~violet~

You had always loved mornings with Spencer. He wasn’t the easiest sleeper—nightmares, insomnia, or just that ceaseless mind of his—but on the nights he did rest well, you’d wake to his face so calm, softened, as though whatever weight he carried had been left somewhere you couldn’t see.

Tonight, though, sleep felt impossible for either of you.

It had started with an argument—not between you and him, exactly, but with the world. You had been watching something on the news, some trial coverage, and you’d muttered how horrible it was to imagine being wrongfully imprisoned.

You hadn’t known.

Spencer had gone quiet in that still, terrified way that made your heart sink. He wouldn’t look at you. When you asked him what was wrong, his voice cracked as he admitted it.

Prison.

He tried to explain, but his hands shook.

The nightmares you’d soothed before made too much sense.

“I didn’t want to tell you.” His voice sounded almost childishly small. “I thought if you knew... you wouldn’t want me.”

Your own heart hurt so badly it felt like a physical wound. You wanted to scream at the universe for ever doing that to him.

Instead you crawled into his lap on the couch, ignoring his flinch at first, forcing your palms to stay gentle as they framed his face.

“Spencer,” you whispered. “Look at me.”

His eyes were glassy, but he obeyed.

“I don’t care that you were in prison. I care that you went through that.”

He blinked, tears falling.

“I’m sorry you had to survive that. I hate that you were alone.”

You kissed him before he could say anything else, holding onto him so tightly he trembled.

His breath hitched when you shifted in his lap.

“Don’t you dare think I’m going anywhere.”

He swallowed, eyes wet and wide. “You... you mean that?”

“Spencer. I love you. All of you. Even the parts that hurt.”

Your thumbs caught his tears. His mouth found yours again with desperate, uneven heat, his hands tangling in your hair.

That was when you felt the change—like something in him broke open.

He let you guide him to the bedroom, let you push him gently onto the mattress, watching you with feverish, disbelieving eyes as you straddled his hips.

You tugged his shirt over his head and pressed kisses to every inch of pale skin, your lips lingering on old scars, on the places where tattoos or brands of the system had faded but never fully disappeared.

His breath stuttered when you unbuttoned your blouse.

“Please,” he rasped.

You smiled, slow and aching. “I’m here.”

His hands were trembling when he ran them over your bare back, pulling you flush against him, his cock hard and twitching between you. You ground against him slowly, making him gasp, shiver, cling.

When you finally guided him inside you, it was careful at first, deliberate.

But he didn’t stay careful.

He let go.

His fingers bruised your hips. His breath came in hot, desperate moans against your throat. He kept apologizing, and you kept silencing him with your mouth, your body rocking against his.

When he came, he sobbed.

You held him through it.

After, you let him roll you over so he could bury his face against your chest, his breathing harsh but calming.

He whispered, broken and quiet, that he loved you.

You kissed the crown of his hair and told him you loved him too.

Eventually, finally, you both slept.

You woke before dawn.

You lay there a long moment, watching the tiny crease between his brows, even relaxed as he was. You ran a fingertip over his cheekbone. He looked so peaceful.

And you thought about what you could do.

He’d mentioned once—offhand, in one of those encyclopedic rambles you adored—that there was this bakery he loved as a kid, that he hadn’t had it in years. You realized you knew the place. It wasn’t too far.

You pressed a final kiss to his forehead, slipped from the bed as quietly as you could, and dressed in the half-light.

He didn’t stir.

You smiled.

Spencer woke to an empty bed.

The cold sheets.

The apartment silent.

His chest caved in with dread so visceral he thought he might throw up.

She left.

Of course she left.

Last night had been too much. He’d dumped all of it on her, sobbed in her arms, fucked her like he was starved. And she’d said she wouldn’t go, but people said things in the moment.

They didn’t mean it.

Not once they saw.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, fingers twisting in his hair.

He felt so stupid.

So sure he’d ruined everything.

He almost didn’t hear the key in the lock.

He flinched at the sound, then froze, listening.

“Spencer?”

Your voice, soft, uncertain.

He surged off the bed, tripping over his own feet, heart slamming.

You were standing in the doorway, bags in both hands.

You blinked at him, confused.

“Hey. Good morning? Sorry—I tried to be quiet so you could sleep...”

He stared at you.

And then, helplessly, his voice cracked.

“You didn’t leave?”

Your face fell in instant, horrified understanding. You dropped the bags on the counter and rushed to him.

“Oh my god. Oh, baby. No. No. Come here.”

You pulled him in, arms wrapping around his waist.

“I told you I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered fiercely against his shoulder.

He trembled under your hands.

“You were gone—”

“I went to get you your favorite pastry. Look.” You pulled back just enough to fumble the bag open, showing the warm, flaky thing he’d once mentioned missing so much.

His vision blurred.

You watched him, so worried.

“Spencer,” you said softly, firmly. “I love you. I want you. All of you.”

He buried his face against your neck, inhaling you like air.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he choked out.

“You won’t,” you promised. “Not ever.”

He held you so tightly it hurt.

You eventually coaxed him to sit on the bed with you, feeding him bits of the pastry, kissing sugar from his lips, hands tangling in his hair.

He smiled for you then, raw but real.

And you smiled back.

In the pale morning light, you pressed your forehead to his and whispered:

“I’m here. Always.”

His eyes shone with tears.

He exhaled, long and shaking, and let you hold him.

The fire crackled in the quiet, shadows dancing against the walls like slow-moving waves. Aaron sat at the edge of the couch, legs apart, head tilted slightly down as he loosened his tie with practiced fingers. His white shirt stretched across his shoulders, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the last remnants of his day still clinging to him.

You waited until he looked up before stepping into the light.

Silk slipped against your skin as you walked toward him, the soft hem brushing the top of your thighs. You didn’t say a word. Just let him see.

When the robe loosened and dropped to the floor, he inhaled like you’d stolen the air from the room.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

His body moved with purpose, rising from the couch and closing the distance between you. One hand found your waist while the other curled around your neck, tilting your face toward his. His eyes searched yours, intense and reverent, before he kissed you — slow and sure, like he’d waited all week for this moment.

