ᥫ᭡ Post-prison!Spencer remembers you perfectly from your BAU internship over a decade ago. The timid way you carried yourself, the way he wanted to be noticed by you and never was. It stung. Now you’re different; once reserved, now freer and more open. He tries to play it off like it doesn’t matter, but his distance hides the truth: he’s grown colder, convinced that who he is, exactly as he is, isn’t worth knowing now.
(fem!reader, FBI-adjacent!reader, p in v, car sex, naughty daydreams, yearning, slow burn, dominant!Spencer, I wrote too much)
Spencer didn’t like the archive room. It smelled too much like dry rot and old toner, and it reminded him too much of solitary and forgotten things.
Unfortunately, and a bit ridiculously, Penelope had flagged a metadata discrepancy, something about a sealed file from ‘97 that had been partially digitized and corrupted mid-upload. She’d said, “You’ve got the longest arms, and I already bribed Morgan to do something else. Don’t make me go down my list. Go grab the hard copy from Records while I ping the contractor.”
Off he went without fuss. His very useful, very important long arms swayed the whole way there.
The fluorescent lights sputtered awake, flickering through a few dying pulses. Spencer blinked at the sudden glare before his vision settled. The room looked the same as always; uncomfortably narrow with dusty surfaces, but something had already disrupted the order.
A single file waited on the counter near the back by the microfilm readers, the tab aligned just so, like whoever left it had been particular, but in a hurry. One of the pages had slipped slightly out of its clip.
The way it was just barely off bugged him, but he didn’t reach for it.
He just went to the third filing cabinet, the one with the peeling label. The drawer groaned when he pulled it open. Folders leaned sideways in a tilt, tabbed in dates and brittle colors. His fingers stopped just short of the one he’d come for.
Maybe he should straighten that page.
His molars met with a faint clack, tension creeping down his neck as he moved toward the counter, like a tic he didn’t want to have.
He reached for the page, meaning only to slide it back into place, but before his fingers even made contact, he saw it.
A slant in the margin. A loop on a capital F, too slim, and the cross of a t that cut high through the stem. You used to write like that. Upside-down in the corners of briefing packets, reading them from across the table like it didn’t matter that the text was backwards. Spencer used to tilt his head trying to catch the words, and you’d smile softly and never stop writing.
You were there…in Quantico, at the BAU?
He hadn’t seen you, and that couldn’t have been right. He would’ve noticed, of course he would’ve. He noticed everything.
The handwriting, fine. It was distinctive, but not entirely unique. The looped F could’ve been anyone’s, and plenty of people cross their t’s high. Even writing in the margins upside-down, that wasn’t unheard of. Odd, sure, but not impossible. Around 2% of the population exhibited nonstandard spatial habits.
It didn’t mean anything, it didn’t have to be you. Even if he wanted it to be.
…Unless Penelope had meant something by what she said earlier and just last week. An offhand comment about the new contractor handling the sealed juvenile cleanup. Spencer hadn’t asked her to clarify. He’d just nodded. It hadn’t mattered then.
That didn’t mean anything either. He was spiraling, and for no good reason.
Penelope talked constantly. Half of what she said was nonsense or nicknames, the other half borderline illegal, so he’d long ago learned not to take every word to heart. ‘Contractor,’ ‘juvenile cleanup,’it could’ve meant anything. Anyone.
He doubted she even remembered you. Too much time had passed, and you hadn’t opened up to just anyone. Only with people who gave you the time to. Penelope had started to, back then. He remembered she had made you laugh once and it was a real, belly laugh, the kind that made your whole posture change and face light up.
Spencer had wanted to be the one to do that.
He’d almost managed it, until you vanished like most interns eventually did.
He was being ridiculous. Making ghosts out of ink and paper. It wasn’t your handwriting. It couldn’t be. Even if it was, so what?
He wasn’t that fawning boy anymore.
The one who tried to look busy when you walked in, but kept glancing up anyway. Who spoke too quickly when you addressed him, then spent the rest of the day thinking about it. The one who lingered by the coffee machine longer than necessary, just in case you passed by.
He stopped trying to be seen after realizing no one really looked. Not unless he was bleeding or brilliant.
Now, he kept his distance. Made eye contact when necessary, stayed quiet when it wasn’t. No more reaching. No more hoping someone might reach back.
He plucked Penelope’s file from the cabinet like it didn’t matter, like he hadn’t just wasted ten minutes thinking about the past. His grip left a bend in the tab.
No hesitation and absolutely no second glance at the page you might’ve touched. Just right out the door, like it hadn’t rattled something tender in his chest. That stupid mushy place that never hardened right.
He walked out faster than he needed to; his footsteps sounded too loud in the near silent hallway. He adjusted his pace and straightened his shoulders.
Then stopped.
You were coming down the hall, not even ten paces ahead, backlit by the fluorescents, and the sight hit him hard enough to hurt. He rubbed the heel of his palm on his chest as he blinked rapidly. Walking toward him, not actually to him, of course, with something tucked under your arm and your gaze low, reading as you moved. With that exact same walk, the same tilt in your step.
His pulse spiked so suddenly it made him dizzy. What were the odds? No, he thought, don’t calculate them. Don’t give the moment logic.
You looked up just before passing him, probably sensing the shape of something wrong in your path.
For a moment your face didn’t know him, and that stung more than it should have. Then your eyes moved, flicked across his cheeks, his hair, his mouth, and recognition lit across your features like dawn.
“Spencer?” You said it like you didn’t mean to say it out loud just yet, like it slipped out before you could think better of it.
He blinked, mouth parting, and then hoarsely managed, “Hi.”
You didn’t smile, something in his voice must’ve caught you off guard. He didn’t blame you. It sounded different even to him these days.
“Hi,” You said back evenly, and there was something unreadable in it. “It’s been a long time.”
“It has,” He said, and didn’t say how long.
What would be the point? You’d either counted too, or you hadn’t thought of him at all.
You nodded slowly as if you were going to leave it at that. Let the weight of his words settle and drift past, because Spencer wasn’t exactly making conversation easy and he knew it.
Then you paused and frowned slightly as you canted your head.
“Can I ask how you’ve been?” You said carefully, almost reluctant.
He looked at you, then away, something closing off behind his eyes.
“I’ve had better decades.”
His eyes found the framed print across the hall, something abstract with harsh lines and grayscale geometry. Nothing worth looking at, which made it perfect. He focused on the soulless details, not on your pouting mouth or the faint crease near your eye he didn’t remember.
You nodded again, picking up on a signal he hadn’t meant to send. He wasn’t trying to push you away. It just came out that way. If you said it was good to see him, he might actually flinch. He didn’t want a lie, even a kind one. Even if he was the one making himself hard to read.
You moved like you were about to leave with a goodbye on your lips, and he should’ve let you, but the words slipped past his walls anyways, “How have you been?”
You blinked like you hadn’t expected him to care or ask, or maybe you just hadn’t prepared for what you’d say.
“I…I’ve been--” You paused, eyes flicking to his face again. “Good. Busy as a beaver, but that’s good too, I guess.”
Still with the idioms. He remembered the morning you told Morgan not to cry over “spoiled milk,” and he’d corrected you with a laugh. You’d said it right the next day. Spencer had smiled at his desk like a lunatic. You probably forgot, but he certainly didn’t.
The memory warmed something he didn’t want warmed. His mouth twitched, then tightened, and he focused on his breath, on the file label still clutched in his hand, on not feeling it.
The tension in his hand must’ve snagged your attention, your eyes tracked the worn tab between his fingers.
“Wait, is that one of the botched sealed cases? Penelope just told me about a few that hadn’t finished uploading.” You exhaled, like you’d been on that trail too long. “I’ve been trying to match the physicals.”
He shrugged, handing it over without ceremony, but his traitorous fingers didn’t let go right away. They skimmed yours, and it lit his nerves like a flare and instant heat rocketed down his spine.
He didn’t look at you when he let go. Just flatly said, “Penelope didn’t say it was…you.” When your eyebrow raised, he signed as he added, “She should’ve.”
“And why’s that?”
There was no bite in your words, but no tentativeness either. Just unfiltered and simple curiosity, and it disarmed him so thoroughly he couldn’t look anywhere else. His eyes dropped to your mouth and stuck there. He didn’t want to stare, but he just…couldn’t stop. Just waiting to see what else might come out.
The moment you wet your lips, he croaked out, “It would’ve made this easier.”
“Easier how?” You mused.
“Forget it. Doesn’t matter.” He dismissed, just as someone rounded the far corner.
A junior agent with a takeaway cup and a distracted look, clearly trying to slip past without getting involved. You shifted half a step to make room, and so did Spencer, instinctively. His shoulder brushed yours as he moved in front of you. The agent barely glanced up as he passed, gone in seconds, but Spencer didn’t step back.
He just stared…at you, finally.
Your face, that devastatingly sweet face. He used to steal glances, convinced you never noticed. Once, in a dream, you'd let him trace every feature with his fingertips, like a precaution against some future where his sight might fail him.
His hand moved purposefully from your cheekbone first, then chin, then the softness beneath your mouth. You didn’t stop him, just looked at him like you already knew and you’d been waiting.
Your lips parted. He slid his thumb inside, your tongue pressed lightly to the pad of his finger.
He swallowed hard, but the damage was done. His abdomen tightened, a reflex he couldn’t outthink, and he loosed a ragged breath. Shame rushed in behind the thought like floodwater. His jaw clenched as he stepped back.
You traded your weight from the left foot to the right, clearing your throat.
“I used to be easier to talk to, huh?”
Spencer forced his eyes up, only to catch your first smile at him, and, of course, it was lopsided and a little sad. It looked the same and yet completely different. It had grown up without him.
“No,” He said honestly. “I think I got harder to talk to.”
He didn’t think he could’ve smiled anyway, but if he had, it would’ve been sadder than yours.
His, he understood. Yours, he didn’t.
You both hadn’t talked much back then. Well, not often and not deeply. A few scattered conversations over lunch breaks or case files, mostly you asking questions and him rambling through the answers until he’d catch himself and apologize.
Once, you’d asked him if he thought criminals were ever actually remorseful, and he’d talked for eleven straight minutes while you ate pretzels out of a vending machine bag. When he stopped to breathe, you’d just said, “Thank you for taking the time to explain all that for me. I mean it,” like he hadn’t just dominated the whole conversation and overloaded you. He’d gone home warm for days.
So it just made sense you both wouldn’t really talk now, after all this time.
For all his degrees, he’d never quite figured you out the first time, so he doubted he'd do any better this time around.
“I don’t know,” You clasped your hands behind your back, then offered, “I’m still talking to you, aren’t I?”
The fact that it wasn’t flirty made Spencer's mouth dry out.
Flirting, he could’ve ducked or dodged or disbelieved...but sincerity had no handles. Nowhere to hold it and no way to deflect, so it just landed, and it landed violently.
“You are,” He almost left it there. “You’re…different. Not in a bad way.”
Spencer immediately wished he could rewind. He should’ve known better than to try sincerity with a mouth like his. ‘Different’ wasn’t the wrong word. Just empty without the rest of what he meant and hadn’t managed to say.
“You seem different too,” You said, voice mild and sure. “And not in a bad way.”
You shifted slightly, and the fabric of your skirt moved with you, brushing up just enough to expose the cap of one knee.
Spencer saw it and wished he hadn’t.
Years ago, you used to rub your palms there when you were nervous. He remembered it vividly: the way your hands would sweep over the smooth arc of your knees during briefings. Back then, it made him want to comfort you or perhaps just catch your eye and offer a smile, if he was brave enough that day.
Now, he wanted to watch that same hand lift the hem of your skirt slowly. He wanted to see the fabric pushed higher, inch by inch, and not stop until you were open under his stare.
Don’t go there, he thought. Don’t think about your thighs. Don’t think about his hands on them, or worse, his head between them, your fingers in his hair. Don’t think about the way you might whine if he--
He wiped a hand down his face roughly, like he could scrub the thought out.
“Well, that’s generous of you to say.”
He knew what arousal did to the brain: the flood of dopamine, the narrowed focus, the reckless firing of neurons, but science couldn’t explain why it was you. Spencer himself couldn’t explain it. You hadn’t looked at him like that before, you hadn’t really looked at him at all. Somehow it was all different now. He wanted more than a simple glance, meek smile, or the chance at a seat beside you in the briefing room.
He wanted to be wanted by you, by the once-timid girl now with a stronger voice and a straighter spine. The craving made his chest feel tight.
He tore through his chances without sympathy, which implied, foolishly, that there had been any.
You offered a small, closed-lipped smile and stepped aside. “I left a file in the archive room,” You said, gesturing toward the space he’d left only minutes ago.“I should go get it. It…it was nice seeing you again, Spencer.” The moment his brows drew together, you quickly added, “I mean it.”
He didn’t flinch like he thought he would've, but it was hard to imagine you meant it. With how distant he’d been, he wouldn’t have believed himself either.
It felt like you couldn’t wait to get away from him. He couldn’t blame you, but a new crack formed along his heart.
“Yeah, you too. Take care,” He muttered, but hoped you heard more in it than he meant to give away.
As you stepped past, your hand lifted, just lightly, to his wrist. A parting gesture to show you meant what you said.
His pulse jumped, but he kept his eyes forward.
He didn’t watch you go, but he heard the sound of your steps down the hall, as if you hadn’t stopped to break his ribs in the middle of it.
He adjusted the collar of his shirt as he stepped inside, fingers grazing the fabric like it might still be wrong. It was the third one he’d tried…wait, no, the fourth, and he’d ended up back at the first. A pale blue button-down, too nice for a place with sticky menus, but it was the one he didn’t hate the most.
The bar was dimly lit, only softened by amber sconces and laughter. Some kind of music blew through the space, a low-volume mix of late-90s indie rock, if he wasn’t mistaken. It was loud enough to make people lean in to be heard.
Someone jostled past with a drink and a lit cigarette, and Spencer’s body pulled in on itself just slightly.
He could’ve stayed home, should’ve stayed home, but you were there. He didn’t know what he expected from it, if anything, just that he wanted to be near you.
He spotted Penelope first, her hair was unmistakable even in a crowd, and JJ beside her, mid-laugh. They hadn't seen him yet.
You hadn’t noticed him yet.
And for a second, it felt like nothing had changed. As if time had folded in on itself and left him right where he started: unseen.
Then your whole face lit up with a kind of smile he didn’t remember you ever wearing.
It lit some damp, dark chamber in him. It wasn’t just how you looked, but how it felt, like being caught in a warm patch of sun.
Yet, it wasn’t for him.
Whatever Penelope had said, it made JJ laugh behind her hand and shake her head.
He wasn’t sure if he was ready to go over yet, but standing there like a lost coat rack felt worse. It made him feel obvious, like people could tell he didn’t know where to stand or who to be, or that he didn’t belong.
So he moved, cautious and crooked, shoulders too square and jaw too loose.
You were still smiling when he reached the edge of the table, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes drifting across the lineup of half-finished drinks. JJ had something golden with a salt rim, Penelope’s was pink and fizzy with too many garnishes, and yours was just water, a wedge of lemon sliding down the side. For some reason, that made his chest ease a little.
Penelope beamed as she said, “There he is! We were starting to worry you bailed.”
We, he thought. You? Did you worry he wasn’t going to show up?
“What do you want to drink?” Penelope asked, already flagging the server. “They have mocktails, and like, this really weird cucumber soda thing I think you’d secretly love. Or water, obviously. Or--”
He barely heard her after that because there was only one empty seat...right next to you. Statistically, it wasn’t that improbable. Emotionally, it felt like a cosmic dare.
He sat before he could think better of it.
“Sorry I’m late,” He muttered. “Water’s fine.”
The server came over with a polite nod, pen already poised.
“One water for the gentleman,” Penelope said brightly, like she was ordering champagne on his behalf.
Spencer gave the faintest incline of his head, a thanks he couldn’t quite get into words. His hands stayed on his thighs, resisting the urge to tug at his shirt hem, or to glance at you.
That was when he realized JJ was watching him.
He felt the weight of it like a pin between his shoulder blades. He pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth before he turned, meeting her eyes at last.
Her expression didn’t switch, not much, but her eyebrows raised the faintest degree. The smallest acknowledgement. She knew, and he knew she knew. He just wouldn’t say it, not even to himself.
He swallowed, unease crowded behind his sternum, and forced his gaze back down to the condensation already slipping down the side of his glass that had just been dropped off.
Penelope swirled the straw in her drink like it might jog her memory as she tried to push past the tension he knew was his fault. “Oh! You were saying something about how you ended up in records, right? Before Mr. Tall-and-Troubled walked in.” She said, eyes landing back on you.
“Actually, you didn’t really let her explain before you jumped in asking about hotties.” JJ's voice was mellow, faintly amused.
Penelope said with a wave, not looking the least bit sorry, “Okay, fine, I got curious, geez. But I was going to circle back.”
Spencer took a drink, though it didn’t help the heat crawling up his neck. He didn’t want to picture your job, your building, the people who saw you every day. He didn’t want to think about the way they might look at you, or worse, what they might imagine: your voice caught in your throat, your back arching if someone’s mouth touched the skin just above your waistband.
He had no right to that thought either, but it was his regardless, and it made him feel sick to think someone else might be chasing the same one.
His gaze lifted before he could stop it, scanning the bar in pieces. No men were looking, not at you and not at JJ or Penelope, but he kept checking anyway.
“In my defense,” You said graciously, glancing between them, “It’s hard to compete with that level of curiosity.” You adjusted the straw in your drink, then added, “I think I was saying that I did some state records work? Nothing glamorous. Then my mentor moved over to a DOJ preservation project and brought me in. Mostly forensic crosswalks, retention anomalies, that kind of thing.”
Penelope perked up almost instantly.
“Wait, so do you ever find, like, weird gaps? Stuff that got buried?” Her eyes widened. “Tell me someone’s hidden a whole second identity somewhere. I live for that.”
Spencer spoke before you could, “That kind of thing doesn’t really happen in federal records. Not in sealed holdings, at least. Everything’s cross-indexed.”
He turned slightly, spotting your small nod, then your eyes. There was a twinkle there, like you were in on something with him.
