» You play a game of 'marco polo' with him for fifteen years. Call and response, you and him, always. «
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TAGS: childhood best friends to lovers, streamer!kenma x mod!reader, CONSTANT flirting over stream, first meetings, falling in love with your online best friend? more likely than you think, youtube filming of 'boyfriend does my makeup' trend, it's all just one big excuse for them to finally meet they honestly dont care about anything else, insanely desperate 'obsessed with each other' type sex, mutual pining but millions of people are watching it happen live
a/n: this singlehandedly made me a kenma girl. ive fallen down a hole of "kenma is a confident introvert who knows how to run his mouth" feelings. thank you so very much to the person who commissioned this <33
[commission honee here!]
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Ba-bum!
"Testing, testing, mic check."
You scroll on your phone, curled up on your oversized gaming chair. "You don't need to mic check every time," you mumble into your headset.
"Discord's shit these days," is all he says. His voice is gentle as ever, even if his words cut. "I pay up the ass in internet and it still lags."
"Add me to your family plan," you say, just like you do every time. You don't know his exact expenses, but you do know that Kozume Kenma doesn't spare when it comes to his gaming setup.
"I'll add you if you promise not to use it for League."
You scoff, reaching for your coffee. You won't hear his usual admonishments about taking care of yourself — if he wants to do overnight stream challenges, he gets to deal with a malnourished moderator.
"My ping would thank you greatly, Koz."
"Your ping can suck my dick."
You grin, tossing your phone on the desk and glancing at the time. "On that note-"
"Yep. See ya."
You both end the call, only thirty-two seconds long. Your phone immediately buzzes.
[10:00 PM]
kozuken is live!
You're the first in the chat, your monitor split between his video feed and the chat box.
"Hello, hello," he says. "Mic check, testing, testing."
You roll your eyes.
"Marco's rolling her eyes. I can feel it."
You grin, leaning in to type a response.
[10:02 PM]
Marco: eat my ass
He grins, eyes dragging over the chat before looking away so he can set up his game. "Time and place, baby."
The chat goes crazy, the way it always does, when you two talk to each other like this. Purposely walking the line between platonic and flirtatious — once just a joke, made a regular dynamic. Once you'd noticed that his fans loved it, it was easy enough to continue, especially since Kenma's so fond of egging you on in his streams.
"Roll call, moderators," he mumbles into his mic, his eyes flitting back and forth between monitors while he loads in his screen recorder and audio buff.
[10:04 PM]
Marco: marco
"Polo," he responds, an afterthought. "Looks like everyone's here, so we can get started."
The comments filter in, your eyes trained to skim quickly. The brand new fans are easy to pick out, questions coming in about why he does roll call if you're his only mod. The old fans are busy spamming the word 'marco' over and over again in the chat, a joke long turned habit.
At one point, he'd considered having more than one moderator. It's just so much work for you. But you know — he'd told you — that he can't trust anyone else. That he wouldn't be able to keep track of anyone else in is DMs, not when you take up so much of his time.
"You're always yapping," he'd jokingly complained once, when the two of you were in college. "You're a full-time job."
You wouldn't let him have another moderator, anyway. This is yours. You made this place for yourself without meaning to, and both of you know — unacknowledged, unconscious — that no one else can have it.
Things had always been that way for you and Kozume Kenma. Unspoken, inexplicable.
—
He's ten when you meet him. You're ten, too. Way too young to be playing games online with strangers, but internet safety isn't really on your mind at that age.
And he doesn't try to chat you up, doesn't try to get any personal information out of you. You happen to play a single round of a game together, and you happen to add him as a friend afterward, because he's good. He happens to accept it.
He also sounds ten. He types in short, clipped phrases, simple DMs that say 'party?' when you're both online. After a few months, that single word turns into adding each other on Discord, which you're both still too young to have but do anyway. It turns into near-silent phone calls, where you both make simple requests of each other in-game and nothing else.
It isn't until months later — almost a year since meeting him — that you're brave enough to send a meme. He responds with a reaction. You think that'll be it, and then you're surprised the next morning to find he'd sent one, too.
He turns eleven, and you send a quick 'hap birth', which he responds to with a cake emoji. You turn eleven a few weeks later, and he just sends the emoji again.
And then, one night, he texts a quick 'party?' and you respond with 'tired :/', expecting that to be it. Expecting, at most, a thumbs up.
He calls. You answer, thinking maybe he hadn't gotten your text.
"Hello?"
"Hi."
He says nothing else. You just get the notification that he's streaming his screen. He's playing a cozy game, something low-stakes with gentle background music.
You fall asleep like that, watching his stream on your phone, no words shared between you.
It becomes a habit — first, only when one of you is too tired to play, and then scheduled. Every Wednesday night, when you're both most tired from school, and then Fridays, too.
Friday streams turn into Friday movie nights, and those turn into Friday 'play something in the background and talk over it' nights.
You turn twelve on one of those nights. He spends two hours building you a house-sized cake in Minecraft, telling you in that deadpan voice to shut up when you start making insane requests.
"I just think if we put a river through it-"
"No."
"But it could be like one of those molten lava cake things-"
"Stop it."
"I'm just imagining-"
"No imagining. Less imagination from you."
You fall asleep before he's done, your face sore from laughing. You wake up to a picture of the finished block-cake, a stupid little river running through it.
You grow up like that, middle school passing with your closest friend only accessible behind a screen. He tells you about his friend Kuroo, and you tell him about your school friends, too. He starts playing volleyball, and you spend some Friday nights watching pro-volleyball matches with him so he can learn.
And then one day, when you're both fourteen, Kuroo logs on while Kenma's in the shower and calls you. You answer, of course, but you're completely unprepared for the video feed to be turned on.
"Oh," you say. "That's not what I thought you'd look like."
The boy on the other end furrows his brow, a scoff leaving him. "You guys haven't video called before?"
It's not hard to figure out that this is not Kenma.
It's even easier when Kenma does come into view, a blur of dark hair and Kuroo tackled to the floor, out of sight.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
You listen as they wrestle, watch as the real Kozume Kenma appears in the video, wide-eyed and panicked.
"Holy shit," he says, frantically trying to turn his camera off. "I'm so sorry."
You just laugh, watching him mute-unmute-mute-unmute himself instead of pressing on the camera icon. He swears again, beet-red, so you just turn your camera on, too, your nerves fluttering.
He freezes, stares. Opens his mouth, closes it, blinks.
"Hi," he says, voice quiet.
You swallow, feeling your face burn and hoping it doesn't show in the camera. "Hi."
The moment is interrupted by Kuroo, who starts to laugh in the background. "This story is going in my best-man speech at your wedding."
Kenma turns an insane shade of red within milliseconds, and then he hangs up. You have to sit for a long time staring at the dark screen just to catch your breath.
One good thing comes out of Kuroo Tetsurou's intervention — video calling.
High school marks the era of sending exhausted morning selfies and late afternoon study calls, your cameras on and your mics muted. He calls after practice every day, only half his face showing as he walks home, and you bring him with you for post-midnight snack searches of the kitchen, all the lights off around you.
He's there when you move into your college dorm, his voice echoing from your back pocket as he complains about the view. You're there when he decides to start streaming professionally, your smile knowing and silly when you offer to be his moderator. Both your grins full of mischief when he actually considers it.
He starts out slow, quiet, but he's good at what he does — what you both do — and his fan base grows quickly. He hits 100,000 followers within a year, and he's at a million by the time you graduate. You run his chat with a firm hand, banning viewers after one warning and spending your free time accepting and denying requests to be unbanned. He spends his time editing VODs and posting them to Youtube, and he brings on a friend — Lev Haiba — to run his accounts. The guy's a model, apparently, and knows the ins and outs of social media better than anyone.
And then Kenma starts his own company — Bouncing Ball Corp. — and suddenly, his face and name are everywhere. You see him on bus ads and in storefronts, sports outlets marketing him and his sponsored players — Hinata Shouyou the most famous of all — until you can spot a cutout of him at least once a day on your way to work.
You always send him a picture. He always responds with a middle finger emoji.
Your days are spent working your boring office job, Discord open on one monitor as you speed through your work on the other. Your lunch breaks are spent on the phone with him, complaints sent in spam texts on the few days your coworkers actually invite you to join them.
It passes through your mind a few times — the fact that you haven't met him. You're 25 years old and have yet to meet your best friend of 15 years.
You wonder sometimes if he thinks about it, too.
—
[10:00 PM]
kozuken is live!
"Mic check, testing testing. Roll call, mods?"
Marco: marco
"Polo." Kenma scrolls through his Steam library for the viewers, humming contemplatively. "Not sure what I wanna play today. I want something lowkey. It was a rough day."
You grin evilly, typing out something quick without thinking.
Marco: i can make you feel better :')
His smile is immediate, his tongue poking out as he shakes his head. "Got enough space for you under my desk, Marco."
Marco: i pray for days like these <333
Marco: god is real <333
Marco: lemme get a hair tie real quick
He purses his lips, his laugh escaping anyway. "That'll take too long, just borrow one of mine."
The chat is responding at a rate that even you can't follow, but you do catch one comment.
'BE SO HONEST WITH US, HAVE YOU GUYS FUCKED???'
You know Kenma's seen it because he starts choking, fist beating down on his chest. You fire off a response, ignoring the flaming heat in your cheeks and that the swirl of nerves in your gut.
Marco: omw as we speak
He barks out a laugh, nodding. "Yeah, she's got a key to my place. That's how this whole mod thing happened in the first place."
Marco: aftercare is just stream ideas
"We talk about hiring VOD editors while I'm rearranging her guts."
You gasp, face searing hot as you switch to your DMs and message him.
You: YOU CANNOT SAY THAT ON STREAM!!!!!!!!!!
His eyes flick to the next screen, and then he beams, his grin a little too pleased. "Uh oh, I'm in the doghouse. Do you guys think she'll still let me hit?"
You text again.
You: NO I WILL NOT!!!!!!!!!!
His brow furrows for a moment, and you realize that you should have said that in the stream chat, not in his DMs. You groan aloud, burying your face in your hands in humilation. You only lift your eyes when you hear the ping of his text.
Koz: what if im not in the doghouse?
You freeze, staring. Eyes flicking to the video feed, watching him closely. Watching those little mannerisms that only you can see, the ones that make it clear he's nervous about that text. When you don't answer fast enough, he starts to chew on his bottom lip and his eyes take on a distracted glaze as he pretends to read the stream chat.
You watch him type again quickly.
Koz: joke
You exhale shakily, typing with trembling fingers in the stream chat.
Marco: chat, tell koz to stop begging for nudes in my dms
He finds it immediately in the sea of messages, eyes going wide and then flicking away. His laugh is full of relief, and he just shakes his head.
"One day," he says. "One day, Marco." You ignore the heat building in your gut and watch as he switches topics, scrolling through Steam again. "Alright," he eventually sighs. "Let's play Stardew."
You pin a chat that catches your eye, your fingers still shaking.
'co-op farm with marco???'
Kenma smiles, small and sweet this time, and shakes his head. "Marco's too busy running this shit like the Navy. She won't be able to focus."
You pin another chat.
'what if you guys play off stream and upload to yt???'
He nods, shrugging. "I don't see why not. We basically just play games in our free time, anyway."
One more pin, your nerves at an all-time high.
'film irl??? even if it's not games???'
His smile takes on a curious quality, brows furrowed as he hums and launches the game. It's obvious that you're interested in the idea, because you wouldn't be pinning the messages if you weren't. Everyone watching can see it, too, an influx of support crashing through the chat.
"What'do you wanna see us do, then?" he asks, attention turned to his Stardew file. A message flies by that says 'WE WANNA SEE YOU FUCK!!!', and he laughs, but his voice is tight. You understand why, your skin breaking out in a cold sweat. You type fast, trying to play it off.
Marco: lets do plushy tour
"What're you gonna do, haul your shit all the way to my place?" he jokes. "I've seen your plushy collection. It's semi-truck-requiring."
The chat continues to be spammed with ideas, and he pauses every few minutes to glance at them. You put out a few polls here and there, most having to do with his gameplay, but one of them is titled 'MarKoz Youtube Collab Ideas'. It stays up for a while, votes flooding in. He examines it for a moment, and then you watch him type.
Koz: you wanna meet up?
Your nerves peak and crash, your skin covered in goosebumps at the thought of meeting Kenma.
You: could be fun
He swallows, takes a sip of his drink. Types again.
Koz: could be
Koz: soon? or
It strikes you then that you have no idea where he lives. It can't be far, but…
You: depends
You: train tickets can get pricey
Koz: stfu
Koz: you know i'll pay
A few minutes go by with you distracted by the chat and him playing his game.
Koz: send me your address
You flush, realizing this is actually happening.
You: [location attached]
He chokes on his drink, in the middle of his livestream. You watch the chat react, a range of concern and 'Marco finally sent the nudes' jokes.
Koz: wtf
Koz: what the fuck yn
You: ????
Koz: thats ten fucking minutes from here
Your whole world comes crashing down.
—
You exhale in disbelief, staring up at the high-rise with a small grin tugging at your lips.
"Of course," you whisper, shaking your head and hauling your tote bag higher up on your shoulder. You push your way through the revolving door, glancing around as you approach the front desk. "Hi… I'm… I guess I'm here to see a resident?"
The girl behind the counter smiles up at you, humor lacing her voice. "Okay. Can I get a name?"
"She's with me."
His voice feels like a cord was wrapped tight around your spine when you weren't looking. Like he was baked into your DNA, his life intertwined with yours.
Your eyes fly to his. He's staring back at you like he feels the same way.
Disoriented. Shocked. Unsteady.
You clear your throat, smiling briefly at the girl as you drift away, your grip on the strap of the tote bag almost painful.
You meet him at the elevator bay, your legs shaking. "Hi."
He inhales, eyes flicking between yours rapidly. "Hey."
You're not sure how to greet him. If you should hug him — you've known him most of your life — or if it would be weird — this is your first time ever meeting him. He steps away to call the elevator, so you take it as a sign not to hug him and just wait beside him.
"Was the walk okay?" he tries, voice quiet and hesitant. You shift awkwardly, just shrugging.
"Yeah. It was alright."
God, this is uncomfortable. What is it? What's making this so weird?
You follow him into the elevator, taking stock of the situation. What you know about him and what's new.
His voice is familiar, but it's different in person. It affects you more. His stance — lazy with a slight slouch — is comfortable to you, but his height is new. His hair and face are the same, but now you can see his skin, his eyes. You can smell his shampoo. His cologne. You can feel his warmth, gentle and washing over you.
Your eyes dart over his form once, twice, and then they return to his face.
He's doing the same to you. His face is tinged pink with embarrassment, and you realize that your cheeks are warm, too.
His eyes catch yours, widening slightly. "Uh," he starts, gaze flying away. You see the spread of warmth across his ears and down his neck. "I was thinking we could eat first and then film… Maybe play a game or something?"
You nod quickly, following him out of the elevator. "That sounds good to me." You wince internally, imagining how awkward the video would be if you started filming right away. You can only hope that some buffer time before then would ease the tension.
When you enter his apartment, your jaw drops, eyes scanning the luxurious space. "Damn," you whisper. "You sure I can't join your internet family plan?"
He smiles, shooting a glance back at you as he leads you to the kitchen. There are bags of takeout already there, the smell of food wafting wonderfully over you. "You gonna use it for League?"
Your grin is comfortable, and there's a wave of relief crashing over you. You can feel the tension fading just a little bit, which means there's still hope.
"What're you gonna do if I do?" you joke, leaving your bag by his couch.
Golden eyes find you, and there's a flash of something there — something that warms the knot underneath your navel — before he looks away, his smile tighter than before.
"Guess you gotta find out."
You flush with warmth, all the way down to your toes. Had that transferred over as well? The jokes that lean a little too far away from platonic? The one-liners that hold more than they should?
You don't hate the idea. Not at all.
You help him unpack the food – he’d gotten your favorite, despite only ever seeing you eat over a discord call – and join him on the sofa, his massive TV and multiple game consoles collected on his TV stand. He untangles two controllers, passing one to you as he crouches by the stand and plugs one of the consoles in.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. You watch him tilt his head, watch his hair cascade down like a waterfall, feel the urge to tangle your fingers in it. “The only people who come over are Kuroo and Hinata. I can never get them to game with me.”
You cross your ankles, uncross them, look around his place some more. “I can come over more, if that’s what you’re asking.”
You hear him laugh through his nose, and then he nods. That urge to tangle your fingers in his hair grows stronger.
"Yeah, that's what I'm asking," he jokes. "Want you here every day."
"Get me a key, then."
He turns, eyes finding you. He doesn't say anything, just rises and hits the power button on the console. Then he joins you on the couch. You try not to notice that he sits close enough that his thigh touches yours.
The Mario Kart soundtrack fills his living room, so you force down the thought of his body heat. Of his cologne, washing over you. Of the hyper-sensitivity on the right side of your body, the side that's pressed to his.
You manage to fake your way through the nerves, the game relaxing you and the food delicious. Jokes fly easily, the bump of his elbow on yours easy and the shove of your shoulder into his when he's winning all too comfortable.
You don't even realize that several hours have passed, not until you glance out his floor-to-ceiling windows — he's way too rich, you think — and see that it's completely dark out.
"Oh," you breathe, looking around. The food is long-finished, and you've gotten completely comfortable in Kenma's home. Legs kicked up on the coffee table, hoodie removed from the warmth of pushing and shoving and yelling about the game for hours on end, your weight slumped heavily against his.
He shifts, moving you in the process, and stares out the window. "Damn," he says, slightly out of breath from screaming his head off at you hitting him with a blue shell. "We should film, huh?"
You laugh. "Yeah, probably." You set the controller down and rise, stretching your arms high above your head and groaning quietly. When you open your eyes, you find Kenma's gaze latched onto the slip of skin you're showing, just above your jeans. He looks away quickly, but you'd still caught it, the same way you're catching the pink tinge in his ears.
You swallow, warm, and clear your throat. "Shall we?"
"Yeah."
You follow him down the hall, your tote bag weighing you down. It's full of your makeup, the consensus on the last stream that everyone wants to see him do the "boyfriend does my makeup" trend.
You stop at the door he steps through, staring.
It's his bedroom.
"Oh-" you start, eyes wide. "I thought we would be in your office."
His eyes fly to yours, panic seeping into his expression. "Oh. I thought it would be more comfortable on the bed." He blinks, and you see his brain working overtime. "We can-"
"No!" you laugh, entering and setting your bag on the floor by the foot of his bed. "It's okay, you're probably right."