Your breath hitched as he backed you toward the fireplace. The flames pulsed behind you, heat licking your skin. He sank to his knees before you, pulling you gently down with him onto the plush rug.

"You’re incredible," he murmured, fingertips tracing along your ribs, slipping under the black lace you wore for him. "You always are."

Your lips brushed his jaw as he spoke, your voice soft in his ear.

"I wanted to surprise you. Thought maybe you'd like me like this. Thought maybe we needed something… quiet. Real."

He looked at you like you were a miracle.

"I always want you like this. Especially like this."

His hands slid beneath the delicate lingerie, pushing it down your hips. His touch was steady but slow, as though every inch of you deserved to be unwrapped like something sacred.

When his mouth found you, you moaned before you could stop it. The heat of the fire blended with the heat of his tongue, your fingers gripping his shoulders as his name escaped your lips.

He didn’t rush. He never did. He knew your body too well. He knew what made your breath catch and your legs tremble. He gave you everything and then some, until you pulled at his hair and whispered that you couldn’t take another second without him inside you.

You undressed him slowly, hands working the buttons of his shirt, revealing the strong lines of his chest, the tension in his shoulders, the muscles along his back. When his shirt finally fell to the floor, you sat up just enough to kiss between his shoulder blades. Soft, warm, lingering kisses, each one lower than the last. You heard the sound he made — a quiet, barely-there groan like he was trying to keep it buried.

When he finally moved over you, he kissed you like he needed it to live.

"Are you sure?" he asked, even now, always careful, always reverent.

You reached for him, guiding him to you. Your voice was breathless, but certain.

"I’m sure."

When he pressed into you, your bodies met like they were meant to. Every thrust was deep and deliberate, a rhythm built on intimacy, not haste. Your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs around his waist, every part of you wrapped around him.

He whispered your name between kisses. He told you how good you felt. How beautiful you looked. How you drove him insane in the best way.

When you came, he held you through it, hand between your legs, voice at your ear, coaxing you higher until the tremor took you completely.

He followed you a few moments later, his body shuddering against yours, breath unsteady, hands clutching at your skin like he never wanted to let go.

He didn’t pull away right away. He stayed inside you, forehead pressed to yours, one hand caressing your jaw while the other rested at the curve of your hip.

You reached up again and kissed the space just beneath his shoulder, then lower, and lower again, until your lips found the base of his spine. He sighed your name, his voice low and raw.

"You’re unreal," he whispered. "And mine."

The fire cracked again, the sound soft and grounding.

You smiled, tugging him down beside you, limbs tangled, skin still flushed.

"Next time," you said into his chest, "I’m lighting the fire before you even walk through the door."

His hand slid into your hair, his voice filled with quiet satisfaction.

You hadn’t stopped thinking about him.

It wasn’t just the way Spencer had touched you, though that alone had replayed in your mind with aching clarity. It was the way he had looked at you while doing it. Focused. Attentive. Like your body was a language he had waited his entire life to learn. Like your pleasure was more important than his own.

You hadn’t planned to book another session, but your fingers hovered over the appointment page for days until impulse overrode common sense. Now, standing once again at the receptionist’s desk, your heart thundered beneath your ribs.

“He’s ready for you,” she said, her voice bright. “Room three.”

Room three. Your skin prickled as you walked down the hallway, the door already familiar.

Inside, the lights were dimmed, the air soft with lavender and cedarwood. Spencer stood by the massage table, arranging folded towels with precision. He looked up when you entered, and that same quiet warmth spread across his face. Something deeper than recognition. A kind of quiet relief.

“You came back,” he said.

You let the door click shut behind you. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

He hesitated, smiling with a kind of nervous pride. “I hoped. But I didn’t want to assume. Not after last time.”

You stepped closer, heat already blooming low in your belly. “I didn’t come for a massage this time. I came for you.”

His expression flickered from surprised to hungry in the space of a breath. He nodded once, slow and reverent, like he was receiving permission he hadn’t dared to ask for.

“Then let me take care of you again,” he said.

This time you undressed without instruction, letting each piece of clothing fall with casual intention. He watched in silence, his gaze reverent as you climbed onto the table and stretched out on your back, unabashedly bare. No sheet. No hesitation.

“Face up?” he asked, approaching slowly, his voice softer now.

“I want to see you,” you replied.

His hands started at your ankles, warm and slick with oil, moving upward with deliberate care. He massaged your calves with long strokes, his thumbs circling just behind your knees before gliding up the curves of your thighs. You parted your legs without prompting, and he paused only for a second, eyes flicking to your face for permission.

You nodded.

His hands traveled higher, sliding over your hips, your belly, pausing to knead the soft flesh with slow, grounding pressure. When his palms cupped your breasts, your breath hitched. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, teasing until they pebbled beneath his touch. You arched into him, already aching.

Then his mouth followed.

He kissed between your breasts, then lower, dragging his tongue down your stomach. When he settled between your legs and looked up at you, his eyes were dark and heavy with heat.

“May I?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said, the word catching in your throat.

He leaned in and licked a long, deliberate stripe up your center, groaning softly against your skin. His mouth was warm and slow, tongue flicking and circling your clit with maddening precision. You gasped, hips jerking against him, but he held you steady with hands splayed on your thighs, spreading you open even further.

“You taste incredible,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and reverent. “I could stay right here.”

He added two fingers, sliding them into you with the same care he gave every movement. He curled them just right, his mouth never leaving your clit, and the orgasm hit hard, pulsing through your body like heat lightning. You cried out, gripping the edge of the table, your vision blurring with pleasure.

He only stopped when your legs trembled. Then he rose slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes still locked on yours.

“I need to be inside you,” he said, voice rough, chest rising and falling.

You pulled him down by the front of his scrubs. “Then what are you waiting for?”

