#reiderreplies

And anthropology told him that you were hiding something. He had studied human behavior for years, and he had some qualms about using his knowledge as a profiler against his friends and colleagues - it wasn’t nice to psychoanalyse each other, he had been told many a time - he felt that certain scientific observations needed some further study.

Take, for example, the observation of societal reactions to small or tight spaces. While Spencer knew for a fact that many people had a fear of small, enclosed spaces, also known as claustrophobia, he knew you were not one of those people.

And yet, here you were, squashed against his side in a packed elevator, displaying a heightened heart rate, higher body temperature, and flashes of discomfort only otherwise present in those with the fear.

You’d gotten onto the elevator happily enough, he’d noted. There was no trepidation or avoidance. You hadn’t once suggested taking the stairs instead. But on the second floor, a crowd of people had gotten in, and you’d been left pressed so tightly against Spencer’s chest that he could measure your pulse no problem.

Struggling to find something to comfort you in your distress, Spencer settled for a hand on your back, wrapping it around you to keep you from bumping into any more people. Morgan had already told him that elevator death statistics rarely comforted those stuck in and/or using them, and he didn’t want to alert the elevator full of FBI agents that you were in any form of distress.

Touching you, however, almost made it worse. He noted a second spike in your pulse, before you began measuring your breathing slightly more so it would calm down.

He wanted to help; he surely did, but there was only one more floor before you both reached the BAU, and before he could think of anything truly comforting to say, you’d pushed through the crowd of people and started walking to your desk as if nothing in the world was wrong.

He almost missed the beat of your heart as you walked away.

From that day on, Spencer made it his mission to figure out if you were struggling with claustrophobia or rather with something more akin to enochlophobia, a fear of crowds.

It was rather lucky then that after a few days again, you found yourselves both back in an elevator, though this one was much less crowded. Spencer was almost disappointed that he couldn’t test both variables at once to repeat the pattern of the first observation, but luck was on his side when, after all the other inhabitants of the elevator alighted on their work floors, the elevator decided to break down with only the two of you left on it.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you said, shutting your eyes in silent defeat as the elevator lights switched themselves off.

“I guess the power just went out,” Spencer said, moving a step or two closer to you to buzz the alarm, and noting the way you flattened your back against the wall to avoid him further.

After notifying the building maintenance again, he stopped and stayed near you.

“Statistically, this won’t take too long, the-”

“Spencer, if you start telling me facts about elevator breakdowns, I’m going to have a breakdown myself.”

Nodding quickly, he wisely shut his mouth, but he didn’t attempt to move back. As the next floor doors were pried open by firefighters a few moments later (the perks of a job at Quantico, expedited rescues), he stepped further into your personal space.

You couldn’t escape him without completely obviously swerving to the opposite side of the elevator, which might be dangerous considering the quick repair work that was happening on it, so you instead tried your best to hold your breath and die.

It was better than letting your mind run away with the thought - the tempting, very detailed, and somewhat scary thought - of Spencer pinning you against the wall and doing whatever the hell he wanted with your body.

There was a certain level of detail your mind went to after the boundary of personal space had been crossed, and unluckily for you, Spencer was crossing it a lot these days. You were left feeling absolutely, devastatingly horny, with an aftertaste of guilt from thinking these things about your coworker.

“Could you-” you coughed, trying to free your voice from any squeaks. “Could you step back a bit?”

The Spencer in your horny brain would’ve pinned your hands above your head and asked you if you really meant that, which of course you didn’t, you wanted to feel his hands all over you.

The real Spencer seemed to take this instead as confirmation of your fear, and backed up immediately, staying as still as a wildlife rescuer trying to calm a shaking abandoned puppy.

If only you were shaking in fear and not months of accidental sexual tension turned up to the max.

You were surprised that Spencer himself hadn’t noticed how you desired him carnally. You couldn’t hold his eye contact, and you wouldn’t even let yourself brush against him in fear that you would say something embarrassingly true. You thought these to be pretty easily defined as measures of one with unwanted sexual desires.

Spencer, however, went with enochlophobia.

“You two good down there?” Emily yelled from her perch on the floor just above you, comfortably situated between the firefighters who were currently putting a hold in the door to help you shimmy out of it.

“We need you two to get out of there quickly. We have a case in Atlanta. Wheels up in 30,” she said, reaching a hand down for your bags as the firefighters urged you to grab onto them so they could lift you.

A sudden wave of relief washed over you. Work! Real, true, and honest work to distract yourself with. A case where you could escape impure thoughts for the time being would be perfect.

You must’ve enjoyed the moment a second too long, though, as Spencer once again flooded your senses.

With a hand on your hip, chaste and purely platonic from anyone else's perspective, Spencer encouraged you forward, to meet the reach of the team of firefighters.

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice low and hot in your ear. He was probably giving himself a pat on the back for comforting you. “You’re doing great, just hang in there.”

Helping to send your bags up to Emily, he reached around you, his chest hitting your back, his entire body crowding yours once again near the edge of the space.

Every touch felt electric, and you wished to god it did not. You let the team of firefighters drag you out of the hole you were physically in, even as you sank further into the one you were in mentally.

After confirming his suspicions, Spencer took it upon himself to be your silent protector. If you’d had any clue that was what he was doing, you’d have definitely thought it cute.

Instead, you were just on edge whenever he so much as breathed in your direction.

He sat next to you on the jet, going so far as to ask you if you had any problem with turbulence even though you’d been working with him for the last year and he’d travelled in a plane with you. When he leaned over you to open the blinds to the window, you twitched away from his hand, so sure that it was about to land somewhere inappropriate.

He sat in the back of the van beside you when you landed, getting strange looks from every other member of the team because he was usually very serious about sitting front and centre. The stares only got more intense when he tried to put your seatbelt on for you.

“Spencer,” you whispered sharply as he stretched across you for the second time that day. “I’ve got it.”

He quickly retreated into his seat and even seemed a little disappointed in himself.

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure why he was being so intense either. He’d found out about your so-called weakness, and it was like some part of him leaped into protector mode. He wanted to be closer, to study every reaction, to make things easier for you.

He really couldn’t help it when he volunteered to room with you.

With three rooms available with the company card, Rossi took the initiative and booked his own private suite, leaving Emily and JJ, Hotch and Morgan, and of course yourself and Spencer to cosy up in twin rooms.

“I’ll grab that,” Spencer said, grabbing your bag for you and climbing up the stairs, notably avoiding the elevator either out of deference to you, or because he was similarly freaked out about the morning’s elevator accident.

“Spencer, I’ve got it,” you sighed, half exasperated, half dreamy. But he was already out of sight and unlocking the door to your room, walking in to inspect it.

You trailed along quickly, noting that he’d stopped rather suddenly at the door.

“Oh,” he said, staring into the room and lowering the bags he’d commandeered to the floor.

Of course, you’d been left without a twin room. You’d been left a standard double. With, of course, a single double bed.

For Spencer, he saw this as a scientific chance to keep exploring his own theories. Was it all people you were uncomfortable with? Would the close proximity of sharing a space highlight any discomfort you had with people in general? Would you refuse the room entirely, and leave, or would you push yourself through it?

You similarly had many plaguing thoughts: how the fuck were you going to get through the night without an embarrassingly horny wet dream, or at least some kind of Nyquil to knock you out cold before you could harass the man any further?

Neither of you had the chance to discuss your new living arrangements, as you were quickly - blissfully - called into the precinct to begin your case.

Twelve hours of traipsing around crime scenes and pulling longer hours than you had in months - purposefully - you were almost glad to be heading back to sleep.

Not that you were looking forward to discussing the sleeping arrangements, but because you’d had a few more strange encounters with Spencer across the day that you absolutely needed to be unconscious to fully avoid.

First, he’d taken it upon himself to angle himself between you and any other detectives you met on the case, which actually hindered your chance to ask about evidence and the facts of the case for a few hours, until Hotch had sent Spencer on an errand.

When he’d come back, he’d pulled you aside to talk, which was normal enough, except he’d pulled you into a storage closet to talk, and though he kept the topic strictly on the case, your brain had overloaded the second he’d pressed his hand against the wall beside your head and you’d sprinted back out of the closet, avoiding eye contact with anyone who you thought may have witnessed the entire exchange.

And then he’d insisted - insisted - on driving you home alone, turning down all the offers from the local PD to get you an escort so you didn’t have to worry about the unfamiliar roads.

Spencer patted himself on the back for seeing to your needs so well.

You wanted nothing more than to fall straight into bed and never get back out again, dumping your bag, and walking straight into the attached bathroom, as you began to undress so you could take a shower.

“Don’t mind me,” Spencer said as you popped a second button, sending you jumping across the already very small room.

Leaving you stood there in shock, clutching your shirt to your chest, though you were still more or less covered, he reached around you and placed his toiletries on the counter, practically pinning you (once again) to the sink.

You weren’t cognizant of your brain making the decision, but you felt your hands pushing up against Spencer’s chest, and shoving just deliberately enough to pin him to the solid shower stall door, turning the tables on him.

“What are you doing, Spencer?” you asked, shocked both at how professional you sounded and that your hands had yet to travel from his chest to any other part of his body.

“I’m dropping my toiletries bag off,” he said, the picture of nonchalance.

“I was about to get in the shower. I told you as much before walking in here. I was undressing.”

“Yes, but-”

“You pulled me into a closet earlier, you acted strange in the elevator, frankly, you’ve been entirely too helpful today, and I know you’re a kind person, but Jesus Christ, Spencer, there’s only so much I can take!”

“I know,” he said soothingly, a soft smile playing on his lips, and if you weren’t so frustrated, you might have swooned at the way he looked at you.

“You know what?”

“That…that this is hard for you, right? It’s totally normal to-”

“Oh god,” you whispered. He knew.

“No, it’s okay, really, it happens to a lot of people, this kind of thing is just a natural part of society, and-”

“Spencer, for the love of god, please shut up!” you nearly screamed, trying your best to keep your shattered emotions in tow.

“I just want us to be able to communicate clearly about this,” he said, and with that, he raised a hand to your face, brushing a hair aside quickly and tucking it behind your ear.

No longer in control of your actions, you had no choice but to let your body push closer to his and join your lips to his, suffocating his helpful smile.

You felt his shock, but then you felt his hands grip you a little bit closer, pulling you into him and pressing his lips back into yours with the same pressure.

You gasped for air, but he pulled you in closer still, turning you around to press you against the shower door, nearly tripping inside as you tugged and pulled at one another, needing to be closer, to be close at once.

“Fuck, Spencer-” you said as you drew away, pressing kisses along his chin and down his neck as he held you propped up against the wall.

He had been incorrect, he had been absolutely incorrect in the best way, and now his cock was throbbing in his pants and you were wrapping your legs around him as you moaned into his ear with every kiss, and he was so happy that he was incorrect.

His hands fumbled against the buttons of your shirt as you similarly worked against the zipper of his pants, desperate to get him free, to feel him inside you. But you both absolutely refused to detach from one another, lips once again finding each other as you stumbled blindly around the shower stall.

Another stumble was all it took for the, luckily hot, water of the shower to pour down on you, and you detached quickly to rid yourselves of now wet clothing before colliding again.