He's silent while you unpack all your makeup onto his bed, and then he sighs quietly. "Okay," he breathes. "I'll get the tripod." He scurries from the room with the pace of someone incredibly nervous, and you can't blame him. You feel the same.
He returns after a moment, tripod and camera in hand, and sets up next to the foot of his bed. When he's done, he looks to you expectantly. "Ready?"
You climb onto the mattress, nodding. "Let's do it."
He settles down next to you and presses record. "Okay," he says, examining the view in the little side panel. "We're good."
You grin, waving at the camera. "Howdy."
You see his brows furrow, watch the grin slide across his face as he looks at you. "'Howdy'? That's what we're doing?"
"Just start the damn video."
"It's started!" he laughs. "Be normal!"
"This is normal!"
"Oh, my god," he sighs, addressing the camera. "Hi. Kozuken here," he starts. He gestures to you. "Marco, as you probably guessed."
You wave again. "Howdy."
"I'm gonna kill you."
You shove him. He shoves back. When you try again, he catches you by the wrists with one hand, dragging them down into his lap. You gawk at him, flushing, and then remember that the camera is on.
You turn to it, one eyebrow raised and a smirk tugging at your lips.
"And that, ladies-" you say. "-is how you get a man to do what you want."
You can't help it — falling back into what's comfortable. It's unfortunate that this is what's comfortable.
Kenma leans into it, too. He can't help it, either, then.
"She thinks I don't know what she wants," he jokes, shaking his head. "I'm always ten steps ahead." And then he lets you go with a quiet exhale. "Let's get to the point of the video, please." His voice is light, but you can see the warmth in his cheeks.
You can feel the warmth in yours, too, but you push on. "Okay, so by popular demand, we're doing the 'boyfriend does my makeup' trend!"
He smiles, giving you a purposely pointed look. "You gonna clarify for the masses, or are you just gonna let them think I'm your boyfriend?"
You grin, shrug. "I'm gonna let the masses think what they want."
"Whatever you say," he gives in easily. He turns so that one leg is hanging off the bed, the other ankle crossed under his knee as he faces you. You mirror him, getting as close as you can and leaving your leg overlapped with his.
"Shall we?" you say, gesturing to your mountain of different products. "I brought everything I own, just because I want to make your life harder."
"You certainly do like to do that," he says, shaking his head at the pile. "Fuck, this is a whole store." He glances around and then up at you. "Alright," he sighs. "Let's see what I can fuck up in the next hour."
And then he pulls a hair tie off of his wrist and cups your face with both hands. You gasp quietly, eyes trained on his in confusion. He smothers a smile and slides his hands into your hair, looping his arms around your neck and gathering it all up in one hand. He ties your hair up like that, your breath mingling in the minimal space between you and his eyes locked tight on yours. His eyes flick down to your lips quickly and then come back, and you know he sees how you warm because his smile grows before he bites down on his bottom lip to cover it.
He leans away, examining your makeup. You turn to the camera while he does, staring hard. "You guys saw that, right?"
"I'm sure they're rewinding over and over again as we speak," he jokes, yanking a bottle from the depths. "'Foundation'," he reads. "Well, that seems promising. Buildings start with the foundation, don't they?"
You grin, staring up at him while he reads the back of the vial. "Good boy," you tease. "Using your wittle bwain."
He glares at you through his lashes. "Say it again. Go ahead."
You shrink away, just beaming at him while he uncaps the bottle and starts to smear foundation all over your face. He uses far too much, enough that you feel a whine build in your throat.
"You're wasting it. That was expensive-"
"Shh," he whispers, drawing on your forehead. "I'll buy you more later."
"You better."
"You know I'm good for it," he mumbles, focusing hard. You try not to flush, but you can feel his voice — deep, low, close — dripping down your spine like honey. "Now be quiet. I'm making art."
Now that you notice, you realize he actually is drawing. He's writing something on your face with the wand. You start to pull back, but he catches your chin with his other hand.
"Where you goin'?" he breathes, still focusing. "I'm not done."
You grimace. "You're writing weird shit on my face, Koz." You hear it, the bratty whine that trickles out with your words. But you can't help it, not when he's gripping your face like that and talking to you like that. Like you're his.
He just chews on his lip, that grin still threatening to spill out. "Just be patient."
"I'm not good at that."
His teeth flash briefly when he snickers. "I can teach you, if you'd like."
You push him away, huffing petulantly. He just laughs, the sound bright. You use the opportunity to lean into the camera, examining the side panel.
Property of Kozuken
Your tongue pushes against the inside of your cheek, nostrils flaring. You know the camera catches it all, that it catches the look you shoot him over your shoulder.
He's still smiling, all too pleased and not nearly embarrassed enough.
You find your spot again, glaring up at him. "Fix it." When he just coos, cupping your face teasingly, you lean forward, pressing your hands into his thighs and filling his space with your presence. "Fix it, Koz," you breathe, your pout poking out for him.
You're close enough that you hear his breath stutter. You feel his body twitch in response to you. You watch his eyes flick between yours and down to your lips, lingering too long to be accidental.
"Okay, okay," he mumbles. His thumbs spread over your cheeks, wiping away the Kozu and ken in two gentle swipes. "Don't get mad. I was joking."
You don't know what to do with the fact that he'd said it quietly enough that there's no way the camera caught it. That he'd said it for you, just for you.
"Not mad," you whisper, still leaning on his thighs, still pressing your face up toward his. "Definitely not mad."
His eyes widen, and then his eyelashes flutter, his lips parted and his breath shaky as it leaves him. He glances at the camera, laughing nervously.
"Chat, she's whispering nasty shit in my ear."
You push off of him with a roll of your eyes, ignoring the fingers that snag on your wrist, the thumb that swipes over your pulse once, twice, before leaving your hand in his lap. He shuffles through the rest of your makeup, starting to organize the bottles by type.
You talk to the camera while he works. "I think next time, we should do something that doesn't involve wasting all my makeup. Like a plushy reveal!"
"I told you no," he says right away, still sorting. "You have a storage unit's worth of plushies in that bed."
"Okay, then you come to my place. We can rank them together." You lean over, off camera, and snag your fingers on the single plush he has on the armchair. It's a cat, orange and squishy and totally messed up from years of tugging and kneading at it. "But bring this with you."
He snatches it, smacking you on the head with the squishy butt of it before tossing it up to the head of his bed. "You're biased. You bought it."
You nod, contemplative as you tell the story. "He had a bit of an anger issue with games when we were kids. But he would just punch the air and scream, so I sent him a little stress toy." You reach for it again, showing the camera how disfigured it is. "Look what he did, guys! He's a monster."
"I have a lot of cute aggression to get out of my system."
You turn over your shoulder, meeting his eyes. "Oh, yeah? About what?"
His gaze is steady, even when a single eyebrow lifts.
You look back at the camera, your face noticeably warmer. You look away, the sight of yourself in that camera tugging at the fluttering nerves in your stomach.
Kenma moves on without comment. "These all say concealer," he says, turning a few over and reading them. He glances at you when you stay quiet. You know he can see the burn of your cheeks, that your gaze is distant. That you're clearly still embarrassed about how things are falling into place between you.
"Too much?" he finally says, eyes still reading labels and hands still separating vials into different sections. You get the sense that he plans to cut this part out of the video.
You shake your head. His knee is starting to bounce anxiously. You let your fingers dance over his jeans, pressing down on his knee to calm him. "Not too much," you say, chewing on your lip and staring down at the spot where your leg overlaps with his. "Just nervous."
He stalls, fingers hovering a tube of lipstick. You hear him swallow.
"Yeah," he eventually breathes. "Me, too."
You both move on.
He clears his throat and raises his voice for the camera again. "I'm gonna try one of these concealer things."
"Okay."
"Where do I put it?"
You just smile. He rolls his eyes.
He ends up slathering it in random spots. The only one he gets right is the spot under your eyes, where he ends up putting way too much.
"Wow, this is ass," he jokes, trying to rub it in with his thumbs. You make choked noises, leaning away in fear that he's going to stab you in the eyes. He ends up bent over in laughter, hands still cupping your face, and you end up straining to look at the camera, the panic in your eyes obvious.
He moves on, leaving you caked in foundation and concealer as he picks up a pile of pencils. All lip liner.
"These look like they go on your eyes." When you stare at him in horror, he smiles innocently. "Eyeliner, right?"
You just smile, full of fear, and turn to the camera again. "Yeah."
"Close your eyes, then."
You keep smiling at the camera. "Don't wanna."
"C'mon," he laughs, nudging you. He's wielding a red pencil. You just stare. "Close your eyes."
You whimper dramatically, letting your eyes fall shut.
He's gentle, but that was never a concern, really. The real concern — the one that sits at the back of your throat as your eyes are sliding shut — is how close he's going to choose to get.
It's close. Really close.
You feel his breath on your lips, feel his hair tickle your face, feel his fingers holding gently to your chin, keeping you steady.
"While he fucks this up," you start, voice light but slightly shaky. "Let me talk about the games I wanna play that we can record off stream and upload later."
"Mhm," he hums. You wonder if he's nervous about your breath on his lips, too.
"Well, I wanna play Stardew. I also think people would have fun watching me try games I suck at."
"Like League?" he jokes quietly. You gasp, ignoring the fact that you can feel when he speaks, feel the bass in his voice and the slide of honey that comes with it.
"Take that back right now."
"No."
"Koz," you whine. "Be nice to me. I'm letting you mess up my face."
There's a long pause, one where you feel him start to laugh, the bed shaking slightly. Your skin warms dramatically under his touch.
"Shut up," you bite. "You have such a dirty mind."
"I didn't even have to say anything for you to get there, too."
"You just wanna see me under your desk."
He chokes, leaning away from you quickly. "Shit," he coughs. "Warn a man."
Your eyes are still closed. "You never warn me!"
He comes back after a moment, drawing lightly on your eyelids for just a little longer. And then he sighs.
"Fuck," he jokes. "I don't think I should have picked a red one."
You smile, trying not to shiver when he cups your jaw with his free hand, fingertips pressing softly into your cheeks. "I think," you start, breathing deep when his fingers twitch in response. "That you should have picked an eyeliner."
He pauses, and you just know he's staring at the pencil in confusion. "What are you?" he whispers, loud enough for the camera.
You keep smiling, your whisper just as loud. "Lip liner."
"Ah, shit," he laughs. "Well — Since I'm here." His fingers push at your cheeks, forcing your lips to pucker for him.
You stop breathing, and your eyes snap open in surprise. He meets your gaze evenly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and then he refocuses his attention on drawing the outline of your lips.
"You look ridiculous," he comments while he works.
You just roll your eyes. "I wonder why," you mutter, your voice muffled by his grip.
He leans away when he's done, humming pleasantly. "I think I'm done."
"What?" you laugh, turning to examine yourself in the camera. "Koz, I look so stupid."
"I'm too scared to try anything else."
"You didn't even do lipstick," you complain. "Or mascara. I look like a fool."
"I think it suits you." He just laughs when you smack him, his hand rubbing at the spot on his chest that you'd hit. "Say bye to the masses."
"Koz," you complain, lamenting your appearance in the camera. "You've got to be fucking with me-"
"Bye!" he calls, his hands coming down on the camera and shutting it off.
You just stare. "Do you see me?"
He laughs, squeezing your cheeks together with one hand. "You look like a dumbass."
"Yeah!" you laugh back. "My foundation's splotchy, there's concealer caked under my eyes, and you used lip liner all over the place!"
He just stands, tugging a box of tissues over and wiping his hands diligently. You swipe one, too, scrubbing at your skin. He gasps.
"My art!"
"I'm not going outside like this," you say, standing at the full-length mirror in the corner and working at your face until, though red and splotchy from scrubbing, it's clear of makeup. You don't say anything about the fact that Kenma's just been watching from the bed, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle while he leans back on his hands.
"You wanna stick around a little?" he asks quietly. You glance at him in the reflection, smiling shyly.
"Next time? It's late."
He looks reluctant to nod, but he does anyway. "Yeah. Next time." He turns, packing your makeup away while you wash your hands in his en suite bathroom.
He walks you to the door quietly, hauling your tote bag for you and waiting while you put your shoes on. "Want me to walk you?"
You smile at him, taking the bag. "I'll be okay."
"I don't like that you're walking in the dark. Let me call an uber at least."
"I'll be fine," you say. "Want me to call you while I walk?"
He flushes. "No."
"Would it make you feel better?"
"… Yes."
You laugh. "Okay. I'm gonna go."
He looks like he's searching for any reason to keep you here. You purse your lips, the nerves coming back. But you set the bag against the door for just a moment, anyway.
When you hug him, it surprises him. You feel his inhale, sharp and quiet, as you wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face in the crook. His hands find your waist easily, gentle and trembling slightly. He slips his arms around you after a moment, pulling you flush to his body.
You let your urge from earlier win, fingers finally tangling into his hair.
He shivers. It flies down his spine almost violently, shaking you in the process. The breath he lets out is mixed with a sound that you desperately want to call a moan.
"Fuck," he whispers, laughing nervously. "Sorry."
Warmth floods your skin, seeping low into the spot under your navel. You cling to him, feeling when his hold on you tightens.
"'s okay," you whisper back.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You feel him swallow, the sound dragging past your ear.
And then he presses his lips to your shoulder. Quietly. Gently.
You inhale harshly, your exhale just as hard.
He does it again, against your pulse. His fingers dig into your skin when a whine flies past your lips.
"Kenma," you breathe.
His chest is rising and falling unevenly. "You should go," is all he says.
It takes all your strength to pull away from him. He looks as unsteady on his feet as you feel. His pupils are blown wide and his face is burning red and he's carding his fingers through his hair and letting out a sigh that speaks of distress and feelings he doesn't want to voice.
"Bye, Koz," you say, wanting him to look at you again.
He does. You wonder if he can even help it anymore.
"Call me," he says, his voice rough, thick with emotion. "Soon as you leave."
"I will," you promise.
You do, the moment you step foot in the lobby.
He doesn't sound any less overwhelmed. You know you don't, either.
—
"Oh, my god," you laugh, scrolling through the comments. "This is nuts."
"It's only been up 12 hours," he says, equally amazed. He's watching your shared screen so that you can react to the same comments at the same time.
'you cannot physically convince me that these two arent secretly in a relationship and are just gaslighting us.'
You laugh. "Should I like it, just so people crash out?"
"You know my answer."
You leave a little heart on the comment and scroll.
'WHY DO THEY LOOK AT EACH OTHER LIKE THAT. SOME OF US ARE SINGLE.'
Another like.
'property of kozuken??? are you joking??? are you kidding?? are you playing??? you think this is a damn joke, markoz??????'
Another like, and you add a heart in a comment, too, just because it's that funny.
'the way she whines his name whenever he does anything stupid?? you just KNOW he loves it.'
You stare at the comment, your mouse hovering over it. Kenma says nothing. You scroll without liking it.
"Go back."
You jump, a shock running through you. "What?"
"Go back," he says again, his voice soft as ever but his words tugging on that cord he has wrapped around your spine. "And like it."
You want to tease him. You want to make some stupid joke. You want this to be part of the running bit between the two of you.
But you can't do it.
So you just scroll back up and like the comment.
You rush to scroll down again, your face burning and your ears starting to ring.
'every time she sasses him he looks like he cant decide if he wants to kiss her or do so much worse'
You scroll quickly.
"Go back."
You go back and like it.
'if you look hard enough you can see the moment koz pops a boner'
"Oh, my god," you mutter, your face burning. You scroll, praying he doesn't say those two words again. Praying you can move past it, because you're not sure you can handle it if he doesn't.
"Y/n."
That's worse than telling you to go back.
You sigh, the sound stuttering. "Koz," you whisper. "C'mon."
"Go back. And like it."
"You have to be joking."
"I'm not," he says, his voice still soft, even though he's saying something truly terrible. "If you don't do it, I'm gonna go in there and write a response."
"What could you possibly say?" you joke, your laugh desperate.
"That they're right."
Your skin breaks out in goosebumps.
"And then I'm gonna leave the timestamp."
You bury your face in your hands. "Kenma," you whisper.
"4:52."
You're shaking. You can't deal with the fact that he has an answer. That he's telling you to go look.
"Y/n."
You shudder, hand clamped over your mouth and the warmth under your navel burning hot, dangerously so.
You find the timestamp.
'Fix it,' you're saying. You're leaning onto his thighs, your eyes big and your pout petulant as you push your face into his. 'Fix it, Koz.' The words property of kozuzen are half-visible on your face. He's looking down at you like he's losing his mind. You hadn't realized it at the time, but the pained expression is plastered on his face.
You swallow. "That was super early on."
"I know. It was torture."
You hang your head, breathing hard. "I regret meeting you in person, Koz."
He's silent, completely silent.
"What?" he finally says. His voice is thick. You can hear the fear in that single word. "Why?"
You laugh pitifully. "I knew I wasn't going to be able to handle it. That I wouldn't be able to be normal about you afterward."
His breath is heavy in the mic of his headset. "Normal about me?"
"I like you so much," you whisper, almost hoping he doesn't hear it. "It's so much worse now." You dig the heel of your hand into your eye. "I want you so bad, Kenma."
You hear when his breath stutters, when he whispers 'oh, fuck' to himself.
"You mean that?"
You haven't ever meant something this strongly in your whole life. It's been three days, and you haven't stopped thinking about him for even a second.
"Kenma," you whine, tears pricking behind your eyes. "Please."
You hope he gets what you're saying.
He hangs up.
Your heart jumps. He got it.
—
He makes it to your door in under ten minutes. You don't say anything about the messy hair or the way his chest is heaving or the wild look in his eye.
You don't say anything at all. You just grab him by the collar of his hoodie and drag him into your apartment.
He crowds you against the wall immediately, barely managing to kick his shoes off in the process. His eyes are flying across your face, checking your gaze and the flush in your cheeks and the way you're chewing on your lip.
"Please don't take it back," he breathes, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. "Please."
You just shove your fingers into his hair, tangling tight and pulling him to you. A moan rips out of his throat and his hands slam down on the wall on either side of you as you push your lips against his.
He kisses you like he's been thinking about it for years. You let yourself admit that you've been thinking about it, too.
His lips burn on yours, the push and pull full of desperation, urgency. He pushes his body against yours, and you feel so clearly that he's shaking. That he's leaning on you like he's worried you'll disappear. You cup his face, kissing him deep and then whispering into his mouth.
"I'm not goin' anywhere, Kenma."
He shudders, drops his hands to your waist and pulls you impossibly closer. "I know. It's just been so long." You don't have to ask what he means. You just wrap your arms around his neck, letting him haul you up, letting your legs wrap tight around his waist. Feeling when he presses you into the wall and pins you there with his hips. "I've known you my whole life," he breathes. "Had you my whole life."