This time, he undressed in front of you. He peeled the black scrubs from his lean frame, revealing pale skin, toned muscle, and the hard, aching length of him standing proud between his hips. He rolled the condom on with shaking hands, then pressed forward, lining himself up before sliding into you with a groan that made your toes curl.

You exhaled sharply, your legs wrapping around him as he began to move. Each thrust was slow, deep, unhurried. He fucked you like he had all the time in the world. Like this wasn’t just about lust, but about learning every part of you.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again, working it in tandem with his rhythm. His other arm curled beneath your back, lifting you closer, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was messy and consuming.

“God,” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “You feel so good. You’re perfect.”

You held his face between your hands, your eyes locked on his. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He kept going until you were moaning into his mouth, your climax rolling through you again, even stronger than the last. You clenched around him, and he cursed, hips stuttering.

“I’m close,” he gasped. “I can’t—”

“Come,” you whispered. “I want to feel it.”

He buried himself deep one last time and came with a shudder, groaning your name like a prayer. His body collapsed against yours, trembling and warm, and the two of you lay there tangled, breathing hard in the quiet.

Minutes passed. Maybe more. Eventually he lifted his head, brushing damp hair from your forehead with a touch so gentle it made your chest ache.

“Are you still feeling a little tense?” he asked with a crooked smile.

You laughed breathlessly. “I think you ruined me for every other therapist.”

He kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then your lips. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that.”

He reached for a towel and helped clean you with quiet care. Then he leaned close again, lips brushing your ear.

The worst part wasn’t that Spencer Reid rejected you.

It was how he did it.

You stood in the BAU breakroom with your heart clutched in your throat, your hands trembling slightly as you offered him the carefully folded note you’d debated giving him for weeks. It wasn’t a dramatic confession—just a quiet, simple truth written on paper because the words stuck in your throat every time you looked into those kind, analytical eyes.

He read it in three seconds flat. Blinked once. Then said, without even looking up, “You shouldn’t waste your time on people who don’t feel the same.”

The silence that followed was deafening. The words crushed you like glass underfoot—cold, sharp, and cutting deeper with every breath you tried to take.

You didn’t cry. Not then.

But the next morning, you came in smiling like it hadn’t happened. Like you hadn’t spent the entire night replaying his words until they etched themselves into your bones. You were fine. You kept telling yourself that until it started to feel almost believable.

Almost.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the team to notice.

Morgan softened around you. JJ gave you too many meaningful looks. Penelope pulled you into her office for long, rambling pep talks about self-worth and soulmates.

Even Hotch said your name more gently than usual.

But Spencer? He acted like nothing had changed. And that somehow made everything worse.

So, you moved on.

Or pretended to.

The guy from counter-terrorism—Eli—was easy on the eyes, charming in that cocky, I-bet-he’s-great-in-bed way. You let him flirt with you in the hallway. You laughed a little too loudly at his jokes. And one Friday after work, you let him take you out for drinks.

You didn’t expect Spencer to care.

You certainly didn’t expect him to glare across the bar like he wanted to kill Eli with his mind.

But that’s exactly what happened.

It was a BAU outing, and you were perched at the bar, Eli’s hand casually resting on your lower back as he leaned in to whisper something in your ear. You laughed—because you were trying, trying to feel anything but the ache Spencer had left behind—and when you turned to look at him, Spencer was staring at you with eyes that had gone dark and unreadable.

He was furious.

You blinked, startled, but he looked away as quickly as he’d looked at you. You pretended not to notice when he left early.

He didn’t speak to you for days.

You thought maybe you’d finally crossed some invisible line. That whatever bridge remained between you had burned to ash.

Then, on a late Thursday night, you found yourself working alone in the briefing room, flipping through profiles in a haze of exhaustion. The lights were dim, your coffee had gone cold, and your legs ached from sitting in the same position for hours.

You didn’t even hear the door open.

“Why him?” Spencer’s voice broke the quiet like a crack of thunder.

You looked up, startled. He stood in the doorway, his hair slightly disheveled, his tie loose, his chest rising and falling too quickly for someone who supposedly didn’t care.

“Why him, of all people?” he repeated, stepping closer.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

Spencer’s jaw clenched. “Eli. The guy from counter-terrorism. You let him touch you like you don’t know who’s watching.”

Your breath caught.

Something flickered in his eyes. Anger. Possession. Regret.

“You said I shouldn’t waste my time,” you said flatly, heart thudding. “I listened.”

“That was a mistake.”

You froze.

Spencer took another step forward, voice low and raw. “I thought I was protecting you. From me. From what it would mean if I said yes. But then I saw him touching you and—” He exhaled sharply. “And I wanted to rip his fucking hand off.”

The silence that followed was like a string pulled taut between you.

“I’m in love with you,” you said quietly, not flinching this time. “Even after what you said. I’m still in love with you.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Not when he crossed the room in three long strides, not when he cupped your face with trembling hands, not when he kissed you like he was drowning in everything he’d tried to deny.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was desperate.

You gasped into his mouth as he backed you against the wall, lips fierce and unforgiving, hands sliding down your body with shaking restraint.

“You don’t get to do this,” you whispered, but even as you said it, you were tugging at his shirt, your voice breaking. “You don’t get to break me and then decide you want me.”

“I know,” he breathed against your jaw. “I know. I’m sorry. Let me—please—let me make it right.”

His mouth trailed to your throat, then lower, unbuttoning your blouse with fevered urgency. You weren’t even sure how your skirt ended up bunched around your hips, or when he dropped to his knees in front of you, his breath hot against the inside of your thigh.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, reverent, almost pained. “You always have been.”

Then his mouth was on you, and all thoughts of heartbreak scattered like dust.

You braced against the wall, fingers tangled in his hair, hips twitching forward as his tongue circled your clit with maddening precision. You cried out his name—once, twice—until he groaned against you and slid two fingers inside, curling them just right.

“Spencer,” you whimpered. “I’m gonna—”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t want to. He worked you through it, licking and stroking until your legs were shaking and your mind was blank with pleasure.

When you finally opened your eyes, he was already standing, already unbuckling his belt with a heat in his gaze that made your breath catch.

