. Nothing extreme. Soft cuffs, or even just silk scarves. Something that won't leave marks, and we'd establish a safeword beforehand, obviously, and I'd check in constantly, and nothing happens without your explicit consent at every stage..."

"Spencer."

"...and I know this might seem like it's coming out of nowhere, but I've been thinking about it for weeks, and I did the research, and I think - I think it could be good. For you. For us. But only if you want it. If you don't, we never speak of it again. I'm perfectly happy with..."

"Spencer."

He stopped. He looked at her, his honey-brown eyes wide and earnest.

"Breathe."

He breathed.

"I have follow-up questions," she said. "But the first answer is yes."

"Wait. Really?"

"I'm curious. And I trust you." She tugged his hand, pulling him slightly off-balance, and he caught himself on the back of the couch. Their faces were close now. "But you're going to have to walk me through the rules. Your research had rules, I assume."

His smile broke loose - not the polite one he gave colleagues, but the real one, the one that lit up his whole face. "Several. Would you like them enumerated?"

"I would like you to kiss me first. Then enumerate."

He did.

------

The bedroom was warm, lit only by the lamp on her nightstand. Amber light pooled across the duvet, catching the edges of things - the brass bedframe, the books next to her bed, the dark purple silk scarf folded neat and precise beside the pillow.

Spencer stood at the foot of the bed, rolling his sleeves up.

She watched him from her seat on the mattress edge, legs dangling, heels bumping the box spring. He had the same expression he got when approaching a complex geographical profile - furrowed brow, internal calculations running. But his hands were gentle as they finished cuffing each sleeve at the elbow, and when his eyes lifted to hers, calculation gave way to something softer.

"The safeword," he said, "is 'red.' Standard traffic light system. 'Yellow' means pause, check in, adjust. 'Green' means continue. If at any point you cannot speak - and you should always be able to speak, I'm not going to gag you, that's not part of this - but if for any reason you find yourself unable to verbalise, snapping your fingers three times will serve the same function."

"Three snaps. Got it."

"Say the safeword for me."

"Red."

"And the caution signal?"

"Yellow. Spence, I'm not going to forget."

"I know." He moved around the bed, mattress dipping as he sat beside her. The proximity brought his scent with him - coffee, old books, the sandalwood soap she'd bought him last month. "But hearing you say it matters. It matters to me."

She turned her head. His face was close enough that she could count his eyelashes if she wanted to. "Then I'll say it again. Red. Red means stop. Yellow means pause. And if I can't talk, I snap." She demonstrated. Three sharp clicks of her fingers. "See?"

"Thank you." The words came out a little rough.

"Your turn," she said. "Research. Sensory deprivation. Explain."

The shift into Lecture Mode was immediate, she could almost see the gears engage. But this time there was an undercurrent of something else. Anticipation, maybe. Or the particular focus he reserved for things he considered important.

"The neurological principle is straightforward. The human brain processes an enormous amount of sensory information at any given moment - visual stimuli, auditory input, tactile sensation, proprioceptive feedback. By removing some of those inputs, we force the brain to reallocate its processing resources. When you can't see, your brain amplifies what remains. Touch becomes more acute. Sound becomes more vivid. Every sensation is heightened because there's less competing data."

He reached for the blindfold - a simple sleep mask she kept in her bedside drawer, dark grey, elasticated - and held it between his hands like an offering.

"It's not just about intensity, though. It's about trust. Surrender. Removing sight means you have to rely on me to guide the experience. That's a vulnerable position. I don't take that lightly."

She looked at the blindfold. Then at him. "I know you don't."

"The restraints serve a similar function. By limiting movement, we eliminate the impulse to control, to direct, to participate actively. Not because you're passive, but because your role shifts. You receive. You feel. You exist entirely in your body without having to manage it."

His voice had dropped slightly, the pace slowing. She'd heard him lecture hundreds of times by now, at conferences, on video calls, over dinner when he got excited about some obscure fact. But this was different. This was intimate. This was for her alone.

"What if I want to touch you?"