It was quick - possibly the quickest you’d ever consummated a relationship - and near silent, no spoken communication besides moans and nods, and the fingers that had been desperately gripping your waist instead moving to spread your legs. He stroked along your clit as your hands found his cock, pumping it once, twice, and once again before you begged in a single desperate moan, and he lined himself up with your aching hole, and pressed himself in.

Blissful is how he would describe it. You were lost for words, so you wouldn’t be able to even come up with anything that could do it justice.

Neither of you lasted long, you from the months of pining, and Spencer because he’d been entirely overwhelmed in the last twenty minutes, and he usually liked time to prepare for these things.

He continued stroking you through your release, and you panted, holding yourself up against a wall as he pulled out and stroked himself to completion.

Silently, and rather awkwardly, you turned off the shower and stared at one another for a beat before you both wordlessly stepped out of the shower and got yourselves ready for sleep.

After redressing yourselves in dry nightwear, you both sat at the edge of the bed, waiting for the other to say something.

“Just… out of interest, you’re not.. Claustrophobic, are you?” Spencer asked.

“No, why?” you replied, almost confused, before he grabbed and kissed you again. A distraction from revealing his monumental fuck up.

But he was somewhat drunk, and his grip was strong on your waist as he pinned you to the wall and joined his lips to yours. 

It wasn’t unpleasant. It was a good kiss. His lips were firm, his body wall, filling the gaps in your own body in an increasingly comfortable way. It was just that you weren’t expecting it. So with a firm hand, you pushed him away and caught your breath. 

“What are you doing, Spencer?” you asked tentatively, mistaking his expression of infatuation with a simple drunken mistake. You were the only wrong one. 

“I like you,” he managed to mumble out, raising your hand to his lips and kissing it softly. It almost made it worse that the simple gesture sent shivers up and down your spine, that he looked so lovely in the rays of moonlight illuminating the trash-laden side street that you almost let yourself get entangled with him.

Almost. 

You unfortunately had only two rules set for yourself. You didn’t play with people's feelings and you didn’t fuck your coworkers. Spencer was practically a walking rule violation, as he stepped closer and pressed a simple kiss to your neck, breathing in your scent deeply, as if he’d never get the chance again. 

You forced yourself to be strong as you held him at arms length again. 

“Spencer, we shouldn’t do this,” you said, begging him to look in your eyes, forcing him to see how serious you were about this. 

“We…” he took a breath before continuing. “We shouldn’t? We shouldn’t,” he said, finally resolutely, walking away. 

“Spencer,” you said, chasing him down the alley, half afraid that he was still too intoxicated to not end up in a ditch somewhere. Or someone else’s bed. The thought already irked you. Even if you didn’t want him, you didn’t want anyone else to have him. 

“Spencer, please wait and listen to me,” you grabbed his arm again, and placated, he turned around, but his eyes were darker than before, the life drained out. 

“We don’t work well together, Spencer. We wouldn’t… this can’t… We work together and I don’t want things to be complicated. You know?”

“Complicated. Right. I’m sorry for all that back there-”

“No, Spencer, don’t- Fuck, don’t white knight this one.” 

“What are you talking about?” He asked, his resigned features turning hard again as you swore. 

“You always want to be a hero. You want to be the good guy, and you don’t get to do that by turning me into the bad guy,” you sighed, raking a hand in your head until you ran into a knot and had to pull your hand free, a small clump coming loose as you swore again. Typical. 

“That’s not what I’m doing. I just-” “Drop it, Spencer. Let’s just pretend this never happened.” 

When you walked away that night, you weren’t expecting that it would be months before you’d see him again. If you knew that, maybe you would have spent more time sleeping that night, and less time worrying about what you would say to him the next day at work. Maybe you would have sent him away with a nicer phrase to remember you by. 

It was really a kick in the teeth, then, when the next time you wanted to see him you had to send a formal request. It was a shot in the chest when he had asked Emily to not allow you to come. 

The only message you got from Spencer for the entire duration of his prison sentence was the one where he explained.

“Everything between us never happened. Don’t come.” 

You were never one to do what you were told. You weren’t allowed to go to Mexico with Emily to help get him out of there, but you made sure that you were allowed a visit to the State prison when he was transferred. The man you saw in front of you was changed, but he was still Spencer, and a little part of your heart ached when you saw that the life you had drained from his eyes that night was nowhere to be found still, permanently snuffed out. 

You didn’t manage to talk that much that day, mostly focused on getting details from him to help find a way out of this sham sentence. You were fighting for that light. You managed to slip your hand into his on the way out, and for the longest minute, you thought about pressing your head up to meet his lips with your own one last time before they took him away. 

The rest of his sentence was a blur of grief and confusion. 

You had never thought about Spencer Reid romantically before he’d pinned you to a wall and kissed you in what might have been your best kiss to date. And yet now he was all that was consuming your thoughts. 

In all fairness, he was all anyone in the BAU could think of at that point in time. You worked other cases, but all talked rarely, missing that final piece of the puzzle that was your teammate. You were sure that you were the only one who thought about him at night though, haunted by thoughts of what could have been if you weren’t so cowardly.

You came around to the thought of being with Spencer, selfishly. You worked harder because of it. You thought of finally throwing your arms around him when he was released, the whispers he would drop in your ears of thanks when he realized you’d been one of those to help free him. 

His hands on your hips, his voice in your head, you rocked your hips slowly into a pillow thinking about him, wondering if he was treating his memories of you sparingly in prison, if the ghost of your body was enough comfort on lonely nights. 

On the day Spencer was released from prison, you cried. 

You sobbed is probably more accurate. The rest of your team gave you worrying looks, thinking back to your less than friendly relationship before this entire situation and wondering if this was just a breakdown that they had to watch out for. 

You weren’t close enough to Spencer to have this much of a reaction. 

He didn’t think so either, which is why he avoided you for two whole weeks after. 

You called him, and he didn’t answer. He iced you out in the office on those rare occasions he was allowed to visit, still not a full member of the team yet, still in therapy. 

You knew he didn’t answer texts, technology averted as he was, but you still tried that to no luck. 

You had a single reply to every attempt to see him privately. After trailing him like a lost puppy for a week around the office, he had grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the elevator with him after hours one night. 

“You don’t need to talk to me. We shouldn’t do this,” he said, relaxing his strong hold on you as you stared up at him, the space between you polite enough for coworkers but the atmosphere absolutely not. You could feel the lust dripping from his tongue even as he warned you away from him, you could see the way his hands twitched wanting to touch you. 

The next night, ignoring his warning, you knocked on his door and invited yourself in. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, half-exhausted, half-anticipating, tension bouncing off his vocal cords, leaving his voice tight. He coughed as if that would help. 

“I wanted to see you,” you sighed, somewhat unsure of what you were going to say as well, unsure of how this would play out. “I needed to see you.” 

He waited for you to continue, obviously sure that your answer wasn’t thorough enough to justify your being there. 

“Spencer, I made a mistake that night,” you admitted, the words dropping unhelpfully from your mouth, the shame of having to admit you were wrong weighing heavily on your shoulders. 

“I missed you so much, it hurt. Do you know what that feels like, Spencer? It was hard to even breathe without you,” you shook with the words, feeling every word reverberate in the room around you. 

“You said that we don’t work well together,” he said, unmoving as you stepped closer to him and grabbed his arms, trying to have him welcome you the way you wanted him too. 

He couldn’t resist the temptation, hands sliding up your hips, cradling you while still trying to hold himself at arms length. 

“I was wrong,” you said, feeling the bile in the back of your throat grow as your desperation did.

As if the spell was broken, Spencer took a step back.

“No,” he nearly yelled, controlling himself and then starting again. “No. You don’t get to just do that. I’m a different person now, I am- I am seriously fucked up, and you don’t even want this.” 

“Don’t tell me what I want!” you yelled back, poking a finger at his chest as he backed away. 

“You don’t get to decide to just kiss me with no warning, disappear and put us all through hell on earth for months on end, and then decide that you’re suddenly damaged goods,” you laughed slightly then, as he fell down onto his own couch, having let you gain more ground around him. 

“You’re being a white knight again, Spencer. You’re not a fucking anti-hero.”

Climbing into his lap, you levelled your gaze with him as you sat, feeling his cock already straining in his pants as you wrapped your arms around his neck. 

“Just use me,” you said, trying your best to keep your voice still, even as you wanted to whine and beg for him, to take his cock into your own hands and get the pleasure you’d been finding by yourself for months. 

“You asked for this,” he said, nails digging into your side as he finally, once again, crashed his lips into yours. 

The kiss was hot, and violent, a clash of two people fighting to be right. Physically, though, he was stronger, which you learnt as you tried to tangle your hands in his hair. Pinning your wrists behind your back, he held them there in one hand.

“Don’t fucking move,” he growled into your ear as you gyrated your hips against his, moaning pathetically in response. 

In a second you found your positions switched, or at least you found yourself lower than you had been before. 

Releasing you for a second, Spencer shoved you off his lap and onto the sofa itself, so you were sat on all fours across the two-seater. 

Another nudge, and he’d pressed your head into a pillow, your ass remaining higher as he grabbed your hands out from under you and forced them back behind your back. It was an embarrassing position, your vision limited to everything to one side of the dark apartment, made only worse when he coaxed your pants and underwear down to your knees.

He worked his fingers into you first, not one, but two, small shallow thrusts that had you gasping for air. When you found that too satisfying, he sped up, getting harder and sharper, his other hand tightening it’s grip around your wrists enough to leave marks that you would find the next day. 

“That’s it, slut,” he said as you cried out, fingers finally leaving your cunt as you approached your first denied orgasm. With those fingers, he teased your clit, pinching and stroking it in haphazard movements, enough to have you whining for your release again. 

“You asked for this, so shut up and take it,” he growled out as a warning, just as you felt his cock against your ass. He tapped it against your already dripping and sore cunt once, then twice, then slid it in deep as you moaned. 

His extra weight against you caused you to slip forward again, and he released your hands so you could hold yourself still for him. It wasn’t long, though, before his now free hands wound their way around your neck. 

He tightened his grip there, adjusting it until it was just right, and you were clawing against his hand, cunt gripping his cock crazily, that he finally started thrusting into you. 

His pace was hard, each inch entering you with a harsh slap of his balls against your ass. It was like the sound gave him ideas, as he began spanking you as well. 

“That’s it,” he moaned into your ear as you scratched his hand again, begging for air even as the sensation made your cunt flutter and finally five out, spilling your cum across his couch. “You’re such a good little whore for me, making me so dirty.” 

“I bet you thought about this, right? I was too nice for you before, because you wanted someone to use you like a fucking cum rag, right?”

“Spencer.” you moaned, the sound dampened by the lack of air. “Spencer, please-” you begged him for mercy, wanting to feel more of his cock inside of you. 

“Shut up,” he groaned, his hand on your neck reaching up to cover your mouth instead, forcing two fingers inside, making you drool for him. 

“Your cunt is so warm and tight. You’re so wet. You like being a slut so much, right?” he asked, hitting your ass harder when you were unable to answer. 