“I need you,” he said, voice rough. “Tell me I can have you.”

You nodded, dazed, and he spun you around, bending you over the conference table like he couldn’t wait another second.

When he slid inside, you both gasped—his hands gripping your hips, your cheek pressed to the cool wood, the stretch of him grounding you in the best way.

“You feel—fuck—so good,” he groaned, thrusting deep.

You arched into him, pushing back. “Harder.”

He obeyed, fucking you with growing intensity, the sounds of skin meeting skin filling the dark room. One hand wrapped around your waist, the other slid between your thighs to circle your clit again. It was too much. It was perfect.

You came again with a broken moan, and he followed seconds later, spilling inside you with a harsh gasp, his body collapsing over yours.

For a long moment, you just breathed.

Then, softly, his lips brushed your shoulder.

“I love you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’ve always loved you.”

You turned your head, met his eyes. “You’re damn lucky I still want to hear that.”

It was supposed to be one last drink.

The case was over, the unsub was in custody, and for once, no one had died. The three of you ended up back at Hotch’s apartment — his invitation, casual and unexpected, drawing you and Spencer like moths to a flame. Maybe you all just weren’t ready to say goodnight yet. Maybe something else had been simmering under the surface for too long.

You sat on Hotch’s couch with Spencer beside you, legs tucked beneath you, your fingertips brushing his as you passed him your empty glass. The warm flush on your skin had little to do with the whiskey and more to do with the way Hotch was watching you.

And Spencer.

Both of you.

With heat.

With want.

With decision.

When Aaron finally crossed the room and pulled you to your feet, there was no pretense. His fingers curled under your jaw, lifting your gaze to his. “Say stop,” he murmured, “if you want to stop this.”

You didn’t.

Neither did Spencer.

You’d never felt more naked than you did fully undressed under both of their eyes.

Hotch stood behind you, firm and steady, his hands tracing reverent lines down your body. In front of you, Spencer looked wrecked already — his curls mussed, his shirt gone, his belt unbuckled and hanging open. His eyes darted from your chest to your lips to Aaron’s possessive grip on your hips.

“You’re stunning,” Spencer breathed, and Aaron’s hand moved lower in approval, pressing you back against his chest.

“She’s more than that,” Hotch said lowly, his breath ghosting over your ear. “She’s ours tonight.”

Spencer swallowed, visibly shivering.

Hotch kissed your neck, slow and claiming. “Get on your knees for us, sweetheart. Show Spencer how good you are.”

You sank to the floor, between them both.

They took their time.

Spencer fumbled slightly at first — always so brilliant, always so eager — but once his cock was in your mouth and your lips were wrapped around him, he forgot to be nervous. He forgot everything but the way your tongue swirled, the way your eyes met his, the way Aaron stood behind you murmuring filth in your ear.

“Look how much he loves it,” Hotch whispered. “How hard he gets when you moan around him.”

Spencer’s hips bucked involuntarily and you held him in your mouth, letting him fuck your throat gently, your fingers curled around his thighs. Hotch’s hand cradled the back of your head, guiding the rhythm, watching both of you fall apart a little more.

By the time Hotch tugged you up, Spencer was trembling — not from orgasm, not yet, but from restraint.

“She needs both of us,” Hotch said firmly. “Come on. Bed.”

You laid out on Aaron’s mattress, spread for them, every nerve ending on fire.

Spencer knelt between your legs, his fingers moving carefully through your folds, slow and attentive, while Hotch prepared himself behind you. The slick sounds, the low sounds of both their breath, the heat curling deep in your belly — it was overwhelming.

“Is this okay?” Spencer asked, always asking, always gentle.

You cupped his cheek. “I want you. Both of you.”

Hotch’s voice was rough. “She’s ready.”

And then you were surrounded.

Spencer lined himself up and pressed inside first — slow, stretching you, filling you with a gasp. He leaned down to kiss you, and it was sweet, shaky, like he couldn’t believe he was inside you.

Hotch didn’t wait long.

The extra stretch of his cock behind you was more than full — it was mind-blowing. Hotch took it slow, carefully, giving you time to adjust as he eased inside alongside Spencer, groaning low in your ear when he bottomed out.

Double penetration — you’d fantasized about it, but nothing prepared you for the sensation. You were completely filled, tight and trembling, with both of them pressed inside you, holding still while you clutched at Spencer’s arms, trying to breathe through the overwhelming fullness.

“You’re perfect,” Hotch growled. “So tight like this. Taking us both.”

Spencer kissed you, panting. “God, you feel… incredible.”

They started to move.

Not too fast, not at first — a slow, deliberate rhythm as they moved in sync, careful not to overwhelm you. Spencer fucked forward while Hotch thrust deeper behind you, and the friction, the stretch, the heat had you gasping their names, clawing at the sheets, shaking apart.

Aaron’s hand slid around your throat, just resting there. “Good girl. Look at Spencer while we fuck you. Let him see how pretty you are like this.”

You moaned — loud, uninhibited.

Spencer leaned down to kiss you again, needier now, his tongue sliding into your mouth as you whined into it. You felt Aaron’s chest at your back, his breath ragged, and then — his voice low and deliberate —

“Kiss him again.”

You obeyed.

And then something electric happened — Spencer whimpered into your mouth as Aaron reached forward and curled his fingers into Spencer’s hair, pulling him close. And before either of you could fully register it, Aaron was kissing Spencer too.

It wasn’t shy. It wasn’t delicate.

Hotch kissed him like he owned him.

Spencer moaned into it, his cock throbbing inside you, and the low sound Aaron made in response had you clenching hard around them both.

“That’s it,” Hotch muttered darkly. “You both belong to me tonight.”

It became a blur after that.

They moved faster, deeper — fucking you harder, praising you, touching you everywhere. Spencer’s hand found your clit, rubbing firm little circles that had your legs shaking. Hotch gripped your hips, thrusting deep, his voice low and filthy in your ear.

“You were made for this, sweetheart. Made for us.”

