Dr. Spencer Reid

They say that there are three main chemicals that manufacture the feeling of initial attraction in the brain: dopamine, serotonin, and norepinephrine. That there’s a million factors that can contribute to the attraction you feel towards your fellow man. Childhood development, proximity, subconscious pattern recognition– all of these things make up the scientific explanation for why one person becomes more enticing than the next. All of this, you knew. But none of it could save you from devolving into madness when it came to Spencer Reid. You were a professional, someone with standards. You’d attended- and subsequently obliterated expectations at- the FBI academy. You had years of field profiling experience under your belt. And yet, Dr. Spencer Reid seemed to reduce you down to one thing:

Needy.

Spencer was a, too, a professional. He was a man of incredible intelligence and excellent at profiling. Which is why you were such a problem – because you would have moments where you were anything but subtle about your attraction. You’d gaze at him with utter lust during debriefs, bite your lips and bat your eyes at your desk after a conversation. You weren’t outright sexualizing him, nor were you openly flirting. But with his expertise in body language, you might as well have been stripping him right there in the bullpen. 

It drove him crazy.

Spencer had a reputation of composure, but you were driving him over the edge. He noticed. Every time you lost your composure, he noticed. And you knew it, too. You felt a little ashamed, like a schoolgirl with a crush, you were inconsolable when it came to your absolute desperation for your unit’s resident genius. 

-

You were on a case now, and you and Spencer had been sent together to meet with the medical examiner. There was an unsub targeting women who had given up their children for adoption, eviscerating them before dumping them in lakes unweighted. You decided to drive, hoping that the details of the case and the attention the road demanded would keep your mind from wandering. You were capable of being normal around Spener- in fact, you would consider him a very close friend. You’d talked for hours in the past, but as of late your tolerance for surrogate hookups had expired, and your vibrators simply weren’t enough, so being around him was becoming difficult.

“Do you think we’re looking for a child abandoned by their birth mother?” You asked, thumb fidgeting with the wheel as you drove.

“It’s definitely a possibility. There’s so much rage in the kills, at least as much as we’ve seen in the photos. The unsub could see himself as a sort of vigilante for children who were unwanted,” he replied. “In the year 2005, there were at least 146,172 finalized adoptions across the United States– children are given away every day. The question is, why now? What stressor would make the child start killing years after they were presumably given up?” You were silent, thinking about everything you knew about the foster care system and what happened to kids when they outgrew their placements. Finally, you arrived, parking fairly close to the door of the morgue. As Spencer exited, you turned to grab your jacket from the back seat. It was a brisk day, and you knew morgues weren’t known for their warmth, either. When you went to reach for your door handle, you found that Spencer had come to open it for you. You flushed slightly.

“Oh, thank you! I could have gotten it,” You said, and he shrugged. 

“It’s the chivalrous thing to do. Actually, did you know that while door holding was popularized by knights in the Victorian Era, Greek men used to carry their wives on their shoulders to prevent them from dirtying their clothes?” He asked, offering you his hand as you stepped out. You felt distinctly princess-like, and could easily get used to Spencer taking care of you, opening your doors, opening your legs…

You blinked hard before looking to meet Spencer’s gaze. You were blushing, and Spencer tensed, ever so slightly. He licked his lips before turning his head towards the door. He had dropped your hand, and you immediately put it in your coat to make up for the loss of his warmth. “That’s really interesting, Spencer,” you said, and meant it. 

When you met with the M.E. she began to describe the victim’s injuries. “She died from loss of blood, a class three hemorrhage from this slash to her throat. She was found in a lake, which explains these notches here– the environment began to deteriorate the body right before it was found, probably from something in the water that was hungry enough to approach.”

Spencer’s face wrinkled in confusion. “So she didn’t die from the evisceration? Was it done postmortem?” 

The medical examiner paused. “My guess? It occurred very soon after the throat was slashed. However, it would only take about 2 minutes to die from blood loss after a gash this deep, so there’s a chance the victim was still alive, but they definitely wouldn’t have been conscious. After about 15 seconds, she most likely passed out.”

You sighed. “So not quite torture, but still an extremely violent way to kill. Was there any signs of sexual assault?” The woman shook her head. “There is something to note, however. Though a lot of the internal organs were damaged during the evisceration, there was extensive injury to the uterus, gashes not aligning with the other cuts.”

Spencer nodded curtly. After a few more questions, you both made your way out. The details of the case fresh in your mind, you wanted to discuss with Spencer before you forgot anything. 

“No sexual assault and a water burial points to a female unsub, but the cause of death was so extremely violent and messy. If there was no sexual motivation, this unsub would have to have incredible amounts of rage and privacy to attack in this way,” You mused, and Spencer nodded, casually going to open your door before you got the chance. You again were caught off guard. You’d been sent alone with Reid before, and never had he acted this way. It was a small change in behavior, but noticing changes in behavior was your job. You gave him a small smile before climbing in. Something heated in your core, and butterflies fluttered in your abdomen. You took a deep breath before Spencer entered the car, trying to keep your composure. This was going to be a long case. 

-

When you and Spencer returned to the police station, you met with everyone and began to relay your information. There was very little difference in the appearances of the women, the MO consistent with every kill. Forensic countermeasures, no witnesses at the dump site, and no apparent connection between the victims besides the obvious physical resemblance and the fact that they all had kids put into the system. That was, until Garcia called. “Hey, Babygirl. What do you have? You’re on speaker.” Said Derek, setting his phone on the table. 

“Hey sweetness. I did what you asked, and there’s no links romantically between the woman, so no sharing baby daddies over here. All three women had their cases sealed as no-contact, but I didn’t want to come up completely empty handed– so I did some more looking and I think I found out how the unsub is targeting his victims.”

Spencer cut in, raising his hand. “Actually, Garcia, when we visited the medical examiner, we floated the theory that the unsub is a woman due to the apparent lack of sexual interest and mode of disposal.” 

Garcia let out a small gasp, “Oh, that is not good.” 

“Why?” Spencer asked, face scrunched.

“Because all three victims attended support groups for women who put their children up for foster care.” 

You stiffened, and your mouth dropped slightly. 

“Oh, my god,” You said. Everyone looked at you as you placed your hand on the table. “She’s killing herself.”

- 

After realizing the unsub was targeting women who represented herself, the team decided to do more research into why the woman would attack others instead of actually killing herself. 

“Guilt for leaving the child is the most obvious option, but it doesn’t make sense that simply putting the baby up for adoption would have triggered her like this. She likely knew that she wouldn’t be able to care for the baby upon finding out she was pregnant. But if she’s stable enough to recognize that something about her situation makes her an unfit mother, then it feels like we’re missing a part of what’s triggering her. She cares enough for her child to try and give it a good life that’s not with her. That doesn’t sound like someone who is capable of this level of violence.” Emily mused, and you nodded. 

Spencer came up beside you, standing behind your chair. Your hair went on end as he joined the conversation, hand resting on the chair only an inch away from the back of your neck. You imagined him resting his hand on your neck instead, snaking it around to the front and squeezing while he directed your gaze upward. You swallowed hard and sat up straight in your chair. Spencer looked down at you from where he stood for only a moment, and you worried he could read your mind. He smelled good, you could tell from his proximity. He was so intoxicating, and no matter how hard you tried, your mind couldn’t find its way back to the conversation. You nodded as if you were listening, but his looming presence had you nervous, paralyzed. He had that effect on you– he was your greatest distraction. Once you registered that he had finished speaking, you stood abruptly and said, “Excuse me,” you muttered, before cutting beside him and making a beeline for the coffee pot. 

Spencer’s brow furrowed, and Emily quirked her head. “Is she okay…?” She asked.

“I don’t know,” Spencer admitted, “But I’m gonna find out.” 

You grabbed a styrofoam cup and decided to pour some water from the cooler. You breathed deep– your feelings for Spencer were becoming suffocating. You stood from your bent position at the spout when you felt a hand on the lower-middle of your back. You startled, and almost spilt your water. You held your heart and felt it twist when you met the ever-enveloping gaze of Spencer Reid. 

“Oh! You- you scared me.” You said, looking down at your cup, but Spencer moved to include his face in your line of sight.

“Hey, are you okay? You’ve been acting strange… you space out a lot and you’re back to biting your lips. Is there something on your mind?” He asked, eyes slightly darkening before he slipped his voice in a lower, softer tone. “Someone on your mind?” 

Your eyes went wide and you bit the inside of your cheek to make sure you weren’t having another dirty work dream. But lo, this was real. 

“Spencer! Why would you ask me that? I’m fine,” You said, but Spencer cocked his head.

“That wasn’t a no.” He stated simply, his furrowed brow catching your attention. His thinking face was something you’d always admired— but now his quizzicality was turned on you, and it made you sweat. You quirked your head slightly and narrowed your eyes. Two could play this game. 

“Why do you care?” you asked, turning the question on him once more.

Spencer blinked and he wet his lips. Before you could give him the chance to reply, you pressed him again. “You’ve been licking your lips. It’s a nervous tick. You did it when you held my door, too. Were you nervous then, Reid? Do I make you nervous?” You asked, a challenge in your eyes. Despite your brave face, your heart was pounding and you felt heat gathering below your belt. You wanted him to take you by the lips and work your biting attitude out of you. When he didn’t reply, you let yourself smile like you’d won.

“That’s okay. We don’t have to do this here, hm?” You said, and Spencer’s gaze darkened. Just as you went to walk away, Spencer moved his hand from your back to your arm, grabbing your tricep and stopping you in your path. 

“You’re right. We’ll finish this later.” He said after he moved close to your ear before walking ahead of you back to the conference room the team had posted up in. 

Oh, fuck.

-

That night when you got back into your hotel, you turned and closed the door behind you as quickly as you could. You panted heavily and closed your eyes. The rest of the night there were no further developments in the case, and you all felt defeated. More than that, every time you were in a room with him, you felt Reid’s eyes burning a hole into the back of your head, always watching. You felt like a deer in headlights, trapped in wait. You pushed off the door and threw your go-bag onto the bed, searching frantically for the item you had most shamefully added within the last few weeks.

A small pink mini-wand. It was the quietest toy you could find, and you were paranoid of your coworkers somehow hearing you fucking yourself over the sexy genius none of them knew you wanted. Or, you thought none of them knew. All of the members of the BAU had suspected your feelings for months.

You threw your clothes off your body, stripping down into your underwear and walking to the bathroom to turn on the shower. The toy was waterproof, thank goodness, because you were aching to take care of yourself and didn’t want to wait until you were showered to do so. After taking off the rest of your layers, you stepped inside, feeling the warm water trickle down your body. You clicked on the wand, and gingerly pressed it to your throbbing clit. Unfortunately, you heard a noise that made you jump and hurriedly turn it off. 

It was knocking, on your door. You groaned and turned off the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping yourself before angrily going to see who it was. You left the toy on the bed, just around the corner from the door, out of sight. You looked through the peep hole and blinked in surprise when you saw it was Spencer. You adjusted your makeshift cover before cracking the door just so. “...Yes, Spencer?” You asked, pinning him with a look of annoyance as he noticed your distinct lack of real clothes. 

“We just got to our rooms, and you’re already naked?” He asked, and your face flushed red. It was as if he knew that a shower was only half your motivation, like he could see the hot pink vibrator waiting for you just out of sight.

“You make it sound so weird! I was in the shower. What do you want,” you said, less like a question and more of a statement of annoyance.

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “But your hair isn’t wet?”

You rolled your own and glared. “I had only just got in before someone came knocking on my door, apparently just to bother me. Goodnight Spencer.” You went to close the door in his face. “Wait,” he said, jamming his foot in the frame before you could close it. 

You groaned and opened it again. “Spencer, what is it? I’m literally naked. Let me close the door.” 

It was his turn to pin you with a look. “If you were literally naked, I wouldn’t be standing out here.” 

Apparently, Spencer didn’t recognize the innuendo in his statement, or if he did, he refused to amend it– he just let out a heavy sigh while your mind ran wild with the musings of what he could have possibly meant by that. 

“I have a theory about why the unsub started killing surrogates,” he said, and you blinked. “I started thinking about the reasons most women put up their children in the first place. Poverty, indifference, drug use-” You cut him off. “Spencer! If you need to talk about this so badly, come inside. I don’t like standing here in just a towel.” Spencer let out a sigh of relief and gave you a look that said, ‘Finally.’ You moved aside and began to walk over to the room when you felt a jolt of panic shoot through you. In your frustration and anxiety to get out of the doorway, you managed to forget you left your very neon pink toy square on the bed. You let out a yelp and tried to reach for it before he noticed, but it was too late. You panicked, and began mumbling.

“AH! I’m sorry- sorry that’s- I was just.. It’s just, it was just in my bag I wasn’t-” Your ramblings were cut off by Spencer stopping you.

“Hey! It’s- it’s fine! I don’t care!” He said, looking at the wall, giving you time to put it away. “Approximately 52.2% of the American female population have used a vibrator in their lifetime…and about 45% of American men, it’s normal! I- not that I’d care anyways.” he said, and you felt the hair on your arms stand up. The thought of Spencer using a vibrator, or using one on you… You coughed and turned to face him.

“Um. Thanks. Sorry. One second,” you said. You moved to the bathroom to change into the pajamas you had laid in there earlier, leaving Spencer alone in the bedroom. Your face was red and hot, and you felt something between embarrassment and lust fill your chest.

While you were in the bathroom, Spencer had his back turned to the bathroom door, biting his lip and trying to will away his growing erection. Of course you brought a vibrator on this trip– you were trying to kill him. After the little stunt you pulled earlier, he’d spent the rest of the day trying to forget about how soft your skin was, and how badly he wanted to take you back to his room and show you exactly why he cared if someone was on your mind. When he heard the door open, he turned to face you and prayed to every god he’d never believed in that he didn’t have a noticeable boner. 

“Okay, so.. I was.. Thinking. About why children are put up for adoption. And then it dawned on me– most women who’ve been raped but don’t want to abort will give up their child.” You nodded, now distracted by his credible hypothesis.

“It’s a good start, but that still doesn’t explain why she’s killing now. Unless…” Spencer cocked his head, hanging on your words. “Reid, what percentage of rape victims are revictimized in their lifetime?” 

Reid paused, before squinting. “Sixty-six percent, why?” “Spencer. What if she was revictimized, and impregnated again?” Spencer's arms jolted in realization. “The thought of having to carry another child to term that she’d have to let go might have been too much, but she might be unwilling to kill herself because-” “Because she’d be killing the child in the process.”

“And that’s why she’s killing the surrogates!”

You and Spencer both immediately went to leave, and you grabbed your badge and gun as you beelined for Hotch’s hotel room. You practically ran down the hall, reaching his door and rapidly knocking. Hotch answered, still in his suit from earlier in the day when you and Spencer both blurted out, “We know why she’s killing surrogates.”