“I’m going to fill you up with my cum. I’m going to use you,” he moaned, finally, wrapping his arms around your torso and pressing you down with his own body weight until all he could do was thrust into you deeply, unable to pull his cock too far out of your cunt because he was so enamored with the idea of being buried in you. 

He rutted against you like a dog until, finally, with a twitch, his cock spurted inside of you. 

It was over, and you were ecstatic. With a groan as his cock slipped out of you, you pushed yourself up and straddled the man again, wrapping your arms around him, thankful that he’d allowed you to use him like this. He didn’t hold you at all, focused on gaining back his breath, a hand over his eyes. 

The spell was broken when he finally spoke. 

“I think…” he said, sitting up and forcing you up with him, troubled at the contented and happy look on your face. “I think you should go.” 

“What?” you whispered, not believing your ears. 

“You should go. I gave you what you wanted, and now you should leave.”

“But-” you started, desperate to plead your case once again.

Spencer had already begun cleaning your things up, encouraging your pants back up your legs and buttoning them too, as you sat dumbfounded like a child. 

“I need a fresh start,” he explained, avoiding your eyes, as he cleaned himself up too, pointedly ignoring the drops of cum that spoke to your previous actions. “I can’t hold onto the past anymore, especially with everything that has happened.” 

“I’m… I’m your past.” 

“You said it yourself. We wouldn’t be good together. I… I’m not going to lie and say that I didn’t enjoy what we just did,” he said, making his words slow and calm so as not to betray the panic that he felt. “But it scares me just how much I enjoyed having total control of you.”

You wanted to protest, until you heard his whispered confession. “I could’ve killed you.” 

Spencer always justified it in one way or another. It was in Russian and he needed to practice. It was an incredible book. His mother gave it to him as a child, and she still recognized it sometimes, so he had to take it when he visited her. It was just a really good book. 

In short, over the years it had been through a lot.

It had seen gunshots, stabbings, a drug addiction, multiple spills and drops from high areas, and yes, probably some book eating insects at some point, but it still stood the test of time. 

Until, ironically, a prison sentence meant it hadn’t been cracked open in months and it had decided to disintegrate overnight. 

Spencer had spent the best part of his first week back at the BAU grumbling about it that it was beginning to disintegrate his team mates nerves. Yes, they were all sympathetic to the struggles of the newly free man, but there was really only so much Russian literature one could take before losing it. And for the members of the BAU, that was pretty much none. 

“Kid, why don’t you just go out and buy a new copy. Same words, same meaning, same book, just without the bullet holes,” Rossi sighed, trying to effectively end the same conversation he’d been having for the last 6 days straight. 

“It’s a rare copy, it was published in the 50s. You of all people should know they don’t make books the same way anymore, Rossi.” 

“Me? Of all people? How flattering, Spencer.” 

“No-” the man sighed, jogging to catch up with the still prime older man as he walked brusquely down the hallway. “I just mean that as a fellow enjoyer of literature, that you would share my appreciation for…”

“The elderly?” 

“Antiques. Come on Rossi, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Spencer sighed again. 

“I just don’t want to buy another copy.” 

Rossi stopped his march finally, letting Spencer catch up with him as he finally turned around and gave his last suggestion. 

“Then you just have to get it fixed, Spencer.” 

He shut the door to his office behind him before the open door could invite any other literary debates to his doorstop, but he did put the kid out of his misery later over text. 

“I had a collection of Joy’s articles bound by this company for Christmas last year as a gift. Local business, give them a call.”

A week later, a free enough day rolled around, and Spencer - ever willing to avoid technology at all costs - decided that going to the shop's location and hoping for an on-sight consult would work. He assumed people still talked to each other. 

You definitely still talked to people. 

When you could see them, hear them and knew they were there. But you also liked to work with a set of large headphones drowning out the world, and everyone else had gone home for the day, so to say that you screamed when you saw the 6 foot something slenderman out of the corner of your eye was an understatement. 

“FUCK!” You screamed, clutching at your heart that you thought was definitely still having an attack of its own. You weren’t sure if this was what fight or flight felt like, but you were quickly disappointed to find that your own trigger reaction was ‘fuck.’

“I’m sorry, the door was open, I assumed…” Spencer started, holding his hand up to show he wasn’t a threat, even if he’d spent the last phase of his life being just that to a lot of people. 

“Yeah..yeah… sorry, heart still racing, I’ll be with you in just a second.

You made a mental note of not listening to any more horror audiobooks while at work and pulled a smile back onto your face. 

“Welcome to The Rebound, I guess,” you said, coming around the counter to greet the man. “Are you here to pick up or deliver a package?”

Spencer shifted uncomfortably as he stood before speaking. 

“Actually neither. I was hoping for a consultation? I need a book rebound.” 

You let out a sigh so loud you almost felt bad for the man. “Okay, so thank god you’re not a serial killer.”

You tried to laugh off the joke, but the man’s eyes bugged out of his head as he scrambled for something. 

“Oh, no, sorry, I’m out of practice with this I guess,” he laughed a little, doing absolutely nothing to dissipate the awkward tension as he pulled out his FBI creds.

“Huh. FBI. Would you hold it against me if I said I feel a little bit less safe again?”

“Considering I spent that last few months in prison, not at all.” 

You laughed again and then stopped again as you saw he wasn’t laughing. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a little off-putting?” you asked, completely innocently as you grabbed your coffee mug, leaning back on your work counter. 

“Many, many times,” he smiled, finally relaxing. 

“Wonderful. So what can I do for you today, Mr….?”

“Doctor.”

“Perfect. What can I do for you today Mr. Doctor?” 

He smiled shyly again, and you finally took the lull in conversation to look him over again. He was maybe a few years older than you, but he still looked young. Every item he wore seemed like it came fresh from a copy of Grandpa’s Weekly, or whatever Vogue was doing in Men’s fashion in the 50s, which almost made it annoying how well it draped on him. His hair was brown, and curled cutely around his face in a very ‘needs a haircut’ way, but you almost appreciated that more. 

He was handsome. 

“Fuck.” you thought again, realizing that the man had been talking for the last few seconds as you’d oggled him anyway. 

“Fuck?” He repeated. “I mean, I know it’s in bad condition, but I didn’t think it’d be that hard…” His eyebrows furrowed as he stared down at the book you now only just noticed was in his hands. 

“Sorry, no that’s not what I meant!” You scrambled, combing your hair back roughly in your hands, and clipping it in place before walking back closer to him.

He even smells fucking good, you grumbled to yourself as you held out your hands for your next project. 

“I’ve had it for about 25 years now, and it was definitely second hand when I got it, so…” 

“So you want me to resuscitate it. Cool. Let me take a look at it quickly.” 

You gently pried the book from the pouting man's hands and took it back to your work station as he played with his fingers, and you found yourself bumping into pieces of furniture you’d practically grown up with. 

“So, Mr. Doctor, is there any specific damage you want us to take care of?” You asked as you forced your attention onto the book. “Missing pages, rips, that kind of- Is this in Russian?”

“It’s Dostoyevsky. There’s no missing pages, but there are a lot of tears around a third up on the pages,” he blinked, pointing a single finger at the edge of the page, where there were in fact small tears. 

Ignoring that his fingers were also somehow attractive, you grabbed your glasses from the top of your shirt and pushed them onto your face and up your nose, getting closer to take a better look. 

“These are pretty even across all the pages, how did you even manage that?” you laughed, flicking the pages as you searched for any particular mildew marks or signs of wear. 

“Gunshot,” he said with such practiced nonchalance that you almost accepted it as a regular answer. Almost.

“WHAT?” You said looking up, noticing a beat too late that Mister Doctor was also leaning over the book, as if scared to let it out of his sight.

Unfortunately for him, the only thing in his sight was now you, as you’d come up so passionately you found yourselves nose to nose, a breath the only thing between you. 

You felt the heat in your cheeks, just as you saw it in his, before you hastily looked back down to the book. 

He straightened and looked away, taking a deep breath. 

“I work for the FBI, remember.” 

“I’m sorry, I assumed you were in a paperwork-diplomacy-tax-evasion department, not a pew-pew-bang-bang department.” 

“You know I think those are the official titles, but we usually just call my team the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m a profiler.”

“Huh. Do I get three guesses which Dostoyevsky this is?”

“Wouldn’t most of his works fit in this scenario?”

“Touche, Mr. Doctor. Touche.” 

You finished up your consultation on the book, which, gunshot aside, wasn’t in bad shape for a book over half a century old. You carefully catalogued the book's information in your system, and then turned back to him. 

“As I assume Mr. Doctor isn’t your real name, can I try again at asking what it is? No sarcasm this time, and I promise that my hands aren’t crossed behind my back currently.” 

“Spencer Reid.” 

“And the Doctor part was real, or have I been out-maneuvered?”

“If a PhD is real, then yes. Three times over.” 

You took another look at him again and then smiled widely as his breath caught in his throat.

“Doctor Reid, you look like the exact kind of person that would have three PhD’s. Congratulations, you’ve worked hard.” 

Unable to respond to the sudden kindness, Spencer returned a tight smile of his own before taking a shaky breath to steady himself. 

“Okay, so luckily we can fix the damage on this copy for you. We can try and salvage some of the cover details as well, but it will need a new spine, which usually means a complete overhaul of the cover. Do you have any specific design in mind, or would you like something similar?” 

“As close as you can get it, please.” 

“Of course. Now about the binding. Would you like it tight, or a little looser so it reads easier, like a floppy paperback?” 

“Loose is good for me. I read it pretty regularly.” 

“I mean this in the nicest way possible: I can tell,” you said, looking up from your computer again for the minute. “Between us, these are always my favorite projects, but I’m never allowed to work on them because I always want to keep the books at the end.” 

Spencer smiled at that, picturing you pouting handing over his book finally when it was done, refusing to let it go. There was something playfully childish about you that he found endearing. 

Endearing? He cleared his throat again before he found himself in further trouble. 

“Please don’t steal my book,” he requested in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in slightly dangerously. 

“Don’t you worry about that Mr Doctor,” you said, smiling at him. “I have absolutely no impure intentions for your book whatsoever.” 

Spencer wanted to bury the disappointed feeling that popped up in the pit of his stomach at that moment. You were talking about the book, and this was a business transaction, and really he’d only just gotten out of prison, so he most likely didn’t need to feel disappointed by anything at all, whatsoever. 

“I, myself, cannot read Russian,” you smiled at him, handing him the receipt and guiding him back to the door he’d so innocently walked through about an hour earlier. 

Just as Spencer was feeling relieved - relieved? - and ready to move on from this exciting albeit distracting visit in his day, you spoke again. 

“So you’ll just have to read it to me if I get very attached.”

Clutching the receipt in his hand, and soon to realize that you’d scribbled your phone number on it in a hail mary, Spencer smiled to himself and made a mental note of thanking Rossi the next day. 

He had no clue who you were as his boss introduced you to him, looking between the two of you as if expecting good things to happen. You should've warned him. 

“Spencer, this is Y/N. She'll be assisting on a few cases from this month onwards.” 

His eyes glazed over as he ran your name through whatever roller index of memories he had stored in there. 