“Please,” you whimpered, not even sure what you were begging for anymore.

“Let go,” Spencer urged, voice cracking. “Come for us. Please, I want to feel—”

You shattered.

Your orgasm ripped through you with a violent, shaking cry, your body clenching down so hard on both of them that Spencer nearly lost it.

“Oh god—” he choked, “Hotch, I’m—”

“Go ahead,” Aaron said. “Come inside her.”

Spencer gasped as he came, pulsing deep, his face buried in your neck. Hotch held both of you through it, still moving behind you, still thick and hard and aching for release.

When Spencer collapsed beside you, spent and panting, Hotch pulled you up and over into his lap, never pulling out. He adjusted your hips until he was buried deep again — this time alone — and you moaned at the soreness and fullness, your body already so wrecked.

But you wanted more.

You rode him as he gripped your hips, thrusting up hard into you, chasing his own high. Spencer leaned in, kissing your shoulder, murmuring sweet praise into your ear — how good you were, how beautiful, how perfect.

Then he kissed Aaron.

It was slower this time. Aaron’s hand slid up to cradle Spencer’s jaw, and Spencer moaned into the kiss while Hotch finally came inside you with a low groan, gripping you tight, thrusting deep as he emptied himself.

You collapsed between them, boneless and overwhelmed.

Aftercare came like a wave.

Hotch cleaned you up gently, wrapping you in one of his softest shirts, placing you between them on the bed. Spencer spooned you from behind, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder while Hotch held your hand and rubbed circles into your palm.

No words were needed.

Just soft breathing. Gentle touches. The warmth of being held by two people who had you — completely — and who you had in return.

As you drifted to sleep between them, you felt Spencer murmur something against your skin.

“…hope this wasn’t just one night.”

Aaron answered before you could.

It’s already too loud when you step into Derek Morgan’s place.

The music pulses through the floor, bodies are packed shoulder to shoulder, and there’s a keg already half-empty in the kitchen. You maneuver through the crush of people toward the living room, tugging down the hem of your dress, already regretting wearing heels.

“Hey, pretty girl!” Derek calls over the music, grinning like the host he is—half-drunk and completely in his element. “Looking for someone?”

You shoot him a grin and shout back, “You know damn well I am!”

He winks. “Upstairs bathroom. But be gentle with him.”

You roll your eyes and push past him, heart skipping at the implication—because yeah, you were looking for someone. Spencer Reid. Your lab partner, quiz-bowl rival, statistics tutor, secret late-night texting buddy—and maybe the most painfully oblivious man alive.

He’d said he might show up. “Maybe just for a little while,” he’d mumbled that afternoon, half-buried in a book and already twitching from caffeine. “Just to see what it’s like.”

You weren’t sure he’d actually do it.

But apparently, here he is.

You push up the stairs two at a time, ignoring the couple making out on the landing. You find the bathroom door cracked open, the light on, and—you peek in—

Spencer.

He’s leaning against the sink, head tipped back against the mirror, dark curls falling across his forehead. He’s flushed, slightly sweaty in his button-down (the top two buttons undone, collar rumpled), and holding a red solo cup like it might bite him.

He looks nervous. Way too nervous to be drunk.

You knock lightly on the open door.

His eyes snap open, wide and surprised—then warm when he sees you. “Oh. You came.”

“Derek said you were hiding in here.”

“I wasn’t hiding.” He makes a face. “I just—it was too loud. Too many people. Someone spilled tequila on my foot.”

You laugh and step inside, gently shutting the door behind you.

He blinks at you. “Are you… staying in here with me?”

“Well, it’s quieter,” you murmur. “And you’re here. So yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence. Tension.

You step a little closer, eyes dragging over the way he’s leaning against the counter, the visible pulse in his throat, the slightly parted lips.

And then, soft: “You look good tonight, Spencer.”

His cheeks flame. “I—uh—thanks. You look… stunning. Gorgeous. Um. That color’s really flattering. The dress. It’s—”

You cut him off by stepping right into his space, placing your hands on either side of the sink, boxing him in. “Spencer?”

He swallows thickly. “Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you now?”

A sharp breath. “Please.”

And then it’s heat and teeth and tongue, your lips pressed hard to his as he lets out a low, surprised sound. His hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb swiping your cheekbone, and he kisses you back like he’s been waiting forever.

Because maybe he has.

You moan softly into his mouth, and that’s when he grabs your waist and lifts you—awkwardly, but strong enough—to sit on the bathroom counter. You spread your legs, pulling him in between them, and feel the hard press of him through his slacks.

“Fuck,” you whisper against his lips. “You’re—Spencer, are you hard for me already?”

He groans, forehead pressing to yours. “I’ve been hard for you. All semester.”

You whimper at that, fingers fisting in his shirt. “Then take it out. I want you.”

He hesitates—just a second. “Are you sure? I mean, here? We’re in a—”

“Bathroom, yeah.” You lean in and bite his earlobe. “No one’s coming in. I locked the door. Come on, genius. Thought you were supposed to be smart.”

That does it.

Spencer crashes his lips back onto yours, hands trembling as he fumbles with your underwear—dragging it down your thighs with a breathless curse.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers, almost in awe, fingers brushing between your folds as he teases you open. “God, is this all for me?”

“All for you,” you pant, bucking into his hand. “Fuck, Spencer, please—don’t tease me, I need you in me.”

He’s flushed all the way down his neck as he opens his pants, cock springing free—and you stare, eyes going wide.

“Oh my god,” you murmur. “You’ve been hiding that in those corduroys?”

He flushes darker. “Should I—do you want me to use a condom? I have one. I think. Probably. Somewhere in my wallet—”

You shake your head. “I’m clean. On the pill. Just—please, Spencer. Now.”

He nods, eyes glassy, cock twitching in his hand. He lines himself up, rubs the tip through your slick folds once, twice—and then he sinks in.