-

The team descended on the scene, previously dreary from a lack of sleep but now pumped with adrenaline. After calling a much bothered Penelope to have her work her technological genius, you asked her to pull records of women who reported being revictimized recently that also recently began prenatal medications. There was only one name: Erika Hawley. Derek led the infiltration, kicking down the door to reveal an empty house, but a lit basement. You called, “FBI! Erika Hawley, come out with your hands up!” 

The basement door remained shut, so it was broken into. In the basement, Erika was found with another woman from the support group, knife to her throat. You put your hands up as you approached.

“Erika… put the knife down. I cannot imagine the amount of pain you are in right now. But Erika, she hasn’t done anything.” You kept your voice calm. Behind you, Spencer had followed, and he had his gun trained on the woman’s head, ready to do whatever necessary to protect you. His heart hammered in his ears as Erika spoke. 

“I can’t take it! It’s not fair!” She screamed, tears running down her face. You looked at her with utter sympathy, and took another slow step.

“Erika… I know you have a good heart. That’s why you feel trapped, right? In your own body, because you’re unwilling to abort your baby. And that’s your choice, and I’m so sorry you have to go through this a second time. But the woman in your arms… is not you. Killing her won’t undo your hurt. Her name is Ashley Sullivan, and she has a family. Erika… It’s time to let her go.” 

Erika’s eyes filled with tears before dropping the knife and releasing the woman from her grasp. As soon as the knife hit the floor, you moved forward and kicked it towards Spencer. When it was out of reach, you handed Spencer your gun and moved to hug the woman. She collapsed into your arms, and you consoled her before gently telling her to turn to be apprehended and reading her her rights.

-

Once Erika was arrested, you flew home the next day to rest before returning to the office the day after to finalize all of your paperwork. What had happened with Erika was devastating, but despite everything that happened, all you could think about was how Spencer came to your room that night. About how he had seen your toy, sure, but mostly about how he had a breakthrough and came to see you. He thought the best thing he could do with this important information… was to gather your opinion because he thought you would be to help.

God, he’s sexy.

Your bedroom was as messy as you had left it before you embarked on the trip, and you decided to clean it some before relaxing the rest of the day. You knew as someone who took the lead in the arrest, you’d have some of the most paperwork to do tomorrow, second only to Hotch. You groaned, and began to put the dirty clothes and strewn about accessories away. Once your room was clean, you grabbed clothes to bring to the shower with you and turned on your CD player. 

- 

When you exited the shower, you went back to your room, and grabbed the very same vibrator from the go-bag you’d set in the corner. You threw yourself onto your bed, still naked and needy. You moved to press it to where you wanted it most, and you whimpered when you felt the sensations on your clit. It was the pressure you’d been desperate for for days, and your hips bucked slightly. You circled around your core, letting yourself give into the fantasies that flooded your mind.

There, in your head, it was Spencer giving you your relief, moving over your clit to coax your orgasm out from you. You moaned, and clicked the button to make the vibrations more powerful. You pictured him: curly hair, beautiful hazel eyes, sweet voice. You pictured him kissing your thighs, your lips. You felt your orgasm quickly build.

“That’s it, just focus. You’ve got this, you’re so pretty… doing so well, there we go…” You bucked your hips into the pleasure. But you found that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t cum. It was agonizing - waiting on a crash of pleasure that never crested. You lay there for an hour, whining and pleading before getting frustrated and throwing the vibe across the room. You didn’t know what was wrong– you’d spend your whole LIFE giving yourself orgasms, and now suddenly, it’s not enough? But really, you did know what was wrong. What you needed. 

In utter desperation, you went to your underwear drawer. You pulled out a purple lace set you’d bought on sale, and put it on.

This was a bad idea.

This was a terrible, horrible idea that could potentially ruin one of the best friendships you’d had in a long time.

…

You didn’t care.

-

You pulled into Spencer’s apartment parking lot, parking and marching into the building– a woman on a mission. You walked into the elevator and pressed the button, hands shaking slightly. The sun was setting, you hadn’t eaten, and you knew what would happen if this went awry. But you were losing it, and if this didn’t go well you’d probably end up ruining things some other way in the coming weeks, unable to do anything but ogle him. You had become well and truly obsessed with this man. He had bewitched you, and you had to do something about it. 

Taking steps so broad you were nearly jogging, you hurried to Spencer’s door, fist raised to knock before you paused– what if he wasn’t even home? What if there was someone inside with him, someone he had kept secret? You decided to take the leap before you could psych yourself out, knocking one, two, three times before taking a step back. Your foot tapped the floor, looking all around the hall. You must have gone completely crazy. 

It was taking too long. Maybe he had looked through the peep hole and saw your face, backed away. He didn’t want you like you wanted him, he didn’t need you like-

“Hello?” Your head whipped to his front door, meeting his beautiful hazel eyes immediately. Your face was red, and terribly, your mind when blank. 

“Is everything okay?” Spencer asked, face twisted in concern. You hadn’t called ahead- at least, he was pretty sure you hadn’t. He was too busy fisting his aching cock to the memory of you to check his phone, lest a new case or some random news article interrupt. He was still hard, using the door to shield his lower body. However, upon realizing it was only you, his worry overtook his consciousness of his boner and he opened the door all of the way to step out and greet you. 

This immediately came back to bite him, as your greedy gaze flicked downwards for just a moment before meeting his gaze again. Then there was something in your face, something hungry and almost primal. Spencer’s tongue flicked across his lips instinctively as he fought his body’s urge for his dick to twitch. 

“Yes. Well- no. Spencer…” You searched for the perfect words. Nothing too straightforward, but you didn’t want to seem aloof. Then, it hit you.

“We have a conversation to finish, yeah?”

-

It was about the cheapest shot you could’ve taken, but somehow, it worked. Spencer opened his door further, stepping aside to let you in. You let out a deep sigh of relief, but before you could figure out your next move, you found yourself boxed into the corner of Spencer’s doorway, his arm trapping you in close to him. You found yourself trembling, but not with fear. You had felt Spencer behind you the night you took down the unsub, and knew he wouldn’t hurt you. At least, not in ways you didn’t want. You looked up through your eyelashes at him, and swallowed hard. 

“You’re right. We do have a conversation to finish,” He said, voice low. “And I’d love a reply from my earlier question, but I think I have a more pressing one now. You could’ve called, texted. We could’ve talked on the plane or the night before we flew home. Your pupils are dilated, your face is flushed. You’re breathing fast and your pulse is…”

Air caught in your throat as Spencer brought a gentle hand to your neck, pressing down slightly. You fought the urge to moan, his proximity making you dizzy. His fingers were warm, and you wanted to take them into your mouth, suck on them while he kept speaking to you in his deep saccharine voice. “At about 95 beats per minute. So tell me; what really brought you here? Because I’m not stupid enough to believe it was just to talk.” 

Spencer’s confidence when he spoke to you had your knees buckling, and he grasped your chin and forced you to keep eye contact. Your brain was slowly turning to mush, but Spencer needed to hear you say it– say what he hypothesized had brought you here. He’s spent the last few months in limbo, wanting you desperately, but caring too much about your relationship — as friends and coworkers – to act on what he could read in your eyes. But you were in his home now, in his territory. He was at his most comfortable now, and he had to hear you say that you wanted him, too.

“Come on,” he cooed, brushing a thumb over your bottom lip. “Talk to me.” 

Your eyelashes fluttered and you let out a soft, breathy whimper. You couldn’t believe this was happening. 

“Spencer,” you started. “You asked me… if I was distracted because I was thinking of someone. You were right. Spence, you’re all I think about. Actually, I can’t think around you– at least, nothing appropriate. And sometimes, I think you feel that way too. But sometimes, I think that maybe… you don’t think about me at all. But Spence…” 

He held on your every word, searching your eyes, begging to see truth in them. “I need you. It’s gotten to the point that I can’t-” Your face burned. You tried to look away, but Spencer turned your head back towards him once more. 

“Can’t what, Angel?” The nickname broke your resolve.

“I can’t cum, Spence,” you whispered, turning your gaze at the ground, simultaneously embarrassed and more turned on than you’ve ever been in your life. 

Spencer’s body went completely on edge, and he felt his every nerve buzz to life. His cock ached and strained against his pajama bottoms, and he could wait no longer. He crashed his lips into yours, a beautiful, passionate display of absolute obsession. Kissing Spencer felt like being the most relaxed you’d ever been, while simultaneously being lit on fire. Something ignited inside you, while a smaller beast finally could rest, knowing you were where you were always meant to be— in Spencer’s embrace. You moaned, unabashedly, taking his tongue into your mouth. Spencer’s hands grasped the sides of your head, trying to close any and all distance between you. Your hands grasped onto his shirt, fisting the fabric. You were so happy, you could cry. You’d wanted this for so long. Spencer never wanted the kiss to end– he felt complete when in contact with you. However, his leaking head was now making a pool of precum in his boxers, so he pulled away. You whined softly at the loss of his lips on yours, but then he bent to pick you up, bridal style. Despite his appearance, he was fairly deft, and had a good enough grasp on physics to make lifting you nearly effortless. He looked at you, eyes dark and sultry. There was a promise inside them that had your pussy twitching in anticipation. He took you to his bed, where he put you down into a sitting position. 

“I need you to understand something, angel,” He said, hand coming to the side of your face, brushing it sweetly with his thumb on your cheek. You leaned into the contact, doe eyes meeting his stare intently. “Once we start, it will be extremely difficult for me to stop. The flood of dopamine acts as a filter prioritizing desire over rationale. Not- not that I’d ever do anything you didn’t want. But it will be…” He swallowed thickly, looking to your lips, then back to your eyes. “So, so agonizing. I need you to tell me now if this is really what you want to do, because it might kill me if I have to pry myself away from you.” 

You were putty in his hands. All of his words sounded like the most beautiful melody you’d ever heard. Your hand reached up to grasp the one holding you, and giving in to your earlier fantasy, you moved his thumb over to your mouth to wrap your lips around it. He might as well have been made of sugar, he tasted so sweet. You kept your gaze locked on him as you nodded slowly, swirling your tongue around his thumb. Spencer let out a low sigh before abruptly removing his digit from your mouth and grasping your face, hard. It didn’t hurt, but the command in the action was clear.

“Use your words, angel. Don’t make me ask again.” 

You swallowed. 

“I want this, Spencer. I want you. Please, I need you.”

Spencer smiled a condescendingly sweet smile and tilted his head. 

“Good girl, that wasn’t so hard?” He loosened his grip on your face and moved it to the back of your hair, tangling at the nape of your neck. You let out a soft whimper and titled your head back just so.

“You’ve been driving me crazy, you know that? Anytime I try to get work done and you’re somewhere eye-fucking me in the corner.” Spencer used his free hand to pull the drawstring of his pajama bottoms undone, pulling them down to free his cock. It was red and leaking, covered in shiny precum all over the tip. He took it into his hand, squeezing the base to try and relieve some of the pressure. Your mouth watered and you instinctively went to take it into your mouth, but Spencer’s hand in your hair kept you in place. He began to stroke it slowly, tantalizingly close to you but just out of reach. He tutted and shook his head. “You want to make me feel good? Want to make it up to me for all those nights I had to come home and touch myself to the thought of you?”

You whined, nodding your head as much as you could as he held you. After a few moments of agonizing waiting, he finally smiled and said, “Okay, Angel. Go ahead.”

You moved forward, his hand still on your hair, but allowing you to move freely. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to the head of his cock before giving it a soft lick. Spencer let out a soft laugh at your affection in a moment so sensual. “So sweet for me,” he praised, and you giggled before dipping your head to lick up his length from base to tip. He shut his eyes and released a shuddering breath. You opened up to take the tip into your mouth, slowly lowering yourself. He was bigger than anything you’d had before, and you hesitated slightly at the size. He rubbed soft circles into your scalp, and you moaned around him. Spence tipped his head back in pleasure, letting out unsteady whimpers as you sucked him slowly. Your mouth was warm, your tongue dragging on the underside of his dick right along a vein. You felt so much better than his hand, better than anything he'd ever known. You were losing yourself in the motions, almost high on the knowledge you were making him feel good. As if he could read your mind, he began to praise you again.

“You’re doing s-so well,” he choked out, and your clit buzzed with want. You moved faster, your head bobbing in a steady pace that drew his orgasm near. Not wanting to finish so soon, he tugged on the back of your hair again. Unfortunately, you resisted, staying where you were. Drool dripped from your lips, messy from the act. You whimpered, slightly frantic, like the thought of not having his cock in your mouth anymore caused you grief. Spencer was surprised by your defiance, and brought his other hand to your chin, holding you still while he pulled out of your mouth. You hollowed your cheeks when he did so, desperate to get him to stay. 

When he pulled his cock free from your mouth, it was shining with spit and twitching. He’d gotten so close to cumming in your mouth, and he cursed at the loss of feeling. He pinned you with a look. “You think you can decide what you get from me, after the way you’ve been behaving?” He released you, finally, and stepped out of his bottoms fully before taking off his shirt. He looked at you and gave a slight nod of his head. 

“Strip.” He said simply, tossing his shirt in the corner before crossing his room and rummaging in a drawer. He pulled out a box of condoms, and brought them over to his bedside. You were naked when he turned around, and in an instant, you were brought out of the moment at the realization. You were naked, in front of Spencer Reid. You began to nibble on the corner of your lip, and Spencer immediately picked up on your change in attitude. He came to you, and grabbed your waist, admiring your body. Your nipples peaked from the change in temperature. Spencer was nearly breathless, and he told you as much. 

“You’re so beautiful, angel. I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to see you like this. Well, actually, I could. I can literally recall every time I've thought about you naked.” You let out a soft laugh and looked at the ground. His change in demeanor was heartwarming. You felt strangely vulnerable to his kindness, feeling your stomach twist in nervousness. 

“Spencer,” You started, and he brushed the hair from your eyes. “Yes, sweetheart?” He said, and butterflies roamed in your gut. 

“After this, will you…” you bit your lip again, then softly smiled, remembering his pointing out your habit. “Do you think you’d want to go on a date, maybe?” 

Spencer felt his heart melt a little before bringing you in for a hug. His hands trailed your back, and his still hard cock pressed against your lower abdomen. 

“I would be honored,” he said, before pressing warm kisses along your neck. You let out a sigh, your hands pressed flat against his chest. He pressed you back so you were sitting on the bed once more, and then had you move so you were lying down the center of the bed. 

He sucked the side of your neck, leaving dark red marks that would surely become a deep purple in the coming hours. He took one of your tits in his hand, squeezing it. He pressed a kiss to your temple, close to your ear, before whispering. 