"Wasn't enough," you mumble, a little distracted by the way his lips get rougher, the way his grip on you gets possessive.
"Yeah," he mutters, teeth tugging your bottom lip into your mouth. His tongue presses to it hard, tasting you. "Wasn't enough."
"Always kinda hoped you weren't joking," you admit, clinging tight when he starts to walk you through the room. He pauses every few feet, pushing you against the nearest surface so he can kiss you, like he can't help it. "When we started messing around on stream."
He laughs into your mouth. "The first few times, I was sure you could see how red I was." You couldn't, but you remember your own reactions so clearly, back in college when you and Kenma were just starting to realize you were both adults.
"Why did this take so long?" you breathe, shuddering when his lips trail down the line of your throat, his tongue searing into your skin. "We could've been doing this the whole time."
He nibbles on your pulse, passes his tongue over it. Starts to suck on that spot. "I dunno," he mumbles. "We were socially stunted kids on the internet?"
You giggle, carding your fingers through his hair and tugging. He grunts, marking you in another spot now. You tug again, and he pushes his hips against yours, a warning. You sigh, your eyes shut and a smile on your lips when you feel how hard he is.
"I think I like pulling your hair," you admit, tugging again. He uses his grip on your waist to pull you into him harder.
"I think you think you're in charge."
"Am I not?" you sigh. "You're so soft. You let me do whatever I want. You always have."
He lifts his head away, golden eyes locked tight on yours. His gaze glints with the edge of something sharp.
"You just said it," he breathes, smiling. "I let you do what you want." He tilts his head when you start to shrink under his gaze, his smile stretching wide. "You didn't notice?" he coos.
You purse your lips, staring up at him. "Shut up, Koz," you grumble, tugging on his locks again.
He sets you on your feet before you can blink, and you realize in that moment that playing volleyball regularly since high school wouldn't have left him without something to show for it.
Your hands are ripped from his hair and pinned above your head without a single word from him. He just holds you there, trapped against the living room wall, his smile entirely too smug.
"Wanna take it back?" he teases, eyes passing over your embarrassed flush with glee.
You pout at him. "C'mon, Koz."
"Say 'please'."
You sigh. "Please, Kenma."
He lifts his brows. "Now say 'pretty please'."
You glare. "Fuck you."
You can't decide if that look in his eye — pleased, smug, victorious — makes you want to kick or kiss him.
"Not 'til you say 'pretty please'," he says, starting to laugh.
You groan, laughing because he is, and put on your best pout.
"Pretty please, Kenma?"
You watch his brain stop working. It's a beautiful sight.
You use the chance to rip out of his grasp. He blinks, surprised, but it's smothered by you throwing your arms around him and dragging him into another searing kiss. He moans, relenting and just pulling you close.
You stumble down the hall like that, half-blind and knocking things over without care. He slams his hand down on the wall multiple times to keep you from falling over and dragging you down with him. You just keep doing it, too busy kissing him to care if you end up on the floor. It's a dance — a clumsy, stupid dance — but you eventually make it to your room, shoving your back against the door and pulling him in with you.
You collapse on the bed together, the desperation taking over again now that you're here. Now that this is real.
His hoodie hits the floor first. Your shorts go next.
Nothing else makes it off of you.
He starts to moan openly, and you start to whimper into his mouth, his hips rocking you into the mattress again and again. You fist his t-shirt in your hands, keeping him close. He slips his fingertips under the band of your panties, tugging while he rubs his tongue against yours.
"Can I…" he whispers, his breath warm against your lips and his mouth falling back on yours right away. You nod, expecting him to pull them down.
He doesn't. He doesn't have the patience for it. He just slides his fingers between your legs and presses them against your clit. Your back arches, and you whine loudly into his mouth. His breathing grows more ragged while he touches you, and his moans fall out in time with yours, like he gets as much pleasure from touching you as you do from being touched by him.
Your high approaches too soon. "Kenma," you breathe, high-pitched and full of warning.
He stops immediately, shaking his head. "Not yet," he mumbles, still kissing you. You don't understand how it's possible that you haven't gotten tired of kissing him yet. "Wanna feel you around me when it happens."
You whimper, nodding. "Please? Now?"
He smiles against you, nodding along. "Yeah. Now."
He shoves his pants down blindly, barely letting them hit his thighs before he's reaching between your thighs again. A wave of chills crashes down over the crown of your head, flooding your body when you feel him pull your panties to the side and slide the head of his cock through your folds.
"Oh, my-" You shiver, moans falling past your lips without your permission.
He's no better, his breath shaky and quiet groans building in his throat. He shoves his lips against yours again, moaning down your throat when he nudges against your entrance. You hear yourself begging, hear yourself mumbling his name over and over again while you beg him to do it.
When he pushes into you, it comes with a moan that gets caught in his throat, his voice cutting off and his breath going with it. Your vision goes white, and you just cling to him, knowing he's going to have nail marks in his skin and holes in his shirt later.
"Please," you breathe, almost inaudible. "Yes, please, fuck-"
He isn't patient enough to bottom out. He just starts to thrust, bullying his cock into you little by little with each push of his hips. "Oh, fuck," he moans. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-"
His pace isn't steady or even or anything remotely controlled. His hips stutter and twitch, and his moans get louder every time you clench around him. It's messy and desperate and neither of you cares nearly enough about making this perfect. You're too lost in each other, too lost in the fact that this moment was built over years of loving each other, of learning each other.
When he comes, it's with a trapped whine and your name, his forehead pressed to yours and the words 'I love you' slipping out as he pushes his lips against yours. When you come, it's much the same, his name on your lips like a mantra, your love washing over him in time with the flutter of your walls around him.
It takes several minutes — maybe even hours — for you to move, your body trapped under his and your mind completely content, warm.
You both fall asleep, sweaty and messy and completely at peace.
As you're drifting off, curled up in his arms, you mumble a question.
>> a series of firsts, which you can only think to learn from the person who knows you best <<
tags/cw: childhood best friends to lovers, first times, mildly innocent reader, unhealthy/slight codependency if you really stare at it with both eyes open, "teach me things" trope, college!au, fingering, handjob, oral (male and female receiving), sex, possessive iwa, toxic iwa, +more as the series goes on
a/n: this is reposted from my side blog sticky-sugar!! that blog is now archived, so i'll be re-uploading and continuing the series here.
thoughts on haikyuu guys with very Promiscuously presenting reader who is secretly inexperienced ❓🤔
accidentally running through the whole team
p.1 slutty virgin!reader x miya twins, suna, aran, and kita (at least)
Ი𐑼 pre note. shoutout anon for this dope req. not exactly sure what to title this
warnings. implicit nsfw. alcohol usage. worse to follow. minors DNI
content. 1.8k wc || college au || mainly kita x reader here || "softcore porn with overarching plot" || part one of many || heavy thirst || a night out || non-respectful petting and looking || mr. perfect meets ms. trouble || poly themes || flirting + manipulation || secretly inexperienced!reader || downward spiral story
links. will be added in due time || reply to be added to taglist for future parts!
Your predicament didn't start off with any ill intention.
You don't think things like this all the way through; at least, not in the traditional sense. You think about how things will feel and operate on sensations-- you go with the flow when some guys from the Kansai region hit you up. You wanna know what they thought about you, test how worked up you can get them, and egg each one on to get some dick pics. You liked to compare.
A little tease, exchange a photo or two, then block. No harm done, right?
It's always worked out in your favor, so you have no reason to panic when you spot five familiar faces on the overhead screen. High-definition does them all a type of justice shitty cameras, amateur angles, and bad lighting couldn't.
Your girl friend, on the hunt alongside you tonight at this local volleyball meet, feels you stiffen. You side-eye her, quieter than usual, until she forces you to speak.
"So... I think I know, like," You bite your lip and gawk at those handsome twins on the megascreen. One had a bigger dick than the other, if your memory was serving you right.
"Two?" You try to lie but find it a damn near sinful act under her eyes, "five, Five- of those guys from the Inarizaki team."
She puffs out a serious sigh.
"Girl..."
"They know each otherrr!" You brush it off, but fix your top, and mumble the rest, "So what?"
She gives you a tiny whatever and you can't get mad, because she sticks by your side. You'd be a lost cause and a loose cannon by your lonesome.
"You worry me, sometimes." She mutters to herself when she figures you're not listening.
It's an educated guess at its core, but it is true. You cock your head, deep in thought, at how Suna Rintarou wears a permanent pout-- it's not a bedroom thing, his face just looks like that. How Kita Shinsuke takes a lot of the guesswork out of why he texted you like a businessman over Snapchat- the guy practically is one. How Miya Osamu is bulkier than Miya Atsumu, like he stole more nutrients in the womb and it's followed them both till adulthood. How Ojiro Aran looks nowhere near as sugary-sweet as he was over text, with such a strong RBF.
With each one, more adrenaline tingles down your spine, flexes your fingers, makes your mind spin with increasingly bad ideas.
The match was arbitrary against the close-up shots and announcer player-analysis. They win by a hair, but you can't be bothered to care beyond how pretty they all looked. Breathless, braindead, and exhausted.
Flushed, and bent at the hips. Hands on slutty little waists. Hands on the knees really get you, because their shoulders make giant divots that you wanna just bury your face into. Shirts that get sweat-stuck to the skin. Hand towels coming away sopping and soggy.
It's enough to fuel your overactive imagination for weeks. You won't need to get your kicks for a while by texting anybody new, and you're satisfied having gotten to watch from a safe distance while on your way out of the stadium.
"(Your full government name)?" Some maniac calls after you.
Neither name do you go by, so it makes you whip your head all the way around to catch a glimpse of who your potential hitman was. You had a lot of enemies. It's not a baseless fear. Shit, nobody but your mom called you that- and she only did it angry.
"Wow."
The whisper ghosts from Kita's-- or, shinsuke.k's lips. Puppy dog eyes trail your meticulously crafted outfit and, you realize he's just a cutie with zero malicious intent. You decide to not shut him down immediately.
"I don't mean to be forward--," He smiles, hands enunciating his words well, "Ah- but man. You are very pretty in person."
It's, like, the most genuine compliment anybody has ever given you. All you can do is smile under your palm. His good boy persona was a bit boring over text, but it has its appeal as you stand before him and get to hear every thought that crosses his mind. Unlike the players that got you three times as wet, his honesty had some vintage charm to it.
"I'd love to get to know you- I figured you've been busy, and- that's totally valid," He laughs at how you ghosted him a week ago, trying to be disarming, but it only comes across as adorably needy, "But y'know, we're actually gonna be at The Boot tonight. You should join?"
He doesn't let the invite cool off before he softens it, "If you're not a party girl, I get you. It's not my scene."
Oh, you are going. Your teeth sharpen, eyes blacken, at the sheer mention of a night out. It was going to be a total massacre of broken and bloodied hearts. You had a slew of great pickings, too. Tall, tan, handsome volleyball players that couldn't stop sending sound-on videos and ab pictures just nights ago.
"You're sure it's okay?" You turn up the sweetness for a guy like Kita. He tries to be even more gentle with his wide eyes and tiny head shakes at each new word, practically slush in your palms. "I wouldn't want to get in the way of Guys' Night, y'know?"
"Nooo," He drawls. A grin takes over his jaw at the first sight of a smile on your face. He laughs at the soonest opportunity.
"No- They'd love you."
He doesn't know how right he is.
-
Your friend grabs your wrist before you zip out of the passenger seat.
"Call me. I'm not fucking around this time."
"Okayyy!" You whine, buzzed from a shooter you snuck in your purse already, and pawing at the glass as you watch three drop-dead gorgeous guys pass by the car. You're practically shivering in anticipation.
"Got your spray? Your charger? Oh- your little bracelet! Where is it?"
Your 'little bracelet' had a tracker, an alarm, and a direct emergency services line built in to a button. It was poorly designed and you didn't want to wear it because 1) it was an ugly accessory and 2) the button felt click-y and sensitive. The last thing you wanted while grinding up on some guy at the bar was to become a homing beacon for an Earthly invasion.
You flash your bare wrist with a pretty smile, "It's right here!"
"So can you please- let- me- out!"
Her concern is flattering and reassuring, but it dulls your sparkle and makes you very sad inside. You jiggle the car handle with your body weight this time, but the child locks are still on.
"(Y/n)."
You meet her eyes, a little resentful at first, but it's incredibly shallow, so the negativity falls away almost immediately. She fixes your hair, and reminds you, forgetting to add any sternness:
"Please call me if you get into trouble."
A nod, a slow one, lets her know you understand. She unlocks the car and boom: you are released into the big, bad, wilderness.
Downtown is packed. The streets are filled with bodies on a warm Friday night and nobody bats a judgmental eye at your low-neck top and fashionable pants like they did at the game. You'd love to wear a skimpier dress, but you had no friends to keep your things safe. Your reliable habit of leaving things behind dictated that you needed pockets-- but you give a wistful sigh at a pretty girl passing by, ass on near-full display. You rub your back pockets and try to think of how to remedy this next time.
At least you could wear sneakers and dance longer. But- the desire to do so is fast and fading- because you don't spot Kita or his crew in line outside.
You are forty minutes late to when he said they would be there, but you see nothing wrong with your timing; nobody shows up on time to a college bar. The night is early-ish. You don't usually bother with that boring where-is-everybody-at stuff between 9 and 11. Everyone knows the party starts at a little before midnight.
As you join the thirty-deep line, you hug yourself and glance around wistfully. You want to drink, you want to dance, you want to check out those beautiful men. Standing against a brick wall alone is buns.
You're wondering if they've already moved on to a new bar, if unblocking and asking him would be desperate, or worse, get him too attached-- when you hear your not nickname again.
You force a smile, "Shin'!!"
"Oh my gosh- you're still in line? No wonder!"
"Yeahh," You pout, earning a friendly hug over the line tape. He smells so good that you squeeze him a little.
"Y-ou could've texted me," His voice breaks and he puffs his crisp collar. You give him a guilty smile, pretty enough to be let off the hook right away.
He guides you to the front door with a hand warming the small of your back. You get let in extra quick by a big, heavily tattooed doorman -no ID check and a smile- and can only look at Shinsuke in awe. What kind of connections did this guy have? Had you thoroughly underestimated him?
"What are you?" You giggle, "You a secret gang member or something?"
You have to squeeze by a big crowd of people at the front, and focus on keeping him in grabbing distance. You're brought closer by the loud music inside.
Shinsuke blushes at you, glancing about for his friends. "N-o, that's..." He groans, for a moment, embarrassed, and leans close to you, "That's my uncle!"
"Oh-!" You laugh. His admission makes leagues more sense, but does take away that enticing air of danger you crafted around him.
He still has a hand on your lower back when he shoots his other arm up, a face of recognition beyond the dancefloor crowd.
"'Samu!!"
"My friends are over by the bar," He shares, and dawns all of his attention back onto you, "Would you like to join?"
You love that he asks you one more time, and whatever the fuck that cologne is, because it's working hard for him.
All the excitement that had been bubbling under the surface spills out of you in an ultra-friendly chuckle.
"Is that even a question?"
Shinsuke takes a sharp inhale at the feeling of your hand in his- just to be guided easier between the gaps of the crowd- bites a sappy reply back, and pulls you towards the bar side.
Poor thing. As you find exactly who you're looking for-- one waving you in, one ordering a round of drinks, one with a solid arm around your waist, and two in a heated discussion-- you realize that you won't be calling your friend anytime soon.
Ი𐑼 post note. i've gotten a couple suggestions to do a collecting captains series, or like running through the crew type thing before. but i like this spin on it! it keeps me from having to write constant smut when i don't want to
Y/n is GQ’s most controversial model, too pretty to fail, too messy to control. Suna Rintarō, bassist of the rising rock band Neon Static, is supposed to avoid scandals. Instead, he’s the one sneaking Y/n into clubs at 4am. When a paparazzi photo of them leaving a club together goes viral, fans accuse Y/N of “ruining his career.”
Warning(s): cursing, alcohol use, celebrity drama, social media toxicity, jealousy, suggestive jokes, suggestive content, paparazzi harassment, angst later on, found family vibes, not accurate to canon, characters aged 20+.
nsfw smut series. main master list s.r master list.
𖤓-smut 𖦹-angst / Violent depictions
Synopsis: ⛤ You’re a witch and stand-in leader for your coven deep in New Orleans while the Supreme handles pressing business elsewhere. The BAU arrives to investigate ritualistic murders suspected to be linked to your coven or some other witches in the area. Tension rises as the case persists and progresses. Your coven is at risk of being exposed, and there are witch hunters in the state. Amidst this friction, with the BAU pressing you and your sisters an intense, complicated romance sparks between you and Spencer Reid who seems to understand you better than you realise. Slow-burn. Messy.
warnings: MDNI | NSFW | Slowburn! | Usual criminal minds level violence | explicit language | Toxic | angst | death | Heavy | dark | angst | Horror elements | witchcraft | mentions of satanic practices | mentions of real voodoo and witchcraft lore-in no way meant to be disrespectful or offensive| Please read the individual parts warnings!
a/n: please like the individual parts if you enjoyed it makes me know to release more. This is also a long ass series. I’m very imaginative soz. !! To join the Tag list just comment or message me privately! until i get a google doc sorted. !!
Spencer Reid x fem!Reader
Summary: Needing an extra helping hand, the BAU gets a transfer from another agency that seems to push every button Spencer has, until one day, she just doesn't anymore.
Warnings: SMUT, 18+, MINORS DNI, soft-dom!Spencer, miscommunication/ lack of communication, case details mentioned, sexual harassment of reader in one scene by an unsub, unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, slight cumplay, slight angst, oral (m receiving), dry-humping, etc.
A/N: This fic was supposed to be like 2k words, and now it is basically 8k because I am a sucker for useless plot and sex scenes that are longer than necessary, so without further ado, please enjoy <3
Oh and please let me know what you think in the comments and tags!
Masterlist
The Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI was used to many tense situations. Hostage situations, the first 24 hours of a kidnapping, international murders involving diplomats, and even mob-affiliated murders were easy to navigate compared to the absolute stalemate of the office.
Spencer Reid, resident genius, had been less than pleased to find himself teamed up with a second genius for the few weeks that JJ was going to be gone on leave. That wasn’t exactly true, he’d felt indifferent about the ordeal at first. But then he’d met you.
That wasn’t the stalemate though.
As Derek Morgan walked into the office that morning, he noticed something had changed. Though Reid and his partner - you, freshly on loan from the CIA - had seemingly been sitting in the office for around an hour before his arrival time, you hadn’t yet begun insulting one another.