“Y/N is a lecturer at the University of Virginia. She's going to be lecturing at the FBI Academy from September onwards-” 

“You! You wrote an article, I wrote to you about it, did you get my le-”

“Yes, I got your letter. I believe you called my writing ‘juvenile’ and my thinking ‘wishful,’ and that if I had any actual field experience, I'd slowly understand how many mistakes there were in my writing.” 

Agent Hotchner took an almost imperceptible deep breath in, trying to hide the fact that this was all new information to him. 

“Well, here I am, Doctor Reid.” 

The man in front of you gaped for a moment, letting his mouth hang open, closing after a few seconds only to open again. Perhaps you'd disorganized that index of his. You hoped you'd set the goddamn thing alight. 

“Shall we get started?”

To say that you'd gotten off to a bad start was an understatement. Your start had been reversed over by a dump truck with no tires. It had been cemented into the ground with no chance of going anywhere but down into the pits of hell. 

Which is, coincidentally, where you found yourself every time you had to engage Spencer Reid in conversation. 

Your first impression of his looks - his incredibly good looks - was that he was even better looking when he was pensive, and unhappy, and being bitchy. He was positively climbable when argumentative, and you liked nothing more than ruining his day, if just for the fact that he'd angrily loosen his tie and pop open his top buttons, exposing the pale white of his neck, and his sharp collar bones, perfectly ready for someone to suck and nip at. 

He was still an ass, however, and you couldn't bring yourself to sink to those depths.

Four cases in, and you hadn't agreed on one thing. You'd caught a serial arsonist, who he had demanded was most likely an office worker, but you'd countered with college student, and you had prevailed there. 1-0. 

Then, unfortunately, you'd lost back to back cases with unsubs in the trucking industry, unfamiliar with and uninterested in the life of the Jack Kerouac type. 

You'd even the playing field at last with a child abduction. And although you knew you'd both been keeping score, you were so genuinely happy for this case to be over. A child was safe at home, and you'd worked so well under pressure (something he had assured you would change your view of your personal forensic psychology theories). 2-2. 

Of course, those were just the big leagues. You'd fought many petty battles, too, as the war waged. 

You'd accidentally stolen his place on the jet, enjoying the long bench seat for a good few naps. A few times, he'd settled in next to you, trying to nudge you out of the chair completely, but you'd held your ground. 

“This is my seat. Usually. There are like 10 other places on this jet to sit. Why does it have to be here?” He'd grumbled into your ear as you gently elbowed him in the side, accidentally, of course.

“There aren't assigned seats. Maybe you have control issues, Doctor,” you cut back, trying to avoid speaking too loud to avoid the ire of the group. 

While you'd enjoyed bickering with - and intellectually besting - Spencer greatly, it did seem that the sentiment wasn't shared by those around you. 

“You can't be serious, right now,” Morgan complained from a seat opposite. “You're seriously fighting over a seat, right now?” 

“It's my seat, Derek, come on, you know it's my seat.” 

The look returned to Spencer almost had you ashamed of your petty actions. 

“I swear they're just taking every advantage to get closer and closer together. Next thing you know, she'll be sitting in his lap,” Emily said from the corner of the plane, so obviously not talking to you that you were almost offended. 

“Ah, young infatuation,” Rossi replied, still ignoring you. 

Reid slinked just slightly away after that, and you weren't sure if you were more annoyed at the comments themselves or the loss of his annoying companionship. 

You wanted him to bother you because it meant you'd succeeded in bothering him. 

You'd had more than your fair share of rather explosive arguments as well. 

“You can't seriously believe that Thomas Edison did more for the field of engineering than Nikola Tesla,” he'd shouted at you at a bar after a case had landed you in paperwork hell, filling out forms and working into the late hours. 

A drink had been suggested, a celebration after solving four straight cases in a row, and you'd gladly taken the chance to unwind. 

“Spencer, we're literally sat in a bar decorated with multiple light bulbs. Look, there's one. Another! Astounding. Thank you, Mr Edison.” 

“And none of it would be possible without Alternating Current, so yes. Thank you, Mr Tesla.” 

Your teammates had long since abandoned you to your petty bickering and fighting amongst yourselves. They'd stopped getting involved when Penelope had tried to mediate your discussion about Doctor Who, which had quickly devolved into New Who vs Old Who. 

You didn't even care strongly either way, you just cared that he did. And however he felt, you were sure as hell ready to take up arms against him. Because it was so fuckimg hot watching him lose his shit. 

You were a grown woman. You could admit that to yourself. You likely wouldn't admit it to anyone else, even if it was as clear as day that you found him unbearable attractive at times. You sure as hell knew that it wasn't a one-way street, from the way his eyes strolled across your body each morning. 

You wondered if there was a section of his brain that was dedicated to memorising everything you'd said, done, and worn since he'd met you. You hoped there was. 

On your fifth and final case with the BAU team, you felt unmatched in your annoyance. 

You were still drawn with Spencer for case breakthroughs, and you felt the need to beat him once again just to nail the point home. He was just stubborn enough to see a 3-2 win as a landslide victory for himself, though you were absolutely going to frame it that way yourself if you managed to be the one to crack everything. 

All sense of teamwork and camaraderie was off the table. 

You had a murderer to catch.

Three women, beaten, assaulted, and tied up. He'd shorn their hair but bagged them up so they were unseen. Then he'd placed the bags on display. The unsub was caught between two extremes, hatred of his victims, and gentleness, protecting their dignity in death by covering them up. 

Obviously, you and Spencer had to decide which side of the debate you were to land on.

“I think we're dealing with a killer without remorse here. It's easier to explain the covering, the dressing of the women as a ritual rather than guilt.” 

He'd finally played his cards, and now it was your turn to passionately wipe them from the table. 

“Remorse? He's cut all their hair off and beat half of them so badly we needed dental to identify them. And in case you've forgotten Spencer, half of them are prostitutes.”

“You're saying he can't feel remorse for killing prostitutes?”

“That is not what I'm saying. Don't twist my words."

“Well, of you'd said something that wasn't nonsensical, I'd have a better chance of understanding what the hell you're trying to say!’

With every line you'd stepped closer and closer to one another, like two boxers in a ring, sizing each other up before a fight. 

You wanted to take his tie and strangle him with it. You wanted to pull him down for a kiss and force him to shut the hell up. 

“Reid, Y/N, both of you take five,” Hotch called sternly from the other side of the room. Guiltily, you both broke away from one another, his hand brushing your side as you took a step back, almost as if he'd meant to grab you before Hotch stepped in. 

Probably to remove you from the room. 

“Take five?” You said, mustering all the disappointment you could as you silently pleaded to stick around. 

“Go back to the motel and get some rest. If you're going to argue like this, I don't need you at the precinct, and I certainly don't need you on my team.” 

You blanched at that, almost taken aback by the harsh words as you silently nodded and quietly walked towards the door, letting it shut behind you. 

Spencer stayed behind, and though you couldn't hear his arguments, you knew he was attempting to reason with Hotch, as well. It evidently didn't work as he stormed out of the room behind you. 

He looked half like a kicked puppy, half like an angry school kid who'd just been scolded by a teacher. 

“Don't look at me like that, this is your fault,” you muttered as you walked away from the room. 

“What? How is this my fault?” 

“If you weren't so goddamn infuriating, we'd be able to get some actual work done.” 

You marched off in the direction of the exit, but he caught your shoulder before you made it that far.

“You're blaming me? This is my job, Y/N, not yours. You get to go back to a cushy little office after this is done to teach the people that are going to end up doing the paperwork that consists of only 2% of our job.”

His finger jabbed at your shoulder as he said the words, and you had to resist the temptation to grab it. 

“Doesn't feel too good to be criticized when you're just doing your job, huh, Spencer?” 

His brows knitted together in a deepened scowl and he took a step forward. 

But there were eyes on you, and whatever confrontation this was, you didn't want to act it out in front of an office full of cops. 

You turned and walked away again, down a seemingly abandoned hall to what looked to be an empty storage cupboard, flinging the light on and waiting the three seconds it took him to catch up with you. 

“What's your problem?” He said, joining you in the cramped closet. 

“You! You're the problem! You're infuriating, and annoying, and most important, you're you!” You poked his chest back, harder than he had earlier, quietly reveling in the feel of his body under your fingertip. 

“Oh, I'm sorry. Would you like me to be someone different? Someone who worships the ground you walk on?” He said, discovering sarcasm for the first time since you'd been introduced. 

“Sure, Spencer, if you can take tour head out of your own ass long enough to worship someone else, then be my guest.” 

With a single push he crowded you against the wall, a hand above your head locking you into position as his other hand held your hip, his own hips joining you at the wall as you sucked in a breath. 

“You're begging to hear praise, right now, Y/N. Do you even hear yourself?” He asked, whispering the words directly into your ear. 

“W-Well, you have me pressed up against the wall like some fucking caveman that needs to breed or die.” You spent half the time you were talking trying to compensate for the stutter, trying not to look weak, that you totally missed the words that came from your own mouth. 

“You think I want to have sex with you?” He asked, chuckling awkwardly, even as his hand on your hip began rubbing circles, his head hanging lower, just inches away from your mouths meeting. 

“I think you'd love nothing more,” you said, finally lifting your hands to his hair and tucking a lock behind his ears. “Such a shame I won't be crawling into your bed.” 

“Is that a challenge?” He asked, and you were taken aback for a few seconds. 

“You want me so fucking bad, you're trying to convince yoursel-”

With a swoop, he cut you off, his lips meeting yours. You gasped and allowed his tongue to enter your mouth, but you came to your senses quickly. You kissed back with all the anger of the last month and all the attraction that had built up since you'd joined the team. Your tongue fought his, your hands tangled in his hair as his pulled them out, pinning them against a wall. But you slipped free and grabbed him again, grabbing the tie you'd wanted to choke him with earlier and not letting go. 

His lips were soft, and his body felt hot pressed against you, and you hated how good he was at all of this, how your body responded to his, how each time you pulled away it was with a small whimper as you begged for more. 

“I knew you wanted me,” he said, between kisses, grabbing your face and tilting it up as he returned his tongue to yours. 

“Oh, shut the fuck up, you kissed me first.” His hands trailed up your hips, untucking your shirt as he pushed his hand under, his cold fingers sending a trail of goosebumps along your skin as you shuddered. 

“I kissed you because you begged me to,” he said, his fingers caressing the bottom of your chest as he tried to press your bra up further. 

You were about to argue back when his lips met yours again, and you were lost in the haze of arousal, leg lifting to his hip to better allow him space to settle against you. 

You grew wilder in your passion, neither of you giving in even for one second as you writhed against each other, begging for satisfaction while denying that you'd ever wanted each other in the first place. Just as it became unbearable, your hands slipping to his belt, ready to pull his cock free and take it, the door opened again. 

“Reid, Y/N,” Morgan said from the doorway as you hastily jumped away from each other. 

You pulled your shirt down quickly, and Spencer stepped behind you, covering up the tent in his pants as you stared guiltily up at Derek Morgan. 

“Hotch sent me after you to give you the keys to the SUV,” he grumbled, making no comment on anything that happened. 

“We were just, um, we were just-” your brain fought for an excuse, but you'd left your brain behind somewhere between joining the BAU and foreplay with Spencer in a closet, so words escaped you. 

