Not like they’re having mutual gooning marathons or anything LOL but I can absolutely see them accidentally ending up watching something together. Like Jeff would be hanging out with Ben and go “bro, I saw this insane video” then just casually pull out his phone.
Meanwhile Ben is turning bright red, trying SO hard to act normal while watching the video, then after the longest silence ever just mutters “yo… send that to me” LMAOOO
toph finding out how you touch yourself, her hand cupping over your fingers as they fucked into your weeping cunt. her breathing picks up, surprised at how quickly you’re going, but you aren’t usually this desperate, especially with this girl kneeling over you, staring off somewhere between your legs, her mouth slightly open, shocked but amused at the feeling of the flick of your wrist.
“fuck,” she laughs quietly, low and steady in her throat. “have you always been this pathetic, or is it just for me?”
the words hit meaner than they should, especially because she says them while guiding your hand to slow down. toph’s head tilts, cloudy eyes fixated somewhere below your stomach, listening instead. listening to the wet schlicks of your fingers, to every shaky inhale you try your best to swallow. your other hand scrambles to find toph’s bicep, gripping solid muscle as you feel yourself slipping.
she didn’t even have to touch you, and she had you like this. had the nerve to act clueless when she asked if she could feel how you touch yourself. just want to know if i’m doing it right, she says.
“yeah?” she murmurs, mock surprise dripping from her voice when your body jerks. her thumb presses over the back of your hand, pinning your movements in place for a second just to hear you whine. “you like it when i pay attention to you like this, baby?”
and the worst part of it is she genuinely sounds fascinated by it.
nodding like your head might come off your neck, toph feels it and laughs, leaning closer until her forehead nearly bumps yours, her breathing starting to match your own. greedy girl that she is, you can practically hear the smirk when she says,
he never expected sexual acts to be so… animalistic, profound, and extremely filthy. missionary was all he knew—then, with your encouragement, he started leaning into different positions like doggy style and the mating press. but this one you were doing right now?
this was his favorite of all.
you with his cock deep inside your tight pussy, your walls warm and tight as you rode him sensually back and forth—taking every agonizing inch of him like the good girl you were.
your face was twisted with pleasure, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you rode him. it was too much, he was too big—aang knew that for a fact. but your little whimpers as you tried your best to take him all made his heart clench.
fuck. you were the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on.
"don't stop, baby," aang rasped, his hands tightening on your hips. "fuck. mph.. just like that."
"aang…?" you whimpered, your hips faltering just slightly.
he paused. oh no. had he hurt you? did he grab your hips too tightly? was he stretching you out too much for you to handle?
"you're…" you swallowed hard, a finger coming up to wipe away a tear that he hadn't even realized had slipped down his cheek. "crying!"
crying? he couldn't believe it. he was the avatar, for fucks sake. and now he was reduced to a crying man, completely undone and helpless over his girlfriend's little pussy.
"sorry—it just… feels too good. you squeezin' me like that… can't help it, sweet girl," he choked out.
"are you hurt?" you asked softly.
"i'm not hurt," he promised, his thumbs rolling soothing circles against the warm skin of your hips to reassure you. "fuck, i'm the exact opposite of hurt. just keep going. please."
soft dom zuko and mean dom toph gang banging reader,,, walk with me now
adult zuko x f!reader x toph
warnings: 18+ nsfw, SMUT smut, heavy dom/sub power play, VERY mean!toph, sadistic!toph, softdom!zuko, gentle!zuko, brattysub!reader, masochist!reader, fem!reader, punishment, brat taming, spanking, hair pulling (a lot), face slapping, gagging, degradation, slut shaming (kinda), praise, nipple play, double penetration, eiffel tower (the position), some zuko x toph moments, zuko calls you angel, toph is really aggressive sorry i’m a slut okay
summary: 4k words of a filthy, perverted gang bang for this delicious request. this is FREAKED out so MINORS DNI and read all the tags guys!!
i moaned when i read this req, bless u anon.. i’m sorry if i got carried away with the tags this idea was too hot i couldn’t help myself
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“zukooo!” you ran to him, snuggling up into his side as he flipped through a novel, leaning back against the back of the couch in your bedroom. you clung to his waist tightly, innocently batting your lashes at him, crocodile tears filling the rim of your eyes.
he smiled at the sing song tone you called his name with, recognizing its meaning without even glancing up from his page. his arm looped around your shoulders, stroking your hair gently. “what trouble did you just get yourself into, hm?”
you shook your head vehemently, blinking so sweet you could fool anyone else. “i promise i didn’t—”
“where the fuck are you hiding!?”
you winced at toph’s voice ringing out in the hallway, holding onto him even tighter, looking up at him in panic.
he chuckled, finally closing his book to glance down at you, his fingers still threading through your hair, “so you messed with toph, huh? what did you do this time, pretty girl?”
“nothingg! pleasee, zu, talk her out of—”
“here you fucking are!” toph slammed the door open on both of you, fists clenched so hard you were afraid she’d draw blood with her fingernails.
oh, she was fuming.
you squirmed against zuko’s side, trying to use him as protection.
she angrily stepped over to where you both were, veins bulging out of her forehead as she glared down at you. “move, zuko. give her to me.”
“now now,” he replied airily, tenderly patting your head as you buried yourself further into his arms. “no need to take your frustrations out on her. whatever she did, i’m sure you can talk it out. look at her, so remorseful.”
you nodded, hugging him tighter.
toph only scoffed loudly, “oh you have no idea what she’s been up to all day.”
he hummed curiously, and you tensed, immediately looking up at him, “no wait i can—”
“shush now,” he commanded, his tone still gentle but with that firmness that always had you instantly obey. he turned his gaze to toph, “what did she do?”
you might as well just get up and go dig your own grave.
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as toph kept ranting to him about everything — and i mean, everything — you did to her, citing all your deeds like it was judgement day, you tried to discreetly slip out of his grasp before it was too late. you smiled nervously, “i’m thirsty, i’ll just go get some w—”
“sit.” they both barked at the same time, making you flinch. you shrunk in on yourself. if he got on her side, you were absolutely done for.
when toph was finished, he finally looked down at you, his earlier smile morphed into a disappointed frown. not mad, not hateful— just disappointed. and you always felt so guilty and small under that specific look.
he sighed, his arm leaving your shoulders, picking his novel up again. you whimpered at the loss, pathetically reaching for him to apologize, when a rough hand grabbed your hair from behind.
you yelped in pain, clutching at your scalp as she dragged you on the floor. you swore you felt hairs getting tugged right at the root. “t-toph please—”
“not one more fucking word from you, stupid brat.”
she hauled you up with only one hand on the collar of your neck, like how a cat would grab its baby by the scruff, then threw you on the bed, where you landed with a small “oof”.
you swallowed nervously, glancing between an irritated stripping toph and an unbothered reading zuko.
“every day,” toph’s raised voice made you flinch, as she slid her top off over her head. “you test my patience with your bratty shenanigans. i forgive you, more than once, at zuko’s request. and what does that get me?”
she hooked her fingers under the waistband of her pants, feeling up her belt thoughtfully, before deciding against discarding it. you gulped.
she tossed the belt next to your pillow, stepping off her trousers, and finally getting on the bed. your attempt at crawling away didn’t even last a millisecond, before a calloused hand dragged you back to her from the ankle.
she crawled on top of you and pinned your wrists to the top of your head, glaring daggers into you even with her sightless eyes.
“it gets me a bold, fearless girl who thinks she can get away with anything. you always behaved so well when i regularly punished you, now look at you, fucking disgrace. see, zuko? this is what you’re enabling.”
you heard a book shutting. hope filled your heart.
you breathed out a small relieved sigh when you heard him walking over, tilting your face to try and spot him.
she huffed, sensing your distraction, and gave you an annoyed slap to the cheek — not her punishing ones yet, just one to alert you —, earning a pained whimper from you.
“eyes on me, slut.” she spat, disgusted, “he’s not here to save you.”
you sniffled under her demeaning gaze, hoping to tug at her heartstrings, but she only let out a sound between a scoff and a laugh, baffled by your audacity. “oh please, not the waterworks. they might work on zuko, but don’t forget who owned you first, yeah?”
you sulked, “i’m not faking. i am upset— owww!” you yelped, eyes blown wide, when a sharp hit landed on the side of your thigh. what the fuck was that?
she grinned, her gaze heated, toying with the belt, “god, i really missed those cute sounds.”
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you sobbed into her knee, bent over her lap, gripping the sheets with trembling hands as harsh, controlled spanks rained down on your thighs and ass, the skin blossoming red.
zuko did end up getting on the bed as well. he was sitting on his knees in front of you, stroking your disheveled hair as you took your punishment rather well, “shh, you’re a strong girl. you can do this.”
you were a mess of snot and tears, shakily lifting your head to look at him. “p-please, it hurts— ah!”
you cried out, a harder smack landing right on the sore spot on your thigh.