"Then you tell me. And I remove the restraints. This isn't..." He paused, searching for words. "This isn't a BDSM power exchange in the formal sense. I'm not your dominant. I'm not going to deny you comfort or connection or anything you genuinely want. The denial is temporary. Controlled. It serves a purpose. The second it stops serving you, it stops."

"And if I want to come? Before you're done?"

"Then you come." No hesitation. "You tell me, and I get you there. The edging only works if you're genuinely invested in it. If it tips over into frustration or discomfort, we stop. I want this to be good for you. Only good."

Something in her chest loosened. She hadn't even realised it was tight.

"Okay," she said. "I'm ready."

"One more thing." His hand found hers again. "I need you to talk to me. Throughout. I need to know where you are - how close, how you're feeling, what's working. The science is useful, but your feedback is essential. I can't read your mind, and I won't guess. Not with this."

"I can do that."

"And if you can't do that - if it becomes too much to articulate - I need you to tell me that too. Just say 'I can't.' Or snap. Whichever comes first."

She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed his knuckles. "Spencer. I know. I trust you. I'm ready."

His exhale was long and unsteady. "Okay," he said, and it came out almost reverent. "Okay. Lie back for me."

---

She lay back, letting her head sink into the pillow. It was cool against her skin, a welcome contrast to the warmth that lingered in her cheeks. Above her, the ceiling was bathed in soft amber light, shadows stretching across the familiar crack in the plaster.

Then the blindfold settled over her eyes.

The world went dark. Not black, the lamplight  filtered through the silk as a diffuse orange glow. But dark enough. She had a sudden, disorienting awareness of her own body in space, the way her arms lay at her sides, the flex of her ankles, the rise and fall of her chest.

"Tell me what you're feeling."

Spencer's voice came from somewhere to her left. Without visual input, she couldn't pinpoint him precisely.

"Floaty," she said. "Aware of my breathing. The sheets are cool."

"Good. I'm going to take your left wrist now. Same as we discussed."

His fingers found her - warm, dry, slightly calloused from all that pen-and-paper work he refused to give up. He guided her arm gently upward, toward the headboard, and she felt silk wrap around her wrist, the careful loop, the knot that was snug but not tight. Two fingers slipped between the restraint and her skin, testing the gap.

"Too loose? Too tight?"

"Good. It's good."

"Flex your fingers for me."

She did. The silk held, but there was no pinch, no restriction of circulation. She'd seen him practice the knot three times that afternoon, tongue caught between his teeth, murmuring about pressure points and nerve pathways.

"Right wrist now."

The process repeated. When both arms were secured, she gave an experimental tug. The restraints held, but the give was generous - she could twist her wrists, curl her fingers, find comfortable positions. Enough to feel contained without feeling trapped.

"How does it feel?"

"Secure." She searched for a better word. "Safe. Like a weighted blanket."

She heard his smile. "That's the oxytocin. Physical restraint can trigger a parasympathetic response when administered in a context of trust. Your brain interprets the pressure as a hug."

"You're lecturing me while I'm tied to the bed."

"Force of habit."

"I didn't say stop."

A soft laugh. The mattress dipped, and she felt his weight shift beside her. Then nothing. Silence. The absence of contact became its own sensation - a prickling awareness of where he wasn't touching her.

"Spencer?"

"I'm here. I'm looking at you."

Heat rose to her face. She was suddenly intensely conscious of her own body - the thin cotton of her tank top, the shorts she'd worn to bed, the way her hair was fanned across the pillow. She couldn't see him seeing her. That was the point. That was the whole point. But the vulnerability of it struck her all at once, a wave of self-consciousness that tightened her shoulders.

"Talk to me." His voice was soft. "Where did you just go?"

"Self-conscious."

"About what?"

"Being... looked at. Not knowing what you're seeing."

"I'm seeing the woman I love." No hesitation. No self-consciousness of his own. "I'm seeing her trust me enough to do this. I'm seeing how beautiful she looks in this light, with her hair spread out like that, and I'm thinking I should have told her that before I took her sight away, because now she doesn't know, and I want her to know."

The tightness in her shoulders eased. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Keep going. I want to hear it."