“Don’t think this means you’re getting out of trouble,” he said, voice low. It was an empty threat, and he knew it. But you didn't have to. He trailed down your body, moving to suck your nipple into his mouth while the other continued to massage the other. Your chest rose as you moved into his touch, and he smiled. His hand moved away from your tit to finally touch where you wanted him the most– where you’d wanted him months. His middle and ring finger pressed in agonizing circles, and you moaned. He dragged his fingers through your soaked pussy, the evidence of your desire collecting on his hand. His middle finger pushed through your folds to gently press into your hole, and you whined loudly. 

“Spencerr…” you mumbled, biting on your knuckle to try and silence yourself. He detached himself from your chest where he was making a fresh hickey to shake his head.

“Uh-uh, let me hear you baby. You like that?” His finger pushed in deeper, curling with expert precision, and he took your hand from your mouth to hold it. The domesticity of the action had you clenching around his finger. When he drew it back, he added his ring finger, both curling and dragging along your insides. Your back arched. 

“The average female g-spot,” he breathed against your skin, now kissing your hand, entwined with his. His pace quickened as he talked. “Is about 2-3 inches inside the vaginal walls, facing the ventral side of the body.” 

He brought his thumb to press onto your clit as he moved his fingers, not doing much but applying pressure, moving it with the rest of his hands as he worked your core. His palm pressed up and he sped up significantly. You were falling apart under his touch. You bucked your hips, allowing yourself to get lost in the sensation of him inside of you. Spencer watched his own movements with intensity, analytical and ravishing.

“When enough pressure is applied to both the Skene’s glands at the opening of the vagina and the g-spot is stimulated, it’s theorized that many people with female anatomy…” You felt a sensation not unlike needing to pee, and opened your eyes, panic and pleasure combining in an absolutely consuming high. You were close, so close, but so was the feeling like you needed to urinate, and you panicked. 

“...Will experience the phenomenon known as ‘squirting’,” Spencer finished, as you reached your orgasm. It ripped through you, your legs spasming violently. You cried out, loudly, screaming his name while he worked you. You squired along his hands, something you’d never been able to do previously. It was unlike the orgasms you’d become accustomed to. While you came, Spencer kissed your hands and spouted praise.

“Oh, good girl, good girl, that’s it… So beautiful,” He muttered. He finally stopped his movements when your body began to calm, your breathing and moans evening. He smiled widely and looked at you. When you opened your eyes, you saw Spencer, pupils completely blown out looking like the king of the world. You panted, brain short circuiting as you attempted to process what had just happened. 

“How…did you know… I could do it?” You asked eventually, while Spencer gently massaged your clit. You were sensitive, but his movements worked to soothe you more than to overstimulate. Spencer shrugged and did his small half-frown, half-smile before speaking. 

“I didn’t. I mean, statistically speaking, only about 5% of women in the western world experience squirting during intimacy. But I’d read about it, and I really wanted to try. I’m just surprised it worked so well.” He said. He moved to spread your legs, slotting himself between them before leaning down to embrace you. “You did such a good job listening to me. Do you want to make me feel good now, baby? I think you earned it,” he said softly, his cock pressing against your now slightly-sore entrance. You looked into his eyes and nodded, and he went to reach for the condoms. You whined out a sound of protest before grabbing his hand. 

“Wait, please- please, Spence, wanna do it raw. I’ve been so good, want you to feel all of me. Wanna feel all of you.” You pleaded, giving him your best begging look. Your other hand reached down, giving his cock a gentle tug before dragging it along your soaked folds. “I want you to cum in me, Spence, I need you to fill me up.” You were kissing his neck now, trying to distract him with pleasure so he’ll give in. 

Spencer’s body and mind stalled momentarily, running statistics of the success of emergency contraception. His breath quickened, and he felt his resolve crumbling under the weight of your absolutely perverted requests. 

“God, angel… how could I say no when you’re begging me so beautifully?” He sat back on his heels, taking his cock from your grasp before aligning it with your entrance. His sticky precum mixed with the fluids from your release, causing his length to slide in completely unbarred. With absolutely no resistance, his dick penetrated your hole completely, instantly bottoming out. Spencer’s mouth gaped, and you clenched hard around the change in pressure, crying out and arching your back. Spencer’s hands dug into your hips, grounding himself. He gently pulled out some, and you felt every inch as it left you, before he rocked back into you with intensity. His tip kissed your cervix, and you felt tears prick at the corner of your eyes in pleasure. Spencer was inside of you. Spencer was inside of you, and he was inside of you raw. Immediately, you became inconsolably cock drunk, only able to think about the man you were completely enveloped by. 

“S-spencer, baby, I- it’s too good, ‘s too much,” you rambled out, and you were vaguely aware of a trail of drool coming from the side of your mouth. Spencer smiled, soaking in the raw power that he had over you, wanting to do nothing but make you incandescently happy. 

“Feels so tight angel, you’re so good…are you my good girl? Gonna make me cum in you?” He asked, blinking fast, your warm walls sucking him in. You moaned at the praise, and bucked to meet his thrusts, wanting more.

“I-I’m your good girl, I’m all yours, wanna be all yours forever,” you babbled, the intensity of his thrusts making you see stars. “Ohmygod, Spence, ‘s so deep,” you cried, and he let out a soft laugh. He took one of his hands and pressed on your abdomen, right where he was fucking into you. 

“You feel me right there baby? Gonna – mh, fuck – gonna cum right in there. You like that, yeah? Dirty girl, want me to- ngh, want me to make it all warm and sticky? You’re filthy for me, just want me inside you so bad, don’t care what I do to you,” Spencer was the one losing it now, a crazed look in his eye as words he never thought he’d say aloud tumbled from his mouth. His moans were coming out broken, like he was about to cry. You felt your orgasm crashing towards you, his nasty words pushing you over the edge. 

“S-spencer! Spence, m’gonna cum, can I cum, pleasepleaseplease,” you babbled, and Spencer’s pace became absolutely punishing. 

“That’s it, you can cum baby, cum with me? Finish while I cum inside you?” He replied, his own orgasm taking over as he rutted inside of you. You saw white as you felt Spencer spill inside you, warm fluid filling you. You cried, tears falling as you felt the most intense orgasm of your life. 

Spencer felt his core tense as he came, bending over and catching himself with his arms, the pleasure nearly making him dizzy. Once you had both finished, the silence settled comfortably. When he was sure he wouldn’t completely collapse, Spencer gently pulled out, his seed spilling out of you and onto the covers. Spence watched in fascination, before laying beside you and pulling you inside close. Neither of you were sure what to say yet, content to lay in the post orgasmic bliss with the person you’d both spent so long chasing. You lay like that for a while, not really knowing how much time was passing. Spencer drew lazy figures onto your back while you nestled in his chest, planting the occasional kiss to his pec. It was after a while that the feeling of Spencer’s cum drying on your body as it mixed with the remnants of your previous release began to itch, much to your displeasure. You lifted your head and met Spencer’s eyes, and a warm smile grew as you saw your feelings reflected in his gaze. There was love there, between you two. Maybe you wouldn’t say it now, but you both felt it. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips, unhurried this time. It was soft, warm. You pulled back and brushed a hair from his eye before you spoke. 

“Do you have a washcloth?” You asked, and Spencer’s eyes went wide. 

“Oh! Oh my goodness, yes, of course! I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have made you just lay-” You pressed a hand to his lips to quiet him. You gave him a look and smiled.

“Spence, it’s okay. I didn’t mind before. I wanted to cuddle, and it’s just now bugging me.” 

Spencer gave a grateful smile, happy for your reassurance. You almost couldn’t believe this was the same man who was just fucking you into the mattress, rambling about you being a ‘dirty girl’. It was as if he’d become momentarily possessed by the most lust-filled demon that there ever was. Not that you were complaining. 

Spencer gently rose from the bed and went to the bathroom to grab a warm rag, coming back quickly to hand it to you. While you cleaned yourself, he gathered your underwear and brought you a shirt from his drawer that looked like it was about 5 sizes too big for him. When you quirked a brow at the shirt, he blushed a little before placing it with your underclothes on the bed beside you. He took the rag from you to clean his softening cock before dressing himself.

“I, uh, get overstimulated sometimes?” He laughed to himself before continuing. “Despite what you might now think, I actually don’t often enjoy being naked.” 

You giggled at his joke and grabbed your clothes. He had redressed himself in his pajamas, and sat beside you once you had your panties and the shirt on.

“So…” you drawled. Spencer smiled and his tongue swiped at his lips. You melted a little, the habit now slowly becoming one of your favorites. 

“Would you like to spend the night?” Spencer asked, and your heart soared. You weren’t going to ask, but you didn’t really feel like leaving after this relationship-altering night. “I have takeout menus to a couple places open late, mostly oriental cuisines, and I’d really like it if you stayed. It’s up to you though! I just…” he looked away sheepishly, the statement seeming silly after what you two had just done. “I really like you. I like being around you.” 

If you weren’t in love before, you were head over heels now. You leaned in to press a kiss to his lips. “I would be delighted to stay. I might shower, even though we just cleaned up, I wanna get the sweat and other… fluids… off.” 

Spencer sat up and offered you his hand. “You’re more than welcome to! I’ll grab you a towel, and I’ll change the sheets before we sleep. That is-” Spencer hesitated, making you giggle.

“Yes, Spencer. We will be sleeping together in your bed. Again.” He laughed at your joke and smiled. 

“Right. Yes. Hopefully many more times, if I’m lucky.” You giggled again and sat up. You walked towards his bathroom and he followed, heading to show you where the towels were kept beneath his sink. Before he left the bathroom, he turned.

“Oh! Also, I can go get the emergency contraception, so you don’t have to worry about it.” He offered, blushing again before you cocked your head. 

“Spence, you don’t have to. I mean, I guess you can. But I have an IUD, and it’s nowhere near its expiration.” You smiled reassuringly. “You’re a sweetie, though.” 

Spencer felt a slight embarrassment creep in. You were one of the smartest women he’d ever met, of course you wouldn’t blindly risk pregnancy. “Oh. Right. Uh, sorry. I should’ve asked earlier.” Your smile never faded as you walked back to embrace him.

“Spencerrrr, it’s okay. I promise. You were preoccupied with more important opportunities.” 

Spencer laughed and hugged you back. It felt so nice to have you in his arms, like knowing you were safe there made a certain part of his brain finally go quiet. 

“I’m going to go strip the bed now,” he said, kissing the top of your head. You nodded and began to take off your clothes. 

“Feel free to join me in the shower when you’re done,” you flirted, and Spencer’s replying grin made you happy. 

I could get used to this, crossed both of your minds, excited for whatever comes next.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

He loosened his tie as he wandered into the kitchen, opening the fridge more out of habit than hunger before reaching automatically for a bottle of water. Usually, the silence of his apartment gave him room to organise his thoughts after a case, to quietly put everything back where it belonged before sleeping. Tonight, however, every attempt to think about anything remotely productive found itself drifting back to the diner.

By the time Spencer climbed into bed, he’d almost convinced himself the evening had only felt significant because it was new. New situations required additional processing. That was perfectly reasonable. It had nothing to do with Honey specifically, or the way she’d looked at him when she’d offered to help him, or the fact she’d asked how he learnt best before deciding how to teach him. It certainly had nothing to do with the faint trace of her perfume he was almost convinced still lingered on the sleeve of his shirt, although he suspected scent molecules transferring through close proximity was entirely plausible and made a mental note to look into it later.

He stared up at the ceiling for several moments, trying to find a logical explanation for why something so insignificant had stayed with him.

He couldn’t think of one.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“There you are,” Honey announced before she’d even reached his desk, balancing a takeaway coffee in one hand while a stapled report rested beneath the other arm. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Spencer looked up from the file in front of him, unable to stop the smile that appeared almost immediately. It wasn’t polite either, nor the small, restrained expression he usually offered colleagues in passing. It arrived before he’d had the opportunity to suppress it, spreading naturally across his face simply because she was talking to him. 

“…Why are you smiling?” 

Spencer blinked.

“I wasn’t aware that I was.” 

“Well, You were”

Instinctively, his hand moved towards his face, fingertips brushing lightly against his mouth as though checking whether she might somehow be mistaken. She wasn’t. The smile disappeared almost as quickly as it’d arrived.

Honey looked faintly suspicious, narrowing her eyes. “I’ve come over here specifically to tell you that you’ve changed my audit report without asking.”

Spencer glanced down at the report she’d dropped onto his desk before looking back up at her. “I corrected your report. There was far too many spelling and grammatical errors”

“You made it boring, and removed all personality.”

“It was an inspection report, There cannot be any personality.”

“Of course it can.”

“The audit specifically looks into admin processes after we consult on out of state cases. It needs to be objective.”

Honey let out an exaggerated sigh before placing both hands flat against the edge of his desk, leaning forwards just enough to invade his personal space without seeming remotely aware she was doing it. 

Spencer’s attention, much to his annoyance, immediately abandoned the report altogether. He found himself watching the way her eyebrows lifted every time she challenged what he’d said, the tiny crease that appeared between them whenever she thought he was being particularly ridiculous, the animated movements of her hands as she spoke despite still somehow managing not to spill the coffee she’d been carrying since walking into the office.

She had a habit of looking directly at people when she argued, not through them, not around them. At them. The eye contact never wavered, as though she considered looking away the same thing as conceding defeat, he’d noticed it the previous evening.

It occurred to Spencer, with no small amount of alarm, that Honey was extraordinarily attractive when she was annoyed, the thought arrived so abruptly that he almost lost track of what she was saying. Not because she was angry, she wasn’t, she was amused. There was a difference.

Spencer had always assumed she argued because she liked proving him wrong, now, watching her standing opposite him with entirely too much confidence for somebody defending incorrect grammar, he wondered whether she’d simply liked talking to him.

“…Are you even listening to me?”

He realised, somewhat belatedly, that Honey had stopped talking.

“I am.” he lied.

“Then what did I just say?”

Spencer opened his mouth, to no surprise, nothing came out, Honey stared at him for another second before slowly breaking into a grin so triumphant it bordered on insufferable.

“You’ve got absolutely no idea, do you?”

“…No.”

Her only response was an exaggerated roll of her eyes before she pushed herself away from his desk and wandered back towards her own. Spencer watched her go for a second longer than he probably should have before forcing himself to look back down at the report in front of him. He lasted all of fifteen seconds.

Almost against his own will, his eyes drifted through the narrow gap between the monitors separating their desks. Honey had chosen to wear a white tank top beneath an oversized cardigan that seemed determined to slide off one shoulder every time she moved. Every few minutes she'd absent-mindedly hook it back into place without ever taking her eyes off whatever she was doing, only for it to slip again moments later. 