“stop talking, whore.” she barked, ditching the belt for her hand, “you don’t get to beg him. go on, beg me instead.”
you sniffled, trying to get words in between choked sobs, “p-please toph, no more.. i-i’m really sorry.”
silence.
the silence was getting oddly long, the only sound filling the room was that of zuko’s fingers in your hair. you couldn’t see her face from this angle, so you started to panic. “t-toph? is everythi— ouch!”
you gasped, crying, at the sudden hit. fuck, you forgot she liked doing this. distracting you with a random pause to make your muscles relax, just for the smack to hurt some more.
it had been so long since she punished you, you forgot how cruel she could get.
she chuckled, condescendingly patting your ass, “mhm, how sorry are you though?”
your dignity was being trampled over like dog shit. you could only flush with embarrassment and shame, sniffling as you answered, “i-i’m very very sorry, i deserve all of this.. i won’t do it again. please, please, f-forgive me, i beg of you.”
she hummed, rhythmically tapping her index against your plush thigh, “i’m not really convinced.”
you continued babbling dazed apologies, tears streaming down your face, pleading and praising her, spitting out anything that could stall her.
she smirked, her hand suddenly palming your soaked cunt through your panties, pulling a startled scream out of you.
“you disgusting freak, i forgot how wet you get from this.” she licked the bit of slick that seeped through on her fingers, before giving you a final spank with that same saliva-wet hand. “go, get on all fours. zuko, take care of her while i go fetch my strap.”
she rolled you off her lap, zuko’s beefy arms catching you. he tutted, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head to calm your crying, “you shouldn’t have been so bad, hm? it’s okay. we’ll take good care of you.”
you nodded, nuzzling into his chest pitifully, like your cunt wasn’t dripping with anticipation.
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“mhh..” you drooled around his cock, trying to suck past the middle. his firm hand gently pushed your head in further, coaxing garbled moans from you, “such a good girl. i’m proud of you, keep going.”
you were on all fours, hands on his spread thighs for support, your pussy throbbing with need as you bobbed your head up and down on his big, girthy cock.
he moaned, grip tightening on your hair, bucking his hips up into your hot mouth, “f-fuck, so good. don’t stop, angel.”
he was so vocal, you loved that about him. you always knew if he liked what you were doing by how loud he’d get, and his praise only served to add to the aching tension between your legs.
your eyes slowly drifted up his happy trail, his sweaty abs to his defined pecs, to finally land on his scrunched up reddened face, staring into his blazing eyes. you felt him twitch in your mouth from the shared eye contact.
“having fun without me?” the mattress slightly dipped under toph’s weight. you practically clenched around nothing from the sheer excitement mixed with delicious fear, as she positioned herself behind you.
you wished you could see her strapped up, she was always so hot during sex. but that thought quickly turns into mush when her rough hands grab your hips, lifting them higher to her liking.
you whimpered around zuko’s dick, the position uncomfortable with how much she made your back arch, but she only tauntingly rubbed over your previously spanked skin, effectively quashing down any forming protests.
she grinned, leaning down, pressing her peaked nipples right against your back, her breath hitting your ear, “you’re gonna be good for me, yeah?”
you nodded in response, picking up the pace, making zuko throw his head back in ecstasy, gasping for air.
it was then your turn to gasp, her fingers playing with your folds through your panties. you mewled, choking around him, as the vibrations made him moan just as loud as you.
“two fucking loud bitches,” toph huffed, a smirk on her lips, as she finally slid your drenched undergarments down. “what am i gonna do with you?”
your eyes rolled to the back of your head when the tip of her strap teased your drooling slit, tears already welling up from overwhelming pleasure, desperately pushing your ass up against her.
“fuck,” she gasped, smacking it again, “stop doing that, you slut.”
you felt like you could come already. zuko’s grip on your hair tightened, silently urging you to go deeper, which you did.
toph’s first thrust made you choke on him, the sheer force of it pushed you down on his cock, taking him fully. you were full on bawling now, tears and drool trickling down your chin as you tried to adjust to his size — one that, no matter how many times you blew him, you never seemed to get used to.
he patted your cheek to get your attention, blissed out, “hm.. you’re doing great, darling. remember, one tap on my thigh to keep going, two taps to stop, m’kay?”
you couldn’t even finish nodding properly before toph suddenly sped up, pounding into you so hard you could only choke and sob, clawing at his legs; it took all of your willpower not to bite.
“ugh,” she grunted, her fingers hooking under your waist to deepen her angle, her thumb nails digging crescents into the soft flesh of your thighs. “you’re so fucking tight. with how much we fuck you, i’d expect you to be as loose as a ten cent whore on the street.”
“ah, i’m so close—” zuko whimpered, tapping your temple for you to pull out.
toph scoffed, “already?”
you started lifting your head off him, when her hand shoved you back down, earning startled gasps from both you and him.
she grinned, “haah— you should come in her mouth. if i had an actual dick, i’d have her drink up every last drop of my cum. well, technically, i still do that. but it’d be way more fun with a cock.”
he swallowed, nervously glancing down at you for approval, and the sight only made the knot in your lower abdomen tighten. he never came in your mouth before, said he found it too “degrading” for you, so you never pushed it.
he was always so gentle and caring with you, and then you had.. toph. toph and her influence.
you looked up at him and tapped his thigh once, watching the way his eyes fluttered shut so prettily as he shot warm, gushing bursts of cum inside your mouth. so much of it that some dribbled down your lips to his thighs and balls.
when your swollen lips finally latched off his gorgeous puffy tip, he lifted your chin up to press a kiss to the corner of your teary eye, then your nose, then your lips. “good girl. thank you, angel.”
toph gave you no time to enjoy the brief respite, slapping the back of your head. “lick him clean.”
“you don’t have to,” zuko quipped, lovingly caressing your cheek.
she huffed, “don’t be so sappy. plus, she likes it.”
“that’s not for you to decide.”
“oh? are you saying your word matters over mine?”
“no. but you’re too stubborn to listen to me anyway.”
you blinked. were they seriously arguing right now? with toph’s strap rammed into you to the fucking hilt?
she even stopped her furious pounding, glaring at him. “i’m too stubborn?”
“yeah you are. you always need things to go your way. you can treat her however you want, but you don’t get to dictate how i treat her.”
“you’re killing the mood.”
“it had to be said, sooner or later.”
you frowned, knees getting tired. this didn’t sound good at all.
damn, couldn’t this wait until after you came??
“um, guys,” you started, wanting to calm them down, when you suddenly heard the sound of sloppy biting kisses.
you could only watch zuko from your position, his half hard cock waving in your face like a treat, as he roughly made out with toph.
they were literally doing this over your back, with toph still stuffed deep inside you?? so inconsiderate..
..
but the sound of their angry moans, both trying to overpower each other as they kissed, zuko’s bulging biceps as he tried pushing (or pulling, you couldn’t tell) toph, their irritated grunts.. fuck, you were leaking.
you couldn’t stand it anymore, hand sliding down to find your neglected clit, growing more and more aroused with each noise that left their lips.
toph finally pulled away from him, panting, setting her hands back on your hips. she was about to resume fucking you, when she heard your muffled moans against the sheets.
“oh my god,” she scoffed, harshly pulling you up by the hair so you could look at her, making you cry out in pain. “who the fuck gave you permission to touch yourself while i’m literally inside you? am i not satisfactory? you fucking whore.”
you whined pitifully, “b-but you left me and—”
“for one damn minute.” her sweaty brows furrowed in pure disgust, her expression only making your thighs squeeze together, “jesus, you’re such a pathetic loser. you can’t keep your hands to yourself for a few seconds?”
“i.. i’m sorry,” you croaked, clutching the sheets, when zuko placed his big hands over yours, caressing them.
he gently rubbed your fingers, “you know we don’t like it when you touch yourself during sex, don’t you, angel? that’s what we’re here for.”
you swallowed guiltily, looking down as you nodded, “yes.. i’m sorry, i won’t do it agai— mmph!”
toph took the belt she tossed, roughly stuffing it into your mouth. “talk talk talk. all you do is talk, never listen. maybe shutting up will do you some good, so you can fucking. listen. to. my. orders. for. once.” she accentuated each word with a hard poke to your temple, each one making your head bob to the side, while you whimpered around her belt.
the next second, your world turned upside down as she easily manhandled you into turning flat on your back, your head slotting itself on zuko’s lap like a pillow.
he smiled down at you — that gorgeous, irresistible smile — and you almost melted with affection for him, when toph swiftly pulled out and then abruptly struck into you in this new position, not wasting a second, making you scream against the belt.
“so wet,” she threw your legs up over her broad shoulders, grinning filthily as she rocked into you oh so deliciously, “can’t help but fucking clench around my strap when i’m this rough with you, huh? you disgusting pervert.”
you were way past attempting to speak — well, which would prove to be fruitless with your gag anyway — only uselessly mewling and crying at how her thrusts hit your sweet spot over and over again.
for a blind person, she knew the way inside your velvety walls like nobody else did. not even zuko himself.
meanwhile, his hands ran over your jaw, neck, collarbones.. while his huge thighs served for great head support, as you continuously bounced from the force of her pounding. your eyes fluttered open, dazed with pain and pleasure, when you noticed his hungry gaze.
it drifted to your face for a second, before zooming back on your bouncing tits. he let his hands slide down to cup them, having you squirm with overstimulation. with toph’s unrelenting pace, their erratical bouncing had him in a trance, fingers nimbly tugging and pinching your hardened nipples as he fondled the soft tissue.
you genuinely felt your vision cloud, you swore you could pass out from the sheer stimulation.
you felt the belt get suddenly ripped off your mouth, and your gaze refocused, watching a smug toph toss it behind her.
“i only wanna hear my name on your tongue, yeah?” she gave you a sharper thrust to hear you squeal, “only say what i allow you to, or the belt’s coming back. in both its usages. do i make myself clear?”
your throat dried up at the threat, nodding desperately, “yes, toph.”
she finally cracked a softer smile, “attagirl.”
she grabbed a nearby pillow, then patted your hip, “up.” you obeyed, lifting them, and she slid it under your lower back, angling you even better for her to abuse your cervix.
