Oh, think, why couldn’t you think? Probably because Derek’s fingers were where they always were when you couldn’t figure things out on a case— between your legs. Of course, the team didn’t know about this particular arrangement, but the two of you did. And you were having profiler’s block again on a case in Vegas, where the unsub was making his kill scenes into tea parties, always a slit to the throat. For all your genius, even you hit roadblocks sometimes.

“Think, baby girl.” Derek coaxed more sound out of you, his fingers — pumping, curling, pushing — working their magic, ahem. Your back was flush against his chest, his body against the headboard in the hotel room.

This was absolutely sinful and you knew it, but hey— tried and tested method, it does the trick.

He groaned, moving your hair out of the way to press open mouthed kisses to your pulse, one hand holding your legs apart. “Fuck, there we go.” He murmured, knowing he was a little shit.

Occasionally he’d stop, giving your blissfully blank mind some time to reboot and give him an answer.

“Good girl. Shh, I’ve got you. I got you.” Derek encouraged, nodding against your temple, voice soft. “Slit throat, what does that tell us about the unsub?” Oh, fucking hell. For the love of all things holy— mm.

His fingers started up again— right there.

Obviously, the method worked, cause your mind was wiped clean and when it returned you got sweet fucking clarity— shit, his fingers were working you just right.