Spencer found himself watching the lazy repetition of the movement before his attention settled lower, catching the delicate gold chain resting against her collarbone. A small star pendant sat just above the neckline of her top, rising and falling almost imperceptibly with each breath she took. The morning sunlight spilling through the windows caught against both the necklace and the faint sheen of whatever moisturiser she'd used, making the curve of her collarbone glint every time she shifted in her chair.

His gaze lingered a fraction too long as he tried to decide whether her necklace was new or whether he'd simply never paid enough attention to notice it before. Somewhere during that entirely unnecessary thought process, his eyes wandered lower without permission. 

"Hm." 

He didn’t mean to make a noise. It escaped him before he realised. He hoped that Honey hadn’t heard him, although to no avail. She had already turned her monitor slightly to one side and was leaning towards the gap between their desks, her chin resting casually in the palm of her hand as she watched him with unmistakable amusement. 

"You lose something over here, Reid?"

"Huh?"

"You're staring. Pervert."

The word was barely louder than a whisper, spoken quietly enough that nobody else in the bullpen would've heard it. Spencer felt warmth flood his face almost immediately. Denying it seemed rather pointless considering she'd caught him looking with all the subtlety of a teenager.

"I was looking at your necklace," he said, the excuse arriving only after the words had already left his mouth.

Honey glanced down at the small gold star resting against her chest before looking back up at him.

“Really?…” She asked, knowing the real answer.

“Yep” 

Honey’s smile widened another fraction.

"Lesson number two," she murmured, leaning a little closer through the gap between the dividers until her voice became little more than a whisper. "If you're going to look at a woman's tits, try not to make it quite so obvious."

Spencer nodded once, clearing his throat as he looked determinedly back towards the report on his desk.

“Of course, It’s situational,” Honey added with a small shrug.

“Situational?” Spencer repeated, lowering his own voice despite the fact nobody around them appeared remotely interested in their conversation.

“Well, yeah.” Honey smiled. “If you’re having sex and you're not looking at her boobs, I'd be a little concerned.”

“Well...” Spencer started, shifting slightly in his chair. After the diner the previous evening, he found he trusted Honey more than he'd originally thought, enough to stop filtering every answer through the fear that she was trying to make a fool out of him. He was, by his own rough estimate, just over the fifty percent mark of believing she genuinely wanted to help him.

“There’s probably a lot going on,” he said thoughtfully. “I can't really be expected to stare at them the whole time... right?”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Spencer didn't notice anything unusual about what he'd said.

Honey did.

The question was exactly the sort of thing she'd come to expect from him, sincere, analytical and completely devoid of ego. It was one word in particular that caught her attention.

Probably, Not usually, Not even when.

She looked at him for a second longer than she'd intended, watching him absent-mindedly straighten the corner of the report on his desk while he waited for her answer. He hadn't realised he'd said anything revealing. As far as Spencer was concerned, he'd simply asked another question. It hit her with surprising force, he wasn’t speaking from experience, he was creating reason. 

Honey felt a strange tightness settle in her chest. She'd spent nearly two years assuming Spencer's awkwardness began and ended with flirting. It had never occurred to her to question anything beyond that. He was handsome, intelligent, kind in a way that often went unnoticed, and quietly confident in almost every other aspect of his life. Somewhere along the line she'd simply assumed the rest would follow. She'd been wrong.

The realization completely dismantled the plan she’d spent most of the previous evening putting together.

She stood abruptly, smoothing down the front of her skirt before clearing her throat.

“Reid, can you help me in the storeroom? There’s a box on the top shelf I can’t quite reach.”

“…Erm. Yeah?”

Honey imagined his hesitation came from the fact she would’ve normally asked Morgan for something like this. Morgan lived for opportunities to be the heroic gentleman, carrying heavy boxes around the office purely for the excuse to be called a ‘big strong boy.’ Spencer, on the other hand, looked faintly bewildered that she’d chosen him instead.

She didn’t wait for another answer. Instead, she turned on her heel and headed towards the small storeroom tucked away at the end of the bullpen, hearing Spencer’s footsteps following a second or two behind her. He was probably trying to work out which box she meant. 

The moment the storeroom door clicked shut behind them, she caught hold of the lapel of his suit jacket and tugged him the remaining step inside. His back met the closed door with a dull thud, his eyes widening immediately.

“Are you a virgin, Spencer?”

The words came out far more bluntly than she’d intended. There wasn’t any judgement in her voice, only frustration, directed almost entirely at herself.

“What?” Spencer stared at her. “No… why does it matter?”

His eyes slid away from hers almost instantly, wandering towards the shelves stacked with printer paper and stationery as though one of the cardboard boxes might suddenly intervene on his behalf.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” Honey folded her arms. “Answer me properly.”

He looked back at her, and for the first time since she’d known him, there was something almost defensive about the set of his jaw.

“No. You answer my question first.”

The confidence surprised her enough that she actually blinked. Perhaps being dragged into a stationery cupboard under false pretences had finally pushed him into standing his ground.

She sighed. “Fine. It matters because I can’t teach you the way I was planning to.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I offered to help you kiss and flirt because I assumed you’d kissed someone before and thought you were bad at it.” Honey ran a hand over her forehead before letting out a quiet breath. “That’s completely different from never having done it at all.”

“I have kissed someone.”

He said it with considerably more certainty than he’d managed a moment earlier.

“Congratulations.”

“…Thank you?”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

His shoulders dropped slightly.

“I gathered.”

She shook her head.“Spencer, that sounded exactly like a fourteen-year-old insisting he totally has a girlfriend, she just goes to another school.”

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before disappearing almost immediately.

“It happened.”

“I’m sure it did.”

She studied him for another moment before deciding she believed him. Barely.

Spencer, meanwhile, let out a quiet sigh, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, something Honey had quickly come to recognise as one of his nervous habits.

Unfortunately for him, he'd forgotten where he was standing. The storeroom was barely large enough for the two of them. There was nowhere for his gaze to fall except directly in front of him, and with Honey standing less than a foot away, that happened to be straight down the neckline of her tank top.

His entire body froze before his head snapped upwards so quickly she genuinely worried he'd give himself whiplash, his eyes fixing with almost desperate determination on the flickering fluorescent light above them. A deep flush spread steadily across his cheeks before creeping all the way to the tips of his ears.

"Are you staring at my tits again, Spencer?"

"No!" he blurted out. "Like the first time, it was accidental. Besides, I don't want to look at your..." He hesitated for a fraction too long. "...breasts."

Honey scoffed, folding her arms.

"Breasts? God, you're unbelievable." A grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I struggle to believe that. My tits are fantastic. Besides, you don't exactly have the right to be picky."

"They're attached to you," Spencer replied with a scoff. "They can't be that great."

"Liar." Honey smiled, entirely unconvinced. "You'd faint at the sight of me naked."

"Yes," he replied without missing a beat. "Out of disgust."

Honey didn't believe him for a second.

"That's a shame," she said, shaking her head dramatically. "For you, not me. I was just about to offer you the chance to lose your virginity until you said that."

Before Spencer had a chance to respond, Honey leaned down to retrieve the empty box she'd abandoned on the floor. The storeroom was so cramped that as she squeezed past him, her shoulder brushed lightly against his chest, forcing him to flatten himself instinctively against the door to make room for her.

She knew perfectly well how little space she'd left him.

"Anyway," she said casually, balancing the box against her hip as though the conversation had never happened, "Come round my place tonight? Seven PM. I’ll text you the address."

“For what?” 

“Your first lesson” 

She offered him the most innocent smile she could manage before turning on her heel and letting herself out of the storeroom.

As the door swung shut behind her, Honey couldn't help smiling to herself. She could practically feel Spencer staring after her as she crossed the bullpen, and by the time she reached her desk and dropped the empty box down with an exaggerated thud, she had absolutely no doubt he'd still be standing exactly where she'd left him, wondering how on earth a conversation about stationery had somehow turned into this.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Spencer went to knock on Honey's door three times before he actually did. Each time, he looked at his watch and decided it was too early. He decided to take a leaf out of her book and show up 'not on time', although as soon as it hit 7:01, he panicked and knocked anyway. 

He'd decided to wear something comfortable. For the first time in his life, Spencer wore jogging bottoms out in public. Granted, that only meant from his apartment to his car, then from his car to hers, but it still didn't feel right. He hoped she appreciated that he'd changed at all, seeing as she'd had such a problem with him wearing his normal clothes the last time they'd met outside of work.

She opened the door, said nothing, stepped aside and let him in. Spencer swallowed as he crossed the threshold. He hated that he didn't really know why he was here. She'd only said it was his first lesson, and while they'd discussed at great length in the diner what that would entail, he'd done so under the impression it would happen somewhere public rather than in her apartment.

He wasn't remotely surprised by how she'd decorated the place. Everywhere he looked, there was a potted plant, either perched on a shelf or tucked into a corner. She'd committed entirely to a sage green and pale pink colour palette throughout the apartment. Even the kitchen cabinets had quite obviously been replaced with green ones.

"I have a feeling your favourite colour might be green," he said, looking at the giant monstera tucked beside the television cabinet.

"Good use of those profiling skills, darling," she replied, leading him further inside before plopping herself down on the brown leather sofa and patting the cushion beside her.

"That's literally my job, Honey."

Spencer sat down hesitantly at the opposite end of the sofa, placing both hands squarely on his thighs.

"For God's sake, Reid, loosen up. What do you think's going to happen?"

"Knowing you, I genuinely couldn't answer that question."

"I'll tell you then." She shuffled closer, tucking both legs beneath herself until she was facing him completely, her elbow resting along the back of the sofa. "Considering how uneasy you looked at the diner yesterday, I figured you'd appreciate 'dating' somewhere a little more private."

"I mean, you can't really get any more private than this. I would've coped perfectly fine in a restaurant or a café."

"Talk to me about something. Anything you're interested in," she said, ignoring him completely as she raised her eyebrows and tilted her head to one side.

"Why?"

"Because we're on a date, and that's what you do." She shrugged, somehow managing to edge herself even closer.

"We aren't going to introduce ourselves?" he asked, his eyebrows knitting together as one hand scratched absent-mindedly at the back of his neck.

"Spencer, you're not hopeless. You can make small talk. The hardest part of a date is talking about the deeper stuff."

"Fine..." he muttered with a small huff. "On Saturdays, I like to go to the park and play chess. I have a few friends there that I meet most weekends. They're mostly old men. I've found older people tend to like me. I think it has something to do with the fact I've got an..."

Spencer stopped abruptly, his gaze dropping to find Honey's hand resting lightly on his knee, her thumb absent-mindedly stroking back and forth. His train of thought disappeared almost instantly as he stumbled over the next few words, trying desperately to remember what he'd been saying while simultaneously pretending he wasn't acutely aware of her touching him.

"Carry on," she said quietly, giving him a small, encouraging smile. Her thumb continued its gentle rhythm against his knee.

Spencer forced himself to maintain eye contact, determined not to give in to whatever little game she was playing.

"Erm... yes... old people tend to like me because they say I've got an old soul. Anyway, I... erm... go to the supermarket afterwards to buy groceries..." He paused again, his eyes betraying him as they dropped back to her hand. "...Why are you touching me?"

"People touch on dates," she replied simply. "Small touches like this are normal. You'll have to stay composed and almost learn to ignore them. Ideally, the moment you feel me touch you, you'd place your hand over mine and stroke it back, like I did."

Spencer looked down at her hand again. Then back at her. Then down again.

Honey said nothing. She simply waited.

The silence stretched for several seconds before Spencer finally accepted she wasn't about to move on until he'd actually done it. Slowly, with far more hesitation than should've been required for something so small, he lifted one hand from his knee and rested it lightly over the top of hers.

He became acutely aware that he had absolutely no idea how much pressure constituted an appropriate amount of hand holding. Too much and it became gripping. Too little and it became hovering. Somewhere between the two had to exist a socially acceptable amount of contact. 

"There isn't really a correct amount of pressure," she continued, somehow reading his mind, turning her hand over beneath his, allowing their fingers to settle naturally together. "People naturally adjust to each other without thinking about it." 

Despite himself, Spencer smiled. 

"So," Honey said, making no attempt to move her hand away, "tell me about chess." 

He hesitated for only a moment before continuing.

"I've been playing since I was six. My mother taught me initially, although I started entering local tournaments not long afterwards. I still go to the park most Saturdays. There's a group of retired men who meet there every weekend. They're... good."

"You let pensioners beat you?"

"They don't beat me very often."

"So you beat pensioners."

"I don't think that's a fair interpretation."

"It is a funny one."

Spencer found himself laughing quietly before he had the chance to stop himself. Honey smiled in return, saying nothing, simply watching him continue.

"The interesting thing about chess isn't really winning," Spencer said, his voice settling into a rhythm that felt noticeably more natural than it had a few minutes earlier. "Most people assume it's about intelligence, but it isn't. It's about pattern recognition. You're not actually predicting what somebody will do. You're reducing the number of moves they can make until the decision becomes almost inevitable."

Honey listened without interrupting, she didn't nod excessively, she didn't pretend to understand things she didn't, she simply listened.

Spencer found himself relaxing into the conversation almost without realising it. Somewhere between explaining openings and describing why he preferred longer games to speed chess, he'd stopped thinking about the fact her hand was still beneath his. 

"My favourite opening is the Sicilian Defence, although statistically white still retains a slight advantage at higher levels of play. Most people focus on memorising theory, but eventually you reach a point where theory becomes significantly less important than understanding the person sitting opposite you. Every decision they make tells you something about—"

He stopped for barely half a second, not because he'd lost his train of thought, but because Honey had moved.

Still maintaining eye contact, she slowly lifted the hand that had been resting along the back of the sofa. Spencer watched it without really understanding what she intended to do until her fingertips brushed gently against his forehead, sweeping a loose curl away from his eyes before tucking it back into place. 

His voice caught.

"...them," he finished, clearing his throat almost immediately before continuing. "You... you begin to notice habits. The longer the game lasts, the more information you collect, and eventually..." He swallowed, his attention threatening to drift towards the hand that had only just left his face. "...eventually it becomes less about chess and more about behaviour."

Honey remained perfectly still, she didn't even acknowledge what she'd done, she simply kept listening, her expression exactly the same as it had been before.

Spencer forced himself to continue talking.

"...I think that's why I enjoy it," he said, his voice noticeably steadier now. "Chess follows rules. People don't. It's... easier to understand somebody when both of you have already agreed how the interaction is supposed to work."

“Chess must have infinite possibilities, how can you possibly predict what your opponent is going to do?” She asked, resting her head on her palm. 

“Actually, chess has a finite amount of moves. So if you’re clever enough, you can predict them from their earlier moves” He said with a small grin, despite her being incredibly kind, he couldn’t help but prove her wrong. 