“You were just making out in a closet. It's okay, we all know,” Derek said, turning to leave. 

You jumped up, indignant now he'd brushed you off, and followed him out of the closet, an equally shocked Spencer trailing behind you. 

“What do you mean you all know? All know what?” You said, stomping back into the office. 

“That you two are into each other. It's why Hotch sent you away earlier. He didn't want to see the two of you going at it,” he said, pressing the car keys into your hands. 

“We are not into each other,” Spencer shouted back at Morgan as he stalked off, and you glared at him to shut his mouth. There was a crowd forming, and you still didn't need that attention. Not when your hair was matted from seven minutes in hell with Spencer or when his hand had, once again, settled on your hip, pulling you closer into him. 

“Let's go,” you huffed, and finally left the building with Spencer right behind you. 

You didn't talk for the rest of the drive home, even as your brain flooded itself with images of him taking you in the back of the car, your lips around his dick as he drove, him pulling over to bend you over the hood. 

You went straight to your separate rooms when you got back to the motel, though you swore that the walls were thin enough that he surely heard you pleasure yourself, fingers sinking into yourself. You weren't sure if he, too, had his hand wrapped around his cock, or if your brain was just now imagining whatever it liked to spur you on. 

Imagined or real, his moans were delicious, a maddening mix of frustration, exasperation and desperation, whimpers and groans, and small growls until you yourself were cumming, and letting yourself sleep.

You avoided talking, all talking, until the end of the case, even as your head replayed his infuriating words, his moans and the rustling sound of his fingers pressing your shirt up. You refused to talk to him to give his coworkers the validation of arguing with him once more. You weren't into each other. 

You simply wanted to fuck him. You didn't like him as a person otherwise. 

In avoiding him, though, the small taste of release you'd sampled in the closet had your softer parts deliriously wanting more. As much as you hated Spencer, you needed him so bad. 

You'd given him the cold shoulder  but he'd returned it just as quickly, and you were more annoyed not talking to him than you weren't. 

Your last case wrapped up, and you decided it was time to give him what he so obviously wanted. A conversation. 

You sat yourself right back down in his seat as you got on the jet and laid down, pulling his blanket over yourself as you took up the entire space. 

The others shook their heads at you as they walked on, Spencer taking up the rear. His eyes met yours, and he scowled, and you couldn't help but wonder if he'd look like that fucking you, so stern and angry. 

You sighed and pushed onto your side as he stood over you. 

“That's my seat.” 

You smiled in success as you looked over your shoulder. 

“I'm tired, I'm going to sleep.” 

“But that is my seat-” 

“Spencer, you've sat on every seat on this damn plane before, that wasn't your seat until last month, now sit down, shut up and let me rest,” JJ exploded and you suddenly felt bad for drawing him into your argument.  Or you did until you sat up a bit, and he sat himself right down where your head had been. 

“Spencer!”

“I give up…” JJ groaned from the table seats, pulling headphones over her head and shutting her eyes, and the others made to ignore you similarly. 

Not one to be beaten, you pushed the book in his hands off his lap and laid your head down again, now cushioned by his legs. 

“What-” his voice squeaked as you shut your eyes, too, and made yourself comfortable. He didn't push you off, or, heaven forbid, start talking to you again. Shockingly, he adjusted to the position quickly and resigned himself to pillow duty for the six hour flight. 

You, too, shocked yourself by how fast you fell asleep. You woke up with his hands in your hair, stroking your head as he read, book in one hand, you in the other. His hands felt wonderful, raking through your long locks, brushing each errant hair off your face. 

“Spencer?” You said, voice still thick with sleep. 

His hand shot away, and you almost regretted not pretending to sleep for longer, sure that he'd have gone on if you hadn't said anything. 

You straightened and cleared your own throat as you stretched, sitting quietly as you listened to the flight landing announcement. 

“Congrats, Y/N, you've successfully finished your time with the BAU,” Rossi said from his seat opposite you, strapping in for the landing.

“And you haven't been shot, kidnapped, or slapped. That's gotta be a first, right?” Emily joked from the corner. 

You smiled quietly as you strapped yourself down, scooting even closer to Spencer now to get your belt fastened.

Still, you couldn't resist the urge to mumble a retort.

“I'm sure Spencer thought about it a few times,” you sighed, a breath of resignation releasing from your lips dramatically.

The others chuckled, but Spencer sat silently next to you until the jet landed. 

He stayed quiet as he began to pack his things, but it became clear quickly that he was dragging everything out. As the plane emptied, you shot him a curious look, not daring to speak until you were the last two on the plane. 

“You're being slow today.” 

“I've never thought about shooting you or kidnapping you,” he said, voice low and quiet, even though you were alone. 

“It was a joke, Spencer,” you started, so sick of him taking g everything so seriously. You made to walk past him, but as you did, you felt his hand on your waist pulling you back as another hand came hard and fast at your ass. 

“I wasn't finished speaking,” he said as his hand ran over your butt, soothing the pain he'd just delivered. “I have thought about slapping you, though.” 

With that he grabbed his bag and stalked off the jet, not bothering to cast another look behind him. 

Two could play at that game. 

In about the most childish was you could muster, you ran ahead of him, staying three paces directly in front of him as he tried to overtake you. You moved when he moved. You sped up when he sped up. You even stopped a few times, so he'd run into you. 

“Y/N, cut it out.”

“Make me,” you said, throwing a withering look over your shoulder. 

He didn't wither. 

Instead, he grabbed your arm and marched you all the way through the FBI building, down to the parking lot, and into your car. As soon as he had you safely in the driver's seat, he closed the door, pulling off your visitors' pass. 

“I'll return this for you, no need for you to dally.” 

“Fuck you,” you spat out the window as you started the ignition. 

“It's been a pleasure,” he said with a grimace. 

“No, it hasn't,” you said back, wondering how long you'd spend in jail of you just mowed him down then and there. 

“You’re right. It hasn't,” he said, leaning down and into the window so you were now eye to eye. 

“Really? It seems like you got a lot of pleasure out of spanking me earlier. You were certainly experiencing a lot of pleasure when you pushed me up against a wall last week. If it wasn't pleasure, there was definitely something long-”

“Long?” He smirked.

“And hard in your pants.” 

He leaned in through the window, his breath fanning against your cheeks as he whispered into your ear. 

“That was my gun.” 

“And I certainly won't be helping you fire a load,” you said, starting the ignition and pushing him back from the window as you drove away from the FBI and away from Spencer Reid. 

It infuriated him that you'd gotten the last word. You'd spent a month with him and hadn't even given him a chance to show off his good qualities, and then you'd left without giving him a chance to prove himself. 

And, in doing so, you'd told a blatant lie. 

There had been two people in that closet, two people with tongues desperate for contact, eager for battle. You'd been moaning just as much as he had when his hands found your nipples. 

But you'd gotten to drive away without listening to his retort, and it was killing him. 

He sat and seethed at his desk for a while, waiting for the sense of relief that you were gone to wash over him. This had been what he wanted for weeks. Why was he now so discontent? Why did everything feel wrong? 

Abandoning paperwork he knew wouldn't be needed until at least next week, Spencer found your address in the team files, wrote it down, and left his desk. 

When you got home, there was nothing waiting for you. 

It was annoying. You'd spent the last month constantly on the go, always with more work, more cases, more paperwork. You'd killed any apparent gaps with Spencer. 

You could still feel his hands on your ass. You hated to admit it, but in your short acquaintance with Doctor Asshat, you'd grown fond of having him around as eye candy. When he wasn't being annoying (talking, breathing, or generally just being), you could quite happily imagine his head buried between your legs, his tongue lapping up every drop of cum you had to offer. 

There were definitely better things he could be doing with his mouth, in any case. 

Your body felt hot, itchy, and neglected as you got home, running a shower immediately and stepping in. 

The water was hot, and the room steamed up faster than you expected. You washed away the fatigue, and you washed away the dirt of a month of cheap motels.. 

Just as you were about to wash away the memories of Spencer Reid and his stupidly skilful tongue, the doorbell rang. 

It wasn't unusual for you to get visitors at 10 pm, but usually they announced themselves. 

You stayed put in the shower. It was probably a package you'd ordered, and it could honestly wait. 

The ringing, though, didn't stop. Whoever was at your door was insistent. First, the door rang to the rhythm of jingle bells. Then, they moved on to Fur Elise. When they got to Flight of the Bumblebees Levels of bullshit, you couldn't stand it anymore. 

You wrapped a towel around you and pulled the door open wide. 

“Sp- mm?” You said, shocked to see him there, but completely floored by his appearance, and more importantly the two hands he'd planted on your cheeks as he pulled you in for a hot, hard, and fast kiss. 

You pushed him off with a hard slap to his face, and stalked further into your apartment, knowing he'd follow closely behind.

You heard the door slam shut as he made to grab you again, but you stayed just out of reach. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” 

“I came because neither of us will move on without this.”

“Oh, you need me so much you won't be able to move on if you don't fuck me?” You scoffed, expecting a sarcastic answer to a sarcastic question. 

“Yes,” he said, and your shock at his earnestness gave him the moment he needed to grab at you again. 

This time, though, the tiny towel that had been holding your dignity in place dropped to the floor as Spencer Reid pinned you against the wall. 

“Already fucking bare and wet for me, how well-behaved.”

“Go fuck yourself!” you said, even as his hands cupped your breasts, grabbing and pulling both of your nipples, making you moan.

“See, your mouth is being a bitch, but your body is being a whore.” 

“Just fuck me won't you? No need to run your mouth.” 

“I think we're finally in agreement on something,” he said, pushing you to your knees. 

“What? Sp-” 

In one quick swoop he released his cock from his pants and wrapped a hand around all of your hair as he slid it down your waiting throat. 

As much as you protested, your mouth was wide open, and your hands wrapped around him just as eagerly. 

Holding your head still, Spencer began to talk as he fucked your throat. 

“There we go. That's exactly how I've needed you for the last month.”

You glared at him as you sank your nails into his thighs, gagging on his cock as he picked up his pace.

With two taps on his leg, you requested a moment, and he quickly pulled his dick out of your mouth. 

You coughed quickly, then spat out all of your accumulated drool before looking up at him. 

Part of you wanted to force him down next to you, to make him taste your cunt the way you'd thought about earlier. The other part, the larger part, was excited about him using you. 

He grabbed his dick and slapped your face with it, returning your earlier hit. He was waiting for you to open up again so he could cum down your throat and leave. 

“Open,” he demanded. 

You didn't comply, but you stuck out your tongue, lapping at his tip slowly as you sat on your hands. He held his breath as you kissed the underside of his shaft, making his way to his balls. You reached them and finally sucked them into your mouth, making sure to look up and make eye contact with him as you toyed with his private place.

He didn't argue or complain. Instead he fisted a hand into your hair and dragged you to your bedroom. 

Divesting himself of his pants and shirt, he sat down and, still on all fours, pushed your face back into his crotch. Perched on the edge of your bed, he held his cock up and served himself to you. 

“Well? Get back to it, Y/N.” 