So he did. His voice became a current she could float on, telling her how the lamplight caught the curve of her neck, how her breathing had changed when he mentioned the oxytocin, how he could see her pulse in the hollow of her throat and it was faster now, wasn't it, and that was his doing, and he liked that. He liked it very much.

His fingers brushed her collarbone.

Her whole body jerked. The touch was featherlight, barely there, but without sight to dilute it, the sensation bloomed across her skin like a drop of ink in water.

"That's the neural amplification I mentioned." He traced the line of her clavicle, slow, deliberate. "Your skin has approximately four million tactile receptors. Without visual processing competing for bandwidth, your somatosensory cortex dedicates more resources to each one. Every touch is..."

"Spence."

"...I know. I'm talking too much." His laugh was soft, self-deprecating. "Tell me if you want me to stop. Tell me if you want me to be quiet. I can be quiet."

"No." The word came out faster than she intended. "Don't stop. I like it. I like hearing you. Just..." She swallowed. "Maybe touch me somewhere that isn't my collarbone."

"Where?"

"You're the one with the research."

Another laugh, warmer this time. "Fair point." His fingers left her collarbone, trailing down. They skimmed the neckline of her tank top, tracing the edge of the cotton where it met her skin. "Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to remove your clothes. Slowly. You won't know what I'm going to touch next, or when, or how. That's the point. The anticipation..." His fingers dipped beneath the strap of her tank top. "...is part of the neurochemistry. Dopamine isn't just released at the moment of pleasure. It spikes during the anticipation of pleasure. The wanting is as powerful as the having."

Her breathing had gone shallow. "More science."

"Always more science." He eased the strap down over her shoulder. The fabric dragged against her skin, and she felt every thread. "Lift your hips for me."

She did. The shorts came off, then the underwear beneath. His hands - both of them now - skimmed up her legs, from ankle to knee to thigh, and she felt herself open to him, felt the cool air of the bedroom on skin that was suddenly very bare.

"The tank top," he murmured. "I'm going to take it off now. But I'll need to..." He paused. "I should have done this before the restraints. I'm going to undo them temporarily. Once for each wrist. Then I'm putting them back on. Is that okay?"

"Green."

"Good. Left wrist first."

She felt the silk loosen, his fingers guiding her arm free. He worked the tank top up and over her shoulder, her head, then paused. "Other wrist." The process repeated. The tank top vanished somewhere, she heard the soft whisper of it landing on the floor. And then her wrists were being guided back into the restraints, the silk snugging into place, and she was naked.

Completely naked.

The awareness of it swept through her like a fever. She was spread out on his bed, arms bound, eyes blindfolded, and she could feel him looking at her. The weight of his gaze was a physical thing, a pressure on her skin.

"Beautiful." His voice had changed. The lecture cadence was gone, replaced by something rawer. "You're so beautiful. I wish you could see yourself. Maybe next time. Next time I'll get a mirror. But tonight..." His hand settled on her stomach, palm flat, fingers spread. "Tonight you're just going to feel."

She arched into the touch. His palm slid up, over her ribs, the underside of her breast, and she made a sound she didn't recognise. A small, desperate noise that came from somewhere deep in her chest.

"That's it." His thumb found her nipple, circled once, feather-light. "Is this good?"

"Green. Very green. Don't stop."

"I won't." His other hand found her other breast, and he worked both nipples in slow, asynchronous circles. The dual sensation was maddening. She couldn't track both at once, couldn't predict the rhythm. One would tighten to a peak while the other was still soft, and then he'd switch, and the pleasure zigzagged through her nervous system like lightning.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer. She lost track of time the way she always did with him, but this was different. Deeper. The blindfold created a pocket of timelessness. There was only the dark, and his hands, and the sound of her own breathing.

"Spence..."

"I'm here."

"I'm..." She licked her lips. "I'm getting close. Not yet. But. Soon."

"Thank you." His hands stilled immediately, and she almost sobbed at the loss. "That's perfect. That's exactly what I need. How close? On a scale of one to ten?"

"Six. No, seven. Seven and climbing."