“But,” You added, voice easy and light, “I did flag a series of legacy files once that turned out to be tied to a contractor with two aliases. Nothing criminal, just sloppy merging, but I still think it’s sorta weird.”
Penelope gasped. “See? I knew you found buried treasure.”
JJ tilted her head, “I don’t know how you keep your focus with all that data. I’d go cross-eyed in a week.”
You gave a small scoff, shaking your head. “Says the profiler. You can track the inside of someone’s mind with nothing but a few interviews and case notes. That takes more focus than I’ll ever have.”
JJ reached over and gave your hand a squeeze, smiling in a way that was open and sincere. You returned it without hesitation, your mouth curving gently as your fingers curled back around hers.
A faint warmth sparked under his ribs, tangled with an ache he didn’t want to name, tightening before he could press it down.
Penelope lifted her glass, eyes darting around the table. “Okay, but where’s my compliment? ‘Cause I feel like my computer sorcery is going wickedly unappreciated here.”
Your smile went straight to Penelope, “Honestly, I don’t know anyone who makes the impossible look easier.”
A small part of him braced for you to turn next, to let that sweetness land on him. The thought itself made him flush with shame, and when it didn’t come, he swallowed hard, pretending he hadn’t expected it.
He turned toward the noise of the bar. Everywhere he looked, people leaned close, brushed lips, shared something private in the middle of the crowd. A cruel reminder of what belonged so easily to others, and never to him.
Out of the corner of Spencer’s vision, he saw Penelope’s eyes narrow playfully.
“You’ve hardly said two words since you sat down. Talk to us, long arms.”
He shifted in his seat, not quite looking at anyone. “I like listening to you guys talk.”
“Aw, see? He does love us. I knew it.” Penelope leaned toward JJ, grinning like she’d won something.
JJ gave a quiet laugh, tilting her head just slightly. “Of course he does.”
That was all it took for the two of them to slip into an easy back-and-forth, laced with years of shorthand. Spencer picked up pieces here and there until he noticed your attention settle on him instead.
He wondered if his collar looked wrong again, if his hair was sticking up at the back, if he was sitting too stiff, since he couldn’t relax into the chair at all.
You didn’t look away. “I picked up The Left Hand of Darkness a while back. It reminded me of you, probably because I remember you with Dune once.”
His head tipped in your direction after a beat, slower than it should’ve been. You, meanwhile, had already turned fully toward him, shoulders angled his way, showing that you were ready to listen to only him.
Running from you, at least inside himself, was getting harder to manage, less convincing every time he tried.
“What’d you think of it?”
You leaned into your palm, chewing at your lip, deciding how to put it.
He stared longer than he should’ve at your mouth, tongue dragging over his own lips before he even realized. He imagined lemon still fresh on your tongue from the wedge in your water, cut through with the wax-sweet of cherry, maybe strawberry, from the tint on your lips. The thought burned through him before he could shove it away.
He wanted to taste it for himself, he wanted to kiss you so, so badly.
As you spoke, he didn’t tear his eyes away from your mouth, “I thought it was going to be more…I don’t know, sci-fi? Spaceships, laser guns, but it was just these two people trying to understand each other.” You gave a sheepish smile. “I didn’t expect it to feel so slow. Or so sad.”
“Le Guin wasn’t interested in technology as much as she was in people.” He paused. “A lot of people miss that the science is just a container and not the point.”
You nodded earnestly, tapping your nails lightly against your jaw like you were thinking something through.
“Yeah,” You said, “I thought it was leading somewhere else. Like there was going to be some big reveal or twist or…something.” You laughed under your breath. “When it ended, I just sat there thinking, ‘Great, so I read the whole thing wrong.’”
The corner of his mouth pulled up just a bit, and he didn’t fight it that time.
“Have you ever read The Dispossessed?” He asked as he rearranged himself in his seat, pulling his legs from under the table so he could face more toward you.
To be casual and comfortable, he told himself. Just so he wasn’t half-twisted anymore. In the process, his knee knocked into yours, and the contact drew his attention away from what he was about to say next. He looked down for a second, cleared his throat as heat rushed up his neck.
“Sorry,” He muttered. “It’s still Le Guin, but a, uh - different tone. You might like it more.”
You opened your mouth like you were about to say something, and maybe you were, but before you could, the song changed and Penelope rejoiced across the table.
“Oh, my god! This song,” She said, waving toward the speakers like she couldn’t believe it had taken this long to hear something decent. “Spencer, this is the one that used to be on that awful diner jukebox in New Mexico, remember? The one with the green tile and the chairs that stuck to everything?”
One Headlight by The Wallflowers. He blinked and for a second, he could smell the place; the burnt coffee, fryer oil, the lemon cleaner they used on the booths.
She leaned across JJ, eyes bright. “You made us stop there three times in one week. All for that sad little peach pie.”
He blinked again, pulled back into the sound of her voice before he could register the loss of yours.
“It was good,” He said, then his gaze flicked to you, then back down to the damp napkin on the table. “The crust was actually laminated. You don’t see that in diners.”
Whatever you were about to say, it was gone.
“I remember you asking if they made it from scratch.” JJ said, half-smiling. “And didn’t the waitress say something sarcastic like, ‘We churn our own butter too’?”
The music just barely hid your laugh, and something in him eased at the sound of it. Enough to make him recline back in his chair. His arm shifted with him, draping along the back of yours without much thought.
A moment later, you leaned into the backrest. He saw the change but missed everything beneath it; how your hands clasped tightly in your lap and the breath you didn’t quite let out all at once.
Penelope gripped the edge of the table with a theatrical sigh. “Okay, well now I want pie, or fries, or something. I’m starving.” She looked around the table. “Is it weird to order food this late? I need something fried and shameful. Anyone else?”
JJ nodded without hesitation. “Fries. Always fries.”
You reached for your water for a sip, then set it down again. “Oh, no. Nothing for me.” Then, with an easy motion, you stood. “I’m actually gonna run to the bathroom. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Spencer didn’t even move, his arm stayed where it was; resting behind an empty chair.
He could still feel the slight warmth in the wood under his hand. His fingers moved without meaning to, drifting over the grain like he didn’t want to lose what little was left.
Penelope and JJ were debating between fries and nachos. He heard the word "sriracha" and the clatter of a menu being folded, but none of it landed.
Nothing was wrong, he told himself that over and over again. You’d said you’d be right back, but something about the way you’d left, so quickly after the ease between you two. It burst a seam in whatever calm he'd managed to hold together.
His brain kept replaying it, like there was a cue he’d missed and couldn’t quite rewind to find. Or maybe there wasn’t anything to find, and that was the problem. He didn’t know what had happened, if anything.
Penelope asked the passing server if they had truffle oil, just to “put it out into the universe,” She said, and JJ laughed. Spencer sat there, trying to school his face into something neutral, something not-inward and broken.
That familiar, ridiculous feeling of trying so hard not to mess something up and somehow doing so anyway.
“Spence,” JJ said, cutting clean through the commotion.
Her stare didn’t waver, not even when a stool scraped across the floor behind her and a drink tray wobbled past at her back. The look wasn’t harsh, but it didn’t leave him anywhere to hide either.
He shifted, and met her eyes almost reluctantly.
“You gonna tell me what that was?” JJ nodded toward the empty seat. “Because it wasn’t nothing, so don’t try to say otherwise.”
His arm recoiled before he could think about it, as if the chair had gone hot under his skin.
“It was nothing,” He said quickly, fast enough to make it obvious it wasn’t.
“Then why do you look like someone drop-kicked your favorite first edition?” Penelope asked, almost cooed with a sympathetic frown. “I mean that lovingly.”
He didn’t respond, he only shook his head rashly and exhaled quietly through his nose.
Spencer let his eyes drift across the room; past the tables, past the bar, past every patron. He didn’t mean to look toward the hallway where you’d gone, but his fixation went there anyway.
It felt like he was trying to summon you with nothing but focus. To draw you back to him. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted you to save him from the conversation, or if he just wanted to see your face again.
Not until JJ tapped her knuckles against the table, grabbing his attention once more.
“You like her.” JJ said it like a fact he couldn’t deny. “Does she know that?”
He truly didn’t want to say anything. Mostly because he didn’t know what he’d say, or if saying it would make it worse, or make things somehow real.
But would that be so bad? Making it real? It wasn’t like he hadn’t already made a fool of himself tonight, one way or another. It wasn’t a crime to like someone, or to want something. Even if he didn’t know what, exactly, he wanted.
He couldn’t even tack on “if anything” anymore. He did want something.
“No,” He said finally, and it came out quieter than he meant it to, under all the noise.
He hoped, almost desperately, they didn’t hear him.
Unfortunately, they did hear, and JJ didn’t smile, but she nodded, understanding more than he wanted her to.
“You don’t have to say anything you’re not ready to. Not to us, at least. Just don’t pretend there’s nothing you want to say to her.” JJ said.
The thought of saying something, anything, to you made his heart falter. What would he even say? That he remembered how kind you’d been, even back then. That your voice still sounded the same, maybe a little deeper now, more certain, but still warm. That you’d always given people time to talk, even when they didn’t deserve it. He surely didn’t.
That your full laugh had split him in two. That it hurt a little, in the best way, of course.
That you looked different, but not really. Your hair had changed. Your mouth hadn’t. Your lips still pressed together the same way when you were thinking. You even had smile lines now, and they were small but permanent, like you’d finally felt free enough to smile more often.
And your body--
He pressed his palm into his thigh, felt the muscle displace under the pressure.
He thought about your body more than he wanted to admit. The shape of it, the weight of it, the imagined heat of your skin beneath his unruly hands. The ridiculous, aching need to kiss along the curve of your hip, your stomach, the soft skin just behind your ear. Every inch he wanted to touch, out of reverence, out of some dumb, dizzy hope to be allowed that close to someone who made him feel so alive…so completely.
It embarrassed him, the sheer detail of his own memory. How vividly he “remembered” things he hadn’t even experienced. Places he hadn’t touched, but still longed to anyway. He had to be insane. Had to be, without a doubt.
“Well, when you do figure it out,” Penelope said, leaning in a little. “Can you make it at least a little swoony? Some girls like to swoon. I think she might. She seems like the type.”
He didn’t even know how to talk to you, let alone how to make you swoon.
“I don’t know,” JJ said, her laugh mellower now. “She doesn’t seem like the swooning type. Maybe when we first knew her, but not now.”
“What? Yes she is,” Penelope replied immediately, mock-offended. “You’re telling me she wouldn’t melt if he did something heartfelt? Please.”
They kept going, blurring into the background. He couldn’t focus on their back and forth while he was having his own internal debate, rewinding every moment he’d had with you over the last few hours, even that brief exchange by the archive room. Trying to pin it all against the version of you he used to know. The quiet intern with too many notebooks and the long silences.
Would you want something swoony? Would that feel too forced? Too obvious? Did you even want anything at all?
He hadn’t a clue what you expected from him. Worse, he wasn’t sure what part of him you were even seeing. He’d been trying to offer the least shattered version of himself, hoping that would be enough, but fearing it only made him seem lifeless.
The questions kept relentlessly circling, tripping over each other and making even more of a mess. He couldn’t sit with them any longer.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed back from the table and stood.
“I’ll be right back.”
He wove through the crowd, dodging half-full beers and the aimless stumbles of men who’d been drinking since before the sun went down. The hallway near the bathrooms was narrow and dim, tiled in that way-too-clean fake marble.
He stood stupidly in line for the men’s room, pretending he was waiting his turn as he eyed the door across the way. A minute later, an older woman stepped out, purse clutched tight.
Not you.
His eyes lingered on the door even after it shut. You weren't there, which meant - what? That you’d slipped past him, the entire group? He watched you walk in this direction. He turned slightly, scanning the narrow hallway. There was a service door at the end, half-shadowed and unlabeled. Would you sneak out without saying goodbye? That didn’t track. Or did something bad happen?
His eyes lingered on the exit, more shadow than shape the longer he looked. Something bad, something bad, something bad. The thought rooted before he could pull it up.
He tried to reason with it, to flatten the rising noise in his head, but the cases started flashing through anyway; reports of women disappearing between the bar and the parking lot, assaults in back hallways, just out of view. He’d read them, had studied them, and interviewed families after the fact.
He tried to tell himself it was nothing. That you were fine, that he was being irrational But that’s what the wrong people always said after the fact, and Spencer wasn’t built for after the fact.
He hated how easily he could picture it. Hated that he couldn’t tell if the panic rising in him was rational, or just his own selfish fear.
His feet moved before his thoughts could catch up. A push through the emergency bar on the service door, the hollow metal clattered behind him, and suddenly the night was impossibly louder than inside, too wide and obscure.
He scanned the alley: random bricks, overflowing garbage bins, grease-stained cardboard. A crumpled napkin at the base of a lamppost. Absolutely nothing important, nothing he cared about.
Maybe behind the dumpster at the other end? He walked over, eyes adjusting to the flickering light. Just fleeting shadows and roaches. No shoes, no figure, no you.
Then his head turned toward the employee cars, all lined like teeth in the back lot, and his chest tightened. He checked between the bumpers, still looked for a shape too still, a coat crumpled, just anything.
Then he rounded the corner of the building, heart already pitching sideways, toward the front lot…
…and stopped.
You, finally. Thankfully.
There were a few people loitering near their cars, laughing way too loudly, the glow of cigarettes painting little arcs in the dark. Spencer eyed them wearily as he approached you.
You were off to the side, leaned against the brick wall of the building like you’d been there a while. Arms crossed, head bowed slightly, eyes fixed on a pebble.
An invisible pressure released in his chest, enough to let him breathe, but it was immediately replaced by something else. Something heavier and murky, because if nothing bad had happened…then why were you out there, alone?
He shoved his hands in his front pockets as he stepped off the lot, onto the narrow concrete stretch by the wall.
The scuff of his shoes nabbed your attention.
You looked up, and gasped, hand flying to your chest like your heart had leapt all the way up to your throat.
Then, seeing it was him, your shoulders dropped.
It shouldn’t have meant anything to him, but it did. He’d been so sure you wouldn’t want him to be the one who found you out here.
“I just needed some air and some quiet. I was about to come back in - I was, I just--” You trailed off, gave a helpless sort of gesture, then smiled; small, sheepish, and a little guilty.
“I thought you left.” The words came out flat, a bit too honest. He shook his head, frustrated with himself. “Sorry. That’s not fair. I just...didn’t know where you were.”
His voice caught on the last word, and he looked away, embarrassed and ashamed.
You blinked so quickly a lash landed on your cheek as you said, “I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. I just needed a minute. That’s all.” You looked down, then back up at him, more serious now. “I’m sorry I worried you guys - you, I’m sorry if I worried you.”
He gnawed at the inside of his cheek as he stood across from you. Both of you watched the other wholly, like a single glance held too long could give something vital away. Breath shallow, eyes way too full.
He wanted to say something. Anything. A confession, a question, just enough to close the distance, even if the answers stung.
But it wasn’t him who spoke first.
“Spencer,” You said gently, “Have I done something to make you uncomfortable? You’re kind of all over the place with me, and I just - I don’t want to make you feel weird.”
He closed his eyes for a second. It touched the nerve he’d been avoiding: the fear that he was hurting you without meaning to, and the worst part, he couldn’t say for sure that he wasn’t. And how maddening it was, because he liked you, he wanted you close, but wanting someone and knowing how to handle that want were two entirely different things.
Right then, he only knew one thing for certain: he wanted you, and he couldn’t deny it anymore.
Entirely. Terribly. Sincerely. He craved you.
“No, never,” He said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “I haven’t been handling things that great lately.”
For a very long time actually, he thought, but you threw another wrench in the works.
He could tell you were trying to make sense of his pitiful explanation by how your brows pinched briefly, but couldn’t, so you only gave a defeated nod. It made him feel even farther from you than before, that he’d just created another unspoken mess neither of you knew how to unspool.
With the smallest smile, enough to soften the space between you, you whispered, “I hope things get better, or just easier.”
Spencer lowered his eyes, the movement almost ceremonial, as if to bow before your words rather than risk breaking them with his own. His head bent toward you with mute appreciation.
The spell cracked when the lot roared alive again. A group of men burst out. All sweat and swagger, laughing over some indecipherable joke no one would remember in the morning.
“Not much difference between inside and out the bar, huh?” You said wistfully as you pushed off from the wall. “I guess we should head back in.”
He didn’t move, not an inch, as you lingered there in the low light, waiting for him. He felt it, the expectation that he’d fall in step, that he’d make the choice simple. He just couldn’t, not yet, at least. He wanted to move with you, every instinct pulling him forward, but his body refused.
Because stepping back inside meant breaking that precious bubble, that fragile pocket where it was only the two of you.
He only wanted more of this, more of you to himself, though he knew it was selfish with Penelope and JJ waiting inside.
“We don’t have to go back in yet. We could sit in my car for a few minutes, if you want.”
You went silent, eyes on the pavement, your hands moving like they didn’t know where to go; fussing at your cuticles, then twisting the fabric of your dress, then behind your back in a restless clasp. It wasn’t a no, but it wasn’t an easy yeseither.
Spencer stood there, still not moving, suddenly afraid that his offer had cornered you somehow, that it put pressure where there wasn’t meant to be any.
Maybe he should take it back, he thought. Say he hadn’t meant anything by it.
Before he could, you took one step to him and said, “Yeah, okay. Just for a bit.”
You said it so simply he almost didn’t process it. His thoughts kept running, kept planning how to backtrack, how to unmake the stilted moment, but now there was nowhere to put them. The words were already out there. You’d stepped past him and off the curb.
So he did too.
Both of you fell into step without speaking. Not perfectly, not all at once, he took a few strides too slow at first, then picked up half a beat, just as you adjusted to match him.
He scanned the lot along the way, reading everything around him. The parked cars with fogged windows, taillights that were still warm, snippets of sloshed conversations carried on the breeze. One man leaned against his hood, talking to someone out of sight. Another man, standing near his car, looked up as you passed and didn’t look away fast enough.
Spencer’s hand rose, light against your lower back as he guided you.
His car waited a few paces from the far end of the lot, tucked in a patch of dimness where the last streetlight had long since burned out. The sedan was older but clean, silver dulled slightly by time.
Spencer pulled his keys from his pocket, and unlocked the car with a chirp. He stepped forward, not saying anything, and opened the passenger door like it was instinct.