Your tongue found his cock first as his hands massaged his balls, playing with them gently as you licked all the way to his tip then buried yourself between his asscheeks. You licked at the skin between his ass and balls, you tasted every inch of him, and you grew angry that he still hadn't done this for you. 

Against his wished, you rose and spat on his cock, before squeezing it hard. 

“Spencer, are you going to fuck me or are you just going to ruin my makeup?” 

“You look prettier with spit coating your face than you've looked with any lipstick,” he said as you pushed him down onto the bed and grabbed his cock. 

Straddling his waist, you were surprised he.let you sink down onto his cock without so much as another word. You felt him fill you up, one inch, then another until you sat fully sheathed on top of him. 

And then he flipped you over so he was back in control. 

“Son of a bitch,” you muttered as he pulled out and thrust back in. 

“You wanted me to fuck you, I'm fucking you.”

You wanted to argue but all you could do was moan yes as he set a furious pace, thumb and forefinger pinching your clit as you bucked into him wildly.

You couldn't stand too much of this, knowing that you wanted to at least outlast him. You wanted to tell him how pathetic he was for cumming first, you wanted to gloat that he'd wanted you more, that he couldn't resist breeding your hot wet cunt. You knew any more of this, though, and you would instead be on the receiving end of those same taunts. 

Pushing against his chest, you used the last of your strength to flip him over again. He struggled, though, stronger than you were expecting, and you rolled together like that for a few moments.

You almost went crashing to the floor as he fought for control, but he pushed a foot off the bed and held you up with his lower body strength. The new position though forced his cock deeper, to just the right angle, and when he thrust into you again, you did something you'd never done before during sex. 

You screamed your pleasure. 

Your orgasm ripped through you, as painful as it was pleasurable, and you grabbed Spencer Reid by the neck and forced his tongue to meet yours. 

He couldn't complain, too busy moaning about your hot, wet, and now tighter cunt to worry about whether he should be kissing you. 

He pulled back and picked his pace right back up, but this time, you resisted less. Hooking a hand under your legs, he pressed your legs up, pushing his stomach and chest down just above your own as he moved slower but harder. 

You wondered if this was what other wen talked about when they said they wanted someone to beat their pussy up, to use them until they couldn't stand. You didn't think you could even think about walking again for the next month as he spread your knees apart and pinned them to the bed, unloading his cum as deep inside you as anything had ever been.

You didn't even know your body bent that way. 

Panting, he collapsed on top of you and buried his head in your shoulder, mumbling and muttering to himself as he came down from his ecstasy. 

He didn't pull out. He barely even softened as he kissed across the expanse of your throat, thrusting shallowly with each nip, until your body couldn't take anymore. 

He picked a spot and sucked, and licked and bit and soothed as he ended one round, and began another. 

“Spencer-” you said, gasping as he sat up, his cock once again standing at attention, filling you still. 

“No. Stop. Don't talk, we're not good when we talk.” 

You nodded and pulled him back for another kiss, wrapping a hand around his throat and pressing hard as he moaned and groaned into you. 

Still wet and slippery and sensitive from your first attempt, neither of you lasted long, falling to the bed when it was all over with a grunt of overexertion. 

“That was…” you said, stopping there, for once totally speechless.

“That was good?” He supplied, but just good wasn't enough. 

“Yes,” you agreed, though, not willing to let your cunt rule your mind when around him.

Anymore, at least. 

“We should… we should probably never speak again,” you said, even as your hand reached out for his, fingers tangling. 

“Of course. I'll leave, and we won't ever speak again,” he said, stroking your hand with his thumb, bringing your clasped hands to his mouth and pressing a kiss to your hand.

“You haven't left yet.” 

“I haven't.”

“I have nowhere to be tomorrow,” you said. “You don't…”

“I won't leave yet. We might as well enjoy this,” he said, propping himself up on his elbows as he looked over your naked body. 

“We should definitely just get this out of our systems now. What's the harm in that?” 

“I agree. If we're committing to a one time thing, we might as well go all in.”

“Exactly,” you said. 

“Exactly,” he parrotted.

Now whatever was left of your wits after expending your last half an hour writing was desperately clutching Spencer’s shirt, haunting the man with your desperation.

The emergency lights flicked on as you came back down to reality.

“Sorry!” You squeaked out, putting as much space between you as possible. Which admittedly wasn’t a whole lot.

“No…no. Not at all. What-”

“I should go,” you shouted again, fully aware you were at least thirty seconds from passing out from sheer embarrassment. You grabbed your bag quickly, hard shut down your computer, quickly saving your first chapter, and tried to run away.

Tried being the operative word.

“What do you need me for?” Spencer stepped in front of you again, steadying you with a hand by your elbow to make sure you couldn’t fully dodge him.

“It’s nothing. It’s a stupid idea really. Not appropriate.”

Not appropriate was exactly how you would describe the thoughts that popped into your head when he was straddling you earlier, too.

“In this scenario, I think I can define what is and isn’t inappropriate. Sit down and talk me through it,” he said gently, walking you back to your seat.

“Okay,” you nodded quickly, trying to avoid the many different scenes from books popping into your head as he pulled your chair out for you and sat you down.

“Your writing was good, Y/N. It’s for your book, right?”

“Yes,” you said, almost embarrassed to respond in more than one syllable. But Spencer let the silence rest and waited for you to do or say anything else, so you had to pull your big girl pants back up and communicate. Effectively.

“Yes. I have a book due to my editor in a couple of weeks - I signed a four book deal after my first one was modestly popular online. Social media really blew it up so they wanted to lock me in for a few books,” you started, sinking back into the chair as you explained the fluke that was your writing career.

“Anyway, I’ve been here for a while now so romance isn’t exactly on the brain. I haven’t written in months and so my editor… So I need to start writing.”

Spencer sat so silently, you’d be so sure he was asleep if his eyes weren’t locked directly on yours.

You were so used to Spencer fidgeting - moving, reading, playing with a pencil between his fingers, drinking coffee - that this sudden rush of attention wasn’t immediately comfortable. “Spencer, you’re staring.”

“Sorry, sorry. Um, so you just needed to find something to write?”

You nodded and continued again.

“Yeah, I needed to find something to write about. And I don’t really want to lean into the whole serial killer romance thing.”

Spencer nodded along with you, finally nodding and moving again, and you let out a sigh as you watched him think.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll help you.”

Surprised, you looked up, once again making almost uncomfortable eye contact with Spencer Reid. You wished, too, that you had a notebook at that very moment to help you remember the exact feeling of your heart beating out of your chest.

A scene where you jumped straight into his lap and started twirling your fingers through his hair came to mind. Focusing again, you pushed it away.

“Help me with what?”

“I’ll help you write your book.”

“Oh! Oh no…” you stood and grabbed your bag again. “You really don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“Okay, great, glad we are in agreement. Now let’s never talk about this ever again.”

You stood and grabbed your bag, but a firm grip on your wrist tugged you right back down. Instead of your own chair though you found yourself in Spencer’s chair.

Or more realistically speaking, in Spencer’s lap.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you mumbled under your breath.

“I know I don’t have to help you, but I want to. It sounds interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“Yes.”

“You have three PhDs, and a number of other accolades, an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory. Helping me write a romance novel that will be, at best, a good beach read, is interesting to you?”

Spencer seemed to consider for a moment, and then leaning in slightly, whispered his answer. “Yes.”

You would have shivered had your body had the energy for that.

“Sure, Spencer. Okay. And how exactly are you going to help me?”

He took another moment to think about his answer. You took that as your opportunity to leave, quickly jumping up again after a too comfortable moment in his arms, and quickly left the office.

For two days after you avoided even thinking about Spencer, or your book, or writing about Spencer in your book.

Two whole days. A wonderful weekend away from what was becoming a real puppy crush. You found yourself inexplicably looking up Spencer on any platform you thought he’d have a presence on (not a single social media but a number of child prodigy articles from newspapers in Nevada from a handful of years ago.)

Then you found yourself back at work, facing a stack of books and the most confrontational version of Spencer Reid you’d ever been acquainted with.

“The Love Hypothesis, The Spanish Love Deception, The Unhoneymooners, The Deal, The Kiss Quotient - did you know that fake relationships are often ranked as readers second favorite romance trope?”

“Spencer what are you- Spencer our coworkers will be here soon, put those away,” you gasped, quickly rushing to push each and every book into some nook or cranny of your desk.

“This is the FBI, Spencer, what has gotten into you?”

As you moved each book, you realised that, though they appeared to be new, there were cracks in each book's spine. There were some tabs sticking out randomly, the type you’d seen in Spencer’s paperwork before, and you found yourself almost more exasperated.

“You read them? All of them?”

“ I wanted to help,” he shrugged, taking a few out of your hands and stuffing them back in his satchel. “Besides, some of them were pretty good.”

“Okay. Okay, Spencer, since we’re both acting a little bit out of character today, I have to ask: why do you want to help me?”

Finally, the man fidgeted uncomfortably. He tugged at the collar of his shirt once, then twice and finally looked back at you.

“I want… I want to practice,” his voice was barely a whisper as the tips of his ears reddened. “There’s… there is a girl I like, and… I’m not exactly the most experienced at romance.”

You tried to stop yourself from feeling disappointed at his admission. Your sudden burst of interest in Spencer was only due to his helpfulness. It had been three days, it wasn’t enough for you to feel truly disappointed that nothing could start with him.

And he was your coworker, too, and that would be a nightmare. And you realized quickly that he was still talking, and you’d accidentally tuned him out for half a minute at the least.

“I read your books, too. The first two. They’re not exactly instructional guides I can follow, but it would be fun to get some ideas about y- about what girls like on dates. You know?”

Letting out a sigh, you sat down at your desk.

“So you want to do this?” you asked, holding up the nearest book to you.

“I want to do this.”

You nodded and thought it out for a second. You needed the help. You needed to write, and though apparently clueless about women, he was courteous and handsome, and most importantly consenting.

“Fine.”

“Fine? Really?”

“Don’t make me regret this, but yes. Let’s try it out.”

Spencer’s smile warmed your heart. It genuinely warmed your heart. Handsome men really needed to be stopped, you thought, nearly regretting your decision. But, as you had been before agreeing to many relationships with men before in the past, you were desperate.

“So we need to do the contract thing and the ground rules thing, and then-” Spencer started, flicking through one of the books for quotes and places to start.

“Vetoed and vetoed. We’re just doing research for a book, right Spencer? Why should we put rules down? We’re profilers. We know what is too far, and more importantly, we know how to communicate.”

Spencer nodded along with your points.

“Then, we should just shake on it?”

You hesitated for a second, thinking about where your mind would evidently go and thus had already gone if you got even a glimpse of his hands. You knew they were veiny.

“We can shake on it, sure.”

With that, his hand - yes, veiny - grabbed yours and you found yourself in an agreement of mutual destruction.

Spencer was going to help you write your book, and you were going to stop yourself from thinking about wrapping your legs around him until you were satisfied.

“I can’t do it,” you’d cried into your coffee a week earlier, meeting with the literary agent you knew was absolutely tired of your shit by this point. 

“Okaaaayyy. What exactly is it that you can’t do exactly? Because if you say "write" you'd be absolutely incorrect.” 