“Did I miss something?” he asked Emily, throwing his back into his desk chair as the pair stared across the room, as if waiting for a bomb to go off any minute.
“They haven’t even looked at one another for the last half hour. Hotch is worried they’re finally at the end of the fuse and that we’re about to blow up,” she replied.
“Let’s hope they last one more case then,” Rossi said, sneaking up on the two from the bottom of the stairs. Everyone in the office was so focused on what was not happening between the two geniuses that they had so far neglected a lot of work, a trend over the past weeks.
As if queued by his senior, Hotch emerged from his office and called for his team's attention. “We have a case. Conference room, now” he said, catching the eye of Spencer and you first, holding it for a second longer there as if to say ‘Don’t pull anything stupid.’
While the rest of the members of the team took their time collecting things and getting ready to enter the office, you gathered everything you needed as quickly as possible, keeping your head down to avoid making eye contact with - well, with anyone. But specifically, with Spencer Reid.
Thankfully, as a transfer from another agency, you didn’t exactly have the freedom to acquire much desk junk. Your files were perfectly organised and alphabetised on your desk, in separate file holders based on case, location, and level of completion. You had one small notepad on your desk, along with three 2B pencils, a ball point pen, an eraser, and a ruler. Your desktop was similarly organised, and over the course of the last two months at the BAU, you’d taken it upon yourself to streamline the online file organisation system as much as the files themselves allowed.
Penelope Garcia could do with a computer things that you couldn’t even dream. She also, though, had been known on multiple occasions to name a file “FinishedFile_Real_Final_REALLYTHISTIME_3”
You mostly disagreed with the title of genius that had been placed on you by the BAU members at the beginning of your time there. You’d said a few words, and a raised eyebrow and a comparison was all that you needed to feel a burning resentment from a few paces away.
You still felt Spencer’s burning gaze now, desperately ignoring it as you climbed the stairs and quickly took your temporary seat at the table.
Once everyone gathered, Penelope began.
“This one is not pretty, but they rarely are, please view the pictures on your tablets, as I will not be showing that on the big screen when my lunch break is half an hour away-”
You listened as well as you could to the case details, looking through the files yourself as the meeting continued. You were about to ship out anyway, and you’d learn the case details again when you got to wherever it was you were going. So your mind drifted.
It would only be a week or so now before JJ returned, and you were glad though you’d never met her. Another agent had been in charge of preparing all your training and helping you find your role in the team, and Emily had filled in most of your gaps even though you were technically assigned to Doctor Spencer Reid.
Spencer.
You thought back to your first meeting with him, your first day at the FBI. You blamed a lack of sleep and a lack of understanding when it came to how you actually were meant to converse with coworkers for everything that happened that day.
“Excuse me, is this the Behavioral Analysis Unit? I was told that I would be meeting an Agent Reid here to begin my training,” you’d asked tentatively at the edge of the room, noting the large offices above your head and the crammed desks on the main floor.
You wondered which one would be yours.
“Doctor Reid?” the voice asked back, more startled than you, and you assumed that he was actually a regular worker. “Not Hotchner or Morgan? Rossi? Prentiss?”
With every shake of your head, the man grew more astounded.
“I’m surprised they’re letting him talk to people,” he mumbled under his breath, but it was something you heard nonetheless, and you grew apprehensive about this too good to be true job opportunity.
“He’s probably at his desk,” the man shrugged, gesturing vaguely near the stairs, before walking away from you completely. You couldn’t even thank him. You wouldn’t have, to be clear, but now you could blame it on his own rudeness instead of yours.
Luckily, the next person you asked for help was Emily Prentiss.
“Oh yes, hi. Spencer just stepped out of the office for a minute, I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
She showed you your desk, logged you into their system, paged Reid, and then let you have time to unpack your few belongings before Reid arrived.
“You’re late,” was the first thing he’d said to you. “You were supposed to be here at 10:45. It’s 11:30.”
He was panting slightly, as quietly as he could, hands on his hips as he looked down at you, towering as he was.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the agent from the CIA? And you’re late.”
A few people stood by to watch, suddenly needing to photocopy something urgently at the nearest printer, or to ask a colleague at a nearby desk a question. Or just a quick stretch.
“No. No, I'm not,” you replied coolly. You realized quickly that wasn’t the best response, but before you could open your mouth to reply, you locked eyes with the man above you.
It was like lightning. You saw the instant dislike in his eyes, and recognized it as a look you were probably making at the same time. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attractive. It was just the overwhelming sense of superiority that stunk on him at that second.
He thought he was right, and though he wasn’t, you disliked the overconfidence.
“Doctor Reid, presumably?” you asked, and he nodded, and you stood, trying to squash the distance and superiority that height gave him.
“Agent Prentiss tells me that you just got back from a case last night. You were in Puerto Rico for an assignment, correct?”
The man grimaced, and you returned it, noticing that even after standing up he had a handful of inches on you. Irksome.
“You are still almost an hour late.”
“No, I’m 15 minutes early,” you said, grabbing his wrist and pulling it so you could see his watch. You smiled, and took a breath to relax. “Your clock is still set to Atlantic Standard Time. You’re running an hour ahead, Doctor.”
A deep red spread across the tips of his ears, made only more notable by the way he ran his hands through his hair. You wondered if he’d recently had a large trim, but quickly shook the thought from your mind. You had a weakness for a man with long hair, and you didn’t even want to entertain the idea of this man being your ideal type for even a second longer.
He composed himself, handed you some documents, and pointed you towards Hotchner’s office all before the blush could dissipate, but it was enough for the rumours.
You had challenged the pet genius of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and come out on top (give or take a few inches). A rivalry had begun.
Spencer had watched you walk up the steps while holding his breath. He wondered how still he would have to stand for his coworkers to forget he was there. You took five steps, and then turned around, satisfied that you were now finally above Spencer Reid.
“Doctor Reid?” you called out, knowing that once you dropped the gauntlet there was no way to pick it back up again. You may as well have fun with it.
“I look forward to helping you out for the next few weeks. It seems as though you need it.”
You mentally scolded yourself remembering that moment.
It seems as though you need it, you thought. Really?
It had been satisfying at that moment, of course, but it had come back to haunt you weeks in. You’d found yourself in the midst of a challenge with the good doctor, of who could solve a case first. Mostly who could be the most helpful to the other.
You’d reorganised all the files in the BAU’s folder (with permission), and he’d found crucial undigitalized documents that had helped solve a string of copy-cat murders in Chicago.
You had connected the dots between a local kidnapping and a human-trafficking ring, and he had ever so graciously tracked down three cases in the FBI system that were unsolved but could now be definitively connected.
You interviewed a possible suspect in a sexual sadism murder case leading to an admission of guilt and an arrest, he shot the guy when he’d pulled a knife on you as you were getting your handcuffs.
You still weren’t entirely sure if he was aiming for you or not.
For nearly two months, the BAU was reporting productivity hereto unknown. And you still made sure to talk to him primarily from higher ground.
The problem with hating a coworker, though, was that he was always there. A further problem with your situation, too, was so was everyone else.
“Are you listening?” a voice to your right asked, as you felt a nudge against your leg from the left.
“Wheel’s up in 30,” Hotch said, keeping his eyes on you for a minute before flickering to Spencer. Your eyes were fixed forward, though, to where Reid was sitting, the direction of your nudge from earlier.
He was ever so helpful.
You realized that you’d done what you’d promised you wouldn’t do that day, which was look at him. You’d wondered if you could even go as far as to not acknowledge him, but realized that was likely too obvious.
So now the eye-contact that you’d promised to prohibit was ruined, and you were stuck leveling a look across the table at his soft brown eyes.
‘Soft?’ you scolded yourself, eyes twitching but not looking away, somewhat entranced.
You felt other eyes on you as you kept your eyes locked with his, your coworkers trickling out of the room as you sat frozen.
Slowly, eventually, Spencer pushed his chair back and slowly rose to a standing position. He was far enough away that you didn’t have to crane your neck, but close enough that you felt small just comparatively.
“Don’t be late,” he whispered quickly as he walked past you and out of the door.
Most of the cases you’d worked together followed the same pattern.
Aaron Hotchner wasn’t stupid, and he knew exactly how to push his team members to get the best results. Luckily, you and Spencer did most of the pushing for him.
You’d been partnered up to explore crime scenes from that first day, where you’d taken a local arson case.
“You don’t do field work with the CIA, correct?” Spencer had asked you as soon as the two of you were alone. It was like he was grilling a suspect instead of a coworker.
“Not usually, though it was a part of my training.”
He nodded and pulled on a pair of gloves, his shoes already covered to prevent crime scene contamination. You followed suit.
“So what do you see?” He asked, wondering if you’d miss anything that he already knew.
“I think we’re dealing with someone that knows fire department procedure, but not someone in the service themself.”
He frowned at that, but asked you to elaborate.
“The fire was started with an accelerant and a lighter found on the scene. But not a quick spreading or high burning one like gas. Nothing that could cause an explosion, or even a death.”
“There was a death at the last fire, though,” he said, probing you again.
“Which would suggest that our unsub was progressing. If he meant to kill that victim, we could expect to have another body here, even more. Instead, we have a smaller fire than last time.”
“Why don’t you think that this one just didn’t work? That he meant for this to be bigger but the fire department reacted quicker than he thought.”
“Why do you keep referring to the unsub with male pronouns?” you asked.
Smugly, he replied. “Statistically, men account for over 90% of known arson cases, that figure increasing when we take into account-”
“But the fire marshal for this building is a woman. The same woman who is a fire marshal for the last two fire locations.”
With a jolt, Spencer took a step back, stared at you for a second, and immediately pulled his phone out to call Hotch.
Your consultations on that case ended quickly, but you’d been equally combative on cases across the country.
You didn’t bother trying to get along with him in front of local PDs or even suspects. It was almost a new interrogation technique. Putting the two of you in a room with an unsub, and seeing who had the most problems.
Spencer had grown used to a certain level of comfort in the FBI, especially having been on the same team in the same role for so long. Of course he was challenged on his ideas regularly, but somehow when you did it, it was different.
It wasn’t exactly combative. You weren’t throwing around insults or threatening each other. It was more deeply heated debates, opinions thrown back and forth and a solid refusal to admit that either of you were wrong that caught you up. In conclusion you were both stubborn.
You somehow managed an entire flight without speaking to anyone, listening quietly while everyone else threw theories around. Everybody but Spencer.
He had similarly holed himself up in a corner, almost as if the two of you had agreed to ignore each other, which was impossible because the two of you would agree on nothing.
Quietly, your teammates placed bets on which of you would come out of this one triumphant. When it came to case wins, you were a week away from the end of the job and everything was tied up. 5-5.
You knew about the bets because the jet wasn’t exactly big, and Morgan wasn’t exactly quiet about winning. You wondered if some of that natural arrogance had rubbed off on Spencer somewhere. He certainly looked up to the man. If it was arrogance he’d gotten from Morgan, it was his communication skills he’d gotten from Hotch. His cards were always close to his chest. You had no doubt that this team had raised him. This was his family, and you were the side character for a week or two; his problem to overcome.
He’d certainly overcome you in the last case or two, though you’d done your best to forget as much of it as you could.
Landing in Nevada, you ignored again that he was now on home turf. You ignored his coworkers asking after his mother, you ignored the prickling feeling of his eyes on you, you ignored the curiosity you had about his younger years, about discovering more about him, and climbed into the car, letting yourself be carried to your new precinct.
Reaching the car before the others, you shut the door, shutting your eyes and allowing yourself a few minutes peace on the tarmac before the blurring voices got closer, became more distinct. The driver door opened first, and someone climbed in, but to your surprise, your door opened, too.
You looked up at Spencer again, his head ducking down as he made to sit where you were. He looked surprised too for a minute. The seats in the car filled up, but you silently stared up at Spencer, wondering if this would start another argument, even if you were both past that now. Even if no one was paying attention to you anymore.
Instead, he quietly reached over you, and clicked your seatbelt into place.
You could’ve sworn you felt a breath in your ear, the phantom of his lips against your skin. You could almost convince yourself that he had muttered an apology.
You knew that he had nothing to apologize for in the end. The mistake was all yours to own.
After 7 cases with the BAU, you thought you had settled in nicely. You were instrumental in solving cases, and had delivered a number of scathing set downs to Spencer Reid. They seemed like polite corrections to others, but to him, every time you talked was like you poking a knife in his side.
He scowled at you and was sharp with his words. He enjoyed nothing more than poking back at you with his own taunts.
You were on assignment at a prison, stuck together mid-week while you processed information and interviewed inmates that had finally agreed to be a part of BAU’s research files in return for leniency and better treatment inside.
Due to your nagging and biting at each other, however, no other team member had wanted to go with the two of you.
“I’m not a babysitter, Hotch,” Morgan had shook his head when asked, crying off with the blessed excuse of a court date.
Rossi’s birthday was coming up, so he had his own inmates to prepare for.
Emily was suddenly busy getting information from an Interpol contact she knew about an old case, and Hotch couldn’t leave the team behind in case an important case came in.
Really, there was no one else to go with the two of you, and so the problem solved itself.
If there was no one to accompany you, then no one would.
It wasn’t as if you wouldn’t get the job done. Your constant squabbling on cases had increased productivity by around 150%. Not one member of the team had worked overtime since you’d begun your rivalry, the both of you willing to pick up extra slack in the team to prove yourselves more useful than the other.
You were each given the file, a company card, specially prepared credentials, and a car key, and you were told to drive yourself to a prison one state over to get to work.
“I’ll drive,” Spencer had said, grabbing your bag from your hand and packing it into the back with his own as you seethed quietly. It was fine. You didn’t like driving anyway, and you knew he didn’t either.
You’d made your way practically silently along the highway, stopping off now and then to use amenities. You both took turns driving, reading the case files in the meantime until you finally arrived.
It was when you finally arrived that you realised that you had overestimated yourself.
You’d mainly worked behind the scenes during your cases up to that point, not interacting a lot with the unsubs apart from the one time one had almost made you a victim. You’d been somewhat more safe in the larger numbers of your team, not the only woman around, and almost protected by the experience of the other men.
This prison was different.
Even as you were greeting the prison staff, you noticed the looks they were giving you, almost concerned and unsure. You wanted to prove yourself, but they looked at you as if you were the sacrificial virgin about to be given up to an angry god. You knew who you were about to talk to. You had read the file more than once, and, though it irked you, you were mainly just there to take notes and assist Spencer with his interview.
You had instead found yourself the centre of attention for the prisoner.
He had murdered and killed a number of women, violating them both before and after. It was a miscalculation to send you into that, and Hotch had later regretted the decision.
“Who is this? What a beautiful girl,” he had started, hands on the table, relaxed even though you noticed they were cuffed together by a somewhat relaxed set of chains. You had watched him walk in, noting the chains were wrapped around his ankles as well.
The chains were attached to the table, the table was fastened to the floor, he wasn’t going anywhere.
Still, bile rose in your throat.
“My name is Doctor Spencer Reid, this is my colleague, we’re here today from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI to conduct an interview-”
“What’s her name?” the prisoner asked, addressing Spencer but staring at you, his body still relaxed.
“We’re here from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI to conduct a research interview. Please state your name for the record.”
He did so, irked slightly, but continued. “She’s pretty.”
Spencer brushed the man off, but he sat up a little straighter in his chair. The guards behind the prisoner moved toward the door and took their spot opposite the prisoner once again. You tried to relax as best you could, looking down at files and organizing your materials so you could avoid eye contact. You didn’t want to avoid eye contact, but there was no way you could look at the monster in front of you without flinching.
Spencer began asking questions, and though you had agreed to ask some yourself, Spencer quickly took charge of the situation, and you found yourself thankful that he wasn’t making you interact any more than you had to.
“Why isn’t she talking to me?” the prisoner asked again, pricking your ears with the desperation in his voice.
“My colleague is just here to observe, she is not an interviewer and she isn’t qualified to ask questions.”
“I want her to ask me questions,” the man pouted, almost childlike, as he slipped his hands off the desk, leaning back.
“No-”
“It’s okay,” you said quietly, cursing your voice for the rasp that came out. “I can take over a few questions from here.”
You continued the interview for a few more questions, and part of you felt your confidence growing by the minute. He was responding well to you, you were doing well, you hadn’t stuttered once since your first line.
But just as you were about to ask for your final question, you felt a hand grip your wrist tightly, another wrapping around your eyes as you were quickly pulled from your seat and from the room entirely, Spencer leading you out as the guards began shouting orders at the prisoner inside the room.
“Spencer!” you gasped as he pulled you into a free space, not private but not anywhere near guards or prisoners. He released his hand from your eyes, but kept ahold on your wrist.
“Are you okay?” he gasped, chest heaving with urgency, scanning your face for any signs of hurt or injury.
“Yes? What happened, I was about to finish the last question. One more minute and I would’ve been done,” you groaned. You couldn’t help the annoyance in your voice. Even if you didn’t want to be in that room one more second, and that Spencer likely had a damn good reason for dragging you away.
“He was… under the table, he had revealed himself, and he was about to-” he struggled to find the words as the situation dawned on you. “He was taking pleasure in talking about the past, and I just wanted to get you out of there. It doesn’t bode well to let them revel in their crimes.”
“Oh,” you muttered, suddenly defeated. “Oh. Thank you?”
You didn’t say much else, letting him lead you back to the guards areas, collecting your things to drive once more.
You sat quiet and still in the passenger seat on the way back. It shouldn’t have been any different than the drive on the way there, still silent, but it was.
Arriving back in Virginia, Spencer took mercy on you and drove you straight to your own house instead of making you drop the vehicle back at Quantico. You were a little blurry, even though you hadn’t slept, and didn’t even realize as he opened your car door and led you out.
He carried your back, clutching your hand in his as he guided you to your door.
You vaguely heard him asking you for your key, and you pressed it into his hand.
The next time you truly became conscious was when he was about to leave.
“Can you… Could you just stay for a minute?” you said, taking a seat on your couch and looking up at him with pleading eyes.
You didn’t want to beg him to stay. You didn’t want him looking down on you, pitying you again. But he sank down to his knees and rubbed a quiet thumb over your knuckles as you closed your eyes and let yourself relax on the couch, until you fell asleep.
When you reached your final crime scene as a member of the BAU, you were happy to find that this was as straightforward a case as you could get for your last.
You’d heard stories about big cases, emotional ones, that had inspired members of the team in previous years to finally let go of the team, and you were thankful that you didn’t have to go out with a bang.
You’d simply finish, and that would be that. You would wash your hands of Spencer Reid, and the team that was watching the both of you, confused.