“good girl,” she praised, at last. “see, you can be so good when you want to be.”
no other words were uttered after that, as she resumed her relentless pounding, the bed creaking so loudly you were sure you’d bust it. her hand slipped between your legs to take care of your aching clit, all while zuko busied himself with your breasts.
or well, one breast.
you were too blissed out to pay attention then, but you understood where his other free hand went later on. after all, toph did get the best part, so you supposed he had to relieve himself somehow. even though you had just sucked him off, he had this incredible power to get erect only a bit after.
with toph’s strap lodged so deep into you, her calloused fingers skillfully toying with your puffy bud, zuko’s warm hand (he’d adjust the heat based on how good you were being) working your supple tit..
it was only a matter of time before you came all over her. well, more like a matter of permission.
“mngh.. p-please, toph, can i come?” you asked breathlessly, tears streaming down your face.
“hmm,” she pretended to mull it over, but the condescending smirk on her lips already said it all. “maybe later.”
you bit down on your lip, not protesting — if you did, you could say bye to your orgasm — trying your best to hold it in, as your moans only kept rising in pitch, harder to muffle.
honestly, you wished you could just take a picture of this, keep it, and touch yourself to it every night.
watching your legs dangle on toph’s shoulders, her flexed muscular arms as she held down your hips, the sweat beads sliding down her neck to her own naked breasts, and of course, her signature mocking grin that had you in a chokehold. you’d absolutely take anything she gave you with that smug, unfairly sexy grin.
then you’d look straight up, and there was zuko’s sculpted god-like face, features scrunched in focus and arousal, his glistening muscles right over your head as he squeezed at your chest, exhaling warm steam the closer he got..
toph tapped your clit, jolting you into attention, “wanna come with me?”
you whimpered, vehemently nodding, “y-yes please. please, toph.”
“then come.” with a final thrust, you cried out as a blinding hot orgasm crashed down on you, wracking your body, dripping down her strap.
she laughed, pulling out, your legs spasming around her head, “such a fucking mess you made.” her fingers brushed against your sensitive hole, gathering all your slick before bringing it to her tongue, licking them in front of you.
she then smirked, coating her index and middle finger with some more. you blushed. she’d always make you taste yourself whenever she was done, and that routine never failed to get your used cunt throbbing anew.
but she made a detour.
you watched, confused, then your eyes blew open, as she took her fingers to zuko’s parted lips. you felt your organs flip over each other, mouth drying up as you watched him suck on her digits, tasting you so eagerly.
“good boy,” she praised tauntingly, pressing down on his tongue, “she tastes great, doesn’t she?”
“mhhn..” he mumbled, dazed, still sucking until toph pulled her fingers out, scoffing. “that’s enough, you greedy slut.”
he huffed, “fuck you.”
“fuck you too.”
he focused back on you, gaze softening as he stroked your cheeks. “how do you feel, angel?”
how you felt?? fucking horny from whatever the hell that was, jesus. they were so hot together, you could hardly believe you had both of them at your beck and call, fucking you whenever you asked.
you swallowed, shaking the thoughts off, “i.. i’m better now, thank you.”
he smiled and leaned down to press soothing kisses all over your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “you took that so well. good job.”
“aw,” she cooed, rubbing your legs over her shoulders, “you poor thing. i sure hope the lesson stuck now, hm?”
“y-yes toph,” you stammered out, flushing as the whole thing replayed over and over in your head. “i’m very sorry.. thank you for punishing me.”
she laughed, lightly slapping your thigh, “that’s my girl. you still remember your manners, even with how long it’s been since i last punished you. if i didn’t know any better, i’d think you were purposefully riling me up just for this, hm?”
“ah,” you breathed, “of course i wasn’t.”
“of course you weren’t.”
and of course, you both knew you were.
“see, zuko?” she added, finally taking your legs off her, “this is what you were missing out on.”
he hummed, lovingly staring at your pretty face. “i guess you’re right.”
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* i typed this with one hand.. i really hope i didn’t disappoint you guys
professor Cassie Mckay x college student fem!reader.
MDNI.
From the first time you attended Professor Mckay's class you already knew you were screwed. It was like having no escape, like being completely sucked against your will into her magnetic field.
Then the classes passed by and everything started — First quick glances followed by cordial polite smiles, then it began to last a little longer, going through your body when you passed through the door, them her glances started burning your crossed lega under the table. So from one day to the next you turned to be her brightest student of all, Cassie started justifying the extra attention she gave her as a gentle care to cultivate your innate talent in the subject, the times she asked you to stay after class as a way to give you bonus content and that her touches ment to lead you to the right path.
By the gods, what a touch! You thought.
It was one of the times that Mckay asked you to stay after class that the first important event happened. Cassie locked the classroom door, as she had never done before, and the thin-fingered hand touched your waist with a thoughtful softness as she guided you to the chair in front of her desk. Her eyes devouring your body every second, already completely shameless, pinning you in place like an insect while circling around you like a predator.
First a touch on the back of your hand, then on your shoulder, her high and heavy breathing in your ear when she bent down and pulled the air into her lungs slowly before praising your perfume, her fingertips touching the back of your neck when she moved your hair away and the calm low voice telling your how much you were a special student, how much she wanted you well and wished you had academic success, how she could give you this success if you just said that wanted it.
Just tell me you want it, dear. She said. You just have to say that you want me too.
And then you said yes, like a good young devotee dazzled by the brilliance of an idol. And how Cassie Mckay shined made success look like a merely detail.
my mother’s day was fine. would’ve preferred to have S2 spencer reid on his knees in front of me saying “happy mother’s day, mommy” all teary eyed and red faced but, yknow, it was fine.
Hotch sends you and Spencer to Iowa to conduct a death row interview with an inmate. Thing is, there's not much to do in Iowa but fuck.
pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader
tags/warnings: 18+, wc: 5.9k, whew, smut, porn w plot, piv sex, unprotected sex, drunk sex, oral sex (both receiving), fingering, soft-dom spencer ish, biting, praise kink, this is so self-indulgent muahahaha, discussions of a case, but nothing too bad it's canon typical stuff, iowa hate idgaf!!, drinking/getting drunk, i think that's it!
notes: this is likeeee. one of my first times writing longer smut. also i did in fact say i would re-upload old re-worked fics before posting anything new but alas! i am a liar! here is something brand new! i spent like. 9 straight hours on this yesterday. and it is currently almost 8 am and i just spent all night finishing it up instead of sleeping. ALSO i am in fact a philosophy major (future barista moment) and my fics get soooo. philosophy-esque. like. every single time. i'm sorry... i am who i am.
If you had to remove one state from the contiguous union, it would be Iowa.
You’re standing in a rusty hotel room, which, according to Hotch, is the best they could do to accommodate you. And Spencer. He’s one room over. Your feet vibrate against the rug. You tell yourself it’s the thought of him, one wall over — thinking, sitting, reading, whatever he’s doing — and not some rare kind of bacteria you’re going to catch from the stink of this place.
Hotch sent you and Reid here for a death row interview. One of the inmates, having spent the past seventeen years as a self-proclaimed monk, decided he was done with silence. He answered the bureau’s request for an interview in a letter addressed to Hotch’s desk, written in red ink. It’s your first prison interview — you usually wear the bad guys down before they’re locked away forever — but Spencer has done one or two, he said. You think it might be more.
You’d never been to Iowa, never had a case here. You’re not great with time off, even worse with real vacations. You don’t look out your window for fear the corn fields have gotten closer since you last peeked through the curtains. You swear you can see twenty miles out; the flatness makes it easy to mistake the horizon for something that never, ever ends.
You’re picking at the skin of your fingernails, toes curled as they still rest but resist against the carpet, when there’s a knock at your door. You don’t check, because you’re not really fearful. It might make you a shitty FBI agent, but you doubt anyone is tracking you down in Iowa. (Iowa. It gets worse each time you think it.)
“Hi,” Spencer says, lips pulled flat. Flat. You think of fields. Corn. Emptiness. Your stomach churns then lurches when you think of your own bed in your own home in a state that has real hills and mountains and trees.
“Hi.”
“Thought you might want to look over the file before tomorrow?” He frames it like a question, and you offer a soft smile at his hesitancy before opening the door to let him in. He turns his body to the left to avoid making contact with you as he accepts the invitation and walks on through.
Your bed is still made, your suitcase resting on top of it. He scrunches his nose before recovering.
“I’m not a germaphobe, like someone we both know,” you mock.
“Maybe you should be.” You laugh. You’ve been his teammate for three years now, and it still gets you when he decides he can lighten up and make a joke.
He looks around, still awkward in the yellow tint of the hotel lamp, then decides to sit in the desk chair in the corner.
“You look so ominous,” you say, shaking your head as you pull the file out of the nightstand.
“Why is your casefile in there?”
“Where do you keep yours?”
“I never put it away.”
“Checks out,” you say, raising your eyebrows and sitting criss-crossed on the edge of your bed, facing him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Gary Foster,” you read off the top of the page, ignoring his bait. “Killed twenty-three women in his basement. His wife never knew.”
“Or claims she didn’t know,” Spencer corrects.
“You think she did?”
He shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter what I think.”
You glance up at him to find him staring intently at the file in his hands. He’s gripping onto it like it’s all he knows. You store your observations away in your head under a tab titled Perhaps Ask Later.