“I can’t write.” 

Taking a long sip of her coffee and trying her best to subtly roll her eyes - subtlety was the one thing she hadn’t managed - you squared your shoulders and repeated yourself. 

“I really can’t write,” you moaned. “I’ve tried and tried and all that comes out is thriller, horror, death, gore - the worst parts of a Christie novel tied up into a neat little Doyle novel with a splash of whatever new mystery writers there are. It’s not my genre but I started my new job at the FBI and it’s all that’s on the mind.” 

You really loved your job. You didn’t enjoy that it was becoming your entire life, but you’d been warned multiple times from coworkers and acquaintances that it was a lot to handle. 

“So quit.”

“I can’t quit, I love my job.” 

“Then stop writing.”

“I can’t stop writing, I love writing.”

 You would’ve screamed out your frustrations, but the franchise coffee shop you were stuck in was currently filled with stressed students and drone-like salary workers just trying to replace the blood in their bodies with caffeine, and you didn’t quite like the idea of zombified masses coming towards you. 

“I can’t write, but I can’t stop writing, and I can’t quit my job.”

Nodding, your agent took another sip of her coffee, then set it down carefully and leaned into you across the table. 

“I’m sorry to ask this but… when was the last time you had sex?”

“Oh my god!” 

“It’s a valid question in this line. Your books have been marketed so far as spicy romances, I need to make sure you’re getting the best inspiration you can in order to write. If you’re in a dry-spell, it could explain your difficulty writing.” 

“But-” 

Your agent stood up, cutting you off quickly as she began to pack her things. 

“But nothing, girl. Get back on the apps and give me at least 10,000 words, a synopsis, and some buzz words this time next month. I believe in you.” 

You sighed and downed your coffee, melting further into the table before another stressed looking student asked you to vacate it so they could write an essay while aptly caffeinated.

Apps were off the table after a rough internet stalking case you’d worked on a few months prior, so you tried bars, but drinking alone was depressing and none of the men were inspiration-worthy.

Instead you’d tried a change of atmosphere. Your apartment was dark and dingy, and at least your desk at the BAU had a lamp. And the kitchen provided as much free coffee as you deemed healthy enough to drink. 

You stared again at a blank document before deciding you needed to resituate yourself into the world of your novels. 

You’d published three so far, under a quite popular and rather famous pen name. They were all connected but followed different couples among them. You sighed looking through their GoodReads pages, avoiding the reviews with a desperate zeal. You remembered the feeling of writing each one. The first you’d finished while in your final year at college. 

You’d been with your high school boyfriend still, so the novel had been a sentimental pile of shit about how love was forever. You’d luckily had it published weeks before he announced that he’d got his female roommate pregnant, so at least you got a paycheck out of that heartbreak. 

After college you’d taken a year out to work on yourself, which obviously meant you’d been unemployed and living on your book royalties and the remainder of your savings from college. When you started dating an older man who bought you dinner and not your fellow somewhat broke peers, you’d been absolutely inspired to write another book. 

That one hadn’t ended well either, after you’d met the man’s adult daughter. So adult that she was in fact older than you. You did some therapy after that one. 

Your third romance novel had seemingly come from nowhere, even if you’d been casually seeing a few people the year it came out. But you found that working towards a goal had made you infinitely inspired, and you were trying your best to get accepted into a role in the BAU that year. 

Any ex boyfriend claiming to be the inspiration for that one was dearly mistaken. That dreamy man was tough to attain, high maintenance, required multiple qualifications, and a certain level of… physical fitness only parallelled by the FBI. 

Now with all your goals met, and a further two books of the three book deal you’d signed with your publisher still unfulfilled, you were in a slump to end all slumps. 

You were still sitting at your desk feeling sorry for yourself when you felt someone breathing down your neck. 

“Burning the midnight oil?” Spencer asked, leaning over your desk and clutching his own free coffee in his hands. 

“You know you probably shouldn’t sneak up on someone with a gun and a licence.”

“If I also didn’t have a gun myself, that might be wise advice,” Spencer replied, pushing in closer to read your writing.

You closed the document a second too late. The damned man was like a super computer. 

“What is ‘The Boss Breakdown?’” he asked. 

“It’s a book I think,” was the best you could come up with as you closed the tab. Which only unfortunately brought up the work in progress document you’d been not-working on and making no progress in earlier. 

“Untitled Project 4?” Spencer asked again, as you willed yourself to spontaneously combust. 

“It’s what I’m calling my paperwork. You know, to get it done quicker?” You said, hastily closing this tab, too. Google chrome chose that moment exactly to end your social life at work forever as your idea document popped up behind that one. 

“Friends to lovers. Enemies to lovers. Roommates to lovers. Friends with-” 

“Okay, please stop! STOP!” You screamed, choosing to just turn off the monitor, standing quickly. 

Standing too quickly as your legs got caught in the cursed government assigned desk chair, you found yourself quickly tumbling to the floor. A hand reached out to grab you, but your incredible luck meant that the both of you dropped to the floor together. 

Spencer’s arm hit just above your head as he grimaced feeling the pain of the fall reverberate into his arm. His legs fell either side of yours as you finally opened your eyes. 

Hands interlocked, bodies pushed together on the floor, both panting from the sudden adrenaline of the fall, you found yourself in the perfect rom-com compromising position. 

“Sorry,” you whispered as Spencer hovered centimeters above you, eyes locked with yours.

“Anyone here?” the voice of the security guard called out into the office as you froze up. You weren’t sure if it was embarrassment or fear of being caught up in an office scandal that stopped the both of you from making your presence known. 

“Call themselves Supervisory Special Agents, and not one of them is special enough to supervise turning the lights off. Damn…” the officer muttered before entrenching the two of you in complete darkness.

Spencer stayed atop of you, as though it were the most comfortable place in the world. 

“So what was that all about?” He asked in another whisper, even though no one else was near. 

“It was nothing,” you whispered back, trying your best to figure out where every part of his body was in relation to yours in the shadows.

“It didn't look like nothing.”

“Oh yeah? What did it look like then?”

“It looked like a book.” 

“Well… ding ding ding we have a winner,” you said with a huff and tried to stand, only to be forced down again by an unseen hand. 

“Y/N. Are you that author?” Spencer asked? 

“What? No. What author? That author? Why would you ask that?” you practically vomited the words out, still trying and failing to wiggle yourself out from underneath the apparently very solidly built man. 

“You’re writing a book, right? I heard you on the phone with your literary agent a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”

“You- what?”

“Rossi is an author too, you know.”

“Rossi writes non-fiction books about cases he has worked on. I write the book modern bodice-rippers. Not exactly the type of thing I want to tell the whole world, Spencer- would you move? God you are hard.” 

You couldn’t see the eyebrow raise, but you practically heard it. 

In a flash, something came to you. Whether it was the comment you made or a final willingness to listen, Spencer suddenly became easier to move as you jumped back up into your desk chair, turned on your monitor, and vomited up your brain onto the page. 

You felt Spencer once again at your back as you typed out every word that entered your brain, not stopping to edit or proofread once. It was messy, there was no plot, no character names, no visible progression so far, but there were words. 

There were finally words. 

After a solid thirty minutes of panting and the banging sounds of your fingers connecting with your keyboard, you finally pushed away from your desk and grasped at where Spencer, now illuminated by your monitor once again, stood. 

Grabbing his shirt between your hands and pulling him a step closer as you still sat, you practically screamed out your request.

Fate was on your side. You stepped off the elevator on the basement floor and after a harried moment of twisting this way and that, your eyes locked onto him in the distance, walking towards his desperately old car. A miracle, considering he didn't often drive. 

"Spencer!" You shouted across the lot, practically skipping over to him, only mere paces away when he finally turned to look at you. You slowed down to a walk then, but with a marked anticipation bubbling in your stomach, your steps felt like lurches, your body drawn into him by the beat of your heart. 

"Spencer, wait." He'd stopped just in front of his car, so he wasn't really moving, but you wanted to be sure. You needed to be sure. 

"Y/N, what are you doing here?" He asked, his tone light, not as confused as his face made him seem. You hoped that was a good sign, that he was playing up the awkwardness of the interaction for anyone else who happened to be driving themselves home. 

"Our annulment deadline passed, right?" You looked up into his eyes, trying to hold the grin back from your face as you locked eyes with him. 

"Yes. I told you that the other night in the lobby, why are you asking again?"

"Because I want to go home with my husband." You took a step closer to him with the words, letting them fall lower, hitting the back of your throat where your heart was currently beating. They somehow didn't get stuck as you raised your hand to his chest. You didn't touch him fully, just let your pointer finger trace circles on the pocket of his shirt, hoping he'd hoping understand. Desperately. 

Sick of your teasing, he grabbed your hand and flattened it against his chest, keeping his eyes locked with yours as he slowly twisted the two of you around. You were like two beasts, circling each other, looking for areas to attack, to bite, to destroy. God you wanted him to destroy you. 

Before you knew it your back was to the car door, his voice in your ear. 

"And what do you want to do at home with your husband?" He growled in your ear, as he dropped your hand, instead bracing himself on the roof of the car and leaning down into you. Your body was on fire and he wasn't even making contact anymore. 

"I think you know." 

"I think I want to hear anyway." 

You just couldn't give into that. A challenge had been issued, and by God were you going see it through. 

"I want to feel my husband's hands around my throat. I want to feel his heartbeat pressed against mine. I want him to hold my hand as he pounds into me. And I want him to cum so deep inside of me that it doesn't even drip out." Each word was hushed, even in the stillness of the basement. It looked empty, but you never knew who'd snuck into their cars before you'd arrived. Or even after, as you focused all your will and energy on Spencer. 

To his credit, he didn't move, barely even batted an eye. He just nodded down at you, and smiled slowly, letting it spread across his lips in a wild grin, as if you'd just said the sweetest words to him instead of the dirtiest. 

"Your husband is a lucky man." 

"He could be, but he hasn't opened the car door for me yet, so who knows." You dared to touch him then, snaking one hand up his chest into his hair, and slowly pulling his head down for a kiss as you pushed yourself up. 

His arms didn't move until the second you touched, abuzz with the contact as you suddenly found yourself stuck together as if glued. His lips slip expertly over your own, as your thoughts run amok with glee. You'd won, and he was your prize. He pressed you back into the car, letting his hands explore more and more of you as he got carried away by your scent, the feeling of you under his hands, the taste of you on his lips. 

He finally pulled away and put three metres of space between you, physically far enough that he couldn't touch you as he turned away, trying to wipe you from his lips. 

"I'm sorry, we shouldn't be doing that here. Someone could see us." 

"I don't care." His eyes shot back to yours with a tilt of his head that you knew was him asking you if you really meant that. "I don't care who sees us, because I want them to know who you belong to."

"Are you sure you're not going to avoid me for weeks again if I keep kissing you?" 

"Spencer, I want you to do much more than just kissing me this time."

The grin bloomed on your lips before you could stop it, so proud to be claiming him publicly now. 

You could see the hesitation on Spencer's face as he risked pulling you back in, likely running the worst case scenarios of taking you right then and there in the car (misdemeanour charge of public sex, 1-2 years of probation, demotion from BAU, registry on a sex offenders list etc.) and collected his thoughts. He so would have liked to have hiked your skirt up then and there, but he doesn't even have to ask to know your opinion on the matter. 