Spencer remembered suddenly what she first taught him in the diner. He needed to remember to ask her questions too. 

“Outside of work, what do you do? Despite seemingly intent on turning your apartment into a greenhouse” 

She smiled as she recognised his attempt at including her in a conversation. “Most Fridays, my friends and I go to pottery classes. It's silly really. We each bring a bottle of wine and get absolutely pissed before we can make anything remotely presentable. I also go to Pilates, which is awful and I highly recommend you never try, although I somehow keep going every week, so I'm hardly practising what I preach."

Spencer smiled.

"You don't seem like somebody who enjoys Pilates."

"I don't."

"But you just said—"

"I enjoy complaining about it afterwards."

"...That makes considerably more sense."

Honey laughed quietly, and Spencer found himself doing the same. Somewhere over the last ten minutes, the evening had stopped feeling like a lesson altogether. They were simply talking. There wasn't an awkward silence to fill or another exercise to complete. Spencer realised he was enjoying listening to her just as much as she'd listened to him.

His hand was still resting lightly over hers, he became aware of it again almost by accident.

Honey had told him earlier that people touched on dates. Small touches. Casual ones. They weren't supposed to mean anything in particular; they were simply another way of telling the other person you were present.

He looked down briefly, then, before he had the opportunity to convince himself not to, he slowly lifted his hand away from hers, for a split second he almost retreated completely. Instead, his fingers hovered uncertainly between them before coming to rest, almost cautiously, against the outside of her thigh.

The movement was hesitant enough that his fingertips brushed the fabric before the rest of his hand followed. He was painfully aware that his hand was shaking, not dramatically, just enough for him to notice it. He hoped she hadn't.

He resisted every instinct telling him to snatch it straight back again.

Honey didn't move, she didn't look down, she didn't comment. The only indication she'd noticed at all was the tiny breath that escaped through her nose, somewhere between a quiet laugh and an amused huff.

Spencer found himself mirroring it, neither of them acknowledged what had just happened, the silence settled comfortably between them for a few seconds before Honey carried on exactly where she'd left off.

“…Anyway,” she said, as though nothing at all had changed, “if you ever see a wonky bowl in my kitchen, just know I paid thirty dollars to make it.”

“I’ll be sure to look out for it… if I’m ever invited back here, that is.”

“You’re doing well.” She smiled. “If this were an actual date, I might just invite you to stay the night.”

Without realising, Spencer’s hand gently squeezed her thigh. The movement was almost absent-minded, his fingers tightening instinctively before relaxing again as he remembered what she’d said earlier that morning in the storeroom.

“What you said earlier…” he began quietly, his eyes dropping to where his hand rested against her leg, his fingertips tapping lightly through nerves. “Did you mean it?”

“I rarely say things I don’t mean.”

He swallowed.

“In that case…” He forced himself to meet her eyes. “…I wouldn’t faint at the sight of you naked.”

For a moment, Honey simply looked at him.

“Are you sure?” she asked softly, lifting a hand to the back of his neck, her fingers gently threading into the hair at the nape. “Your first time should be with someone you trust.”

This time, Spencer barely reacted to her touch. Twenty minutes ago it would’ve derailed every coherent thought he had. Now, he simply acknowledged how pleasant it felt before carrying on, maintaining eye contact just as she’d been trying to teach him.

“I trust you,” he said simply. “You know me well enough to know I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Something in Honey’s expression softened.

“Sleep on it,” she murmured, her thumb drifting lightly across his cheek. “You might feel differently in the morning.”

“I can assure you I won’t.”

She smiled, bringing her other hand up to cup the side of his face. “One thing at a time.”

Spencer couldn’t remember the last time somebody had looked at him like this. Not analytically, not sympathetically, not with the polite patience people often reserved for him when he accidentally missed something obvious. Honey was simply… looking at him.

The room seemed impossibly quiet.

He became aware of everything all at once. The faint ticking of the clock somewhere behind him. The distant hum of traffic filtering through the closed windows. Her thumb still resting against his cheek, absent-mindedly tracing the smallest arc across his skin as though she’d forgotten she was doing it.

She was close, far closer than she’d been all evening. Close enough that Spencer could see the tiny flecks of green scattered through her brown eyes. Close enough to notice the faint shine of her lip gloss catching the warm light from the lamp in the corner of the room. 

Honey’s eyes flickered down, Only for a moment, Then back to his, right and left, and down again. 

Spencer’s breath caught. Mirroring her actions. Before he had the chance to overthink it, Honey closed the remaining distance and pressed the gentlest kiss against his lips.

It lasted barely a second, a feather-light peck, barely more than the ghost of a kiss, lasting only long enough for Spencer to register the warmth of her lips against his before she drew away again. He caught the faint taste of cherry from her lip gloss.

When she drew back, she only moved a few inches away. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them looked anywhere else.

Spencer searched her face, almost waiting for the punchline that never came. There wasn’t one. Honey simply held his gaze, her breathing just a little shallower than it had been moments earlier. 

His heart hammered against his ribs. He could stop here. He probably should stop here. But he didn’t want to. 

Slowly, almost cautiously, he leaned forwards. His lips found hers with considerably less certainty than Honey’s had found his, but there was no hesitation once he reached her. The kiss lingered, tentative at first, Spencer instinctively giving her every opportunity to pull away.

She didn’t.

Instead, Honey smiled into the kiss before tilting her head ever so slightly, gently deepening it, guiding him without a single word. Spencer felt himself instinctively follow her lead, responding rather than trying to anticipate what came next, every movement so subtle it almost felt like a conversation neither of them needed to speak aloud to understand.

Spencer’s pulse thudded in his ears as Honey’s mouth moved against his again, slower this time, more deliberate. Her lips parted just enough for the tip of her tongue to brush his lower lip, and the contact sent a sharp jolt straight down his spine. He answered without thinking, opening for her, letting the kiss slide deeper. The cherry taste of her gloss mixed with something warmer, unmistakably actual Honey. 

His hand found her waist on their own. Fingers spread across the fabric of her shirt, palms settling against the gentle curve there. The warmth of her body seeped through the thin material, and Spencer’s breath hitched inside the kiss. 

He felt himself growing hard, the sudden pressure against his boxers unmistakable, but he didn’t pull back. He didn’t shift away. He simply ignored it, focusing instead on the way her tongue stroked his, on the soft sound she made when he tentatively sucked on her lower lip.

She guided him with patient pressure, tilting his head so the angle changed and the kiss became wetter, more insistent. Spencer’s fingers tightened on her waist. His cock throbbed once, insistently, and he felt the first bead of pre-cum dampen the front of his underwear. Still he didn’t break the kiss. He leaned in instead, chasing the heat of her mouth, letting the growing ache between his legs fuel the way he pressed closer.

Every small movement of her lips against his seemed to feed the tension coiling low in his belly. His tongue met hers again, clumsy at first, then bolder when she hummed approval. The kiss turned messier, saliva slicking their lips, breaths mingling hot and fast. Spencer’s thumbs rubbed slow circles against her side without conscious thought, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing. 

The room felt smaller, the air thicker, and still he didn’t stop. He kissed her like he could drown in it. The pressure in his cock had grown so intense he barely noticed it anymore, just another throb he pushed aside so he could focus on the wet heat of her mouth and the way her fingers tugged at his hair. 

He felt the first pulse hit before his brain caught up, his cock jerked hard, thick ropes of come flooded the front of his boxers. The wet patch spread fast, dark and obvious against the light grey fabric, soaking through and clinging to his skin.

A loud, helpless moan tore out of him straight into Honey’s mouth, raw and shaky. His hips twitched upwards once before he jerked back, breaking the kiss with a wet sound. Spencer’s face burned crimson. He looked down and saw the spreading stain, the outline of his still-twitching cock clearly visible through the damp material. Come kept leaking, a small trickle running down his thigh inside the fabric.

He pulled away completely, hands dropping from her waist as if burned. “I—fuck, I’m sorry,” he stammered, voice cracking. 

His breathing came in short, embarrassed bursts. The grey jogging bottoms left nothing to the imagination; the wet patch was huge, clinging and dark, the head of his cock still faintly outlined through the soaked cotton. 

Spencer’s hands hovered uselessly, unsure whether to cover himself or just sit there and take the humiliation. His cheeks were on fire, eyes wide and mortified as he stared at the obvious evidence of what had just happened.

He turned his body away from her, shoulders hunched and gaze fixed on the floor. “I’m so so sorry,” he started, the words tumbling out fast and shaky. “This is so bad, I can’t believe I just…”

Honey cut him off gently. “Spencer. It’s okay.” Her hand found his cheek and guided his face back toward her. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“No, there is… I appreciate you trying to make me feel better but…”

“No, Spencer.” Her voice stayed steady and warm. “Another lesson for you. That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

She said it without any teasing, every word sincere. Spencer noticed the flush across her cheeks, the way her pupils had blown wide, and how her thighs pressed tighter together where she sat.

“Really?”

“Really.” Honey leaned in and gave him a soft, quick kiss. “The fact you came from just kissing me…” She pressed another peck to his lips, letting it linger a little longer. “Is the biggest compliment…” She kissed him again, slower this time. “You could give me.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, finding himself smiling against her mouth. He hated how mushy he felt, how utterly and beautifully vulnerable he felt from kissing her over and over again. Every few seconds, she’d kiss him, pull back, and kiss him again. He felt drunk off of her. 

After the last small kiss, she pulled back entirely, Spencer already missing her close to him. 

“I think you should shower. I might have some spare clothes for you” she said quietly, glancing down at the wet patch on his crotch. 

“Yes, please,” he said. Looking down at the mess he had made. 

That was probably the most he ever made, and the thought terrified him. What scared him the most was if they did sleep together. He’d come again before she could even touch him. 

“Hey…” She said softly. Placing a hand against his spine. “Please don’t worry about this. Okay? You haven’t put me off. I still want to do this with you” 

He just nodded. Smiling sheepishly as he lent in for a last kiss. 

Suddenly now he had kissed her, he feared he could never stop. 

A/N - I told you they would kiss this chapter ;)

If you'd like to join my taglist, please comment 🌙 below :)

Title: The Deadline

The agreement had been written on the back of a takeout menu seven years ago, somewhere between the second bottle of wine and Spencer’s attempt to explain why your latest date had failed using probability theory.

“He talked about cryptocurrency for forty-five minutes,” you had said, dropping your forehead onto the kitchen table. “Then he asked whether I’d ever considered fixing my nose.”

Spencer’s expression had gone perfectly still. “What’s wrong with your nose?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why would he—”

“Because he was an ass, Spencer.”

“Oh.” He had looked offended on your behalf, which had made you feel marginally better. “Yes. Statistically, insulting someone during a first date does significantly reduce the likelihood of a second.”

“Thank you, Doctor Romance.”

He had taken the insult with a sip of wine.

His own evening had gone poorly, though it had taken nearly twenty minutes of careful questioning to get him to admit it. The woman had spent most of dinner checking her phone and had eventually told him that talking to him felt like attending a lecture she had forgotten to study for.

You had hated her immediately.

“We’re doomed,” you had decided.

Spencer had frowned. “That seems unnecessarily pessimistic.”

“You’re right. I’m doomed. You’ll meet some brilliant professor who collects first-edition Russian novels, and I’ll be found dead in my apartment after my cat eats half my face.”

“You don’t have a cat.”

“I’ll get one once I’ve accepted my fate.”

That was when you had made the pact. If neither of you was married by thirty-five, you would marry each other.

Spencer had insisted the agreement needed clearly defined terms. You had found a pen while he listed possible complications, including relocation, preexisting engagements, major changes in personal compatibility and, for reasons you still did not understand, tax implications.

You wrote it on the back of the menu.

At thirty-five, if we’re both single, we get married. No backing out.

You had signed beneath it with an exaggerated flourish.

Spencer had studied the words for several seconds before adding his name beside yours in neat, narrow handwriting.

Then you had folded the menu, tucked it into the junk drawer and forgotten about it.

At least, you thought you had.

••••••••••

“Thirty-five,” Garcia announced, dropping a pink bakery box onto the table in the bullpen. “A distinguished age. An elegant age. An age at which a woman knows her worth and will no longer tolerate men who own mattresses without fitted sheets.”

Your birthday was still two weeks away, but Garcia had apparently decided that celebrations were most effective when stretched across several business days.

“I’m not thirty-five yet,” you reminded her.

“Which is why this is a pre-birthday cupcake.”

“There are twelve cupcakes.”

“The passage of time is emotionally demanding.”

Morgan reached into the box before Garcia had finished arranging the napkins.

She slapped his hand away.

“Those are for the birthday girl.”

“The birthday girl isn’t even having a birthday today.” He retorted.

“That sounds like someone who doesn’t deserve frosting.”

You smiled as they argued, reaching for your coffee. Across the bullpen, Spencer had stopped halfway through removing a file from his bag.

His eyes were fixed on the bakery box.

More specifically, on the silver number thirty-five Garcia had stuck into the center cupcake.

You raised your eyebrows at him.

He looked away so quickly that he nearly dropped the file.

It happened again during lunch when JJ asked whether you had any plans for your birthday.

And again when Emily mentioned setting you up with a friend from Interpol.

Spencer became intensely interested in whatever he happened to be holding each time the subject arose. A book. A case file. An empty coffee cup he studied as though the meaning of life might be printed at the bottom.

By the end of the day, you had had enough. You found him in the kitchenette pouring an alarming amount of sugar into his coffee.

“Did I do something?”

His hand paused above the cup. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t.”

“You took the stairs when you saw me waiting for the elevator.”

“Taking the stairs can improve cardiovascular health and reduce the risk of—”

“You work on the sixth floor.”

He set down the sugar packet. For a moment, he said nothing. His gaze moved toward the doorway, checking whether anyone was nearby. Then he asked, “Do you remember the agreement?”

You stared at him. “What agreement?”

His mouth tightened slightly. The hurt crossed his face so quickly you almost missed it. “Never mind.”

He reached for his coffee, but you caught his wrist before he could leave.

“Spencer.”

“It was years ago. You were upset, and we’d both had wine. It was obviously a joke.”

The memory surfaced slowly.

Takeout containers. Cheap wine. Spencer sitting at your kitchen table with his tie loosened, explaining that he would need access to at least half of the bookshelves if you ever lived together.

Your grip on his wrist loosened.

“Oh my God.”

He gave a small, uncomfortable laugh. “Exactly.”

“The marriage pact.”

A crash sounded from the hallway.

You both turned.

Morgan stood outside the kitchenette with a broken plastic coffee cup at his feet. “The what?”

Spencer closed his eyes.

Within eight minutes, the entire team knew.