You’ve gone over this file a dozen times. It’s virtually seared into your memory. Still, you let him tack off the rest of the information to you, compile the intensive profile Hotch gave you into a bullet point list.
“He’s gonna focus on me,” you say once he reaches a lull in speech.
“Because you’re a woman?” he confirms. You nod. “Maybe.”
You tap the file a few times with your fingers as a yawn creeps up your throat, threatening to escape. Spencer seems to get the hint before you even let it out.
“We’ve got a long day tomorrow,” he says before standing. He takes a step forward before turning around and tucking the chair back into the desk. You smile at the politeness. “See you tomorrow?”
“Is that a question?” you tease as you lead him to the door. “I promise I won’t jump out of the window.”
“There’s not much out there.”
“No, there isn’t.” He fumbles with the key for the door across the hall. You wait for him to open it before you start to close yours, the way you would after driving a friend at home. “Night.”
“Night,” he says, though the latter half of the word is muffled by the shut of the door.
The room is barren again. You open the curtains now that it’s nearing total darkness outside.
It takes six more hours for you to drift off into sleep.
–
Your hand is immediately on your temple when you awake, rubbing at the budding headache you know will consume you once you get up. This is the punishment you get for allowing yourself only three hours of sleep.
The sunlight hits your bed in fluttering intervals of perfect warmth and scorching heat. This time, when the hindmost rolls around, you force yourself up and place your feet on the ground. You hold your tongue to refrain from releasing a long string of fucks and shits and realize your hand is still refusing to move from its spot rubbing circles in your face. When you make your way to the bathroom, you realize the bed is so hard you’ve left no indent.
The sting of the shower is pelting, boiling enough that it feels purifying. After a night spent in sheets you’re sure dozens have sweat through, it’s more than welcome. The heat is the perfect substrate for the anticipatory dread of today’s interview. Speaking to monsters as if there’s a hint of human behind the stitching has never pulled at you in the right way.
If anything, it’s slowly pulled you apart.
The outlet in your bathroom is broken so you’re forced to dry your hair sitting on the carpet of the room, right next to that window that stares out into nowhere. You feel itchy just sitting on it. You swear the fibers are pressing into your skin, merging with your skin.
The file is open on the floor in front of you, and you use your thumb to wipe the water falling from your damp hair. The pages already begin to curdle like the feeling in your stomach.
You put your hair in a ponytail, then worry it’s too sexual — because you’ve absorbed the profile and you know what earns a check on this guys list —- so you take it down and let it rest on your shoulders again. Your knees crack when you stand up and your hip tenses up like it might, too, when you slip your legs into your pants.
There’s a knock on your door and you mutter fuck as you balance your time between finishing the rest of the buttons on your blouse and stumbling to the door.
“I need a couple minutes,” you say, before you say hello. You leave the door open as you retreat farther into the room. “You can wait in here.”
You squeeze your feet into your heels — half a size too small, and in your head you call the saleslady who insisted on that being necessary for this brand a word that would make your grandmother sour — and peripherally watch him step into the room, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“You ready?” he asks. You can feel his eyes on your unmade bed.
“Mhm.” You glance in the square mirror facing the bed and smooth out your clothes.
“I mean for the interview,” he says after clearing his throat.
“My answer remains.”
“Cool.” He says it in the way that feels fraudulent, but is really just the way he speaks, you’ve come to realize.
“Are you ready?” you ask back, muffled by the file placed between your teeth as you fumble around your desk for your car keys and room card. You make eye contact with him as you head for the door.
“Don’t really have much of a choice, do I?”
“Stand up straight,” you say, holding the door open for him as you both step into the hallway.
“What?” he mutters. He does it anyway.
“He’s gonna zero in on you if you seem to lack confidence.”
“Right.”
It’s silence between you two in the hallway, the elevator, the lobby, and until you’re pulling out of the parking lot. There’s overgrown wheatgrass in the field to your left and plowed corn crop to your right. The furrows stretch on until the curve of the earth swallows them up.
The sky is dull, slate-colored, and bears striking resemblance to something that could wipe you clean. Grain silos whir by every couple of minutes. These people really own a lot of fucking land. Every few miles, a new one, along with a rusting tractor or collapsing barn or crop that looks about ready to dry up and blow away. It gets predictable after mile seven.
The prison doesn’t appear so much as it settles into your vision. It’s low to the ground, sprawling, gray. A scar pressed into the ground.
You feel like Spencer the way you’ve completely memorized the profile. You flash your badge at the gate, sign some kind of form and drive into a parking lot that feels as far from the prison as your hotel was.
Spencer lingers in the car two seconds after you get out. He’s nervous, and he’s trying not to show it. You don’t want to mention it, but you need to be on the same page, so you don’t stop your lips from unfurling.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The anxious math,” you say. “You’re calculating the probability of saying the wrong thing before we even walk in.”
“That’s-” He seems to think better than arguing and redirects his sentence. “That’s not entirely inaccurate.”
You give him one of those closed lip smiles. “He’ll spot it in five seconds. He feeds on nerves like that. First, he’ll comment on your hands, because you fidget when you’re trying not to.”
“You sound like Hotch.”
You scoff out a half-laugh and choose to ignore the comment otherwise. “And he’ll ask how long you’ve known me. If we’re sleeping together. He won’t say it like that, of course. He’ll be crude. He wants to gauge what version of you shows up when you’re off-balance.”
“Why would that knock me off balance?” he asks. The hesitancy has stolen his tone again.
“You fluster easily.”
“Do I?”
“Mhm. You blink three times, touch your collar, and then deflect with statistics. You did it the first time I challenged you during a case.”
He tuts then holds the door of the prison open for you. “You’re profiling me.”
“Of course I am,” you say, then turn your head over your shoulder, waiting for him to walk back up beside you again. He’s close behind you, so close you can almost feel his breath on you. It makes you feel warm. “So will he.”
You greet two more guards inside before shaking hands with the warden. He thanks you for coming with that grim look on his face that everyone in this field seems to have permanently etched into the creases of their skin. The prison is colder inside than it has any right to be, as if the concrete has learned to hold onto every winter it’s ever survived.
“Still nervous?” you whisper to Spencer.
He smiles, shakes his head no.
Good, you mouth.
You pretend not to notice his eyes fixate for a beat longer than necessary on your lips. You lick them in response. When he meets your eyes again, you pretend not to notice that something undecipherable is hidden behind his lids, too.
—
Foster smiles when you walk in. He doesn’t look at Spencer. You let Spencer pull your chair out for you, which immediately catches the guy’s attention. You think of still water, use it as a guide for being calm.
“Well,” Foster says. He hasn’t dropped the smile from his face. “They sent a good-looking one.”
“We, the FBI, are really grateful you chose to cooperate with us,” you say. “You know, in your final days.”
“Hm.” He turns to Spencer, finally. “She yours?”
You don’t look at him, and you will him to ignore him, to start asking him the standard questions. What’s your name? What year were you born?
“She’s her own,” he says instead. It comes out even and flat.
“You hesitated,” Foster says. His smile shows his teeth, now. “I suppose that’s not a crime.”
“No,” you agree. You open your file and lay a picture of his mugshot on the table. You can tell he was expecting photos of one of the women whose life he stole away. “But murder is.”
Spencer clears his throat and nudges your ankle with the tip of his shoe. You give him no reaction, but the next time you reach for the file, you let your fingertips brush against his wrist.
—
“That wasn’t awful,” Spencer says when you step out, though he says it like he’s releasing one big breath born out of a collection of accumulated air trapped in his lungs.
Foster did say something crude. You’d prefer not to repeat it, mostly because you’re not sure if Spencer was blushing or if he was just hot.
The prison was freezing, you remind yourself. Then you shove the thought back down.
“It wasn’t great,” you say. “I wish I’d pushed him further about—”
“Stop,” he says. His hand is on your bicep now. “Don’t overthink it, you did great.”
“Okay,” you say. “Don’t profile me, now.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The walk back to the car leaves you sticky and hot. You note, aimlessly, that Iowa gets hot enough if you let it — if you stay long enough to let it swelter.
“Our flight’s not till the morning,” you groan, slamming the car door shut.
“Not a fan of Iowa?”
“In how many languages do you know how to say fuck no?”
“Twelve," he says. His eyes flit to the ceiling. “No, fourteen.”
“Ridiculous.”
—
You crash as soon as you get back to your hotel room. You sleep for what feels like two hours but you know is way longer than that, and when you finally peel your eyes open you’re sweating. You’re clinging to your sheets, and you consider yourself bed-ridden as you roll over and check your phone. Hotch has sent you three messages asking for updates. Your stomach twinges with guilt for not answering, though you figure he probably moved on and texted Spencer.
Spencer.
You feel bad. You had ditched him, retreating to your hotel room the second you guys got back. You wonder what he did, if he got food, though there’s not much to do in Iowa. In fact, there’s nothing to do in Iowa.
You slip out of your clothes and take a quick rinse-off in the shower. Your hair is still wet when you adorn yourself in a gray t-shirt and sleep shorts and creep over across the hall. Your fist raps against the door three times, then twice more for good measure.
“Hi?”
“Hi,” you say, inviting yourself in as you push past him. It’s identical to yours, but everything’s on the opposite side. “Nice room.”
“Much nicer than yours.”
“Oh, for sure.” You clap your hands together, then flop down on the bed. “So, whatcha been up to?”
He nods his head at a book on the nightstand. You stretch over and pick it up. The History of Iowa’s Small Towns.
“Little on the nose, isn’t it, doctor?”
“It’s interesting.”