"Then we pause here." He shifted on the bed, and she felt his weight settle beside her hip. "Breathe with me. In..." He inhaled audibly. "Out." She followed, matching his pace. Her pulse slowed. The urgency receded from a roar to a murmur.

"Back to a three," she reported. "Maybe four."

"Good." He kissed her shoulder. "You're doing so well. I'm going to start again now."

His hand slid down her stomach, lower this time. Fingers brushed through her pubic hair, then lower still, and when he touched her clit she whimpered. It was barely a touch - just the pad of his middle finger, resting there, not moving.

"Tell me what you feel."

"Pressure. Warmth. Your finger."

"What else?"

"I want you to move it. Please."

"Since you asked nicely." He moved. Slow, lazy circles that sent ripples of sensation through her pelvis. Her hips began to roll, chasing his rhythm, and he matched her pace and then exceeded it, building the pressure incrementally. His other hand found her breast again, thumb working her nipple in counterpoint, and the combined sensation was like a chord struck inside her body.

Her thighs tensed. Her breathing went ragged. "Close. Eight. Eight and a half."

He stopped.

She groaned, a frustrated sound that bordered on anger. Her hips bucked once against empty air. "Spencer."

"I know." His voice was impossibly calm. "I know. Breathe."

"I don't want to breathe. I want..."

"What do you want?"

"You. Your fingers. Inside me."

A beat of silence. Then: "Okay. But we're going to build again from the bottom. Start at a one."

"You're torturing me."

"No." He kissed her hip, then her stomach, then the inside of her thigh. "I'm building something. Trust the process."

His finger slid inside her. One. Just one. He crooked it forward, finding the spot behind her pubic bone that made her back arch off the mattress. The pressure was exquisite. Not enough to tip her over, but enough to remind her body what it was reaching for. He began to thrust, slow and shallow, and his thumb found her clit with just enough pressure to keep her hovering.

"Talk to me."

"Four," she managed. "No, five. That's... that's really good."

"Good. Stay there." He added a second finger, stretching her, and she felt her body adjust to accommodate him. The fullness was a relief and a new kind of torment. He fucked her with his fingers, patient and methodical, and when she hit seven and a half he stopped again.

"Goddammit, Spence."

He laughed, genuinely laughed, and the sound of it made her laugh too even through the frustration. "I'm sorry. I'm not sorry, but I'm also sorry." He kissed the crease of her thigh.

"That's number three," he said. "How does it feel?"

"Torturous. Perfect. I hate you."

"You don't hate me."

"No. I don't hate you."

He waited until her breathing slowed, until the tension in her body began to ease.

"Three? Or still high?"

"Three. Maybe three and a half."

"Good. I'm going to use my mouth now."

Her whole body tightened in anticipation. "Okay. Yes. Green."

His tongue touched her clit.

It was barely anything, just the tip, a single point of wet heat. But after the build-up, after the denial, after everything, it hit her like a freight train. She cried out, hips jerking, and he pressed a forearm across her pelvis to hold her steady. His tongue traced a slow line from her entrance to her clit, then back down, then up again, painting her with saliva.

The sensation was too much and not enough at the same time. She heard herself making sounds - small, desperate, animal sounds - and she couldn't stop them. His tongue was relentless, dragging her up toward the edge with terrible precision.

"Close. Nine. Nine and a half. Spence, I'm going to..."

He stopped.

The whimper that escaped her was almost a sob. Her body was shaking. Her thighs were slick with her own wetness. She could feel her pulse in her clit, a hot insistent throb that demanded satisfaction and received none.

"Breathe," he said. "You're doing so well. You're incredible. Just breathe."

"Spencer." His name came out broken. "How many more?"

"A few. Can you give me a few more?"

She swallowed. Her throat was dry. "Yes. Green. I can."

"Thank you." He kissed her knee, her thigh, her hip. "Thank you for trusting me."

He gave her a full minute to come down, stroking her stomach and murmuring praise. When her breathing steadied, he shifted again on the mattress.

"I'm going to use both now. Fingers and mouth. It's going to be intense. I need you to tell me when you're at seven. Not eight. Seven. Can you do that?"

"Y-yes. Seven. Got it."

"Good girl."