You suspected Morgan had broken several laws of physics to spread the information so quickly.

“A marriage pact?” Emily repeated, leaning against your desk. “With Reid?”

“It was a joke.”

“Was it?” JJ asked, glancing toward Spencer.

He was seated at his desk with a book open in front of him. He had not turned a page in five minutes.

Garcia pressed both hands to her chest. “This is the most romantic thing that has ever happened within these deeply beige walls.”

“It isn’t romantic,” you said. “We were drunk and miserable.”

“Historically,” Rossi said from behind his office door, “that’s how plenty of marriages start.”

Hotch emerged from his office carrying a file.

Every head turned toward him.

He looked from you to Spencer, then at the gathering around your desk.

“We have a case.”

The room scattered.

As Hotch passed, he placed the file in your hands. “Congratulations,” he said quietly.

Your mouth fell open. Morgan laughed so hard he had to brace himself against a desk.

The case should have ended the conversation.

Instead, thirty-five followed you to Iowa.

It appeared when you and Spencer were assigned adjoining hotel rooms. When a local detective mistook you for a couple. When Morgan referred to the vending-machine crackers Spencer brought you as “early spousal support.”

You laughed each time because it was easier than examining why Spencer never did.

He smiled occasionally, but it never reached his eyes.

On the flight home, you found him awake while everyone else slept.

The cabin lights were dimmed. Spencer sat across from you, one knee drawn slightly toward his chest, an unopened book resting in his lap.

“You really remembered?” you whispered.

His fingers tightened around the book. “I have an eidetic memory.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

He looked toward the dark window. The reflection showed the strain around his eyes. “Yes,” he said.

“For seven years?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His answer took so long that you started to wonder whether he would give one.

“Because I didn’t think it was a joke.”

Something shifted painfully beneath your ribs. “Spencer…”

“I knew you probably didn’t mean it.” His voice stayed low, careful not to wake the others. “At least, not in the same way I did. But you asked, and I thought…” He swallowed. “I thought that if we reached thirty-five and you still wanted me, I would be the luckiest person alive.”

You could hear the steady hum of the jet beneath the silence.

He gave a short laugh that sounded embarrassed. “It was irrational. There was no reason to believe our circumstances would remain unchanged for seven years. The likelihood of either of us entering a long-term relationship was—”

“Spencer.”

He stopped.

“You could have told me.”

“I didn’t want you to feel obligated.”

“So you planned to wait until my birthday and what? Show up with the menu?”

His eyes flickered toward his satchel.

You stared at it.

“No.”

His cheeks turned pink.

“Spencer.”

He lowered his gaze.

Slowly, you reached across the aisle and pulled the satchel toward you.

He did not try to stop you.

The folded paper was tucked inside the inner pocket, protected between two clear plastic sheets.

The restaurant had closed years ago. The ink had faded slightly, and there was a stain near your signature from the wine you had spilled.

But the promise remained.

At thirty-five, if we’re both single, we get married. No backing out.

You ran your thumb across his name.

“You kept it.”

“I went back for it the next morning.”

“You stole my takeout menu?”

“You had thrown it in a drawer with expired coupons and batteries.”

“That was my filing system.”

“It was a fire hazard.”

You laughed softly, though your eyes had begun to burn.

Spencer watched you with the cautious expression he wore when approaching something wounded.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have assumed it meant anything to you.”

You looked at him over the paper.

“The reason I forgot wasn’t because you meant nothing to me.”

He stayed perfectly still.

“I forgot because somewhere along the way, I stopped imagining a future where you wouldn’t be there.” You folded the menu carefully. “You’re already the person I call when something goes wrong. You’re the first person I want to tell when something goes right. Half your books are in my apartment, and you have your own mug in my kitchen.”

“The blue one.”

“The blue one,” you agreed. “You know how I take my coffee. I know you pretend not to be cold because you hate asking for an extra blanket in hotels.”

“I don’t hate asking.”

“You’re using your coat as a blanket right now.”

He glanced down at the jacket draped across his lap.

“That’s circumstantial.”

You smiled then you placed the menu on the empty seat beside you and held out your hand.

Spencer looked at it. His fingers slipped into yours slowly, as if he was afraid you might change your mind halfway through.

“You don’t have to wait until my birthday,” you said.

His brows drew together. “For what?”

“For an answer.”

The hope on his face was almost unbearable.

You tightened your hand around his. “Yes.”

His lips parted.

“Yes to the pact,” you clarified. “Eventually. I’d prefer a real first date before we start discussing tax implications.”

“You remember that?”

“Bits and pieces.”

“I was right about the tax implications.”

“I’m sure you were.”

His thumb moved over your knuckles. “So this would be a date with the intention of determining long-term romantic compatibility?”

“It means you’re taking me to dinner.”

“Tonight?”

“We land after midnight.”

“Tomorrow?”

You pretended to consider it. Spencer waited, visibly tense. “Tomorrow,” you agreed.

His smile appeared slowly, softening his entire face.

You had seen Spencer happy before. You had seen him excited, relieved, amused and triumphant.

You had never seen anyone look at you as though a seven-year wait had been worth every second.

He lifted your joined hands and pressed his lips gently against your knuckles.

Behind him, Morgan opened one eye. “I better be the best man.”

Spencer nearly dropped your hand.

JJ’s muffled laughter came from two rows back.

Garcia sat upright beneath her eye mask. “I’m planning the wedding.”

“There is no wedding,” you whispered fiercely.

“Yet,” Rossi corrected without opening his eyes.

Hotch remained facing the front of the plane. “Everyone go back to sleep.” A beat of silence passed. Then he added, “And congratulations.”

Spencer looked at you, his face bright red.

You leaned across the aisle and kissed his cheek. “Tomorrow,” you reminded him.

His fingers found yours again beneath the armrest.

(my man’s in touch with his emotions / my man won’t touch me with a twenty foot pole)

you were always over confident in your self restraint. you gave yourself far too much credit. 

you truly thought you were smart enough to not allow spencer reid to loiter in your apartment.

especially not when you were running on fumes with a to-do list a mile long and a nauseating work event peering over your shoulder. 

apparently, you were wrong. blame it on the puppy dog eyes and not your severe lack of better judgement when it came to your boyfriend. 

after reluctantly letting him through your front door and explaining how paralyzingly busy you were, he kissed you like he missed you, as he so often did, and successfully disarmed the drowning overflow of anxiety spilling from your brain. 

maybe having him over wasn’t exactly a bad thing.

he helped you relax in the form of kissing you until you couldn’t breathe. standard practice for him, really. and somehow thirty minutes had elapsed and you had somehow materialized into your bedroom–now straddling his lap on your bed, late, and rethinking the stability of steady income and appearances, in favour of sucking spencer reid’s pretty little face off until he was a mess of purple splotches and swollen lips. 

you would’ve–if he let you. you would’ve been peeling off your top in his lap instead of by your lonesome in your bathroom, if he let you. 

but of course, despite claiming not to be, spencer reid was a tease who worked you up and then forced you to well, work. 

all in good conscience he says, you can’t afford to miss it he says, i’ll be here when you get back he says. 

you wished he was saying less and touching you more, yet as it goes, that was not the case, and you were once again left blue balled by your ever loving boyfriend. 

though thankfully, you didn’t go down without a fight, or rather, without punishing him in return. spencer would’ve fed mushu and folded your laundry without your insistence that he do so, but you led yourself to believe that he was just as annoyed at the task as you currently were. balance. a true 50/50 relationship.

you were tortured. getting ready for a night filled with fake smiles, and people you hated for the sake of god knows what, at a horrible venue, with portion sizes that would have spencer pulling into a drive-thru once he picked you up, was absolutely not something that filled you with joy. 

you considered yourself less than gracious for the opportunity, and would’ve much rather played hooky and tangled yourself into your pink sheets, naked with your naked boyfriend, happily practicing the basis of human nature recreationally. sex. 

yet, you had even been deprived of that. you didn’t exactly take spencer for some sort of nympho, but you’d assumed his libido wouldn’t have allowed him to kiss you with such fervour and then proceed to innocently peck your nose and drag you off of his lap instead of into his bed. 

did he have an aversion to sex in general? were you the problem? did he just not want to fuck you? 

spencer was, by far the best man you’ve dated. the kindest, the one who truly cared for you the most. but he was also the only man you’ve ever dated who hadn’t made any moves on sleeping with you. 

spencer had an exceptionally intelligent brain. it was beautiful, it was part of why you loved him, yet it was still the brain of a man. and you were concerned as to why he spent so much time thinking with it instead of with well, something else. 

a knock on your on-suite bathroom’s door startled you out of that spiraling tangent and back into a reality where you were still late and still in only your bra. 

“i have a feeling you were looking for these?”

spencer always brought you back to your feet when your worries were throwing you out of your own control. god you hated him. you loved him. 

you cracked open the door separating your partially undressed body to your boyfriend’s fully clothed one, and watched as his bashful expression averted his eyes and instead ushered his hands towards you, hands which held the outfit you’d planned for the night, which had been sitting on your dresser. 

spencer once again offered you a small salvation, and you were unbelievably glad he hadn’t questioned what you’d been doing for the past three minutes with nothing to change into. generous in ways you didn’t deserve.

“right. thank you. um,” 

your gaze drifted to the laundry spencer had folded with military precision on your wrinkled sheets. sheets that had become wrinkled because of him. sheets that you had just washed but would gladly dirty if it meant you could fuck him in them. 

the flame in your stomach re-ignited as you felt heat creep up the back of your neck, filling every crevice of your face until it forced you into an awkward smile. did he have any idea that you were fantasizing about devouring him, or did he find your constipated expression endearing?

“would you mind putting the laundry away as well? and fixing up my bed a bit? if that's okay?”

all the demanding tone that had filled your throat mere minutes before dissipated, as spencer had reduced you to mush by the heinous act of simply being himself. you were a pitifully horny excuse for a woman. 

“you got it.”

spencer handed you your clothes and gently closed the door, now happily busying himself with the simple task of cleaning up for you. 

normally, a man that had graced your past dating history would complain about such tasks. normally, you wouldn’t be changing in the privacy of a second room. normally, you would have tumbled out of the door with your makeup half done and your hair a mess because said tasks were completed half-assed and had to be onced over by you. normally, a relationship would only bring a constant state of feeling as though you were taking care of an incompetent child, who couldn’t understand the purpose of caring for another without expecting something in return. 

spencer reid was everything but normal. and you adored him for it. 

something as trivial as sex didn’t really matter when a man like spencer loved you, right? 

not when you had to cover the soft break in your voice with a cough when he returned to the bathroom door–knocking first, of course, to hand you your designated “going out” jewelry when you hadn’t even asked him to. 

he was so sweet he almost made you cry off your mascara, curled up on the cool tiled floor of your bathroom. over a pair of earrings. 

if spencer only wanted to kiss you, you were fine with it. 

you could take care of yourself in other ways.

said ways made themselves abundantly clear nearly two days later, after spencer had taken care of your far-past-tipsy self post work event, where you had taken the liberty of indulging in one too many glasses of complimentary champagne. 

now, as the clock beside your bed flashed too bright numbers in your face, confirming it was far too late in the night for you to be awake, you thought about him as you rolled over for the umpteenth time in a measly matter of minutes. 

he’d stroked the soft curls of your hair with the sort of reverence that would’ve made your knees buckle had you not been so inebriated and girlishly ecstatic to see him. 

he’d kissed both of your cheeks and returned every “i love you” with just as much genuine certainty as the last. because he was perfect.

he’d cleaned you up. washing your face, fussing over you as he helped you brush your teeth, handed you your comfiest pair of pajamas and turned around so you could change into them, because he respected your space and privacy even when your drunken lack of cognition was unable to uphold it. 

and of course, because he wanted to kill your now sober self, you recalled how he then proceeded to help you get your tank top on straight after your drunken self had gotten all tangled up. you were a mess in every sense and he tucked frizzed locks behind your ear and kissed your forehead despite yourself, like it didn’t matter. 

now, with a completely dissipated hangover (thanks to a certain someone insuring you drank almost copious amounts of water, while leaving two advil on your bedside table) you were left unbelievably, and irrevocably horny. as it often went. 

you’d woken up to a cold bed and even colder messages. a local case and an incredibly busy boyfriend. spent your day stupidly sad, as if your entire life revolved around him, and now you lay awake. and thinking of him so late at night–or at this point, early in the morning. this never did you any good. 

the conclusion you came to was more indulgent than anything. less than forty-eight hours and you couldn’t bear it (pathetic!). you were sure tiring yourself out another way would lull you to sleep when soft forehead kisses and backrubs couldn’t. 

such thoughts only made you more ridden with guilt. as if masturbation (while thinking of him, for that matter), was the only way you were able to satisfy a gluttonous hunger and offer yourself rest sans spencer reid. 

you didn’t allow yourself to dwell on it, one track mind already sending your holy hands crawling between your legs.

the same could not be said for your tragic, tortured boyfriend. 

poor spencer had gotten home late, not wanting to wake you with a text, he’d landed on going over for breakfast in the morning. he’d find a way of making it up to you, he always did. 

and now the universe had found a way to pay any of his misdoings back to him, tenfold. 

the walls separating your apartments were thin, the two of you were more than well aware of this–a past you having been the cause of many sleepless nights for spencer. it was how you first met, now a silly little love story to be told with shining eyes and full hearts. 

the flimsy, un-soundproofed structures dividing your homes had become such an insignificant issue it was never even thought of. practically all of your free time was now spent together, and any noise was welcomed as a soft comfort of connection. 

and now horror had come back to bite him. because spencer reid sat painfully awake in his favourite reading nook, listening in on none other than your moans. 

you were dating, you took pleasure in calling yourself his and vice versa, but it was still wrong, a cruel invasion of privacy, destroying any semblance of respect he harbored for you (which was most definitely saying something), but spencer could not find the strength to tune your sweet sounds out. they were too beautiful. he absolutely did not deserve you. 

no, spencer did not carry the power to not eavesdrop on his girlfriend masturbating. it was far too difficult for him to withstand, his mind folded embarrassingly easily when it came to you, he always did, especially when he could picture you oh-so perfectly.  

he’d first seen about two days ago, he couldn’t manage to muster up the exact amount of elapsed time, which only spoke to how greatly you affected him. a completely useless mess of a genius. he couldn’t even remember the details of the case that had dragged him away from your drunken bedside. just you. you you you. 

he’d been putting your laundry away while you got yourself all dolled up for what–according to you, scarcely deserved your beauty. such a routine would have been completely innocent and disgustingly domestic had it not been for the fact that he had soiled the light of that memory with the distraction of your… undergarments. 

there was most definitely no saving him now. spencer reid was a pervert. through and through. 