“Your mind amazes me,” you whisper, then place it back on the nightstand.
“Have you eaten?” he asks.
“I’m not really hungry,” you say. When he quirks his eyebrow, you add: “Really, I can’t eat for, like, at least two hours after I wake up.”
“You were asleep?”
You nod. “Couldn’t last night. You didn’t think I just ditched you, did you?”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t have minded.”
You place a hand over your heart. “Well, doctor, I’m just plain offended.”
He smiles, real, genuine. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How’d you mean it?” you ask. You move up on the bed, as if it’s your own, making space for him to sit next to you.
He sighs, like he really doesn’t want to indulge in this conversation, but his lips pry open and you know he will. “Morgan always says I ramble too much.”
You shrug. “What’s much, anyway?”
“Well, if you’re not hungry,” he starts, lifting himself off the bed and over to the mini fridge, “are you thirsty?”
“My, my.” You smile, teeth and all. “I didn’t know you drank on the job.”
“Not technically on the job anymore, am I?” He holds up a little bottle. “It’s not exactly a martini, but it’s all I’ve got unless you want lukewarm ginger ale.”
You accept the bottle with mock ceremony and open it the second it’s in your hands. “Guess federal per diems only cover motel whiskey. Honestly, this is probably the classiest thing happening in Iowa tonight.”
He laughs softly, twisting open his own cap. “From what I’ve read, and seen, that’s a low bar.”
You raise yours. “To meeting the bar.”
He tilts his head, scrunches his nose. “To stepping over the bar with minimal effort.”
You both take a sip. It’s terrible. You make a face.
He sees it and raises an eyebrow. “Too refined for hotel whiskey?”
“Just surprised it didn’t come with a warning label,” you say, setting the bottle down on the nightstand. “Or a tetanus shot.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, taking another sip of his. “I’m sure the Iowa Department of Health is on it.”
You nod solemnly. “They’re probably just as fast as the Wi-Fi.”
That gets a small smile from him. He sits on the edge of the bed, a little closer than before, but still careful. He’s always so careful.
There’s a lull, full of quiet until the nighttime air-conditioning kicks on and you’re too tired to pretend anything really matters for a while.
“You ever drink from the mini bar before? Like, during a case?” you ask eventually.
“Only when I expect to be stranded somewhere like this.”
“Smart,” you say.
He glances at you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t profile your way out of a cornfield without it.”
You hum in agreement. “I’m not sure if that’s depressing.”
He shrugs, taking another sip. “Probably.” His hand falls to his side, dangerously close to your thigh.
You accept another one. And then another one. You’re sure he’s going shot for shot with you, but you can’t really tell because your head is full and everything’s hazy and suddenly this bed is so, so comfortable.
You lie back, legs still dangling off the edge, and stare up at the popcorn ceiling like it might reveal state secrets. “Did you know Iowa had one of the highest populations of covered bridges?”
Spencer blinks. “Iowa doesn’t.”
You squint. “It doesn’t?”
“No,” he says, amused. “That’s Madison County. Which is in Iowa. But it’s a specific — actually, nevermind. I’m not sure either of us are in a state for nuance.”
You wag a lazy finger at the ceiling. “I knew that.”
“Sure,” he says, and leans back beside you with a soft thud, hands crossed over his stomach. “Next you’ll tell me Iowa invented jazz.”
“It didn’t?” You cant your head to the side, a smile playing at your lips.
“God, no.”
You sigh dramatically. “And here I thought this trip was educational.”
He turns his head just slightly toward you. His breath is hot, hotter than it was earlier, and his words are all slurred. You think you might sound the same but don’t keep yourself in line long enough to actually check. “You’ve learned a lot. For example, you’ve learned not to trust the minibar.”
“And that your idea of a good time is reading municipal histories.”
“I sensed you were captivated.”
You pull an arm over your face. “Do you always get this cocky after drinking?”
He tilts his head like he’s genuinely thinking about it. “I think I just feel safe knowing I’m not the only one embarrassing myself.”
You haul a leg up to bend into the bed with you and nudge him with your knee. “You’re not embarrassing. You’re weird. Like, in the good way.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but you can hear the smile in his voice when he finally says: “Thanks. You’re weird too.”
“Weird and drunk.” You repeat the word drunk a few more times, drawing out a different syllable each time. “Spencer?”
“Hm?”
“Don’t let me fall asleep here.”
“You say that like I have any control over you,” he murmurs. Your breath catches. Neither of you move.
You peek at him from under your arm. “Are you flirting with me?”
“What?”
“Whatever. Then don’t speak with that— that tone. Or I’ll start to think you’re flirting with me.”
“I’m not really flirting with you.”
You let the arm drop, but not to the mattress; it finds its way to the sleeve of his shirt, playing with the fabric. “Not really or not yet?”
“That depends,” he says, voice dropped low to a whisper. “Would yet be a problem?”
You roll onto your elbow, looming over him. “Guess we’ll have to find out.”
It lands like a match.
“What are you doing?” he asks. Your lips are the closest they’ve ever been.
“I don’t know.” Your eyes move to where his hand has started to creep onto your thigh. “What are you doing?”
He moves first, but only barely. His head tilts up, lips parting like he’s about to ask a question.
He gets his answer in the shape of your lips.
Your hand finds the edge of his jaw, fingers skimming up the side of his face. He’s warm. Still flushed from the whiskey or maybe just from you.
You’re kissing, you think. You. Spencer. Kissing. It should make you pull back. You work with him. This is strictly forbidden — that should definitely make you pull back.
But then his fingers press into your hips, grounding you, and you shift, and you’re straddling him before you’ve thought it through. It’s automatic, desperate, like the tension finally cracked open and all that’s left is the pull.
“Still not on the job?” you murmur between kisses, breath brushing his lips.
He shakes his head. “Not even a little.”
He starts to kiss you deeper, like he wants to memorize it. You wonder if he is. Your hands move up under his shirt, and his breath slips, just for a second. Just long enough to make you smile into his mouth.
There’s nothing quiet about any of this. Just heat. And want. And finally.
You roll your hips once as a test. When he tightens his grip on you, you have half the mind to do it again, and again, and again.
Suddenly, all you can think of are your clothes on the ground and him inside you.
“Fuck,” he mutters. You release his lips from yours.
“Fuck?”
“Shh,” he hushes, trying to silence you, but you’re already laughing.
“Oh my god, Dr. Spencer Reid, esteemed supervisory special agent, holder of three PhDs, just said fuck.” You whisper the last part, hand clutching at your chest.
“Will you please resume what we were just doing?”
“My fucking pleasure.”
“Jesus,” he squeezes out. Your hands remove themselves from where they were resting under his shirt and head to the waist of his pants. You watch his chest rise a little quicker, fall with a little more readiness. His hands release your hips and come up to grip your wrists. “I say fuck one time and I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Maybe we can put it in another context.” You unhook your legs from their desired place around his hips and scooch yourself down his body. Your fingers, which were just barely, ever so delicately toying with his waistband, curl into both the cotton of his pants and his boxers and tug down at once. He helps you, hips coming off the bed just enough for you to drop them both to his ankles.
He’s already hard, and your mouth is already hollow, already anticipating something to fill a long-lasting void. You say his name, but it sounds off, because your mouth is already imagining itself wrapped around something far less innocent than words.
His hand comes up to your face, brushing your cheekbone, and the feeling is too soft to name but impossible to ignore. You feel as though all the heat in the room has gotten sucked between your legs, and it pools low, desire biting at the edges of restraint.
“You don’t have to,” he says, watching you spit in your hand. You roll your eyes before wrapping the newly wet hand around him.
“I’m going to. Just stay like that.”
You stroke him softly, just a few times before spitting on the tip and working it back down. He whispers your name like its wax, made to melt. You’re not thinking and your voice is velvet when you ask him how long it’s been since he’s been touched like this, the way he deserves to be. Too long, comes his response, and you vow to yourself to show him what he’s been missing.
The next time you bring your lips up to release more spit, you reach down and kiss it. Just the tip, and just ever-so-slightly. You’re not sure he noticed at first, so you do it again, this time more pronounced, and then he’s removing his hand from your face and bringing it up to your hair. His grip is firm enough to anchor, not enough to command.
When you open your lips more, he tightens his grip. When you make your way down, syrup-slick and mouth dripping of sin, he coils his want at the nape of your neck and pulls. You moan around him, which earns you another tug.
“That feels good,” he whispers. “So fucking good.”
You’re drunk enough that the praise feels more than trembling and temporary. You take it for more than it probably is and pick up your pace.
He lasts not a minute longer before he’s guiding you off of him, and you couch as you come up for air.
“I don’t want to finish yet,” he mumbles.
“No?”
“No.” He pulls you up off the ground, one hand on your wrist and the other still in your hair. “Wanna take care of you too. Do you want that? Yeah? Lie down for me.”
You do as you're told, nodding along the way, agreeing fervently and with little free will. You’re drooling, enough that it slips past your lips. He brings his index finger up to your face, collecting it on the pad of his finger and pushing it back into your mouth. Instinctively, you suck. He groans, low, a noise you never would have expected to hear from him, and it makes you shut your legs, thighs rubbing together slightly as you try to fight the feeling festering around your limbs.
He kneels before you, the same way you had with him. “Is this what you want?” You nod. “No, use your words.” He pries your legs open, blows between them.
Your back is coming up off the bed, enough for him to bring a hand up and grab your waist again. “Yes.”