The words hit her somewhere primal. Before she could process them, his fingers were inside her again - two this time, crooking forward - and his mouth was on her clit, and the combined sensation was so overwhelming that she nearly screamed. He sucked, gently at first, then with more pressure, and his fingers kept a steady rhythm against that spot inside her that made her vision do strange things.

"Seven. Seven. Seven..."

He stopped.

Her whole body was shaking now, fine tremors that ran from her shoulders to her calves. Sweat beaded at her hairline. The blindfold was damp with it. "I can't," she gasped. "I can't do that again. That was..."

"You can." His voice was steady, certain. "You're doing it. You're doing it right now. Three more. Can you give me three more?"

Three. Three more edges. The number felt insurmountable. But his hand was on her stomach, warm and grounding, and his voice was her anchor in the dark.

"Three," she agreed. "Three more."

The next one came from his fingers alone, three this time, thrusting deep while his thumb circled her clit. She rode it to eight and called warning, and he withdrew, and the comedown was almost worse than the denial, her body so primed for release that the absence of touch felt like grief.

Then tongue and fingers together again, pulling her up faster this time, and she barely managed to gasp "seven" before he stopped.

Then another pause. Another descent. Her mind was going strange at the edges, time dissolving into a series of peaks and valleys, and she wasn't sure if she was speaking out loud or only in her head, wasn't sure where her body ended and the bed began.

"Last one," Spencer said, and she heard the hum of the vibrator before she felt it.

Her legs tried to close on instinct. He'd never used it on her before. It was hers, a small bullet-shaped thing she kept in her nightstand, that she only ever brought out when Spencer was away on a case. The buzz filled the quiet room like a purr.

"Lowest setting first," he said. "Just the toy. Nothing else. I want you to tell me what it feels like."

The silicone touched her clit.

If his tongue had been a freight train, this was electricity. The vibration radiated outward, into her labia, her pubic bone, the root of her clit where it branched deep into her pelvis. She hadn't known a sensation could be so localised and so diffuse at the same time.

"Talk to me."

"It's..." She struggled for words. "It buzzes. I can feel it in my teeth. My bones. Everywhere. It's unrelenting."

"Good. Close your eyes. No, wait..." He laughed at himself. "You can't close them. Forget I said that. Focus on the sensation. Where exactly do you feel it?"

"Everywhere. No - front. The front of my clit. The tip. But also deeper. Inside."

"That's the internal clitoral structure. The external glans is only about ten percent of the total organ. The rest extends internally, wrapping around the vaginal canal." The clinical description was undercut by the way his voice had gone rough. "I'm going to turn it up now. And I'm adding fingers."

The buzz intensified. Two fingers slid inside her, and she was suddenly full in both directions, the vibration from above, the pressure from within. Her hips began to move of their own accord, grinding into his hand.

"Close. Seven. Eight."

"Not yet. Hold it. Just a little longer."

"I can't..."

"You can." His fingers crooked, finding her g-spot, and the vibrator jumped to the next setting. She heard herself make a noise that wasn't a word, wasn't even a moan - something guttural and desperate that came from the base of her throat.

A third finger stretched her open. The vibrator kicked up again. The dual stimulation was so intense it bordered on pain, but it wasn't pain, it was something beyond language, a pressure building at the base of her spine like a wave preparing to crest.

He worked her with the vibrator, his other hand still inside her, still pressing against her g-spot. She was babbling now, words that weren't quite words, prayers and pleas all tangled together. Her thighs were trembling, her stomach clenching, her hands white-knuckled around the restraints.

"I'm going to... I'm so close, I'm going to..."

He stopped.

She wailed.

He watched her fight it. Watched the battle between her body's need to climax and her mind's determination to hold on, and felt a surge of something fierce. Pride. Adoration. Awe.

Then her voice cracked. "I can't. I can't anymore. I need... Spencer, I need to come. Please. Please let me come."

Everything stopped.

Then his hand was on her cheek, his thumb wiping sweat from her temple. "Okay. Okay, sweetheart. You're done. You did it. You were perfect."