Both of you moan at the same time.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasps, gripping your hips, jaw clenched. “You’re so tight—so warm—I don’t think I’m gonna last—”

“You better,” you hiss, wrapping your legs around his waist. “You owe me so much more than two minutes after all the teasing—”

But you’re cut off by a particularly deep thrust, and you bite down hard on your lip to keep from moaning too loud.

He’s thick, long, and desperate. The way he holds you—gripping your hips like he’ll float away without them—is almost reverent. You tilt your hips, and the angle has him hitting just right, again and again.

“Spencer,” you whine, clawing at his shirt, “You feel so good, baby, so deep—don’t stop, please—”

“I won’t,” he chokes, fucking into you faster now. “You feel like heaven, oh god—I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—”

“Fuck, I’m close,” you pant. “You’re gonna make me—Spencer—don’t stop—”

He slides a hand between you, thumb circling your clit with expert pressure, and that’s it. You arch off the counter with a cry, legs tightening around his hips as you come hard, pulsing around him.

Your orgasm triggers his.

He buries himself deep, holding you tight, mouth open against your shoulder as he spills into you with a low, drawn-out groan.

For a moment, the only sound is your combined breathing.

You both tremble through the aftershocks, Spencer’s forehead resting on your shoulder, your fingers threading through his curls.

Finally, he lifts his head. His eyes are blown-wide, face pink, and his lips are kiss-bruised.

“...So,” you say, still catching your breath. “That happened.”

He huffs a laugh. “It did.”

“Was it everything you fantasized about while grading my stats quizzes?”

He groans and hides his face in your neck. “Oh my god.”

You grin wickedly. “You totally did, didn’t you?”

“I’m never going to be able to look at chi-square the same way again.”

There’s a bang on the door.

“Hey!” Derek’s voice filters through, amused. “If you two nerds are gonna fuck in my bathroom, at least try to be quiet!”

You snort. Spencer groans again, mortified.

“Next time,” you whisper, brushing his curls back, “bedroom?”

Spencer’s apartment is too warm, too cluttered, and too full of half-drunk wine glasses, but you’re too tipsy to care. He’s sitting stiffly on the couch next to you, fingers white-knuckling the stem of his wineglass, as if letting go would make the room tip sideways.

You’re not much better off. You’re laughing too easily, letting your knees brush his when you shift, and you know it—how he squirms every time you lean in too close, how his gaze lingers on your mouth but darts away just as quickly.

“You really don’t drink much, do you?” you ask, swirling your glass lazily.

“I do. Occasionally. It’s just... rarely socially,” he says, blinking hard, trying to focus. “I’m better at sober parties.”

You snort. “Spencer, this isn’t a party. It’s me, in your house, with wine and takeout and one of those documentaries you love that I pretend to understand.”

He looks like he wants to argue but doesn’t, because you’re not wrong.

There’s a lull—quiet but charged. Spencer takes a long sip. His lips are wet and trembling, and your eyes linger.

He notices.

“What?” he asks softly.

“You’re so tense,” you murmur, tipping your head toward his shoulder. “You know you don’t have to be, right?”

“I’m not tense,” he lies, cheeks flushing pink.

You press your thigh against his. “You act like you’re about to run away every time I look at you for more than three seconds.”

“That’s—” he starts, flustered. “That’s not true.”

You grin. “Oh, baby. It so is.”

He swallows hard. You lean closer. He still doesn’t move.

“I think you’re scared of me,” you whisper, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Or maybe you’re just scared of what you want from me.”

His eyes flutter shut for a second. You can practically hear the gears grinding in that big beautiful brain of his. Calculating, rationalizing, denying.

And then he sighs, broken and small.

“I’m just... someone’s friend. Someone’s coworker. Someone’s son.”

The words are so pitiful, so cracked with self-loathing, you stop teasing for just a second. There it is—what he really believes. That he’s an extra in everyone’s story. A background character, even in his own life.

You don’t let the silence linger.

You tip your head, just enough to look him square in the eye, and murmur, “And you want to be someone’s dad?”

His whole body stiffens. The wineglass clinks slightly as his grip wavers. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. He looks wrecked.

“What—what does that mean?” he asks hoarsely.

You give a slow, dangerous smile. “You want to be inside me and fill me up like it’s your job. You want to pin me down and fuck me stupid and make me beg you for more. You want to come so deep it drips down my thighs. That’s what it means.”

Spencer makes a sound—somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His legs clench together. His hand twitches.

You reach over, pluck the wineglass from his hand, and set it down on the table. Then you climb onto his lap.

“You’re not just someone’s son,” you murmur against his lips. “You’re mine. If I want you.”

You grind down, just enough to feel the strain in his jeans.

And god, he’s already hard.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“I can,” you say sweetly. “Because I know what it does to you.”

His hands hover, shaking, near your hips. You let him sit there, trembling, aching for permission.

“Touch me,” you order, and his hands fly to your thighs.

“Good boy.”

The words hit him like a truck. His breath catches, and he bucks his hips without thinking.

“Oh, Spence,” you coo. “You like that?”

“Please,” he breathes, desperate.

You rock your hips once, grinding your clothed core against his bulge. He shudders.

“I bet you’ve thought about this,” you say, dragging your nails down his chest. “Me on top of you. Calling you names. Making you beg.”

“Y-Yes,” he admits, red-faced.

“Calling you my little slut?”

“God,” he gasps. “Please don’t stop.”

You lean in and kiss him, slow and filthy, tongue teasing the corner of his mouth until he opens up and lets you in. He moans—soft and sweet at first, then deeper, hungrier.

But he doesn’t stay soft.

No, Spencer gets rude.

His hands, once tentative, start to grip tighter. His mouth gets messier, teeth scraping your lip like he’s starved. He grinds up harder, more deliberate.

“Need to be inside you,” he mutters, almost angrily. “Now.”

“Oh, so needy,” you purr, shifting off his lap to unbutton your jeans. “You always get this bratty when someone gives you what you want?”

“I want more,” he growls. “Want all of you. Want to fuck you until you can’t walk.”

“Spencer,” you chide, but your voice wavers, because fuck—that switch in him is devastating.