He wastes little time attaching his mouth to you, tongue everywhere, while his fingers leave bruises in your side. One of your hands is gripping the sheets so hard you can feel your fingernails digging into your palm even through it. This can’t be real, you think, because nothing real feels this good. And this feels so, so good.
You feel fucked out and he hasn’t even put anything inside of you. It’s just his tongue swiping against you, swirling around your clit, sucking your clit, kissing your clit. You can’t think. At some time you stop being aware of what he’s doing and just let him do it.
His hand leaves your hip and you feel it pulse, throbbing at the loss of harsh connection. Then, he forces your fist to open, to release the white fabric, and he locks your fingers together. It feels intimate, more intimate than his mouth on you, and if you were sober you might have shrugged him away. But you’re not. You’re drunk. Very drunk. So instead you hold his hand harder.
His free hand is trailing along your thigh, and when you glance down at him his eyes are closed, and he looks content, satisfied, and you’re not sure you ever want to unfold from this position. He uses his other hand to trail up and down your thigh before his errant fingers find their way farther up your legs.
When he slips two inside you, both at once, no warning, you mewl.
He detaches his mouth from you, like he wants to focus solely on finger fucking you. When you glance down at him again, he gives you a perfunctory smile before focusing back at the task he’s chosen to take up. He’s practically gift-wrapping your orgasm.
“Right there,” you choke out when his fingers curl at the exact right moment in the exact right spot. You don’t announce that you’re coming, but Spencer is a genius. You’re sure he can figure it out. Everything comes undone in waves, the way seafoam spits back into the sand before dissipating, carrying itself back out into a vaster part of the water.
“Good job,” he says. He kisses you. You can taste your slick on his lips.
“Spencer.”
“You’ve said that already.” You’d laugh if you weren’t so unraveled. “I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?”
“Mhm.”
“What did we say about using our words?”
“To… use them?”
“You’re so smart,” he says, and you can hear him breathing in the way that means he’s trying not to laugh as he presses scattered kisses across your cheek, jaw, lips. “Can you speak up and show me how smart you are?”
“I want you to fuck me.”
“Knew you had it in you.” One of his hands is pressed into the mattress next to your head, and the other is absent from your body. When you finally open your eyes, you look down to see him lining himself up with you.
There’s a pinch in your throat as you feel him ease himself inside, slowly, deliberately, like he’s scared you might crumble and break beneath him. You won’t, which you assure him by using one hand to grab onto his bicep and the other to rest on his hip, guiding him all the way inside of you.
"I got so mad, earlier," he says. "When he was talking about you like that."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," he whispers. "Don't fucking apologize."
The heat is back, swirling in your stomach, rushing up your chest like every vein you have has replaced blood with feverish fire. Spencer throws more gasoline on it when he slides almost all the way out, then pushes himself back in. You’re quiet, and even the air around you seems to have hushed itself.
When he finds a rhythm, he takes advantage of it. Fucks you a little harder, just enough that you can’t close your mouth, can’t quiet yourself even when you try. You’re trying to tread carefully, but you don’t have it in you to not tip your chin up and search for a kiss. You move your other hand to wrap around his forearm, the one right next to your head, and you can’t stop yourself from digging your nails into the skin when he gives you one particularly hard thrust.
“Do that again,” you whisper.
“This?” he asks, though it’s more of a mock. He does it again, this time a little slower. You feel like crying, because you have no other outlet for what exactly it is you’re currently feeling. When he does it again you have no choice but to squeeze your eyes shut. He kisses you again, idly, like you’ve got all the time in the world. You’re not sure you have more than five minutes in you before you pass out. “You feel so good.”
“Needed you.”
“Yeah?” he says. Your words seem to have made him snap his hips against yours a little harder.
He uses one of his hands to grab under your thigh, then pushes your leg up. You let out a broken moan you don’t even register as your own until he stretches you farther apart and you do it again. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t clawing at an indescribable edge. You feel ripe. Nothing holy is coming for you. You arch your back like it might.
"Mine." He says it while looking down at you. He says it with his chest. He says it like it's an absolute.
You bring your hand to the back of his neck and make him kiss you. Once for the thrill, twice just to feel the burn of it really settle in.
Then you come. And everything else does, too. It’s unraveling. Not fingers but friction, not skin but static, not breath but flood. The room is slipping sideways, hips first, mouth second. you forget your name or maybe you give it away. There's no shape to anything, to the sting between your legs, only pulse — wet, reckless, existing in the hollows of your thighs. When he bends down and lets out a sound that sounds suspiciously like your name, your teeth catch on his shoulder like a warning. He doesn’t flinch. You bite down harder.
Nothing makes sense for a while except the sound of the air-conditioner.
Spencer says something. Then again. Then, he taps your cheek twice, says your name until you come to.
“Hm?”
“You okay?”
“‘m okay. Are you okay?”
He laughs. It’s quiet and hoarse and still warm. “Yes ma’am.”
“Hmmmm.”
“Hmm what?’
“I like that. We’ll use that ‘nother time.” You let out a heavy sigh as he chuckles. He slips out of you and you suck in a breath that catches in the pockets of your teeth, cold and shocking against the roof of your mouth.
“Sorry.” You shake your head and hope it conveys that he has nothing to apologize for. He rolls over next to you. “You should pee.”
“Pee schmee.”
“I think I’m gonna retract my previous statements about your high level of intelligence now.” You smack him with your hand and laugh, hearty and probably too loud.
“I’m still drunk,” you say after a few more moments of silence.
“I think that’s how that whole drinking thing works, yeah.”
“Do you regret it?”
“No.” His answer comes quicker than you were expecting.
“Okay. Me neither. Just checking.” You blow hair out of your face, and when that doesn’t work you bring a palm up and use the strength of four fingers to wipe it away from the sweat gathering in satin sheets across your skin. “I hate this room.”
“Me too.”
“I don’t hate you,” you whisper.
“Well,” he whispers back. “I don’t hate you either.”
“Do you wanna maybe… I don’t know. Not be on the job tomorrow morning?”
It might just be the alcohol, but his expression is soft and lush, like when dawn’s light shudders through early morning fog.
in which spencer reid and fem!reader fuck like they missed each other (because they always do) and he teases her for her shaky legs
18+ (smut)
warnings/tags: softdom spencer, piv sex (riding, a first for nereidprinc3ss) /oral f receiving (in that order) mentions of him accidentally grabbing her hips too hard, slight somno SORT OF like he starts going down on her while she’s sleepy and then she kind of goes in and out but its all consensual, sorry haters i fucking love sleepy sex and I always will, teasing, lots of praise, fluffy, established relationship, he loves her badddd, aftercare, literally nothing bad happens no angst for once they just are having sex cause they are in love which is arguably the most superior kind of sex!
a/n: I don’t think I’ve ever written smut that is so wham bam thank you ma’am like really we just get RIGHT into it!! also no gif no pics we r going old nereidprinc3ss on this one I hope you loveeee!!!
You roll over onto Spencer and kiss once, long and deep and sweet. He hums into it, too whipped to pretend like he’s got self control or respect, hands finding the soft skin of your bare waist and settling there.
How it got to this point so quickly, no more than fifteen minutes after he walked through the door, you can’t say. Usually the two of you are a bit more domestic when he gets home from a case, but eight days is a long time to be apart, and the trail of clothing leading from the welcome mat to the foot of the bed attests to that.
So does the lack of teasing, of begging—at least, a lack up until this point. Right now, there’s only him, patient and content to let you play at being in charge. You pull back and reach down to grab him gently, aligning him at your entrance with a trembling hand. This part, you’re not usually responsible for.
He assures you with a hand to the small of your back, rubbing soothing circles. “You got it. Slowly.”
You do as he says, brow furrowing in focus as you sink down an inch or two onto him. Spencer’s breathing grows erratic as you take more and more of him, and in a heroic display of overachieving, you take the rest of him at once with nothing but a squeak. He laughs breathily as his fingers dig into your hips.
“Fuck—I said slow.”
You can’t think. The overwhelm of it all is too much as you crumple forward onto his chest. The subtle rocking you’re doing to try and alleviate some of the pressure in your core is apparently too much as he stops you by the hips, fingers pressing into those same tender spots.
Spencer’s breath is ragged. “Don’t… do not move.”
“Fuck,” you breathe into his shoulder, long and drawn out as despite his wishes you wriggle around, trying to get comfortable. “Oh my god.”
“My lovely girl, please… please don’t move,” Spencer gasps, a plead, and you try to stop for him, nuzzling even deeper against his neck. “I need a minute.”
“It’s too much,” you slur, dizzy as you try to adjust to the feeling. “Please.” You don’t know what you’re asking for. Maybe relief from the sensation that he can’t offer you. Maybe more.
Spencer is undone by you—the way you writhe on top of him, the way your voice shakes, the way you’re so totally and completely overwhelmed and he can feel it and he loves it.
“Baby,” he breathes, and he meant to say a lot more than that, but it’s the best he can manage when he is this overstimulated. “Baby,” he whispers again, wrapping his arms around you in an effort to ground you, to give you something else to focus on as you both get used to the feeling.
It’s going well—for a moment, before your back is arching.
“Spence, I need to move, I can’t—”
“Okay, okay.” He takes a deep breath, returning his hands to your waist and mentally preparing himself not to cum early. He’s desperate to give you want you want, to feel you like this. “Go ahead. Move, honey. Please.”
By the time you slowly lift your hips up and drop back down with a low cry, Spencer’s lost. His head falls back against the pillow and his eyes squeeze shut.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Oh, angel, I missed you.”