You murmured a quiet “thank you” as you ducked inside, and though he didn’t speak, he lingered there for a second before making his way around to the driver’s side.
The door shut with a muted thud that made the car tremble just slightly, and then the silence spread between you, so sudden and almost ironically overwhelming. There was no longer any music, no voices and no street noise leaking in. Just the hush of the cabin and the faint sound of your breathing that he could tell you were failing to steady.
He was too, especially as you moved, smoothing the bottom of your dress as you scooted back against the seat. The burnt umber linen flowed over your legs.
Spencer kept his eyes forward. Well, he really tried to.
But he could see the way it settled mid-thigh. Shorter than anything he’d ever seen you wear. The hem inched higher when you folded one knee over the other, baring the plush slope of your upper leg, and Spencer’s breath hitched before he could stop it.
He hadn’t meant to look, and definitely hadn’t meant to keep looking.
But it didn’t even matter when he forced his view out the windshield, he couldn’t unsee that image. Couldn’t unfeel the pull of it, the foolhardy thought of sliding down into the narrow space at your feet, pressing himself between your legs until you had no choice but to touch him finally, to tell him everything he’d never been brave enough to ask before.
He wanted to know what you’d thought of him all those years ago, when you were mousy and reserved, tucking yourself behind casefiles and ill-fitting clothes, and he was the one fumbling over coffee lids, speaking too fast, trying too hard. Back when his hair was too long, his ties too wide, and his eagerness came out sideways until it embarrassed even him.
He wanted to hear you say what you’d meant back by the archive room: You seem different too, and not in a bad way.
He wanted to know what you saw in him now, after everything.
The thought knotted all ugly in his chest, tight enough he had to clear his throat, and his legs shifted, knees spreading as he tugged at the fabric of his trousers. Such a clumsy attempt at looking casual when every nerve in him was anything but.
Maybe you saw the jitter in his hand, or maybe he’d already fractured the peace so badly you let it go when you said, “I like your shirt. Light blue is one of my favorite colors.”
He didn’t turn toward you. He kept his vision pinned to the dark glass of the window, his fingers tugging at the cuffs, working the button loose and fastening it again, needing the distraction.
“I remember that,” He murmured after a beat. “That light blue was your favorite.”
“You did?”
“Yeah,” He said, I remember the cornflower blue mug you kept at your desk. In some of the socks you wore, just peeking out above your shoes. Just little flashes of it everywhere.
“I remember your collars used to be slightly crooked sometimes,” You said, voice loaded with fondness. “I always wanted to fix them, but I couldn’t muster up the courage to even tell you.” With your pause, he slowly turned his head toward you again, and there it was, a wry smile tugging endearingly at your mouth. “It’s doing it again, it’s crinkled on the left.”
It had been fine when he left the house, he remembered checking. Twice. Then again, he’d fussed with his reflection the whole drive over. From his collar, to his hair, his cuffs, back to his hair. As if it really mattered, like any of it might make a difference.
Instinctively, he reached up to smooth it, fingertips grazing the edge, but then he stopped, his hand stalling mid-air as you spoke…
“Would it be okay if I…?” You asked, already starting to lift your hand, but slow enough that he could stop you. “You know, just…eleven years late.”
At first, he just looked at you, and you looked right back.
It was as if time itself had circled in on that moment, tightening the loop until it touched down in the middle of the car, until it found the first glance you’d ever shared, long ago across a cluttered bullpen, and layered it over this one.
Neither of you dared move yet, not even a breath too loud, only the look, and the thousand things it carried: over a decade of almosts, of silent moments, of what ifs folded neatly into what now.
He didn’t trust his voice not to splinter, so he only angled his head toward you. Not a full turn, but enough to expose the fold on the left, enough to say yes without saying anything at all.
You leaned in with such care that it made his stomach twist as your fingers found the ruffle and pressed the fabric back into shape. He could feel your breath, humid and uneven and gentle, stroking the cords of his neck, and he couldn’t help it, the way his pulse surged hard behind his ribs.
If he turned now, just a little, his lips would find your cheek. If you looked up, if you tilted your chin, he could kiss you.
He thought he’d know what your lips felt like after all this time wondering.
“Done,” You murmured, but didn’t move away as your hand slowed against his collar until it rested completely.
Please please please don’t pull away, he thought, the words between plea and panic. Every blink of your lashes felt like a warning, like the flutter of something waking up and realizing where it was, what it had done. Like the twitch of a fawn’s ear right before the brush moved.
He wanted, no - needed - to keep you close, even if he was the monster in the overwood.
Before he could second-guess himself; gently, his fingers closed around yours as he guided them to his cheek, and held them there with a light press. The warmth was immediate, sinking in so deep and too fast. He hadn’t meant to want it so much, especially hadn’t meant to show it so impulsively, but it was there and utterly undeniable. It embarrassed him how little resistance he’d managed.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.” He said above a whisper.
“I don’t even think I can put it into words.” You said, and your thumb swept gently along his jaw as if that might explain it better.
It didn’t.
“Try,” He held your hand tighter.
“I…what about you?” You asked instead, voice almost inaudible. “What are you thinking, Spencer?”
His head dipped, fingers slackening around yours, just shy of letting go.
His voice barely surfaced, “I was thinking about kissing you,” He said. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”
Long enough that saying it out loud would’ve made him sound like a man who’d built some ridiculous fantasy, all starry-eyed and grasping at things that never really belonged to him.
He’d never really been inside your world. He wasn’t then and wasn’t now. Just a background figure, a name in passing, maybe a fleeting glance here and there, and yet, he wanted you with a force that didn’t quite make sense.
How do you say that out loud? How do you admit that you’ve spent years aching over someone you barely got to know, someone who left, lived a life without you, and then reappeared like a ghost you never stopped seeing?
It was outrageous, gravely unfair, and somehow all-consuming at the same time.
“And I’ve wanted you to kiss me for a long time.”
His mind scrambled to calculate what your “long time” meant. Years? Months? Since tonight? But his body didn’t wait for an answer.
He leaned in too fast, too desperate, and his lips caught the corner of your mouth instead. You gasped, before your hands rose to either side of his face and kept him level and steady, right where you wanted him.
Right where he wanted to be.
The second kiss found your mouth perfectly, guided into place, and it was nothing and somehow everything like he’d imagined. It was slower, so much sadder, and infinitely sweeter.
He hadn’t expected your lips to be that soft. Well, maybe he had. He certainly imagined them as tender and unreal and devastating, but the truth was worse, because now he actually knew. Now he knew how they felt, how you tasted - raspberry, not strawberry or cherry. How you kissed him like you wouldn’t ever have another chance to.
He’d never, ever be able to forget it.
Because all that wanting terrified him, with how sharp it was and how full. Perhaps the night would end and you’d forget it all, or that your mouth had been some trick of the light and your fingers on his collar had never really happened.
He deepened the kiss with a cautious, devotional press of his tongue, like he thought maybe if he kissed you thoroughly enough, the years wouldn’t matter. That maybe your soul would meet him halfway.
A guttural, helpless sound slipped from him the moment your tongue met his.
His hand rose to cradle the back of your head. He needed you to stay exactly where you were, no floating away.
The whimper that left you pulled him under, then your fingers curled into the longer strands at the back of his head and gave a slight tug.
Your lips barely parted from his. The space between you wasn’t even a breath wide. Foreheads pressed together and noses bumped as you panted, visibly wrecked, like the air couldn’t find your lungs fast enough.
He should’ve been satisfied. That one kiss should’ve been enough to last him another decade, but it wouldn’t.
“Please,” He sighed, lips grazing yours. “That wasn’t enough, just one more.”
You gave him a simple peck, lips barely touched his for more than a few seconds. A kiss too brief, too petal-soft, too careful. It unjustly tormented him with how small it was compared to everything he felt.
He leaned in before he could help it - not that he would’ve - seizing your mouth again with more intensity, spates upon spates of crushing desire.
He couldn’t see the smile so much as feel it; a gentle tilt of your mouth into his, like you’d just unlocked some long-buried myth of Spencer Reid. That you finally saw it: how badly he wanted you, how ruinously close he was to falling apart.
‘One more’ would never be enough.
You fisted the fabric at his chest, drawing him closer until the console pressed hard against his ribs and you couldn’t pull anymore. He bent anyway, content to let the plastic edge dig into him. As if it was proof you wanted him close enough for it to hurt.
His free hand closed around your wrist where it gripped his shirt, thumb resting over your pulse, as his mouth changed. Wetter, sloppier, with no real shape to it anymore. Just breath and tongue and the throaty sound it pulled out of him as he dragged you closer too.
You hit the console with a jolt, belly first, and it only made him grab harder after hearing you whine.
“Spencer, Spen--” You stammered between his incessant kisses.
You squirmed, trying to ease the angle, hip twisting against the console as you murmured something under your breath. Probably ow, or maybe hold on because he was being way too bold and ambitious, borderline unforgiving.
He didn’t let you go. Not an inch or a millimeter if that comfort wasn’t closer, and it wasn’t.
“No, come here,” He rasped, voice frayed.
He pulled you straight into his lap, your knees bracketing his, arms draped loosely around his neck. Your dress gathered high at your thighs, the hem bunched where his palms curved underneath, holding the backs of your legs.
Like he needed to feel every inch of your weight to believe you were real, not just in one of his daydreams, where nothing had mass and he could never quite quantify a single thing. Where he could never get the shape of your body absolutely right, never accurately remember how your voice sounded, never once imagine the exact way you’d taste.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, needing one more proof point; scent.
Something floral and sugary, likely jasmine and pear, the kind of perfume that clung to sweaters and pillowcases. Underneath it, the real you bled through; warm skin, faint shampoo, a trace of salt. Something he’d never be able to replicate in his memory.
Your head turned slightly, shoulder shifting beneath his cheek. He felt the swivel before you spoke.
“Spencer,” You crooned, eyes flicking toward the glass on each side. “Someone could see us.”
He didn’t pull back, didn’t lift his face. Just let his fingers press into the plush curve of your thighs.
“Next time,” He murmured, “We’ll be somewhere no one can see.” His voice cracked as he added, “And I’ll take my time then.”
The second the words left him, his whole body tensed. Wanting was one thing, but wanting again, the suggestion of after, that was too much. That was greedy. That was a boy’s hope, and he didn’t get to be that anymore.
You pressed both hands to his chest, trying to lean back far enough to see him. Your spine hit the steering wheel with a dull thunk, but you didn’t flinch or reposition yourself again, but his hands loosened instinctively, senselessly.
He tried not to look right at you as he turned his face toward your shoulder, toward the heat he already missed, but you found his chin and lifted. He didn’t even resist, he just blinked up at you with shallow breaths and repentant eyes.
“You want a next time?” You asked, like it hurt to say.
He didn’t understand why your voice broke like that, why asking him that question sounded like a wound ripped open.
Unless you didn’t believe he meant it. Unless you thought he’d take what he wanted and vanish. That the whole thing had been a fluke, some lapse in his otherwise sound judgment. Maybe you thought he only wanted you right there, not after, not anywhere else.
He searched for a better reason, anything other than that, and found nothing but guilt.
He saw it, clear as day. How every moment up until now had written a different story, one where he was closed off, unreadable, at arms-length. Always just out of reach.
In the hallway, at the bar, and on the sidewalk outside.
He hadn’t offered you comfort when you reached for it. Hadn’t met you emotionally, even when you’d tried to crack him open. He’d watched you smile so freely now and hadn’t even smiled back, watched you hesitate and hadn’t soothed it. And now he’d kissed you like he couldn’t function without it, and expected you to believe that meant something.
That was so very cruel, and he hadn’t meant to be cruel.
The burn behind his eyes hit hard, but he didn’t blink it away. He wouldn’t let himself look away either. He held your stare.
“I want a lot of things when it comes to you.”
You shook your head, eyes suddenly fixed on the line of buttons at his chest as your fingers toyed with one.
“You want a lot of things when it comes to me…” You said slowly, testing the shape of the words, then your lips twisted before you added, “Show me one of them then?”
It was mercy you weren’t pulling away, that you weren’t done with him.
He should’ve said something better and way sooner. He should’ve done a lot of things.
Should’ve asked you questions in the hallway, real and sincere ones, instead of pretending he wasn’t desperate to know what had changed. Should’ve joined in at the bar instead of sitting off to the side like a shadow, listening without adding a single thing.
Yet, you were still there, asking him to show you what he hadn’t been brave enough to say, and that time, he wouldn’t fail you.
“Anything for you. Anything,”
He smoothed his hand along the side of your face first, taking in the warmth of your skin again, the curve of your cheekbone, the texture of the tiny hairs near your ear. Down your neck, where he paused, his thumb brushing once over your pulse. To your shoulder, then your arm. Where goosebumps lingered from the very first second he’d touched you. He smoothed them down, wanting to calm the reaction the same way he wished he could calm the ache in your eyes. With nothing but care.
His other hand drifted lower, skimming the back of your thigh again with his fingertips, then the front, noticing the jump of your muscles there. The skin there was softer, thinner somehow, like the sun hadn’t touched that part of you in months. A few loose threads clung there too, static-welded. He brushed them off gently, careful not to press too hard, worried even that could leave a mark.
He needed to remember every detail, and he would. If his memory ever gave out, he’d relearn you with his hands. Again and again, until he got it right.
Your legs shifted wider without thought, a reflex you didn’t seem to notice or correct, like your body had decided for you. So, he followed wordlessly, his touch traveling inward, across the delicate skin of your inner thigh, then just beneath the hem of your dress.
He wanted to go higher, but he held himself where he was, letting the want stretch deliriously long between his fingertips and the place he hadn’t yet touched.
His hands ached with the want of more, but he gave it to his mouth instead as he leaned in a little too quickly, lips finding the side of your throat to place a tender open-mouthed kiss. Then another, lower, and then one just beneath your jaw, longer and hungrier.
He needed to leave a trace somewhere you couldn’t brush off.
He kissed the other side of your throat, then nipped at the skin just beneath your ear, a flick of tongue and the faintest pressure from his teeth.
“I want to show you another one,” He drawled, each word slower than the last. “Of the things I want.” He kissed your jaw once more. “Let me make you feel it.”
The turn of your head nudged his jaw, a pivot that pulled him away before he meant to stop, and he felt your gaze flick outward again.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” He said quietly. “Just say it and I will. I promise.”
He’d have done anything you asked him to right then. Anything. Said it, proved it, dropped it.
He didn’t care that you both were in a parking lot, didn’t care about the hour or the press of the world beyond the windows. All of it faded, unimportant and colorless, so long as no one took this from him, so long as you stayed.
But he cared if you cared.
Silk-light fingers trailed down his arm to his wrist until they reached his hand still resting at your thigh. You guided him higher and higher, like you knew exactly what he wanted but wanted it more.
“I don’t care about anything else right now.” You murmured, needy and sure. “I just want you.”
The sound of it, the certainty and urgency, punched square through him. His breath caught, his hips jerked up before he could stop them. A low groan tore from him as your gaze dropped, landing on the thick press of him straining through his pants.
His hand didn’t need to be led anymore; his thumb traced along the center of your underwear, where the fabric clung to you with heat and dampness. Even through it, he felt the plush seam of you underneath…so soaked, so sensitive, and parted just enough that the pad of his thumb skimmed every curve and dip of your core.
That told him everything - how much you wanted this and wanted him, and it shattered the last of his restraint.
He gripped your thighs tight, dragging you forward in his lap, mouth snatching yours in a kiss that was all tongue and shameless longing. He rutted up into you tentatively at first, then his breath hitched as he swore he could feel the slick drag of your panties through his pants. He thrust up again, harder that time, needing more and more.
Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging through the blue linen as you rocked against him, gasping into his mouth like you couldn’t get close enough either.
Want, when it came from you, wasn’t just arousing; it was unbearable because he wanted to devour it, to coax every tremble out of you and feel it in his own bones, to lose himself in what you’d let him give you.
He brought both hands to your face, cupping it fully, palms warm against your cheeks with your hair trapped flat beneath them.
The kiss stopped so he could whisper a confession, “I don’t want to want you like this,” Forehead to forehead. “So much it scares me, so much I don’t think I’ll know how to stop.”
“How do you want me?” Your voice was mild and curious as you cupped his face like he was cupping yours. “We don’t have to stop.” You pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, one under his eye, his temple, then to the crease between his brows. “I don’t want to.”
The corner of his mouth twitched and he worried he might break. Then, reverently and deeply, he kissed you so he wouldn’t. It felt like you’d just offered him something he’d spent his whole life pretending not to need.
“I want you here,” He admitted, nudging your nose with his. “And after this…I-I’ll never stop wondering how I ever got this lucky. I’ll give you everything I have, if you’ll let me.”
Your hips slowly rolled down over his, forcing a broken sound from deep in his throat.
Spencer’s hands slipped from your face to your waist, only to grip hard, holding you in place. His erection pressed firm against your center, the contact nearly too much.
His voice broke close to your ear, “If you do that again, I’ll take you right here like I said I wanted to. I don’t care who sees.”
You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you leaned in and snatched his bottom lip between your teeth, a sweet little bite that made him groan, before grinding down on him the best you could under his hold.
Once again, his mouth was on yours, capturing you in a kiss so bruising, so desperate, it made your head tip back. One hand flew to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, pressing you deeper into it like he needed to feel your mouth from the inside out.
Something inside him gave out, his sanity or his control. Maybe both.
His other hand bunched the skirt of your dress up high on your hips, fisting and wrinkling the material in a rush to get to you. When his fingers found the edge of your panties, he didn’t hesitate; he tugged them aside with a rough breath, then dragged his fingers through your arousal, smearing it across your folds.
With a whimper, you pressed yourself into his touch. Hips bucked without thought, chasing his hand, trying to shift him, guide him, anything to make his thumb land exactly where you needed it.
Then he felt your hands fumbling for his belt, clumsy and frantic, fingers trembling as they worked open the buckle, then the zipper, like you couldn’t get to him fast enough. He felt it too, that same desperation, that it wasn’t fast enough. So he helped with the rest, shoving the waistband of his boxers down just far enough to free himself, thick and flushed and aching only for you.