He yanks his jeans open and fists his cock out in seconds—long, flushed, already dripping. You don’t waste time. You straddle him again, bare now, and take him in one slow slide that has both of you gasping.

“Oh god,” he cries. “You feel so—fuck.”

You roll your hips, letting him hit every spot he never thought he’d get to.

“I always knew you’d be tight,” he pants, thrusting up. “Knew you’d take me so good. Always teasing. Always looking at me like you wanted to sit on my cock during meetings.”

“And you’d just sit there and twitch,” you whisper, riding him faster. “Too scared to do anything. Just someone’s friend.”

“Not anymore,” he snarls. “Not your friend. Your fucktoy.”

You moan at that. Because he means it.

He’s bouncing you on his cock like he owns you now, filthy and feral, dragging bruises into your hips and biting your shoulder.

“God, I love you like this,” you gasp.

“Then let me come inside you,” he begs. “Let me make a mess of you.”

You shove your hand between your legs and rub fast circles, chasing your own high.

“I’m close,” you whimper.

“Come on my cock. Be a good girl and come for me.”

That does it. You clench hard around him, crying out his name as your orgasm hits. And Spencer loses it. He groans, cock pulsing deep inside you as he fills you up just like he promised.

After, you’re a tangle of limbs, still straddling him, both of you sweaty and shaking and breathless.

Spencer laughs—giddy and raw.

“I said I’m just someone’s son,” he mutters.

“And now?” you ask, brushing sweaty curls off his forehead.

It starts with a creak.

You freeze, hand still tucked between your thighs, the air suddenly sharp with tension. The BAU's hotel rooms have paper-thin walls, but this—this isn’t the usual ambient hallway noise. It’s subtle, cautious. Almost… too cautious.

And you know what that means.

A soft shuffle.

Someone’s just outside your room. Not passing by. Lingering.

You exhale slowly and push off the bed, letting the hem of your shirt fall back down over your thighs. Padding over on bare feet, you press your ear to the door.

You don’t expect to hear it.

Breathing.

Shaky. Quiet. Controlled.

You unlock the door and yank it open before you can lose your nerve.

Spencer Reid nearly falls in.

His eyes go wide. He stammers. “I—I—I—”

“You want to explain why you’re standing outside my door at midnight, looking like you just got caught jacking off in the library?”

His cheeks flush crimson. His mouth opens and closes. There’s a wet spot on his slacks.

Oh.

Oh.

You swallow hard. Your skin prickles.

“I heard something,” he says quickly. “A noise. I thought maybe you were—hurt.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So you leaned close to the door and listened?”

“I wasn’t—! I mean I didn’t know it was—!” He runs a hand through his hair, clearly panicking. “It’s not like I was trying to eavesdrop. But I… I didn’t want to interrupt if you were—”

You step forward. He steps back automatically, and you shut the door behind you, standing with your arms crossed.

“Finish that sentence, Dr. Reid.”

He swallows thickly. “Touching yourself.”

You blink. Bold.

“…Were you?” he asks after a pause, voice soft and almost reverent.

You tilt your head. “You tell me.”

His throat works, Adam’s apple bobbing. His eyes keep flitting over your face—your lips, your chest, your thighs. His hands twitch at his sides, and his posture is tense like he’s fighting something primal.

And then your eyes drop to the bulge in his pants.

That tells you everything.

“So you liked listening?” you ask, stepping in close.

He nods once. Hesitant. And desperate.

“Do you always lurk around hotel doors hoping to catch your female coworkers masturbating?” You tease him, but your voice is thick with heat.

He groans, quietly, almost like it hurts. “No. Just you.”

Your stomach flips. You reach out and slide a finger down the buttons of his shirt.

“Spencer.”

His name in your mouth makes him tremble.

“I was thinking about you.”

His eyes flick up to yours so fast you think you might’ve broken him.

“I—I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he blurts. “I swear I wasn’t—God, I know it’s creepy—”

“Spencer.”

He quiets immediately.

“Do you want to come inside?”

He breathes in like he’s been underwater.

You reach for the door handle behind you and open it again. “Or would you rather jerk off in the hallway some more?”

That gets him moving.

Fast.

The moment the door shuts behind him, he’s on you—nervous hands hovering, eyes darting, and finally you just grab his wrists and put them on your waist. He exhales like you’ve blessed him.

“Have you ever done this before?” you murmur, dragging your fingers up his chest.

He shakes his head. “Not—not all the way.”

You can’t help the throb that pulses between your thighs. “That’s okay. I’ll show you.”

His fingers dig into your hips. “I think about you all the time,” he whispers, like a confession. “I dream about you. About this.”

You kiss him.

His mouth is unsure, a little clumsy, but eager. God, he’s eager. His lips part and he makes this tiny noise when you bite down gently on his bottom lip.

You press your body to his. He groans into the kiss. You feel his hard cock straining through his pants, and you reach down to palm it.

He jolts.

“Sensitive?”

He nods frantically.

“Take off your pants, Spencer.”

He obeys like it’s instinct. Fumbling but fast. He kicks them off and stands there in his boxers, flushed and wide-eyed.

You press him down onto the bed and climb into his lap.

“Oh my God,” he breathes.

You lift your oversized t-shirt and toss it away. His jaw drops.

“You’re not real,” he whispers, hands ghosting up your thighs. “You can’t be.”

You grab his hands and bring them to your chest. “Touch me, Spence.”

He does. Tentatively at first, then more confidently, palming your breasts and running his thumbs over your nipples. You grind against him through your panties and his boxers, and he moans into your neck.

“Please,” he whispers. “Let me make you feel good.”

“Lie back,” you tell him.

He obeys again, and you climb off him just long enough to straddle his thighs and pull his boxers down.

You stare.

His cock is long, flushed, and already leaking.

“Jesus, Spencer.”

He whimpers a little. “I’ve thought about you riding me so many times…”

“Good. Because I’m going to.”

You reach down to your panties, soaked and sticky, and slide them off. His eyes never leave your cunt. He looks absolutely wrecked already.