You do it again, motivated by his praise, and he can hear your little gasps and desperate gulps of air.
“I missed you so much,” you whine and clench around him, pleasure so intense it’s a resounding ache in the far reaches of your body. “Oh, fuck, Spencer.”
Spencer shivers. He loves when you make it personal, when you say his name like that and it becomes clear this isn’t just about the physical.
“My girl. Just like that. Doing so well, baby, just like that.”
Each pass of your hips has you whining. Your lips skim over his neck, not cognizant enough to actually kiss—only to know that you want the contact.
“Please can I go faster?”
Spencer almost doesn’t realize you’re speaking to him he’s so lost in pleasure. The idea of faster is as compelling as it is troublesome. Spencer doesn’t know if he can’t take faster, not when he has you like this, but he certainly wants to find out.
“Yeah, lovely. Do whatever feels good.”
You readjust and begin to pick up the pace, stumbling over a few false starts as it’s clearly more sensation than you’d been prepared for.
Spencer, on the other hand, has his eyes screwed shut tight, and is attempting to draw a two-dimensional Császár polyhedron on your back, but he loses his place with every twitch of your hips, so eventually he decides to trace imperfect Mandelbrots down your spine—anything to avoid thinking about how the pH of your body interacts with sweet vanilla perfume to create a scent so deeply intoxicating he’d leave his entire life behind just to trail after it, or how you fucking feel against him, on top of him, around him, how miraculous it is that you keep letting him touch you—
“Oh—” you whine quietly, a strangled sort of noise that has his heart skipping. Your hand tangles desperately in his hair as you rock your hips faster and faster and he lets out a tortured groan. “Spencer, oh my fucking god.”
“I know, baby,” he manages, endeared by the fact that you feel so good you have to share it with him. Even now you’re trying to explain it because you want him to be part of it—as if he doesn’t know exactly what you’re feeling already. “That feels good, huh?”
“Mm—f—eels—” you cut yourself off with a cry into the crook of his neck, and he holds the back of your head, vision greying as he stares unseeing at the ceiling because if he looks down this’ll be over too soon.
“You’re so good,” he breathes, “you’re perfect.”He hears you gasp at the same time as your rhythm falters, and presses a kiss somewhere indiscriminately on your head. “Gonna cum?” He murmurs in your ear, and you nod desperately, rutting against him hopelessly as your thighs tremble from exertion.
Even the smallest drop-off in friction has his head spinning like he stood up too quickly, so he gives himself enough leverage to start fucking you. You cry out and shift your weight like you’re going to try and evade the feeling—self-sabotage, you always do this—and he again has to hold your hips in an iron vice, just to force you to feel it.
“You’re okay, I’m gonna get you there.”
“Fuck!” You very nearly yell, still trying to wriggle away up until the very last second like the tide going out before the tsunami comes. When you do cum, your demeanor instantly changes—you get heavy and clingy and whiny as you rock back and forth through your orgasm.
“Good girl,” Spencer murmurs, being careful in the way he continues to fuck you until he reaches his peak as well, not long after. You shudder, and Spencer feels the way your entire body tenses the way it sometimes does after a particularly strong orgasm, and he fights his way out of the brain fog to rub your back with the skimming tips of his fingers. “Shh. You’re okay. Relax, baby.”
And you do, unwound by the dance of his hand and with a few shallow breaths that gradually deepen, until you’re once more slack on top of him.
“You’re incredible,” he exhales, with his lips pressed to your hairline.
So clearly overwhelmed, the only response you can muster is a soft squeak. Spencer laughs fondly, still mapping the soft curve of your back. He feels the way you’re still attempting to train your breathing and kisses your hair again. “What do you need, angel?”
“I’m s’posed to be taking care of you,” you slur. Spencer chuckles again and his brow knits.
“According to who?”
“According to… I was on top…”
“Yeah. You did all the hard stuff. Your legs are shaking.”
You whine softly. “No they’re not.”
His hand slides down to your thigh, and he rubs the trembling muscles.
“No? No Bambi legs for me this time?”
You squeeze them around his waist like you could shrink away from his touch. “Spence…”
“I’m teasing you, honey,” he murmurs, pressing kisses wherever he can reach. “You’re cute.”
“Hm.”
“Look at me,” he murmurs, angling his head expectantly as you slowly raise yours. The look on your face is so sweet—eyes half lidded, lips swollen and much higher in color than usual. Your cheek is warm to the touch. His heart flutters like it did on your first date, and the first time he kissed you, and the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder. This view will never get old. “Wow. Look at you, beautiful girl. Can I have a kiss?”
And you grant him his wish, with a long, soft kiss that’s worth every second of that burning feeling in his lungs, every time.
Eventually you huff out the remainder of your air against his well-kissed lips and your head flops to his chest.
“I’m sleepy.”
“So go to sleep,” he murmurs, so warm from your kiss he feels nothing could be wrong in the world at this moment.
“I can’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“’Cause you just got home ’nd I missed you and I wanna spend time with you.”
“We have three days to spend together. If you go to sleep now, we’ll actually get more time together tomorrow.”
“But it’s more about, like, how it feels—how much time it feels like we spend together right when you get home, and if I go to sleep now, it’s gonna feel like less time, and—basically you’re just not understanding my math.”
“What math?” He laughs, continuing to rub your legs all the way up to your hips, at which point you hiss and buck—a very visceral feeling when he’s still inside of you. “What? What hurts?”
“You tried to fucking tear my hip flexors from my body, is what hurts,” you grumble.
“Tender?”
“Mhm.”
“I’m really sorry, angel. Tylenol?”
“Mm-mm. Can you kiss me better?” Sleep stains your voice. Spencer smiles to himself.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“Lie down.”
Again you whine as you slip off of him, landing heavily on your back. He sits up, watches with so much affection the way you squeeze your thighs together and arch ever so slightly against the empty feeling.
“Spencer?” You whisper as he cups the top of your knees.
“Hm?”
“I love you.”
He pushes your legs apart gently so he can settle in between them and kisses you again. “I love you. So much.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.”
He presses a kiss to your head, down your neck, taking the scenic route to your hip bones, but you don’t seem to mind.
The feeling of his lips gentle on the tender flesh has you humming softly, eyes fluttering shut as he showers you with gentle kisses. His traces every place his fingers had pressed earlier—feels the way you relax further underneath him. Nobody’s ever let him in this deeply before, but you trust him with everything you have; your body, your soul, in life or death, awake and in sleep. He’ll never take that for granted. He will never pass on an opportunity like this, to be the one who takes care of you, who puts you back together, as long as you’ll let him.
Still dancing the line of consciousness, you part your legs, the slow drag of your bare thigh like a jumper cable to his heart. Fingertips trace desirous paths up your inner thigh and back down again. He recognizes this invitation for what it is, and he knows exactly how to give you what you want, but he asks first anyway.
“Was that on purpose?”
“I d’know what you mean. I’m so sleepy,” you slur, and he believes the second half of your statement to be fact.
Spencer pushes your thigh a little higher, and you’re completely pliable for him, completely gorgeous. As soon as he skims your thigh with a barely-there kiss, exactly the way you like, you’re lacing a hand in his hair.
“Please, Spence…” you murmur, and he can’t argue with that. He especially can’t argue when you widen your legs just that slightest bit more, and your arousal is opalescent between your legs.
He hums, trailing more kisses up until he’s setting the softest one yet against your clit. “Beautiful girl…”
The following gasp is so tiny he could’ve missed it if he wasn’t so attuned to your noises—and then he gets lost in you, making sure to keep his ministrations light as you already came twice recently and are sure to be sensitive. He doesn’t want to wake you from whatever twilight half-slumber trance you’re in, either, sensing that if he does you’ll fight all over again to stay up.
And admittedly, he adores being trusted to take care of you like this.
Your back arches as much as you’re capable of in this state, and he can’t help the way he just barely suctions onto you at that moment, coaxing a sighing moan so sweet and vulnerable and open it gives him chills. Fuck. He really wants to make you cum. But instead he practices patience, tracing you with the tip of his tongue, pressing gentle kisses everywhere you need them—he draws it out. For he doesn’t know how long.
The first time you get close, your hips begin to roll, and you spout little ah’s, but he talks you back down again, laughing lightly at your angelic cooing, your little sounds of sleepy pleasure. Even now you’re so responsive, moving against his mouth as he slips a finger into your soaked entrance, fucks you for a moment, and then retreats. Maybe he’s being unfair, but you don’t seem to mind.
In fact, you’re slipping in and out of sleep as he devours you for what feels like hours, one hand pressed lovingly to your stomach, stroking the soft skin there. Spencer’s never had this long to explore you with his mouth and he takes full advantage of every moment, but he keeps all his kisses and licks and touches gentle and reverent and so loving.
You don’t know how long it’s been, or how many times he’s made you cum when he finally retreats—you half-wake just as he’s finishing cleaning you up. Soon he tosses the towel aside and presses feather-light kisses to each of your cheeks, tear-stained and warm with pleasure. You feel completely drained and completely loved.
“Hi, sleeping beauty,” he murmurs, climbing into bed with you, at some point having gotten dressed.
You manage an embarrassed little laugh. More tears crawl down your cheeks as you roll to your side. Spencer brushes them away and pulls you into him, slinging your thigh over his waist. He chuckles.
“Shaky?”
“Stop,” you whine, embarrassed by his teasing, and hide your face against his chest. “That’s not my fault.”