You looked down, breath catching at the sight of him, then glanced back up with a look he couldn’t place. He tilted his head, trying to name it: passion, maybe awe, or something that was too sentimental to name…until your thumb swept over the head of his cock, gathering the slick there and spreading it, just like he did for you moments ago.
Every thought faded into oblivion.
Your hand was soft. Too soft for what he’d done to you. He knew it, he’d gripped, ground, groaned into you like a man possessed. While you touched him like he deserved care, when he really didn’t. For one disorienting second, he felt bad. Then you rolled your hips, slick and needy, and it knocked every ounce of softness right out of him.
He helped you find him, helped you angle just right, and then froze, because the moment your body started to take him, he stopped breathing. You were so warm, so tight around him already, and he knew…he just knew there’d never be anything - anyone - else after that.
Your eyes stayed locked on his the whole way down. He held them as long as he could until it became too much and he tipped his head back, jaw clenched, fighting not to come already.
“Talk to me,” He begged, casting shame to the wayside. “Tell me what this means to you, tell me I’m not just some fuck to forget.”
He’d already said it twice, that he wanted a future, wanted to try for one. Either time, you hadn’t answered, and now, with your body wrapped around him and his heart wide open, he needed something, anything.
Because you were unforgettable, and he didn’t think he could survive not being the same to you.
Your voice wobbled, meek against his cheek. “What if the real me isn’t what you’re hoping for?”
A beat passed, somehow too short and too long, before your body sank down fully onto his cock, burying him to the hilt.
Spencer’s head jerked up, eyes fixed on yours as he rolled up into you, letting his body meet every inch of where yours had taken him. Where he felt the flutter of your muscles, inside and out.
“I know this,” He said, hips shifting deeper. “I know how you feel around me. How I feel with you. Let me learn the rest.”
“Spencer--”
He heard the worry in your voice, the tremor beneath his name.
“Then let me find out,” He said, voice cracking. “Whatever’s real, whatever’s you, I want it. Even if I don’t know you yet, I...I want to.”
You reached for the buttons of his shirt, undoing the top few to press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.
“No, you’re not someone I’ll forget,” You promised, peppering kisses over his collarbone. “You never were.”
He just kissed you, his tongue worshiping yours; wet, rhythmic, and endless, with everything he couldn’t say. A hand slid down from your waist, trailing over your stomach until his fingers found the place just above where your bodies met. He circled his fingertips over your clit, gentle and completely attuned.
Then he moved inside you again fully, each thrust deliberate and deep.
The windows fogged, breath and body heat curling into the glass, just as tightly as you curled and clenched around him.
He was losing himself, fast. Every sound you made, he tasted. Every shift of your hips to meet his, pushed him closer to the edge. He tried to slow down, tried to savor it, to make it last, but each time he did, you whimpered in protest, and his resolve crumbled.
He couldn’t deny you. Not in that moment and not ever. If you wanted more, he’d give you everything and then some.
Your mouth parted from his, but didn’t go far, lips still brushing disjointedly. The kiss wasn’t a kiss anymore, just a blur of open mouths and needy sounds as your pleasure started to build.
Spencer’s eyes fluttered open, dazed. He couldn’t help it, he had to see you, and what he found unraveled him even further: your eyes shut tight and brow creased like you were being pulled apart in the best possible way.
He felt like the luckiest man alive to be the one undoing you, and to have you undoing him.
His own climax crept up his spine like a fuse catching flame, spreading outward through his body until he could feel it in his fingertips, in the trembling of the hand still lovingly between your legs.
But he refused to let go before you, not when you were that close. Definitely not when your body thrummed around him like you were already half there.
He leaned in, mouth dragging down your jaw to your throat. His kisses turned hungrier as he searched, desperate to find that spot that would tip you over.
Spencer found it in no time; the bend where your neck met your shoulder. He knew, without a doubt, that was the place. That was where your pulse thudded too hard, too fast, where your hips shook just so. He began to nip and soothe, to tongue that spot with dreamy loops.
“Right here?” He whispered into it, his voice hoarse. “You’ll come for me if I stay right here?”
You only turned your head, offering more of your throat in silence, but silence wasn’t enough.
“Don’t do that,” He encouraged as he blew air over your sweet spot. “Don’t go quiet on me, I need to hear it.”
“Yes, please. Please,”
Spencer let out a ragged groan at the sound of your voice, at that breathless please.
He pressed a kiss to your throat again, open-mouthed and shaking, before bringing his tongue back to that spot with renewed devotion. Slow, precise circles, just like before. Exactly how you needed it.
You clung to him, quivering as your hips stuttered against his, every breath snagged on his name as he worked you closer and closer.
“Spencer, Spencer, Spencer--”
He didn’t stop, he didn’t dare. He felt it, that tension building inside you, tightening around him in waves. His hand remained between your legs - as if it had anywhere else better to be - tempting you, syncing with the movement of his tongue as your body began to quake.
Then you broke.
Your walls fluttered tight around him, spasming with your release, and the sound you made…it was high and wrecked and sensual. Something he’d never forget, something he’d seek again and again, as many times as you’d let him. He could live off the sound of it.
You slumped forward into him, boneless, your face tucked into his neck as if your body couldn’t hold itself up any longer. He fretted that it really couldn’t.
So, Spencer caught you instantly; arms winding tight around your back, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. His hips slowed and softened, the rhythm gentling into something more tender. Less urgency and more devotion.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” He said as his lips brushed your hairline, then your temple.
He didn’t stop moving inside you, not completely. He just rocked with you now, more comfort than craving, trying to soothe you from the inside out.
He couldn’t remember the last time he felt that full. Like he was right where he was meant to be, with someone who trusted him enough to fall into him, not away, and let him stay, like he’d always wanted to.
And somehow, that was what finished him; the weight of you folded into him, your heartbeat ticking in front of his own. The sound of his name still echoing in his ears, and the unbearable gift of knowing you let him have this, have you.
It rippled through him before he could brace for it. That hot, sharp, and all-consuming pleasure that had him coming with a gasp, still buried deep and holding you tight enough to shake.
Neither of you moved.
There was only the rise and fall of heavy breath, tangled together in the thick, quiet air between you. His chest rose beneath yours, yours stuttered above his.
Everything else fell away: the fogged windows, the cooled sweat, the ache in his thighs. All of it dulled beneath the warm press of your body.
He didn’t want to let go, but the moment the haze cleared, guilt settled in. There was absolutely no guilt for touching you, for wanting you and needing you like that, but for where it happened. For how fast and how exposed he let you be.
That wasn’t how he wanted your first time to be, not crushed between his body and the steering wheel as the seatbelt buckle dug into your kneecap.
You deserved a bed, a real one. Sheets pulled back, time unspooling slowly, every inch of your body seen and praised the way you deserved.
“You should’ve had more than this,” He said remorsefully against the crown of your head. “I don’t regret you, not for a second, but I hate that this is the memory I gave you.”
You straightened with soft insistence, and cupped his face in both hands. Your thumbs brushed the stubble at his jaw.
“You could say the same about yourself,” You said thoughtfully. “You deserved more than this too, Spencer. You deserved time and comfort and adoration.” His throat worked around something thick, unspeakable. “But I wanted you. So badly I couldn’t stop, and nothing you say will make me regret that or wish I had more.” Your thumbs pressed firmer, urging him to believe you.“This wasn’t a mistake. It was us, and I’ll remember that, not the car.”
Spencer’s eyes darted away, lashes low. Your words had touched something he wasn’t ready to face head on just yet. You’d answered his deepest fear so plainly, so willingly, that it frightened him with how easily you saw through him and how unflinchingly you chose him anyway.
So he busied himself with what his hands could do.
Without a word, he reached down and carefully pulled your panties over your center with respectful hands, then gently smoothed your dress back over your thighs. He tugged the hem into place, as if reassembling you meant keeping you safe.
Then he reached for the seatbelt buckle that had pressed into your knee, shoving it aside, and caressing his knuckles over the mark it left.
He still didn’t meet your gaze.
As he reached to tuck himself back into his underwear and trousers with his free hand, his movements slowed by the weight of everything unsaid and you gently nudged his hand aside.
“I got it,” You mumbled.
Spencer froze, letting you take over.
You handled him with the same care he’d given you as you guided the fabric back into place, then zipped up his fly. Next, your fingers found his belt, buckling it with ease, and when you saw the rumpled edges of his shirt, you didn’t hesitate to smooth it down and tucked it back into his pants. One hand pressed lightly to his stomach as you made sure everything was neat again.
Then you reached for the buttons you’d undone earlier. One. Two. Three.
You fastened each one with calm fingers, as if sealing something in, or keeping something precious from slipping away. He didn’t know.
Only once you were done did you look up at him again, eyes kind and open.
His mouth opened like he wanted to say something heavier, something big and permanent, but what came out instead was:
“Did you drive yourself tonight?”
It sounded awkward even to him, but the need beneath it was plain. After everything, he wanted to be useful in some way, somehow.
You shook your head no, pressing your lips together to keep a smile at bay.
“Would you let me drive you home?” His shoulders relaxed, but his voice was still tentative.
He wanted to make sure you were okay, to stay near you for as long as he was allowed.
“If Penelope will let you,” You said, a glint of humor in your eyes. “She might not forgive you for ditching her and JJ.” Then you swiftly added, “Well, us. I ditched too.”
Spencer let out a soft, almost breathless laugh. “She’ll survive.”
“Will she?” You teased. “I’m not so sure.”
Your playfulness hung in the air, and it melted any remnants of his armor. The way you looked at him, like that moment was the beginning of forever. A glimpse of the woman he already yearned to understand fully, even if it took the rest of his life.
His heart swelled, his affections poured over.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Spencer leaned in and kissed you. So gently and so slowly, and with so much gratitude and wonder that it felt like he was trying to thank you without saying a word.
His hand held your jaw, thumb brushing beneath your ear, and when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“Thank you,” He murmured, barely audible.
It didn't feel like enough, not nearly, but it was all he had without collapsing in on himself again.
You smiled so full and bright, so wide it reached your eyes and crinkled the corners. You looked happy. Truly and deeply happy.
And Spencer…he smiled back. Slow at first, like his face had forgotten how, then it grew into a small, crooked thing, but it was real.
“You know,” You said, still close enough that your noses almost brushed, “We should probably head back in…before they come looking for us. If they haven’t already and seen the windows.” You nodded toward the fogged glass and grinned.
His smile twitched wider, sheepish and a little bashful, the tips of his ears pinking.
You reached for his hand and lifted it to your lips, placing a kiss to the back of it.
It floored him, how romantic you were without even trying. It turned his spine to smoke. If that was how you expressed want, that openly and sweetly, then God help him, he’d spend all of eternity trying to deserve it and return it twice over.
“Come on,” You whispered against his skin, then released him and opened the car door with a click.
Cool night air spilled in, breaking the heat between you, but Spencer still felt warm all over. Warmer, maybe. Warmer in a way that wouldn’t fade.
He exhaled, then followed, determined to reach the bar door before you, if only to reclaim a scrap of chivalry after having sex in a car and the humbling kiss to the back of his hand.
haven’t been reading a lot of fanfic lately but i’m so glad i picked this one up
Flirting, he could’ve ducked or dodged or disbelieved...but sincerity had no handles. Nowhere to hold it and no way to deflect, so it just landed, and it landed violently.
genre : mutual pining, quiet intimacy, very inaccurate chess moves
summary : A black and white grid. A tender kiss. Gideon and you, crusading in pursuit of love. Sing! Never mind the words. And time marches on into a quiet afternoon.
notes : i dedicate this to the 3 people (including myself) who are actually serious about wanting to fuck Gideon. he is my baby girl and my worst enemy at the same time.
word count : 5.4k
Chess boards are like painted mirrors. Grids of black and white pieces reflecting each player's mind.
There's different types of players.
If you sacrifice your bishop in h3 you're an attacker. But if you move your bishop to e7, you're a defender. It's like horoscopes but for people who think they're too smart for horoscopes.
Jason Gideon is more of a strategist. Knight to f3. No, that might not be accurate. Gideon tends to play differently depending on his opponent. Maybe a flexible player. Simple opening pawn to e4 and then adjusting accordingly.
With Reid, he's strategic. More of a nuanced approach. Because Reid picks up on patterns really fast. So he has to hide his endgame behind subtle moves.
With Emily, he's tactical. He tends to force her hand. Tries to throw her off balance.
With Hotch, he's calculated. Hotch doesn't take risks, he always has a solid strategy. So Gideon wears him down slowly, positions his pieces in a way that gradually pressures him.
He's carefully placing the pieces on his board. You can hear the muffled tap of the pawns landing on their wooden squares. The tiny overhead lamp from the plane shines on his glasses on the little table between your two seats. He starts with the white pieces. He looks intensely focused. He sort of always looks that way to be fair. Lips pulled in a slight frown, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. The only reason Hotch gets the brunt of the grumpy old man jokes is that no one is brave enough to call Gideon 'the grandmaster of frowning' to his face.
There's a crease on his shirt. Just above his left elbow. Like it wasn't ironed properly. Or like the sleeve is protesting against being constantly rolled up to reveal his forearms. The top three buttons are undone. Some of his chest hair peeks through. He's done putting down the white pieces. He turns the board gently, and moves on to the black ones. His tongue quickly wets his lips.
He calls your name quietly. "You play?" he asks.
"Not really."
He seems slightly surprised. Or disappointed. You can't be sure, it's hard to get a read on him. Maybe he expects everyone to play chess. You don't want him to think less of you because you don't.
"I like sudoku better," you add. Like you're doing damage control. Or desperately trying to save your king from getting checked.
He just nods. And starts playing against himself.
Chess boards are like a ballroom. Checkered black and white floors staging each player's dance. Even if you can play against yourself, chess at its essence is a two player game. You think it suits him. Chess. He seems closed off but he's constantly looking for companionship in his own way.
You don't really play sudoku with anyone. You could technically. Nothing is stopping you from filling in the grid with someone else's help. What's nice about sudoku grids is that most of them (though not all) are designed to only have one solution. There's a wrong and a right answer for each square. No guess work. That square has to be a 1 because the one on the other row is a 7.
Maybe that's why Gideon likes chess better. Infinite variables. Infinite scenarios. Each move is mostly just guessing what the other person guessed when they guess their move from their guesswork of what you guessed. Similar to profiling if you think about it. This unsub moved their rook to h5 because their father was an alcoholic. And this one is attacking the king with their pawn because they hate women.
Or, Gideon could just be a snob who thinks chess is more intellectual than sudoku. You're just guessing.
When he plays himself, Gideon is a lot more hesitant (this is getting dangerously close to playing with himself). Like he's testing himself. It's interesting to see because when you're playing against yourself, you obviously know which move you're planning to make. So you're stuck in a guessing loop within your own mind.
He takes his time with every move. His hand rests against his chin, index tapping against his lips. He carefully moves a pawn. To you, it doesn't look that different from all the other times he moved one. His fingers gently wrap around the rounded wood to move it. But he lets out a little hum. Like this time, pawn to e5, was a deliberate reflection of an infinite amount of contingencies. All of this might sound misleading. You don't know that much about chess.
Maybe because he senses that you're still staring at him, he looks up at you from the board. His gaze always feels a bit overwhelming. His eyes are a gentle sort of brown. Like wood. Like they're part of the chess board.
He moves the pieces around, rearranging them into their original positions. And then slowly, he moves different pieces and tells you how they're allowed to dance around on the board. One square, any direction for the king. Any number of squares, any direction for the queen. One square forward for the pawn, except for the opening move.
The ring on his finger catches some of the orange light from the plane's lamp each time he moves a piece. You know he's not married anymore. You wonder why he still wears his ring.
"The best way to get a sense of it is to play," he tells you.
He starts by moving a pawn. You mirror him.
He moves his knight to somewhere along the center of the board. He's leaning back against his seat. Looking at you softly. It's distracting.
You move your knight to f6.
He studies the board for a second before moving his bishop. You're not sure what type of player he is, against you. You're not sure what move to make either. Your fingers absentmindedly play with your lower lip. You look up at him, in hesitation.
"Try moving your bishop out. Just like I did," he helps you.
Bishop to c5. "Like that?" you ask.
He nods.
He moves a pawn. You move a pawn.
He moves a knight. You move a knight.
You feel unsure of every move you make. It's just a game. But it feels like he can see how each piece you pick up feels like a mirror shard. You want to go back to the certainty of your 9x9 grids.
He moves both his king and his rook. You look at him, confused.
"It's called castling." His voice sounds quiet. Quieter than you're used to. "It's about protection. Keeping your king safe while getting your rook in the game. You'll see how it changes the board," he explains.
"How do I do that ?" you ask.
"Move the king two squares, then bring the rook across. It's a protective move, getting your pieces in position," he instructs.
You do as he says. You don't really see how that changes the board. His glasses slowly slide down the table from the plane's movements.
He moves a pawn. You capture it with one of your own.
"Good," he says with a little smile, before capturing your victorious pawn with one of his knights.
You feel an odd sense of pride. Even if he took your pawn. It sort of makes you want to avenge it. You take his knight with your knight. In vain it seems, because he quickly takes your knight with his queen.
You pout without meaning to. He lets out a quiet laugh. It surprises you. It's soft but it almost sounds like there's something warm beneath it.
"Try moving a piece to help protect your king," he tells you softly.
He grabs his glasses before they fall, and tucks them into his breast pocket. He doesn't rush you. Your eyes keep dancing back and forth along the white and black lines. You move your rook to e8.
Gideon looks at the board for a moment. Like he's considering his options. You don't think you're much of an opponent so it makes you wonder what exactly he's considering. He gives you a gentle smile before moving his queen to f6.
"Checkmate," he says.
You're confused as to how you even lost.
"You'll learn."
You wonder if the way you played told him anything about you.
Gideon's old projector makes a sort of monotone mechanical sound. Clattering from pulling each film frame into place. And humming from the fan preventing the film from melting because of the light bulb. Charlie Chaplin movies are stripes of black and white film.
You're sitting right next to the projector, in the conference room's table, turned makeshift home cinema. The projector's mechanical efforts almost blend in with the Modern Times's harsh and percussive tune for the factory scenes.
Gideon is sitting slightly in front of you, to your left. He occasionally glances back at the projector to make sure that none of the frames are snagging against the aperture gate.