"Please." She was crying now, tears soaking into the blindfold. "I need - I need you inside me. I want to see you. I want..."

"I know what you need. Hold still."

He slipped the blindfold from her eyes. The lamp was blinding after so long in the dark, and she squinted against it, her vision swimming. She blinked, her eyes glassy and wet, her face flushed and beautiful. Spencer's face materialised above her, his hair disheveled, eyes dark with concern and desire and something that looked a lot like awe.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi." Her voice was wrecked.

"I'm going to undo the restraints now." He reached for her left wrist, working the knot with steady fingers. "How are you feeling? Talk to me."

"Desperate. Empty. I need you inside me. Now."

"Working on it." The left wrist came free, then the right. He brought her hands down to her sides, massaging each wrist in turn, checking the skin. "Any numbness? Tingling?"

"Spence, I swear to God..."

"Circulation first." But he was smiling. "Then orgasm. Those are the priorities."

Her wrists were fine. Her whole body was fine, if you defined fine as vibrating at a frequency that might shatter glass. She grabbed his shirt in both fists and pulled him down, kissing him hard. He tasted like her, and the realisation made her moan into his mouth.

She touched his chest. "I want to see you. All of you. Take your clothes off."

He obeyed with a speed that would have been comical under other circumstances. Shirt over his head, pants shoved down, boxers kicked somewhere into the corner. His erection sprang free, thick, heavy and already leaking, and the sight of it made her mouth water.

"Look at you," she breathed. "Look what you did to yourself. You've been hard this whole time."

"Ignored it." He settled between her legs, fingers tracing the length of her thighs. "This isn't about me. It's about you."

"It's about us. I want you to feel good too."

His eyes found hers. "Believe me. I'm about to feel very, very good."

He reached for the cushion he'd prepared earlier - a firm throw pillow from her couch. Sliding it beneath her hips, he tilted her pelvis upward, creating the angle he needed. She reached between them, wrapping her hand around him. He was hot and hard and so sensitive that he flinched at her touch. She guided him to her entrance, and the first press of him against her made them both gasp.

"Ready?" His voice cracked on the word.

"Green. So green. Please."

He pushed inside.

The sensation was overwhelming. Her body, after all the denial, was exquisitely sensitive, every ridge of him, every vein felt magnified. She was so wet, so ready, her walls clenching around him the moment he entered. He slid in to the hilt in one long, smooth stroke, and the fullness of it made her cry out.

He groaned, his forehead dropping to hers. "You feel incredible."

"You do too. Please. Move. Please."

He moved.

The rhythm was precise. He'd mapped her body over the past months, cataloged every response, every trigger, every spot that made her gasp. He knew exactly where her g-spot was, exactly what angle would hit it with each thrust, exactly how much pressure would push her closer without pushing her over.

"Oh God. Oh God, yes."

Not yet. Not yet. Spencer shuddered above her. "You feel... I can't... give me a second. I need a second or this is going to be over very quickly."

She clenched around him deliberately, and he groaned. "You're not helping."

"Sorry." She wasn't sorry at all.

He took a breath, steadied himself. Then he lifted her leg, hooking it over his shoulder, and the new angle shifted everything. He was deeper now, pressing directly against her g-spot, and when he started to move again - slow, deep thrusts that dragged against every sensitive place inside her - the pleasure was so sharp it almost hurt.

"The vibrator." He fumbled beside her hip, finding where he'd dropped it. "Highest setting now. Are you ready?"

"Yes. Yes. Do it."

The buzz filled the room. He pressed the silicone against her clit, and her back arched off the mattress. The dual stimulation of his cock driving into her g-spot and the vibrator humming against her clit was more than she'd ever experienced. More than she'd known was possible.

She screamed.

It was a raw, broken sound. Not pain, but pleasure so intense it bordered on agony. Her eyes went wide, her mouth dropping open, her whole body convulsing around him.

"Look at me." His voice was strained. "I want to see your eyes when you come."

She opened her eyes (when had she closed them?) and met his gaze. His pupils were blown wide, his expression fierce and tender and completely focused on her. He thrust harder, faster, the rhythm building toward something catastrophic.