You worked on the case for the later hours of the day, going through old crime scene footage, Hotch and Prentiss heading out to a current one. You’d been stuck on file duty, working closely with Garcia on conference calls to get your job done.
When you finally retired to your motel room, Spencer was waiting outside for you.
Quietly, you let him in.
You showered, you washed your hair and your body. You let the steam and heat from the shower wash away all the stress of the day. You left the shower, and he was still there even though his room was down the hall.
He had already showered, having spent some time in the field earlier, returning before you.
You finished and, wordlessly, tucked yourself into his side, already spread out on the bed. Without saying a word, you shut your eyes, feeling him wrap himself around you, and slept.
You weren’t sure why you let it happen. It wasn’t exactly the first time either. You just knew that, without talking, Spencer was comfortable and warm, and he made you feel safer.
He’d found you in your room for the last three cases, sat by you for every case since that interview. Sometimes you just held hands, other times he held you against him. He hadn’t gone further than that, though you desperately wished he would. But you couldn’t say that to him, because that was the one unspoken rule.
You didn’t communicate.
When you did, it became a competition, and that wasn’t what these moments were for.
You were quite impressed though, that none of your teammates had noticed so far. Spencer was always gone by 4am, and you’d had your own rooms on the last two cases, so there was no one monitoring his presence in his hotel rooms. Everyone thought you hated each other, though you awoke each day to him tearing himself away from you, a hard presence pushing subconsciously between your thighs as he dreamt of you before he came back to his senses.
You woke up aching for him, not platonically at all.
You were using him like an emotional support toy, a child’s stuffed animal that you refused to part from, even if it was hideously past retirement, and you were old enough to comfort yourself.
This was your last case with the BAU, and even though you hated Spencer Reid, you wanted him badly.
The case continued in the morning, the way most cases had, and you found yourself more lethargic than usual. Your mood had taken a turn, just like your attitude to Reid had in the last few weeks, and you tried your best not to mourn the time you’d wasted being angry at him, for what could have been.
Meanwhile, the other members of the BAU grew frustrated as well. There had been no leads on the case, no breakthroughs where there usually were. When working, you and Spencer had gravitated to opposite sides of any building or job. You were both working, both trying your best, but not challenging each other anymore.
You spent two weeks in that tiny precinct, avoiding one another in the day and gripping each other as close as you could at night until the case was finally finished.
A slip up by the unsub had led your other teammates to an arrest. The both of you were left with a tied up score, your shared indifference to competition resolving itself.
To say that you and Spencer had never conversed about your situation was technically false.
The day after your interview, you’d woken up in bed, where Spencer had led you half asleep about an hour after you’d requested his continued presence. He was there beside you, still holding your hand, but softer in sleep.
Not that he’d been harsh on you at all the day before.
As if he could feel his eyes on you, Spencer had woken. You thought about pretending to be asleep for a minute longer, to see what he would do. But exhaustion and curiosity kept your eyes open.
“Good morning,” you whispered, letting your head rest comfortably next to his on the pillows, legs only just not touching. His hand squeezed yours once in greeting, still not detangling as he came to.
“Good morning,” he answered. “What time is it?”
“6am. We have some time before we have to go to work.”
He nodded and closed his eyes again for a moment, laying flat on his back and raising his other arm to cover his eyes, avoiding the light streaming through your windows.
You looked at him, almost overcome, and climbed over him, letting his hand fall as you laid your head on his chest and wrapped your arms around his neck.
He moved slightly to accommodate you, hands startled for the moment, unsure of what to do before he rested them innocently on your back.
“We should get up and go,” he whispered quietly, even as you shook your head and buried it in his neck now, his hands slipping lower as he petted your lower back.
“I don’t want to,” you said, moaning slightly. You didn’t know how true those words were until your words continued as your brain stopped. “I don’t want to fight with you. I want to stay like this. This is nice, and it’s comfortable.”
Lifting your head, you searched his face to see how he reacted to your words.
It was like he was troubled.
“We still have to work,” he said, pushing a hair behind your ear as you pouted.
“I know,” you said.
“And you’re… you’re really not that comfortable with me at all. This is just-”
“I know,” you said. Before he said anything else, you leaned down and claimed his mouth. It was soft, a slight pressure. He could have missed it if you weren’t the only thing taking up space in his mind at that time. He was a genius, but at that moment he was a fool.
You pulled away, a little ashamed, as he broke eye contact and looked away. Understanding, you made to climb off of him, but he gripped your hips and made you stay.
Still he said nothing, and so you waited, growing angry. Sitting up himself after a few minutes, Spencer pressed his lips to your cheek, as if placating a child, and then gently slid you off of his lap, and went on with his day.
That was the end of your communication on the subject. But you’d felt him.
You’d felt the way his hands had gripped your skin as if he didn’t want to let go. You’d felt his cock hard between his legs, desperate for release. You’d felt him stroke his hand across your arms as he had left your bed, denying himself of the pleasure you were begging him to take.
You raged against him for the next two cases, growing angrier after he climbed back into your bed at night, especially when he refused to touch you as you wanted to be touched. He had told you no, out of some chivalric misunderstanding of your emotions.
You knew about transference, and this may be that, but you made the decision to involve yourself with Spencer Reid the moment you’d begun hating him. You wanted him to comfort you, because you were so, so tired, and so was he, but he wouldn’t even do that.
And so for your last case, you avoided him, defeated.
The entire team congratulated you as soon as you touched down from your final mission. It was almost as if you were retiring, leaving this place behind.
You supposed they were just happy to be losing a member without a gunshot wound or a mental breakdown, or a forced transfer.
Spencer stood off to the side, but when it came time to gather your things, he helped you pack up.
He handed you your pencils as you carefully packed them into your box, he wiped the nonexistent dust from your monitor as you climbed under the desk to unplug your laptop. When everyone else left ahead of you, promising to meet you the following night for a goodbye meal, he carried your box out to your car, took your car keys and drove you home.
You weren’t sure what to say when you pulled up, so you climbed out of the car first, and moved to his side of the car, closing his door shut when he started to open it. Confused, he rolled down the window, as you leaned down over him and kissed him a second time.
This kiss was significantly heavier than your first. You gripped the back of his head to keep him from pulling away, though it seemed clear that he wouldn’t do that as he kissed back just as fiercely. You thought you would be locked there forever, desperately trying to take control of that second kiss, trying to communicate the months of shared frustration like it was another argument.
You finally pulled away, but he grabbed and held your hand again as you both caught your breath, both neither in or out of the car.
“I just wanted… I think…” you gasped, brain muddled by the intensity of his stare, the sad look in his eyes.
“Let me come in,” he asked, cutting you off. “Please.”
You nodded and opened the door for him, silently closing it as you stared at one another. Feeling slightly ashamed, you looked down at the ground as you carried yourself to your door and then inside, the sound of his footsteps behind you enough to know that he was following.
You opened the door, throwing your keys into the dish near your door, leaving it open so he could follow, all without looking back.
You unlaced your shoes, taking them carefully off before making your way to the kitchen. You poured yourself a cup of water, drinking it carefully, as you heard the door shut carefully behind you.
In another second, there were hands on your hips, encouraging you to turn, then encouraging you up onto the countertop of your kitchen.
Spencer stood between your legs, and the few inches afforded you by the counters was enough to level your gazes.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, hands on either side of your legs, refusing to touch you first.
Stubbornly, as if you couldn’t help it, you kept your mouth shut, just staring into his eyes defiantly.
“Tell me what you want,” he said again, a little more forcefully, his brows slightly furrowing. “We don’t work together anymore, and enough time has passed since- since this started that I think we can finally have a clear conversation about this, but you need to tell me what you want before I take what I want.”
“I was pretty clear about what I wanted. Before,” you said, raising a hand to his chest, unsure if you wanted to push him away or take a fishful of his shirt and pull him closer.
“You weren’t clear, you haven’t ever been clear,” he said, a hand raking through his hair in frustration.
“You weren’t exactly an open book either, Spencer.”
“It’s- I couldn’t back then, it wouldn’t have been fair,” he said, a pang of regret straining his voice.
“You can now,” you whispered, stroking a hand up and around his neck as he leaned closer.
“For how long?” he asked, lips so close to yours they brushed your cheek with every murmur.
You surged forward, unable to answer, pressing your legs around him and your lips against him as you pushed further and further into him.
Every frustration with him came to the surface and you channeled it into your movements, matching his frustrated raking of your skin. His hands pushed eagerly into your soft flesh, pushing your shirt as far up as it could go before being hindered by your buttons.
His teeth bit into your lip as you bickered in your touches, small whines and groans echoing through the tiny kitchen.
He pulled you away, craning down over you as you both stumbled to the bedroom, neither willing to give up the ground you had conquered.
His hands lifted up again, this time to rip your godforsaken shirt apart, the buttons too taxing now for him to focus on. Pushing you down against the bed, his hands found your breasts, cupping them entirely as he kissed down your naval, only coming away to rid himself of his own shirt.
When his mouth found you again, it was lower, claiming a nipple in his mouth as you gripped your own bedsheets, each moan a plea to move faster.
He instead took his time, a hand slid down from your chest to your underwear, leaving you clothed though wet from the anticipation. He stroked a single digit against your wet and aching clit, as if cooing at an apprehensive cat, slowly winding you up, up, up until you shuddered your pleasure. Only then did he kiss your lips again and slide his hands away.
You made to push your bottoms off, sure that now he would wish to enter you, but he grabbed and held your hands in place above your head. A small nudge had you falling to the floor, landing unceremoniously on your knees, as your hands stayed loosely pinned above you, held by a single hand.
His cock bobbed in his pants, and slowly, working with one hand, he released it from its place. You needed no further instruction, licking up the underside of his shaft as it hit your face, before wrapping your lips around the tip and pushing it down your throat.
You got three inches deep, slowly taking more so as not to gag, before coming back up for air. You alternated deeper and shallower strokes, making sure to watch his face as you pleasured him, looking up at his eyes as he came apart above you. He pushed one leg between your thighs as you continued to suck him, and you took the opportunity he gave freely, rubbing your clothed cunt against him like a bitch in heat.
Before he could cum, he quickly pulled out, wrapping two hands warmly about you and pressing you into the bed again.
He finally undressed you both, and, resting his forehead against your own, pushed into you.
He surrounded you, keeping eye contact as he pushed himself all the way into your body, not stopping even as you moaned and clawed at his skin, desperate for the deep contact he was providing.
“How long?” he asked again, holding himself still inside of you, teasing one nipple as he demanded an answer once more. “How long can I hold you like this? Just today? Until you find someone else? Until you move on and forget all about how comfortable this feels, how nice it is to have me next to you, inside you?”
It was all you could do to moan in answer, let alone give him the answer he wanted.
He began with shallow pumps, eyes still locked with yours, even as yours squinted shut in pleasure, your body pulsing with the charge of electricity between you.
“Don’t-” you cried, trying to answer as he pushed into you harder, deeper.
“Don’t stop-” you gasped out as he began stroking a thumb against your clit, spitting on it as he did so, loosening you up as you began to shake again through another orgasm.
Dropping your pinned hands, he gripped your knees and pressed them back, letting his cock sit shallowly in your cunt as he changed your angle. You didn’t argue, you couldn't as your arms stayed obediently above your head, exactly where you’d left them.
He pushed in again, the new angle urging a string of curses to drop from your lips as he pressed in harder. He sped up, and you lost your breath so fast that all you could hear was the sounds of your bodies meeting, not even your heartbeat distracting you from listening to the sounds of your pleasure.
You tightened around him, aroused by the simple sight of him as you tipped over the edge, and he fell with you. Gripping your knees tight and pushing his chest forward again so that the two of you were face to face again, he forced his cock as far inside you as it could go, and emptied himself.
“How long do I have you?” Spencer asked again, his voice tight as he climbed towards his pleasure. “How long?”
“For as long as you want,” you gasped, watching his face fall apart above you, sweat trickling down his forehead, running down his chest and meeting the flash of hair where his body joined to yours.
His forehead rested against yours as your legs stiffened, twitching with the aftershocks of your fucking.
He peeled himself away, pulling slowly out, so as not to dirty your sheets with his semen, before dropping a kiss to your lips.
“You’re mine,” he said, standing above you, organizing the pillows at the head of your bed as he propped you up.
Instead of following his silent commands to lay and rest, you propped yourself up on your knees on the bed, wrapped your arms around his neck in a surprise attack, and dragged him back down with you.
If you were to replace your work arguments with more stimulating activities, it only seemed right that you should come out on top once in a while, and on top is where you meant to be now.
A day later, when the weekend finally came and you had managed to stay off one another long enough to get ready and leave for your final meal with the BAU, you figured that by now, the team must have some clue of what was going on between the two of you.
Quietly, you made a bet outside the restaurant, settled in the car you’d shared to the venue.
“I think Hotch knew. He had to, to have sent us off together so many times,” Reid bargained
“I’ll take that bet. I think they all see you as a kid still though, or at least as someone a little… inexperienced.”
“And was I?” he asked, grabbing your hand in his and kissing it.
“Hmm?”
“Inexperienced?”
You thought for a second, trying not to flush with heat.
“Are you asking me if I think you have been with other women before, Reid?” you asked, irked by just the suggestion, already possessive and territorial, even if this had only really started the day before.
“Jealous?” he smirked, and you scoffed, leaning into his ear and whispering something so that only he could hear it.
“Let’s talk about that later at my place,” you said, gently leaning in to kiss his lips quickly, leaving him wanting. “Let’s see what you remember of those experiences after that.”
When you entered the door together, you got a number of awkward looks from your teammates, all of whom thought it best that you didn’t sit together.
But Spencer quietly took a chair out for you, and you thanked him with a smile, before he sat directly next to you, letting a hand rest on your thigh.
With a curse, everyone on the team began taking out cast from their wallets, and handing it over to Rossi.
“What are you doing?” Spencer asked, even though it was pretty clear.
“Three months, $400 worth of bets, and the only one I took part in was this: you two were definitely going to end up doing the Devil’s Tango.”
You both looked at each other and laughed, even as the sounds of a lot of money changing hands soundtracked the moment.
“When did you even make that wager? We knew about the other bets, but those were all on cases,” you asked, suddenly curious about when you’d started getting obvious about your affection for one another.
“Did you see Spencer heading to my room at the motel?” you asked, which led to a raised eyebrow.
“No, but you can regale us with that tale later. We made this bet on your first day. When you told Spencer you looked forward to helping him out, I knew it was a little friendlier than it needed to be, if you catch my drift.”
With every shocked gaze on you, you had only a moment to feel shame before the table - or more realistically, Morgan, Prentiss and Garcia - erupted with questions.
Can we just talk about how “Goth Anime Legs Uncle” IS A FAMOUS ARTIST AND AUTHOR, BUT HIS NIECE OR NEPHEW NEVER THOUGHT TO BRING THAT UP?! No no no, you have a famous artist/author for an uncle, but screw that, here’s his goth phase.
Think about it: This guy is known on Tumblr for his goth phase, but not his actual freaking work, even though we’re all familiar with his work!
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!reader Category: Smut 18+ Summary: Reader meets a hot “stranger” at a masquerade and things get a little out of hand in the privacy of the bathroom. Word Count: 5.1k
CW: Spencer Reid/ fem!bau!reader, porn with plot, masquerade, anonymous (kinda) sex, reader wears a dress and heels, protected p in v, drunk sex, dry humping, masochism if you squint, soft dom Spencer (I’m still not sorry, I am merely a sub), biting, praise, little bit of size kink, Spencer is a whiny bitch but like in a cool way, oral (m/f receiving), degradation, dirty talk, hickies, awkward social situation, alcohol, ooc Spencer A/N: Kinda sticking with middle seasons Spencer but feel free to imagine any version of him, it doesn’t matter as much in this one. This is hella out of character for him but like…actually nah. In my universe Spencer's a whiny little slut that isn’t afraid to dom someone and I like it that way. Please just ignore how easily they'd recognize each other lol Btw thank you for all the attention on my last fic, I’m excited to keep posting.
Masterlist Previous Fic
Your friends had been bugging you, trying to get you to go out with them for weeks when you finally got a break from work where you weren’t tired enough to sleep through the day you had off. One of the local clubs did theme nights that you used to go to when you had time but hadn’t been to in what felt like forever. Tonight’s theme was ‘masquerade’ and you couldn’t be more excited. You’d already picked an outfit and found a mask to match and were practically buzzing with anticipation at work all day.
Once you were home you flung off your shoes and work clothes and zipped yourself into the beautiful dress awaiting on your bed. The dress was burgundy velvet, the back fell to about your knee while the front was pulled up to your mid thigh with two ribbons. The top was almost a sweetheart neckline and you layered it with a mesh shrug that matched the thighhigh stockings you planned to wear. Once you were dressed you pinned one side of your hair back with barrettes decorated with small silver daggers. You put on the jewelry you planned to wear and slid into your heels. The finishing touch was the mask and your deep red lipstick. The mask was covered in a matching wine colored velvet with delicate black lace layered over it. Once dressed you grabbed your bag and headed out the door to the club.
Spencer Reid was not a party person. He’d never been super interested in the drunken festivities of the other people his age and even if he was, he was usually too nervous to go alone. That’s why this event was perfect. An event where no one would know who he was so even if he embarrassed himself he would just be remembered as ‘that guy in the blue mask’ and he could live with that. Spencer wore black dress pants with a deep blue velvet dress shirt, figuring it was different enough from his normal attire that even if someone could recognize him with the mask they’d be less likely to with how unlike him the outfit was. Spencer styled his hair slightly, just so it would stay out of his face, and put his mask in his bag before leaving. Spencer had heard about the masquerade from a poster he saw at the local theater the last time he went with the team and decided he should change things up a bit.
The club was shrouded in the emittance of a fog machine. The lights were turned low, the dimness supplemented with colored lights slowly spinning around the room. There was club music bumping through you as you passed the bouncer to head inside. You and Spencer had both placed your masks on before leaving your cars and making your way inside.
You met up with your friends, hyped up each other's outfits, and then went to the bar to get your first round of drinks.
Spencer wandered in and looked around, in awe of everything on display, before ending up at the bar. He peers around, taking in all the cool outfits and masks. As he does, his eyes land on a particular group on the other side of the bar from him. More specifically, his eyes land on a woman in that particular group. He sees the way the lights dance on her hair and the interesting mesh covering her smooth arms and he can’t help but stare as her lips wrap around the straw in her brightly colored drink. Her group starts leaving the bar to find a table to sit at and his eyes follow her until she is lost in the crowd. Spencer goes back to his drink. He isn’t much for random hookups but he figures it’s been awhile and he wouldn’t mind if he got his chance with her.