Emily and JJ are focused on aiming popcorn kernels towards Reid's head. He turns to look at them all confused. When he turns his head back towards the movie, you spot a kernel stuck to his hair. Morgan and Garcia are whispering about something you can't hear. His arm is behind the back of her chair.
You gently slide your own bowl of popcorn towards Gideon.
He gives you a nod and takes a handful.
You can hear him laugh quietly at Little Tramp continuing to tighten bolts even when he's left the assembly line.
You've seen Modern Times enough times that your own hands can match the relentless bolt tightening rhythm. You look at Gideon more than you actually look at the film.
He looks completely relaxed. Leaning back in his chair. His quarter zip is a muted shade of red. It looks warm. And soft. He looks warm. Absentmindedly eating your popcorn. The bowl that you meant to share with him is almost entirely on his side. His face looks so much gentler like this. Almost boy-ish. The soft black and white glow from the film shines back on his face.
Inevitably, you reach the final frames of the film. The intertitle card that reads " Buck up! Never say die. We'll get along". The shot of Gamine and Little Tramp walking away together, against a vast uncertain landscape. The grainy credit roll.
The projector's whirring quiets down.
The others are already drifting away. Emily finally brushes down the lone kernel stuck to Reid's hair. JJ pinches Garcia's side and asks her what she was whispering about with Morgan this whole time. Hotch pats Gideon on the shoulder as thanks.
You don't really move.
The screen is empty. A flash of white before it turned completely black. Like it was telling you clearly, if you didn't get it before : "the show is over". You glance at Gideon. He seems pensive, sort of distant, lost in his own uncertain landscape. Face pulled back again in that perpetual frown. He's carefully taking the film roll out.
"Can we watch another one?" you ask him impulsively. You don't know why.
"Another one ?" He turns to look at you. His fingers distractedly run along the film. He gives you a soft smile. It's barely there. "Pick one." He nods towards his box of film rolls.
You slowly look through the rolls. Most of the titles are familiar — City Lights, The Kid, Modern Times — and they all have a familiar feel to them. The film cans are cold under your fingers. You can feel some dents and bumps on their surfaces. There's a couple fingerprint impressions etched on the patina. You wonder if they're his.
"You've got a lot of Chaplin films," you comment.
You take out the can labeled Modern Times and hand it to him for him to put the film back in it. Your fingers brush against his for a second.
"There's something about Chaplin," he says quietly, putting the film back in its can. "He has this way of saying so much without saying a word. I suppose it's… more relaxing for me."
He says it like he's not just sharing a fact with you. Like he's letting you in on something personal, something that matters to him. Like a silent invitation, to understand him a little more.
And it's sort of endearing. How he finds comfort in Chaplin movies. It's not that they're childish. Not exactly. They just seem that way on the surface. But when he softly laughs at the absurd scenes, it's like for a moment, he's choosing to take bolt tightening at face value. Not looking for any other meaning. About factories or about humanity. Just appreciating the simplicity of it. It's a little like rereading The Little Prince as an adult. It also seems childish on the surface. But if you think about it, it's not. Yet, sometimes, it's nice to read it that way. To forget about the adult complexities and just read it with childlike wonder. Maybe Chaplin's films are like that for him too.
He gently makes his way towards you. The sleeve of his quarter zip brushes against your hand when he puts the film can back in its spot. It feels really soft. It's a shame that for once, he doesn't have his sleeves rolled up.
He takes out another can. The label is really faded. More than the other ones. You read "A Woman of Paris" in his messy handwriting.
"This one's different." It's only the two of you, and yet, he speaks incredibly quietly. Not quite whispering, but almost. Like this is a well-kept and treasured secret he's decided to share with you. "It's the only Chaplin film where he doesn't appear on screen as an actor," he tells you.
You tilt your head. "Really ? I've never heard of it."
He smiles. He looks lost in his thoughts. Like he's looking back in time. Like he's going through film frames in his head. "It's not a typical Chaplin film. There's no slapstick. No Tramp. It's a drama. About love, loss and the choices we make." He pauses for a moment. Lightly running his finger on top of the faded label. You faintly hear his ring clatter against the metal of the can.
"He's not in it, but it's his most personal film in a way."
He turns and looks at you gently. "You should watch it."
You talk quietly about movies. Not just Chaplin films, but others too. It's easy. Easier than chess. Talking to him. Even though your tastes are different. It doesn't feel awkward. It's warm. And comforting. The way he talks about the films he loves. Calm and certain. No guessing. He's not just discussing the stories. He tells you why they matter to him. And he asks you why the ones you love matter to you. It nice. You don't even end up watching another one.
There's a mathematical conjecture that 17 is the smallest number of starting clues you can have in a standard 9x9 Sudoku grid that still guarantees only one unique solution.
The one you're currently playing only has 15. It feels odd, writing down with your pencil different numbers in each square, when you know that it might not be entirely correct. A puzzle having different solutions doesn't mean that any of the solutions is wrong. It's just that there's infinite wrongs and infinite rights. Maybe you've abandoned your need for certainty to feel closer to Gideon in your own way.
You're sitting down on the red little chair in his office. Right in front of his desk. It's really comfortable. You're almost tempted to rest your feet on the other one in front of you.
You're waiting for him to finish reviewing your press release form so you can go home. You sometimes look up from your puzzle to stare at him. His glasses are slowly falling down his nose. He's still frowning, but it's in concentration, you've come to learn. The lamp on his desk makes his eyes glow gently. They still remind you of wood. But not as daunting as a chess board anymore. More like a solid reliable tree. He sometimes taps his pen against the desk. Like a metronome of his thoughts.
This grid isn't going particularly well. You can't fill in most of the squares with any amount of certainty. You usually write down the possibilities on the upper corner of the boxes. A tight line of penciled in numbers. But this time, the possibilities take over the entire square. 1 through 9. You can't even narrow it down. You're pulling at your lower lip with your fingers. Like it'll somehow pull the wrong answers off the page.
"You're taking longer than usual on this one," Gideon notes. He sounds curious. He's still reading over your report.
"I'm stuck," you reply simply.
He tilts his head, glancing up at you finally. "Mind showing me?"
You lean over his desk and put your puzzle over the report.
You point to a specific square with your pencil. Row two, column seven.
"There's too many possibilities for this one. And I can't narrow it down without having to guess," you complain.
"And that upsets you," he deduces.
You hesitate, looking back at the puzzle. You tap your pencil against the square, lost in thought.
"Yes," you admit finally. "Because I'm not good at guessing."
He leans forward just the tiniest bit. His fingers brush against yours as he shifts the paper to get a closer look. He doesn't move his hand. Neither do you. You're still staring at the offending square.
"It's not wrong to take your time," he says lowly.
You look back up at him. Your gaze drops to his lips, then back to his eyes. He holds your gaze. Patient but still intense. Still a bit overwhelming.
Before you can process it fully, he leans in just enough for your lips to brush. Like he's making the first guess for you. You can feel his breath against your face. You can see the little indent from his glasses at the very top of his nose.
It's a soft, tentative kiss. His hand moves from the Sudoku grid to your face. Resting gently against your cheek. You have to hold on to his arm to not fall over on his desk. Thank god he has his sleeves rolled up this time. You feel his skin under your palm. It's warm. And you can feel some of the veins beneath the surface.
The kiss deepens just a little. It's still gentle, still restrained. But his other hand tangles in your hair, at the back of your neck, to pull you closer to him.
He pulls away slightly. His forehead resting against yours.
"You don't have to guess everything… sometimes, you just know," he whispers.
Without thinking, you kiss him again.
You're not good at guessing. And you're not good at knowing either it seems.
You're closer to Gideon than before. That you know. He touches you more. And more comfortably. A hand to your lower back when passing by you at the station. Gently caressing your hair when he goes back to his office. His fingers brushing against yours more often, more insistently. Leaning behind you to see how you're doing on your puzzles.
But you don't talk about the kiss. About the guessing. About the knowing. You don't talk about any of it. The silence between you stretches wider, and though the small touches reassure you, they only raise more questions.
And you still haven't solved that Sudoku grid. There's a reason the real, legit grids have the 17 clues. Because otherwise they quickly become impossible to solve.
This is why infinities don't work for you.
Things have to be certain. For them to work. For them to matter.
When a jury deliberates on a verdict, it has to be beyond a reasonable doubt.
When a surgeon decides to operate on a patient, they have to be sure of every single step.
Certainty is the essence of trust. You don't trust an "I guess" — you trust an "I'm sure".
Still, you're full of doubts when you knock on Gideon's hotel room door. The jet is chartered for the night, so you're going back to DC tomorrow. For tonight, Hotch said that you're free to do what you want. But then he saw how deviously Morgan smiled, so he added quickly and sternly, "Don't be late tomorrow morning" with a pointed look.
Gideon opens the door. His expression soft but tired. Glasses still sliding down his nose.
The hallway is oddly quiet. The electrical humming from the neon lamps. The sound of his fingers tapping against the door. Your nails tapping against your deck of cards' cover.
You hold it up to show it up to him.
"Care to play?" you ask
He just gently smiles and opens the door wider for you to come in.
His room is messy. Not in a careless way, more like an organized chaos. A coat draped over the desk chair. Notes scribbled on the hotel yellow notepad and spread out next to a half drunk cup of coffee. A paperback face down on the night stand, spine cracked (his biggest offence to date. you should get him a bookmark). His chess set on the little coffee table, pieces already weaved through the black and white grid.
Gideon's space always ends up looking like a still life of someone deep in thought. Not cluttered, just eclectic. Each object left out is like a branch of some thought still in motion. Like his mind is too busy dancing through infinite possibilities to stop and tidy up after itself. It's like him. All those scattered pieces feel like a reflection of the way he sees the world. Never just one answer, or one path, or one explanation. Everything left to an inquisitive doubt. Left open. Everything connected.
You both settle on the little couch.
"What do you want to play?" He leans his head against his hand, elbow resting on the back cushion, watching you shuffle.
"Go Fish," you decide. "But with a twist. You get to ask a question each time you complete a set of four matching cards."
You deal the cards out between you. They sharply clatter against each other, landing with a muffled thud against the couch's material.
He watches your hands carefully, like he's already trying to figure out your cards from the way you shuffle.
"You go first," he offers.
You glance at your hand, then up at him. "Do you have any twos ?"
He hums thoughtfully, sorting through his hand. "Go fish."
You draw from the deck. The corners of his mouth twitch slightly. Like he's holding back a smile.
He studies you for a second too long before asking, "Do you have any fours?"
You sigh and hand one over. "I'm already regretting this."
"I'm not even winning," he says mildly.
"Yet."
He chuckles softly. "Any nines ?"
"Go fish."
He draws a card and waits for your turn. You can hear a faint swish when he slides his new card into his hand.
"Fives ?"
He gives you two. Your fingers brush against each other when he hands you the cards.
When you collect your first full set — four aces — you stack them in front of you and raise your eyebrows at him.
"Rules are rules," you say proudly. "I get a question."
Gideon watches you patiently, one eyebrow slightly raised. He's not exactly observing you. Not in the way he typically observes things. Not in the getting into your head and figuring out your deepest secret way. It's more like he's trying to learn you.
You think for a second. "What's the most ridiculous thing you've ever done for fun?"
A flicker of surprise, and then that soft, fleeting smile. "Fun isn't usually what people associate with me."
"That's why I'm asking," you reply with a soft smile.
His hand scratches the side of his head. His lips sort of jut out. Like they're also thinking of an answer.
"When I was in college, I used to sit in the theatre building afters hours. When it was empty."
He shifts slightly, deciding whether to keep going or not to keep going. That is the question.
"I'd stand on stage and recite monologues. Just to the room. To hear how the words sounded in the air."
"What kind of monologues ?" you ask.
He laughs lightly, at himself you think. "Andrew Lloyd Weber mostly."
You can't help but let out a little chuckle. "You had a Broadway phase ?"
"I wouldn't call it a phase. I still think Evita is brilliant."
You grin at him teasingly. "Did you sing?"
He hesitates. He looks just the tiniest bit flustered. "Once. I tried Music of the Night."
Your eyes widen.
"Did anyone hear you?"
He flicks the corner of one of his cards back and forth. "The janitor came in during the last verse." He shakes his head with a nostalgic smile on his lips. "He applauded. I suppose he was being polite."
You're biting your lower lip to stifle some of your laughter but he can definitely hear you.
"Can you sing something for me?" you manage to ask through your giggles.
"No."
It's still your turn. "Any sevens ?"
"Go fish."
You're still grinning when you reach for the deck.
"Any fives?" he asks.
You groan. "You know I have fives." You hand him the three fives you had in your hand.
He lays down his full set of fives. Glances at you over his cards. "My turn, then."
You straighten slightly.
He only thinks for a second. "What's something you've always wanted to try?"
You blink. Surprised by how gentle he sounds.
"I don't know," you say honestly. "I think I want to learn how to sail."
He nods like he understands.
The game goes on, a few cards traded back and forth. Your fingers brush against each other each time. And each time they linger longer and longer. He hands you a pair of sevens. You hand him one jack.
Then he wins again. Lays down four fours.
You pout at him. He doesn't even look smug about it. Just calm. But this time he takes longer before asking : "What's the most vulnerable thing you've shared with someone?"
You look down at your hand of cards. Not because you're thinking of your answer. You already know. One of the sevens he gave you is folded at the corner. Seven of hearts. You smooth it out.
"I once told someone that I didn't think I was good at being happy. That even when things were going well, I was always bracing for when they'd fall part."
You're counting the hearts on the card. There's seven of them. No surprises there. You look up at him. His expression is still as unreadable as ever. But he doesn't look cold. Just pensive.
"Did they understand?" he asks.
You nod. "They said they felt the same."
He asks if you have any jacks again. You don't. He draws from the pond. You ask if he has any queens. He doesn't. You draw from the pond.
You reach for the deck, lift up the top card. It slides gently away from the pile. You look down. Seven of spades.
The last seven you needed. Lucky. Certain.
You go quiet for a moment then slowly put down your full set forward. Four sevens neatly fanning out against the couch's cushion.
Gideon looks at them then back at you. Waiting patiently for your question.
Your heart beats a little faster. You play with the folded corner of the seven of hearts again. Your voice is tentative. Folded in doubt when you ask : "Why did you kiss me?"
You can't bear to look at him. Because you're certain he's going to say that it was a mistake.
You wait for his answer. You can see his finger tapping against his lips. His hand lifts up behind his glasses to itch the inner corner of his eye.
"I don't know," he answers plainly.
That's not good enough of an answer for you. Maybe certainty is the enemy of discovery. You decide to push your luck. Lucky sevens after all.
"Jason," you say. Pleading. Demanding.
His lips part just the tiniest bit. He looks at you. Really looks at you. He closes his eyes for a second. His finger going from the corner of his eye to the bridge of his nose.
Checkmate.
He takes a small breath.
"I kissed you because… I wasn't sure about anything. But I wanted to be sure about that."
You pull at your lower lip again. Look back down at your cards. You're not sure what to do. Or what to say. "… Do you have any twos?"
He hands one to you. Two of clubs. Hesitation. Contradiction. You add it to your hand quietly.
And then you put your cards facing down, on the couch besides you.
You lean forward. One hand finding the side of his face, while the other lands on his knee to keep you balanced. You feel his slight stubble under your palm.
You kiss him.
Not like last time. Not as a brush or as a guess. As something infinitely certain and infinitely doubtful.
He exhales softly against your lips. Like the relief of something he's been holding back finally slipping free. His hand finds your waist, pulling you closer to him with a quiet kind of urgency.
You vaguely register the sound of his cards falling. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading gently through your hair.
You tilt your head slightly, deepening the kiss. It's slow but not tentative. Like a conversation you've both been avoiding finally unfolding without words.
His thumb brushes your cheek as his lips part slightly.
Your knees on either side of his thighs. The world around you narrows down to the warmth of his mouth, the gentle way he hols you and the way your own heartbeat stutters in your chest.
Your hand rests on his chest. You can feel the soft fabric of his wrinkled shirt, his skin where the buttons aren't closed, the steady rise and fall of his breath.
You shift your weight slightly, pressing in closer. He lets out a soft groan before pulling away.
He gently runs his thumb on your cheek before letting out a breathless chuckle. "I don't want to rush things."
You can't help the fond smile that makes its way onto your face.
"Okay," you say before giving him one last kiss. As sweetly as you can. "It's still my turn I think."
Jason's quarter zips are definitely as soft as they look. You like the muted red one best. That's the one you steal from him the most often. It's the one you're wearing now. It's warm. A little too big. Smells like him. You're not sure if anyone can tell that it's his.
You're sitting at your desk, playing chess with Reid to pass the time. It's your move, but your fingers hover over the board without touching a piece.
Reid studies the board for a moment longer before standing. "You can take your time. I'm going to get coffee."
You nod, still staring down at the black and white grid. The pieces blur slightly as your thoughts drift.
You don't really notice Jason approach until he's already beside you. He doesn't say anything right away. Just gently caresses the top of your head. He leans down, voice low enough that only you can hear it.
"Move your bishop to c4," he murmurs.
You turn to look at him. He's close. Closer than he probably should be with this many people around. If either of you leaned in a little more, you could kiss.
You don't. Lean in a little more. Of course not.
"You're not sabotaging me, are you?" you ask quietly, a teasing edge to your voice.
He lets out a soft laugh, and shakes his head fondly. "No darling."
You reach up, and casually push his glasses back up his nose.
He gives you one last look, soft and warm, then straightens and walks back towards his office.
Welcome to my birth month celebration! This community truly made this fandom so special and it brought back the joy of writing, so I wanted to celebrate my birthday with you guys + participate in spooktober and kinktober. Hence, esoctober hehe.
For my birthday, you can give me “gifts” aka send me any (or all!) of the following in my inbox:
Songs you associate with Spencer Reid
Book recommendations and why you love them
Movies that you think Criminal Minds characters will enjoy
Links to images/pinterest boards that remind you of my fics
I’ll compile all of them into one big masterpost on my birthday, October 13th. This is really just an excuse to yap with everyone and get more recommendations haha. Also, in general, I LOVE getting comments on my fics so if you could do that if you enjoyed my stuff, I'd give you virtual forehead kisses forever.
