Occasionally you couldn’t think, and all for your genius, even you hit roadblocks sometimes. That’s where Spencer came in to play— almost literally.

You and the BAU had roomed in the nearest hotel in the Bronx, where there was a serial killer running loose strangling people. So here you were, in your room, with Spencer’s head buried where it usually was when you had profiler’s block. Between your thighs.

Your hand was in his hair, your mind being wiped clean by his mouth until he popped up and helped you work through the details before dipping down again to continue until the next checkup to work through the case.

Nobody knew of that particular arrangement, of course. It was a causal thing, doesn’t need to get out, does it?

“F-Fuck—“ Spencer’s head popped up, his lips and chin glistening as his tongue ran over the former, panting— you were so pretty. “We know he’s a narcissist.”

He looked absolutely sinful and he knew it, and you were getting wrecked and he knew it.

Hey, it was a tried and tested method. “The strangling gives him a position of power.” He added, raising two of his fingers to his lips and licking them clean— they’d get dirtied again, he knew it, because he worked them again in you.

Keeping you occupied. The moan that left his mouth upon tasting what was on his fingers almost did you in. Shit.

“What else can you infer from that?” Spencer asked, preparing to lower himself back down. Obviously, it worked, because your mind would go blank and then you’d receive sweet fucking clarity.