Your group sits at a high table to catch up before hitting the dance floor. While chatting you finish your drink and head to get another for yourself and your friends. Approaching the bar you lay eyes on a tall, intriguing stranger. He’s leaning against the bar, dressed in blue and he seems to be watching you. You can’t quite tell because of the mask but it definitely seems like his eyes are on you. As the bartender presents your drinks you smile at the stranger, turning and disappearing back into the crowd before he can react.
Once your second round of drinks is finished you make your way to the dance floor. You and your friends sway and bounce with the music, occasionally twirling each other and giggling. You get lost in the music, it flows through you and rumbles deep in your bones.
Spencer finishes his third drink and decides he’s stalled for long enough. He skirts through the crowd onto the dance floor and begins swaying slightly to the music. He isn’t really sure of his dancing skills but the music and the alcohol hitting him makes that fact matter less in his mind. As he sways and shimmies he hears a loud giggle, it catches his attention as he searches for the source of the delightful sound. He sees the same woman from the bar dancing around with her friends, head thrown back in laughter as two of her friends spin around together. Spencer swallows his doubt and starts to make his way over to the woman.
You move your body to the music when you feel a presence behind you. You turn and find yourself face to face with the stranger from the bar. He’s moving softly to the music and smiling at you.
“Hi,” you say over the music.
“Hi,” he replies softly, barely audible over the sounds surrounding you.
“Want to dance,” you smile at him.
He nods and starts to match your movements. You reach up and grab his hands, setting them on your waist as you move. His grip is soft at first but he holds you tighter as you smile wide at him. His hands on you are warm and you feel yourself wanting more of his touch. You lean into the feeling as you rock your hips to the music. The man watches you from behind the mask with attentive eyes.
Spencer moves in sync with her to the music. His eyes trailing down her form as he takes in the view. The dress is soft under his palms, grounding him in the moment. He’s doing a good job of masking it but he’s nervous as could be. One of the woman’s friends leans over to whisper something to her and she nods in response.
Leaning forward she asks, “do you want a drink?”
Her voice is sweet and melodic, but quiet enough under the music that he can’t hear well enough to recognize her.
“Sure,” he nods. She doesn’t ask what he wants, just shoots her friend a thumbs up over her shoulder.
When the drinks arrive you both down yours quickly only realizing after it was too late that that might be a mistake. The alcohol burns its way down your throat as you stifle a cough. You hand your empty cups back to your friend and continue dancing. There’s some sort of magnetic pull between you and the stranger. You feel like you need to be closer to him and have him all to yourself. The portion of his cheeks that you can see peeking from under the mask are flushed from the alcohol and you wonder how often he comes to the bar, maybe you’ve seen him before. His amber eyes burn into you from behind the mask, the darkness of it only highlighting how beautiful they are.
As you dance you feel the alcohol make its way into your system. There’s a sort of lightness to it, like nothing you do matters too much and you feel less constrained by your own thoughts. It seems like the stranger is feeling the same thing as his hands suddenly slide down to your hips, pressing into them gently as you move. You glance up at him, looking for any indication that you’re thinking the same thing, and his grip on you tightens. Desire creeps into you as his eyes jump from your eyes to your lips and back again. You tilt your head up slightly, hoping he gets the hint, and slow your dancing.
His left hand leaves your hip, his index finger lands under your chin while his thumb rests atop it, tilting your head up more. You wrap your arms around his waist and immediately he’s on you. The kiss is warm and fierce, you taste the liquor on his lips and smell his cologne. Momentarily your senses are overwhelmed by him and the music. The world melts away as you kiss him, it’s as if nothing matters but you two in this moment.
Spencer pulls the woman closer to him, getting lost in the kiss. He swipes his tongue lightly against her lips, asking for permission, and she lets him in immediately. Their tongues dance together as he rubs gentle circles into the woman’s hip. Breaking from the kiss, the woman’s hands slide upwards until their chests are as pressed together as they can be, she starts kissing along his jaw and down his neck. She pulls his collar open slightly and Spencer lets out a whimper as she nips at his now exposed collarbone. She freezes for a second before backing away a bit.
“Bathroom,” she whispers, less of a question and more of a statement. With their chests still pressed together and her backed away from his face, Spencer can’t help but let his eyes trail down to her cleavage.
“Bathroom,” he whispers back.
You grab the man’s hand and pull him off the dance floor towards the bathrooms. The bathrooms are tucked around a corner, out of view from the other bar patrons, it makes sneaking the stranger into the ladies room with you much easier.
“Thank god it’s empty,” you giggle as you pull him into the bathroom and into a large stall at the end of the row.
Once in the stall you pull the man against you by his lapels, his hands land on either side of your head. In the light of the bathroom you get a better look at him. He’s tall and lanky and kind of beautiful. You also notice that he’s wearing the blue version of your mask. He seems to notice it at the same time as you.
He nods his head in gesture at your mask, “nice mask,” he chuckles.
“You too,” you giggle, “great minds, huh?”
“Y’know, the full saying is actually ‘great minds think alike, though fools seldom differ’ so really that’s not the best thing.”
He continues rambling and you can’t help but think that he reminds you of someone but the alcohol coursing through you is too strong for you to figure it out. Before you can focus on the familiarity of him too much you place your index finger on his lips, causing him to pause and look at you.
“Shut up and kiss me,” you whisper.
He leans in and kisses you, deep and long and fierce. He pushes your back up against the wall harder as he leans into the kiss. His hands wrap around your waist as he pulls your hips closer to him. You deepen the kiss as one of his hands snakes between your legs to separate your thighs so he can slide his between them. You grind down on his thigh, a whimper escaping your lips as you do. Your noise seems to flip a switch in the strangers head, his hips bucking against you, he nips at your bottom lip.
“Need you,” Spencer mutters against the woman’s lips. He feels like he must sound pathetic right now but he can’t properly articulate with this stranger riding his thigh like she is.
She gives a soft laugh, “yeah? Show me.”
Spencer makes a noise that’s supposed to be a groan but comes out as more of a growl. He drinks in the sudden shift in the woman before him, it’s intoxicating and contagious.
One of his hands starts sliding down your side, reaching the hem of your dress he inches up your thigh. Your chest is filled with a bubbling giddiness as he gets closer to where you want him. He groans when he makes contact with the outside of your underwear.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he whispers. “You usually like this or am I just special,” he chuckles as you rock forward against his hand slightly.
“What would you do if I said you’re just special,” you pant.
“I might just never let you go if you tell me that,” he laughs and presses against your clothed clit. You moan loudly at the unexpected contact and he slaps his other hand over your mouth. Leaning forward, inches from your face, he stares into your eyes hungrily.
“If we get caught then I can’t fuck you, baby,” he whispers, “keep it down.”
Your face is already flushed but you feel it somehow get warmer and redder, your brain shuts down for a second as you process how hot that was.
His dexterous fingers slide your soaked panties to the side and rub through your folds. You chase the friction of his fingers, grinding your hips down on him. Lacking patience, he slips one finger inside you. You moan under his palm, the sound muffled. He gently pumps his finger in and out of you, testing your readiness, before speeding up. You stare at each other intently, his deep eyes burning into you. When he thinks you’re ready he adds a second finger. His palm presses down on your clit, sending bolts of pleasure shooting through you. You grind down on him harder as his fingers thrust into you.
“Greedy girl,” he growls lowly.
The pressure is growing in your core. You feel your climax building, starting deep in your gut, the feeling rises up and up, engulfing you. Your walls clench around him as you get closer to the edge. Your eyes burn into him as you watch his reaction. With his hand over your mouth you can smell the cologne on his wrist. Something about it is undeniably familiar, sending you back to a time you were undercover to lure an unsub out. Your brain is fuzzy, between the fingers filling your cunt, the pressure on your clit, and the heavily poured alcohol, you can’t remember why you recognize the cologne.
Your pleasure is a heavy weight in your core, threatening to tear through you at the next bit of stimulation. The stranger leans forward and nips at your collarbone. He continues his ministrations, kissing, licking, biting, and sucking at your neck and jaw. You squirm under all the attention he’s giving you, almost overwhelmed by how much he fills your senses.
“Can I taste you,” he pants between kisses.
“Oh- I um,” you get out, biting back your moans, “I would need to freshen up, I’ve been dancing so I’m all sweaty and-“
He interrupts you with a hard kiss on the lips.
“Don’t care, I just want you on my tongue,” he whispers as he begins lowering himself towards the floor. He reaches behind his head to untie his mask, but you stop him.
“Leave it on for me,” you whisper. He nods in response.
You’re a little embarrassed to be where you are, in a club bathroom with a stranger's head under your dress, but once he licks that first pass across your folds the embarrassment leaves your body.
“O-oh fuck,” you gasp, grasping his hair harder than you intend to. His tongue explores you, finding your clit as his fingers continue moving inside you. The pressure builds in you, spilling over the edge as you hit your peak. You bite into your bottom lip hard to keep from revealing what you’re doing in the stall.
He wraps one arm around the back of your thigh to steady your shaking legs while he slides his fingers out of you with his other hand. His glistening face appears from under your skirt with a proud grin, “you good?”
“Y-yeah, just gimme a sec,” you pant, waving off his concern.
Spencer stands up to his full height. He takes his fingers into his mouth, one by one, savoring the woman’s taste left on him. He takes great pride in your reaction, a mix of confusion and arousal washing over your face. He reaches down to adjust the bulge in his pants and sees the woman’s eyes dart down and back up to his gaze.
“Do you want to head back,” he asks, jutting his thumb behind him towards the stall door.
A mischievous smile spread across her face, “no.”
You reach for the man’s belt, drunk hands trying to rip it off as fast as possible.
“Woah, hey,” he says, putting his hands on yours, “we don’t need to. I’m happy just making you happy.”
“This will make me happy,” you smile.
Sinking to your knees, you undo his pants and slide them and his briefs down. His cock springs free, nearly smacking you in the face as you let out a nervous giggle. The stranger is bigger than you expected and you’re wondering how much you’ll be able to fit in your mouth. One hand rests on his thigh with the other wraps around his shaft. The contact makes him let out a satisfied gasp. You look up at him through your lashes as you lean forward and lick a stripe up the bottom of his cock. He tries to maintain eye contact, briefly squeezing his eyes shut when you reach the tip and swirl your tongue around the crown. You slide your mouth down him, as far as you can, pumping the section you can’t reach without gagging.
You slide your hand and mouth along his length in tandem, occasionally swirling your tongue when you reach the tip. He bites down on his knuckles as you look up at him, muting the pathetic moans and whimpers leaving him. He’s warm and heavy in your mouth as you allow him in deeper until he reaches the back of your throat. Very aware of how much you’ve drank and not interested in puking on a stranger in the bathroom, you decide not to show off all your dick sucking skills tonight and avoid deepthroating him. The stranger doesn’t seem to mind much though, as his hips begin bucking to meet your mouth. The one hand on his thigh slides to his hip, leaving nail marks as you press in to stop his movements.
“S-sorry,” he whimpers, “feels so good.”
You speed up your movements, feeling him throb in your mouth, sensing he’s close. Your tongue traces gently over veins and muscle as you move your head up and down him. With a sudden guttural moan, only muffled by his own hand over his mouth, the stranger shoots ropes of warm cum into your mouth. You continue the gentle suction as you accept his offering down your throat.
Pulling off him with a satisfying pop, you swallow what’s left in your mouth. He stares down at you, eyelids heavy with lust, hand still over his mouth despite you no longer stimulating him.
“I’m sorry, that was really fast, you’re just very talented and you were looking at me, and I-“
You rise to your feet, wiping your mouth, “it’s actually really hot that I made you cum so fast.”
“Oh,” he giggles, sliding his hand down his face to reach out and gently cup your jaw, “in that case, hike your skirt up and I’ll show you how quick I can be.”
You both laugh as you slowly inch back together. His lips find yours again and despite you both having cum once and seemingly sobered up a bit, he still kisses you hungrily. You pull him against you by his still open pants and his kisses become frenzied. He kisses down your cheek to your jaw and neck, attacking you with kisses and nips. He bites down harder than you’re expecting, causing you to yelp, but this time he doesn’t stop to ask if you’re okay.
He simply shoves you back against the wall, making sure to cushion your head with one hand, and licks over the spot he just bit. His hands explore your body, one sliding up the back of your thighs, the other down from your hair to your jaw and to your breasts, lifting one leg over his hip to press your pelvises together, and anywhere he can reach, it seems. It’s like he’s starving for you again.
He breaks away from you for a second to breathe, his breath cooling all the wet spots his lips and tongue left behind on your neck and chest.
“You good for round two,” he whispers.
You nod fervently, excited to see what round two brings.
He pulls your skirt up and you feel the head of his cock brush against your folds.
“Oh wait,” you whisper, “I have condoms.” You reach for your bag, fishing out a foil wrapped condom.
“Condoms,” the stranger asks, emphasizing the plurality of the word.
“Hey don’t judge,” you shoot back, “you never know what kind of night you might have.” You unwrap it and make sure it’s facing the right way.
The stranger laughs.
You giggle as you slide the condom down his shaft, “you should be grateful I’m so prepared.”
“T-true,” he gasps, the new contact from you distracting him.
Once situated again, the stranger rubs his cock against your entrance. You attach yourself to his neck, kissing and sucking and nipping, hoping it’ll keep you from making too much noise.
He gently slides into you, struggling a little to fit, hissing as he goes.
“Ho-holy shit,” he moans quietly. You gasp around his length, unprepared for how much he fills you. You continue to busy yourself with attacking his skin as he starts to slowly slide in and out of you. His head slumps to your shoulder, “we gotta be quiet,” he whispers. You don’t have time to respond before he bites into your exposed shoulder.
“Ah! Fuck, you think that’ll keep me quiet,” you whisper-shout at him.
“No but it’ll keep me quiet,” he responds, muffled from his teeth sinking into your skin. It’s not enough to hurt too bad, but it’ll leave little crescents for you to see later, you bet. You can practically feel the smirk on his face against your skin.
You bite him back, eliciting a muffled whine from the stranger, as he fucks into you. You can already feel the pressure building. A tightening of your core forces more whines and grunts out of him. He fucks you deep and hard against the wall while you leave marks all over his neck and chest. You hope to yourself that he owns a turtleneck but you don’t have the impulse control to stop marking him. You figure, with tomorrow being Sunday, that he should have a day or so to figure it out anyways.
Spencer’s cock slides in and out of the woman, tantalizing ridges and grooves threatening to send him over the edge sooner than he wants. He holds onto her hips for dear life. When the leg propped on his hip begins to slide he slips one hand under her stocking covered knee. He lifts her leg, pressing it against her torso. This new angle allowing him to hit even deeper inside her.
“Oh fuck” he moans out, lost in the bliss of her warmth.
Your head lolls back against the wall, shameless moans slipping past your lips. The stranger's head snaps up to look at you but he doesn't stop thrusting. His right hand comes up to cover your mouth and he leans forward, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.
“I love the sounds you make, and I want to hear them, but what we’re doing isn’t something I need people knowing about,” he whispers deliciously low.
“Mmf,” you nod, his hands hiding any words you want to say in response.
The only sounds escaping this scene in the bathroom are quiet pants and the soft sound of skin against skin. You praise whatever entities let you get away without any filthy sounds from your wet cunt filling the small space you’re crammed into.
The stranger's thrusts begin to lose their precision as he drives into you. You can feel your body tensing as you near the end.
“D-do your friends know what you’re up to,” he breathes against your ear, “hm? Do they know you’re spending your night getting filled in the bathroom?” His tone is almost cruel, a sudden darkness you hadn’t expected from the whimpering man in front of you.
“Mmf,” you try to respond, hoping your voice will travel through the hand covering your mouth.
“Hm? What’s that baby? I can’t hear you,” he chuckles cruelly. He’s smirking, the curve of his face raising his mask just enough to see his cheekbones.
“MMF,” you reply with more urgency.
“Aw you’re being so good for me baby, so nice and quiet,” he picks up the pace of just thrusts.
You clench around him, feeling yourself on the precipice of your climax.
“Ah fuck- you’re so fucking perfect,” he growls into your ear.
The praise is enough to send you over the edge, his dangerously low and gravely tone sending you into an orgasm so intense you don’t realize you’ve caused the stranger to cum as well. You pulse around him, the pressure finally snapping in you both. It hits you like a wave, sudden and hard, dragging you deep into a fuzzy warmth despite the cold bathroom surrounding you. He lets out a deep moan, muffled by your neck. His thrusting slows as you come back to earth, your whole cunt throbbing and your head spinning from pleasure. Your body tenses and releases, overstimulation creeping in.
He slowly lets your leg down, careful not to drop it, as he slides out of you.
“Oh my god,” he pants, “that was-wow!”
He has the dorkiest smile on his face and you can’t help but think how cute it is.
“Yeah, that was crazy,” you smile back.
Suddenly a little more sober, you’re hit with the realization of where you are and what just happened. A feeling of anxiety and embarrassment washes over you and you feel the sudden urge to put distance between yourself and this stranger. You aren’t typically one for this kind of behavior and you aren’t sure how to face the side of yourself that comes out with a little too much alcohol.
“Um, I’ll leave you to get cleaned up,” you say awkwardly. The stranger was already in the process of cleaning himself up but he seems to notice the awkwardness and goes with it.
“Oh yeah, cool, I’ll see you out there,” he smiles softly over his shoulder at you.
You feel guilty trying to bail immediately after cumming but you also don’t want to face the consequences and try to make pleasantries with this man.
You grab your friends, quickly explain the situation, and leave once you get everyone gathered.
Your trip home was filled with ribbing from your friends, teasing you for your behavior.
“We wanted you to let loose but getting fucked in the bathroom wasn’t what we meant.”
“Maybe you’ll see your stall stud at the next event.”
“Next time, share, I could use some bathroom time myself.” It was all in good fun but the guilt of leaving was eating at you.
The man seemed nice enough and from what you saw of him he was definitely your type. He made you feel good, he was fun to dance with, he was funny, he was cute, but you just didn’t have time for this kind of drama in your life. Your job was too demanding and most regular people weren’t understanding of a BAU agent's life.
Once in your apartment, you flopped onto your bed, not even bothering to change or clean yourself off before falling into a deep sleep.
You’re awoken a few hours later by a phone call. As if Hotch had sensed your earlier ruminations on your job making dating impossible, he needs you for a case.
You quickly change, not even glancing in a mirror before leaving the house, and head to work. On the way there you wipe off some of the leftover makeup on your face in the car's small flip down mirror. You hadn’t forgotten last night but it seems that parts had slipped your mind as you realize your neck and chest is covered in hickies and other marks. You button your shirt up to the top and dot bits of concealer over your neck in a sad attempt to hide it. You know either way you’d have to pick up something better before conducting interviews or facing others outside your team.