Now, onto what I’m gonna be doing! Here’s a schedule of what’s ahead!
MGG Multiverse aka Kinktober fics of other MGG characters
Oct. 10 - Chip Taylor + corruption + sugar mommy
Oct. 11 - Lesley JunimentSmith + breeding kink
Oct. 12 - Raymond Wadsworth + ghost sex
Birthday “Gift” Compilation
Oct. 13
Spencer Reid Kinktober
Oct. 24 - 28
(More details will be added on September 25!)
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader
Category: Smut 18+ MDNI, FLUFF
Summary: Spencer comes out of the shower looking like a wet dog and it’s enough to send you on your knees.
Content: 2.9k words, established relationship, size kink, hand job, blow job and deep throating, choking on dick, sub!Spencer undertones, dacryphilia, Spencer says something slightly mean but it’s resolved quickly, Spencer cums too soon.
a/n: My google search history will get me on a watchlist one day, and it’s all because of these fics. Combination of Rucha’s request, anon who gave me the “getting rid of reader’s gag reflex” idea, also hi to this anon who requested dacryphilia for kinktober, October came early hehe.
You make your attraction to your boyfriend very clear. Sometimes, perhaps, to the point of comical exaggeration, so much so that it makes Spencer Reid suspect that you may only be teasing him. His doubts aren't unwarranted—not because of you, of course. But growing up the way he did—knobby joints and limbs too long, too scrawny, too smart, too much yet somehow simultaneously still not enough—makes the notion of desire and romance feel out of his reach.
He doesn't quite know how to deal with being the subject of your desire. To be on the receiving end of your undivided attention. An object of lust. Really, him, of all people?
You, meanwhile, revel in his confusion. Sending such a brilliant man into spirals is an achievement you wear with pride, and a challenge you consistently tackle head on.
So when you drape your arms over his shoulders, the soft furrow of his brows makes something in your chest curl. Love. A sense of power. The heady, addictive combination of both.
Droplets from his wet hair scatter all over your wrist and upper arms, still warm from his shower. The heat from your skin keeps them from cooling. Spencer huffs, a nervous smile on his face as his hands land on your hips. Warm, pruned fingers flexing and squeezing into your body, testing out the authenticity of your existence. An overactive imagination came with his genius, and he wants to make sure you aren't something conjured from his fantasies.
You aren't. You're solid, and he isn't in the mood to test any more hypotheses as to why you're currently in his arms.
“Hey, angel,” he whispers the nickname like he's holding the very thing, his unworthy palms making contact with something heavenly.
“Hi baby,” You coo, light and pretty as birdsong, “Did you have a nice shower?”
He chuckles, unsure of what you want but enjoying the guessing game all the same. He loves games. He loves them even more when it involves you, and your affection. “I did. I used the conditioner you got for me.”
Your hands tangle into his hair when he mentions that, humming as you squeeze out the strands, “You didn't do the routine though.”
“I know, I didn't want to stay in there too long,” He says sheepishly. You'd lovingly pointed out a curly hair routine for him before, and on days where he has the time, he tries to do them. Often than not, he's a bit too busy with work. Right now though, there’s other reasons for his rush. “I wanted to spend as much time as I could with you.”
“Is that so?” you giggle, and he swears he's about to tip over.
“Yeah. I missed you all week.”
“Really?”
“Really. In fact, I missed you while I was showering.” He smiles all dopey and soft, body flushed with his love for you. His breath becomes a prisoner lodged somewhere between his chest and throat when your lips widen into a bright smile as a result of his words.
“Did you?” your body presses into his nearly naked one, hips flush.
He gulps, knowing you could feel his body reacting to your proximity. The slightest bit of affection from you and he’s already aching, fingers digging into your hips as he closes the distance between your mouths in place of a proper answer. The kiss muffles your giggles, a sound so precious he’s uncertain if he’d like to record it and play it for the rest of the world, or keep, selfishly, to himself.
You press into him further, and he’s following your lead, feet padding backwards. Stumbling. Slightly unsure, but he trusts your judgement, trusts wherever it is you’re planning to take him.
The couch, it turns out, so overstuffed it swallows his form when he sinks onto it. Somewhere along the way, his towel had slipped on the floor, no doubt by the insistence of your frisky, demanding hands. You break apart from him, lips kiss swollen and pulled into that familiar, cheshire cat smile as you sink to your knees between his spread legs.
Gently, he keeps you back, brows knit as he surveys your position. With worry dancing in his eyes, he cups your cheek and whispers, “You don’t have to do that, angel.”
“I wanna,” you insist, palms wrapping around the base of his already half-hard cock.
The feeling chokes the breath from him, but he forces himself to focus. “But it hurt you the last time.”
“No, baby, it didn’t. I just gagged a little, that’s all.” You reply with a soft giggle. Your breath washes over the sensitive skin of his length as you do so. It’s dumbfounding that such a tiny shift of air could send shivers prickling down his spine, but perhaps it’s more because of the very existence of you (here, in his apartment, and against all odds, his) than the action itself.
“Yeah, you did. It was honestly a little surprising."
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t catch the edge in your voice, hurtling forward with a hasty reply, “Well you just seem so experienced.”
“Are you saying I got around?”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant at all!” His eyes widen comically, large hands framing your face and gripping with a desperation that makes you laugh. “Please, that’s not—why are you laughing?”
“Relax, Spence, I know what you mean. I think.”
He burns, from the tops of his cheeks and crawling everywhere like spilled water. Fighting through the ache in his chest—you’re so, so bad for his breathing—he manages to croak, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything mean, just… surprised, is all.”
“That I had a problem last time?” another stroke, and another, slowly both hands in tandem. He can feel himself throbbing, and it’s a little embarrassing how little it takes for you to coax him into an aching erection.
His voice breaks as he responds, “Yeah. You don’t have to do it, if it’s an issue.”
“It’s no big deal, baby. You just triggered my gag reflex, it wasn’t life or death,” you pump his length gently as you explain, twisting your fists every time you move down. The twitch of his thighs tells you you’re having the exact effect you want from him. “I’ve never had anyone as big as you before.”
“You called me a choking hazard.”
As you laugh, your breath wafts over his heated length, and nearly undoes him.
“What? You did!”
“I know,” your tongue skims over the slit of his tip, before gently circling its circumference, collecting as much of his precum as possible, before your soft lips part wider, stretching wide to take the broad head. Carefully, your tongue caresses the underside, spreading sticky, warm wetness as far as it can go.
Spencer wonders if it’s socially acceptable to pass out in the middle of getting a blow job. If he did, it wouldn’t be his first social faux pas, but the thought of being unconscious while you wrap those sinfully plush lips around him feels like a waste. How dare he lose consciousness while he has you on your knees for him? No, the only way to get through this is by being completely wide awake, and focused on you.
So he distracts himself, if only to keep from fainting, the best way he knows how.
“You know, the biggest trigger for your gag reflex is usually psychological.” he feels your laughter vibrating from his length, up his spine. An endearing crack in his voice comes as a result as he continues, “It’s true—this is your brain protecting you because it thinks the matter is life or death.”
You pull off, pressing your sticky, curling lips against the side of his shaft. Spencer whines at the loss, large eyes already glassy as they plead with you wordlessly. Come back, he seems to beg, why did you stop? But he’s perfect and patient, and never demands, so he shuts his mouth.
Smirking, you mumble, “But I know I’m not in danger. You’re just huge.”
“Well, uh, yes admittedly, that’s a factor too. Somatogenic stimulus.” at your raised brow, he hastens to explain, “T-that means it hits trigger points inside your mouth that sends signals to your brain. In response, your pharynx contracts to prevent you from choking.”
“What if I want to choke?” your pout glistens with his slick and your own saliva.
Spencer wants to weep.
“There’s certainly ways to, um, train your gag reflex.”
“Yeah?” you brighten, tongue flicking out and tracing the vein on the underside of his length.
He feels himself twitching in your hands, voice breathless and strangled as he responds.
“Yeah. A lot of it involves simply relaxing,” slowly, his hand comes to your hair, pushing back the strands from your temple, “Breathe through your nose before going deeper. If it hits the back of your throat, don’t panic and make sudden movements.”
“Seems like you know a lot about giving head, baby.”
Spencer can’t help but laugh at your jest, thumbs caressing the softness of your cheeks. “Maybe I do. Maybe I did my research after the first time you tried it.”
“Mhm, nerd. That’s why I love you.” you giggle, lashes fluttering and skimming over the tops of your cheeks as you close your eyes and lean into his warm, steady palm. “Good thing you told me. Now we can test it out.”
Without warning, you take him into your mouth again, pretty lips stretching wide to accommodate his girth. A soft, tortured gasp tears past his mouth when your cheeks hollow in, sucking eagerly at the tip before your mouth relaxes.
He manages to take a breath, labored and panicked despite his earlier advice for you to stay at a relaxed state. In contrast, you’re completely at ease, eyes sparkling mischievously and peeking up at him from beneath your lashes. He swears you’re smirking. Your mouth is wrapped around him but he just knows, okay, you’re smirking one of those sweetly mocking smirks you like to flash his way just because you know he’s utterly yours.
“Angel,” he exhales, and your head surges forward, jaw relaxing further, and he feels the slight drag of teeth against the oversensitive skin of his cock. It’s warm and wet, and his fingers reflexively tighten in your hair, curling around the strands for something to ground him.
It stings, this new grip, but deliciously so, a pain that heightens your senses and makes your own thighs clench together. But this is about him, and you’re enjoying the view in front of you. Spencer Reid, reduced to the most pathetic whimpers. Spencer Reid who doesn’t know his own strength and is all but pulling you by the hair with how rigidly he’s wound your hair around his fingers.
God, you feel drunk.
Filled with more confidence, you breathe slowly as he’d instructed, before taking him deeper, watching as almost half of his length disappears into your mouth. Now faced with some confirmation that you can, indeed, take more, you push further until he hits the back of your throat and that treacherous reflex triggers.
The sound you make seems to shake Spencer from his trance, hazel eyes blinking rapidly as he shuffles his hips away.
“Are you okay?” he blusters, all clear eyed focus now. He tries to pull you off of him, hands migrating to your shoulders.
You nod, brows furrowing into a stubborn, warning look. He immediately backs off, protests dying on his lips as you remain on your knees. Fisting over the rest of his cock that you couldn’t fit into your mouth while simultaneously bobbing your head up and down what you could take.
“O-oh my god,” Spencer’s hands return into your hair, pushing back the strands that have fallen over your forehead.
Knowing that he’s overly sensitive, you moan around his length. His body tenses, shivers, filling you with enough confidence to bob your head up again, deeper this time, and more prepared. When his tip reaches the back of your throat, it feels more like a kiss than a nudge.
“Fuck!”
You moan in response, eyes flashing up to meet his awestruck gaze, before pulling away. Twin gasps for air; you from an exhilarating sense of accomplishment, Spencer from a flushed, dizzy haze.
“That was so good,” he slurs, body bending down to catch your lips. Your giggles are swallowed by his insistent kisses, tongue pushing into past your lips as though he wants to taste himself through your mouth. “So good, honey, you did it deeper than the last time.” he’s babbling into the kiss, hands cradling your head back.
You moan, shift to a more comfortable angle on the floor, before breaking the kiss, your lips connected by a glossy string of saliva.
“I wanna try again,” you whisper, pushing him back, “Just sit back and enjoy, Spence.”
Without waiting for his response, you take him into your mouth again, relaxing and breathing as steadily as you can, before you begin the rhythm. He’s groaning above you, one hand fisted on his cushions, the other at the crown of your head, holding back your hair.
Again, spurred by his reactions and a sense of boldness, you pull back until only his tip remains in your mouth. Your cheeks hollow as you suck, preparing yourself mentally for another attempt. Holding his cock steady at the base, you lower your mouth slowly, slowly, over his length, blinking through the tears that prickle at the corners of your eyes when you feel him sliding past your tonsils and down your throat.
“Fuck!” Spencer cries out. His whole body is tense, every single muscle flexing as he holds back the desire to thrust into the wet warmth of your mouth. He can’t tell which of you is more affected, more defiled. You or him? He thought you’d be in a position of power, as you usually are, as he usually surrendered to you, but right now it seems you’re both equally ruined.
The mere sight of you tearing up and gagging gently around him, struggling to keep him inside your tight throat nearly undoes him. When he feels your nose nestling over the skin of his lower abdomen, he can’t help it. A sob escapes. Big fat tears chase each other down his cheeks as he feels your throat contracting around him.
He can’t lift his teary-eyed gaze from your prone figure. Somehow, despite it all, you’re still looking up at him, the tears down your cheeks mirroring his. Before he knows it, his cock twitches, and then he’s bursting thick, hot ropes of his spend directly down your throat.
It takes you completely by surprise. You were only trying to see if you could take him all the way; triumph had curled in your chest when you did, but only for a moment as you felt him swell impossibly bigger, and then he’s cumming.
Down your throat.
You’re choking on both his cock and his cum.
It’s difficult not to panic, and once you start, your brain fires off at every self-preservatory neuron. Gagging around him, your own tears burn hot streaks down your cheeks, until he pulls you off his shaft and onto his lap.
“Oh, angel,” he sniffles, arms encircling your waist tightly, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, oh my god.”
He’s sobbing into your shoulder, one hand tucking your head against the crook of his neck. As you cough and regain your breath, his scent fills your senses, the familiar evergreen of his soap and the spicy aftershave, and for a moment, all you can think of is how you’re drooling all over his freshly washed skin.
“I’m fine, Spencer, really.” You hug him back tight, heart drumming in your ears as you calm back down, “I made a mess.”
He angles his head to take a look, eyes skimming over the mixture of saliva and cum dripping from your lips, down your chin and neck, and shakes his head. “No, you–I think you’re beautiful.”
“You’re just saying that cause I gave you great head.”
He laughs through his tears, hands moving to frame your face. His thumbs drag over your cheeks, brushing away your tears. “No, that’s not true. You know that.”
“I do.” You smile, leaning in tentatively, unsure if he’d want to kiss you with such messy lips. Spencer has no such qualms, meeting you halfway and groaning as he tastes himself on your tongue.
“I think you’re divine.” he murmurs as he begins kissing along the corners of your mouth, cleaning off his spend by his own lips. You weren’t expecting him to do something so filthy, and every lick of his tongue gives you a delicious shiver. “The prettiest. I’m sorry I hurt you.”
“Stop apologizing,” you admonish, shifting on his lap to wrap your legs around his waist, “I told you, I wanted it. Seems like you enjoyed it too.”
“Immensely,” he admits, lips now at your jaw, nipping playfully at the sensitive skin, “But now, I think it’s time I take care of you.”
You press your hips against his with a giggle, "Yeah? You want to make a mess elsewhere?"
He groans, embarrassed, but doesn't deny it.
i love them so much they make me so fucking sick. pls reblog and comment if you enjoyed, thank you for reading!!!!
where do i even begin oh my god starting off with the fact that i suck at keeping up to date with fics but erika damn you should’ve fucking shaken me around and screamed into my dm’s to have read this the second you posted it because i’m a changed (and hornier) woman now
2. “testing out the authenticity of your existence” yupppppppppp
3. i haven’t watched cm in so long and you wrote spencer so well (as always) that i was like fuck this is why i love my husband i forgot what he was like
4. did the mutual crying make my eyes water? yes. would i usually be ashamed to admit that deepthroating made me emotional? yes. do i now not care because it seems sentimental? yes.
love u erika you write so phenomenally it blows my mind every time and this is not biased even though i love u sm as a person too 💋
Waldorf!reader universe | gif by the bestest @reidgif | I got this prompt “Characters are tasked with digitizing the BAU’s records... all of them... In the tiniest filing room” from this prompt list!
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Waldorf!reader
Category: fluff! office shenanigans!
Summary: When Hotch finds out about your scheming on the previous field case, his punishment comes in the form of old records, a tiny filing room, and a genius with allergic rhinitis. Somewhere along the way, the punishment begins feeling more like respite and Spencer shifts from your nerdy coworker to something resembling a friend.
Contents: 3.9k words, reader’s personality is based on Blair Waldorf, glasses!Spencer, Derek calls you ‘princess’, father figure Hotch, one reference to this fic but you don’t need to read it to understand.
a/n: First Hotch appearance in my fics, can you believe it. The little vignettes at the end were SO fun to write, also it made me crave croissants. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!
“Hotch wants to see you.”
Dreadful words for anyone to hear, but the soft whistle of surprise from Derek and the concerned glance from Spencer are somewhat of an overkill. JJ, the angelic bearer of bad news, gives you a reassuring smile as she walks away from the bullpen.
“What’d you do now, princess?” Derek inquires, though the concern in his voice is drowned by the obvious teasing, the need for gossip.
“Hey,” you glare half heartedly at the handsome, smirking man across your desk, “That implies I’ve a reputation for being in trouble.”
“Don’t you?”
“Derek Morgan, how dare you imply such a thing?”
“This is the third time since you’ve been here,” Spencer seems to think that the perfect time to volunteer his statistics is right when you’re beginning to grow nervous, “And you’ve only been with us for a month and two weeks, and—”
“I didn’t realize you were counting each and every day you’ve had the pleasure of working with me, Dr. Reid.” you tease as you rise, smoothing down your skirt.
He frowns, flushes scarlet. A few feet away, Derek laughs.
On slow days like this, it’s easy to slip into such pretenses. Exchanging quips and light remarks to alleviate the tedious piles of paperwork, like you’re working a regular office job and the most exciting thing that could happen is an inter-office affair, or someone getting in trouble.
“All of that to say,” Spencer continues, frowning at the older man, “Three meetings in under two months is rather unusual. So Morgan is correct in implying that. You do have a bit of a reputation.”
“My, my, look at that. Do you keep track of every single thing an agent does, Dr. Reid, or am I just lucky?” you gasp. A hand pressed to your chest, a show of theatrics to disguise the growing anxiety. Spencer doesn’t dignify you with a response, shoulders slumping as he turns his attention back to his screen.
He’s right, of course, even you can admit that three in under two months is excessive, especially for such a new agent. You have an idea as to why Hotch is calling for you this time, and you know this infraction is going to require something harsher than a simple stern reminder, which had been all you got from last time.