The pleasure was accumulating. Not building, that word wasn't strong enough. This was something else. Every edge she'd endured, every peak she'd climbed and then fallen from, was still inside her somewhere, and now they were all rising at once, a symphony of sensation that was too much and not enough and...

"Spence, I don't... it's too much...I can't..."

"Yes, you can." He thrust harder, the vibrator steady on her clit, his cock hitting her g-spot with each stroke. "Look at me. You can. I've got you. Come for me. Let go. I've got you."

Something broke.

The orgasm didn't build. It detonated.

She came with a cry that was almost a roar, her back arching off the mattress, her nails raking down his arms. The pleasure was so immense it stopped being pleasure and became something else entirely. An out-of-body experience where she was just sensation, just light, just release. Her walls clamped around him harder than he'd ever felt, and he felt a rush of liquid, hot and sudden, as she gushed around his cock. The sensation sent him over the edge. He came with a groan that was torn from somewhere deep, his own release pulsing inside her as she continued to convulse around him.

Her vision - she'd tell him later - went white. Pure, blinding white, like staring into the sun.

She was still trembling, still gasping, when the world finally faded back in.

The first thing she registered was his voice.

"...got you. I've got you. You're okay. You're amazing. You're so amazing." The words were murmured soft and steady against her hair. She was being held, she realised. Cradled against his chest. His arms were wrapped around her, his body curved around hers.

"Spencer?"

"I'm here. I'm right here."

He held her close, fingers combing slowly through her hair, murmuring how amazing she was. Then, reluctantly, he let go. She was acutely aware of the loss that followed, of the cool air hitting her overheated skin.

Then his weight left the bed entirely.

She blinked, her vision slowly clearing.

A warm washcloth pressed against her inner thigh, and she realised he was cleaning her.

"Hold still," he said. "I'm almost done."

He finished cleaning her with gentle, careful strokes, then tossed the washcloth aside. When he lay down beside her, she turned into him, her body curling against his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her palm. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been turned inside out. In the best possible way. That was incredible. I didn't know it could be like that."

His smile was so bright it almost hurt to look at. "The research was accurate."

She laughed weakly. "Did you just cite your research right now?"

"Force of habit." He kissed her forehead. "Stay here. I'm getting you water."

He was gone again. She heard the kitchen faucet, the clink of a glass, his bare feet on the hardwood. When he returned, he helped her sit up - her arms were still shaky - and held the glass to her lips.

"Small sips. You lost a lot of fluid."

"I'm aware." She drank, and the water was cold and perfect. "Did I really...?"

"You did. It was..." He set the glass aside, pulling her against his chest. "I don't have words. And I always have words."

She curled into him, boneless and spent. His arms came around her, one hand threading into her hair, the other rubbing slow circles on her back. His heartbeat was steady under her ear, a counterpoint to her own still-racing pulse.

They lay in silence for a while, the lamp still lit on the dresser, the city humming outside. Her body was humming too. A pleasant, exhausted thrum that seemed to vibrate in her bones.

"I can't feel my legs," she said.

He laughed. "That's probably temporary."

"It better had be. I have things to do tomorrow."

"What things?"

She thought about it. "Absolutely nothing. I have absolutely nothing to do tomorrow."

"Good. Then we can stay in bed all day."

"Deal."

He pulled the covers up around them, tucking the edges around her shoulders. She closed her eyes, listening to his heartbeat, steady and familiar. Her anchor. Her home.

"Was it worth it?" he asked quietly. "All the stopping and starting? Were the edges worth the destination?"

"Spence." She tilted her head to look at him. "I saw God."

He burst out laughing, and she felt the vibration of it through his chest. "That's a new one."

"I'm serious. I transcended. I left my body and visited another plane of existence."

"Should I be jealous?"

"No. You should be proud." She settled against him again, her eyes growing heavy. "You did research. And then you applied it. Very thoroughly."

"That's what I do." He kissed the top of her head. "Sleep. I've got you."

She was already halfway there, floating in the warm dark of his arms. The last thing she felt before sleep claimed her was his lips against her hair, and the soft murmur of his voice saying something she was too far gone to hear.