“Goddamit,” you sigh as you pull your car into the spot next to Derek’s.
Walking into the briefing room, your eyes sweep around the room offering your coworkers a welcoming smile, hoping to distract them from the still obvious blotches on your neck. You feel Emily and Derek’s eyes drift to the exposed skin, their eyes no doubt lighting up at the possibility to tease you.
“Looks like you and pretty boy both had a good night off,” Derek chuckles.
Your eyes find Spencer’s across the room, his darting between your eyes and your neck. You glance down at his exposed neck to find marks, similar to your own, spread across his skin.
As you take in the sight of him, a realization washes over you. His hair was fluffed up like someone had been playing with it, he had a distinct red stain smeared to one side of his mouth, there were specks of glitter dotted in his hair. The cologne, the rambling off random language facts, even just how he’d looked made sense now.
Spencer was the stranger in the bathroom.
“Yeah,” you chuckle awkwardly, “you know I have to meet up with my girls when I have time off. They let me get a bit too crazy I guess. What’d you get up to Spencer?”
You stare at Spencer intently, trying to gauge if he knows or not. He looks at you, seemingly nervous.
“Oh, uh, it’s not important honestly.”
He suddenly looks away as Derek ribs him, trying to get information.
You’re lost in thought as Spencer spins a story about a date gone hectic. He definitely knows and you definitely know. What are you going to do now? This is definitely some kind of work policy violation or something, and how would your friendship suffer?
Was this a happy accident or a recipe for disaster?
Summary:
This is based on the season 7x24 episode where Will gets into the bank, but it's Spencer, and Y/N is freaking out, the wedding is still happening, and maybe feelings get confessed while dancing.
“What is he doing? Spencer! Reid!!” I yell and try to surpass Derek, but he picks me up, holding me back.
“Spencer, NOOO,” I scream, and he turns around. His eyes connect with mine; he forms a sorry with his lips before entering the bank.
“Let him go, Y/N. He will be fine. He is smarter than this dumbass; calm down! CALM DOWN!” He shouts at me, and I do as he says.
“Good. Are you here? I need you here, not in there. Reid is going to be fine.” I nod and brush away the tears on my cheeks. We're going to get him back. I join Garcia in the surveillance van and overwatch his negotiation with the hostage holder. Hotch joins us as well, while Morgan and the others try to find a tactic that’s safe to enter the bank.
“Look at our smart boy there, getting the Unsub all confused. He is doing good, you see?” Penelope smiles at me and squeezes my hand when gunshots are heard and Spencer collapses to the ground.
The same second our monitor goes black.
“Garcia, no!!! Show me that he is alright; he is alright, isn’t he? He had a vest on. He is fine,” I assure myself, like a prayer.
“Yeah…yeah, he had a vest. And he is smart. He’s alright; he has to be.” Penelope starts to breathe heavily, and I choke. I overhear Hotch talking to possibly Morgan on the phone, saying:
“There is a possibility that he didn’t make it. We can’t rule it out that he’s gone.” His voice is quiet, and I turn at him furiously.
“Don’t talk about him like he is dead! HE IS NOT DEAD!” I yell and leave the van. I pace back and forth trying to make sense of what had happened in the last few hours. How Spencer arrived at the scene, how he walked up to me, with this sweet little grin. How he explained to Hotch what he figured out at the office and how everything went down from that. The situation escalated quickly, resulting in shots fired and one of the Unsubs dead. The other one requested the agent inside, who shot his brother, who was Reid. He threatened to kill one hostage every 60 seconds. That's when Spencer handed one of the cops his gun and started walking with his arms up to the door. That's when I tried to run and stop him.
“You okay, kiddo?” I hear Morgan's voice behind me and nod.
“Yes, we need to get Reid back,” I say, and Morgan nods, squeezing my shoulder.
“We will, don’t worry. This guy is way too smart to die like this.” I smile very sadly and nod as a huge blast is heard and the bank erupts in smoke and flames. Morgan jumps at me, snatching me behind a police car as we watch hell breaking loose. My heart drops to my stomach; I cry silent tears as I watch a second explosion going off.
“Fuck, no, no, NO, NO,” Morgan yells and hits the police car with his fist, crying next to me. The next hours go by in a blur. I function, trying not to think about Spencer. I have a job to do, even if I just want to sit in a corner and cry.
We enter the building, burnt from the inside like myself. We can't find the Unsubs or Reid, but what I do find are Reid's credentials. Carefully dropped next to a dumpster behind the bank. My phone rings, and I see Garcia's name lighting up.
“Go ahead, Hotch is with me,” I answer the call.
“He’s alive. Spencer is alive! I got a visual on the car they fled with, and he is with them. Not good, but alive. They’re heading north.” We hang up and immediately make our way in their direction. I call Penelope again from the car.
It's a hefty chase; Hotch drives like a maniac, chasing the Unsubs. He is fixated on the car in front of us.
I grab the handle when we go around a corner, but nothing could have prepared us for what happens next. We get hit from the side, and I try desperately not to hit my head. I fail. Morgan stops next to us.
“Go, go, we’re fine, GO.” Hotch yells, and the car takes off.
“Are you ok?” I ask my boss and hear him groan.
“Yeah, you?” I nod and groan in pain.
“I think so, yeah.” I get out of the car, hearing Hotch exiting as well. We sit down, backs against the car, when the first ambulance comes passing by. His phone rings.
“Yes, we’re fine. Might need an ambulance. Good, thank God.” He hangs up and closes his eyes.
“EMT is on the way; Morgan got the car.” He catches his breath as I turn my head to him. He presses his hand on his forehead, still bleeding.
“Alive,” I sigh and nod in relief. He is alive. After we get plastered up and looked after, we both get cleared to go. JJ picks us up, and I can see how excited she is to go see Spencer. I know Spence had a crush on her years ago, and sometimes I think he might still have one. She is still the one he talks to often; I mean, he also talks to me, but his bond with JJ is something different—and yes, I am jealous.
Medics are already there when we stop. Morgan already cuffed the Unsubs, guiding them to the police car. JJ jumps out of the car, yelling Spencer's name and running to him. He is processed by the medics when JJ hugs him, caressing his cheek. He smiles at her while his wounds get treated. They talk while I stand next to the car. Red and blue lights are blinking everywhere; my team arrives, hugging Spencer, relieved.
“You coming, kiddo?” Rossi grabs my shoulder, squeezing it lightly.
“I might need a minute.” My voice is hoarse and low. Rossi nods and looks over to our team; Spencer is smiling, happy to be alive. His face is full of soot, and his arm is in a sling. I am so relieved to see him standing on his feet, despite the fact that he looks disheveled.
“Are you okay, Miss?” A paramedic asks me, and I nod.
“Just a little bit dizzy, thank you.” Not fully convinced, he goes to take care of someone else. I see Spencer scanning his surroundings, and when he finds me, next to Rossi and the car, he excuses himself and starts limping across the street. I feel nervous and excited.
“I’ll let you two,” Rossi says and meets Spencer halfway. They stop, Rossi hugs him briefly and says something, pointing to me.
Spencer nods and continues his way towards me. I approach him, and when he is only a few steps away from me, he fiddles with his sling and manages to get it away, dropping it to the ground. Then he is in front of me and looks at me with worry in his eyes before opening his arms with a hiss of pain and pulling me in a tight and warm hug.
“Are you hurt?” he asks me, and I shake my head lightly.
“How are you?” I ask him, and he smiles.
“I’m alright. Have been shot before, but the explosion was new.” I chuckle and rub my eyes, trying not to cry of relief. His arms are tight around me, and I press my face against his shirt. He smells like blood and fire.
“I’m so glad you are okay.” I whisper against his chest, and he hugs me tighter.
“When I saw you fighting Derek to stop me… It was so hard to keep walking. He was impressed by your strength.” His voice is soft against my ear, and I feel his head resting on mine.
“Okay, lovebirds. Let's get you to the hospital for some final scans,” Derek says, and we step away from each other. Derek helps Spencer back into the sling for his arm and takes us to the hospital, where we both get the okay to go home.
I kick my boots in the corner and take out my phone. A message from Hotch.
“Tomorrow get together at Rossi’s. Surprise wedding for JJ and Will, are you free?” I send him a thumbs up and smile. This is going to be beautiful.
The BAU girls come over to get ready together. Only JJ prefers to get ready with Will and Henry.
It's a lot of giggles, helping hands with hair and make-up, joking around, and drinking champagne.
“I asked my sugar if he can pick us up in about 30 minutes,” Penelope says, and we nod in unison.
“Y/N, to be honest…you look breathtaking. That dress…is superior,” Emily says and looks at me from head to toe.
I'm wearing a flowy dress, which looks a little bit country. The neckline shows more than I usually do; it's mid-length with some ruffles and light blue with a few white details. I chose white heels and a white bag; my hair is falling in big waves down my back. I managed to stop Penelope with the make-up and still look like me. Light foundation, a bit of rouge, mascara, and a very faint tint of lipstick. I feel pretty and dolled up.
“Thank you, Emily. I hope it isn’t too much.” Both of my friends assure me that it’s perfect. My doorbell rings, and Penelope opens for Derek.
“Well, hellooo, you beautiful ladies. Wow, wow, wow. You look like three pretty, sweet, and very delicious cupcakes. Mama, you are shining,” he says before twirling Penelope. Emily and I laugh as we slip into our shoes.
“You look very handsome yourself, Mr. Morgan,” Emily says and kisses Derek on the cheek. He is absolutely happy spending time with us three and getting some attention. We pour him one glass of champagne and fill ours up to empty the bottle. I feel a little bit tipsy already.
“To JJ and Will and this wedding and to all of us looking stunning,” Derek says and toasts to all of us. Our glasses clink, and we chat a little bit more before emptying our glasses and starting to head out.
I check my phone on the way down and see that Spencer texted me two hours ago, asking if he should pick me up.
I was busy, sorry. Derek's got me covered, thank you. See you in a bit. I text him back.
“Are you feeling okay?” Derek asks me, and I nod.
“I’m fine, thank you. It looked worse than it was, but thank you.” He squeezes my thigh as he drives us through the darkness.
“You look stunning; I might have a crush on you after tonight,” he laughs as he pulls into Rossi’s driveway. Derek helps Penelope and Emily out of the car and then me. I am struggling with the strap of my shoe, but when he reaches my door and holds out his hand, I'm ready. My arm sneaks around his as we walk into Rossi's house and we are in awe at what he has created in just one day. It's beautiful; lights and light colors are everywhere, round tables and centerpieces with lilies and other flowers. It's breathtaking.
“Damn, Rossi knows how to throw a party,” Derek says as he hands me a drink. We say cheers and drink; he pulls me a little bit closer to his side as Kevin approaches us to snap a picture with his camera.
“I mean, I love my mama, but today I wouldn’t mind having you as my eye candy.” Morgan winks at me, and luckily I know his banter with women he holds dear to his heart. I wink back at him and put my hand on his neck, stroking his face gently.
“You know I love you, Derek, right? You are such a good friend.” He looks me in the eyes, wiggling his eyebrows at me.
“That’s a way to break my heart, buttercup.” I laugh with him, and he hugs me.
“I know, I love you too… There is someone looking at you,” he whispers into my ear, and I turn around to see Spencer standing in the doorway. His hair is messy as always, locks everywhere, his eyes fixated on Derek and me, how close we stand, and how his hand rests on my waist. I smile at him; his hands are tucked into the pockets of his suit pants. He looks unbelievably handsome. My heart starts racing, and I get slightly sweaty hands. Reid shoots us his tight-lipped grin and walks in another direction into the garden, greeting Emily and Penelope.
JJ and Will arrive, and we surprise them with their families and dress. JJ is so touched, and when we all get upstairs (of course only us women), she sheds some tears. We get her ready, fixing her hair, and wow, she is just perfect.
“Thank you guys so much; this is perfect. Everything is perfect. After yesterday, when I nearly lost Spence… I remembered how fast this all could be over. And I don’t want it to be over without being married to Will.” We engage in a group hug when someone knocks and JJ’s mom comes in.
“See you downstairs.” Emily, Penelope, and I go back to the other guests, where I see Morgan talking to Reid. I walk over and join them.
“Hi, Spence,” I say to him and smile, hugging him. The hug is short but intense.
“Dear guests, the ceremony is about to start. Please take your seats,” Dave says, and everybody starts moving to his backyard.
“May I, beautiful lady?” Derek says and holds out his arm. I giggle and hook my arm into his. Spencer looks down at his shoes.
“Spence, are you coming?” I ask him and slip my other arm through his. I see the corner of his lips twitching, and both men walk me down to the chairs. Our team is already seated, and we join them, Emily trying to hide her laugh at the sight of us three.
“Look at you three, is this going to be a threesome kind of thing?” She giggles, and I roll my eyes at her.
Spence unhooks our arms while Derek is still laughing at her comment. We take our seats just as the ceremony starts. Soft music is playing; Will is standing in the front while JJ walks out of the house, her mom by her side. The guests gasp at the sight of the beautiful bride.
While JJ and Will exchange their vows, which are spontaneous but really beautiful, I shed one or two tears. Emily as well, my hands clutching at the fabric of my dress. I'm nervous and a little bit anxious, but I can't even get ahold of the reason. Suddenly I feel a hand grabbing mine very softly and carefully. Testing if it's okay to take my hand. Spencer squeezes my hand lightly, tracing over my fingers and the back of my hand with his thumb. He is trying to calm me down and get over my anxiety. We keep holding hands during the whole ceremony. I desperately avoid making eye contact with him.
“Please rise,” the minister says, and everybody is standing up for the first kiss. My hand slips out of Spencer's, and I cross my fingers in front of my stomach to watch the kiss. The whole group of guests starts to cheer and clap while the pair walks down the aisle, waving and being pampered with rose leaves from both sides getting tossed at them.
We follow the stream of people upstairs and get in line to hug and congratulate Will and JJ. Neither Spencer nor Derek nor I talk to each other while waiting. After the congratulations, people gather at the buffet, but I really need a few minutes to myself. I sit back down under all the lights and flowers where the ceremony happened and watch people laugh, drink, and have a good time. My team is positioned at a standing table. Rossi is telling another of his stories, which the others are listening to with complete fixation. I smile at the sight of them.
I take in a deep breath and close my eyes for a few seconds. I let my eyes wander over the happiness and carelessness the people radiate. Spencer looks over to me and excuses himself before starting to make his way over to me.
“Hey, you,” he says and smiles at me.
“Hey, you,” I repeat his words, and he is pointing to the seat next to me.
“May I?” I nod, and he takes the seat. My gaze wanders over his long legs, the mismatched socks, and his white button-up shirt.
“Thank you for earlier,” I say shyly, and he smiles reassuringly.
“I know the feeling of an anxiety attack; I get them too, and I thought maybe it would help. Anxiety is a common mental health condition, with statistics showing it affects a significant portion of the population. About 301 million people worldwide have anxiety disorders, making it the most common mental disorder. While anxiety can manifest in various ways, including panic attacks, it's important to note that panic attacks are generally not dangerous, and most attacks only last for a short period, typically between 5 and 20 minutes, and I thought before it turns into a full-on attack, I'd try to calm you down… I’m glad it worked.” His smile is so warm, and his eyes look into mine.
“Thank you. Really. I know how much you hate physical contact.” His hand finds mine again, and I look at our hands. His long, beautiful, and very soft and warm fingers holding my hand.
“It’s different with you. I don’t mind touching you…or anyone of our team.” I nod.
“Please join us at the dance floor. The newlyweds are going to have their first dance together,” David says loud enough for everyone to hear. Spencer gets on his feet, leaving my hand cold and alone on my thigh.
He is holding his hand out for me, and I take it. He leads me to our team, gathering around the dance floor where Will and JJ start dancing to slow and very romantic music. Her head is resting on Will's shoulder; they look absolutely stunning and in love. When the song is finished, everybody applauds, and other pairs join them. Emily and Rossi and Penelope and Derek, for example.
We watch them for some time, standing closely. I can feel the warmth of his body radiating towards me. He moves slightly, his arm brushing mine. I turn my head to look briefly at him; he doesn’t seem to notice our skin-to-skin contact.
We watch our team dancing, having fun, laughing, and being close, and internally I wait for him to ask me, but nothing happens until Derek passes Penelope to Hotch and reaches for my hand.
“May I, beautiful lady? Our genius seems to be too stunned to act.” I laugh under my breath and take Derek’s hand, stopping myself to look at Spencer. He pulls me close, resting his hand on my back and swirling me over the dance floor. It's great; I love every second of it until the next song comes on. It's slower, and I rest my head on his shoulder.
“You know, you could be dancing with Spencer, right? He seems to be opening up tonight.” I nod.
“He is kind of,” I agree as I feel Derek’s hand circling on my back.
“He can’t keep his eyes off of you.” Derek's voice is soft against my ear.
“Could you stop doing that, Derek? You know we are really close; this is just messing with us both and making things awkward when you do that,” I beg him, and he chuckles.
“As you wish, but then I’m doing this instead.” He swirls me around and lets me crash against another chest. Two hands immediately find my waist to catch me, and I look into Spencer's hazel eyes. He seems to be the same amount of shocked as I am.
“Have fun, you two,” he giggles and disappears to get his dance with Emily. I am still looking into his eyes, my hands resting on his chest.
“Sorry,” I murmur and try to take a step back, but his grip tightens.
“No… I mean…do you want to…dance? With me?” His voice is unsteady, and when his eyes meet mine again and he sees me nodding, he starts moving slowly. My face is pressed against his, cheek to cheek. He pulls me as close as he can, and I feel his hand pressed lightly against the small of my back. The other hand is holding mine, intertwining our fingers. I take a deep breath, closing my eyes and taking in this moment. My hand is circling on his back right between his shoulders. He nuzzles his face into my neck; I can feel his breath against my skin and get goosebumps.
“You smell amazing,” he whispers and lets my hand go from his, placing it against his chest. I feel him hugging me tightly with both arms, pressing me against his lean body. I snake my other arm around him too, hugging him back. We are still moving lightly, his legs brushing against mine with every move, and I feel his chest rising with every breath he takes.
Eventually the song comes to an end, and we both unclasp our grips on each other very slowly. I look up into his beautiful eyes, framed by those unruly brown curls. He is smiling, hands still on my waist. My hands wander into his neck, playing with his curls.
“Shall we grab a drink at the bar?” He proposes, and I nod, despite not wanting to let go of him. He grabs my hand and leads me upstairs to the bar, brushing circles on the back of my hand.