“It’s nobody’s fault. It’s sweet,” he insists as he rubs your back. And then, a moment later, “So—do you think we’ve spent enough time together for tonight?”
“No.”
He sighs good-naturedly.
“You’re gonna wear me out, you know that?”
“’F you… can’t handle the heat… get outta the kitchen.”
When he next speaks you can hear the smile in his voice.
“Go to sleep, Bambi. Let’s see if you can walk in the morning.”
You and Spencer are taking things slowly. So all you do is kiss until your glasses fog up. And until he creams his pants. [ 1.5k ]
Includes female reader; she wears glasses; season 2 Spencie; brief Doctor Who reference at the beginning; lots and lots of kisses; dry humping; coming in pants. Based on this post. Short and filthy. Enjoy.
It was hard to focus on what The Fourth Doctor was saying when Dr. Spencer Reid’s lips were on yours.
He’d started with a hand on your thigh, and from there, you stopped paying attention to the TV. This was the first time you’d been in his apartment, and you knew where the night was going to end.
On his lap.
“Bring your leg closer.” Spencer broke away from the kiss for a moment, then whispered, in the middle of another agitated kiss, “It’s okay.”
You’d been hesitant to put any part of you on top of him. You feared that if you did, you might melt right there all over him because even the most casual touch from him turned that spot into a burning blaze.
“Are you sure?” you asked and took the chance to breathe in some air that wasn’t straight out of his lungs. Your eyes darted down to his lips, but they were censored by the fog over your glasses.
“Yeah.” He dragged his hand from where it rested on the side of your knee, up to your thigh, and to the backside. “C’mere.”
He did a subtle tug, encouraging you to settle on top of him so you slithered into his lap, and to your surprise, you didn’t turn into a liquid version of yourself.
Something somewhere inside your panties definitely did, though.
“Are you comfortable here?” He asked. His tone radiated nothing but sex. Soft and demanding and shaky.
You backed up a bit to allow your glasses to unfog and nodded. He was breathy and flustered, and his glasses also had that thin layer of condensation. You wanted to look into his eyes, but your body acted on command and went back to kiss him again. This time with tongue from the beginning. Spencer had you acting shamelessly needy, and how could you not be needy for him if he kissed with his whole body? It was unfortunate how many layers of clothes were still in the way.
Your hands tugged the back of his head while his own roamed all over your thighs and ass, and he bucked his hips upwards. He was not hesitant about anything, and it was turning you into a puddle.
“We said we’d gonna take things slowly,” you whined into the kiss and almost laughed to yourself. There was nothing slow about your thoughts. You wanted him naked right now. You wanted to see him, touch his bare skin, feel every texture, every hair, know every sensitive spot and freckle.
Spencer let out a shy laugh, painting your glasses with more fog. You wondered how ridiculous you must’ve looked because he reached for them—so delicately—and placed them over the side table by his couch, then you finally could see him in all of his flustered glory. His lips were flushed and puffier, and his cheeks, despite the room only being lit up by the TV, you could tell were tainted by a raging shade of pink.
You made him like this.
“I’m sorry, it’s really hard to take it slow when you’re like this.” He gestured between you and him with a tilt to his chin, and it sent a rush of confidence through you. “I can totally go to the bathroom and—”
You tugged his tie and shut him up with a kiss. Much stronger than any other, thanks to your glasses being gone, and he whimpered into your mouth. An exquisite sound you knew he had in him. You were dying to know what he sounded like.
“And?” You teased.
“Distract myself,” he said in a single breath.
“I don’t want you to go.” You sucked his bottom lip into your mouth. “I just want it slow. All of it.”
A small nod from him, then you resumed the kiss and rubbed against his bulge, because even though you wanted to take things slowly for the most part, you needed something from him. Anything that would relieve the ever-growing ache between your legs, and his erection was right there below your cunt. You couldn’t not use him, and he was evidently enjoying this. His hands had found that spot on your lower back, right below the waistband of your jeans, and stopped where he couldn’t get past anymore. You should’ve worn a skirt or a dress so his hands could travel freely over your skin. You opted to loosen the button and unzip, and it freed you from the tightness. His hands found the thin hem of your panties. Sexy, lacy panties that matched your bra. Just in case.
You swallowed another sound from him, and you couldn’t help but echo him. It felt too good. The rough hem of your jeans rubbed your clit perfectly, and his cock pressed hard and hot and (oh my god?) thick against it.
“Fffuck.” He released a pent-up breath, and he pressed your hips down so you’d stop moving. Just when that oh so familiar flutter was approaching and threatening to spread through your nerves.
You frowned at him. “What?”
“Don’t… move like that.”
“Why?” Then you did it again, and he hissed between clenched teeth.
“Oh, shit.” Spencer threw his head back briefly, then stared down at where your bodies were rubbing, hypnotized by the way your hips kept on moving. Soft circular motions.
His lips parted. His chest heaved in and out. He looked so absurdly gorgeous, he made you want to eat him.
You switched your rocking hips for your hand and palmed him over his pants. God, it was thicker in your palm, and burning up and definitely leaking by the tip. The fabric felt moist.
“Mmm,” you moaned.
Just by touching him. Jesus christ you were a slut for him.
He looked up at you above his glasses but didn’t reply. A barely-there blink, then a knit to his brows.
“I made you like this?” You asked. Half-teasing, half-genuinely. You needed to hear it from him.
Spencer nodded. “Even when you’re just in my thoughts.”
You stroked him once, close to the head. You felt like screaming.
“Am I in your thoughts right now?” You stroked again, firmer, and his hips jerked.
He nodded again. “Absolutely, you’re- you’re always in my thoughts. There isn’t a moment I-”
“Are you always this hard, then?”
And he kept nodding, so you kept palming him. It jolted once. Was this his way of teasing you?
“It’s very inconvenient when you show up in my mind at the wrong moment. Not that it’s wrong to think about you, it’s just— oh shit.”
His cock jumped again, and he laughed a little, almost in pain, and when you realized what was happening to him, you switched back to rocking your hips. Almost jumped on top of his bulge over and over because, fuck, you were sure he was coming in his pants, and you were so close to doing it too.
He was almost animalistic in the way he tugged you by the nape of your neck and brought you into a wet kiss. He groaned into your mouth while his tongue swiped against yours and you continued grinding him. Your orgasm was right there. Growing. Spreading through your cunt and into the rest of your body.
“Oh, shit,” you mimicked him.
With a mind of their own, your hips rocked back and forth until you were a whining mess on top of him. You swore you felt him smirk in the middle of the make-out, and it was all you needed to come all over his bulge, and it was as if you’d unlocked a new level of orgasm. It lasted too long, or maybe it was the way his lips brushed over your cheek almost soothingly while he whispered something. Something you weren’t able to register clearly but was surely as sweet as he was.
“Oh, fuck, sweetheart.” He tugged your head back with a fistful of your hair, dragged his delicate nose along your cheek and jaw. “Did you just come too?”
Your entire body was fluttering, and you answered by clenching your cunt that was dripping and almost melting over his erection, hoping he’d feel the answer.
He laughed a little, and his head landed on your shoulder.
You slowly started to come back to your senses, and now you could hear well. He was still breathing like he was struggling. You kissed him once and pressed your foreheads together. If you felt like this with your clothes on, you weren’t sure if you were ready to experience naked. It would be too much. Your cunt clenched again just by thinking about it.
“Is this what you meant by slowly?” He asked, still agitatedly.
You couldn’t help but breathe out a shy laugh. If he could see your mind...
“Not really, but I didn’t think how hard it’d be to take it slowly when you look at me like that.”
His eyes behind the glasses turned darker just before he took them off and placed them next to yours. Like he was ready to fuck you so not slowly.
I feel like all of my smuts end up being on Spencer's lap but nnngghhhhh I'm obsessed with his lap I want to live on his lap forever.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed 💋 and please let me know what you think! 🩷
You know what makes me giggle? The fact my boyfriend is so okay with me writing and reading fanfiction. I told him last night that I wanted to get back into writing and he was so excited, so I started writing and as we got into bed he asked how many smutty scenes I wrote and I was caught of guard and told him none as I started writing from the theme of Faith. I then asked if he wanted me to write smut and he laughed and said that he just knows what I read so he was curious. Agghhhh I love him so much!
Should I start writing again? Im currently writing creatively about faith but I'm feeling an itch to be feral on main and write for Fandom again. Thoughts?
The Ink Between Us - Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid fanfic
The Ink Between Us (2455 words) by AstronamieWrites
Series: Part 1 of The Ink Between Us
Summary:
It started with ink on paper. An anonymous writing program that led them through a quiet exchange of logic, history, and vulnerabilities that couldn’t be named out loud.
Aaron Hotchner joined the program on his therapist’s advice, seeking a way to unload the baggage of the job onto a stranger: Correspondent 144. But when the face behind the number is revealed to be his subordinate, Dr. Spencer Reid, the professional lines they’ve lived by begin to blur.
Falling in love through letters was the unexpected, easy part. Now, they have to face the reality of the name behind the number and what that means for each other's futures, specifically their careers.
TLDR: Aaron Hotchner and Spencer Reid happen to be paired through an anonymous letter-writing program, where they grew quite fond of the stranger. Now, they have to figure out what this means moving forward.
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Fanfic for Hotch and Reid. This is canon divergent...still on par with the show, but with a twist. Takes place whenever Reid's hair is short...and Emily is still there!
I'll be posting the new chapters to here every time I post, but do follow/subscribe on Ao3!
areudirty
origamiaround
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