You could practically hear him counting to ten. 

"Get in the car." 

"Say it nicely and I'll think about it." He raised an eyebrow, keeping eye contact as he opened his mouth one more time. 

"Get in the car, Mrs. Reid. Or do you need to be manhandled into it." 

As much as you're sure you would have enjoyed that, you chose not to push it too far. So you did as you were told, little sparks of heat flying up and down your body as you replayed the possessive tone he'd used to say your name. 

The car was cold, but you feel it warm up more as he closes the door behind you and climbs into the driver's seat. It increases tenfold when he leans over to pull your seatbelt into place, and dissipates entirely when he rests his hand on your leg and doesn't move it for the rest of the ride. 

Your almost disappointed by just how locked in it is, wishing desperately that it would go further up, right to where you wanted him. You even tried to press the issue, literally, with your hands. 

"Y/N, if I touch you anymore than this, we're not making it home. And there aren't many secluded spots on the side of the road, and I'm pretty jealous when it comes to things that are mine." You try not to melt at the words, but you fail, your legs dropping apart naturally. 

You expect him to take you to his place, excited to finally christen the bed you'd slept in peacefully twice. But as the scenery around you changes, becoming infinitely more familiar, you realise that's not the direction you're going. 

"This is the way to my apartment." It's less of a question, more of a statement, but he nods at you in confirmation. 

"You said you wanted to go home. I'm taking you home." 

"Spencer, your apartment would've been fine, that's your home."

"My home is wherever you are. We're here." He turns the engine off and climbs out of the car, leaving your heart fizzing with adoration. 

He finishes the conversation as he opens the door, offering you a hand and pulling you up so quickly you stumble into his chest as his lips fall to your ears. 

"Besides, your place is closer." Heat pooled between your legs, only growing with each step as your body reacted to having him closer and closer to your bed. 

"Didn't want to fuck me in the car though?" 

"I wanted something better for our first time." 

"This isn't our first time, Spencer." Your back hits the door of your apartment as you round on him, needing to see his eyes as you remind him that you know what he feels like inside of you. 

"How much do you remember?" He asks, not stepping closer, but not moving away either, eyes roaming your body alight with bodily hunger. 

"I remember the way you feel. The way you taste. I remember all the carnal details and none of the practical ones, and I'm beginning to think that maybe they're the only ones that matter." You wet your lips and glance down to his. A moment's hesitation is all he needs to attack you again, pushing his entire body weight into you as his lips find yours again. 

He's hot and he's hard and he's big and he's pushing against you so strongly you fear he's going to push you straight through the door, no unlocking needed. He pulls back just long enough for you to remind him of it though, but his only reaction is turning you around so his crotch is against your ass. 

"Go ahead and unlock it then." His lips find their way to the sensitive spot on your neck, and you wonder if it's luck or skill that puts him there, how he knew it would drive you crazy. 

It takes multiple attempts to open the door, and you're growing impatient in your lust, letting out tiny whimpers in frustration. You feel like your three more failed attempts away from stomping your feet and throwing yourself to the floor in a tantrum when his hand comes up so steady your own, pushing the key into the door first try. 

"You just needed some help getting it in, it's okay." The innocent words do nothing to distract from his hot cock resting at your ass, and you almost roll your eyes at the irony of the moment as he guides you inside. 

He turns you again and your lips lock in desperation. He hits the light switch and you don't stop. Your legs hit the back of your sofa, and you don't stop. Your unbuttoning his shirt and you don't stop, nearing the end of your tether, ready to feel him snap right back into you like a taught wire. 

"You're not even inside me yet and you already feel this good…" You whisper the words as he words down your neck, paying special attention to your pressure points, like he's memorised all the spots on your body that leave you weak in the knees. You can feel his smile as he attempts to undo you. 

Until he pulls away. Looking down at you as if you were a work of art and he the painter, he nods in satisfaction, before lifting you bridal style. 

"It's time for us to get into bed." 

"Well, aren't you the gentleman? Where I'm from, it's called fucking, Spencer." He almost flinches at the vulgarity, but you brush it off, letting him throw you down onto your bed. 

He starts working on the buttons of his sleeves, rolling them up neatly to his elbows in preparation for something important, but you don't give him the chance. 

Slipping off the bed, you make your way to your knees, where it becomes achingly apparent that the buttons on his pants also need to be pried open. 

"What do you think you're doing?" He asks, a little ticked off by your movements. 

"I'm getting ready to please my husband, obviously. Isn't that what good little wives do?" You finally slip him from his pants, letting his erection answer the question for him. 

"I'm in charge."

"And I like it that way," you say, opening your mouth wide as he grabs his cock in his hand, and sticking your tongue out nice and far as he let's it graze your top lip. 

He pushes deep into your mouth before grabbing your throat. You try not to splutter around him, relaxing and taking as much as he's giving. 

"Go ahead then, if you think you can handle it." The words shoot straight to your core, and you eagerly begin pumping your mouth up and down his erect penis. 

"Good Little cock sucker, this is what I married you for." His grip runs up to your hair, grabbing a chunk of it in his hands as he follows your movements around his cock. 

"You look so pretty on your knees for me like that," he says, pulling your mouth over his entire cock and keeping him there. "I'm gonna make you feel so good later, baby, just you wait."

He continues like that, using his grip to masturbate with your mouth, moaning and groaning at your touch until your ready to feel his cum shoot down the back of your throat. 

His release doesn't come though, and instead he's pulling your head off and discarding you below him. Climbing onto the bed, you eagerly watch him as he takes a seat, making himself comfortable and not even sparing a glance your way, still sat on your knees on the floor, spit and tears decorating your face, eyes wild with lust. 

"I'm not getting on my knees for you, princess. If you want me to pleasure you, you're going to have to climb right into my lap yourself." 

His explanation had your legs snapping shut as you squeeze them together, desperate for release. 

You do as you're told once again, climbing onto the bed and crawling into the generous space he's made between his legs. 

He positions you where he wants you, your back to his chest as he used his large hands to press your legs wide. 

"That's it, open wide for me princess."

"What are you, a horny dentist?" You laugh at his words, but he grabs your jaw and tilts it up to him, capturing your lips in a rough embrace. The air doesn't return to your lungs until he touches your cunt, and then it comes in a sharp gasp that leaves your head spinning. 

Maybe it's him that's actually having that affect. 

"You like that? You like me rubbing your little dripping pussy through your panties? Y/N, I'm not even touching you directly." The words are matter-of-fact, like he's astounded you're so fucking wet for him, but not shocked, knowing how much of a dirty little whore you were for him. 

His hands on you, the extra friction from your panties, his words in your ear, it's all too much as you find an orgasm rippling through your body, leaving you twitching as you ride it out on his fingers. 

"Where do you keep your condoms?" 

"I don't." He sighs in your ear, and you can feel him try to move himself so he can go and grab one from his bag or his car or somewhere even further from where you need him.

"Spenced, we're married." You whisper into his ear, nestling back further into his chest. 

"What are you suggesting?" 

"We're married, and it looks like we're staying married. I don't care where your nut goes as long as its inside me or painted over my body." 

He pushes you onto the bed on your back then as he pushed his remaining clothing off, taking yours with it while he's at it. His grabs the base of his cock, and the pre-cum dribbles out. You watch with all the hunger of a wolf seeing a rabbit, desperate to have him inside you one way of another. 

"That's it, slide your cock into my PUSSY, Spencer. Put it right where it belongs." 

Your pleas fall on deaf ears, as he uses the top of his cock to press against your clit, not bothering to enter you just yet. 

"What's wrong with this? Aren't I still getting you off like this? Not risking anything letting my cock sit here, letting myself cream on this beautiful mound." His words and motions on your clit are too much and you cum again the teasing is so good. 

In your bleary daze, he finally pushes into you, and you scream his name at the contact. 

"Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. God Spencer, you feel so good, so big for me." Gratitude is the only thing running through your mind, thankful as you are to have him buried deep. 

His thrusts are hard, fast and wet, and you hear them every step of the way as he spits down to the place you connect. You moan desperately, unable to form words by now as he snaps his hips into you violently, taking and taking and taking. 

But soon, it's his turn to give, and he's asking where he should be doing it. 

"Want my cum inside of you? Want it right here?" His hands fall to the bulge in your stomach, to the place where you can feel him pushing into and pulling out of you, the place where you can feel him grazing your walls. 

"Those other types of orgasm, I'm gonna give them all to you. I'm going to clamp your nipples and eat you out so you associate the pain with pleasure. I'm going to put a vibrator on your clit and leave you tied up until you've soaked the sheets. I'm going to pump you do full of cum that it's dripping from every whole on your body. I'm going to fuck you in the office and see how many people find out. Is that how you like it?"

You try to hold it back, to prologue the pleasure, but you csnt and it rips through you, your juices pushing out of you in a shudder, soaking Spencer's cock as he lifts your leg and deepens his angle. 

"How do you feel better than I remembered?" He moans as he begins shooting his load into you, cumming in you with a deep moan, locking his lips against that same spot on your neck. 

Maybe it's the post-nut clarity, maybe it's just the words that accidentally ripped from his mouth, but you're suddenly wide awake, the cloud of lust that had been shading you vanishing in an downpour of rain. 

He pulls out of you with a kiss to your lips and runs to the bathroom to grab you something to wash up with. He returns cheerfully, and begins his work, but you grab his hand and stop him as the realisation hits you. 

"Y/N, I'm almost finished, just let me clean you up." 

"What did you mean? When you said I felt better than you remembered?" 

He stills, trying to search for the right words to say. He obviously doesn't find them, because he evades his eyes and continues cleaning you up, not answering. 

"Spencer, do not fucking ignore me. What did you mean?" 

"I'm sorry." That's all he says, and you feel bile rise in your throat. He kneels between your legs and runs a hand through his hair, discarding the washcloth and putting some distance between the two of you. 

"You're sorry?! Spencer, look at me right now." It takes him a minute, but he finally meets your gaze. 

"Spencer, how long has it been since you remembered everything?" You try to hope, to wish this was all a misunderstanding, that he was going to tell you right after he cleaned you up, but you interrupted him. 

"Y/N, I have an eidetic memory…" The way his voice cracks finally has tears welling in your eyes. "I never forgot. How could I?" 

The wind ripples into the window, and as the temperature drops so does your heart. It falls to the floor and shatters into pieces as you discover his lie. 

"I think you should go. Go home." You say, as a tear finally escapes your eye, your stomach turning with the discovery that he really was too good to be true. 

"Y/N, please-"

"No. I want to be alone, let me… let me think, please." 

"Y/N, really, I think we should-" 

"Get out!" You shout, and that when your body starts heaving in sobs as you pick up anything near that you can find to gather up around yourself. The strength of your outrage, the display of emotions temporarily startles Spencer into supplication, and he gathers his clothes quickly. 

You sob watching him move around the busy space, you sob as he turns around to try to speak again, abandoning each attempt. You sob the hardest when he leaves, and you are alone in your apartment with all the weight of his dishonesty pushed upon you.