He hands me a drink and clinks his glass against mine, looking into my eyes again. I can't really concentrate on anything else but his closeness, smell, and mesmerizing eyes. I don’t see how Emily, Derek, and the others smile knowingly while watching us from time to time. We don’t even talk much; it seems like he is just absorbing this moment like me. We sip our drinks, standing close to each other, barely touching here and there.
“I would love to go on a walk around the garden. You want to come... I mean, if not, that’s totally fine,” I ramble and play with a strand of my hair. Spencer smiles and nods.
“I’d love to,” so I sneak my arm around his, and we walk down the steps. Drink in one hand, we wander around Rossi's garden.
“Do you ever envision this for yourself?” I ask him when we make a stop at the end of the huge backyard, looking at the house, the lights, and all those people.
“Marriage? Yeah… I could see myself as a husband, you?” He answers and looks down at me.
“I don’t know…” To be honest, I would love to be a wife and a mom, but my luck with men has always been…not really there. So some time ago, I decided to just stay by myself. It spares heartbreak and lost time—also, it's kind of hard to entertain a relationship with our job.
“You don’t know? Statistically 87% of women want to marry before giving birth, so statistically if you want children, you probably want to get married before that.” I chuckle at that and answer him:
“I don’t even know if I want children. I just haven’t thought about it… Probably when I have a partner, then I will think about all of this.”
“Fair enough, why waste thoughts on something that’s not around the corner, right?” He says it as if that’s his mantra. But I know better; I know that he is thinking about everything all the time and not just about things that are around the corner. I grin into my glass.
“I think you would be an awesome mom,” he says, observing JJ and Henry together.
“You think so?” he nods.
“Yeah… you are loving, compassionate, patient, smart, and caring. And I love your humor,” he says quietly. When I look up, he watches my face closely, how I turn bright red and get all flustered.
“That’s really nice of you to say, Spence. Thank you,” I whisper and smile at my feet. He laughs shyly, and I feel his arm snaking around my waist.
“You are touchy today,” I notice, and normally he would take his hand back, but today he pulls me closer to his side.
“I just like having you near me. It’s like your presence calms me down,” he says, his voice still soft, but his eyes are full of emotion. I have never seen him look at me like that. His gaze takes my breath away.
“Well, that’s new,” I mumble under my breath, trying to get my thoughts together.
“What’s new?” His words are just a whisper.
“That look in your eyes, Spence. That is new.” He blinks rapidly, as if he wants to blink the look away.
“Maybe because I decided that I’m not going to pretend anymore that you’re just a colleague and friend,” he replies, and I try to figure out what he means.
“What?” My brain is just not capable of working properly when he is so close. His smell is amazing; it's like a drug.
“I’m in love with you. I tried to hide it for nearly a year now, but yesterday…when I really thought I was going to die, I made a promise to myself to get my shit together. Either I am going to spend the rest of my life with you or not—but I really needed you to hear that.” He sighs, and I am absolutely shocked. In a good way. My heart is pounding against my chest, my hands are sweaty, and my breath starts to quicken.
“You love me?” I echo like a dumbass. Spencer puts his drink on a standing table near us, takes mine out of my hands, and comes back to me, facing me.
“I do. I love you so much,” he says, nothing like before. Not unsure anymore but steady with his voice, his gaze is fixated on my eyes. When I don't step back but still stare at him, with an open mouth he smiles and cups my cheeks with his hands, stepping even closer so his chest brushes against mine.
“I don’t know what your silence means, but if you just keep staring at me like this… I’m going to kiss you,” he says, and I still can’t move.
“Hey pretty boy! Come here!” Derek's voice rips us apart; Spencer steps back and watches Derek waving. I snap back out of my trance and shake my head for a second, not really sure if this just happened for real.
“Great timing for a wingman,” he mumbles and looks back at me.
“I’m sorry…” I say, but he shakes his head.
“Don’t be. It was a 50/50 chance, and it's totally fine if you don't feel the same about me. It’s okay.” He takes my hand to his lips and kisses it. I see hurt in his eyes as he turns and walks up to Derek and Henry on the porch.
I try to wrap my head around what just had happened. Spencer confessed his feelings for me; he is in love with me, as I am in love with him. I just haven’t had the chance to tell him, and now he thinks I just see him as a friend. My eyes follow him as he does another magic trick for Henry. Derek cheers for him, and all three of them laugh. I grab my drink and sip on it as I keep watching them having fun, still trying to sort my thoughts while my heart is hammering in my chest. Spencer turns to look at me across the garden, his eyes lingering with hurt and so much love on me. I need to set this right. While our eyes are still locked on one another, JJ starts talking to Spencer, who seems to have a hard time focusing on her, but finally he does turn to face her. Her hand resting on his arm while they talk to each other. I slowly start walking back to the team, where Rossi smiles at me and pulls me to his side.
“You okay, dolcezza?” He asks me, and I nod.
“Sure, this is all so unbelievably beautiful, Dave. I love it; you did a great job.” He smiles at me and tugs at my waist, hugging me with one arm.
“Thank you, sweetie. I love hosting parties.” I giggle and sip at my drink. We all know he loves it.
“We love you, Papa.” He smiles at this pet name, and when I press a kiss to his cheek, he even turns a little bit red.
“Well, look at our old man blushing. I'm not going to lie, I would blush as well if you'd kiss me.” Morgan laughs and clinks his glasses against ours.
“Leave her alone, you womanizer.” Penelope chimes in and pats Derek's chest lovingly. He puts his arm around her shoulders and grins.
“You know, I only love you, Mama. Also this one has lost her heart already to our boy genius.” I feel myself turning bright red. Luckily, Spencer is still occupied with Henry and isn't listening to our conversation.
“Yeah, obviously. If I see another longing glance across the room from one of these two, I might just set up a surprise dinner in the bullpen,” Garcia sighs, and I look at her. She is right. This has to stop, and he did the first step earlier. I put down my glass and look at her.
“You’re right,” she gasps when I start to make my way over to Spencer, who is kneeling on the ground and talking to little Henry.
“Spence,” I say quietly when I stop in front of them and he looks up at me. His forehead crinkles, his puppy dog eyes watching my every face motion, and his mouth is lightly open, turned into a small smirk.
“Hey,” he says and ruffles his hand through Henry’s hair before getting up and patting his slacks. I tilt my head up to watch his beautiful face. I can feel everybody from our team staring at us from behind me.
“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier; I didn’t mean to. I—just…I…look, this is…” He stammers, turning bright red and fumbling with his hands, looking down at his shoes. He feels really uncomfortable and coughs before trying to start again. His eyes find mine, and he straightens his posture.
“You know what? No, I'm not sorry. I had to get it off my chest, and you deserve to know that there is someone who loves you. That I love you. You are incredible; you deserve to be loved, and even if it's not me who gets to love you, I just needed you to know, I—“ I interrupt him by grabbing his tie and yanking him down to my height, meeting him on my tiptoes. His eyes widen in surprise, and I whisper:
“Just kiss me, you fool,” before I meet his lips with mine. His hands find my waist immediately, and I step closer, cupping his cheek with my hand while our lips press against one another. They are soft and loving. I hear the team simultaneously gasp behind us when he pulls me even closer, wrapping his arms around me while I put mine around his neck.
“About damn time,” I hear Morgan say, and Spencer breaks the kiss. When I open my eyes, his are still closed; he looks genuinely happy. His eyes open slowly, and when he looks at me, with his lips lightly pink, he smiles.
“What was that for?” he asks, voice shaking. I giggle like a love-drunk teenager and tug at one of his unruly curls.
“Because you are just you… Spence. I'm in love with you as well. Have been for such a long time.” My heart feels so much lighter now that I have said it to his face. His eyes widen, his grip on my waist tightens, and he opens his mouth but can’t speak.
The team cheers behind us, gushing over “how cute we are” and how happy they are for us. But our focus is on each other, eyes still locked, bodies still pressed against each other.
“Did you hear me?” I ask and chuckle when he snaps out of his trance.
“Yes, yes. I did hear you… Are you for real? You really do have feelings for me?” He asks and looks at me as if he can't believe me.
“Of course, Spence. How could I not? You are everything a woman…I…could ask for.” We smile at each other when I feel him loosening his grip on my waist. NO, don't let go of me, please.
But he now cups my face in his hands and starts kissing me very gently. His lips melt against mine, soft and longingly. I hear his breath starting to get erratic. The kiss starts getting deeper; he sucks at my lower lip, and I smile while his hands tangle in my hair.
“Woah, woah, pretty boy. Get a room, you two,” Derek says, and we break the kiss again, panting. My heart is nearly jumping out of my chest, and Spence looks at me as if he feels the same way.
Spencer takes my hand in his, and we join the rest of the team, both red up to our hair roots and smiling.
“So… Are you two a thing now or what?” Morgan asks, and Penelope jumps to his side.
“Yeah, tell us. Is this now official—finally?” I chuckle and feel Spencer's thumb stroking the back of my hand. I look up at his warm hazel eyes. His smile is wide, and I lose myself in looking at him lovingly. He squeezes my hand lightly, and I answer with a squeeze myself.
“Yeah…it is,” Spence says and looks up to meet Morgan’s eyes. Everybody assures us that they are very happy for us and it was about time.
Anything would’ve been preferable to what you were walking into now. You should’ve known the BAU’s security team didn’t fuck around.
You should’ve known.
Because when you walked into the bullpen that morning, coffee in hand and still slightly flushed from the very good, very illegal orgasm Spencer had given you against a locked conference room wall at 9:07 the night before, the last thing you expected was for evidence of it to be printed and waiting for you.
Fuck. No. No, no, no.
Your stomach dropped like an elevator in freefall. You stepped fully into the bullpen—and then you saw it.
Your desk.
Spencer’s desk.
Each with a stack of paper.
Not files. Not case notes.
Photos.
Black and white grainy photos.
Security footage.
Of you.
Of Spencer.
Photos of you and Spencer doing things that should never be in 1080p resolution.
Of Spencer pressed up behind you in a darkened hallway, one hand under your skirt, the other tangled in your hair as your head tilted back in a way that could only be described as criminally pornographic.
There was another photo—his mouth on your neck, your hand down his pants, the two of you shamelessly caught mid-moan in what looked like Hotch’s own damn federal building.
You barely had time to register the color draining from your face before Spencer walked in right behind you. You saw the exact moment his brain caught up to what his eyes were seeing.
He froze mid-step. Then his gaze snapped to you—panicked, pale, already calculating a dozen potential exits and failing to land on a single one.
You didn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The only thing louder than your panic was the sound of your father’s voice behind you.
“My office. Now.” Hotch’s tone left zero room for debate.
You turned—slow, like a horror movie—and there he was.
Standing on the mezzanine, leaning against the railing, was your father, SSA Aaron Hotchner. Arms crossed. Jaw clenched. Gaze locked directly on you like he was watching a slow-motion train crash. He turned and walked toward his office without looking back.
Which meant you had approximately ten seconds to say goodbye to your job, your sex life, and potentially Spencer Reid’s entire existence.
“Jesus Christ,” you hissed, grabbing the papers and crumpling them in one furious, humiliated fist. Your heart hammered in your chest, and you dared a look at Spencer—who had just walked in behind you and froze mid-step like someone had hit him with a tranq dart.
“Oh,” he said faintly. “That’s… bad.”
“No shit, Reid.”
Morgan didn’t help. “So that’s what ‘after hours paperwork’ means. Got it.”
“Derek,” JJ said quickly, nudging him with an elbow, but the damage was done.
Emily appeared from the break room, coffee in hand, sipping like it was tea. “I told you guys to watch the cameras. But nooo, why listen to the profiler who’s been caught on video twice?”
“Three times,” JJ corrected, grinning.
Emily pointed her cup at her. “That last one didn’t count, we were undercover.”
“You were making out in the conference room.”
“Under. Cover.”
Spencer looked like he was actively negotiating with the universe to collapse into the floor and swallow him whole. He ran a shaking hand through his hair, eyes darting between you, the photos, and the hallway that led to Hotch’s office like he could somehow reverse time through sheer panic.
The walk to Hotch’s office felt like a funeral procession. When you reached the top of the stairs, he didn’t gesture for you to sit. He just shut the door with a click that sounded eerily like the end of your lives.
“I’ll speak first,” he said, voice clipped. “Before either of you attempt to justify whatever the hell this is.”
Spencer opened his mouth anyway.
“Don’t.”
He shut it.
Hotch stepped around his desk, looking between the two of you like he was trying to not imagine the exact images now burned into his retinas.
“I trusted you,” he said, looking at Spencer.
Spencer physically flinched. “I know.”
“I asked you to keep her safe.”
“You did.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
You stepped forward. “Dad—”
He held up a hand.
“I don’t want excuses. I don’t want apologies. I want answers. How long?”
You hesitated.
Spencer caved.
“Eight months.”
You turned and stared at him. “Spencer.”
“What? He’s gonna kill me either way, might as well be honest.”
Hotch looked like he was doing long division in his head. “Eight months… that’s before the Miami case.”
You nodded.
“You lied to me. Both of you.”
“That’s not fair,” you said. “It wasn’t just lying, it was… omission. Careful omission.”
Spencer shot you a look like now is not the time for semantics.
“You were in my house, Reid. With her.”
Spencer swallowed. “I slept on the couch.”
“Bullshit.” Hotch stopped pacing. Faced you both.
“There’s a security breach because you couldn’t keep your hands off each other in the elevator? And now the entire team knows.”
“They don’t know—” you started.
“Oh, they know.” He gestured to the photos. “The FBI knows. Internal Affairs is going to love this. And I am trying—very hard—not to send you off to college halfway around the world.”
Silence.
Then, he turned his glare directly onto Spencer. “You. Are thirteen years older than her. You’re her coworker. Her superior. And you thought it was a good idea to sleep with my daughter?”
There was a very long, very painful pause.
“You are adults. Technically. You make your own decisions. Stupid ones, apparently.”
“Sir—” Spencer started.
“I’m not finished.” His eyes narrowed. “If either of you ever—and I mean ever—do anything like that on federal property again, I will have both your asses in front of Strauss so fast she’ll develop a stroke mid-sentence.”
“Yes, sir,” you both said.
“And Reid?”
Spencer flinched.
Hotch took a step forward. “I swear to god, if I ever see your hands on my daughter again outside the context of saving her from a serial killer—”
“Understood, sir.”
He took a deep breath. “I am going to say this once. Whatever this is—” he gestured sharply at the photos “—it ends. Today.”
Silence.
Spencer looked like he’d been punched.
You just blinked.
“Ends?” you echoed, numb.
Hotch’s jaw clenched. “I can’t have this kind of recklessness on my team. You’re compromising each other in the field, and if it goes public—”
Spencer tried to speak. “Hotch, I—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” your father cut in sharply. “There is going to be an internal review. A written reprimand. And if either of you ever pull something like this again—”
You couldn’t help yourself. “We’re not children—”
“You’re my child,” Hotch snapped, turning to you. “And he’s my agent. Which makes this entire situation a professional and personal disaster. And if you think I’m going to just let it slide because you’re my daughter, you’re dead wrong.”
You dropped your gaze, tears welling in your eyes. “You know what the worst part is?” he said, angrily. “It’s not that you violated federal property regulations. It’s not even that you breached the most basic professional ethics.”
Your breath caught.
“It’s that you thought I wouldn’t find out.”
Ouch.
You shrank under his stare. Spencer looked like he might vomit.
“Sir,” Spencer started. “I never meant for—”
Hotch held up a hand. “Dr. Reid. If you want any chance of keeping your job, I suggest you don’t finish that sentence.”
Spencer looked like he wanted to fold into the floor. “Sir, I care about her. I didn’t—I don’t—take this lightly. I know how it looks.”
“You don’t,” Hotch said flatly. “You don’t know anything about what it looks like. To a father. To a boss.”
The room fell quiet.
Then Hotch exhaled, long and slow. He looked tired. Disappointed. Which, honestly, was so much worse than shouting.
“I’m going to step away before I say something I regret,” he said. “But let me make this clear.”
He looked between the two of you—scathing, cold, unreadable. “This ends now. Or you both walk.”
You didn't realize you were holding your breath until he walked out of his own office, leaving the door open behind him like a gaping wound. You could still hear your heart pounding, see the grainy black-and-white ghosts of your bad decisions fluttering like confetti across your memory.
Spencer swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to say eight months,” he whispered.
You turned to him slowly. “Really, Spence? That’s the problem here?”
“I panicked.”
“No kidding.” Your voice cracked under the weight of it all. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Spencer sat on the edge of Hotch’s desk, his hands knotted between his knees. “I’ve never seen him like that before.”
You snorted. “You’ve never dated his daughter before.”
He winced. “Technically, I still am.”
You looked at him sharply. “Are you?”
Spencer’s breath caught.
Because that was the part no one had said yet. That was the part hanging over you like a guillotine. This ends now. Or you both walk.
The ultimatum wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t negotiable.
You or the job.
Each other or everything else.
And Spencer Reid didn’t just love the BAU. It was in his bones. It was his purpose, his structure, his sanity.
“Are you?” you asked again, softer this time.
He didn’t answer. Not with words.
Instead, he crossed the room, dropped to a crouch in front of you, and took your shaking hands in his. “I want to say that it doesn’t matter. That I’d pick you every time.”
You stared at him, already hearing the but coming.
“But I can’t lose this job,” he whispered, pained. “It’s not just work. It’s lives. It’s you, too. And if I stay, I can’t be with you.”
You felt something fracture inside your chest.
“So that’s it?”
He looked up at you, haunted. “If I thought I could walk away and still protect you… if I thought you’d be safe—”
Your laugh was hollow. “I’m not a victim, Spence.”
“I know. I know that. But you’re his daughter. And I was supposed to—God, I was supposed to be better than this.”
Your throat tightened. “I don’t want to end it.”
“Neither do I.”
He closed his eyes. “Tell me not to go. Tell me to walk away from all of it, and I will.”
You opened your mouth—and then stopped.
Because you could see it in his eyes.
You couldn’t do that to him.
Not when he was already tearing himself apart just to stand in front of you.
“No,” you whispered. “I won’t be the reason you leave.”
“Then this is the part where I say goodbye.”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Spencer reached for your hand one last time. Pressed a kiss to your knuckles like he was memorizing the weight of it. “I meant it,” he said quietly. “Every second. Even the ones on camera.”
A bitter smile cracked through your tears. “Yeah. Me too.”
Then he stood.
And walked out of Hotch’s office.
And you sat there alone, trying to decide which was worse:
That your father had been right.
Or that you'd loved Spencer Reid enough to let him go.