“I’m sure I’ll survive,” you begin walking away, pointing a warning finger at Spencer, “Don’t let Morgan sneak his files into my desk while I’m gone.”
The ascent to Hotch’s isolated office is becoming frighteningly familiar. The first time he’d called you up here had been to warn you that underhanded dealings are unwelcome within the BAU. It had been a polite way of calling out your attempts to bribe Penelope into letting you have the team’s classified files.
(The tech genius hadn’t allowed it, despite all your gifts of croissants and freshly brewed coffee from the fancy cafe she liked. You had to accept defeat, however begrudgingly. Loyalty seems to run deep within this team, something you're unaccustomed to; your last department had all been ready to stab each other in the back.)
You’d managed to get through that with relative ease, citing research and genuine curiosity as the driving factors behind your actions.
“I simply wanted to be thorough, sir, Section Chief Strauss didn’t give me much to work with.” you had said, mustering your sweetest, most innocent smile, though even you could tell that the impenetrable Aaron Hotchner wasn’t buying it.
Still, he was down one team member—he couldn’t afford to get rid of you, especially since you came with a squeaky clean record and near prodigious marks. Plus, you were new to the team. Your explanation is believable, though your methods to obtain the files were inappropriate. Regardless, he had given you the benefit of doubt.
The second time should have been a non-issue, in your opinion, getting asked to refrain from wearing colored tights to work. What an embarrassment, to be dress coded of all things! Derek wouldn't let you hear the end of it, but Penelope had been sympathetic—she enjoys her own quirky fashion habits, and has gotten chewed out for them too.
But you and Hotch had managed to come with a compromise, promising no more bright colors to work, (admittedly, the red tights were a bit much, but you had been trying to go for a bold statement) and opting from then on to wear muted hosiery.
But this third one.
Oh, you’re genuinely nervous to face him for this third infraction.
Aaron Hotchner is not an imposing man because he’s broad and stoic, though that helps. But no, it’s something in his air, the way the office space seems to shrink from his mere presence, rendered insignificant from the calm authority he wields. Being in his office always makes you feel like you’re back in high school, being reprimanded for something.
He’s writing when you enter, brow relaxed, almost casual. He doesn’t look up at your soft good morning, only says, “Sit down.”
The pleather squeaks as your weight sinks upon it, a simple chair with a sad excuse for a cushioned seat.
“May I ask what this is about?”
Hotch looks up then, stern as ever. “I’ve reread the reports from the last case. You were the one who called for another interview with Casey Jennings?”
“That’s correct.”
“And subsequently been the one to acquire the whereabouts of the body?”
You shift, nodding in admission. It feels like a nail in the coffin, because you know exactly what he’ll ask you next.
“Therefore, you had given the location to the local PD. Not the other way around, as you’d led me to believe.” His voice is level, but the accusation rings true. “When you arrived at the crime scene, it wasn’t because they asked you to come along; you were the one calling the shots.”
“I was under the impression that taking initiative is valued when we’re handling time sensitive circumstances.”
Two pools of midnight black fix upon you in warning. “Obedience is also valued. I can’t have agents doing whatever they want when they have explicit instructions to do otherwise. I told you to stay with Reid at the precinct.”
“And I did, sir, until I realized Casey Jennings was a lead.”
“Then you should have let the PD handle it once you gave them the information.”
You fight the urge to roll your eyes, feeling very much like a child being reprimanded for something silly. Except, well, you did disobey a senior agent’s orders, and rolling your eyes would simply reinforce that childishness he seems to see in you.
“With all due respect sir, I just feel… underutilized.” you reply, fighting through the shaking in your voice, “You have me in the precincts helping Reid, when I know I could be more useful elsewhere. I have better shooting and physical qualifications than he does, I can handle myself on the field.”
“And do you think that’s a good enough excuse to go behind my back and deliberately disobey your unit chief’s orders?”
There’s nothing you can say that won’t get you into more trouble, so you shut your mouth. The silence feels like an admission of guilt, of defeat. Hotch lets it swell, allows you to sit in your discomfort. You muster as much grace as you can and stay steady. As much as you hate it, you know you wield no power in this situation.
A mark of a good opponent is always knowing when to surrender, so you soften your expression, hoping it looks sincere. “Am I in trouble?”
Hotch catches onto what you really want to ask—are you replacing me?
“Technically, no. You haven't broken any rules, per se, and your instincts prove to be valuable,” he says, going back to his files, “However, you’ll be on filing duty while we’re not on any active cases. We have a backlog of records that require digitizing; Reid can tell you more.”
“Reid?”
“You’ll be helping him. He’s been working on it for a few days now. Having two agents would make it go faster.”
Oh. Spencer had been disappearing off to do paperwork elsewhere. Morgan was betting it’s because he’s having a secret office liaison. “Understood, sir.” you say, unsure of what to expect. The workload couldn’t be that bad; the awkwardness between you and Spencer has melted and you have reached a sort of neutrality. Besides, scanning and typing documents feels like a light trade, considering you had, in Hotch’s own words, deliberately disobey your unit chief’s orders.
What greets you in the filing room is a dusty, cramped mess of shelves spilling with boxes upon boxes overflowing with folders. Your nose scrunches as Spencer boots up your computer. There’s barely enough space for even one desk, so you two have to work side by side, with barely two feet of space to separate you.
“God, and you volunteered to do this? Are you secretly a masochist, Spencer?”
He clears his throat, “No, it’s not that. My eidetic memory simply works well with the task—I can read the folder and memorize its contents in three minutes.”
“Uh huh, and then you take sixteen hours to type. Amazing tradeoff.”
“I don’t take that long!”
“Okay, twelve hours then.”
Spencer glares halfheartedly, “That’s statistically improbable and you know it.”
“Yet you manage to achieve it!” you pat his shoulder mockingly, before sliding into your creaky seat, “Congratulations on once again being an outlier.”
Spencer rolls his eyes. It makes you laugh; the fact that you’ve officially managed to annoy this normally well tempered man feels like an achievement in its own right.
“Maybe that’s why he thinks I need help.” he grumbles, pushing a pile of folders to your side of the table, “You can start on the 1980s.”
“Wait,” The year catches you by surprise and you examine the pile in front of you. Papers yellowed and delicate sit neatly stacked as if they haven’t been touched in ages, but surely it couldn’t be. “1980s? Are we digitizing all the way back to the start?”
“Yep. All the records in our backlog—I’ve managed to digitize up to 1976.” Spencer is already reading his first file, fingers gliding through the blurry page. “You start with the 80s.”
“You mean to tell me no one’s bothered to digitize these before?”
He simply hums in response, infuriating you even more.
“Then this should be a team project!” you exclaim, horrified in a way that bears sincerity and not your usual exaggeration, “Two people working on decades of paperwork is inhumane.”
“Now, don’t be so dramatic,” he heaves a sigh, finally glancing at you, “We’re being compensated. Besides, nobody else wants to, it’s grunt work.”
“So we have to do it because we’re the youngest and can’t opt out?”
“No, we’re doing this because I’m apparently a secret masochist, and you’re the team’s troublemaker forced into detention.”
Despite yourself, his answer makes you laugh. And from the corner of your eye, Spencer’s lips are turned up in a self satisfied smirk.
It becomes routine. Without fail, on those treasured days where the team isn’t called on a case, you and Spencer slip off after lunch time to the filing room, spending the rest of your work hours typing away on computers that keep lagging and keyboards that have temperamental ‘P’ keys.
Well, it’s mostly your keyboard that has this problem. You work past it easily—it just needs a little extra pressure to work and there’s a sense of satisfaction whenever you press it hard.
Admittedly, the arrangement isn’t too bad. You and Spencer both have the tendency to intensely focus when you have a specific goal, so while it’s tedious work, it’s relatively easy. Plus, you’re sequestered away from the rest of the agents, which opens up possibilities for small acts of rebellion.
Such as snacking on the clock.
“Provisions.” You plop a paper bag on top of the current pile of folders before sidestepping your way into your chair. After a week of consistent work, Spencer’s managed to finish until 1978, and you’re on 1984.
Confused and slightly suspicious, Spencer opens the bag. Warm, buttery, and freshly-baked, the scent of croissants fill the room, and for the first time, the persistent smell of must is overpowered by something more delectable.
“We aren’t allowed to eat here.”
Of course he has to ruin it.
“And who’s gonna stop us?”
“Nobody, but that’s not the point,” he says, adopting an exasperated tone that seems to always tinge his words whenever he talks to you, “The crumbs could mess up the files.”
“Are you that messy of an eater?”
“What? No—”
“Then it shouldn’t be a problem,” you interject, “And there’s napkins too, so you can clean up the grease and crumbs off your fingers. Come on, I did something nice to you for once, it’s rude to criticize it.”
He hums, lips pulled into a taut line that exposes his dimples. “What’s in it for you?”
“Nothing. Why would you think that?”
He’s quiet. Places the bag back on top of the pile, then shrugs. Innocent. Acting clueless.
Your eyes narrow, “Spencer Reid, do you really think every nice thing I do is transactional?”
“This was how you tried to bribe Garcia.”
Oh.
“She told you about that?” your face feels warm. You’d been under the idea that only Hotch knew.
“Yeah,” Spencer shrugs, “Nothing really stays secret in this team.”
But that night at the film festival does. Otherwise, Derek would be teasing you with the moniker “film nerd” on top of “princess”. You can’t decide if this is a positive sign or not, this secret, chance meeting between you two.
However, judging by the fact that he seems to think you’re using croissants as leverage or a bargaining chip, you can surmise that he isn’t the biggest fan of your character. Of course. One night watching half of a movie together isn’t enough to shatter his caution.
Stung at the realization, you snatch the bag from the desk, huffing softly. “Fine. More for me.”
A strangled sound escapes his lips, but you angle your chair away from him, the bag of pastries cradled protectively on your lap. Exaggerated click clacks of the keyboard fill the room as your fingers fly over the letters, fast and angry, the momentum only being broken whenever you encounter that stupid ‘p’.
One afternoon, your impatience with that damn keyboard gets the best of you and you’d slammed it in annoyance.
“I’m asking Hotch for a new keyboard.” you grumble under your breath. Jaw clenched, your fingers fly over the keys, cursing heaven and hell anytime you encounter a word with the letter ‘p’ and you’re forced to press the unreliable button.
To your left, Spencer snorts in amusement. Your leg snaps out from under the desk, catching his ankle almost playfully.
“Ow.” he says, just to complain.
“Stop finding joy in my misery.” your voice is more forceful than the kick, snappy and hissed. What he said and insinuated about you from the croissant incident still sting, despite any of your attempts to forget about it.
“Sorry, you just have a tendency to pout when things don’t go your way.” he doesn’t sound sorry at all. Your pout deepens, and he smiles, like everything’s well. “It’s kind of adorable.”
“I am not adorable. I’m highly inconvenienced by this decrepit machine, and it’s inhibiting me from doing my job, and you should reconsider why you find this amusing.”
“You know, you can’t really dictate the way I perceive you.”
You glare at him. Part of you knows he’s right, but when you’ve committed so much of your energy into curating your image to manage people’s perceptions and expectations, this casual observation is a reminder that it’s fruitless.
The same way you can’t manufacture goodness. The same way they view your earnest attempts with lingering caution.
It’s something of a slap in the face.
“If this is your way of making amends, it’s not working.”
Spencer sighs, nodding. “Sorry.” he’s quiet for the rest of your time together, focused intently on typing.
To your surprise, the next day, your keyboard is working immaculately even though you haven’t had the time to bring up the issue with Hotch.
It’s only hours later when you realize that beside you, Spencer has been struggling with a certain letter on his own keyboard.
The next time you place a bag of pastries on your shared desk, his spine straightens and he twists in his seat to look at you questioningly.
You fix your eyes on your computer to avoid his gaze, deliberately angling your chair away from him again. After a pause, shuffling and crinkling paper can be heard beside you, followed by the buttery scent of the croissants.
He thanks you, voice low and soft. Pushes the bag to your side gently, like it’s the most fragile thing in the world. Somehow, you think it is. Hastily, you grab the bag, and take your own croissant.
“Don’t mention it.” Your eyes flick to the side casually, and sure enough, Spencer biting into his piece. The slender line of his neck is curved elegantly, head tilted forward as he reads through his file at that inhuman speed of his.
As if he could feel your gaze, he looks over, and you quickly turn back to your computer. A small smile curls your lips. You hide it with a bite of croissant.
“Poor baby,” your tone is mocking as Spencer sneezes for what feels like the fiftieth time in an hour. “If I catch this from you, I’m leaving you to finish the rest of these files by yourself.”
All credit to him, he’s being as polite as he can, turning away from you and covering his mouth every time the impulse to sneeze overtakes him. But it’s always fun to tease him and watch his lips press into that familiar line, cheeks dimpling in the process.
“Luckily, allergic rhinitis isn’t contagious.” he sniffs, reaching for a bottle of alcohol to spritz his hands. “It’s just a reaction to that new box we pulled out yesterday.”
Despite being one of the newer boxes, that box had accumulated some of the worst case of dust. It didn’t help that you’d both dropped it as you pulled it out, spilling the files on the linoleum floor and sending the dust particles in a chaotic spin all around the air. You and Spencer left the door open to help the room air out, but it seems to have badly triggered his allergies.
“Sure, lucky. That’s exactly how I’d characterize this.” After a beat, you survey his face. The tip of his nose is red, his eyes watery. Grinning, you add, “You look like Rudolph.”
“Rudo—the reindeer?” he looks affronted, brows crinkling into his eyes, “Real original.”
“Would you rather be Bambi?”
“That’s an even more tenuous connection, why on earth would I be Bambi?”
“Your eyes are big and wet, and you walk like a baby deer learning it has legs for the first time.”
He glares, but it’s so petulant that you can’t help but laugh. “Aw, look who’s pouting now.”
“Yeah, turns out that habit of yours is the thing that’s contagious.” he grumbles, turning away to blow his nose into some tissue. “We should warn the rest of the team. We can’t have the BAU being known as the department with pouty agents.”
“Whatever you say, Rudolph.”
A wad of crumpled tissue hits your shoulder. “Ew, Spencer!” you manage to complain through your laughter.
“You smell different.”
Well, that’s not something you’d ever expect from Spencer Reid’s mouth. Wild theories about the combustion of the human body, sure, morbid statistics about babies death rates in the early 90s, absolutely, but not a comment about your scent. From your position on the chair, you twist to face him, the chocolate croissant—an extra special sweet treat, since it’s Friday—held in midair.
A mixture of confusion and utter bewilderment contorts your features. “Excuse me?”
He flushes, his cheeks now matching his ruddy nose. “You heard me.”
“Okay, creepy. I didn’t realize you were that brand of weird.”
“What does that even mean?” Spencer frowns, sniffling, gingerly unwrapping the tissue from his own pastry, “I don’t mean anything harmful by it. You always just smell like flowers and bergamot, but today you… don’t.”
Now your own cheeks burn at his words. You’re unsure what to make of this; the fact that he recognizes the notes of your perfume is both unnerving and, admittedly, a little sweet.
“You sure it’s not just your stuffy nose inhibiting your sense of smell?” you ask, feigning nonchalance.
“No, I’m certain you still had the same perfume yesterday.”
You shrug, lying through your teeth, “Your allergies must be getting worse today then.”
He seems unconvinced, but you grab a new folder from your pile, ducking behind the aged pages to put an end to the conversation.
A sense of relief fills you when he drops the topic; there’s absolutely no way you’re admitting to the fact that you skipped wearing your perfume today to avoid agitating his allergies even more, that you're trying to avoid his hay fever from getting any worse.
Nope. Better to keep that a secret.
Just when you think you’re going to go nuts digitizing the files, you and Spencer finish everything. It’s nothing short of miraculous, nearly four decades worth of paperwork accomplished in such a short amount of time. It seems like serial killers took a break to let the BAU digitize its backlog, since the team hadn’t been called on an active case once.
It feels strange to be sat on your desk for the full day, doing research and cross examining profiles instead of mindlessly regurgitating and typing decades old data into an equally old desktop. But you’re glad. Partly.
Part of you kind of misses that secluded time with Spencer—yes, even that last stretch where he’d gotten hay fever and was sneezing up a storm. The quiet focus, his steady, 25 words per minute typing speed alongside your faster, slightly more haphazard speed. The shared croissants, the way a stubborn strand of hair falls over his forehead and—woah.
Stop.
You’re running a little late today, heels tapping loudly, hurriedly, as you try to make it before the cut off. JJ exchanges a small smile with you as you walk by her—early in the morning and she’s already up and about, one hand on her phone, the other holding two files.
Something in her stance, her brisk and stiff gait, the tight smile, tells you that the weeks of relative quiet are about to be broken today.
You make it to your desk, still looking back at JJ’s retreating form, so lost in your thoughts that you barely recognize the small paper bag on your desk. As you lower yourself to your seat, the unmistakable fragrance of a flaky, buttery croissant fills your nose. Your teeth catch your lower lip to stop the smile threatening to consume your face.
Slowly, shyly, you glance up, finding Spencer watching you. He grins, then lifts his left hand, as if toasting from afar with his own croissant.
thank you for reading!!! please leave a comment and reblog if you liked it, they feed my soul <3
A team constantly going through high–pressure, high stakes cases are bound to be pent up. Frustrated. Too busy saving lives to take care of their baser, more primal needs. That’s where you come in. The office siren. On paper, your official job is administrative secretary, but you know the BAU more intimately than that.
MDNI. Each oneshot will be free use + another kink. Refer to the schedule below for the schedule as well as the characters and kinks I’ll be writing about.
October 3: Degradation and bondage with Aaron Hotchner
October 10: Pegging with Emily Prentiss
October 17: Breeding kink with Luke Alvez
October 24: Mommy kink and overstimulation with Jennifer Jareau
October 31: Mirror + public sex and edging with Spencer Reid
AN: This is a closed series; you may follow the tag #🕊 kinktober for updates.
Welcome! I have something fun planned for kinktober but I need your help to keep things fun and fresh! So I’m opening requests for this month hehe. However, please keep this prompt in mind if you send a request for Spencer Reid:
Spencer and reader are a couple experimenting and trying out things together (so, established relationship and consent is a given!)