he swore he had never meant to think of them, or of you that way, but holding silken fabrics and pretty lace of which he knew had adorned your most intimate parts was not shy of sexual for spencer. and while unbeknownst to you, his arousal was quite easy to earn when you were mixed into the equation. 

he was turned on by practically anything regarding you. his blessing and his curse. 

he’d only folded them, then put them away as per your instruction. he absolutely did not steal anything, despite the incessant, disgusting voice in his brain that practically screamed at him to do so. because he was seemingly unable to do anything involving his girlfriend without his thoughts ruining it. 

without him ruining it.

and when he finally managed to cool himself down and shoo away his dark thoughts? one brush of his organizing hand revealed something that made every synapse in his brain misfire. pink silicone slithered into his view. his feigned innocence in an attempt to recover some sort of decorum, now reduced to prey which fell for a serpent's trap. 

a vibrator. 

his skin burnt up with a ferocious shade of red as he hurried to put away the rest of your intimates and slam your dresser drawer shut. yet his speed was no match for the guilt as blood travelled down, until he couldn’t think straight and the heat in his skin wasn’t the only thing that was rising. 

he wasn’t surprised, no, obviously such items were exceedingly normal despite the embarrassment of societal taboo regarding sexual pleasure. it was the confirmation that you in fact, also harboured sexual desires that got to him. that was now real, and completely unignorable. 

he wasn’t stupid, he felt the disappointment seeping through your skin each time he held your hips still, the small sigh when your attempt to chase his lips was futile, he was aware of what he was depriving you of, but he hadn’t found the courage to speak of it, to actually tell you what was going on inside the brain that you constantly praised him for, instead opting to completely ice you out regarding anything intimately physical.

because he was scared.

he was cruel. 

were you this worked up because of him? 

guilt seeped through the cracks of his daze as his right hand traveled the wide valley between his spread thighs. his eyes were glossed over, body moving in a sinfully practiced familiarity rather than under the control of his better judgement. 

his fingers faltered at his belt. this was wrong on so many levels, something he would never manage to come back from, he’d swim too far and drown in his own self disgust. he wasn’t able to bring himself to speak to you about what had caused him to hold himself back, but was completely fine indulging in his own pleasure. pathetic. 

had he really changed in the ways his mind had convinced him of? would he never regain the innocence of who he used to be? 

a particularly loud moan snapped him out of his own head, a thick fog clearing out as you dragged him from the deep end, saving him as you always did. 

you. he could picture you now, panties soaked and sticky with the evidence of your unholy arousal, hot pink tip of your toy making a mess of your swollen clit. you were pretty, he didn’t have to see you to know so. his pretty girl with a pretty mess between her thighs. 

he should be the one pressing such unrelenting vibrations against your core, soaking up every praise that left your perfect lips. you would tell him how good he was through broken breaths. he knew that.

“fuck! spence–”

it was like you could hear his thoughts as clearly as he could hear you. you said his name. you were sleepless thinking about him. worked up thinking about him. 

spence. spencer spencer spencer. he would die a thousand deaths, bleed at your unyielding hand, just to hear you moan his name again. 

what was wrong with him. 

he hadn’t even realized he’d began palming himself through his trousers until he was too far gone to stop. was it better because he was demonstrating some sort of control by not stroking himself fully? or was it simply more wretched that he managed to get off through such light touches by completely tainting your glowing image. 

he landed on the latter, as his self loathing would not allow him to think highly of himself in such a pivotally low moment. but his greed was too strong, festering until it consumed him. he hung onto every sound that passed your lips, small praises as you thought of him. soft whimpers a harmony of your pleasure, and his misdoings. 

he was a horrible boyfriend, as he feared he would be.

which was exactly why his palm didn’t stop its cruel pace against the growing flame in his core. 

his hand moved with an uncoordinated velocity saved only for the desperation of you, chasing a high where you were at the peak. 

your sounds never faltered, the comfort of letting go, of foolishly thinking you were in the clear to let two months of built up tension escape through your spent throat. spencer hated himself for getting off on the fact that you had no idea he could hear you, that you truly didn’t know he was aware of how badly you wanted him, that he felt the same, if not more in return. 

revolting. anyone would be revolted if they knew, if they could see what he saw, hear what he heard, if his vile actions were to ever be exposed he was sure he would curl up and die, unable to face the extent of his shame. or maybe he was so unworth saving that the humiliation would only push him further.

he hadn’t any way of knowing, because this moment, not unlike many other thoughts, would end up locked in an impenetrable vault where anything undeserving lurked, each disgusted in their own likeness. it was suffocating. he wasn’t sure where else to keep them. 

it was almost ironic that his own self disgust sent him barrelling over the edge, so quickly he had no way of stopping its path. he couldn’t keep breathing, he had to rip his teeth into his bottom lip in order to not make a sound, he was loud, he knew so, had been told so in the past. louder than you were, yet he suppressed it because something had told him that he had to, that he’d changed. 

spencer sat in the shame of sticky soiled slacks, with the taste of iron on his tongue as he listened to you finish with a squeal of his name.

spencer had thought he would become distant, he laid awake, now to silence as he watched wisps of sun dance across his ceiling through the gaps in his curtains, and felt you in every fleeting moment of warmth they provided. he knew he would implode from the lack of you, even if every moment felt like he was stealing what he would never have the grace of deserving. 

spencer reid, was in his own eyes, more selfish than what he knew to do with. 

things felt simpler in the time before, when he first realized he liked you. when he spent his time dreaming up little what-ifs. when every miniscule queue, every blink, every breath, felt like he was grasping at air searching for even a hint of love, love for him. 

now he knew that you loved him. and knowing should’ve been enough. more than enough. selfish. he felt he was being selfish. 

selfish because he wouldn’t–couldn’t–tell you what was wrong with him. he wanted you to keep him. he didn’t want to give you an out because what he wanted more than anything was for you to stay. selfish.

so selfish that he blinked and he was outside your door. he’d changed since the mess of prior… events. he’d cleaned up. something in him wanted to be pretty, for you. to feel like he wasn’t lying about who he’d become.

selfishness reared its ugly head and formed itself as a desperate knock turned crashing of lips. the swapping of spit, as if transferring just a bit of you, your bacteria, your soul, your anything, could fight whatever infected him. fix him. he believed you were pure enough to do so. 

“spencer?–when did you get back?–”

he tried to let you speak, he swore it. pulling away because you deserved to be heard, because he wanted to listen. yet he dove back in because he could feel the rot writhing back every second he was away from your skin.

his mouth melded with yours as if it were meant to be, and he let himself believe it was, before pulling away to mutter a useless string of apologies. you weren’t here to save him, but he’d keep crawling back like you had the power to. 

“spencer–”

he wouldn’t let you finish, lips already back on yours because he couldn’t breathe on his own, contrasting how his anatomy actually functioned, you rewired him completely. he backed you into a wall, hard, without meaning to, hands too busy cupping your perfectly warm cheeks, body too busy pressing into yours, mind too busy being full of you. he wouldn’t have noticed your discomfort if not for the small wince you kissed into his lips.

the drop in his chest settled like an anchor in his stomach as he pulled off of you so quickly he surely gave himself whiplash, hands empty, body cold. 

“did i hurt you? i’m so sorry–i–”

he couldn’t even find the words if he tried. the vast library of knowledge that was his brain rendered completely useless. he was only thinking of himself. what he thought he’d done. aggressive, violent, unpredictable. he felt like he was once again looking over his shoulder when he was only looking at you. 

“what? no–i just slept weird the other night and have a kink in my back, it’ll pass… are you okay?”

you missed him. you wanted to simply hold him, wrap your arms around him and rock back and forth like a calm ship at sea. a soothing rhythm. though, you weren’t sure if he’d accept your touch if you tried. you’d never seen him so scared. 

all he wanted was to feel you. and when your hand tentatively met the flesh of his cheek, he melted into it so quickly it was hard to keep the threatening tears in his eyes at bay. you were too good to him. you were perfect.

“when you were drunk?”

he was asking about your sleep. something that felt extraordinarily minor in this current moment. you were far more occupied with his sporadically odd behavior and concerned with the fact that he was ignoring it. his touch was always welcome, but spencer had a way of pushing his needs aside, and his actions felt weirdly forced in a way you weren’t familiar with. his affection typically felt more natural. 

“yes i guess so, i kind of woke up sort of folded in half–i guess? i’m fine now,”

you made a small gesture with your hands, demonstrating the pretzel shape that had haunted your drunken dreams and left you with a deadly case of neck stiffness. entirely untreatable. fatal, judging from spencers abhorrent expression. 

hypocrite. this was a moment that required your concern for him. something that he did not offer up lightly. 

“so… when did you get back? how was the case? have you eaten?”

the strategy of bombarding him with so many questions that he was actually forced to answer at least one had yet to be patched (small wins), and spencer smiled as his hand stroked short circles at the small of your back. 

his touch was soft, skilled yet still delicate, as if you were something fragile and would shatter under the lightest impact. but not in a way that ever made you feel small. just, wanted.

he was so gentle with you now, the striking jump leaving you dizzy when his taste was still prickling on your lips. 

“everything went fine, don’t worry–it was local–but you know that…”

he was doing everything not to lie to you and still failed.

“i got in about an hour ago, i didn’t want to wake you i guess–sorry… let me help with your back and then i’ll make us something to eat? yeah?”

not exactly the truths you deserved. anything to deter from the fact that he had definitely been home for hours and definitely knew how much you missed him. 

“you didn’t want to wake me at nine o'clock on a sunday?”

your brow curved, spencer’s brain perceived that as an obvious message for something along the lines of i know you’re a pervert and now you have to explain yourself in excruciating detail you disgusting dog when he really knew you had only meant it as a tease. 

“yes… you like to sleep in.”

how had he circled the conversation back to you again?

“you didn’t want to wake me with a text… so you waited around for an hour and showed up at my door…”

it could be believable, he hoped. there truly was zero method to spencer’s madness over you. nothing had to make sense. it just was. he’d hoped you’d buy it so he would not be sent to the pound with his tail between his legs. 

“exactly. i just missed you too much. needed to see you.” 

he used his stupid looming-over-you-turned-bending to shove his nose into the crook of your neck and then proceeded to nuzzle himself in the warmth there as a means of disarming you. don’t be fooled by the shine in his eye and the way his arms wrapped your shoulders, he was evil. 

you mumbled a curt missed you too into his hair because it worked. you were easy. 

“let me fix it now?”

you could feel his teeth against your skin as he spoke, his breath sweltering against your already hot flesh. was this a practice of persuasion? some sort of profiling technique, making you malleable enough to blindly follow what he says without so much of a second thought?

“hmm? fix what?” 

you ran your fingers through his messy chestnut hair, two could play at that game, spencer. you could even out the playing field. you scratched his scalp ever so slightly, tips of your fingers worshiping, lulling, until he was just as dazed as you. 

he was easy too.

“lemme rub your back for you. get the knot out of your shoulders… please it’ll feel so nice.” 

and, fifteen minutes later your face was buried into the same pillow you’d gripped only hours before when you were… thinking of him. 

your top half was bare (because spencer swore it was better that way) and you didn’t have it in you to argue with science, or the fact that he had asked you to take your top off in the first place. a simply demure woman. 

shirtless face down while spencer’s left thigh cut into the curve of your right ass cheek. he was bony. long a spiraling and so devastatingly climbable and– if this was a ploy to take your mind off the insignificant sting in your shoulder, by making you ridiculously horny, it was absolutely working. 

if he moved a good four inches left you were sure you could make something else bony. 

you moaned when his thumb dragged over the harsh blade of your shoulder. he was really, really good with his hands. what wasn’t he good at? 

the cool metal of the watch he hadn’t removed was a striking temperature against the burning heat of your back, which had been lathered in some warm essential moisturizing oil you rarely touched, that he’d found in the mess of products in your bathroom. because lubrication was important (was everything he said sexual or had your brain already melted?)

his hands were big as they were long. sheer size most definitely spanning across the width of your face with ease, and currently covering large sections of your skin with ease. he practically kneaded your flesh like dough, following a strict stress reducing pattern he’d undoubtedly studied.

if he went just a little bit lower his hands would be on your ass. that was honestly what was keeping the fire between your thighs ablaze. that and his scent. and his voice. and him… come to think of it, spencer had never really touched you there, his hands always seeming to stop just a touch too low on your waist, yet still remaining too high to actually make themselves useful. 

maybe he just wasn’t an ass guy. 

actually. you’d caught him staring in the reflections of full length mirrors far more than once. you’d spared him his dignity when your eyes had met. you regretted it now as he drained what felt like years of weight off of your shoulders, and sent every electric shock straight to your cunt because he was incapable of achieving perfect domestic boyfriend status without turning you on. 

but that was as much your fault as it was his. 

back to his hands though. they were good. great even. gold star worthy (you knew he had a praise kink, and you’d use it against him if he wasn’t literally against you… you should be stronger than this.)

his deft fingers traced little beauty marks and blemishes you hardly recognized the existence of. you knew every pattern he found in your skin would be catalogued in the files of his brain, most definitely in his favourites folder. 

“feels good, spence.”

that was practically the first time you’d spoken to him since he’d started. you hadn’t even recognized the sound of your own voice. was that even you?

he’d sort of expected you to instruct him where to touch, how much pressure to apply, how fast, how slow. you were demanding (lovingly) and he liked when you told him what to do. 

weirdly enough you remained relatively silent throughout the whole process (minus every little open mouthed sigh that was muffled against the growing pile of drool under your chin.)

he had reduced your brain to slop, absolute mush, only senses remaining revolved solely around him and his touch and how you were clenching around nothing and–

“yeah? that’s good. told you, angel.”

why were you worried again? you could’ve sworn you were worried about something. 

right. he was acting weird. and also you wanted to fuck him. like right now.

spencer had stopped his endlessly strung together tangent regarding the benefits of back massages, and how they lowered stress and released endorphins and yada yada sexy science crap, loosening tight muscles (could’ve spent his time loosening something tighter) and all of the sudden you were begging him to continue talking. 

was it possible to reach climax via posture correction and induced blood circulation? it was, right? 

all he could make out were quite little whines which he had assumed were an okay to continue his ministrations. little whines that were definitely not you pleading with him to never stop talking. 

wow, covering up an all consuming guilt with a hands-on anatomy lesson for your girlfriend surely proved itself a great diversion technique. way to go spencer!

and then you started rolling over and his brain literally stopped working. 

spencer had been compared to a deer before, something about his lanky clumsiness and beautiful big brown eyes (your words, not his.)

and now said comparison was proving itself undyingly correct as he stared at your chest like your pretty nipples, which now consumed the entirety of his view and thoughts, were the headlights of the most beautiful semi truck he’d ever seen. 

spencer was lucky that thought was not one that ever left his mind. for the sake of his integrity and your confidence. don’t worry, every girl dreamed of being compared to a gigantic immovable force!

and oh look–he's dead. roadkill flat against the highway. he’d wear the tiremarks like a badge of honour, he’d proudly tell the whole world that his girlfriend’s stunning tits had actually killed him. 

he absolutely did not register how stupid he appeared in the moment, or how his jaw had slacked, his mouth was agape, or how you’d said his name. 

somewhere between the unheard begs and unchecked pulses between your thighs, you’d had enough. suddenly recalling that all confrontations were short-lived and you were exceptionally good at getting what you needed. (and there was also the months of becoming increasingly insecure about your sex appeal, which probably also contributed something.) 

so you flashed him–exposed yourself to him? whatever it was, it obviously caught his attention. seems not every plan had to be meticulously thought through!