But not yet.

You wrap your hand around his cock and stroke him slowly. His hips buck up into your hand.

“Sensitive,” you remind him.

“I can’t help it,” he gasps. “You’re so—warm—and wet and—fuck—”

You climb on top of him and guide him to your entrance.

When you sink down on his cock, he shouts.

“Holy shit—I’m sorry—fuck, you feel so good—”

You’re barely moving and he’s already trembling beneath you, clinging to your hips like a man drowning.

“Does that feel good, baby?”

“Yes,” he groans. “Oh my God, yes.”

You ride him slowly, letting him adjust. He’s already leaking, throbbing deep inside you. His eyes are rolling back, and he keeps mumbling things like perfect and dreaming and please don’t stop.

You lean down and kiss his throat.

“I want to see you come, Spencer.”

He grips your hips tighter. “I’m close already,” he whines. “It’s too good, I—I can’t—”

“Give it to me,” you whisper in his ear. “Come inside me. Fill me up.”

That’s all it takes.

His whole body jerks beneath you as he spills inside you, moaning your name like it’s a prayer, clutching at your waist like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

You slow your hips, letting him ride it out.

He’s gasping. Panting. Absolutely ruined.

And then his fingers dip between your thighs.

“Wait—let me—can I—” he stammers, “I want to make you come too—”

You smile and grind down on his cock, still hard enough to keep going.

You don’t know when the petty bickering between you and Dr. Spencer Reid turned into a full-on war.

It probably started the day you joined the BAU. He was condescending—brilliant, sure—but arrogant and short-tempered with you from day one. And you gave it right back. Mocking his facts. Smirking at his statistics. Calling him “Dr. Know-It-All” with a sickeningly sweet tone that made his eye twitch.

And in return?

“Good morning, beloathed,” he’d greet you with a tight-lipped smile.

You wanted to slap that smug mouth.

Or maybe you just wanted to kiss it.

—

The tension between you and Spencer was unbearable. The entire team noticed. You argued over files. You’d fight in the car about case theories. You even had a shouting match outside a crime scene that ended with Hotch physically stepping between you.

But the moment it shifted from hatred to something else?

That happened in a hotel hallway in Miami.

—

“Stop looking at my file,” Spencer hissed under his breath as you both sat on the floor outside the last unsub’s apartment. “You're too slow, anyway.”

You scoffed. “Just because I don’t read three thousand words a minute doesn’t mean I need your assistance, Doctor.”

He leaned in, smirking. “No, but it’s cute that you think you’re contributing.”

Your nostrils flared. “You’re such a smug, overgrown high school debate kid.”

He leaned closer. “And you’re a brat who wants someone to put her in her place.”

Your eyes locked.

The air sizzled.

You didn’t realize how close your faces were until he was whispering into your mouth.

“Bet you’d like it if I did.”

You didn't speak.

Neither did he.

The moment passed… until the case wrapped, and you found yourself walking back to the hotel, your heart still pounding.

He followed you down the hallway.

Neither of you said a word.

And then he grabbed your wrist and shoved you against your door.

—

“Spencer—”

“Shut up.”

His mouth crashed into yours. Hard, fast, rough. His hands tangled in your hair. His thigh slid between your legs. You gasped, and he took advantage, licking into your mouth like he owned it.

You were still fully clothed. Still standing in the hallway. But it was already the hottest thing you’d ever experienced.

“I fucking hate you,” you breathed against his lips.

“Yeah?” he growled, hand curling around your jaw. “Let’s see if you still hate me when I’m making you beg.”

—

Your hotel room.

You barely made it inside before Spencer slammed the door behind him and shoved you against it.

He kissed you again, all tongue and teeth and heat. His hands yanked your shirt over your head, tossed your bra aside.

“I knew you’d be like this underneath all that attitude,” he rasped, cupping your tits, thumbs flicking your nipples. “So fucking needy.”

“I hate you,” you whimpered, even as you arched into him.

He grinned. “Say it again. Louder. So I can fuck it out of you.”

You moaned as he dropped to his knees.

And he ate you out like a man starving.

One arm wrapped around your thigh, the other pressed to your stomach to pin you to the door. His mouth buried in your pussy, tongue licking deep and flat and wide, nose nudging your clit just right—

“Sp-Spencer—”

“Be quiet,” he said sharply, lips glistening. “I’m not done yet.”

Two fingers pushed into you, curling perfectly. You cried out, one hand slapping against the door, the other tangling in his hair.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, “you’re so good—”

He chuckled darkly, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“That’s Dr. Reid to you.”

—

Later, in bed.

He fucked you like he had a point to prove.

Like every stroke was a lesson. Every thrust was punishment. Every smack of his hips against your ass was a war won.

“You think you’re smarter than me?” he growled into your neck as he took you from behind, one hand gripping your hair. “Huh?”

“N-no,” you gasped, drooling into the sheets.

“Exactly. Say it.”

“You’re smarter—fuck—you’re so much smarter—”

He slapped your ass hard enough to make you cry out.

“Say you need me.”

“I need you, Spencer, please—!”

“Say you want me.”

“I want you.”

He slowed, hips grinding deep. His hand moved from your hair to your clit, circling gently.

“Say you’re mine.”

You sobbed.

“I’m yours.”

And just like that, the rhythm returned, faster, rougher, unforgiving.

You came with his name on your lips, and he spilled inside you a second later with a groan that vibrated down your spine.

—

After.

You laid curled into his chest, still panting, skin slick with sweat.

Spencer kissed your forehead.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured.

“What? That I’m a brat?”

He smirked.

“No. That you’re mine.”

Your cheeks flushed.

You looked up at him. “Still gonna call me beloathed in the office?”

He chuckled, hand running up your bare thigh.

“Only if I can call you beloved in bed.”

—

The next morning.

You arrived at the BAU with a limp, a new appreciation for genius-level dominance, and a very smug Dr. Spencer Reid holding your coffee.

“Good morning, beloved,” he purred as he handed it to you, and winked.

Hotch just sighed.