Other guidelines include:
I'll write for other MGG characters but I've only seen 68 Kill, Suburban Gothic, 500 Days of Summer, and Hot Air from his filmography (I will NOT write Simon the chipmunk smut)
Fem reader only
Be as specific, wild and kinky as you want!
My hard nos include scat play, piss, noncon, knife play. No judgement, I just am personally not into them and don’t think I can write them in a way that gives them justice
The amount of fics I write depends on how many requests I get, inspiration, and on my schedule. If I don’t manage to get to your request, please know it isn’t personal; my writing mood is just super finicky, or I might have just run out of time (which is why I’m posting this kind of early)
More details will be posted on September 26. For now, I await your ideas <3 thank you!!!
kinkfest request: hotch uses a remote control vibrator on you out in public, either at a restaurant or a party/event, and you're not allowed to come without his permission 🤭 ily ty
Vibrations
genre: smut (18+)
cw: g-spot vibrator use in public, edging, established relationship
wc: 1,5k
a/n: have so many fun kinkfest reqs left that didn't make it, so i'm trying to turn those into blurbs (i feel bad for wasting one shot potential by making it a quick blurb, but i fear they would otherwise not see the light of day in the near future. hopefully y'all can still enjoy)
On your fifth-year anniversary, your boyfriend gifted you a vibrator.
It isn’t as random as it might sound. After years of receiving flowers, heartfelt cards, and engraved jewelry, Aaron thought it time for something new. Something original to spice up your relationship. Not to sketch the wrong idea, your sex life with Aaron was great. More than great, even. But with his tight work schedule and with your tendency to jump on him whenever he was around, there wasn’t often the time to think of creative, new concepts to add to the bedroom.
So with this, Aaron had taken the initiative: introducing sex toys.
You can’t remember using one since you left college, especially not since you got into a relationship with Aaron. No need for loud, vibrating plastic when your boyfriend came with its own attached toy. A very good and effective one, at that.
He gave you the gift at the restaurant where you’d had your first date with him, the location you’d return to every following anniversary or special occasion. The black box with the ruby-colored bow could have contained anything, and when you worked your manicured nails on untying it, it had cost you several seconds to realize that the hot pink silicone egg in front of you was a sex toy. A remote control vibrator, Aaron had explained to you later, pulling his phone from beneath the table to show you the matching app that was already on display.
You weren’t to blame for the sudden loss of words you were in. What were you expected to do now? Lift your dress, here, in this soft jazz, candlelit, Michelin star restaurant filled with sophisticated guests, and let your boyfriend control your just inserted vibrator like it was as normal as taking a bite out of a medium-rare steak? Were you supposed to act like the moans that slipped softly past your lips were as appropriate as humming after having a sip of Merlot?
It seemed like Aaron had seen the panic in your eyes, because he placed his warm palm onto your bare thigh, giving the skin a light squeeze that soothed instantly. He leaned in, bottom lip brushing against the shell of your ear, a shudder running through you.
“Why don’t you go to the bathroom?”
His voice came in a low, whispered command, causing your stomach to flip. Your cheeks heated at the prospect that was right in front of you. You liked a little suspense, sure, but if it weren’t for Aaron having teased you the entire car ride over here, you don’t think you would’ve acted the way you did: jumping up on (already) shaky knees and taking quick strides to the bathroom, the toy hidden in a napkin in your purse.
Usually, you found it embarrassing to see the sight of the dark, wet stain that always seemed to bloom on your underwear when you were around Aaron. Right now, you were grateful for it, as the toy smoothly entered you. Fitting just right.
You hadn’t even pulled your dress back down when the toy started to buzz — a soft, pleasant hum tickling you.
Aaron’s eyes found yours when you walked back to your shared table, sharply holding your gaze when you sat down beside him in the leather booth. You nodded subtly, letting him know that the toy was working, that there was now a teasing warmth pooling low in your stomach, making you want to squeeze your thighs together for more relief. The corner of his mouth twitched up in approval.
You took a peek at the phone in his hands. The screen showed an empty graph with a horizontal line, slightly lifted. Then he moved his fingertip, tracing a sharp, vertical line upward. To anyone watching, it looked like nothing more than a casual absent-minded swipe on his phone. But you? You knew exactly what that small movement meant when the toy inside of you started to pulse harder, knocking a sharp breath out of you.
Without a word, he pushed the line higher, drawing a half-cut bridge on the screen. The vibration reached a new peak, and you had to hold yourself back from making a sound. The toy was angled perfectly against your g-spot, pulsing against it as it simultaneously brushed the slick, sensitive walls of your pussy. The pleasure was almost enough to make you forget the situation you were in, the room around you dimming to an insignificant haze.
Aaron placed his hand back on your thigh, thumbing lazy circles and reminding you that — even though he controlled it through an app — it was still him and his presence that was making you feel this good.
“Why don’t you take a bite? We don’t want your food to get cold now, do we?”
You composed yourself. Tried to keep your face as expressionless as possible. Even succeeding in taking some bites before he lifted his finger again. The rhythm fastened, and you almost bit down on the silver of your fork, instead letting it drop to the ground with a clatter.
“Focus,” Aaron whispered sharply into your ear. “You’re making a scene.”
“I’m trying!” You hiss back, the words having barely left your mouth when you clamped your teeth down on your bottom lip as another wave of pleasure rolled through you.
Polite smiles were exchanged with the waiter handing over new cutlery. The second he turned, though, you let out a moan. Shame seemed to have left you, your mind only filled with need as you rolled your hips instinctively, chasing that blissful sensation.
A chuckle sounded from beside you. “If you need me to turn it up, all you have to do is tell me.”
A dangerous proposal, but one you were glad to have accepted when the ache in your core was being washed away by a steadier, more insistent humming. Your whimpers were muffled by the palm of your hand, eyes fluttering shut as the edges of your vision began to blur. Your mind was filled with the image of Aaron. You felt him everywhere, although his presence just existed out of the warmth of his body next to you and his touch on your leg.
His fingertips dug into the flesh of your thigh, a signal for you to open your eyes. When you did, they landed on the thick outline of his cock as it strained against his dress pants.
He hadn’t even touched his phone, but the sight alone — of how hard he could get by watching you squirm in your seat — caused your orgasm to approach you in a rushing tide. Your thighs started to tremble, your chest heaved up and down, your breaths got shorter and quicker, moans pushed against your closed lips, the toy thrummed relentlessly as it curled against your g-spot, your walls fluttered around it, every nerve in your body seemed to be electrified, and then…
It all stopped.
The image resembling a raging heartbeat on Aaron’s screen had reached cardiac arrest. The peak that was once so high, and made you feel so high has now disappeared to a flat line. The pleasure was stolen from you.
“Don’t even think about it,” Aaron warned you in controlled discipline, seeing the fire ignite in your teary eyes and knowing you were on the verge of cursing him out in front of everyone.
“I’ll tell you when to come. The rules haven’t changed.”
“Fuck you.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Is that the way you ask for something you want?”
You rolled your eyes, so badly wanting to refuse giving him the satisfaction of pleading — but your body betrayed you. Still desperate for that high you were about to reach.
“Please, Aaron? Please… Can you let me cum?”
“Please,” you begged again, your voice an unstable whimper. You took his hand from your thigh and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “I’m so wet, Aaron. It’s all for you. Let me cum for you, please.”
And just like that, he let you.
The toy surged back alive and set your body on fire, making you want to scream out. But you behaved, biting back all your cries as your toes curled in your heels and your cunt clenched tightly down on the toy.
Gradually, the vibrations died down, a wave ebbing away. Tears were prickling your lashes, but your body was fully at ease, a relaxed warmth settling over you.
He tucked his phone away, the smile on his lips more resemblant of a smirk. “See?” He asked, raising his glass to take a sip of wine. “Worth the wait.”
kinkfest request: hotch uses a remote control vibrator on you out in public, either at a restaurant or a party/event, and you're not allowed to come without his permission 🤭 ily ty
Vibrations
genre: smut (18+)
cw: g-spot vibrator use in public, edging, established relationship
wc: 1,5k
a/n: have so many fun kinkfest reqs left that didn't make it, so i'm trying to turn those into blurbs (i feel bad for wasting one shot potential by making it a quick blurb, but i fear they would otherwise not see the light of day in the near future. hopefully y'all can still enjoy)
On your fifth-year anniversary, your boyfriend gifted you a vibrator.
It isn’t as random as it might sound. After years of receiving flowers, heartfelt cards, and engraved jewelry, Aaron thought it time for something new. Something original to spice up your relationship. Not to sketch the wrong idea, your sex life with Aaron was great. More than great, even. But with his tight work schedule and with your tendency to jump on him whenever he was around, there wasn’t often the time to think of creative, new concepts to add to the bedroom.
So with this, Aaron had taken the initiative: introducing sex toys.
You can’t remember using one since you left college, especially not since you got into a relationship with Aaron. No need for loud, vibrating plastic when your boyfriend came with its own attached toy. A very good and effective one, at that.
He gave you the gift at the restaurant where you’d had your first date with him, the location you’d return to every following anniversary or special occasion. The black box with the ruby-colored bow could have contained anything, and when you worked your manicured nails on untying it, it had cost you several seconds to realize that the hot pink silicone egg in front of you was a sex toy. A remote control vibrator, Aaron had explained to you later, pulling his phone from beneath the table to show you the matching app that was already on display.
You weren’t to blame for the sudden loss of words you were in. What were you expected to do now? Lift your dress, here, in this soft jazz, candlelit, Michelin star restaurant filled with sophisticated guests, and let your boyfriend control your just inserted vibrator like it was as normal as taking a bite out of a medium-rare steak? Were you supposed to act like the moans that slipped softly past your lips were as appropriate as humming after having a sip of Merlot?
It seemed like Aaron had seen the panic in your eyes, because he placed his warm palm onto your bare thigh, giving the skin a light squeeze that soothed instantly. He leaned in, bottom lip brushing against the shell of your ear, a shudder running through you.
“Why don’t you go to the bathroom?”
His voice came in a low, whispered command, causing your stomach to flip. Your cheeks heated at the prospect that was right in front of you. You liked a little suspense, sure, but if it weren’t for Aaron having teased you the entire car ride over here, you don’t think you would’ve acted the way you did: jumping up on (already) shaky knees and taking quick strides to the bathroom, the toy hidden in a napkin in your purse.
Usually, you found it embarrassing to see the sight of the dark, wet stain that always seemed to bloom on your underwear when you were around Aaron. Right now, you were grateful for it, as the toy smoothly entered you. Fitting just right.
You hadn’t even pulled your dress back down when the toy started to buzz — a soft, pleasant hum tickling you.
Aaron’s eyes found yours when you walked back to your shared table, sharply holding your gaze when you sat down beside him in the leather booth. You nodded subtly, letting him know that the toy was working, that there was now a teasing warmth pooling low in your stomach, making you want to squeeze your thighs together for more relief. The corner of his mouth twitched up in approval.
You took a peek at the phone in his hands. The screen showed an empty graph with a horizontal line, slightly lifted. Then he moved his fingertip, tracing a sharp, vertical line upward. To anyone watching, it looked like nothing more than a casual absent-minded swipe on his phone. But you? You knew exactly what that small movement meant when the toy inside of you started to pulse harder, knocking a sharp breath out of you.
Without a word, he pushed the line higher, drawing a half-cut bridge on the screen. The vibration reached a new peak, and you had to hold yourself back from making a sound. The toy was angled perfectly against your g-spot, pulsing against it as it simultaneously brushed the slick, sensitive walls of your pussy. The pleasure was almost enough to make you forget the situation you were in, the room around you dimming to an insignificant haze.
Aaron placed his hand back on your thigh, thumbing lazy circles and reminding you that — even though he controlled it through an app — it was still him and his presence that was making you feel this good.
“Why don’t you take a bite? We don’t want your food to get cold now, do we?”
You composed yourself. Tried to keep your face as expressionless as possible. Even succeeding in taking some bites before he lifted his finger again. The rhythm fastened, and you almost bit down on the silver of your fork, instead letting it drop to the ground with a clatter.
“Focus,” Aaron whispered sharply into your ear. “You’re making a scene.”
“I’m trying!” You hiss back, the words having barely left your mouth when you clamped your teeth down on your bottom lip as another wave of pleasure rolled through you.
Polite smiles were exchanged with the waiter handing over new cutlery. The second he turned, though, you let out a moan. Shame seemed to have left you, your mind only filled with need as you rolled your hips instinctively, chasing that blissful sensation.
A chuckle sounded from beside you. “If you need me to turn it up, all you have to do is tell me.”
A dangerous proposal, but one you were glad to have accepted when the ache in your core was being washed away by a steadier, more insistent humming. Your whimpers were muffled by the palm of your hand, eyes fluttering shut as the edges of your vision began to blur. Your mind was filled with the image of Aaron. You felt him everywhere, although his presence just existed out of the warmth of his body next to you and his touch on your leg.
His fingertips dug into the flesh of your thigh, a signal for you to open your eyes. When you did, they landed on the thick outline of his cock as it strained against his dress pants.
He hadn’t even touched his phone, but the sight alone — of how hard he could get by watching you squirm in your seat — caused your orgasm to approach you in a rushing tide. Your thighs started to tremble, your chest heaved up and down, your breaths got shorter and quicker, moans pushed against your closed lips, the toy thrummed relentlessly as it curled against your g-spot, your walls fluttered around it, every nerve in your body seemed to be electrified, and then…
It all stopped.
The image resembling a raging heartbeat on Aaron’s screen had reached cardiac arrest. The peak that was once so high, and made you feel so high has now disappeared to a flat line. The pleasure was stolen from you.
“Don’t even think about it,” Aaron warned you in controlled discipline, seeing the fire ignite in your teary eyes and knowing you were on the verge of cursing him out in front of everyone.
“I’ll tell you when to come. The rules haven’t changed.”
“Fuck you.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Is that the way you ask for something you want?”
You rolled your eyes, so badly wanting to refuse giving him the satisfaction of pleading — but your body betrayed you. Still desperate for that high you were about to reach.
“Please, Aaron? Please… Can you let me cum?”
“Please,” you begged again, your voice an unstable whimper. You took his hand from your thigh and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “I’m so wet, Aaron. It’s all for you. Let me cum for you, please.”
And just like that, he let you.
The toy surged back alive and set your body on fire, making you want to scream out. But you behaved, biting back all your cries as your toes curled in your heels and your cunt clenched tightly down on the toy.
Gradually, the vibrations died down, a wave ebbing away. Tears were prickling your lashes, but your body was fully at ease, a relaxed warmth settling over you.
He tucked his phone away, the smile on his lips more resemblant of a smirk. “See?” He asked, raising his glass to take a sip of wine. “Worth the wait.”
Hotch short circuiting when his good subby wife drunkenly admits she is so turned on by the idea of letting him fuck her ass
fall into 30k with mei
this post is 18+, minors dni.
It's nowhere near a sexy confession- you're wine drunk and giggly, and it's something you blurt after Aaron has to stop you from stumbling over a crack in the pavement. He does so by grabbing you around the waist and pulling you upright from behind, which sandwiches your back to his chest and puts your ass against his groin.
"Aah!" You laugh, red wine splashing out of the rim of your glass and splattering over your shoes, "Aaron, that was hot."
He doesn't register the words in his mind, too intent on making sure you can hold your weight up and he doesn't need to brace it all. You stumble, so he stops in place, letting the rest of your coworkers file into Rossi's living room for dessert where you'd all been lounging around on the patio. He'd prepared cannolis- and spent ten minutes lecturing you on the pronunciation of the dish, so you'd been trying to beeline for the house to try one.
He's sure Reid will bring you an extra, though, so he keeps you in his arms just outside the door.
"You're drinking a lot tonight," He hums, non-judgmentally, but accurate all the same. You crane your neck backwards to stare dreamily at him, your eyes giddy and bright.
"Yeah. I probably wouldn't if it was just the girls, but I know you'll catch me if I fall."
Aaron squeezes his arms tighter around you, demonstrating that very fact.
"And you'll grab me and rub up against my ass," You accuse, and he had not, in fact, been doing that, but you grind your rear against his dick anyways.
"You're drunk," Aaron reminds you, standing still even though his slacks begin tightening, "Don't try putting the moves on me, you floozy."
"Floozy," You snicker, "Aaron, you're so funny. I wish you really would, though."
"Would what?"
"Would do it from behind," You gush, shaking your ass against him again, "Y'know, bend me over the bed and go in through the back door."
Aaron's eyebrows raise incredulously as you list off various euphemisms for anal sex. He'd smacked your ass during sex before, watched it, admired the way it had shaken and jiggled and bounced, but he's only ever buried himself in your cunt. He hadn't- proposed anal before, but he'd certainly thought about it, too far into the moment to ruin it with uncomfortable questions. Now though, while you're squirming against him, creating friction against his cock while you beg him to take you from behind, he decides there's no better time than the present.
He plucks your wine out of your hand, shuffling you towards the door.
"You're done drinking." He murmurs in your ear, low enough to avoid eavesdroppers as he maneuvers you through Rossi's house, stepping into the foyer with faux-excuses for your early departure.
"No, Aaron- my wine! I want my wine," You plead, but he's three steps ahead of you, shoes already on his feet and car keys in his hands.
"No more drinking." He insists, leaning in to brush a kiss against your flushed cheek, "When we get home you're drinking two glasses of water, and as soon as you're sober enough to walk up the stairs I'm tossing you over the edge of the bed and having at your ass. Got it?"
Your eyes widen throughout his speech, and you're positively breathless when he finishes. But you manage a dazed nod, stuffing your feet haphazardly into your heels that are lined up neatly at the door. After a few seconds of struggle Aaron bends down to take them into his hand, and sweeps you off of his feet with the other. One arm- that's all he needs to hoist you against his chest, and the other comes to support you from beneath, your heels pressed against your back.
"No time for shoes." He decides, "I was gonna make you kick them off on the porch, anyways."
"Bring them inside," You beg, "It might rain tonight, Aaron. I don't want them to fall apart."
He rolls his eyes but a fond smile creeps over his handsome face, the cool night air enveloping you as he carries you out towards the car, "Oh, fine. I suppose you should be the only thing getting ruined tonight."
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