“spencer.”

your voice of his name fell on completely deaf ears. 

his gaze followed your chest as you sat up, your face was level with the mid section of his frame, and his neck was cranked in a position that most definitely violated his previous lecture regarding the correlation between postural habits and back pain. he did not care. nor did he bother to notice the discomfort in his neck. 

your eyes were only slightly, embarrassingly teary, from the sexual frustration or from genuine hurt, you truly didn’t know. but you would simply not allow yourself to reach the low of getting off to a massage because you had literally nothing else to work with. 

“are you attracted to me, spencer?”

he wouldn’t have heard your words had they not been so paralyzing. he was both confused and growing red eared (and hard) from his perversion. 

before his loose, stupid lips could jumble together a useless string of yes of course, why wouldn’t i be? you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever laid eyes on–you saved him from mortification. 

“like physically… sexually. like do i even turn you on?” 

the words would’ve landed pervertedly condescending (because he was disgusting) if he hadn’t caught the break in your voice. suddenly his melted brain reformed and flipped the profiling-my-girlfriend switch on. his mind immediately darted to the unsteady beat of your chest and your averting gaze and the way your shoulders collapsed in on yourself and oh god. 

he was a horrible boyfriend. 

“of course you do–i don’t even… i couldn’t put it into words–what you do to me.”

your scoff came off more as more of a wounded cry than anything. frail and caught in a cruel trap that was your mind and his disregarding actions. 

“really? because–well i told myself i was okay with it... but i’m not. i can’t handle being undesirable and i need you so badly and i just don’t understand why you won’t–”

you stopped yourself because you were sure you would’ve literally choked on your own words had you not, and spencer only looked at you like you were all delicate and preciously pitiful until all that you felt was guilt. because how could you ever question his love when he looked at you like that? 

i can’t handle being undesirable.

he could live a hundred lives being the best possible version of himself and still remain undeserving of you. undesirable. you were the first thing that he thought of when he woke up and the last thing when he drifted to sleep. he saw you everywhere. in everything.  

his entire team knew practically every little detail about you. from the way you scrunched your nose when you read to how you always leaned into him while you slept. all he did was desire you.

he fell to his knees–albeit awkwardly, as if your words had literally stabbed him in the chest, he believed they did. he had said he would bleed for you.

and because he never learnt to articulate his emotions properly, his mouth started moving before his brain could stop it. 

“i heard you last night.” 

your eyes went unimaginably wide in horror. you spill your guts out to a man and he decides to leave you on the side of the road instead of stitching you up. great. 

“and i lied about it because. well because i didn’t want you to know how much it affected me. and–and i know how disgusting it is and i’m so unbelievably guilty at how much i… like it. and i swear. i swear i was going to stop and then you said my name and i just–couldn’t keep my hands off–and i know it’s disgusting and i understand if you want to scream at me… or–or hit me or run away–or even hate me.” 

oh.

“you touched yourself to… the sound of me touching myself to you…”

spencer ran a hand through the mess of his hair and squeezed his eyes shut, tightly, fingers pressing into his covered corneas so hard that he prayed he would do irreversible damage to his vision, and would not have to face your repulsed expression. 

“yes. i’m sorry.”

spencer spared himself a glance at you, remembered your tits were out and now quite literally in his face, and closed his eyes again. 

“then why won’t you… have sex with me?”

“because… i’m scared,”

he breathed hard, making preparations to finally reveal a reality he’d completely hidden from you. from the fear that he was too much, held too much baggage and was too insecure and had too many deep rooted issues to ever truly love. 

and with how he’d changed. how he wanted to preserve a version of himself that no longer existed because he couldn’t bear to accept that he had changed into something festering with an unrestorable rot. 

that terrified him far more than any dirty confession could ever manage to. 

“because. a lot has happened to me. because a lot of bad things have happened to me.  I’ve become… bad. and i’m scared that if i indulge in you, i’ll only confirm that i’ve been lost for good. i’m scared i’ll hurt you.” 

he hadn’t realized he was crying until your soft hands cleared the blurred lines of his vision and pulled him close to you. his face found the crook of your neck like it always did and you soothed him by carding your fingers through his perfectly tangled hair.

he looked up at you as you cradled his face in your palms. 

“there was this unsub. and she–she did things… took advantage of me to gain a psychological upper hand, to hold something over my head. and i did time. because of her. and she made me feel–i had never felt so angry–or violent or… the things i did inside. they’re unfathomable. and when i got out… all i wanted–i wanted to hurt her. i did. she ruined me and now i’m this disgusting visicious–thing that i don’t even recongize. and if i ever hurt you i could never forgive myself–because you are the only good thing in my life and i will never be worthy of having you. i shouldn’t have lied. i should’ve told you what i really was instead of tricking you into loving me. i’m so sorry.”

it was almost too much to process–it practically hit you in the face and stole the air from your lungs. because your boyfriend just spilled a lifetime of traumatic experiences and you were shirtless questioning why he wouldn’t sleep with you. 

above all, your heart ached for him in ways you never knew were possible. 

“spencer,”

his eyes were searching yours for the inevitable look of shame, disdain, the words of contempt that he knew were tragically bound to spill from your untainted lips. 

but none of that came. you only held him closer. 

“you’ve spent months showing me exactly who you are. and i will do anything to prove how beautifully kind, and sweet–and gentle you truly are.”

spencer had taught you the importance actions held above all. behaviour spoke louder than anything. there was nothing he could tell you that could ever deter you from his light. not even for a second. 

you had never known someone like him. never been graced with something so pure and heavenly. perfect in every nook of imperfection. your love was so undyingly devout you weren’t sure how you would ever be capable of forming it into words. 

“i’m sorry if i ever made you felt like your experiences made you less than–and i’ll do anything to show you how much my love transcends anything–everything… spencer you could never. and i mean never scare me away. you’re stuck with me.”

he’d spent so long being terrified of who he’d become, living in a body he couldn’t recognize, that he’d lost sight of the fact that he was still himself. 

you’d help him find himself again. because you cared. because you loved him. because he deserved it. 

he shied away from you again, the soft curve of his nose meeting the skin of your collar bone. his favourite hiding place. you could feel his smile, the sun peeking out from behind a cloudy sky. 

“hey… let me see you.”

you chuckled, watching as he blinked back the last of tears that prickled the sensitive skin surrounding the warm gold of his eyes. 

“only if you’re okay with it–ready i mean, i want you to tell me everything. i want to be here for you, spence.”

you watched as his rosy cherub cheeks perked, his lips curved into the most tenderly compassionate smile you ever had the honour of being familiar with as he nodded. 

“i think i’d like that.” 

you pressed him closer to your bare skin, in the sense of shared proximity and loving intimacy, dragging his willing form up until you pressed a delicate kiss against his lips. 

“great! um… would you mind grabbing my shirt now–”

spencer snorted as he rose from your carpeted floor and fetched the garment that had previously been folded with a now practiced precision (because of course he folded it!)

his new found confidence had him feeling rather risqué, and he teased you by pulling it closer to his chest. 

“how about we have this conversation under the condition that i get to worship the beauty of your skin beforehand?” 

you only rolled your eyes and raised your arms so he could pull the fabric back over your body. 

“maybe next time.”

because there absolutely would be a next time. 

He must’ve come home in the middle of the night, careful not to wake you as he climbed into bed beside you. You could picture him, all heavy limbs weighed down with exhaustion and tie discarded on the sofa somewhere in the dark as he shuffled like a zombie into your shared room. It was never easy for him, coming home this late. The team usually stayed overnight wherever they were when a case ended deep in the night, opting to make it home for the morning instead. Whatever case they’d been working on must’ve been harrowing enough that they just wanted to get away as fast as possible.

You stretched as much as you could without stirring him, delighting in his sleepy grumble as he dreamily nuzzled further into you. From the way he had anchored himself to you, you could tell this was a much needed rest. You lay there for a while just listening to him, to the steady sound of his breathing and the occasional murmurs and mumbles that accompanied them, before you found yourself itching with the urge to see his face. Slowly, cautiously, you turned over in his grasp, cringing at every creak of the mattress and each rustle of sheets. Ah, there he is.

There was a graze on his cheek, red and raw and stinging- but he was alive. A cut curved over his lip, dark, dried blood making it look worse than it probably was but it made your chest tighten all the same. His hair fanned out over the pillow behind him, a little stringy like he’d been too drained to wash it. You made a note to do it for him when he was ready. Gently, you let your finger hover over the deep purple beneath his eyes, confirmation that this was probably the first decent sleep he’d gotten all week. Spencer’s cheekbones were always prominent. You always told him it made him look like a statue, carved and chiseled like he belonged in a museum. Yet now as the rising sunlight found them, the shadows beneath them looking darker and more hollow than usual- he looked frail.

You lay there for a while, just observing. It was something he often did to you after a bad case, too hyper vigilant to let himself rest. He needed the confirmation that you were okay, he needed to see the rise and fall of your chest to steady his own. It wasn’t often that it was the other way round.

“How long have you been watching me?” A low voice mumbled. It was thin and gravelly, like he’d been yelling until it broke.

“Hm?” You looked up from where you’d been staring at the split in his lip to find two half-lidded eyes squinting at you. “I haven’t been.”

Spencer let out a small huffed laugh. “That’s funny. I could’ve sworn I’ve been feeling your breath on my face for the past five minutes.”

“Nope. Must’ve dreamt it.” He began to smile but began wincing where his lip clearly stung. You kept your voice gentle as you swiped your thumb across it. “Are you okay?”

He groaned, like he deliberated answering and ultimately decided against it. Instead he lifted his arm from your waist, beckoning you closer against his chest. “Come here.”

You obliged, biting back your insistence and cuddling into him. He’d tell you when he was ready. For now, you allowed yourself to sink into him, feeling his arms wrap around you as you slung your legs over his. It’d been a long case. Too many nights of falling asleep in an empty bed, of not waking to the smell of coffee that always seemed to cling to him. Spencer’s knuckles began grazing up and down your spine, a hypnotic rhythm threatening to lull you back to sleep right there.

He let out a content sigh, mumbling to himself. “I think I’m going to stay home today.”

“What?” Your eyes shot open. In all the years you’d known him, he’d never ever taken a day off for himself. For his mother? Of course. For you? In a heartbeat. But you were convinced he would rather crawl into work straight from his deathbed than to simply exist at home with nothing important to do. Rolling off of him slightly, you propped yourself up so that your face hovered over his, narrowed eyes squinting down at him. “Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”

He pouted, as if the sudden absence of you in his arms was physically breaking his heart. “I got my report done on the jet. I don’t have any paperwork that needs doing.” He reached out, desperately trying to guide you back to him and pouting even more when you stayed put. “I just really want to stay home today.”

“And do what?” You asked, leaning down and giving him a peck on the tip of his nose to appease the big, sad eyes he was giving you.

“Nothing.” He shrugged.

“Nothing?” Your eyebrows shot up, scandalised. “Pigs must be flying.”

Spencer chuckled, wincing as his split lip protested. “The idea of laying on the sofa in my pyjamas with you and catching up on Doctor Who is far more appealing to me than sitting at my desk for eight hours while everyone fails to pretend the past week didn’t happen. And for once, I have an opportunity to do the former.”

“The case was that bad?” You asked softly. You tried to soothe him, gently brushing back his sleep-tousled hair from his forehead, but his gaze dropped.

“Can you please just come here?” His voice was small as his big eyes found you again, his arm reaching for you once more and this time you let him pull you back into the warmth of his chest.

“So I’m not allowed to get up and make you breakfast?” You muffled into his shirt.

His arms wrapped even tighter around you. “I can make my own breakfast. And yours too while I’m up.”

You tried to lift your head up, but you found it pinned beneath his chin, breath fanning over the flushed skin of his neck. “What happened to doing nothing?”

“I am doing nothing.” He retorted, and though you couldn’t see his face you could tell his eyebrows had pinched. After so long, you could practically hear it in his voice, in the way his inflection rose ever so slightly. The perfect foundation for teasing him.

“Well,” you began, smiling against his neck, “‘doing nothing’ implies lying here motionless. Not getting up, not moving, not talking- definitely not making us both breakfast. Literally ‘doing nothing’. Unless of course you meant it figuratively- but that’s not what you said so…”

“Are you-“ Spencer let out a sharp laugh, his chest jostling beneath you. “Are you really arguing semantics with me right now so that I’ll let you make me breakfast?”

“Depends.” Finding your strength, you untangled yourself from his grasp just enough to hover your face over his again. “Is it working?”

“No.” He laughed again, a grin growing on his face much to the misfortune of his split lip. “But it was a very cute attempt.”

A tiny drop of blood emerged from the cut, making you cringe with concern as you lifted your thumb to it and swiped it away. As the sun continued to flood the room, the graze on his cheek seemed darker, angrier where it intruded his skin. Even the way he clung to you felt pained, desperation worsening his aching bones as he fastened you to him like he’d fall apart without you. Whatever happened must’ve haunted him. He was often a little over protective, a little obsessive over your safety. But it wasn’t often that he was afraid to let you out of his sight, especially in your own apartment.

“You want me to come with you?” Your hand drifted to his cheek, sweeping over the raw skin as gently as you could. “Make breakfast together?”

Beneath you, Spencer’s chest deflated like he was exhaling all the terror that had flooded his lungs over the past week. He took your hand from his cheek, bringing it to his lips and pressing a thankful kiss to your knuckles. “Please.”

“Alright.” You flashed him a smile, kissing his lips before pulling away with a teasing glimmer in your eyes. “You can do that thing where you hug me from behind like a koala and pretend to be helpful while I do all the work.”

“What?” He squeaked, following you as you hopped out of bed. “I do not do that.”

You turned the corner into the kitchen, laughing as he followed at your heel like a puppy. “You totally do. I bet you the last pancake in the stack that you do.”

“Deal.” He scoffed. “I can’t wait to eat that last pancake.”

He’d have to wait a little longer.